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
