CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

THE TOLERANT FANATIC

As head of the Senator’s guard, Demos the Greek wore the uniform of a Roman legionary. He performed his duties with diligence, but at heart he did not feel a soldier. The uniform and the attendant discipline seemed to weigh upon his spirit and he was grateful that his army life was temporary. His enlistment had been ordered by the Tribune as a shield against the knives of Gallo’s agents, knowing that the murder of a legionary would provoke a full investigation.

The elder Valerius made few demands, and Demos found himself with ample space to view the pattern of his life. He was tired of his vagrant existence; tired of the taverns and the dockland gossips, the drunkards and the cutthroats. His village near Corinth and the simplicity of its life rose sweet in his mind. Would he ever return? He doubted it, for he could not see himself content with the narrow strip of his father’s holding. Nevertheless, he hankered for a change.

He knew his post in the Emperor’s service was one of rare privilege. He was fortunate; even so, life in the field was punishing and often tedious. He was getting old, and the edge of his keenness had dulled. Perhaps, with the Tribune’s help, he could join the few who organised the eastern agents.

Because of his oath Demos had never revealed his function to the Tribune openly, though it was obvious Valerius had guessed at his secret agency. Almost a year and a half had passed since he had first attached himself to the Tribune’s travelling party – his motive to spy upon and test the loyalty of the Emperor’s personal Legate. That role had quickly passed to one of service, and now the Valerii had come to dominate his life.

The Senator was not as tall as his son, and his speech and temper were more even; otherwise, their natures were similar. Demos liked the grey-haired Senator. The Patrician was unassertive in manner, yet, like his son, his most casual word commanded instant obedience. Again like his son, he travelled simply. To him numerous slaves and servants following in his wake betrayed a trivial mind.

As he journeyed, the Senator showed untiring interest in his surroundings, which extended into having long and halting conversations with the local peasants. The habit exasperated his daughter Junia.

“An ox-cart travels twice as fast as us!” she blurted one time in frustration, and Demos smiled. The young Valerius was forceful. Some day she would be a matron, and a power to reckon with.

On one occasion the Senator was much disturbed by what he saw, and when he returned to the wagon his look was dazed. He spoke absently to Demos, the sadness in his voice unmistakable.

“The strong should not prey upon the weak,” he sighed. “Some say if Rome were absent conditions would be worse. They could be right – at least we’ve cleared the land of petty war-lords.”

Demos nodded politely, and the Senator made to mount the wagon but stopped short.

“In the Senate I’m laughed at, shouted at or simply ignored. They may not listen, but if nothing else they know what I stand for. I’ve made sure of that – I must say Sejanus listens. What a strange mixture that man is.”

The Senator pulled himself into the wagon, and Demos walked slowly to the leading cart, his mind full of the Patrician’s words. Few thought about the people and their plight and even fewer acted to alleviate their misery, but the man he was escorting did. Demos had learned from the Tribune that the Senator stood for tax reform, for land reform and for the legal rights of slaves. Apparently his friends had labelled him the ‘tolerant fanatic’. An amusing contradiction, Demos thought, but a perfect epitaph for the seeker after truth.