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  ‘I think we’ve given the ladies enough entertainment for today.’ Serpentius nodded over Valerius’s left shoulder and he turned his head to look towards the curtained pavilion ten feet away. The scene resembled a marble tableau he had once seen in Nero’s private quarters in the Domus Transitoria: three young women in almost identical poses, but wearing different expressions. Domitia Longina’s two slave girls had their hands to their mouths, one in horror and the other in delight. The general’s daughter stood slightly behind them, tall, imperious and obviously fully recovered from her seasickness, wearing a red dress and a look of puzzled amusement. It was the first time Valerius had seen her face properly and something lurched inside him as he realized whom she resembled. Before the older woman emerged from the tent to shoo her charges inside he felt an almost physical pain as he remembered another momentous meeting, in the courtyard of the Temple of Claudius. A meeting that had changed his life and almost cost him it.

  ‘I hope I didn’t tire you, sir?’ Tiberius stood at his shoulder, his eyes on the group disappearing behind the curtains.

  ‘No. A pity it ended so quickly — I was just getting into my rhythm.’

  Tiberius grinned at the lie. ‘Do you have any suggestions for an honest journeyman?’

  Now it was Valerius’s turn to smile. It took him a few moments to remember the words of Marcus, the arena veteran who trained the gladiators, on the day he had met Serpentius. ‘An old gladiator once told me: don’t fight like a one-handed man, or a two-handed man. Fight like a killer.’ The younger man nodded solemnly. ‘But I think you already know that, Tiberius.’

  The tribune’s grin deepened and he turned to walk away.

  ‘And Tiberius?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Never underestimate your opponent.’

  V

  The Golden Cygnet passed through the Strait of Messana on the morning of the fourth day, with the vast dusty bulk of Sicilia a mile to their right and, to their left, the province of Lucania, the most southern point of mainland Italia. Valerius stood beside the steering platform with captain Aurelius as they left the mainland behind.

  ‘Make course due east,’ the sailor ordered. The steersmen grunted as they hauled the massive oars against the force of the waters rushing below the hull and the sailmaster, a tall Nubian, trimmed the sails to make the best speed on their new course. Valerius watched as the two naval galleys kept station, sleek and narrow as a pair of dolphins, three ship-lengths off the bow. Aurelius reached up to touch the tutela, the carved talisman of Poseidon that protected the ship. ‘If the wind gods favour us we’ll make landfall on the Achaean coast two hours before dark. I have a mind to anchor up early today. The lady Domitia has graciously invited us to join her for dinner.’

  Aurelius misinterpreted Valerius’s look of alarm. ‘Yes, it is unusual, but she is an unusual young woman. Her father’s daughter, I would say. Her mother died in Antioch two months ago, after a long illness, and the Emperor offered the use of this ship as soon as he heard. She bears her grief like a soldier. Your companion the young tribune is also invited to attend, as well as the commanders of the two classis galleys.’

  The master’s entreaty to Poseidon must have been successful because the Cygnet and her two outriders cut an arrow-straight furrow across the cobalt waters of the Aegean and they anchored in a sheltered bay with the mountains of central Achaea a brown haze in the distance when the sun was still well above the western horizon. Valerius could make out a settlement on the far side of the bay. After consulting with their host’s freedwoman, a widow called Tulia whose every disappointment was written in her curled lip and small, suspicious eyes, Aurelius sent a swimmer to organize fresh fruit and vegetables and anything else that would enhance the meal, while a rough table built by the ship’s carpenter was set up in front of the lady Domitia’s curtained tent. The arrival of an imperial ship had caused a sensation in the village, and within an hour small boats were ferrying back and forth with the produce of the land. Others, filled with spectators, simply anchored while the occupants stared in awe at the great gold-painted hull.

  ‘Keep them away unless they have something to sell,’ Aurelius roared as one boat came too close to his paintwork. ‘I don’t want any thieving Greek getting on board this ship.’

