Sword of Rome (18 page)

Meanwhile, the Emperor’s advisers bickered. It had always been clear they had little respect for each other, but now the animosity was in plain sight. Vinius’s strident voice rose above the others. If Galba wouldn’t go on the attack he should barricade himself into the palace, arm his slaves and wait the plotters out. It was so clearly an invitation to the rebels to take the initiative that for a moment Valerius wondered if Vinius was part of the conspiracy. Laco raged that he would have Vinius executed by his bodyguard and the consul called for his lictors.

‘Verrens is right, we must do something,’ the Praetorian prefect shouted. ‘To do nothing is to invite disaster. What if our enemy is marching on the Senate at this very moment? Every minute we waste allows Otho to seem more of an Emperor to the men who are with him and those he needs to convince. He too will be panicking – we should take advantage of that.’

Galba glared. ‘No one here is panicking. We are debating the best course of action.’

Laco bowed an apology, but his face told a different story. His eyes met Valerius’s and he shook his head in exasperation at the ineptitude
of the man he’d supported. But, from somewhere, Galba suddenly gained a new confidence.

‘Yet we can take hope.’ The ageing Emperor’s voice rose as he grasped at potential salvation the way a drowning sailor grabs for a passing spar. ‘We still have the support of the people and the Senate. The army, the legions of Germania Superior apart, is still with us …’ As he spoke a new roar interrupted him from beyond the walls. ‘What is it? What is happening?’

A messenger ran up to Laco, and as he listened the Praetorian commander’s face split in a savage grin. ‘They’re saying Otho is dead. Someone saw him killed. I hope the bastard suffered.’

‘This is our moment,’ the Emperor said breathlessly. ‘Lucius Calpurnius Piso Licinianus, you are to march to the Praetorian barracks and regain control. Take a strong escort, arrest the ringleaders and bring them to your Emperor.’

Valerius saw Piso go pale. This patently wasn’t what the young aristocrat had expected when Galba had adopted him as his heir. Still, his chin came up and he raised his fist to his chest in salute.

‘There is no guarantee the rumour is true,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘You may be sending him into a trap.’

But Galba was already celebrating his victory. ‘Escort me to the rostrum. I will address my people. Open the gates.’

Serpentius felt himself buffeted by the heaving crowd that followed in the wake of Marcus Salvius Otho. They were five hundred as they passed through the gates of the Castra Praetoria. By the time they reached the parade ground in the middle of the three-storey red-brick barrack blocks their numbers had been swelled to three times that by Praetorians primed for this moment by Onomastus’s agents. The Spaniard, a man of the sharpest instincts, could feel the suppressed violence all around him. He had experienced the power of an earthquake and every instinct told him this was the human equivalent.

Another four thousand men waited at attention on the hard-packed earth of the Praetorian parade ground. Otho’s bearers carried him to a reviewing stand, and Serpentius found a raised doorstep that allowed him a view of the proceedings while he took stock of what was happening. He was not an educated man, but it did not take a Seneca or a Cicero to understand that he was at the centre of great events. In a matter of minutes Otho had transformed himself from a penniless aristocrat discarded by his Emperor into the man with the power to supplant him. A force that had begun with twenty men now numbered the equivalent of a full legion. Not only that, but they controlled probably the greatest military power base in Rome. Not a hundred paces from where he stood was the Praetorian armoury, with
enough swords and spears, shields and mail to equip twelve thousand men, and the treasury, packed with the gold to buy the services of twelve thousand more.

All Otho had to do was convince them he was the man to lead them.

From his marginally elevated position Serpentius realized the guiding hand behind the plot had put all the elements in place to make it happen. The centuries arrayed in their lines on the parade ground were made up of rank and file legionaries; there was little sign of the officers or centurions who might have swayed their allegiance. And in a block at the heart of the black and silver ranks another unit had been given the place of honour: the naval militia who had more reason to despise Galba than anyone else in Rome. Someone had issued the men from the rowing benches with tunics of marine blue so that for the first time they had the appearance of a unified military force. They were still unarmed, but somehow the way they held themselves made them more dangerous than the pampered Praetorian peacocks who surrounded them. Whoever had brought them here and placed them in Otho’s hands had made a risky roll of the dice. With his first words the rebel Emperor turned it into a stroke of genius.

