Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] (8 page)

‘What will happen to him?’

Pliny frowned. ‘A personal attack on the governor of a Roman province? He will be crucified, what is left of him.’

‘Who was it?’

‘A clerk.’ Pliny looked weary and old. ‘Acondus, who worked very closely with my secretary. Whoever paid him would know my intentions the moment they were written down. Of course, with the assassins discovered – and I have yet to thank you and your ingenious little knife for your services – his usefulness was at an end. The
vigiles
found him in an alley with his throat cut. He is no help to us now.’

Valerius considered for a moment. ‘Could the attempt on your life have anything to do with my mission?’

Pliny winced at the possibility, but shook his head. ‘Not directly, I think.’ He met Valerius’s eyes. ‘I believe I may have suspected something of this nature, deep down, because I ensured all correspondence involving you was directly between myself and the Emperor or Titus. Asturica Augusta? Yes, it is possible, but why now?’

‘Because they fear you are getting too close.’

‘Poor Petronius,’ Pliny sighed. ‘I sent him to his doom. Perhaps you should reconsider, Valerius? The Emperor would not want you to share his fate.’

‘No.’ There was iron in Valerius’s voice. ‘I gave him my vow and too much is at stake to turn back now.’

Pliny smiled and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought as much. Then, given the change in circumstances, I believe you should follow your original instinct and make a low-key entry to Asturica Augusta. A soldier on his way to visit old comrades. I could send you with a supply convoy – they come and go all the time – but they take an age. Better I think to accompany the courier who leaves tomorrow carrying my reply to the officer in charge of the fort at Legio. He’s to have an escort of troopers from my guard squadron, so you should be
safe enough on the journey. The courier is based at the fort so it’s possible you may find out how things lie there.’

Pliny had called Asturica a hornets’ nest, but from where Valerius sat it seemed more like a den of vipers. He had a feeling the only way to get the information Vespasian sought would be to place himself amongst them.

The five men sat deep in the shadows of a shabby, dilapidated room illuminated solely by moonlight that filtered through the open shutters. Their faces were mere pools of darkness marked by the icy glint of eyes that reflected either inquisitive anticipation of what was to come or fearful apprehension. Each had his own thoughts about the current situation, but only one man’s views mattered. This house was one of several that man owned in Asturica Augusta: a dusty, half derelict building on a back street where their comings and goings would go unnoticed. For more than three years, since Servius Sulpicius Galba had marched in triumph from Tarraco’s gates escorted by the Seventh legion, they’d profited from the chaos of the civil war. Now their world was changing.

‘Our lives will be forfeit if Vespasian discovers what has been happening here.’ The man they had come to hear, a grim presence in the corner, announced the painful truth of which they were all aware in a soothing voice designed to steady fraying nerves.

Each could have pointed out that he would not be here but for this man’s encouragement and the temptation of the gold he had quite literally poured before their eyes. One of them wanted to say it, but he knew that in the end it would make no difference. He
had taken his share along with the rest. Nothing could change that.

It was another man who spoke. ‘Then we must stop. Now.’

‘Do you really believe that will solve anything?’ The leader laughed. The man had always been weak. ‘All it will do is harden their suspicions when the gold yields suddenly rise again after three years. On the contrary, we should continue what we’re doing. In fact, we must increase it.’

‘What?’ Four mouths gaped.

‘Why do you think I always insisted we should build up such a large reserve? Not because you were already rich beyond other men’s wildest imaginings. No,’ he shook his head, ‘I did so because gold is power.’

‘You said Asturica deserved to be the richest place in Hispania,’ another man dared to speak out. The leader recognized the voice of the sceptic, always questioning, but kept loyal by his greed. ‘This should be its greatest city, because this is where the greatest natural resources are. Strong men make strong decisions, you said. We would use the gold to create a new Rome in the west that would be the equal of the capital.’

‘That was before the old fool Galba got himself killed. Before a
new man
like Vespasian could take the throne against all the traditions of the Empire. A former muleteer and the son of a tax farmer, with not an ounce of true patrician blood in his veins.’

