Quintus took a deep breath, settling himself into this new fight. He blocked out all sights and sounds except the man in front of him. He was no longer aware of Trebonius being escorted aside, or the grizzled camp prefect watching closely, or the cheering rows of legionaries. He lost all sense of his own men gathered close, and even of the road under his feet. He called on his long experience and years of training. He knew not to watch the eyes, or the hands, or even the sword itself. He focused his gaze on his opponent’s sternum. Any movement of the core of the body would betray where the next blow would come from, and allow a reflexive parry to be aimed where it should.
And all the time he was weighing up his situation. This man was fresh, tall and well-armoured. On the other hand, Quintus knew himself to be fast, with nimble footwork. His scarred leg might tire, but the short gladius suited his style of fighting. And, he hoped and prayed, he had the gods of Rome on his side, including Minerva the goddess of justice.
He took one more deep breath, rubbing his boots around in the damp gravel to centre his weight. He was ready to strike.
‘Come and seek your vengeance, Labienus!’
Chapter Twenty-eight
Tiro looked round at the Durotriges, swords and axes in hand. They were ready to fight, but Tiro hoped desperately that they wouldn’t need to. Apart from a handful of retired soldiers, they had no clue how to defend themselves against trained legionaries.
A better plan was needed. And being stuck here at the back of everything was not the place to deliver that better plan. Off we go again, Tiro. As he worked his way forward he recognised the young Sorio lad. He was standing at his father’s shoulder, round shield slung on his back and sword out in a shaky hand. The boy looked round. Tiro put his fingers to his lips. No time to negotiate passage with Sorio senior. The boy nodded in understanding and pointed to the front, where Quintus was sitting on his chestnut in the pathway of the Augusta, making his crazy play for time. No sign of the support coming from the east.
Seems the Gods aren’t going to oblige us with a Hercules or a Hector. So I’ll have to do.
He prepared to heave his way through the ranks. But Drusus grabbed his arm. The boy unshouldered his shield and held it out. It was a generous offer, and Tiro thought for all of three seconds before accepting. The boy might yet need it himself, but to be frank if Drusus got engaged in fighting then it was already over, and Quintus and Tiro would be dead. He grinned at Drusus, holding his thumb up, and set off all the lighter for the heavy round burden.
Now Tiro’s years of wrestling paid off handsomely. He ploughed low through the ranks packed together on the bridge, ignoring swearing and shoving. He made much better progress once off the bridge. Besides, the men ahead of him were so caught up by the sight of their new Emperor in a single combat challenge, even a Jovian thunderbolt wouldn’t distract them.
But the man facing Quintus wasn’t the Governor. It was a taller man, one who threw his cloak off with a familiar disdainful gesture. Quintus raised his sword to engage, and with that movement his sleeve moved up to reveal a white bandage. Tiro opened his mouth to shout a warning, and at the same time the tall bastard — Somebody Labienus? — stepped forward, halving the distance to his opponent. He brought his own left arm across his body, and then straightened it to hit out with the boss of his shield, buffeting Quintus hard on his burned arm. Quintus made no sound but his face went white, and he dropped his own left arm, turning away instinctively to protect it. Tiro saw immediately that this movement opened his right side to attack. He dropped his head and sprinted like an enraged bull through the soldiers in front, scattering them. Labienus heard him coming and whirled round, shield and sword up. Tiro fell into a skid, sliding along the wet ground. He was holding Drusus’s shield aloft.
‘Take it, sir!’
The frumentarius reacted immediately. Tiro was relieved to see that not even his injured arm slowed him much. He scooped up the shield while Labienus was wrong-footed. Using the weight of his swinging body, Quintus shoved in a blow with the little round shield, metal-edge uppermost. Labienus spun round, raising his sword in a hacking downward blow. Quintus had to leap desperately to avoid being sliced. The two men exchanged a series of sharp parries, neither making ground. Tiro could hear Gaius Trebonius screaming at his champion. ‘Kill him! Kill the fool!’ Quintus was beginning to drag his leg. Only a little, but Tiro could see it. No time for gentlemanly behaviour. Let’s fight dirty.
