Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7]

by Douglas Jackson

Abilio, the decurio in charge of the Vardulli contingent, put a finger to his right nostril and snorted out a glob of grit and snot from the left, then repeated the exercise in reverse. Naturally the commander of the Parthian convoy escort had stationed the strangers at the rear, where they ate the dust of everyone ahead. Worse, they had to curb their spirited cavalry horses to the plodding pace of the oxen, continuously hauling at the bridle and trying to stay awake in the saddle. If Abilio had been in charge, he’d have had his men ranging the flanks where they could do some good, checking any potential ambush places. But he wasn’t, so he had to grit his teeth and take it like the rest.

  He licked his cracked lips and spat. He supposed it didn’t matter too much. The terrain was as flat as a table top with only an occasional tree or farmstead to break the monotony. Not much chance of being ambushed when you could see a rider approaching from ten miles away. He supposed it accounted for the relaxed manner of the Parthians, who laughed and called to each other in their outlandish language. Abilio could see that it made his men uneasy, and he understood why. There’d been times when he’d caught the bearded troopers staring with their hooded, dark eyes and he’d swear they were laughing at him.

  He was surprised when the prefect of the auxiliaries dropped back and reined in beside him.

  ‘Escort duty can be deadly dull, can it not,’ Claudius Harpocration smiled. ‘Especially out here where there is nothing to see and a man has so much time to think he could drive himself mad.’

  ‘Your men seem to be cheerful enough,’ Abilio pointed out.

  ‘Those troopers are excited because they’ve been given leave in Tarraco until the next supply train. After a year in a dusty hellhole like Legio, Tarraco is a paradise on earth for them. Perhaps your men will show them some of the better places to visit?’ Abilio smiled politely but said nothing. ‘The civilian who arrived at Legio with you. I wasn’t certain at first, but I think I recognized him from somewhere. Perhaps I was wrong. The man I’m thinking of would have been an officer.’

  ‘No,’ Abilio decided it would do no harm to show a little cooperation, ‘you may be right. It would depend on where you served. His name is Verrens, Gaius Valerius Verrens. He won the Corona Aurea in Britannia with the Twentieth, was with Corbulo in Armenia, fought with the First Adiutrix at Bedriacum and commanded the Seventh Galbiana at Cremona …’

  ‘Yes, that might be it,’ Harpocration nodded. ‘We accompanied the Seventh to Rome with Emperor Galba, of blessed memory …’

  ‘Blessed memory,’ Abilio muttered the automatic reply. ‘Our man is a proper hero. You’d certainly remember him if you’d seen the wooden hand.’ He was staring straight ahead so he missed the flash of consternation that crossed the Parthian’s face. ‘The right hand. He seems to be a little wary of showing it, because he kept it under his cloak a lot of the time.’

  ‘Now I have him.’ Harpocration quickly recovered his false smile. ‘I remember the wooden hand. When we return I will introduce myself and we can talk about old campaigns. We will reach the river soon,’ he nodded ahead. ‘No point in going further when there’s fresh water and reasonable grazing at hand. I will send a squadron ahead to prepare a campsite.’

  ‘The Vardulli will be happy to take the first watch,’ Abilio offered.

  ‘Not at all, my friend,’ Harpocration said. ‘Your men have been eating dust all day. In any case, you are our guests,’ he said over his shoulder as he rode ahead. ‘You should let them bathe and wash their clothes, have some food and get a decent night’s rest. There will be plenty of opportunity to stand guard before we reach Tarraco.’

  That night Abilio unrolled his blanket among his men and slept the sleep of the truly exhausted. Much later his mind registered a soft shuffling sound and his eyes snapped open. As his hand sought the hilt of his sword he became aware of shadowy silhouettes against the stars. He opened his mouth to cry a warning, but before he could make a sound a horny palm clamped itself over his mouth and his sword hand was pinned. A glint of light gave him warning of what was to come and he tried to scream as he felt the sting of the blade across his throat. The last thing he saw before he drowned in his own blood were Claudius Harpocration’s pitiless obsidian eyes staring down at him.

  XVIII

  Rome

  ‘In some ways the greatest tragedy in the destruction of the Temple of Jupiter was not the death of my poor brother Sabinus, may the god succour him, but the loss of the Senate records,’ the Emperor lamented. ‘Much of our current law is based on the statutes they contained. Now they are nothing but meaningless puddles of melted bronze. Anyone with an opinion – and our colleagues in the Senate are not short of those – can impede the new legislation I’m bringing forward. How is the search for the copies progressing?’

