Betrayal: The Centurions I Page 4

  ‘You could be considered the very lowest man in Rome and it would make little odds with me.’ He lowered his voice so as not to be heard by any unseen listener. ‘Between you and me, I would still seize upon your visit with the eagerness of a drowning sailor thrown a rope. Join me.’ He beckoned to the other man, picking up the chair and turning it to accommodate his visitor. ‘Please, be seated. I spend so much of my day sitting at that window and staring out over the rooftops of Rome that some time on my feet will be no hardship whatsoever. And perhaps I’ll manage to persuade you to call my people by the name we call ourselves. We are the Batavi, a tribe of which I am prince only in name.’

  Cerialis inclined his head in acknowledgment of the correction.

  ‘Your point is taken. We Romans will insist on renaming everything we come across to suit our view of the world.’ He took his seat, looking up to find Kivilaz leaning against the cell’s open door with a calculating expression. ‘You’re wondering what brings a Roman senator to visit a man accused of treason and imprisoned to await the emperor’s judgement, aren’t you, Civilis?’

  The Batavi shrugged.

  ‘I care little, to be honest, the opportunity to speak with anyone other than my jailers being so rare. But since you mention the question …’

  The other man smiled wryly.

  ‘I must confess that when I heard you had been brought to Rome to stand trial for treason, I was at once curious to know how it was that you came to be accused. The last time I saw you was when your cohort was part of the relieving force that rescued what little remained of my legion from the fort at Camulodunum ten years ago. My abiding memory was that while the gentleman officers of the Fourteenth Gemina were all sympathy to my face, doubtless traducing me behind my back, you looked at me with the openly curious disdain of a man to whom I was already irrelevant. You evidently weren’t given to either tact or diplomacy then, and I doubt that’s changed, and so it seems clear to me that if I want to know the truth of the matter with regard to this whole Vindex thing for which it seems you’re imprisoned, I am best served speaking directly to you. You’re accused of having collaborated with the rebellious senator himself, if I have the right of it?’

  Civilis leaned back against the wall, looked down at his visitor and crossed his arms.

  ‘There’s little to tell. My brother and I were accused of allying our tribe with Gaius Julius Vindex, after the defeat of his short-lived revolt in Gallia Lugdunensis, back in the month of Maius. Since it had been action taken by the legatus augusti commanding the legions of Germania Superior that put Vindex down, while the forces in Germania Inferior had little chance to join in, their legatus Fonteius Capito decided that he needed to be seen to be taking some form of action as a means of bolstering his protestations of loyalty to the throne. After all, Nero had something of a habit of ordering even his best soldiers to commit suicide, so what hope for a man whose legions could have been accused of sitting on their hands while their neighbours dealt with Vindex in such a brutal manner?’

  Both men were silent for a moment, remembering the ruthlessness with which the recently deceased emperor had ordered his most gifted general, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, to commit suicide two years before in order to remove a perceived threat to his own position, and the soldier’s laconic response – the single Greek word ‘Axios!’ – which Kivilaz’s educated Roman friends had told him best translated as ‘worthy’, before he had fallen on his own sword. It was an act of selfless loyalty in the face of Nero’s paranoid jealousy, which still had the power to stop conversation when the men of Rome’s ruling class met to discuss such matters.

  ‘And so, short of any other means of disassociating himself from Vindex, Legatus Augustine Capito accused my younger brother and me of treason, alleging the crime of our having plotted against Rome with Vindex based purely on the grounds that I had visited the senator before the battle that resulted in his suicide. My brother was still two years short of his twenty-five years’ service, a fact which Capito used to argue that he was therefore not yet a citizen despite the fact that we had both inherited citizenship from our father. He was executed the same day that we were arrested, after the briefest possible trial, but as I was already a time-served citizen of the empire he had no legal choice but to send me here, in the not unreasonable expectation that Nero would have me put to death and praise him for having rooted out such a canker.’

