Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] Read online

  A blow from the wooden fist would stun any man. This blow was designed to kill. The button on the back of the fist released a four-inch blade that sprang from the centre knuckle. Now the needle point entered the assassin’s right eye and pierced his brain. Valerius hauled the knife clear with a twist and the dying man dropped into the pool, his life blood turning the waters red. The second assassin gaped at his companion and released Pliny’s legs, backing away across the pool. Valerius had a choice of going after him or helping his drowning friend. There could only be one decision. He plunged into the water and felt for the submerged Pliny. The groping fingers of his left hand quickly found a hank of thinning hair and he pulled the governor’s head to the surface. The killer continued to glare from the far side of the pool, caught between an urge to finish the job and the greater call of survival.

  ‘Guards!’ Valerius roared. ‘Guards to me.’

  The surviving assassin spat an insult at Valerius before sprinting for the doorway. Pliny lay back with his eyes closed and his flabby chest chillingly still. Valerius hauled the inert body from the water on to the marble floor beside the pool. Drowning was nothing new to Valerius, but, by Fortuna’s favour, in his case it had never been permanent. He remembered looking up through a clear blue sea at the hull of a Roman merchant ship. How had they brought him back? Yes, that was it. His ribs had ached for a week. He heaved Pliny up, with the governor’s back against his chest, put both arms around him and squeezed with all his strength. Once, twice. Thrice. Jupiter’s wrinkled scrotum, was he too late? Finally, a long, rasping groan from Pliny’s throat followed by an enormous gout of water and the contents of his stomach. For a moment he lay in Valerius’s arms, his body shaking. His features were as pale as fresh milk and his eyes twitched open to peer up at his saviour. He was smiling.

  ‘Why, I do believe I was dead.’

  By the time Valerius supported Pliny from the bath house the failed assassin had been pinned to the packed earth of the courtyard by four snarling guards. The governor shrugged himself free and straightened to his full height. His face was a mask of fury and the guard commander turned pale before his wrath.

  ‘We will discuss how he came to be here later. For now prepare him for the question.’ The guards dragged the man up and Pliny studied the swarthy bearded face. ‘You would do well to tell me what you know now, or it will be the worse for you.’ The assassin’s only reply was to spit at his feet. Pliny nodded slowly as if the gesture was what he’d expected. ‘Take him away.’

  A new Pliny this, the grim, unyielding interrogator, watching in silence as his subordinates prepared the familiar instruments: the hot coals, the pincers and pliers, the shears, the hooks and the assorted glittering blades. The assassin watched too, from a position on the far wall of the stables where they’d strung him up by the arms from a pair of manacles. Stripped naked, his body gleamed with perspiration in the glow from the brazier, his manhood already shrivelled up seeking sanctuary in the hairy bush of his crotch. The building had been cleared for the occasion, but it still stank of horse shit, mouldy hay and the rank sweat of generations of its equine occupants.

  Pliny, dressed in a formal toga, sat on a padded couch with his gouty foot raised, far enough away from his subject to avoid any spilled bodily fluids. A secretary appeared and stood by with a stylus and wax block to record the questions and the replies.

  ‘You do not have to stay, Valerius,’ Pliny said without taking his eyes off the man who’d tried to kill him.

  ‘Better if I do.’

  ‘Very well. What is your name?’

  It took time and persuasion. While the knives were being heated to a fierce glowing crimson the torturers removed the large toe of his left foot with a cold chisel, a mere foretaste of what was to come. The almost casual amputation, carried out with brutal indifference, brought a gasp of agony and the man’s face turned pale beneath his deep tan.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The assassin closed his eyes and blood ran down his chin where he’d bitten through his lip.

  ‘The right ear, I think.’

  The horrible prolonged shriek that followed the suggestion sent a shiver down Valerius’s spine. A red-hot blade had the benefit of cauterizing the wound as it was created. One of the torturers held the wilted scrap of flesh before the assassin’s eyes then tossed it on to the brazier. It sizzled and cooked, filling the stable with the mouth-watering scent of frying meat, before curling up into an unrecognizable blackened crisp and disappearing in a flicker of blue flame.

