Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7]

by Douglas Jackson

  About the Book

  AD 72. Titus Flavius Vespasianus, known as Vespasian, is Emperor of Rome.

  However, his grip on power is weakening as economic disaster threatens the city and so the Empire itself. The imperial treasure chests are all but empty, legions go unpaid, while yields from the vital gold mines in Spain have fallen dramatically.

  Gaius Valerius Verrens, recently married and building a new home, had hoped he’d left his old life behind when he received the summons from the Emperor. Vespasian wants his old friend to do him one last favour: to journey to the remote, mountainous region of Asturica Augusta and investigate claims that a bandit called ‘The Ghost’ is raiding the Empire’s gold convoys with impunity.

  What Valerius finds in this tortured, gods-forsaken land is much more complicated. The native tribes, exploited for so long, are a growing threat, but it seems the real danger comes from those closer to him. Treachery waits in the shadows as he is drawn into a conspiracy that, were it to succeed, would plunge the Empire into a devastating new conflict.

  It falls to Valerius to put an end to it – but first he must establish who is a friend and who a foe . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Jackson

  Copyright

  SAVIOUR OF ROME

  Douglas Jackson

  For my friends Elaine and John, the driving forces behind

  The Daily Mile, which is helping transform the

  health of Britain’s schoolchildren

  Some are of the opinion that he was driven to his rapacious proceedings by the extreme poverty of the treasury and exchequer.

  Gaius Suetonius on Vespasian (Lives of the Twelve Caesars)

  I

  Northern Hispania, AD72

  He lay in a shallow depression overlooking the dusty valley. The relentless Iberian sun beat down fit to melt the jagged rocks beneath him and the top of his skull burned like glowing coals despite the cloth scarf covering his face and head. Only the pitiless predator’s eyes remained visible to strike fear in anyone who looked upon them. He’d been stalking the convoy all this long, hot day, but it was only in the last few minutes that he finalized his plan of attack. He went over it once more in his mind before squirming backwards to where the others crouched, invisible behind the brow of the hill.

  ‘They have to cross the river at the old ford below Vulture Cliff.’ He drew a rough map in the sand with the point of his dagger and the ten men leaned close to catch his whispered words. ‘That’s where you’ll stop them.’

  ‘How?’ A throaty growl from a heavily bearded man with brick red features and eyes turned to mere slits by years of squinting into the Asturian sun. ‘There are thirty of the hook-noses guarding the wagons.’

  The leader produced a grunt of irritation behind the cloth mask. Always it must be Buntalos with the unnecessary question. The hook-noses were a mixed squadron of Parthian auxiliaries from the wing based at Legio, and Buntalos was right, there were too many of them for a direct attack. One or two of the others darted a nervous glance at their comrade. They’d learned early it was unwise to risk the anger of the man who led them.

  ‘You do what we discussed last night.’ He let them hear his irritation. ‘Show yourselves among the rocks. Change positions to make them think your numbers are greater. They’ll be keen to reach the fort before nightfall, but the ford is rocky and the escort won’t risk an all-out charge against a well-positioned enemy. If they probe you, show them how good you are with a sling shot. That should hold them for long enough.’

  ‘And you, Nathair?’ This time it was young Sigilo and the leader allowed himself a hidden smile. It still sounded odd to hear the name in his own tongue rather than Latin.

  Serpentius.

  The Snake.

  ‘If you hold their attention I will do what must be done.’

  His companions nodded solemnly, even Buntalos, who, for all his truculence, was a steady hand with a blade and a deadly slinger. A potter by trade, a bandit when it suited him. Serpentius had saved his life when the village where they’d wintered had turned out to fend off marauding wolves during a blizzard. Buntalos had followed him like a sheepdog ever since. The others were experienced night raiders who’d lifted sheep and goats from the villages in the lower valleys or snatched sacks of grain from a storehouse serving one of the Roman mines. Such raids were a rite of passage among the hill tribes and a link to the old ways. In the years before Serpentius returned to his homeland they’d become ever bolder as Hispania’s garrison troops were sucked into the civil war that had come close to tearing the Empire apart. Thankfully, the days of great retaliatory sweeps by thousands of merciless legionaries were long past, though the district procurator might send out a squadron or two of auxiliaries on a training exercise that doubled as a punitive expedition.

  This raid would be different.

  Serpentius watched his men trot off down a gully that would lead them to the river crossing. They wore homespun tunics and head cloths that matched the dusty mountain terrain and within moments they’d merged into the landscape. Buntalos and the others knew these hills as well as they knew the rocky fields and scrubby gardens of their home villages. They’d reach their destination well ahead of the heavy wagons and their mixed escort of auxiliary cavalry and infantry. The escort commander might send a small patrol to check the crossing, but Serpentius had faith in his men’s ability to stay out of sight. Any Asturian who retained a semblance of independence had years of experience avoiding patrols sent to comb the mountains for labour to work endless hours in the mines or smelting workshops.