  ‘I see.’ Cerialis nodded his understanding. ‘In that case it might please you to know that Capito is dead, murdered on the orders, it seems, of a rather brutally minded legionary legatus called Valens, in hopes of gaining the favour of the man who has succeeded Nero. These are troubled times, and the more ruthlessly ambitious among us seize their opportunities as they see them arise. When Capito made some hard-faced jest to a man accused of treason that he had no need to demand his right to trial by Caesar, because Caesar was already before him, he offered the perfect reason for his own death. Death by centurion, apparently, an officer apparently so enraged by the implied treason that he took his pugio to the legatus the same day.’

  Kivilaz nodded, his face remaining inscrutable.

  ‘I’m grateful for the news. I hear next to nothing in this place, since my jailers are trained to share nothing of the outside world with the prisoners.’

  The Roman shook his head.

  ‘But even shut away here in the palace, surely the fact that Nero was already dead by his own hand by the time you reached Rome cannot have escaped your ears? The very man Vindex was purporting to support in his ill-fated rebellion is now marching from his province of Hispania to Rome at the head of a newly formed legion, and with an escort of praetorians shipped out specifically to give him the appropriate gravitas, now that he’s been voted as emperor by the senate. Surely Galba won’t have you executed, given the fact that you have waited all this time in a prison cell to face the charge of supporting his friend, the man who revolted against Nero on his behalf?’

  ‘That much I did know, but as to how Galba will treat me, who can tell? I shall face the new emperor with no more expectation of mercy than I would have done with his predecessor. That way I shan’t be dismayed if he decides to punish me for the disloyalty to the throne of which I was accused by my brother’s murderer. And as to my imprisonment, the conditions here in this part of the palace are comfortable enough, for a prisoner. The food’s better than most of what I ate on campaign in Britannia, the accommodation is adequate enough, and the jailers are respectful for the most part.’

  His visitor smiled.

  ‘Like any imperial servants in these troubled days, they know all too well that they might be out of work soon enough if Galba chooses to sweep the palace clean, which might make them somewhat vulnerable to an act of revenge when he undoubtedly frees you. But you approach captivity in this somewhat strange situation wisely, I would say. My father-in-law will be interested to hear tell of it, and impressed, I expect, by your stoicism in the face of such harsh adversity and grave personal loss.’

  ‘Your father-in-law?’

  ‘A legatus augusti in the east, sent to put down yet another revolt in Judea. His name is Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

  Camp of the Germani Corporis Custodes, Rome, October AD 68

  ‘He’s here, Hramn.’

  The officer set to watch the road that led to the gate of the German Bodyguard’s camp hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the brick-built barracks’ entrance. The man for whom his warning had been intended nodded dourly and turned to his second in command with a knowing look. A big man, even among a cohort chosen for their size and physical presence as much as for their battle experience, he straightened his ceremonial belt and checked that his tunic’s hem was perfectly straight just above his knees.

  ‘If they take their iron to me, kill every fucking one of them.’

  His fellow officer laughed, his harsh accent giving the Latin words an edge of belligerence.

  ‘If they take their iron to you, you kill every
fucking one of them. They’re praetorians, Hramn, not proper soldiers.’

  Following the soldier back to the wooden gate, he stepped through the doorway to find a magnificently armoured figure waiting for him in front of a century of men whose white tunics, the same colour that Hramn’s men wore, immediately identified them as the expected praetorians. The soldiers were also armoured, their equipment shining even if there was nothing to compete with their prefect’s gleaming bronze breast plate, beautifully engraved and polished to perfection, and Hramn saluted the man whose soldiers protected the city of Rome and the Palatine Hill’s imperial palaces.

  ‘Prefect.’

  ‘Decurion.’

  The praetorian prefect’s voice was soft, but Hramn had heard the stories that circulated among the palace staff about his cruelty and licentiousness. As a close associate of the emperor Nero, he was reputed to have used the weight of his office to behave in ways that would, under a different ruler, have seen him stripped of his position and quite possibly of his equestrian rank as well, and both male and female slaves in the emperor’s household had learned not to catch his eye, or even to fall under his gaze if it could be avoided.

  ‘Prefect Tigellinus.’