He waved an elegant hand that took in the blue-clad ranks. ‘Servius Sulpicius Galba denied you the eagle your sacrifices deserved. My first act as Emperor is to grant it to you anew.’ A long moment of silence followed and the air crackled with anticipation and something close to wonder as the crowd to Otho’s left parted to reveal a section of Praetorians carrying the gilded standard that had inspired the legions as they conquered half the world, from the wintry hills of Brigantea to the deserts of Africa, and the shores of Lusitania to the rocky wilds of Parthia. This was what a legionary fought and died for, and in doing so counted himself fortunate. One of the men handed Otho the eagle. He held it for a moment, the weight of brass and gold evidently a surprise and as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had in his hands, before raising it in salute to the men in front of him. It was all pre-planned, a piece of theatre as contrived as any that ever took place on a stage, but Serpentius felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and he saw the emotion in his own face reflected in the expression of the man who
now stood next to him. Juva’s mouth gaped in a cheer that was lost in the crescendo of sound torn from the throats of the men in blue and taken up by everyone around them. Whether they had come here to support Otho or merely out of curiosity, they were all in his thrall now. ‘I name you First Adiutrix, the helpers, because when I needed you you came to my aid. Who will carry this eagle?’ With a shout, the front ranks of the new legion surged forward as one, but their leaders pushed them back, and from the chaos a single man stepped clear.

‘Florus,’ Juva whispered as the young marine from the
Wavebreaker
marched forward with his curious sailor’s gait. Serpentius could feel the confusion in the big Nubian. ‘What should I do?’

‘Go to them,’ the Spaniard said. ‘It is what Valerius would want you to do. Go to your comrades and serve with honour, whoever you follow.’

When Juva turned to him he had tears in his eyes. He held out his great meaty hand and the gladiator took it. ‘May Fortuna favour you.’

‘And you.’

Serpentius watched the broad back force its way through the crowd like a galley through a heaving sea. Juva’s century opened to welcome him just as Florus, newly appointed
aquilifer
of the Legio I Adiutrix, accepted the eagle standard, and a new roar split the heavens above the Castra Praetoria. He saw veteran soldiers openly weep as the new legion took the oath from a man who would be either dead or Emperor by the time the sun set.

There were more speeches, but he barely heard them as he pondered whether to return to Valerius. What would happen to the one-armed tribune if Otho became Emperor? He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had formed. Valerius was old enough and wise enough to look after himself. Each of them had stared death in the face often enough not to be too concerned if it came calling again. But since they had returned to Rome Serpentius had watched the shadow that stained Valerius’s scarred features fade, and the melancholy that had enveloped him lift. It would be a pity to die now, just when life appeared to have been given some meaning. He knew the reason for the change was the general’s daughter and he feared that pursuing her would only bring his friend
more pain, but a man, especially one like Valerius or Serpentius, could only live for the moment. And, for the moment, he reckoned he could serve Valerius best by sticking to Otho.

He had them now, that was certain. Serpentius had heard enough military speeches to know. The growls of assent. The pent-up energy of hounds straining at the leash. It could only be a matter of time.

At last. ‘You have listened to me. You have heard me. You have not arrested me. That alone condemns you before a man who does not know the meaning of mercy. Servius Sulpicius Galba’s hands are stained with the blood of the marines who trusted him, the innocents of high rank and low who refused to acclaim him. He will not forgive.’ Otho’s final words – ‘Are you with me?’ – coincided with the opening of the armoury and drew the biggest roar of the day. The swords and shields were snatched up as quickly as they could be handed out, but if Otho believed he had created an army, he was wrong. They were a mob, and they wanted blood.

Apart from a small knife Serpentius had no weapon, but that was no handicap to a man like the Spaniard. A sailor ran past him with a sword held high. With a flick of his wrist Serpentius disarmed the man and with a snarl dared him to try to recover the blade. The sailor backed away; there were other weapons and easier victims. Serpentius trotted after the leaders as they disappeared towards the west gate and the road to the Forum.

Despite the urgency, Galba had taken the time to don his general’s gilt breastplate and strap on the long sword he had carried from Hispania. He looked like a leader; all he needed now was someone to lead. But he hadn’t bargained for the enthusiasm of the mob. Urged on by senators who had come to show their support, they manhandled him into a chair and hoisted him on their shoulders. Valerius had armed himself with a
gladius
borrowed from a member of the palace guard and along with Vinius stayed close to the Emperor, his progress and movements hampered by the folds of his toga. Whether by accident or design, Laco and Icelus were forced further back. Galba’s personal guard struggled to stay within reach of the man in the chair, but Valerius
could see from the way they kept glancing at each other that they were in a high state of nerves. A huge crowd had gathered in the Forum and the Emperor and his retinue swirled in its grip like flotsam in an ebbing tide, overlooked by thousands more Romans watching the entertainment from the shelter of the basilicas and temples.