  Valerius washed on deck in a bucket of sea water, and Serpentius erected a curtain to allow him to dress in privacy. Over his best tunic with the broad stripe of a senior tribune on the hem and sleeves he wore a moulded leather breastplate embossed with silver and the white cloak which differentiated him from any other officer in the legion. No sword or crested helmet, for this was a purely social occasion. He ran his hand through his hair and exchanged a glance with the Spaniard.

  ‘You look like a scarred old tom leopard in a dress, but you’ll do,’ was Serpentius’s opinion. ‘I’ve seen you looking less nervous before a fight. Mind you, that Tulia’s face is enough to scare a Scythian sword-swallower into an early grave. Or is there someone else who frightens you?’

  Valerius decided not to hear the final sentence. Tiberius, scrubbed, polished and wearing armour buffed to a mirror shine, was waiting just the right distance from the table to be polite. Beside him stood the two captains of the escort galleys, who if anything appeared even younger than their companion. They saluted Valerius, warily eyeing the wooden hand and the vivid red line that scarred his face from below his left eye to the corner of his mouth, but Tiberius noticed his smile.

  ‘I apologize if we have amused you, sir.’

  ‘Never apologize for amusing someone, Tiberius; there is not enough amusement in the world. And never mistake jest for insult, or you may find that winning a battle costs more than you are willing to pay. I was just thinking that you fight as if you were born with a sword in your hand.’

  The young man nodded, accepting the compliment as his due. ‘Thank you, sir. And it’s almost true. My father was legate of the Fifteenth Primigenia and later the Eighth Augusta, so my brother and I grew up in military headquarters on the Rhenus and in Moesia. We loved him, of course, but he was a man of little imagination and our education was limited to basics such as grammar and rhetoric. He was very insistent that we should be self-sufficient in every way, so we trained and exercised with the soldiers each day. The armourer first fashioned me a small sword when I was four years old, I believe, and apart from the occasional childhood illness I have held one every day from that to this.’

  He was interrupted as the curtains of the tent fell back and the lady Domitia Longina Corbulo took her place at the head of the table. She had exchanged red for blue, a long flowing gown that bared the unblemished flesh of her shoulders and was low enough to give a hint of shadow between her bound breasts. Dark, piercing eyes took in each of the guests in turn. She could only have been seventeen at most, but the way she carried herself reminded Valerius of an Egyptian princess, slim and lithe and at one with herself and her destiny. Confident, but not arrogant. Clear of mind and clear of purpose. Tulia, the freedwoman, emerged to sit on a second small bench. The younger of Domitia’s slave girls, a pretty dark-skinned child who looked about fourteen, led Aurelius to the longer bench on the hostess’s left before returning for Tiberius and the two young naval commanders and finally Valerius, who ended up sitting closest to Domitia in the place of honour to her right.

  The general’s daughter waited until they were settled before she spoke.

  ‘You must forgive me for the unorthodox seating arrangements, honoured guests, but this is an unorthodox occasion. I hope you will not find it too upsetting not to recline. I fear our couches are so narrow that we would all end up falling to the deck — that is what we call the floor of the ship, is it not, master Aurelius?’ She said it with a smile and Aurelius answered with an embarrassed grunt which Domitia gracefully accepted as agreement. She clapped her hands twice and the slave girls appeared with silver cups and a jug of wine. ‘I have taken the liberty of watering it, but only slightly, because it is very
fine, and fine wine deserves not to be adulterated too much, do you not agree, tribune?’

  The question was directed at Valerius, but the wine and the ability to answer seemed to stick in his throat. It was a few seconds before he was able to speak and when he did the banality of his words horrified him. ‘I am afraid my acquaintance with wine of this quality is so fleeting as to deny me an opinion, my lady Domitia, but…’

  Tiberius saved him. ‘A Falernian, I think, brother Valerius,’ he interrupted. ‘And perhaps aged ten years, but I’m sure you would have outed it in the end. The sweetness is the key; nothing that came off those slopes could generate so much honey in less time.’

  Valerius heard a snort of annoyance from the far end of the table.