‘He won the war,’ the weakling pointed out. ‘He has been hailed Emperor by the Senate and people of Rome.’

‘And the Senate is already plotting against the muleteer and his brood.’ The leader’s gravelly voice was dismissive now. ‘They saw what happened to Vitellius and they panicked because they believed they would be served the same way after Vespasian’s brother Sabinus was butchered on the Gemonian Stairs. Now they see what an enormous mistake they have made. A man like Vespasian does not have the bloodline to rule the Empire. Why does he keep so many legions on the Rhenus?’

‘To keep the Batavians honest.’

‘No, because he still does not trust the German legions who
originally supported Vitellius. And without Spanish gold he cannot buy that trust.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ The latest interruption came from the facilitator, without whose connections and access none of this would be possible. He did not understand his position of strength, but of them all he was the man of whom the leader was most wary and he was careful to treat him with respect.

‘The governor, Gaius Plinius Secundus, came within a heartbeat of uncovering our scheme.’

The room seemed to freeze as they sensed the enormity of what was to come. ‘You told us you had stopped the flow of information. Stopped it dead.’

‘That is true, but Plinius Secundus is not a man to give up so easily. He is like a hunting dog on the trail of a boar; once he scents blood there will be no stopping him. That is why I have acted on your behalf to ensure he is not in a position to continue.’

They all registered the ‘on your behalf’ which ensured their heads would roll alongside his if the knowledge ever left this room.

‘You sent assassins to kill the governor?’

‘Hopefully he is already dead.’

‘You’re mad.’ The weakling sounded genuinely shocked. Did he even realize his timidity put him next on the leader’s list?

‘Not mad,’ the leader corrected. ‘Pragmatic. Think on it, my friends. It was him or us. Did you want to feel the cold blade of the executioner’s sword kiss the nape of your neck before the blow? Or have your arms torn from their sockets as you hung on the cross for hour after hour in the terrible heat with the scourged wounds on your back salted? That was the end that awaited you if I had not had the courage to act. Now you must have the courage to follow me. The only way to stop Vespasian killing us all is to topple Vespasian.’

‘No!’

‘You’re talking treason.’

The leader stood, his presence seeming to fill the room, and now he did not hide his contempt. ‘Do you really think it makes any difference
if the blood that spurts from your neck is the blood of a thief or a traitor? I can assure you that the thief’s head will certainly roll, but a man with the courage to stand up for Rome gives himself a chance of not just life, but prosperity. This is not treason. It is natural justice. Titus Flavius Vespasian has no right to the purple.’

‘Then who has? You?’ The weakling almost laughed and the leader decided he really would have to deal with this problem before long.

‘No.’ He raised his voice. ‘You may come in.’ A moment later a tall, slim figure appeared from a side room where he’d been listening. ‘A man with the blood of Caesars in his veins. Servius Sulpicius Galba named an heir before he died, but that heir was killed before he could don the purple. His descendants are the true Imperial family.’

‘Vespasian is a usurper and a commoner.’ A young voice and a strong one. ‘Rome needs strength and a steady hand that was born to rule. I believe what you have done in Asturica has been directed by the guiding hand of Jupiter. Not one of the men who took the throne during those three years deserved to rule. Why then would you send them the gold that would have allowed them to continue? You bided your time until a worthy candidate came forward. When I am Emperor, far from being punished the men in this room will be raised to the highest offices of the Empire.’

He could feel their continued scepticism and he faltered for a moment, but the leader came to his aid.

‘And how is this to be achieved?’

‘I already have the support of my comrades in Hispania.’ His tone had regained its authority. ‘The Seventh is Galba’s legacy and will follow his heirs. The German legions can be bought with the gold in your coffers. That same gold will keep the units on the Danuvius frontier where they should be, holding the barbarians at bay. One of our allies is already prepared to march. When he arrives with his men we will form a second Hispanic legion and march on Rome, with the Rhenus legions on our flank.’

‘Can we truly succeed?’ the sceptic demanded.

‘We must succeed.’ The weakling had found his courage. ‘Or we are all dead.’

