His host waited for him in the shade of the colonnaded portico. Seneca looked relaxed, overweight and successful, his fingers weighed down by gold rings and his puffy, heavily jowled face saved from being ugly by a strong nose and shining grey eyes that radiated benevolent intelligence. The only sign of anxiety was in the hand he ran across the mottled skin of his bald head as he beamed a welcome.
‘Valerius, my boy, it has been much too long. Let me see you now. By the gods, you have become a man, and what a man. Those shoulders, that chest. You exercise every day? Of course you do. And the hand?’ Valerius lifted the walnut fist so Seneca could see it clearly. ‘A masterpiece. You have been through the fire, and it is the fire that makes us who we are.’ Valerius had witnessed a law court hushed by the sound of Seneca’s voice addressing a crowd from the rostra sixty paces away, but in conversation the philosopher was softly spoken, almost mellow in tone.
‘I’m glad to see you well, master Seneca.’
Seneca laughed, but for the first time Valerius detected a hint of bitterness. ‘I am no longer your master, Valerius. I am no man’s master, perhaps not even my own.’ He brightened again. ‘You have been to visit your father? Of course. A son’s first duty is to his family and you were always a dutiful son.’
Valerius felt as if he was swimming against a tidal wave of flattery and fought back with a little of his own. ‘You have a fine house, sir, and a wonderful estate.’
‘And I am forgetting my manners. Please come inside.’ Seneca led him through a large vestibule and across a broad inner courtyard, striding out like a man ten years younger and talking as he went. ‘ They say I am too rich.’ He didn’t identify who they were, but Valerius knew Torquatus would be among them. ‘ They say I could not afford this if I had not been stealing from the Emperor’s purse. What do they know of Lucius Annaeus Seneca? For the first time in Rome’s history is a man to be condemned for being successful? I have lived each minute of my life in the pursuit of profit or contentment, and sometimes the two are not exclusive, though both, I grant you, can be difficult to come by.’
They reached a room with large windows and walls painted in imitation of the gardens outside. Seneca lay on one couch and Valerius sat opposite him. The philosopher studied him seriously.
‘There is a sickness in the air, a political sickness that could very well be fatal. I do not intend you to catch it, Valerius, though you may feel I have exposed you to its vapours by bringing you here. In this room we may speak freely; the acoustics are poor and, as you see, the nearest doorway far enough away to keep the slaves honest. You have been clever, as I intended you to be. A young man visits his father’s estate and makes a neighbourly call upon his former tutor. Is it not natural? Your presence will be reported, certainly — they have six spies in my household that I know of and who knows how many that I do not — but I doubt it will arouse suspicions, and if it does, I believe you are agile enough to allay them.’
Valerius found himself caught between admiration of Seneca’s cunning in trapping him in the quicksand of whatever plot he was hatching, and alarm at the knowledge that he was already up to his neck and sinking fast. Clearly, if he refused the proposition about to be made it would take only a single word in the right ear to condemn him. Yet he had always known it would be this way. Implicit in his decision to come was trust in the philosopher’s judgement and faith in his integrity. He would give Seneca the truth.
‘The Emperor has charged me with investigating a group of Judaean agitators he believes are plotting against Rome who he fears have infiltrated the highest levels of government.’
Seneca nodded gravely. ‘I am aware of your assignment. Indeed, it was I who instigated it.’ He saw Valerius’s confusion. ‘Oh yes, Valerius, I am not yet without influence. Torquatus thinks the suggestion was his, but it was I who sowed the seed. It has placed you in a position to do both your Emperor and your friends a great service.’
For a moment the words lay between them like pieces on a gaming board, but Valerius was still reluctant to make the decisive move. ‘I don’t understand. Why me?’ The question echoed the one he had asked Torquatus a day earlier. To his surprise, so did the answer.
His host gave a sigh that would have been more at home on a stage. ‘I could tell you that you are brave, that you are wise and that you have a mind that is never satisfied with the first solution it finds, and all that would be true. But the real answer is simpler: I trust you.’ Seneca rose and his voice changed as he began to pace the room. Now again Valerius saw Lucius Annaeus Seneca, the statesman. ‘Do you love Rome, Valerius? More important, do you believe in Rome? Of course you do. The blood of men who lived and died for Rome runs in your veins. You are the son of a man who once risked everything for Rome.’ Valerius struggled to justify this vision of his father, but Seneca was no longer speaking to him, he was speaking to the Empire. ‘Rome is an invalid tottering on the brink of the abyss, and evil men are gathering to push her over the edge into chaos, depravity and, ultimately, a carnage that will consume her. Rome’s Emperor is not strong enough to stand in their way. He must have help. Nero cannot rule alone, Valerius; he is no Caesar or Augustus. He was fated to rule, but he needs a guiding hand; a firm, honest hand to steer him in the direction that is best for his people. Without that hand he will always be the servant of his urges and the servant of those who provide the means to satisfy those urges. He will shift with each changing wind and with each shift he will become less of an Emperor. With every passing hour it becomes more difficult to return him to the true path and the path that could lead him to true greatness. The followers of Christus are a danger to Rome, but Torquatus and the band of degenerates he cultivates are a greater danger still. As long as I breathe I will never plot against the Emperor, but I will fight to return to his side, and you, Valerius, can place me there. I will help you find the man known as the Rock of Christus and you will deliver him to me and help me discredit Torquatus and his gang. Together, Valerius, we will save Rome.’
Valerius stared at him. He knew the speech was calculated to appeal to Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Twentieth: a call to arms designed to stir a soldier’s blood on the eve of battle. He wasn’t blind. He saw through Seneca the statesman to Seneca the actor. But somehow that didn’t matter. His blood was stirred and he was ready for battle. Now, at least, he knew what he was fighting for.
He didn’t need to speak. Seneca saw the impact of his words. He nodded. ‘In every life there comes a moment to choose, Valerius. You will never regret the choice you have just made.’
‘Tell me about Christus’s Rock.’
Seneca made him wait. He called for servants to bring food and it was only after they had completed their meal that they resumed their discussion.
‘It is impossible to tell the story of the Rock without telling the story of Christus. When did it begin? Was it the moment he was born, or the moment he died, or somewhere in between? You will hear that Christus was a mystic, an insurrectionist, a teacher or a criminal, but I think the truth is that he was a mixture of them all. He came, without education or wealth, from an obscure Galilean village, but within two years he had gathered men who had both to his side. Oh, they will tell you that he had made a vow of poverty, but no man could have achieved what Christus did without substantial resources. How else could he have retained what became a small army of followers? He claimed he was the son of God and to each man he gave a reason to believe. He is said to have carried out miracles, all of which can be disputed, but none of which can be entirely disproved. So why did they follow him? Why did they believe him? Because he offered them the chance to live for ever. Eternal life was in his gift and that of his father.’ Seneca shook his head at the absurdity of it. ‘The Judaeans hated and feared him because he cast doubt upon their own religion. Eventually they persuaded the governor that he was as much a danger to Rome as he was to Jerusalem and Pilatus ordered him crucified. Pilatus was foolish. Left alive, Christus would have become a figure of ridicule, a simpleton who promised everything but delivered nothing.’