‘Who says this?’
She shook her head. ‘People tell me things, Valerius, but do not ask me who, or how, or why, because you may not like the answer. Accept what you are given; do not question the motives or the validity of the source.’
He nodded. His trust, at least, he could give freely. ‘I don’t doubt that what you say is true, but I still cannot see how it helps me.’
‘Poor Valerius, who does not recognize his own value. You look at tomorrow and see only your fears. Consider the advantages. The opportunity to regain the Emperor’s favour.’
‘The last time I had the Emperor’s favour I did not like the advantages it brought.’
‘He tried to seduce you and you refused him? Do not look so shocked, Valerius, of course I could see it. And if he had succeeded? What fools men are to take the act of physical love so seriously. Warmth, comfort perhaps; if you are fortunate, a little passion and a fleeting moment of pleasure. Would it have altered you? I have done things, Valerius, that would perhaps change your opinion of me, but I have not let them change me.’ She spoke the last sentence with a ferocity that made him wonder if it was true. It had never occurred to him to feel sorry for her. But Fabia was nothing if not an actress, and she quickly recovered her poise. ‘Whatever anger Nero felt against you is long past. If you had been one of those simpering slave boys he surrounds himself with, or one of his lusty charioteers, he might have had you killed or put away, but you are a Hero of Rome. He dare not touch you, because to harm you would risk alienating the legions and he cannot rule without their support. My advice to you is this: whatever he asks, be prepared to at least consider it.’
Despite his doubts, he knew that she was right. He had asked for her advice; how could he refuse it?
‘Will you stay with me for an hour?’ This was different. Their meetings had always been, for all their pleasure in each other’s company, on a purely commercial basis. Her voice had changed, the tone low and husky and filled with desire. He knew he should refuse.
‘Of course.’
As she led him through to the bedroom she wondered what he would think if he knew the truth. Would he ever forgive her?
It was late when Valerius returned home, his head full of that half-floating sensation that comes after long hours with a beautiful, sensuous and passionate woman intent on ensuring her own satisfaction and yours. His body gave a pleasurable shudder at the memory of the miracles Fabia had wrought and the feelings that had accompanied them. Perhaps…
He heard the sobbing as he entered the atrium and he rushed to Olivia’s room to find Julia lying hunched on the bed beside his sister. She looked up. ‘It is as if yesterday had never happened,’ she sobbed. ‘She hasn’t woken or moved all day. You must help her. She’s dying.’
‘I’m sorry, Julia. I shouldn’t have left you. I will find someone else tomorrow. A nurse or a companion.’
‘It isn’t a nurse or a companion she needs. It is her family,’ the girl said accusingly.
He stared at her. He would never have taken those words from another slave, but Julia and his sister had been together since they were children. She was Olivia’s best friend as well as her servant.
‘I’ll send a message to the Judaean. He said he would visit Olivia.’
The suggestion calmed the girl, and he waved her from the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, taking his familiar place beside the bed. ‘I neglected you today for the wrong reasons and tomorrow I will have to neglect you for the right ones. Do you remember…’
Her eyes remained closed, but her face told him that she could hear him.
VII
The victory road clung to the side of the Palatine Hill, sloping first from the west, then turning to climb across the northern face. A faint haze hung in the air, but the low sun quickly cleared it and halfway up the hill Valerius, who had dressed in his finest for the occasion, turned to look out over the centuries-old glory of the Forum and the shimmering sea of terracotta roofs that disguised the festering reality of the Subura. He wondered if he would look upon it again. At his back soared the marble splendour of Nero’s sprawling palace, home of every Caesar since Tiberius. Many of the men who had followed this path had entered it and never left. In theory, no Roman citizen could be tortured or sentenced to death unless he was guilty of treason. Caligula, and, in his final years, Claudius, had shown that the reality could be very different. Their blood ran in Nero’s veins.
But some journeys had to be made, even if each step was reluctantly taken. He squared his shoulders and approached the gatehouse, where he surprised a pair of black-clad guards lounging sleepily against the wall.
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens.’
The senior of the two yawned. ‘Early, aren’t you? We don’t generally have anyone official at this hour.’ He studied a list pinned to the gatehouse door and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t say you’re expected. I’ll need your pass.’ He held out a hand.
Valerius shook his head. ‘The invitation was delivered verbally.’ The Praetorian noticed the stress on the word ‘invitation’ and raised his 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.