At that moment Marcellus shouted to his bugler to wind the horn for attack. The Aquae Sulis vexillation surged forward, and a free-for-all began. The bulk of the legion couldn’t see what was happening, but the front ranks charged at Marcellus and his men. Labienus glanced away, allowing Quintus to get closer. Quintus’s sword traced a glittering path of movement that confounded the taller man, without quite allowing Quintus to penetrate his defence.
Satisfied that Quintus was holding his own, Tiro looked around for the nearest target. To his vast satisfaction he found Lucius. Fighting lust rose in him, red hot. He reached Lucius before the boy even saw him, diving low to pull him down into the mud. Stabbing him would be too quick. Instead he smashed his fists into him, with great pleasure. He pulled Lucius bodily off the ground, ready to dash him back down and grind that pretty face to shreds. But the boy managed to rip himself away, leaving part of his torn tunic behind. To his regret Tiro saw Lucius run away, throwing his shield at Tiro. Tiro dodged and caught the shield up out of the mud.
‘He didn’t even swing his fucking sword,’ grumbled Tiro, settling Lucius’s shield on his arm and looking round for his next victim.
‘Woah there,’ said a familiar gravelly voice. ‘Watch who you hit. Come to help an old mate, I have.’ Prefect Felix Antonius grinned and stepped to Tiro’s right side. They both turned and swung their shields in practised unison, catching two legionaries unaware and rendering them out of play, probably permanently. Tiro grinned too. He was beginning to have fun. Until he glanced towards Quintus, and realised the boss was now faced by two more men and still parrying with Labienus. The odds seemed a little unfair. With a signal to Antonius, Tiro extracted himself and plunged in to support the frumentarius. All about him was a frenzy of men, mostly slogging it out in pairs.
Tiro reached Quintus and popped up beside him, encouraged to see the Italian gaining ground. The point of Quintus’s gladius whipped in and out, faster than anyone could cope with. One of his adversaries was down, slashed across the belly and wailing. Tiro took on the other, leaving Labienus to Quintus. Tiro thrust his shield forward and down, sweeping the legs from under his opponent. The man landed awkwardly on the ground with Tiro on top. Tiro smashed the shield into the man’s face, then grabbed his dagger, reversed it in one smooth swift move and smacked the pommel into the exposed throat. There was a gurgle, then silence and Tiro let his opponent’s head fall back, crooked and ghastly. He leapt to his feet to find another legionary coming at him. This time, not from the front. The bastard crunched his shield sideways into Tiro’s ribs, and there was a horribly loud crack. Tiro would have sworn except he couldn’t breathe. Shit, am I dead? He had no time to ponder. Shrill trumpet blasts split the air, so close the din threatened to deafen him - once, twice, thrice. Sudden stillness fell over the maelstrom. Men paused in mid-blow, turning to see who was signalling so sharply. Tiro fought vainly to pull air into his lungs. Puffing and crouching over his ribs, he became aware that the battle had frozen. All eyes had turned to something approaching along the Verulamium road.
It was a litter, some invalid being carried along bang into the middle of the battle. Through his pain Tiro stared as the swaying litter came nearer. Now he could see that the purple-fringed drapes on either side were drawn back. The four litter-bearers stopped, lowering the litter with respectful care to allow the occupant to step out. Their passenger straightened up. He had a pale intelligent face, and obviously found it difficult to stand for long. He waited patiently, nonetheless, surveying the scene ahead of him.
; A cohort of soldiers bearing a familiar standard marched up behind him, and one of the litter slaves hurried to bring a folding seat from an accompanying wagon. The man sat, passing a grateful smile to the slave. Tiro opened his mouth to say, ’It’s my Londinium lads!’ but Felix Antonius beat him to it. The camp prefect hustled through the silent crowd, and went down on one knee before the pale man.
‘Your Honour,’ he said, head bowed. The man placed one white hand on the wiry grey hair of the prefect.
‘No need for apologies right now, Antonius,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘Time enough in due course. For now, please tell me what is happening here.’
Quintus stepped forward, his left arm bleeding through the sleeve and held stiffly, his tunic covered in mud and blood. Tiro hoped little of the blood was his. But before either the prefect or the frumentarius could speak, Trebonius pushed himself forward, with two of his tribunes alongside.
