Scourge of Rome Read online

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  AD 70. Gaius Valerius Verrens has been disgraced, dishonoured and banished. To return to Rome would be to face certain death.

  Such a punishment would break a lesser man, but Valerius knows his only hope of survival – and the restoration of his family’s fortunes – lies with his friend Titus, son of the newly crowned Emperor Vespasian, and now commander of the Army of Judaea. And so the former military tribune journeys east and into the heart of a brutal and savage rebellion.

  Reaching the Roman legions arrayed around the walls of the city of Jerusalem, Valerius finds Titus a changed man. Gone is the cheerful young officer; in his place is a ruthless soldier under pressure from an impatient emperor to terminate the Judaean uprising at any cost. Soon Valerius finds himself drawn into a web of intrigue spun by Titus’s lover, Queen Berenice of Cilicia, and his venal adviser, Flavius Josephus – unlikely allies who have an ulterior motive for ending the siege quickly . . .

  But clandestine negotiations in the murky tunnels beneath Jerusalem are not going to win Valerius back his freedom. Only amid the heat and blood of battle can he rediscover the glory that brought him the title ‘Hero of Rome’.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Maps

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Jackson

  Copyright

  SCOURGE OF ROME

  Douglas Jackson

  For my wonderful, long-suffering wife, Alison

  What I now recount is an act unparalleled in the history of the Greeks or the barbarians, and as horrible to relate as it is incredible to hear.

  Flavius Josephus, The Siege of Jerusalem

  Prologue

  Rome, January, AD 70

  ‘I fear I must report a failure in Athens.’ The only reaction from the man on the throne was a slight lift of the head, but the messenger flinched at the menace his words kindled in the dark, unforgiving eyes. ‘Our operative vanished,’ he stumbled on. ‘And the traitor was able to take ship for the East.’

  ‘Could he have been warned?’

  The messenger took time to consider his reply. This was even more dangerous territory. His dealings with Titus Flavius Domitian, younger son of the Emperor Vespasian, had made him aware that the new prefect of Rome nurtured an irrational hatred for the man they were discussing. The reasons were lost amid the murk of intrigue and conspiracy of the eighteen-month civil war that had come so close to bringing Rome to her knees. Not five hundred paces from where Domitian sat they were still sifting charred bones from the burned-out ruins of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. The seeds of the bitter conflict had been planted by Nero’s enforced suicide, after the erratic young Emperor’s downward spiral had cost him the support of the legions and the Senate. His successor, Sulpicius Galba, governor of Hispania, had made the mistake of cheating the Praetorian Guard out of the payment he’d promised them, and been murdered by Marcus Salvius Otho, the man he’d spurned as an heir. By the time the new Emperor took the throne, the German legions of Aulus Vitellius were already marching on Rome, and a disastrous defeat at Bedriacum had cost Otho his life. In a final twist, Domitian’s father Vespasian, general of the eastern legions, had been hailed Emperor by his officers. After a campaign which had left the soil of Italia bloodied and littered with sun-bleached bones, Vespasian’s supporters finally wrested the purple from Vitellius’s hands and butchered him on the Gemonian Stairs.

  Now Vespasian was making his triumphal progress to Rome from Egypt while Domitian protected his interests in the capital, and his elder son Titus commanded the legions putting down the Judaean revolt. For the moment, Domitian was the city’s ruler in all but name, and he held the power of life and death over every inhabitant. The messenger knew his next words could bring that power into play. In the political crocodile pit that was Rome in the aftermath of Vitellius’s ignoble death, was it in his interest to offer a sacrifice? A slight chill tickled the back of his neck. A draught from the open window looking out on to the Forum? Or a warning that the palace walls had ears and another might be close by whom he could perhaps not afford to offend?

  ‘I … I do not believe so,’ he admitted eventually. ‘The timings make it unlikely.’

  Domitian rose from his cushioned seat and the messenger was struck by how slight he appeared in his purple-striped toga. Just a boy really, but one must never forget that the boy was his father’s son. Domitian had been trapped in the Temple of Jupiter with his uncle Sabinus, but while Sabinus’s body parts still lay on the Gemonian Stairs, Domitian had reappeared to assume power in his father’s name. To the messenger’s surprise, the young man smiled.

  ‘He would not be worthy of my enmity if he were not worthy of my respect.’ Domitian shrugged. ‘What have we lost? One man who promised more than he could deliver and no doubt paid the price.’ The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘The game goes on.’

  ‘Of course, lord.’ The man bowed and backed out of the room.

  Domitian waited until he was alone. ‘You heard?’

  A figure in military uniform emerged from the balcony. ‘These people are fools if they think their barrack room backstabbers and slow poisoners can kill Verrens. A man who stood alone against the rebel queen Boudicca and survived the intrigues of the past two years will not go so willingly to his grave.’

  ‘You sound as if you admire him.’

