Guard. The Batavians had ridden from Rome to meet him three days earlier, while he rested at Falerii and accepted the fawning homage of the ambitious senators who had stirred themselves to greet him there. Yes, a long journey. One full of lessons for those who thought to oppose him. Painful, but satisfactory and salutary lessons. He had not been cruel. He was not a cruel man. He had not acted out of fear. No, he had acted decisively, as an Emperor should.
Other lessons were on his mind now. Nymphidius Sabinus had betrayed and attempted to usurp him, and had paid the price. But what of those who had supported and encouraged him? He had their names, from the same senators who thought to grovel their way into high and profitable office. Those senators would be disappointed. Servius Sulpicius Galba did not buy loyalty. Loyalty must be freely given or it was not loyalty at all. That was another lesson to be learned.
As he rode this final stretch of road, with the cheers of his subjects ringing in his ears, he felt an unlikely and unusual lightening of the spirit. Since crossing the border into Italia he had been beset by a persistent and irrational horror that it would all be taken away from him before he could reach Rome. And now Rome was in sight. A blur of smoke on the horizon. He was here. After all the long years and long miles he had at last reached the pinnacle of his career. It was a pinnacle he had not sought, but when it had come within his reach he had stretched out for it with all the vigour of a much younger man. Rome was his. And not just Rome. The Empire. Nero had brought the world’s greatest power to the brink of ruin. The Empire’s coffers were empty. Somehow they must be refilled, and Servius Sulpicius Galba was the man to fill them. Had he not made a fortune that was the envy of other men, and that after being cheated of his rightful inheritance by Tiberius, of pestilential memory? He would begin by discovering the whereabouts of the money Nero had squandered. And then he would recover it. Naturally, those who had received it would complain, but by the very fact that they had received it they were Nero’s men, and guilty by association.
Until now the cheering had been set at a certain pitch, dictated by the preponderance of women and children among the crowd, but nowit altered to a deep bass rumble. He had been aware of a shadow ahead and to his left, between the road and the Tiber, and now the shadow resolved itself into ranks of men. His first thought was that someone had disobeyed his order and paraded the Guard. They should not be here; they were needed to ensure the city was safe for his arrival. But where were the gaily coloured standards and the bright flashes from armour polished to a mirror shine? No legion ever paraded in so unsoldierly a fashion. None was so poorly equipped. The men he could see were bareheaded and ragged. At last, he recognized the blue tunics among them and with a grunt of irritation realized they must be the naval militia he had been informed about in Falerii. An annoyance and an irrelevance, to be disbanded and sent back to their rowing benches in his own time. He felt his heart stutter. Were they a threat? No, by Jupiter they were not, because if they thought to threaten their Caesar he would decorate the roads with them from here to Neapolis in a display that would make Crassus proud.
The road narrowed as it reached the bridge and he would have passed them by without a glance, but a small group of men pushed their way past the guards into the space ahead of him. His first instinct was to have his bodyguard sweep them aside, but the sense of anticipation in the hundreds – thousands? – who waited in their ranks to his right somehow pierced the thick carapace of his patrician dignity, and he waved his guards back and drew to a halt.
Milo’s legs threatened to give way as he looked up at the magnificent figure on the white horse. He had not wanted to be the seamen’s
Other lessons were on his mind now. Nymphidius Sabinus had betrayed and attempted to usurp him, and had paid the price. But what of those who had supported and encouraged him? He had their names, from the same senators who thought to grovel their way into high and profitable office. Those senators would be disappointed. Servius Sulpicius Galba did not buy loyalty. Loyalty must be freely given or it was not loyalty at all. That was another lesson to be learned.
As he rode this final stretch of road, with the cheers of his subjects ringing in his ears, he felt an unlikely and unusual lightening of the spirit. Since crossing the border into Italia he had been beset by a persistent and irrational horror that it would all be taken away from him before he could reach Rome. And now Rome was in sight. A blur of smoke on the horizon. He was here. After all the long years and long miles he had at last reached the pinnacle of his career. It was a pinnacle he had not sought, but when it had come within his reach he had stretched out for it with all the vigour of a much younger man. Rome was his. And not just Rome. The Empire. Nero had brought the world’s greatest power to the brink of ruin. The Empire’s coffers were empty. Somehow they must be refilled, and Servius Sulpicius Galba was the man to fill them. Had he not made a fortune that was the envy of other men, and that after being cheated of his rightful inheritance by Tiberius, of pestilential memory? He would begin by discovering the whereabouts of the money Nero had squandered. And then he would recover it. Naturally, those who had received it would complain, but by the very fact that they had received it they were Nero’s men, and guilty by association.
Until now the cheering had been set at a certain pitch, dictated by the preponderance of women and children among the crowd, but nowit altered to a deep bass rumble. He had been aware of a shadow ahead and to his left, between the road and the Tiber, and now the shadow resolved itself into ranks of men. His first thought was that someone had disobeyed his order and paraded the Guard. They should not be here; they were needed to ensure the city was safe for his arrival. But where were the gaily coloured standards and the bright flashes from armour polished to a mirror shine? No legion ever paraded in so unsoldierly a fashion. None was so poorly equipped. The men he could see were bareheaded and ragged. At last, he recognized the blue tunics among them and with a grunt of irritation realized they must be the naval militia he had been informed about in Falerii. An annoyance and an irrelevance, to be disbanded and sent back to their rowing benches in his own time. He felt his heart stutter. Were they a threat? No, by Jupiter they were not, because if they thought to threaten their Caesar he would decorate the roads with them from here to Neapolis in a display that would make Crassus proud.
The road narrowed as it reached the bridge and he would have passed them by without a glance, but a small group of men pushed their way past the guards into the space ahead of him. His first instinct was to have his bodyguard sweep them aside, but the sense of anticipation in the hundreds – thousands? – who waited in their ranks to his right somehow pierced the thick carapace of his patrician dignity, and he waved his guards back and drew to a halt.
Milo’s legs threatened to give way as he looked up at the magnificent figure on the white horse. He had not wanted to be the seamen’s
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