about. ‘You have a tribune on your staff, Publius Sulla?’
‘A fine young officer, diligent and ambitious.’
‘I would like to talk to him; he may have information of value to my investigation. It is possible that he will have to return with us to Rome… with your permission, of course.’
The lines on Vitellius’s broad forehead deepened.
‘I am afraid that may be difficult.’ He walked to a cloth map pinned to the far wall and pointed to a position beyond the winding blue ribbon of the river. ‘The boy has been pining for an independent command, as you young men do. You know our situation?’ Valerius shook his head. ‘The Seventh, soon to be followed by the Fourth, has been sent here to curb the ambitions of Coson, the Dacian king across the river there, who seeks to annex land for his tribe on the west bank. Coson knows Rome will not countenance it, but for reasons of internal politics he must be seen to make the attempt. A number of small parties have crossed by boat to the east — here, here and here — some of them made up of warriors, others entire families of dispossessed farmers. We have sent them all back, peacefully where possible, by force if not. Your barbarian, young Verrens, appreciates force. At present, however, we are in a period of negotiation. Coson has withdrawn his warriors ten miles from the line of the river in return for a substantial subsidy. To ensure this bargain is adhered to I have set up an outpost, here.’ The position he marked was well into Dacian territory. ‘Publius Sulla commands there.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Some wine?’
‘Why can’t he just send a messenger and bring Publius back?’ Serpentius wondered suspiciously.
Valerius adjusted his bedroll. ‘It’s a matter of face. His and mine. He’s testing us to see how far we’re prepared to go to complete Nero’s task. Maybe he doesn’t want to lose a promising officer, maybe he can’t afford to lose any officers. It happens. A legion is never at full complement and this is a complicated command.’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘I don’t like it either, but the only power we have is the power of this seal and these uniforms. If we sit and wait for Publius to come back — and the chances are he’s been warned not to — that power diminishes every day. First we’ll be sneered at, then we’ll be laughed at, and after that… well, we’ll never get Publius Sulla out of here.’
‘So we cross the river?’ Marcus sounded thoughtful.
‘We cross at dawn. We ride to the outpost and we bring Publius back.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to come?’
‘He’ll come.’
‘But if he doesn’t…?’
‘That’s why you’re here, and we’ll have an escort of twenty auxiliary cavalry from the fort. But that won’t be necessary. He’ll come, for his family’s honour, and because if he doesn’t he knows his career is finished. Vitellius will eventually be forced to send him back in chains.’
Marcus looked at the two others. They hadn’t signed up to go beyond the Empire’s boundaries. Heracles nodded immediately. Serpentius hesitated, then followed suit.
‘Dawn then,’ Marcus said, and wrapped himself in his blanket.
Valerius sat for a few moments before dousing the oil lamp. He pulled his own blanket over his body and closed his eyes. But he didn’t sleep.
Because tomorrow they were going into the unknown.
XXI
Poppaea was alone now, and she had never felt more frightened. Cornelius Sulla had been her only link to Petrus and now he was gone. She shuddered as she remembered how Nero had delighted in showing her the avenue of obscene lumps of charcoal that were all that remained of the blazing pyres. He had taken particular pleasure in pointing out Cornelius’s grinning skull and recalling details of his agonies that had brought her close to fainting away. At first she had feared he was singling her out and that at any moment a squad of Praetorians would arrive to arrest her. But this was Nero. He took a perverse pride in the unmasking of the Christian at the heart of his court and the way the one-handed tribune, Valerius, had been duped into achieving it. Another triumph for Torquatus, the master spy. The more her husband revealed, the clearer it became that someone close to Valerius must be a traitor. Nero laughed as he told how the Praetorian commander’s ‘useless louts’ had lost all trace of Valerius and his men as they tracked Lucina Graecina. Yet within a few hours of Valerius’s confronting Cornelius Sulla, the young aristocrat was locked away. The only explanation was that Fabia’s friend was being betrayed by one of his own men.
Her heart quickened as she recalled the glance she had shared with Valerius. She had been aware of him from the moment she and Nero had walked down the stairway into the crowded room, his youth and stern features marking him among the inebriated laughter and pink, grinning faces. She had sensed a power in him that, in its own way, rivalled the power of Petrus. The artificial hand fascinated her, although she would not have noticed it without Fabia’s prompting because he carried it so naturally. She had never witnessed such a magnificent combination of anger and torment as Valerius had shown when the beasts were unleashed on their helpless victims. Here was a man to be taken seriously. A man to be feared. A champion. And she had never needed the services of a champion more.
She had convinced herself that Valerius was the only man who could help her. She told herself he had responded to her mute appeal. But what could he do? Caesar had commissioned him to hunt down the very man who had given her hope. It was impossible.
With that thought came despair. She felt her world crumble; a fracturing of the mind that walked hand in hand with panic-stricken terror. What did a single glance mean? She was deluding herself. No man alive could help her now. Slowly, she walked out to the balcony and leaned across the parapet. Far below she could see the temples and the columns and the basilicas and the figures scurrying between them. She raised her arms and pushed her upper body forward until her toes barely touched the floor and the worked stone of the balustrade cut into her waist. One more inch and it would be finished. One more inch and there would be no turning back. The weight of her head and shoulders would carry her over the edge and she would plunge on to those stones so far below. Her head spun. One more inch. She must have the courage. Just one more inch.
She took a breath.
‘Poppaea?’
The moment was gone.
‘Poppaea?’
She turned and the mask resumed its customary position.
‘I am here, Caesar.’ She allowed a smile to touch her voice as she walked back into the room where Nero awaited her. He was breathing heavily and the shining pink face made her think of a freshly washed pig.
‘I was concerned for you, my love.’
‘And I am grateful for your concern, Caesar, but as you can see it is not necessary.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ he said. His tone told her what was coming next. ‘Because I have a special treat for you tonight.’
He took her gently by the hand and led her towards the room she thought of as his torture chamber.
XXII
Valerius noticed that the Tungrian escort commander was nervous and that surprised him. Vitellius had insisted that such patrols beyond the river were routine. Still, he doubted that the legionary commander had ever ventured into Dacia with an escort of fewer than a thousand men. This was different. Perhaps the man had reason to be concerned. Valerius’s hand automatically reached up to stroke the golden boar amulet. It had become his talisman since the day he had taken it from Maeve’s neck as she lay amongst the countless thousands of dead on the field of Boudicca’s last battle. He had convinced himself the glittering metal was invested with the indomitable