  ‘Your men are gathered?’

  ‘They are.’

  Hramn nodded, and Tigellinus moved towards the gate only to stop short as the German, rather than stepping out of his path as he would have expected, remained motionless, with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword while the other, holding the vine stick that was the badge of his office, hung easily at his side.

  ‘I have come to address your men, Decurion, not to stand here waiting for you to get out of my way!’

  The German nodded again, telling himself not to rise to the man’s insulting tone. Today, as he had pointed out to his brother officers an hour before, was a day for calm heads.

  ‘And address them you will, Prefect. However, given the rumours that have been circulating in advance of this address, I think it would be wise for you to brief me first, and for me to explain the situation to my men before you speak to them directly. We Germans are, as I’m sure you know, a hot-tempered and barbaric people, and were my men to be insulted by your words, given the news you bear, events might not run to the smooth path I believe you and I would both desire for a matter as difficult as this.’

  The prefect shook his head in amazement.

  ‘I am your superior, Decurion. Stand aside, so that I can tell your barbarians what it is that the emp—’

  Hramn’s voice hardened, cutting across the other mans’ words with whiplash strength.

  ‘In point of fact, Prefect, while I am bound by my oath to respect your position, which of course I will, I am not required to follow your orders. The terms of our enlistment are to provide the emperor with a bodyguard, and to obey only his instructions or those that are communicated to us with his authority. This is intended to prevent any repeat of the incident when the praetorian guard murdered Caligula, and until the emperor himself rescinds those instructions, I am still the master of this camp. And whilst I am perfectly willing to allow you to address my men, I wish to prevent any unnecessary provocation of their dignity, given that they have already been told what your message is by certain loose-mouthed members of your cohorts. So I suggest we first discuss the way in which you intend to deliver the emperor’s order, unless of course you wish to go straight in and deliver it to five hundred very unhappy guardsmen in some unwise fashion that might make the bubbling pot of their anger boil over?’

  Tigellinus blinked, and then nodded.

  ‘Very well, Decurion. Your authority here will be at an end very shortly in any case.’ He lifted a scroll from his side, holding it up for Hramn to see. ‘These are orders from the emperor, which means that you cannot argue with them. With Nero dead by his own hand, the last member of the dynasty founded by the blessed Julius has gone. A new empire will be constructed, with none of the ills of the last few years …’ He smirked at Hramn’s wooden-faced disgust with the blatant hypocrisy in his words. ‘My praetorians are to be the guardians of the emperor’s person, and you Germans are dismissed to your homelands. Perhaps Galba, a man who has lived through every event in this city since before the divine Augustus went to meet his ancestors, is more concerned with the example of your unit’s failure to protect Caligula from his assassins, and the widespread slaughter you Germans inflicted on both the guilty and the innocent in the wake of his death, than with the actions of the few rogue praetorians who assassinated him. Henceforth, he tells me, he has decided to have his person protected by professionals.’

  Hramn stared at him for a moment, ignoring the barb.

  ‘The rumours were true then. We’re being … disbanded.’

  The praetorian sneered at him, shaking his head in contradiction.

  ‘Disbanded? You’re being packed off home as unfit for purpose. Galba doesn’t trust you people, he wants good Roman iron around himself and his family. And not before time. From now on I will be the man who safeguards the first citizen from the ill will of the unworthy, while you Germans walk home to your mud huts and leave your equipment and horses to—’

  Hramn shook his head brusquely.

  ‘I think you need to read those orders again, Prefect, and remind yourself that they specifically permit us to depart with what little honour is left to us, as a formed military unit, armed, equipped and mounted, to join the army of Germania Inferior. We still have friends in the palace, Prefect, and the wording of the emperor’s order was known to me before the ink was dry. We will march back to our tribal lands with our weapons, with our equipment and mounted on our horses, as allowed in the emperor’s final orders to his loyal bodyguard. Although we clearly leave the shreds of our dignity as servants of the empire behind us for you people to trample as you see fit.’