  And so it went. They took him apart one piece at a time. No mindless pummelling brutality this, just a cold, clinical professionalism that told the victim the only way to save what was left was to tell everything he knew. When it came, it was like a dam bursting. The names tumbled out one after the other in a guttural dog Latin Valerius could barely decipher. First the man’s own. Brutus, a mere bandit, he pleaded, from west of Carthago Nova. He and his companion Venico had been recruited by … a mumbled name that clearly meant nothing to Pliny.

  ‘Ask him again. How did he gain entry to the palace? How did he know where to find me?’

  Brutus hesitated, which was a mistake. There went one eye, the right, courtesy of a glowing spike accompanied by a horrible bubbling scream that seemed to go on for ever.

  When they resumed, his voice was hoarse from the screaming. They’d been ordered to meet a man at an inn down by the port. The man informed them that the governor was a creature of habit. He would enter the bath at the seventh hour. Their informant would ensure a certain door was left open, the guards would be elsewhere. The attendant would be dealt with. An unfortunate accident would then occur.

  ‘Who?’ Pliny’s voice shook with emotion. ‘Who betrayed me?’

  The assassin could give no name, but he provided a description that made the governor go still.

  ‘Find him,’ he hissed to the guard. ‘Find him if you have to scour the whole province.’

  It wasn’t enough, of course. They had to be sure. When the assassin thought he’d given them everything, it turned out he was wrong.

  ‘I regret the necessity,’ Pliny explained later. ‘But if it is going to be done it must be done properly or there is no point.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  Pliny frowned. ‘A personal attack on the governor of a Roman province? He will be crucified, what is left of him.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A clerk.’ Pliny looked weary and old. ‘Acondus, who worked very closely with my secretary. Whoever paid him would know my intentions the moment they were written down. Of course, with the assassins discovered – and I have yet to thank you and your ingenious little knife for your services – his usefulness was at an end. The vigiles found him in an alley with his throat cut. He is no help to us now.’

  Valerius considered for a moment. ‘Could the attempt on your life have anything to do with my mission?’

  Pliny winced at the possibility, but shook his head. ‘Not directly, I think.’ He met Valerius’s eyes. ‘I believe I may have suspected something of this nature, deep down, because I ensured all correspondence involving you was directly between myself and the Emperor or Titus. Asturica Augusta? Yes, it is possible, but why now?’

  ‘Because they fear you are getting too close.’

  ‘Poor Petronius,’ Pliny sighed. ‘I sent him to his doom. Perhaps you should reconsider, Valerius? The Emperor would not want you to share his fate.’

  ‘No.’ There was iron in Valerius’s voice. ‘I gave him my vow and too much is at stake to turn back now.’

  Pliny smiled and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought as much. Then, given the change in circumstances, I believe you should follow your original instinct and make a low-key entry to Asturica Augusta. A soldier on his way to visit old comrades. I could send you with a supply convoy – they come and go all the time – but they take an age. Better I think to accompany the courier who leaves tomorrow carrying my reply to t
he officer in charge of the fort at Legio. He’s to have an escort of troopers from my guard squadron, so you should be safe enough on the journey. The courier is based at the fort so it’s possible you may find out how things lie there.’

  Pliny had called Asturica a hornets’ nest, but from where Valerius sat it seemed more like a den of vipers. He had a feeling the only way to get the information Vespasian sought would be to place himself amongst them.

  VII

  The five men sat deep in the shadows of a shabby, dilapidated room illuminated solely by moonlight that filtered through the open shutters. Their faces were mere pools of darkness marked by the icy glint of eyes that reflected either inquisitive anticipation of what was to come or fearful apprehension. Each had his own thoughts about the current situation, but only one man’s views mattered. This house was one of several that man owned in Asturica Augusta: a dusty, half derelict building on a back street where their comings and goings would go unnoticed. For more than three years, since Servius Sulpicius Galba had marched in triumph from Tarraco’s gates escorted by the Seventh legion, they’d profited from the chaos of the civil war. Now their world was changing.