‘There is one thing.’ A new voice, one that had been quiet for too long. The enforcer.

‘Yes?’

‘It is my understanding the man Petronius had an Asturian ally.’

‘That’s true,’ the leader said thoughtfully. ‘But there is no return from where he is.’

‘Why take a chance?’

‘Why indeed.’

In the perma-heated darkness, Serpentius worked away silently at the short length of wood he’d secreted all day beneath his tunic. It was from the broken handle of a shovel and had cost him a day on the baskets and a beating from the overseer to obtain. The four-inch iron nail he used to gouge minute splinters from the centre of the ash shaft had come from the hammer man who’d urged him not to drink the water on that first day. Vegeto was a free man from Baeduniense who risked losing his wages for even the suspicion of any contact with the Lost. He was as slow of mind as he was large of form, but Serpentius had sensed a goodness in the man that belied his habitual fierce scowl. It had encouraged him to cultivate the Asturian until he felt confident enough to ask for the sliver of metal. From the way Vegeto looked at him, Serpentius knew the other man expected him to use it to kill himself.

If he couldn’t escape soon, it might come to that.

Still, he’d come up with a plan and chosen the men to help him carry it out, even if they didn’t know it yet. But first he had to hollow out the length of wood. At this rate it would take another three or four days. In the darkness he could hear the soft groans and whimpers of his fellow prisoners. A faint muttering in the distance marked the location
of the guards who shared a room carved out of the rock a little further up the main passage. Six guards alternating through the night, with two on duty at any one time while the others slept alongside the jailer.

Once every seven days, as Serpentius reckoned it, the jailer and his guards would arrive an hour earlier than normal. This was the day they ran a water pipe down from the surface to flush out the accumulated filth of the twenty prisoners, and wash down the men themselves, ragged tunics and all. Despite every attempt to squeeze out the water they lived in a permanent damp that covered their tattered clothing with green mould.

The thought of sleep reminded him how exhausted he was in mind and body. Every day he spent in this fetid pit of Hades cost him strength he couldn’t afford to lose. He closed his eyes and tried to rediscover the ability to find oblivion he’d learned during the long campaigns with Valerius. He must not give up hope. Valerius would never give up hope. He thought of the times they’d risked life and limb together, always just one step ahead of the axe man, sharing a bond, a brotherhood so powerful it might even be called love. Where are you now, my brother? With that dangerous little Judaean beauty in the villa at Fidenae you always planned to return to?

He tried to remember her name but it escaped him. It had been like this ever since some Flavian trooper put a dent in his skull during the sack of Rome three years earlier. His memory of things long past was as good as ever, but he would forget where he’d left objects or sometimes even whether he’d eaten. When he’d allowed his hair to grow in the Asturian fashion a woman had pointed out the white circle in the centre of the steely grey that turned him, quite literally, into a marked man. So, he’d shaved his head once more and reverted to Serpentius the scarred former gladiator. He ran his fingers across the half inch of stubble on his scalp. It had grown again now, but that was no reason for celebration down here, where the lice bred in their teeming thousands and seemed to favour any tuft of hair or fold in a tunic.

At some point he must have slept because he woke automatically moments before the jailer appeared in the prisoners’ side tunnel and lit
the first lamp. In the glaring flare of light Serpentius watched intently as the man entered a few paces ahead of the guards. They were still half asleep, but wary. This pair were just brutes in uniform, but the Spaniard had identified two former soldiers among the rest who would be more of a threat to his plan.

‘Don’t you want your bread?’ the jailer snarled.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ The Spaniard snatched the mouldy fragment and dashed it in the swill bucket.

By the time they’d crammed the bread into their mouths the main chain had been removed and the guards kicked them into line to pick up their tools. Serpentius always ensured he slept close to the doorway so he didn’t have to carry a basket and none of the other prisoners had the will to challenge him. The free miners streamed past as he selected his pick. By now the tool was as familiar in his hands as a sword had once been, but before he could accept his oil lamp, someone smashed into him with enough force to knock him to the floor.