club to take the nearest man on the bridge of the nose, smashing bone and cartilage and leaving him momentarily paralysed. As the sailor’s companion turned to face the threat, Serpentius rammed the head of the club into the V formed by his ribs below the breastbone, driving every ounce of air from his lungs. If he wished, either could have been a killer blow, but Serpentius had weighted them to disable. For good measure he swung the club right and left, rattling each of the sailors on the skull just above the ear, buckling their knees and dropping them heavily to the festering rubbish that littered the cobbles.
The two men facing Valerius’s sword heard the cries of their oarmates and froze, not even daring to turn and check the new threat.
‘We have no quarrel with you,’ Valerius said carefully, ‘and we mean you no harm.’ Given the circumstances it seemed an unlikely claim and he saw suspicion and fear harden their faces. ‘You’re not dead, areyou? And neither are your shipmates. All you have to do is pick them up and take them back the way you came. You first.’ He gestured to the man on the left, the big Danuvian from the tavern. The sailor hesitated, but Valerius nodded encouragingly. ‘Believe me, this is not worth dying for.’ The man exchanged a whispered word with his friend. His eyes never left Valerius’s blade, but he nodded agreement and went back to help the two men who lay groaning under Serpentius’s watchful eye.
‘Tell Juva I wish him well and that he doesn’t have to concern himself with us,’ Valerius said.
The last man nodded slowly before turning to help his shipmate. They took a man each and shouldered them down the street, edging their way past the Spaniard as he whirled the cudgel like a child’s toy.
They watched the sailors go. ‘Will they fight, do you think?’ Serpentius asked.
‘They don’t lack courage,’ Valerius said. ‘And Nero has been clever enough to offer them something to fight for. But they won’t stop Galba.’
The Spaniard snorted derisively. ‘Maybe they won’t have to. We’ll all have died of old age before Old Slowcoach gets here.’
VI
9 June
By early summer Rome was a whirling sea of rumour and gossip, each tale twisted and chewed over as a dog gnaws an old bone, and less likely than the one that preceded it. Nero had called on his old friend King Tiridates of Artaxata and an army of Armenians and Parthians was already marching to his aid. He had filled a ship with the contents of Queen Dido’s treasury and set off to found a new Empire in Africa. He had laid down the reins of power and pledged to make his career on the stage. He was already dead. Other stories were closer to the truth. Two more legions in Moesia had deserted his cause. Vespasian, who had yet to openly declare for Galba, had guaranteed Nero’s safety and offered a place of exile in Alexandria. This last scenario, Valerius knew, the Emperor’s opponents wanted to be true, and his new friend Nymphidius Sabinus, joint prefect of the Praetorian Guard, did what he could to make it seem so, sending loyalist elements among his cohorts to Ostia to await Nero’s coming. Within hours of their departure their more avaricious comrades accepted an offer from Nymphidius on behalf of the Lieutenant to the Senate and People of Rome of thirty thousand sesterces a man, ten years’ pay by Valerius’s calculation. Where Galba would find the money was another matter. The old man might be richas Croesus, but Valerius doubted that Rome’s most notorious skinflint would be pleased to hear he had paid twice as much for his Empire as Claudius two and a half decades earlier.
Still the Senate wavered. Galba had not moved from his base in Hispania and the legions of Verginius Rufus, battle-hardened and angry, lurked around the headwaters of the Rhodanus in Gaul. Galba had the authority, but Rufus had the power. If ever Rufus wanted to be Emperor, now was his chance. But, through fear, or
The two men facing Valerius’s sword heard the cries of their oarmates and froze, not even daring to turn and check the new threat.
‘We have no quarrel with you,’ Valerius said carefully, ‘and we mean you no harm.’ Given the circumstances it seemed an unlikely claim and he saw suspicion and fear harden their faces. ‘You’re not dead, areyou? And neither are your shipmates. All you have to do is pick them up and take them back the way you came. You first.’ He gestured to the man on the left, the big Danuvian from the tavern. The sailor hesitated, but Valerius nodded encouragingly. ‘Believe me, this is not worth dying for.’ The man exchanged a whispered word with his friend. His eyes never left Valerius’s blade, but he nodded agreement and went back to help the two men who lay groaning under Serpentius’s watchful eye.
‘Tell Juva I wish him well and that he doesn’t have to concern himself with us,’ Valerius said.
The last man nodded slowly before turning to help his shipmate. They took a man each and shouldered them down the street, edging their way past the Spaniard as he whirled the cudgel like a child’s toy.
They watched the sailors go. ‘Will they fight, do you think?’ Serpentius asked.
‘They don’t lack courage,’ Valerius said. ‘And Nero has been clever enough to offer them something to fight for. But they won’t stop Galba.’
The Spaniard snorted derisively. ‘Maybe they won’t have to. We’ll all have died of old age before Old Slowcoach gets here.’
VI
9 June
By early summer Rome was a whirling sea of rumour and gossip, each tale twisted and chewed over as a dog gnaws an old bone, and less likely than the one that preceded it. Nero had called on his old friend King Tiridates of Artaxata and an army of Armenians and Parthians was already marching to his aid. He had filled a ship with the contents of Queen Dido’s treasury and set off to found a new Empire in Africa. He had laid down the reins of power and pledged to make his career on the stage. He was already dead. Other stories were closer to the truth. Two more legions in Moesia had deserted his cause. Vespasian, who had yet to openly declare for Galba, had guaranteed Nero’s safety and offered a place of exile in Alexandria. This last scenario, Valerius knew, the Emperor’s opponents wanted to be true, and his new friend Nymphidius Sabinus, joint prefect of the Praetorian Guard, did what he could to make it seem so, sending loyalist elements among his cohorts to Ostia to await Nero’s coming. Within hours of their departure their more avaricious comrades accepted an offer from Nymphidius on behalf of the Lieutenant to the Senate and People of Rome of thirty thousand sesterces a man, ten years’ pay by Valerius’s calculation. Where Galba would find the money was another matter. The old man might be richas Croesus, but Valerius doubted that Rome’s most notorious skinflint would be pleased to hear he had paid twice as much for his Empire as Claudius two and a half decades earlier.
Still the Senate wavered. Galba had not moved from his base in Hispania and the legions of Verginius Rufus, battle-hardened and angry, lurked around the headwaters of the Rhodanus in Gaul. Galba had the authority, but Rufus had the power. If ever Rufus wanted to be Emperor, now was his chance. But, through fear, or
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