‘I think that can be arranged.’
‘Don’t think.’ Nymphidius glared. ‘You speak for the old man. I want to hear you say it.’
Valerius took a deep breath. ‘Servius Sulpicius Galba will appoint you his heir as soon as he is invested with the purple.’
Nymphidius stared at him. It could be months before Galba reached Rome, and more till his investment. Valerius could tell the Praetorian commander would have liked the announcement to be made earlier, but he had played all his bargaining chips. His ruddy features relaxed and he nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll start approaching the Praetorian cohorts as soon as I see the colour of your money.’
Valerius shook the sack free from his wooden hand and Nymphidius’s eyes widened a little as he saw the walnut fist. The sack was half filled with sand to conceal what was kept within and to deaden the sound of metal upon metal. Inside were hidden twenty smaller bags, each containing one hundred golden aurei. Serpentius carried a similar load and the weight of coin had come close to breaking their backs on the long trek up the hill. Valerius retrieved one bag from the sand and opened it to show the buttery glint within. ‘Perhaps we can find somewhere more private to complete our discussions.’
Nymphidius laughed and draped an arm like a tree branch over Valerius’s shoulder. ‘Bugger having two rooms replastered. I think I might have the whole place rebuilt.’
V
‘It’s done,’ Valerius said. ‘The Praetorians will abandon Nero and hail Galba as Emperor tomorrow. According to Tigellinus the Senate will follow within hours. He’s finished.’
‘Does that mean we can get out of Rome?’ Serpentius’s weathered face showed something like relief. ‘This place reminds me of that day in Oplontis before the earthquake. Like a pot ready to boil over.’
Valerius considered the suggestion. Weeks of living with the constant threat of torture and death had left their mark on both men, but Galba’s mission was only half complete and he had his own reasons for staying. Reasons he wouldn’t reveal even to the Spaniard. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘We have to see this through. The latest rumour is that Rubrius Gallus and his men have declared for Galba. If it’s true, the only military force of any consequence loyal to Nero this side of the Alps is the marine legion. I want to know more about them.’
Their chance came later that day, on the way back from the Castra Praetoria, where Valerius had been attempting to gauge the mood of the Guard. Raucous voices bellowed from the doorway of a bar in the shadow of one of the giant water castles that provided reservoirs for Rome’s aqueducts. Valerius recognized the song as a pornographic shanty he’d heard roared by naval oarsmen. He nodded to Serpentius and they slipped inside into the gloom. It was the usual crossroads tavern, a low-ceilinged room with a stone bar inset with large urns filled with posca, the cheap, lead-sweetened wine favoured in these places, and others brimming with stew of indeterminate origin. Ten men seated around a rough wooden table took up most of the space and they gave off an air of cheerful menace that was as much a result of the power of their combined voices as of their bulk, which was substantial. They ignored the newcomers and Valerius squeezed through to the bar, where he ordered a jug of wine and two cups. He and Serpentius took their places a little to one side of the group and supped their wine while the singing subsided and the men began to talk in the coarse, easy manner of shipmates. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dark, Valerius could see that they were a mix of races, including easterners, probably from Syria, Judaea and Egypt, where the navy recruited, and a Nubian, whose size marked him out even among these men chosen for their strength and power when hauling on a fourteen-foot oar of seasoned oak.
‘If we’re a legion, when the fuck are they going to give us proper uniforms?’ The complainer was a bull-necked Syrian with thick curly hair and guttural, almost incomprehensible Latin. His refrain was taken up by the bearded man next to him.
‘Aye, and weapons. If they expect us to fight this Galba and his traitors we need shields and spears and training in how to use them.’
Valerius lounged back on his bench, apparently concentrating on his drink, but taking in every word. It seemed one of the few Romans among them, seated at the far end of the table, disagreed with his shipmates’ view. ‘Nah, we won’t have to fight. Soon as the old fart hears that the crew of the Waverider is coming to get him, he’ll shit himself.’
The crude boast brought roars of ‘Waverider’ and a new burst of singing, but one voice, more sober than the rest, cut across the noise. To Valerius’s surprise it was the Nubian’s, and he was listened to.