Valerius breathed a sigh of relief at the final, fatal sentence. He saw again the red face and bulging eyes and felt the threatening fingers at his throat. What was it Tigellinus had said? ‘Let him offer the tribute and accept the acclaim. His arrogance will take care of the rest.’ ‘What else did your master say?’
‘He said that it seemed someone informed Nymphidius that the Emperor had decided to make another man his heir and the knowledge pushed him over the edge. The judgement of the gods, he said.’
Valerius exchanged a wry look with Serpentius. ‘It seems our new Emperor rides with the gods at his shoulder after all.’
The Spaniard grinned. ‘But sometimes even the gods need a little help.’
X
October, AD 68
It was the thunder season and a storm was coming. Still, half of Rome had turned out to line the Via Flaminia and welcome their new Emperor. Valerius rode with Serpentius as far as the Milvian Bridge, which spanned the Tiber a mile beyond the great tomb Augustus had built to house his family. Since he wasn’t part of any formal celebrations he’d decided against the toga that might have been expected of him, instead wearing a simple belted tunic with the stripe of his rank, and a finespun woollen cloak. He was surprised to see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men milling about beyond the bridge and being kept from the road by a wary line of Praetorians. Among the figures hemmed in on the loop of dry ground between the road and the river, he noted the distinctive blue tunics of the marines of the Misenum fleet. The area was pockmarked with makeshift tents of cloth and leather that indicated they’d been waiting overnight, or longer. Curious, he talked the soldiers on guard into allowing him over the narrow bridge. He recognized the commander of the Praetorians as Helius, one of the escort Tigellinus had provided on the night Nero died.
‘When is the Emperor expected?’
Helius gave a shrug of irritation. ‘No one knows. He should have reached the bridge two hours ago. They’re getting restless.’ He nodded towards the group of seamen.
‘Why are they here?’
‘To force the Emperor to confirm them as a legion. They’ve a long list of demands.’
‘Demands?’ Valerius didn’t hide his disbelief. ‘You don’t demand anything from an Emperor. You get down on your knees and plead.’
A wry smile touched the other man’s lips. ‘I know that, but I’m not sure they do.’
Valerius searched the road ahead for the glint of sun on the gleaming armour of the Imperial escort that would signal Galba was close, but he could see nothing. There was still time. He made his decision. ‘May I talk to them?’
Helius hesitated before giving his consent. ‘At your own risk, but I doubt they’ll listen. A lot of them have been drinking since dawn.’
‘I’ll take the chance. Stay here,’ he told Serpentius. ‘Just this once I think it would be riskier with you than without.’ He unbuckled his sword and handed it to the Spaniard, who gave a snort of disgust. Valerius shook his head. ‘I’m going to talk, not fight. I don’t see any weapons, so I should be safe enough.’
He rode along the line of Praetorians until he saw a familiar bulky figure towering over the men who surrounded him.
‘Juva!’ The big Nubian turned at the shout. He was with the group of oarsmen from the tavern and they eyed Valerius with suspicion. The Roman dismounted and handed the reins to one of the guards before forcing his way through the hard-eyed sailors until he reached the crew of the Waverider.
Juva’s nostrils flared and anger seemed to make him grow even larger. His eyes took in the expensive cloak, and the striped tunic and gold-linked belt beneath it. ‘So the simple workman is an eater of larks’ tongues and buggerer of little boys? Our friend in the tavern was a rich man in a poor man’s clothes. I was right, Roman, you are a spy. We have no piss barrel to drown you in here, but the river is handy. Perhaps we should tie you in a sack and throw you in. I am sure we can find a cock and a dog. We already have the rat.’
Valerius ignored the threat and allowed his gaze to range over the mass of waiting sailors and marines. His instinct told him they would make good soldiers and he felt an affection for their kind he could scarcely explain. They were the type of men he’d served beside and commanded in Britannia, Africa and Armenia: hard, sometimes cruel, and always cynical, who’d cut a throat without blinking an eye, but would share their last crust or sip of wine with the man next to them the night before a battle. ‘Why would you want to drown me when I am here to help you?’ he said reasonably. ‘Look at you. Do you think the Emperor will speak to a rabble? At least try to look like soldiers and have your officers form you into your centuries and show him some of that pride you boasted of.’