  He crawled back to the lip of the bowl and squeezed into a narrow gap between two large boulders. From this vantage point he could watch the road without exposing his silhouette on the skyline. Below, ten covered wagons lumbered into sight, each pulled by a team of four bullocks and guided by a driver walking at the shoulder of the lead beast. Serpentius turned his attention to the mounted escort, a dozen cavalry troopers from the wing at Legio. Th
ey rode with shoulders slumped and heads down, evidence of the boredom and frustration at having to match the slow pace of the carts. Ten of the Parthian cavalry rode in front of the wagons, with two acting as a rearguard. He counted another eighteen infantry trudging nine to each side of the line of carts and no doubt sick of eating the dust kicked up by the horses and the iron-shod wagon wheels. They’d be tired after the long march from the Red Hills mines, but they looked alert enough.

  He felt an instant, visceral loathing for the men in the pot helmets and chain-mail vests. Hired killers whose first thought was for plunder and rapine, they served Rome in return for a pension and a brass diploma that listed their service. On that final day the diploma would proclaim them a citizen of an Empire that placed a tax on anything born of nature, and much that wasn’t. A soldier would have applauded their dispositions: flexible enough to react to attack from any quarter, infantry providing close protection and cavalry able to respond quickly to the slightest threat. Serpentius would have preferred something a little more inviting, but given the importance of the cargo the precautions hardly came as a surprise. In fact, security was a little lighter than he’d expected, which raised certain possibilities. He scrutinized the line of wagons again because those possibilities were both positive and negative, but they could only be tested by close inspection.

  When the rearguard disappeared from sight he counted to a hundred before slipping over the crest and down the boulder-strewn slope. He moved with animal stealth by long-honed instinct from one piece of cover to the next. In the past he wouldn’t have noticed the exertions of the day, but a pounding head and the dull ache in his lower back were a reminder of the wounds he’d suffered in Rome and Jerusalem. The medicus said the injuries would never fully heal, but they’d affected Serpentius more than he’d expected. His feet were less sure than of old and his breathing more ragged, causing an occasional dagger of pain in his chest. Some of the edge that had made him one of the most feared men in Rome was lost for ever. He could only pray that was all he’d lost.

  He smiled. Despite the doubts, Serpentius understood the aura of threat he carried with him. Loss, suffering and the scars of war had given him a face that promised pain and death. Fifteen years a slave and a gladiator had honed his wiry frame into a lightning quick, whip thin weapon of muscle and sinew. His speed and endurance, and the skills he’d acquired to keep him alive in the most dangerous place on earth, turned him into a killing machine. He’d lost count of the opponents who’d died beneath his sword. The men he led believed him an invincible combination of the stealthy mountain lynx that threatened their flocks and the savage desert leopard, of which they’d only heard fireside tales. The gladiator tricks he’d taught these slow farm boys and pot makers gave them the swagger of warriors among their tribes and clans. They were proud men, brave and eager for the fight. Yet courage couldn’t hide the reality that in combat with the auxiliaries they’d last only as long as it took their enemy to decide between the throat and the heart.

  That vulnerability was the reason he’d ordered them to stay on the far side of the river and avoid contact. Their presence was a ruse designed to provide Serpentius with an opportunity, nothing more. He didn’t want anyone killed, on either side. In truth he’d been reluctant to use them at all. But his friend needed his help and there was no other way.

  Serpentius reached the plain, but deliberately kept well back from the convoy, ready to drop into the skimpy cover of the dried grass and scrubby bushes that carpeted the valley bottom. Concealment became more difficult as he advanced and the valley narrowed. He slowed as the ford came into sight in the distance. The river here suited his purposes almost perfectly: not too shallow, fast flowing even in summer, fed by a thousand cool streams that tumbled from the rugged, cloud-wreathed mountains to the north.

  With the convoy in view he had no choice but to go to ground. He dropped to his belly and crawled forward until he could see two clearly agitated horsemen peering past the last wagon in the direction of the river. The faint sound of shouted orders reached him, but there was no evidence yet of panic. It made sense for the infantry to remain in position while the cavalry vanguard assessed the strength of the force contesting their river crossing.

  He knew what would be going through the escort commander’s mind. Was the threat only to his front, or was there a greater force ready to fall from the heights on to his flanks and rear? Until he was certain of the answer the infantry would stay by the wagons searching the ground around them for signs of bandits. Serpentius created a shallow nest in the dry earth and waited with tiny black ants crawling over his body and the scent of thyme in his nostrils. He pulled a scrap of stale bread from the pouch at his belt and chewed at it to extract what nourishment he could. When the sun had moved a certain distance across the great blue bowl above he risked another glance through the bushes. One of the cavalry rearguard had ridden off towards the head of the column, accompanied by half the infantry. Gambling that their advance would attract the focus of their comrades he slithered towards the rearmost wagon in a smooth, undulating crawl that would have graced his serpentine namesake.

