‘There is no turning back now,’ Pudens declared, and to prove it he swept back his cloak and drew his sword. ‘Hail Caesar.’ The shout was clearly a signal, because more swords appeared and the cry was taken up in twenty throats. Someone brought forward a sella and Otho was bundled into the chair before it was picked up by four stout Praetorians and carried off past the astonished faces of senators who had emerged from the Curia to discover what the commotion was.
For a moment, Serpentius couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but in a crisis the Spaniard’s mind was as swift as his actions. He turned to Juva. ‘Find master Valerius and tell him exactly what has happened. They’re heading for the Castra Praetoria and he should meet me there when he can.’
Without looking back, he hurried off after the cheering Praetorians and their burden. Otho had recovered sufficient poise to wave and smile fixedly at the mystified bystanders as the little procession passed. Within minutes Serpentius noticed a curious phenomenon. The incident had begun with fewer than thirty men – barely enough to start a riot, never mind a rebellion – but by the time they crossed the Vicus Longus that number had doubled, and more were joining all the time. A few brandished swords, but more followed with quiet determination, out of curiosity and self-preservation; what was happening here could affect them and their families and the more they knew the safer they would be. They emerged from the Subura to be joined by a new influx, among whom Serpentius recognized a few with the broad shoulders and blue tunics that marked the sailors and marines of the disgraced naval militia.
As they stumbled through the streets after the raised chair, rumours danced through the crowd like mini-wildfires; stories and half-truths bouncing from man to man, adding to the confusion and changing shape and meaning as they went. Serpentius could hear the voices around him.
‘What’s happening?’ someone demanded.
A big man in a smith’s leather apron replied. ‘They say there’s a new Emperor.’
‘What happened to the last one, the old man?’
The smith shrugged. ‘He must be dead.’
‘The Emperor’s dead?’ The lawyer marching to Serpentius’s right sounded sceptical, but the cry was taken up by the man next to him and the reverberations rippled out like rings from a stone thrown into a pool.
‘The Emperor’s dead.’
‘Hail Caesar!’
‘Who is it?’
‘The new Emperor.’
‘But who?’
‘Must be the boy he adopted,’ the smith said. ‘The rich one. Maybe he’s going to hand out some of his cash.’
The man next to him grinned. ‘In that case I don’t care who he is. Hail Caesar.’
As they approached the Castra Praetoria, Serpentius pushed and snarled his way forward until he was marching to the left of the chair. When he looked up he saw a curious mixture of terror and elation on Otho’s face. The patrician’s skin was the colour of a long-dead fish’s belly and sweat ran down his cheeks, but his eyes glowed with an almost mystical light, as if the creature inside was experiencing a different event from the vessel that held it.
‘Hail Caesar!’ The refrain was taken up by a crowd now several hundred strong and they swept through the gates into the barracks as the tribune on duty watched helplessly. Serpentius could only look on in admiration. Otho had taken Rome’s most powerful citadel without the loss of a man or a drop of blood. The question was: could he keep it?
The sacrifice of the second bull had just been completed. This time Umbricius declared the omens favourable, as well he might. One attempt to shape Imperial policy was permissible; a second could be fatal. In any case, the Emperor was paying for the bulls. The unfortunate animal had been cut up into small portions, for the gods, and larger parts which would be cooked and eaten later at the sacrificial feast, with the best cuts naturally going to Galba and his favourites. Valerius experienced his usual reaction to the scent of roasting meat: an unlikely mix of hunger and nausea occasioned by the memory of Messor, the young legionary who had been nailed to the door of the Temple of Claudius and burned to death within feet of those trapped inside. He was thinking about how to take his leave when he noticed the tall figure arguing with the guards at the temple gate.
‘Juva,’ he called. The two guards recognized the one-handed man in the formal toga and moved aside. Valerius stepped close to the Nubian, so their conversation couldn’t be overheard. ‘What’s going on?’
Juva explained what he had seen, making no attempt to interpret it, but stressing Serpentius’s plea for urgency. Valerius felt the blood drain from his face. It was starting. He glanced across to where Galba was completing the final rituals of the sacrifice. Was he aware of what was happening? No, of course not. He could see from the complacent faces of Vinius and Laco that nothing was amiss. A moment’s hesitation, almost of pain, but there could be only one decision. Otho was a friend, but Corbulo had taught Valerius that honour and duty were obligations that must always rise above friendship. He nodded to Juva to stay where he was and made his way towards the consul and the Praetorian prefect, forcing himself not to hurry and trying to work out what to say without starting a panic. The fate of Rome might depend on the next few moments.