  Tigellinus looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘Take what you wish, but you will leave this fort within seven days. Where you go after that is no concern of mine, but if you remain in the city you will surrender your arms and equipment to my men at midnight of the seventh day, or else risk action to remove you as a potential threat to the order and stability of Rome.’

  Hramn shook his head, feeling the last vestiges of his already tenuous grasp on his temper slipping.

  ‘Stay? Why should we want to stay? This city, Prefect, is dirty, dishonoured by its emperor having been hounded to suicide, and no longer safe for simple men like us. I want for nothing more than to breathe the clean air of my homeland again, and walk around without an itch between my shoulder blades. Come, tell your story to my men and then leave us to mourn our lost pride.’

  Hramn turned away, and a fuming Tigellinus followed him into the camp, the two men walking out in front of the waiting guardsmen. Opening the scroll, the prefect took a breath to proclaim the German Bodyguard’s death knell, only to find that Hramn’s deep voice was already booming out.

  ‘My brothers!’ The decurion spoke swiftly, not allowing the prefect the chance to launch into a proclamation of the order held in his hands, switching to his native language and addressing his men in his booming parade-ground voice. ‘It is as we feared! This hypocritical pederast carries orders for our disbandment, and clearly hopes to witness signs of your distress with which to regale his men! So listen in silence, and give him nothing! Not one word! Keep your faces straight and your mouths shut! We will march from this place with what is left of our dignity intact, and none of you will bring shame to our peoples’ name today, or give them the reason they so clearly desire, any reason, to torch this camp and put us all to the sword!’

  He turned back to Tigellinus, who was waiting with his scroll unfurled. Shaking his head in disgust, the praetorian prefect began speaking in a triumphant tone.

  ‘Men of the German Bodyguard! By the order of the emperor, Servius Sulpicius Galba Caesar Augustus, you are hereby dismissed from imperial service. Your duties will be assumed by the praetorian guard at the
end of the current century’s turn of duty in one hour, and you are hereby granted seven days’ notice to quit this facility, after which it will be occupied by men of the guard. You are no longer authorised to carry weapons inside the city of Rome, and any attempt to do so will be treated as a capital crime. The emperor thanks you for your service, and has recommissioned you as a five-hundred-man cavalry wing in the army of Germania Inferior. You are to report to your new posting at the Old Camp in Germania Inferior on the first day of the new year. That is all.’

  He rolled up the scroll, nodding curtly to Hramn with a face pale with anger.

  ‘I may not speak German, but I understand enough of it to have a fairly good idea of what you called me a moment ago. Don’t let my men catch you in the city, Decurion, or you may discover the price of insulting a Roman gentleman quite so openly.’

  The German looked him up and down, then stared briefly over Tigellinus’s shoulders as if searching for something, shaking his head slowly as the last traces of control over his utter disgust for the man vanished.

  ‘When I see a gentleman, Prefect, I’ll be sure to give him all the respect he deserves, but all I see here is you, a degraded husk of a man, hanging onto your position through bribery and flattery, and terrified that your new master will see through you at any moment and have you dealt with in the manner you deserve. A day which, if this man Galba is as straight a stick as he sounds, surely cannot be very distant. And I’ll be sure to write to the emperor and wish him the very best of luck before I leave the city, because with you and your men standing at his back, I have the feeling that he’s going to need it.’

  The Palace of Tiberius, Palatine Hill, Rome, November AD 68

  ‘Bring the next prisoner forward!’

  Kivilaz felt a push in the square of his back from the praetorian standing behind him, and started a slow, carefully paced approach to the imperial throne on which Rome’s new emperor was seated between a pair of men similarly armed and equipped to the guard behind him. He frowned, surprised to see that the bodyguards were clean-shaven rather than bearded in the usual fashion, but quickly focused his attention on the man who would decide whether he was to live or die. Galba looked up at him from the scroll in his hands, flicking another glance down to double check the details of the case against the man before him. The soldier tugged at his charge’s formal toga, and the German immediately stopped walking and squared his shoulders, determined to meet his fate like a Batavi prince rather than showing the men gathered to witness the emperor’s judgement any sign of fear.