  A whiff of rank sweat from one of the bullocks told him he was close enough for now. He burrowed into the prickly depths of a thick patch of gorse and waited. His plan, such as it was, could hardly be described as detailed. First, they had to stop the convoy at a moment and in a location where the escort commander would have no choice but to form a defensive perimeter for the night. Naturally, the man would send a messenger for reinforcements, and Serpentius heard a shouted conversation and a clatter of hooves on the road that confirmed he’d just done so. Had he been inclined, the Spaniard could very easily have ambushed the courier further up the trail, but why take the risk when the closest available troops were several hours away? Now it was just a matter of waiting for an opportunity.

  A few hundred paces distant his Asturians would be making occasional appearances among the rocks and keeping the auxiliaries’ attention with insults and threats. The first attempts would already have been made to shift them, but the threat of a lead slingshot hurled with enough force to take out an eye and pierce the brain would make even the bravest man pause. More infantry, advancing behind their painted oval shields, would soon have swept the bandits clear, but Serpentius guessed the auxiliary commander wouldn’t risk leaving the convoy entirely undefended. It meant he’d be unable to put together a sufficient force to make a decisive sortie into the jumble of boulders and gorse guarding the far side of the ford. Like Serpentius he would wait, hoping the bandits would see the futility of their position and withdraw. In the meantime the Spaniard could only pray the remaining guards would relax their vigilance long enough to give him his chance. This type of thing would have been much easier in the night, which was his natural element. But he couldn’t do what must be done in the dark.

  The faintest of movements drew his gaze to the left and he froze. What he’d seen was a flickering tongue hidden in the shadows at the base of the gorse bush. Behind it dangerous bronze eyes with elliptical pupils gazed from a triangular head attached to a sinuous body the length of a gladius blade. The upturned snub nose and striped pattern on its scales told him it was an asp, the most venomous of all Hispania’s vipers, and the coiled defensive posture that it didn’t appreciate sharing its shady resting place. With infinite care Serpentius drew his right hand across his body, extended his forefinger and moved it right to left in a gentle arc. The motion attracted the snake and its head followed the waving finger, retreating as it prepared to strike. Serpentius’s left hand whipped round to take it behind the head before it had the chance. As the twisting body coiled round his wrist and the snake fought to sink its fangs into his flesh he rolled on his back, drew his dagger with his right hand and sliced the head from the body.

  Hardly had he thrown the decapitated snake aside before a clamour of activity broke out somewhere close to the head of the convoy. He peered between the gorse stems in time to see the remaini
ng rearguard mount his horse and ride towards the ford. At the same time, the two Parthian footsoldiers within his arc of vision looked at each other, scanned their surroundings one last time and jogged off in the wake of the trooper.

  The driver of the rear cart watched them go, all his attention on what was happening further ahead. With a silent curse Serpentius realized his men had somehow overstepped themselves. Perhaps Buntalos, always keen to prove his courage, had made a feint charge too far into the ford and his comrades had been drawn after him. All it would take was the slightest miscalculation and the cavalrymen would be on them like hawks, with the infantry quick to join the bloodletting. A piercing scream confirmed his suspicions. No time for pity, even if he’d felt any. Their stupidity and their sacrifice had given him his opportunity. He slid through the scrub towards the rear wagon, one eye always on the back of the driver, who’d moved away from his charges to find a better view of the slaughter. A moment later he was hidden from potential discovery by the leather awning of the cart. He swung himself nimbly over the gate and into the bed of the wagon.

  Serpentius had never been a man to show his emotions, but he felt a thrill of excitement as he recognized the vehicle’s contents. Four heavily built wooden chests stacked in the centre of the floor exactly as he’d been told, each fastened with an iron lock. The locks were sealed by red wax imprinted with the mark of the procurator. The Spaniard had no time for finesse. He knew that whoever his friend sought would quickly work out the purpose of the ambush.

  A sweep of the blade sliced away the seal of the nearest chest to reveal the keyhole. From the pouch on his belt he retrieved a pointed piece of iron the length of his forefinger and narrow enough to fit into the lock. The fastening was sturdily made, but crude; familiar from the many hours he’d spent working on an identical model supplied by his friend in Asturica. He forced the iron rod into the keyhole and began to exert pressure in a certain way that would spring the mechanism. In practice he’d taken mere moments, but now his fingers felt uncharacteristically leaden. He was conscious of every passing second. His ears strained for evidence of the escort’s return. By now they’d have dealt with the ambushers and soon their suspicions would be aroused by the pitiful numbers who’d faced them. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. With a loud snap the lock opened. He lifted the lid and pulled back the linen cloth covering the contents.