Sword of Rome(86)

‘See that it is delivered immediately. Warn the messenger that he will attempt bribery, offer flattery and any other means he can think of to delay the inevitable, but he is to be informed that there is no escape from his duty.’ So ends Offonius Tigellinus, and a decade of fear becomes a mere story to scare children to their beds, he thought.

In truth, Tigellinus was a distraction. But then there were so many distractions to divert him from his task that they caused a flutter of panic every time he sat down to consider them. Despite a lifetime following the cursus honorum, the ordered progression that steered a young Roman through the foothills of bureaucracy and discipline and prepared him for rule, he found himself ill prepared for the mountain of detail that seemed designed to crush an Emperor. First there had been the problem of the Praetorians, who had carried him to office on a tidal wave of enthusiasm and – there was no denying it – blood. He had made the normal donative of an incoming Emperor, enough to satisfy them, and make them forget the absurd bribe Nymphidius had promised on Galba’s behalf. Then there had been the appointment of the new prefects to replace those who had died with Galba. He had promised that they could vote in their own candidates, but by subtle diplomacy and some questionable manoeuvring by Onomastus he had succeeded in having his clients Firmus and Proculus nominated. And yet there had still been some misunderstanding that had brought them rampaging to the Senate threatening to slaughter the entire house after some rumour spread that he was being held there against his will. It had eventually been resolved, but it had taken time he could ill afford and shaken the senators’ faith in his ability to control the Guard. The finger of blame pointed unerringly at the Prefect of Rome. If Otho had been stronger he might have acted, but, like Galba, he could not afford to alienate Vespasian in Judaea, so the general’s brother Flavius Sabinus would continue in the role he had held under Nero.

The thought of Sabinus made him frown and he called for a document that had arrived the previous day. The prefect was demanding the arrest of Gaius Valerius Verrens on a charge of murder. Some story of a young relative, that useless scrub of a boy Domitianus, attacked, and one of his bodyguards killed. With Valerius out of the city Otho could afford to put the matter aside, but it would have to be dealt with in time. The dark eyes and scarred features swam into his vision. A capable man in any situation that required violence or guile, but with a fierce intelligence that made him doubly useful. Valerius’s inflated sense of personal honour made him predictable, but somehow he always managed to overcome this handicap and get the job done. Well, useful or not, there might come a time when Gaius Valerius Verrens would have to be sacrificed on the altar of political gain.

He picked up another report and an involuntary groan escaped his lips. Flood water from the Tiber had inundated thousands of riverside properties, drowning dozens and making many hundreds homeless. Worse, it had demolished granaries and warehouses packed to bursting with grain to see Rome through the winter and supplies for the troops who would inevitably take the field in the spring. Most had been lost, and a bread shortage would bring the mob on to the streets, which he couldn’t afford. There was no question of replacing the supplies in the short term, but should he increase subsidies to appease the poor, or use the money to ensure a supply for his army? The thought of the great shadow spilling from the north answered his question. He closed his eyes. He must have more troops.

‘One hour until the parade, Caesar.’

‘Very well. Summon my military advisers and my brother Lucius.’

When Galba and his cabal had been got rid of that should have been the end of it. No more bloodshed and an orderly return to normality. But he hadn’t bargained for the unlikely ambition of Aulus Vitellius and his hold on the German legions. Galba had appointed Vitellius to Germania Inferior because he was harmless and could be relied on to stay that way. Everything Otho knew about the man confirmed his predecessor’s evaluation. He had never met a lazier or less likely candidate for revolt. Otho did not want a war, would do anything he could to prevent it. Yet Vitellius’s armies were marching on Rome and he must bring together a force capable of defeating them. Valerius was not his only diplomatic weapon, but it was becoming clear from the increasingly belligerent tone emerging from the Vitellius camp that diplomacy wasn’t going to work. A few days earlier, his spies had intercepted a pair of assassins who admitted under torture that they had been sent from Colonia Agrippinensis. Alas, he had missed his opportunity to respond in kind. Even now, Valerius might be in a position to wield the knife. Of course, the one-handed nobleman was much too honourable for that, but Otho was human enough to regret not encouraging his murderous-looking Spanish freedman to do the job if the chance arose. Still, what was done could not be undone.