  ‘We’ve recovered a few hundred out of an estimated three thousand,’ Titus, lounging on the right of his father beside the gold banqueting table, admitted. ‘We know of several hundred more, but they have a symbolic and emotional value for the families who own them and they won’t give them up lightly.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we could confiscate them as documents of the state?’ Vespasian saw the look of alarm on the face of another of the people lying on their sides around the heavily laden table. He was notorious for the simplicity of his regular fare, but he liked to indulge those he valued, and he valued this guest highly. ‘No, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘You’re quite right. I’m unpopular enough already.’

  Domitia Longina, wife of Vespasian’s son Domitian and daughter of the celebrated General Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, returned his smile. He thought her a melancholy creature compared to Antonia Caenis, but she was both intelligent and highly attractive and the Emperor liked to surround himself with attractive women.

  ‘Perhaps some show of Imperial favour could be made to the families involved, Caesar? An assurance that the tablets, which no doubt contain the names of revered ancestors, will be displayed with suitable prominence and honour?’

  ‘An excellent notion.’ The Emperor turned to his younger son who was in charge of the final stages of the temple’s restoration. ‘What do you think, Domitian, could a room be set aside for their display?’

  ‘I think they’d part with their heirlooms quickly enough if we offered them gold.’ Domitian’s voice was slurred by the wine he’d consumed. ‘But then we don’t have any.’

  Vespasian’s smile tightened. He glanced up to see if there was any reaction from the slaves stationed just out of earshot in the huge room. If any of them displayed signs of having enhanced hearing they’d be on an auction block before the day was out.

  ‘As you know,’ he told his son, ‘we have taken steps to alter that situation and we have high hopes of their success.’ Domitian snorted derisively, but his father ignored him, more interested in the fleeting shadow that fell over Domitia Longina’s face. He was aware that Domitia had played a part in saving the life of Gaius Valerius Verrens, but did not know the detail. There were undercurrents here he didn’t understand. ‘Is something wrong, my dear? You’re not eating. Please try another honeyed quail.’

  Domitia accepted his offer of one of the tiny birds and Vespasian turned back to Titus. ‘What is our latest news from Plinius Secundus?’

  ‘A message arrived today by way of Portus.’ Titus let his eyes drift to Domitian. ‘One of our cryptographers decoded it just before I came here. Pliny tells us that our agent arrived safely, but that during their discussions there was a determined attempt to take his life.’ Vespasian’s face darkened and Domitian’s jaw dropped as the implications hit him.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘The attempt was on Pliny’s life,’ Titus continued smoothly, gracing his brother with a cold smile. ‘Fortunately our agent was on hand to ensure it was not successful. He is, as we know, a man well-versed in the art of survival. They captured one of the assassins and put him to the question, which led them to one of Pliny’s clerks, now unfortunately dead. However, further investigation has produced evidence
that places the origin of the attack in the north.’

  ‘Asturica? What does that mean for our agent?’ Vespasian said, almost to himself.

  ‘Pliny doesn’t believe our agent has been compromised,’ Titus assured him. ‘But he can’t be certain. It was always a risk, but he’s overcome these difficulties in the past. Who else could have tricked their way into Vitellius’s palace at the height of the late war?’

  ‘Who else but a traitor.’ The sneer came from the other side of the table. ‘And I’ll lay odds he’ll betray you again,’ Domitian continued. ‘Better that he’d died under the executioner’s sword.’

  Domitia Longina rose abruptly from her couch with an apologetic smile, but the effect was spoiled by the white line of her compressed lips. ‘I am sorry, Caesar, but you were right: I am indisposed. I ask your leave to return to my rooms.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Vespasian said solicitously.

  Domitian watched his wife walk from the room, every step a picture of suppressed fury.

  ‘My wife is always indisposed when that man is mentioned,’ Domitian sniffed. ‘His continued survival is a stain on my honour, Father.’

  ‘You may yet have reason to be grateful to that man,’ Titus spat.

  ‘Enough,’ Vespasian intervened. ‘Domitian, you may feel you wish to follow Domitia Longina and offer her comfort.’ It was phrased as a suggestion, but the words had a touch of steel and Domitian hesitated only fractionally before obeying them.

  When he was gone his father sighed. ‘Poor Domitian. I do believe he has no worse enemy than himself.’