‘Procurator Rufinus, what a miracle! You’ve had yourself carried all the way from your counting house to grace my victory. I am happy to accept your surrender on the field.’
Tiro shuddered at the sneer in the man’s voice. But he noted that some of the men of the Augusta legion were shuffling and looking uncomfortable. There was a slight but perceptible movement by some along the sides of the road, towards the trees and disappearance. They were stopped by the legionary centurions, more determined to hold their nerve. Tiro guessed they had most to lose if there was to be a reckoning. But he didn’t think the London lads, tough town boys though they were, would be able to hold the field long against five thousand trained men.
The pale man didn’t turn a hair. He looked placidly at Gaius Trebonius, addressing him in a cool clear voice.
‘But I have come to require your surrender, Gaius Trebonius.’
The Governor laughed, loud and full-throated. His staff officers glanced around, as if wondering whether it was appropriate to join in his glee. One tribune did, until the mild glance of the Procurator turned his way. The tribune fell silent.
‘Gaius, I know everything.’
‘Do you, now, Aradius? And how is whatever you think you know going to stand up against my legion? Even with a few dozy garrison layabouts behind you, and the posse of disloyal farmers this frumentarius has dragged together.’
Trebonius nodded toward the Durotriges in the rear. Marcellus, standing next to Agrippa Sorio, drew himself up and his men stood a little taller.
‘Also, I hate to tell you after you’ve been carried all this way in your litter that I’ve got another legion on the way. If I’m not mistaken, here it is now. You may want to consider a request for mercy to your new British Emperor right now.’
It was unmistakeable. The sound of thousands of booted feet, marching briskly in unison down the north road. The Twentieth Valeria Victrix legion had arrived at last. Tiro suddenly felt very sick. He retched. A really bad idea. He was so blinded by the pain of his broken ribs that he almost missed what came next. The pale man, Procurator Aradius Rufinus, waited calmly, merely summoning Quintus over to him with a wave of his hand. Quintus went, his bad arm hanging loose but holding his shield still. They exchanged a few low words. Tiro couldn’t catch what was said, but noted that Quintus looked happier. Tiro began to feel a bit better. The Procurator turned back to his former colleague. His posture didn’t change, but his voice hardened.
‘The thing is, Gaius, the legate of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix had already decided where his loyalties lay. He put his legion at my disposal quite some time before your attempt to suborn him. So you see, there is little left for us to say to each other. I will now speak to the Second Augusta instead, whom you have led to this disaster.’
Tiro saw a panicky look of shock pass over the Governor’s broad face. But the Procurator seemed not to notice. His voice, still even, was raised to a tone of authority. He addressed himself to the ranks of the Augusta, who were exchanging worried looks. ‘Men of the Augusta, you have been lied to and misled by your former Legate, and now former Governor. I know most of you were staying loyal to your chain of command. A few, a very few, of your senior officers —‘ here his pellucid gaze swept across the Augusta, lingering on the tribunes, ‘are more culpable, having accepted bribes provisioned by silver stolen from the Imperial estate at Vebriacum. That is a capital offence.’
Tiro silently applauded this tactic. Clever, sir! That’ll sort the blindly trusting sheep away from the plotting goats. No need to destroy a whole legion when you can simply take off its rotten head, eh?
Rufinus paused to allow this to sink in.
‘Enough blood has been spilt. If you immediately stand down and return to your base with new officers appointed by me, I will spare the legion decimation, break-up and obliteration. I will not punish the enlisted men if the rebellion ends right now. Those of your officers who took bribes — I know who they are — may have their inevitable sentences as traitors commuted to dismissal from the army if they co-operate with my investigation.’
The Procurator looked calmly at Trebonius and Labienus. Trebonius was red-faced now. He began yelling obscenities and drew his sword. Somehow the even voice of Rufinus rose above Trebonius’s protests, compelling in its certainty.
‘You, the ringleaders of this deadly conspiracy, cannot expect the same mercy. It will be for the Emperor and the Senate of the People of Rome to determine your fates.’
