But Valerius had concerns of his own. He rode out of the city before dawn taking what precautions he could, though he knew there was no guarantee that he’d lost Rodan’s watchers. His mind was bowstring tight. Ask your father. The same loaded suggestion from two entirely different and equally dangerous sources. What did his father know about the Christus cult and plots against Caesar? Lucius had never been politically astute, but he was no fool either. Apart from two or three letters which had probably never reached the Emperor, there was little likelihood that Nero even knew his name. But Torquatus did and it seemed Torquatus would use any lever to increase his hold on Valerius. Ask your father. He felt dread hovering over him like a thundercloud.
He left the road a mile short of the gate, ensuring no hidden watcher would announce his arrival today. His horse plotted its own way through the familiar hills until they met the track leading from the gateway to the house. Everything seemed normal, but his mind sharpened with every clatter of the animal’s hooves.
When the villa came into view he reined in beside a clump of black poplars and sat for more than a minute, watching and listening. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then why did he have this overwhelming sense of danger? Dismounting, he led his horse into the nearest barn and tied it next to a pair of matched roans superior to anything his father had ever owned. Beside them stood an elaborately painted four-wheeled coach. His suspicions growing, he walked out into the sunshine and across the courtyard. The door was closed, but not barred, and he entered silently, immediately experiencing the intimacy of surroundings he’d known since childhood. Each tessera of the mosaic floor was as familiar as when he’d crawled across it as a child. He was approaching the interior garden with its open roof and whitewashed columns when he heard the raised voices.
Three men lay on couches around a stone table beside the central pool, with his father furthest away facing the doorway. Despite his relaxed pose, Lucius gave the impression of being a reluctant member of the group. He lay with his body pushed back as far as the couch would allow and with his cup clutched defensively to his chest. His eyes darted between his two guests like a dog wondering which was going to hit him first. The man to his right could have been the villa’s owner as he casually picked at grapes from the table. He had dark hair that curled back from a wide brow and a neatly trimmed spade beard. Deep-set, obsidian eyes seemed to focus upon something interesting in the middle distance. The third man had his back to Valerius, but his bulk and his posture made him unmistakable. Seneca.
The dark man turned to Lucius with a tight smile. ‘It seems we have a new guest.’
Lucius looked up and his face froze when he recognized Valerius.
Seneca didn’t even turn his head. ‘Welcome, my boy. Two visits within two weeks? Your filial devotion surprises even me. Come, we are just going.’ He raised himself from the couch with surprising ease for such a big man and turned with a smile, as if he found the unwanted intrusion amusing. ‘A social call to discuss matters of mutual interest among neighbours,’ he explained. ‘May I introduce my business acquaintance, Saul of Tarsus.’
The bearded man’s eyes flicked a warning to Seneca, but the philosopher waved a languid hand.
‘We are among friends here.’ He looked to Valerius for confirmation. ‘Discreet friends. Your work goes well?’ The question was heavy with emphasis, but the young Roman decided to treat it as a social enquiry.
‘Life in Rome is always interesting, as you know, master Seneca.’
Seneca laughed. ‘A good answer. I taught you well, Valerius.’ He turned to Lucius. ‘I bid you good day. You will bear in mind what we discussed?’ Lucius bowed.
Saul of Tarsus approached Valerius. He was an inch or two shorter than the Roman and older than he first appeared. Something about him stirred a memory. ‘Your father speaks well of you, young man. I wish you success in your every endeavour.’
Valerius nodded his thanks, but, when the two guests had left, the impression he had of Saul was of a prison pallor and an unmistakable prison scent. In the silence that followed he realized that the traditional father-son roles had become reversed. Lucius stared from the window refusing to meet his eyes, and Valerius felt a growing certainty that the older man had somehow placed them all at risk. What games was he playing that had come to Torquatus’s notice? Where was the link between these men and Lucina? He tried to keep his voice steady but the words emerged rough-edged as a saw blade. ‘You warned me only a few days ago that I should be wary of Seneca. Why should I take your advice when you clearly cannot?’
On another day his father would have snapped a rebuke, but now he only waved a weary hand. ‘If a neighbour visits me am I to turn him from my door?’
‘Seneca does not make social visits. Who was the man with him?’
‘Saul of Tarsus is a friend of Seneca’s brother. A good man, and a Roman citizen despite his birth.’
‘A good man does not carry the stink of the jail on him.’
Lucius looked up sharply. ‘Yes, he has been in prison for his beliefs, but he was spared to carry on his work.’
Valerius’s heart sank at the way Lucius pronounced the word ‘beliefs’. ‘What are you doing to us?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you understand that you are putting Olivia in danger? Is it not enough that you refuse to help her, but you must drag her with you to the executioner?’
‘I have done nothing. I-’
‘Nothing? Two days ago the Emperor’s Praetorian prefect advised me to ask my father if I wanted to know how to get close to a man Nero wants to see dead. Yesterday, a woman who condemned herself by her own words said the same thing. Since then I have been asking myself what it could mean. Now I understand.’ Lucius shook his head soundlessly. Valerius made no attempt to keep the frustration from his voice. ‘I have been ordered by the Emperor to seek out the leader of a religious sect accused of spreading sedition in Rome. They worship a criminal named Christus, who died on a cross thirty years ago. A madman who believed he was the son of a god and could work miracles. But you are already aware of that, because you worship him too.’
‘You know nothing of what you speak.’ Lucius’s tone recovered some of its authority. ‘I am still the head of this family. Leave my house now.’
‘What does MCVII mean?’
‘Go!’
Valerius shook his head. ‘Tell me where to find Petrus, Father. Tell me where they meet.’
‘Get out, please.’
‘For Olivia, if not for me.’
‘Please, Valerius, leave me.’ Lucius slumped on the furthest couch. ‘I can tell you nothing.’
Valerius was suddenly overwhelmed by the same helplessness he felt when he sat by Olivia’s bed. He would learn nothing more here. He made for the door. ‘You are a good man, Father, but you do not understand the danger you are in. Take your own advice. Beware Seneca — and this man Saul.’
It wasn’t until he reached the barn that he realized they were both caught in the same net.
He struggled to marshal his thoughts. How had the world become this blur of contradictions? It seemed impossible, yet deep in his heart he had known it since Lucina spoke those three fateful words in the garden. Lucius, an intelligent man and a good Roman, had become a Christus-follower. He believed. Believed in a man who claimed to have walked upon water. A crazed Judaean rebel who thought he was the son of a god; a god who must be worshipped exclusively and all other gods abandoned. Valerius remembered the comforting family routine of daily libations to the kitchen god, the coin for the god of the crossroads when Olivia married, sacrifices to Jupiter and Minerva, Bacchus and Mars, on the appropriate days for the appropriate purposes. Good harvests, good health, sweet wine and sweet victory. A Roman should be surrounded by gods. How could his father have changed so much?