It was painted white, like the other houses around it, and only the full detachment of Guard on duty outside set it apart from its neighbours. That, and Vitellius’ crest of the four-horse chariot, newly wrought in gold and bronze, on the columns at either side of the entrance.
Lucius was one of the few men in Rome who could enter without the emperor’s permission. He did so, slamming the door open before the Guard on duty could get to it, sweeping through the marbled rooms, calling to slaves and freedmen alike, ‘My brother? Where is he? Where’s Aulus? Where’s the emperor of Rome when I need him?’
The emperor was in the baths; a small private suite set near the back of the house, with hot and cold pools big enough for perhaps half a dozen men, and a massage room adjacent.
Today, I had to stand inside the door, not to let the heat out, breathing in a fog of warm, damp steam, while Lucius laid out for his brother the reality of the armies that were ranged against him, the specifics of Pantera’s plotting, the cleverness of his own strategies.
It was hard to know if the emperor Vitellius was interested in the parlous state of his empire. He lay face down on a slatted wooden massage table, pillowing his brow on his crossed forearms. When he spoke, his voice crawled out from under his armpit, wreathed in oils and petal scents.
The masseur who worked on him was vast, with biceps as big as my thighs and inked marks rippling there that spoke of unspeakable rites done in forests that very likely involved the eating of human flesh. His neck-breaking fingers worked delicately on his master’s calves as Lucius finished his narration.
Vitellius’ muffled voice said, ‘You told me you were going to kill this spy. Or at least render him safe.’
With strained patience, Lucius replied, ‘If we kill this one man, others will take his place and we don’t have time to find out who they are. Pantera was trusted by Vespasian to ensure the safety of his family in Rome. It is better by far to know what he plans, and thereby neutralize it, than to blunder around in the dark. This is what we are doing.’
‘Then why come to me?’
‘Because Antonius Primus is still marching on Rome. I may not go out to meet him, but someone must.’
‘No. Caecina will return to us. I know that man. I have dined with him. I trust him.’
Vitellius waved the masseur away, pushed himself upright. He was a tall man, once lean, but the months of high living had wreathed him in fat. It lay in folds about his belly, sagged on to his thighs and hung from his arms. His hair was straight and fine, the colour of grey sand, vanishing in a circle on the crown where he rubbed it, to help himself think.
His face had the look of a bust sculpted in wax that had been left too near a fire, so that everything above flowed down into everything below. When he smiled, the effort it took to lift everything upward was vast.
He made that effort now. ‘I sent a centurion, Julius Agrestis, to spy on the enemy lines. He returned this morning. I have word that he would speak to me. Let him be summoned now, and you can hear from his own mouth that you have been duped by this Pantera; things are not as dire as you have been led to believe.’
Julius Agrestis was a small, sturdy man with peg-like teeth and fuzzed brows. He was third centurion of the fifth cohort; not a particularly notable position, but one from which it was possible to climb. I remembered him as ambitious but untalented.
He was also terrified of Lucius, which was only common sense but didn’t help when it came to giving his report. Everyone knew what the emperor thought; almost everyone knew the truth was different, and to a man the Guard knew that Lucius would skin them alive if they told the emperor anything Lucius didn’t want him to hear.
The problem was in finding out precisely what Lucius didn’t want his brother to hear when there was nobody to ask and you were called to speak in front of them both. The risk of saying something unfortunate was large and real and terrifying.
So Agrestis gave his report from kneeling, with his gaze fixed on the blue-ocean floor tiles and his parade-ground voice reduced to a whisper.
‘Antonius Primus is three days’ hard ride away. He is a Roman and must be respected as such, so rather than scout in secrecy I entered his camp, introduced myself and told him I was there to assess his strengths on your behalf. He was polite and accommodating, showed me round his camp, introduced me to his centurions, and gave me dinner in the evening before setting me back on my way the following morning.’
‘And?’ Vitellius was draped in towels that hid his fat. He looked like a pink-skinned merchant, sly-eyed, thoughtful, striking the best deal he could to offload a troop of lame mules on to an unsuspecting buyer. ‘How is his camp? How many men has he? Where is Caecina?’
It was his tone that was so desperately depressing; the hidden supplication, the hints of weakness that any fighting man would despise. He wanted to hear that Caecina was held against his will and even now was making plans to escape and lead his men to glorious victory in Vitellius’ name.
Julius Agrestis was not stupid; he must have known this, but he had his own integrity and held to it.
He lifted his head and with a commendable courage said, ‘My lord, the traitor Caecina is in fine health. He dines nightly with Antonius. Together they consider the strategies that will defeat my lord’s Guards and his legions. His men, by contrast, are utterly loyal to you, their true emperor. They are in good heart and will fight for you if given the right command. It would be a pleasure to lead them.’
He dropped his gaze at the end, and so did not see Lucius catch the eye of the giant masseur and share a nod. I saw it, but did not understand it at first. I was too concerned with Vitellius, who was rocking back and forth, with his fingers jammed under his armpits, chewing on his bottom lip.
‘Caecina? Dining with Antonius Primus? He must plan some strategy, surely? He must be going to bring all of the enemy’s men to our side. He cannot have sold himself to Vespasian. What coin would purchase such a man when he fought so hard to make us emperor?’
Nobody answered. Lucius was lost in a rage that threatened to break the walls of his skull, or at the very least to rupture a blood vessel.
I was silent because only a particularly stupid man — or an elder brother — would have dared to speak when the veins were knotted purple on Lucius’ temples.
Being his brother, Vitellius spoke.
‘I could resign. Sabinus is our friend. He will take our abdication. He will smooth-’
‘ No! Brother, forgive me, but this war is far from over. Centurion Agrestis is a loyal man, but he tells us nothing we do not already know. Antonius Primus is not yet at the gates of Rome. Let one of your loyal, stalwart, competent — always competent — commanders lead the bulk of the Praetorian Guard out to block the routes to Rome.
‘We have fifteen thousand men who will march in your name: they can reach the Apennines in days and hold their passes for the rest of the winter if they have to; and we can provision them from Rome while Antonius Primus is forced to rely on the marines at Ravenna to ferry him supplies.
‘And meanwhile let me lead the remainder of the Guard south to secure the western port at Misene, where Vespasian imagines he will land with his Egyptian legions in the spring. Let these things be put in place and you shall come into the spring ruler of an empire once again at peace with itself.’
‘Do you think so?’
Vitellius’ hand had risen to his bald spot and he was rubbing it, round and round and round, stirring up the hair at its edges. He stopped in mid-circuit, and brought the hand back to his lap, staring at it, puzzled, as if it defied his control. ‘What if Antonius were to win? What then, if you have taken all the Guards out of Rome?’