‘A proper bastard.’
‘Have you ever met a general who wasn’t?’ Serpentius met his eyes with a look of puzzlement and Valerius realized why. He shook his head. ‘There’s something wrong here. Vitellius would never sanction this.’
‘He tried to kill us once. And the boy,’ Serpentius pointed out.
‘That was politics.’
‘If he wants to be Emperor there will be worse than this before they open the gates of Rome to him.’
‘I don’t know … it just doesn’t seem right.’
‘I suppose there is only one way to find out.’
They urged their horses north towards the distant mountains of Germania, the Rhenus and Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator.
XXXI
Colonia Agrippinensis
‘We seek an audience with the Emperor.’
The guard commander ran a jaundiced eye over the ragged figures who staggered wearily up from the wharf on legs that hadn’t touched dry land for a week. A younger man, dark hair slicked across his forehead by the incessant rain that had soaked the cloak and Celtic trews he wore, though he was no Celt. A face that had known life, as the old saying went, tanned and determined, the lines of its owner’s trials carved deep, and the pale shadow of an old scar running across one cheek. Merchants, he claimed, but merchants with nothing to trade who kept their hands hidden beneath their cloaks. And his companion less savoury still. Features more at home with a snarl than a smile, unless he missed his guess, and the hungry, calculating eyes he’d once seen in a caged leopard. Come a yard too close and you’d find your guts in your lap and your head between its jaws.
‘The Emperor is a busy man, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’ The words were meant to dismiss, but Valerius’s heart quickened when he heard them. Ever since they’d boarded the river galley at Augusta Raurica he’d been plagued by a terrible fear that Vitellius had already left Germania to join his army. The guard prefect had confirmed for the first time that, at the very least, he was still here. Now all they had to do was reach him. ‘It could be a week. It could be a month,’ the man continued. ‘There’s a tavern down by the river, if it hasn’t already been washed away. In the meantime, let’s see your hands and your papers.’
They complied with the order and Valerius heard the familiar hissed intake of breath as he revealed the walnut fist. ‘At least make sure he is given my name.’
The guard stiffened at what wasn’t quite an order, but came close. Normally he’d reward such insolence by kicking the petitioners out on their sorry arses into the mud, but these weren’t normal times. In any case, what harm could it do?
All right. Name?’
‘Publius Sulla.’
‘Publius Sulla?’
A hand shook Valerius’s shoulder and he realized he’d been drowsing after two hours in a room that was little more than a cell and, judging by the heat, must have stood not far from the furnaces supplying the hypocaust system. He opened his eyes to be confronted by a tall, swarthy man with short-cropped hair and a slightly effeminate manner. A half-stifled yawn escaped his lips and the other man frowned and repeated his question, not bothering to hide his irritation.
‘You are Publius Sulla?’
‘Publius Sulla died three years ago in a dirt fort on the Dacian frontier. If the name was carried to Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator, he would know that.’ The slight chink of metal on metal drew his eyes to the doorway. Valerius heard Serpentius move and put out a hand to stay him, his eyes never leaving the armed guard accompanying the courtier who’d woken him. He allowed his voice to harden. ‘If you had given him the additional information that the Publius Sulla who sought an audience had only one hand, he would also have told you that your guards could keep their swords sheathed.’
He recognized the moment the veiled instruction registered. The man’s eyes glittered with suppressed malice, but he turned on his heel and walked out. A few minutes later two guards appeared to escort Valerius through a warren of corridors to an enormous receiving room gorgeously decorated in purple and gold. Colourful hunting scenes decorated the ceiling, with toga-clad gods watching approvingly from behind puffy white clouds while barely clothed nymphs supplied the hunters with arrows. Painted marble busts of Vitellius’s ancestors stood on fluted pillars at intervals around the walls, each of them matched by a grim-faced and fully armed legionary with his hand on the hilt of his short sword. All this Valerius took in before his attention focused on the heavily cloaked figure lounging on a couch at the far side of the central fire. A puzzled smile flitted across the corpulent features of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator, would-be Emperor of Rome, ruler of the two Germanias and commander of seven crack legions, the cream of which were currently converging on northern Italia.