  ‘Our lives will be forfeit if Vespasian discovers what has been happening here.’ The man they had come to hear, a grim presence in the corner, announced the painful truth of which they were all aware in a soothing voice designed to steady fraying nerves.

  Each could have pointed out that he would not be here but for this man’s encouragement and the temptation of the gold he had quite literally poured before their eyes. One of them wanted to say it, but he knew that in the end it would make no difference. He had taken his share along with the rest. Nothing could change that.

  It was another man who spoke. ‘Then we must stop. Now.’

  ‘Do you really believe that will solve anything?’ The leader laughed. The man had always been weak. ‘All it will do is harden their suspicions when the gold yields suddenly rise again after three years. On the contrary, we should continue what we’re doing. In fact, we must increase it.’

  ‘What?’ Four mouths gaped.

  ‘Why do you think I always insisted we should build up such a large reserve? Not because you were already rich beyond other men’s wildest imaginings. No,’ he shook his head, ‘I did so because gold is power.’

  ‘You said Asturica deserved to be the richest place in Hispania,’ another man dared to speak out. The leader recognized the voice of the sceptic, always questioning, but kept loyal by his greed. ‘This should be its greatest city, because this is where the greatest natural resources are. Strong men make strong decisions, you said. We would use the gold to create a new Rome in the west that would be the equal of the capital.’

  ‘That was before the old fool Galba got himself killed. Before a new man like Vespasian could take the throne against all the traditions of the Empire. A former muleteer and the son of a tax farmer, with not an ounce of true patrician blood in his veins.’

  ‘He won the war,’ the weakling pointed out. ‘He has been hailed Emperor by the Senate and people of Rome.’

  ‘And the Senate is already plotting against the muleteer and his brood.’ The leader’s gravelly voice was dismissive now. ‘They saw what happened to Vitellius and they panicked because they believed they would be served the same way after Vespasian’s brother Sabinus was butchered on the Gemonian Stairs. Now they see what an enormous mistake they have made. A man like Vespasian does not have the bloodline to rule the Empire. Why does he keep so many legions on the Rhenus?’

  ‘To keep the Batavians honest.’

  ‘No, because he still does not trust the German legions who originally supported Vitellius. And without Spanish gold he cannot buy that trust.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ The latest interruption came from the facilitator, without whose connections and access none of this would be possible. He did not understand his position of strength, but of them all he was the man of whom the leader was most wary and he was careful to treat him with respect.

  ‘The governor, Gaius Plinius Secundus, came within a heartbeat of uncovering our scheme.’

  The room seemed to freeze as they sensed the enormity of what was to come. ‘You told us you had stopped the flow of information. Stopped it dead.’

  ‘That is true, but Plinius Secundus is not a man to give up so easily. He is like a hunting dog on the trail of a boar; once he scents blood there will be no stopping him. That is why I have acted on your behalf to ensure he is not in a position to continue.’

  They all registered the ‘on your behalf’ which ensured their heads would roll alongside his if the knowledge ever left this room.

  ‘You sent assassins to kill the governor?’

  ‘Hopefully he is already dead.’

  ‘You’re mad.’ The weakling sounded genuinely shocked. Did he even realize his timidity put him next on the leader’s list?

  ‘Not mad,’ the leader corrected. ‘Pragmatic. Think on it, my friends. It was him or us. Did you want to feel the cold blade of the executioner’s sword kiss the nape of your neck before the blow? Or have your arms torn from their sockets as you hung on the cross for hour after hour in the terrible heat with the scourged wounds on your back salted? That was the end that awaited you if I had not had the courage to act. Now you must have the courage to follow me. The only way to stop Vespasian killing us all is to topple Vespasian.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re talking treason.’