  ‘I am afraid Tulia disapproves of our gathering,’ Domitia explained. ‘As she disapproves of much that I do. But surely it is not right to be confined to our quarters on an adventure such as this? It will be the first time in two years that I shall have seen my father. In any case, I wished to congratulate you on the condition of your ship, captain Aurelius. I had heard sea voyages were arduous and dangerous, but apart from Tulia’s constant complaining this has been most pleasant.’ Aurelius bowed his shaggy head. ‘May I ask how long it will be before we reach Antioch?’

  ‘We are at the mercy of the sea gods, lady,’ the sailor ventured. ‘But with good fortune we will reach Syria in just over a week. In a few days we will call in at Creta to resupply and take on cargo.’ He produced a rare smile. ‘Timber, olive oil and cloth will offset the cost of the voyage. The Emperor is a generous man, but he likes his ships to turn a profit.’

  The fare was surprisingly good. Domitia had brought on board a plentiful supply of preserved food, and a selection of fresh and pickled vegetables from the village was followed by shoulder of hare, cuts of salted pork and two whole chickens. Aurelius had supplied a sizeable tunny fish, cooked black on the outside and bloody in the middle as the crew of the Golden Cygnet preferred it. The taller of the two naval officers ate voraciously, as if he never expected to see food again, while the other held Valerius’s attention with a lecture on shipboard fighting tactics.

  ‘The key is to fight on your enemy’s ground. If he outnumbers you, which he generally does in our case, once he has boarded you it is only a matter of time before he prevails. So you must board him. The first two or three over the side will probably die, of course’ — his smile said it was regrettable but necessary — ‘but once you have formed your shield line you will find your Roman soldier or even marine is a match for any pirate.’

  Valerius thanked him. He kept his eyes on the table, but his attention was drawn to Domitia, who was discussing the uprising in Judaea with Tiberius. The war had begun so disastrously for the Roman commander of the province, Cestius Florus, that rumour said he was to be replaced by Titus Flavius Vespasian, one of the generals who had conquered Britain for Claudius almost a quarter of a century earlier. ‘I had thought we might be diverted there, but it will be an honour to serve with your father,’ the younger tribune said smoothly. ‘His success in Armenia has brought new laurels to the Empire. They say that even now their king is in Rome paying homage to the Emperor.’

  Domitia nodded gravely. ‘You may find serving with my father more of an honour than you are comfortable with, tribune. His reputation as a disciplinarian is well deserved and I have no doubt that you are replacing some young officer who has failed to meet his standards.’

  ‘Discipline comes easily to me, my lady,’ Tiberius said offhandedly. ‘But no soldier is so perfect that he cannot be improved by more training. I will use what time I have on board to prepare.’

  She smiled. ‘He would have been impressed by your display yesterday morning, though possibly not by the fact that I witnessed it.’

  ‘My apologies, lady.’ Valerius found his voice at last. ‘We should have taken more care. From now on we will exercise in the stern. You will not be disturbed again, I hope.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself, tribune.’ Domitia gave a coarse little laugh. ‘I found it most instructive. If ever I discover myself with a sword in my hand, at least I will know what to do with it. In any case, if blame there was, it was mine. I was curious and, as Tulia is always reminding me, sometimes curiosity takes you places you should not go.’

  VI

  Summer, AD 66

  The Sun King looked out upon his people from the balcony of the great Golden House he had built over the ashes of Rome’s third district and felt an unexpected surge of affection. Less than two years ago thousands of Romans lived their shabby little lives on this very land, but the gift of fire had allowed him to substitute splendour for squalor and magnificence for mediocrity. The houses and apartments had been replaced by a vast country villa in the centre of the urban landscape; three hundred and sixty paces from wing to wing, with three hundred rooms each filled with rare bronzes, gilt statues and the finest artworks in the Empire, all surrounded by trees and pasture and lakes, and a great park in which roamed wild animals from all over the world. A Golden House for a Golden Age, and this would be the greatest day of that age.

  With perfect timing the morning sun rose above the hills and everything around him gleamed as its rays reached out to caress the gold leaf and gold paint and golden statuary which covered the front of the vast building. The effect was such that it blinded those unfortunate enough not to be shielded by the huge cloth awning which portrayed him in his chariot driving the four horses of the sun god. His heart swelled with pride. He wanted them to be blinded. Blinded by his magnificence. Awed by his power.