Trebonius shouted, ‘You’ll die for this, Rufinus!’ Quintus, his own blade drawn, immediately stepped between the furious former Governor and the man about to succeed him. Tiro himself felt so angry he knew he would have killed Trebonius on the spot. But Quintus was a Roman officer, and due process must be observed. He merely held the point of his gladius to Trebonius’s throat. Tiro was impressed with his boss’s control.
While Rufinus was speaking the Twentieth legion had moved in, led by their legate. Five thousand men proudly wearing the sign of the boar poured off the road from Deva, surrounding the men of Isca. A squad of four marched smartly up to the Procurator, saluted, and then at his signal pinioned ex-Governor Trebonius. His uniform and sword were stripped from him and he was manacled and left shivering in his tunic. Cassius Labienus was likewise arrested and put in irons, and both men were led away.
‘Frumentarius, there is much I need to discuss with you,’ the Procurator said to Quintus, with a slight smile as he got back into his litter. ‘I know you need medical attention and rest, but I’d be very obliged if you would brief me later. I hope this will not be inconvenient? I shall be staying here in the city, and will send for you. Bring your stator.’
The pale man limped, and for the first time Tiro noticed that one foot was twisted and mis-shapen. He had seen children with similar deformities in Londinium, usually begging in the gutters and rarely surviving long. He wondered at this man who had overcome so much to rise to the top position in the Province. Quintus beckoned to Marcellus as Rufinus’s slaves helped him up into the litter.
‘Sir, if I may, I’d like to introduce my close colleague Centurion Marcellus Crispus, of the Aquae Sulis vexillation of the Second Legion. And my good friend, the Decurion Agrippa Sorio, of Lindinis, and leader into battle of our allies the northern Durotriges.’
Marcellus stepped forward and saluted smartly, his freckled face slightly red.
Rufinus turned his hazel eyes onto the centurion. ‘You have my grateful thanks, Centurion. I never forget courage and loyalty. I will consider your future career path when time permits.’ Rufinus smiled briefly, and turned to the Durotrigan. A broadly-beaming Sorio had pushed his way through the dispirited ranks of the dispersing Augusta, and had been hovering on the fringes of the conversation. Drusus, eyes bright, was with him. Through his gasps for breath, Tiro was delighted to hear the Procurator invite them to attend him later that evening. Quintus saluted as the slaves lifted the Procurator’s litter and carried him through the ranks of the subdued Augusta, across the bridge and into the city. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Tiro, curled
over in pain.
‘Hurt my fucking ribs, sir. Oh, sorry sir. I’ll get that bastard Lucius though. When I catch the fucker. Sorry, sir.’
Quintus smiled wryly. ‘I daresay Julia will have something that will help. Or Britta might.’
Tiro tried to grin. ‘Are we heading to Aquae Sulis then, sir? Or will Lady Julia be going back to Bo Gwelt?’
‘You will go wherever you can be healed fastest, Tiro. You’re no use to me like that.’ It was said drily, but again Tiro caught a hint of humour as well. Despite the pain of his bloody and blistered arm, Quintus had lost the grey look so frequently on his face these days. ‘As for me, we’ll see what our new Governor has to say.’
‘Governor, sir? Aradius Rufinus, you mean?’
‘Of course. I doubt very much the legate of the Valeria Victrix would have thrown his lot in with Rufinus so readily, had he not been assured by Rome there would be uncontested succession to the Governorship.’
Tiro hadn’t thought of that. It made sense. So he wasn’t surprised to see Quintus introducing himself to the Devan legate.
The Twentieth legion began to move across the bridge to enter the welcoming city. Clearly the citizens had heard about the switch of fortunes. Cheering townspeople were emerging from their shuttered and locked houses. One or two enterprising businesses had already set up little stands along the road, with striped awnings to keep off the threatening showers, and were beckoning to the mingled ranks of the Twentieth and the Second as they made their way into the city.
Well, he thought, at least the shopkeepers and bartenders of Corinium would be happy to have two full legions to stay for a day or two. And the Londinium lads.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The new Governor’s tent was comfortable, with camp seats positioned around a brazier. Bright rugs scattered over the canvas floor added warmth, and thick wall hangings kept out most of the draughts. Quintus noted how quickly the scene had been set for the first officers’ briefing of the new administration.
The Governor's Man: A Quintus Valerius Mystery Page 23