  The leader stood, his presence seeming to fill the room, and now he did not hide his contempt. ‘Do you really think it makes any difference if the blood that spurts from your neck is the blood of a thief or a traitor? I can assure you that the thief’s head will certainly roll, but a man with the courage to stand up for Rome gives himself a chance of not just life, but prosperity. This is not treason. It is natural justice. Titus Flavius Vespasian has no right to the purple.’

  ‘Then who has? You?’ The weakling almost laughed and the leader decided he really would have to deal with this problem before long.

  ‘No.’ He raised his voice. ‘You may come in.’ A moment later a tall, slim figure appeared from a side room where he’d been listening. ‘A man with the blood of Caesars in his veins. Servius Sulpicius Galba named an heir before he died, but that heir was killed before he could don the purple. His descendants are the true Imperial family.’

  ‘Vespasian is a usurper and a commoner.’ A young voice and a strong one. ‘Rome needs strength and a steady hand that was born to rule. I believe what you have done in Asturica has been directed by the guiding hand of Jupiter. Not one of the men who took the throne during those three years deserved to rule. Why then would you send them the gold that would have allowed them to continue? You bided your time until a worthy candidate came forward. When I am Emperor, far from being punished the men in this room will be raised to the highest offices of the Empire.’

  He could feel their continued scepticism and he faltered for a moment, but the leader came to his aid.

  ‘And how is this to be achieved?’

  ‘I already have the support of my comrades in Hispania.’ His tone had regained its authority. ‘The Seventh is Galba’s legacy and will follow his heirs. The German legions can be bought with the gold in your coffers. That same gold will keep the units on the Danuvius frontier where they should be, holding the barbarians at bay. One of our allies is already prepared to march. When he arrives with his men we will form a second Hispanic legion and march on Rome, with the Rhenus legions on our flank.’

  ‘Can we truly succeed?’ the sceptic demanded.

  ‘We must succeed.’ The weakling had found his courage. ‘Or we are all dead.’

  ‘There is one thing.’ A new voice, one that had been quiet for too long. The enforcer.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is my understanding the man Petronius had an Asturian ally.’

  ‘That’s true,’ the leader said thoughtfully. ‘But there is no return fr
om where he is.’

  ‘Why take a chance?’

  ‘Why indeed.’

  VIII

  In the perma-heated darkness, Serpentius worked away silently at the short length of wood he’d secreted all day beneath his tunic. It was from the broken handle of a shovel and had cost him a day on the baskets and a beating from the overseer to obtain. The four-inch iron nail he used to gouge minute splinters from the centre of the ash shaft had come from the hammer man who’d urged him not to drink the water on that first day. Vegeto was a free man from Baeduniense who risked losing his wages for even the suspicion of any contact with the Lost. He was as slow of mind as he was large of form, but Serpentius had sensed a goodness in the man that belied his habitual fierce scowl. It had encouraged him to cultivate the Asturian until he felt confident enough to ask for the sliver of metal. From the way Vegeto looked at him, Serpentius knew the other man expected him to use it to kill himself.

  If he couldn’t escape soon, it might come to that.

  Still, he’d come up with a plan and chosen the men to help him carry it out, even if they didn’t know it yet. But first he had to hollow out the length of wood. At this rate it would take another three or four days. In the darkness he could hear the soft groans and whimpers of his fellow prisoners. A faint muttering in the distance marked the location of the guards who shared a room carved out of the rock a little further up the main passage. Six guards alternating through the night, with two on duty at any one time while the others slept alongside the jailer.

  Once every seven days, as Serpentius reckoned it, the jailer and his guards would arrive an hour earlier than normal. This was the day they ran a water pipe down from the surface to flush out the accumulated filth of the twenty prisoners, and wash down the men themselves, ragged tunics and all. Despite every attempt to squeeze out the water they lived in a permanent damp that covered their tattered clothing with green mould.