  He was not a fool. He understood he had lost the Senate and the aristocracy. But he still had the people and he still had the legions and he still had his Praetorian Guard. These were the triumvirate which cemented his power, not the whining politicians who complained at every expense and every little excess. The Golden House, which stretched between the Palatine and Esquiline hills, had come close to bankrupting the imperial treasury. Tigellinus, his commander of the Guard, could only ensure its completion by ordering the officials to cut the silver content of the denarius, but it was all worth it, because this — and his heart beat faster as he considered what he had achieved — this was his legacy to his people. No longer could he be compared to Divine Augustus and found wanting. In the Golden House he had created a monument to Rome’s glory that outshone anything his illustrious ancestor had been able to devise. A monument that would last a hundred lifetimes of ordinary men.

  ‘Caesar?’

  With a smile, the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Germanicus turned to his imperial secretary. He had been quite lost in his own thoughts.

  ‘King Tiridates is here.’

  ‘Thank you, Epaphradotus.’ This was the second ceremony to welcome Armenia into Rome’s keeping. The first, in the forum, had been a mere appetizer compared to what was to come. Nero looked to the rear of the balcony where the king of Armenia waited in his long robes. A swarthy predator’s face, the clubbed beard reaching his chest, nose like an axe blade and heavy brows, topped by a shining thatch the colour of pitch and styled in tight ringlets. A savage face. But a noble head. A head awaiting a crown. Had another Emperor been in Nero’s place, King Tiridates would now be in the carcer, Rome’s prison, awaiting the bite of the strangling rope, for Tiridates had been an enemy of Rome. He and his brother, Vologases of Parthia, had fought two long, expensive wars against the Empire. If Nero had followed his generals’ advice there would have been a third and Tiridates would have been crushed on the battlefield and slaughtered with his army. But wiser counsels had prevailed and now the king was here to pay homage to his Emperor and to Rome.

  He called Tiridates forward, and as the king stepped out into the light the massed ranks below and on the surrounding hills, and on the far-off houses, erupted into frenzied cheering, so that the balcony was hit by an almost volcanic wave of sound. Nero felt himself grow along with the volume of applause. This was what he lived for, this adulation and pro
of of his dominion. This was what had spurred him to invest so much effort and expense in his voice and his bearing. For a moment, he was possessed by an overwhelming urge to sing; to give them the joy that came entwined as one with his talent. But the moment passed and now Tiridates was on his knees laying the triple crown at his feet and he was looking down at the mass of dark greasy curls and the cheering was ever louder. Together, the two serving consuls, Telesinus and Paulinus, handed him the jewelled diadem of laurel leaves. With great ceremony he placed it over the other man’s head. Tiridates murmured something in his native Parthian. It could have been thanks or mortal insult, but Nero cheerfully offered his hand to his new brother king and drew him to his feet, bestowing a kiss to show his affection.

  Turning to the crowd, he raised his hands and in that single movement commanded a hundred thousand people to silence. ‘Let the celebrations begin,’ he called in his high-pitched man-boy’s voice, and the cheering re-erupted.

  The two rulers took the broad stairway to the ground floor, where Nero deliberately conducted his guest through the shadow of one of the wonders of the Empire, the astonishing statue he had commissioned of himself as the sun god, Sol. Close to one hundred cubits in height and covered entirely in gold leaf, it was the largest marble sculpture in the world, dwarfing even the legendary colossus which had stood astride the entrance to the harbour of Rhodes. It portrayed a pensive, benevolent Nero, with the sun’s rays radiating from his head like a crown, his left hand, holding a globe, stretched towards his people and in his right the whip with which he would drive the horses drawing his chariot. It was a glorious piece of uninhibited self-indulgence, a thousand lifetimes of wealth incorporated in a single piece of art. As he passed it, King Tiridates wondered at the colossal vanity of the unprepossessing, almost effeminate young man beside him.