  ‘He’s proved he can soldier,’ the officer shrugged. ‘And he has a gladiator’s instinct for survival. If he lives your father may give him a legion.’

  The suggestion brought a grunt of bitter laughter from the young man on the throne. He had destroyed Gaius Valerius Verrens’ reputation by portraying his peace mission to Vitellius as treason; he would not let him recover it. ‘Yet you want him dead?’

  ‘I have my reasons. If he has a fault it is his honesty. One day it may be the death of him.’

  A cold smile wreathed Domitian’s narrow features. ‘Then it suits both our purposes for you to join my brother in Judaea. You and Verrens are very much alike. He will instinctively trust you. You can get close enough to …’

  The soldier’s stare silenced the younger man and
Domitian bridled at the … contempt, yes, that was what he saw in the eyes, contempt. He was reminded that his physical weakness in the presence of men like these didn’t match the power of his position. When this was over …

  ‘Call off your dogs. They will only get in my way.’

  ‘No.’ Domitian recovered himself. ‘It may be that your mission has been completed for you before you arrive in Judaea. In that case you will get close to my brother. I want to know everything. Who he sleeps with. Who he plots with. His attitude to my father and his attitude to me. Who are his allies and what are his plans. You will place my brother’s fate in the palm of my hand, is that understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  I

  Roman Syria, one month later

  A man would die in Antioch tonight. The assassin had stalked his victim for a week and knew his routine intimately enough to be certain of his destination. His target had taken lodgings in the cloth-making district where tight-packed, ramshackle houses lined the rat-infested Parmenian stream. It was a decision that spoke of an exceptionally tolerant sense of smell and a wish for privacy. The stench of fuller’s piss permeating the streets meant the vigiles kept their distance unless provoked. A perfect sanctuary for a fugitive, and his man certainly acted like a fugitive.

  Normally, the assassin would have finished the job in a single night, leaving his victim just another corpse floating face down in the festering creek among the turds and the dead dogs. A long-nurtured instinct for survival told him that this one was different: a man with an equally well-honed sense of self-preservation. Instead, the murderer had watched and waited, his eyes never leaving the lodging house in the narrow alley the locals called, with supreme irony, the Street of Perfumed Gardens.

  His target left the house twice each day, at noon and in the early evening, and though his route varied the destination was always the same, a tavern-brothel named the Vengeful Tenth after the legionaries who frequented it while on leave. There, he nursed a single drink and ignored the half-hearted ministrations of the whores until one of the merchants who organized the eastern caravans made his daily call. A short conversation ended with a shake of the head and a shrug that meant another day’s wait. Showing neither disappointment nor frustration the target would hand the trader a coin and re-arrange the rendezvous before making his way to the stables where the two horses he’d bought were being cared for. He would check their condition and question the groom before handing over another coin and returning to his accommodation.

  The assassin had assessed the route and calculated the possibilities before making his decision where to strike. His favoured spot was reached not long after the man left the tavern, when he passed through a shadowed alley a few dozen paces long on the way to the stable. If someone happened to be around, another convenient place presented itself between the stable and his lodgings. The assassin was adept with either knife or strangling rope, but he’d chosen the former because the victim was a well-built man of above average height who had once been a soldier; a holder of the Corona Aurea, if his sources were to be believed. Despite his ragged clothing and broken-down appearance, the high military honour identified him as a formidable opponent. The assassin was a man who took no chances. Death must be instantaneous.

  One other factor required consideration. His victim had a feature that made him instantly recognizable but also created, if not a problem, then at least an interesting dilemma. One hand, the right, was missing – an old battle injury, he’d been told – and had been replaced by a carved wooden fist. The question was: did that make the victim more vulnerable or less so? A less experienced killer would immediately have opted for the first, but the assassin was a thorough man. After some thought he’d decided that the fact that this man had survived with the mutilation for so long probably made him more dangerous. A left-handed victim was unusual and his reaction to an attack less predictable. Better to give him no time to react at all.

  Tonight he didn’t follow the victim into the smoky, noisome interior of the Vengeful Tenth with its tawdry painted harridans and sour wine. Instead he wrapped his cloak tighter against the night cold and took up a position where he could watch the door. Patience was an exceptional virtue in his profession, and he was an exceptionally patient man.

  As he waited, he watched the sky turn from dark blue to inky black. The hills looming over the ancient city transformed from grey to silver and finally a ghostly, insubstantial haze that was eventually consumed by the night. He saw the merchant arrive and leave in the time it took to sup a single drink. Any moment now. He took a deep breath. There. A tall man silhouetted in the light from the curtained doorway, the bleak grey eyes mere pits of darkness in a hard-edged face with a distinctive white scar that ran from eye to lip on the left side. The man hesitated a moment before trudging off in the direction of the stables, slightly favouring his right side as if to compensate for the missing extremity. The assassin gave his victim twenty paces of a start before following, not so much moving over the ground as flowing from one shadow to the next, deathly silent and oblivious of the nameless filth beneath his feet.

