Defender of Rome by Douglas Jackson Page A

eyes.
    ‘Verrens?’ The tone was polite but the way the two Praetorians straightened told Valerius everything he needed to know about the speaker. Stunted but solidly built and in early middle age, he wore his hair cropped short and had features that might have been crafted with a blunt knife. The skin on the left side of his face had the texture of melted candle wax and made Valerius wonder if he’d been caught in a fire at some point. It was a face that would scare children and repel women. On another man it might have inspired pity, but not on this man. You knew instantly that the mind behind the mask was as ugly as the misshapen features he presented to the world.
    ‘At your service.’ Valerius kept his voice neutral, but didn’t bow, which made the face twist into a parody of a smile.
    ‘Lucius Licinius Rodan.’
    Now Valerius understood why the Praetorians were so nervous. Officially a lowly centurion of the Praetorian Guard, Rodan was the one who, if Nero had an enemy, would ensure he was an enemy no more. By assassination if necessary, but the Praetorian was rumoured to prefer more subtle methods. Perhaps the man’s younger son would be found with his throat cut; would he risk the elder? His wife might be molested in his house; who was to know when the molesters would return? If his horses burned to death in their stalls, he would understand that his family would be next. Rodan was one of the most dangerous men in Rome and his presence made this meeting all the more unpredictable.
    ‘Has he been searched yet? No? Then what are you waiting for?’ Expert hands ran over Valerius’s body, missing nothing. The Praetorian delicately held up Valerius’s walnut fist for inspection.
    ‘It could make a good bludgeon,’ he suggested.
    ‘Fool.’ Rodan shook his head. ‘I think we can leave him his hand. After all, he did lose it in the service of Rome. Follow me.’
    The gateway led directly into the palace gardens where a path wound along an avenue of pear and apple trees, through parkland studded with fountains and flower beds. Valerius walked a pace behind his host, whose bearing made it clear that a missing hand and a military honour did not add up to any form of recognition in Rodan’s world. Rodan provided a reminder of his power a few moments later. A group of slaves were working to replace plants near the path when one of them accidentally sprinkled a few grains of soil on the Praetorian’s gold court slippers.
    Rodan halted as if he’d walked into a wall. ‘Overseer!’ he shouted. ‘This man assaulted me. He is to be taken to the Castra Praetoria for questioning.’
    The slave, a thin dark-haired boy of about fourteen, turned death pale. His hands brushed desperately at Rodan’s feet until there was no sign of the offending dirt. ‘No, sir, please, sir, I beg …’ Without warning, Rodan kicked the boy full in the face with enough force to break his jaw. Valerius saw three white teeth fly as the young slave somersaulted backwards to lie groaning on the path. Rodan stood over him, casually considering whether to kick him a second time before deciding that the lesson had been absorbed. Two men picked up the slave boy and carried him away. Valerius had come across men in the legions who meted out violence as readily as Rodan, but never quite so coldly. He comforted himself with the thought that they were always the ones carried from the fight with spear wounds in the back.
    They walked quickly through a colonnade until they reached a large door guarded by Praetorians matched like a pair of thoroughbred horses. Nero was said to choose his palace guard personally, with all the care he gave to the choice of his chariot teams, for their looks and physique. Clearly, Rodan had been selected only for his talents. Inside, everything was marble and gold. Ahead of them stretched a long corridor lined with gilded busts of the Emperor and his predecessors. At set intervals curtained alcoves framed statues of