The first warning of trouble came when Piso and the commander of his escort appeared at the far side of the Forum from the direction of the Argiletum. Galba’s heir shouted something that was lost in the clamour of the mob, but Valerius did hear the screams that followed a moment later. He looked up as two cavalrymen forced their way into the crowd, slapping at heads with the flats of their long swords and clearing a path for the Praetorian infantry who followed.

He shouted a desperate warning to Galba’s escort. Their job was to form a barrier between the Emperor and the threat, using their shields to give him a chance to escape. Instead, they took one look at the advancing horsemen and slipped away into the crowd. Cursing, Valerius drew his sword and forced his way towards the chair. He could see Vinius, his eyes wild with growing panic, attempting to do the same. Galba had seen the approaching threat and screamed orders at the people carrying his chair. At last, they noticed the cavalrymen, but instead of carrying their burden to safety they tipped him from his seat and fled. Valerius saw the Emperor go sprawling and shouted a warning to Vinius. He battered his way towards the stricken man, snarling and threatening anyone who got in his way. Somehow he managed to force himself between Galba and the two horsemen. He risked a glance at his feet where the Emperor lay with his wig askew and his toga around his knees, his eyes dazed and confused. Valerius was tempted to reach down and help the old man to his feet, but the screams grew closer and he turned to find the first cavalryman only feet away. The trooper’s eyes glared from beneath his helmet and he roared at Valerius to make way or die. When the one-handed man stood his ground, the trooper urged his horse forward, scattering the crowd as the beast snapped its jaws and flailed with its hooves. Valerius danced out of range of a mouthful of stained teeth and then stepped forward so he was close enough to feel the heat from the animal’s body. Then
he rammed his sword into its chest. The horse screamed and reared, pitching its rider out of the saddle and almost pulling the
gladius
from Valerius’s hand. Somehow, he hauled the gore-stained iron free and turned to seek Galba among the nearby throng. A shout alerted him and he spun to find the dazed cavalryman stumbling towards him with a long cavalry
spatha
held ready to strike. The two men circled each other, looking for the first opening. Valerius had no wish to kill the trooper. Somewhere in the numbed centre of his mind he realized he’d just taken sides in a civil war, but he had no intention of spilling another Roman’s blood unless he had to. Not far away men were helping Galba to his feet and Valerius screamed at them to get him out of the Forum. Before the old man could move he was overwhelmed by an avalanche of armed soldiers, their sword arms hacking at the group. Galba’s aides recoiled, spurting blood from severed limbs and broken heads. In the same instant Valerius sensed the rhythm of the swords around the Emperor change and a scream of mortal agony told him the two hundred and twenty-one day reign of Servius Galba Caesar Augustus was over. The momentary distraction almost killed him as the cavalryman lunged to pierce the thick cloth of his toga and run the edge of the blade across the flesh above his hip. Galvanized by the sting of the iron he forced his assailant back, making him parry desperately with the now clumsy cavalry sword. Valerius was gladiator taught and gladiator trained to a speed and a skill few other men could match. He was also left-handed, and a left-handed swordsman causes problems for an opponent no right-handed one ever will. He kept the trooper on the move until the man could barely defend himself. A feint and a lunge, and with a sudden shriek the other man fell back, holding his shoulder. Valerius’s mind reeled, still filled with the confusion and horror of the Emperor’s death. Before he could move he found himself under attack from another three or four men and it was all he could do to defend himself. The only thing that kept him alive in those first few seconds was speed, but when a fifth man joined the Praetorians he knew his life was measured in seconds. For the first time he found the swiftness of his blade matched – outdone – by another man. He concentrated on keeping that dazzling blur of iron at bay, but panic
began in his stomach and grew to fill his chest and his mind. It was only slowly that it dawned on him that his adversary, while keeping him on the defensive, was, by some martial wonder, at the same time ensuring his enemies’ swords couldn’t reach him. He risked a glance at his new opponent, and in the same instant felt the sword flicked from his hand. Serpentius stepped effortlessly between Valerius and the men still bent on killing him.