  This close to the kill his senses, always well developed, heightened so that every sight, sound and scent was recognizable even in the murky depths of the alley. Wary and wound tight as a ballista rope, he nevertheless felt an almost brotherly affinity with the victim. For instance, this past two days the man had taken on a heavy-footed gait as if someone had placed a great weight on his shoulders. Was it caused by the knowledge that the assassin’s patron nursed a vengeful hatred that knew no bounds and each day was likely to be his last? Well, the weariness and the worry were about to end. When the job was done the killer would take ship at Seleucia Pieria and return to the reward that was his due and the wife and daughters on whom he doted.

  He didn’t think of himself as an evil man, not even a bad one. He was just a professional doing a job. Every man had to die some day, and few had the choice of the where, the how or the why.

  At least for the former soldier it would be quick. He could visualize the gap between two ribs where the needle point of the long blue-tinged blade would enter the body. A moment of exquisite agony as it penetrated the frantically pumping heart. The muscle spasming to grip the bright iron until the knife twisted to break the hold, triggering a terrible long shudder that transmitted its way through the blade from victim to killer. A final breath and the familiar look of disbelief in the dying eyes.

  Now! He increased his pace. His cloth-bound feet covered the ground in long soundless strides that brought him so close to the inviting, unsuspecting back that his nostrils twitched with the scent of the victim’s last cup of wine. The final rush was accompanied by a thrill of fear that the man would sense something and react, instantly replaced by the exhilaration of the faultlessly placed strike, the right arm punching forward, the aim and the angle exact. Perfection.

  But why did the impact jar his arm? Why, instead of welcoming flesh, did the point meet something rigid and unforgiving? Even as the assassin’s mind made the link with the sensation of a blade being turned by metal, it was already too late. A warning scorched his brain like a bolt of forked lightning. That heartbeat’s hesitation gave Gaius Valerius Verrens his opportunity. He whirled in a single movement and his left hand came up to seize the attacker’s wrist. The would-be killer felt the bones grind together and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. He looked up into eyes that surprised him because they were filled with regret rather than hatred or vengeance. As he struggled to break free the oaken fist he’d forgotten existed came up and smashed into his jaw with a force that sucked the strength from his legs. But the assassin had not survived for so long without an inner strength that would have surprised anyone who looked upon his doleful, priestly face. As he fell to the cobbled street his mind still whirled with possibilities. Surely he would be questioned? The man would want to know who had sent him and why. The assassin decided he would lead him back to his lodging house. Offer him m
oney. Perhaps even give up the next link in the chain that led back to Rome. So many opportunities for a man of enterprise to escape or turn the tables.

  Even as he considered his next move his disbelieving brain registered the sting as the edge of his own blade sliced across his throat. So this was how it—

  Valerius stood over the dying man until the soft gurgling faded, careful to stay clear of the spreading pool of darkness that threatened his feet. When all movement ceased he threw the knife into a nearby cesspit and searched the corpse. As he’d expected, the findings were of little interest: a purse containing a surprising number of gold coins, the usual phallic charm for luck – he looked into the dead eyes and shook his head at the irony of it – a second knife in a pouch strapped to the arm, and a braided rope that needed no explanation. He’d supposed the man might carry some token identifying his origin, but it didn’t really matter. Whether he was employed by one of the shadowy state-sponsored agencies in the Palatium or just another blade for hire, Valerius had no doubt who sent him.

  He straightened with the weary grunt of a much older man and considered his options. The dead assassin was the latest of at least four killers who’d dogged his footsteps over the last two months. One of them had simply disappeared. He’d persuaded the second, a Moesian courtesan, that whatever she’d been offered wasn’t worth dying for. But in Athens there’d been a much too friendly merchant who’d surreptitiously poured powder into his wine cup, then taken so much interest in the establishment’s nubile entertainment that Valerius had managed to switch drinks with him. Such was his agony that the convulsions snapped his spine like an over-strained bow.

  This one had been the best. It had taken Valerius two days to mark him and the assassin’s only mistake was not to strike earlier. The one-handed Roman thanked the gods for the whim that had led him to buy the rusting auxiliary chain armour he’d seen hanging at the back of an ironworker’s market stall. Without it, he would certainly be dead. Mars’ sacred arse, the bastard had been quick. One moment he’d been a dozen paces back and the next Valerius had the breath knocked out of him. It had been pure luck the point hadn’t punched through one of the armour’s many weak spots. As it was, he was certain the knife had still bitten deep into the heavy leather vest he wore under the chain. He stretched his lower back. He was getting too old for this. The thought made him laugh. He was thirty-four years old. At thirty-four, Augustus had conquered Egypt and ten years later he’d still had the strength of will to invade Parthia and recover the standards lost by Crassus at Carrhae.