Sword of Rome(29)

‘Aye.’ A huge shout went up and Milo grinned as he tasted the first fruits of victory. But beneath the rim of his gilded helmet Galba’s eyes contained a lawyer’s sly glint.

‘Yet,’ he affected puzzlement, ‘did I not hear you say “granted”?’

‘The Emperor Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar …’

‘Nero Claudius Germanicus Caesar is no longer Emperor, but I will forgive you that.’

‘… paraded us before him and pledged that we would be a legion.’

‘But he did not make you a legion,’ Galba pointed out, his tone that of a father gently lecturing a five-year-old child. ‘I see no eagle, no cohort standards, none of the trappings of a legion. Perhaps it was intended that they should be granted, and if they had been granted I would confirm them, but it is clear to me that they have not. Am I to be bound by the whims of my predecessor?’ He turned his mount so he was facing the men behind the Praetorian line and raised his voice. ‘I must have more time to consider your position. The Empire awaits my decision on many matters of great import. Would you place yourselves before the feeding of our people, the restoration of our finances, the enormous backlog of decisions that require so much consideration? Of course not.’ The Emperor shook his head at the unlikelihood of such a thing. ‘When my predecessor called upon you he was not of sound mind. In his delusion he believed we were an Empire at war, when the truth was that his acts might have caused one. Does the Empire need another legion when my ambition is for peace and stability? Can it afford another legion when it has so many other priorities for its resources? All these things your Emperor will consider in time. You must form up and march back to your barracks at Misenum.’ Satisfied he had dealt with the situation, he turned his mount and walked it past the perplexed Milo and his fellow negotiators.

But he had underestimated the determination of the sailors and marines. At first there was a shocked silence, but soon the shouting started again. ‘No!’ ‘Give us our standards!’ ‘Let us fight for Rome!’ ‘Give us our eagle!’ Galba didn’t even look in their direction. He had denied them their wish to be a legion, yet in his mind they were just that, with a legion’s discipline that would keep them in place as he passed. But they were not a legion. The marines would have stood, but the oarsmen surged forward past their leaders and through the thin line of Praetorians who were too greatly outnumbered to stop them. They surrounded the first troop of cavalry, calling out and jostling, the shouts soon distilling down to a single chant: ‘Give us our eagle!’

Trapped in the crowd, Valerius found himself swept along with them. He looked desperately for Serpentius and the horses, but the Spaniard was nowhere to be seen above the sea of heads. His eye was drawn north, to where the Emperor sat, unable to move in the midst of his escort, his stony face as purple as his cloak. He knew that behind Galba the backed-up units would be wondering what was happening; he could almost feel the hands of the cavalry troopers tightening on their spears and their sword hilts.

Still, the situation could have been resolved. He could see Milo moving among the men, trying to push them back away from the road, and there were others, Juva among them, urgently talking and reasoning. Valerius did the same, trying to herd away men who could never have told you why they had surged on to that road, except that they had followed everyone else. Even so, Valerius knew they were one wrong word away from a riot.

‘Betrayed!’

The cry from Clodius froze Valerius’s blood and there was a moment’s silence before it was taken up by first one voice, then another, until that single word drowned out all others. Clodius brandished his sword above the crowd and it was joined by several others.

‘No!’ Valerius tried to fight his way towards the blade, but even as he tore at the sailors between, he saw more bright flashes above the crowd and heard shouts of alarm from the nearest Imperial cavalrymen. Panic rippled through the protesting sailors the way a summer breeze touches every bent head of a ripened field of wheat.

Clodius was almost within reach. It was as if Nymphidius had reached out from the grave to put a torch to the tinder-dry foundations of the Empire and Valerius tried to puzzle why. Well, he would know soon enough. He reached out for the doorman’s raised arm.

Like the stoop of a swooping eagle, something dark clouded the very corner of his vision. Before his mind could even evaluate it as a threat, his head seemed to explode and his vision starred into a thousand vibrant colours before his world went dark.





XII