  ‘Poor Domitia Longina.’ Titus shook his head. ‘I don’t know why she ever married him.’

  ‘Oh, I think any daughter of Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo is well equipped to cope with your brother. I was more concerned with his reaction to your announcement about the attack.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should do something about it.’

  ‘I already have.’

  XIX

  Of them all Floro impressed Serpentius most, ignoring the hunger pangs gnawing his guts and scampering up the steep inclines at the Spaniard’s back like a mountain hare. Clitus and Placido stumbled along far behind, the sound of their harsh, rasping breaths carrying twenty paces in the clear mountain air. Serpentius wouldn’t slow for them. He’d vowed not to make the mistake of slackening the pace again. Being soft had killed Felix, Elius and Gentilis. Or perhaps he was wrong and they’d been killed by their own fear? He shook his head. What did it matter? They were dead and in Serpentius’s world dead men had never existed. What mattered was that the Parthian auxiliaries would eventually find their way round the gorge and back on to the trail.

  But these were Serpentius’s mountains and he was confident he’d find a way to escape. He reached the spine of one of the endless ridges and stared down at the familiar glittering expanse of a large reed-fringed lake. It must be a day and a half’s march round the bank, all clinging mud, endless bog and ancient, rotting trees.

  Floro appeared beside him sucking in deep breaths. His eyes lit up when he saw the lake. ‘If we can cross that they’ll never find us.’ He shook his head as reality struck. ‘But how?’

  Serpentius waited till the others caught up. ‘Follow me.’

  He’d been prepared for it not to be there after twenty years, but his tribesfolk had always been people of habit, using the traditional places. This was the bay where fishermen had moored their boats for generations. It took him time to work out the right tree, but he found the rope – a surprisingly new rope – carefully camouflaged at the base of a stunted willow. He followed the rope into the water and his groping hands discovered the canoe in the fringe of reeds. It had been loaded with stones and submerged in three feet of water. A primitive thing, carved from a single trunk and four paces in length, but it had an oar and it would carry them all. With difficulty they managed to refloat it and bail it out. Serpentius, the only one among them with any experience of these unwieldy craft, steadied it as the others clambered nervously aboard.

  ‘Sit in the centre and stay still,’ the Spaniard ordered. He took his seat in the rear.

  ‘What do we do if it overturns?’ Placido asked nervously.

  Floro turned his head to study him. ‘Can you swim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you drown,’ the bald man grinned.

  No one drowned. When they reached the far side Serpentius ran them into a mud bank. Clitus and Floro slipped over the bow and started dragging the canoe further into the shore, but Serpentius shook his head. ‘No. Leave it to me.’ Placido tried to step over the side and fell face first into the stinking, black mud, which had the others howling with laughter.

  Serpentius ignored them and pushed the little craft out into clear water. When he was waist deep he tossed the paddle over the side into the bottom of the canoe and thrust it out towards the centre of the lake. He saw the puzzled glances as he waded to the shore, but didn’t bother to explain. The prevailing wind would push it down to the western shore and his people – if it was his people – would find it again. If the auxiliaries happened to stumble on it they’d think that was where the escaped prisoners had disembarked and waste hours searching for them.

  ‘How far, lord?’ Clitus asked.

  ‘There,’ Serpentius pointed towards a great wall of mountains at the eastern end of the lake. The men groaned. ‘We will be safe when we reach the summit,’ he assured them. But did he believe his own words?

  More effort. More climbing. Serpentius considered stopping for the night, but they had one last push in them and he doubted Clitus, who’d begun to cough up blood, would survive another night in the open. They found themselves on a height above a steep gully, filled with rock falls and cascades, where the stream fed the lake from the east. Serpentius’s heart quickened as he hurried the final four hundred paces to the head of a long slope that swept down to a valley filled with cultivated fields and lush meadows. The men and women who worked the fields were making their way home after the day’s labour. At the far end he could see a huddle of grey houses.

  Avala.

  A winding path led them down to the fields and they followed the stream towards the village, a walled settlement of twenty close-packed round houses built of local grey rock and thatched with reeds from the lake. Serpentius felt his throat tighten as they approached the little group of buildings. He knew every moss-covered stone. The house he’d built with his own hands for Lyda lay near the wall on the north side. To his eye it would always be fairer than the others. It was as far from the great opulent palaces he had seen in Rome as a man could be without living in a hole in the ground, but he had been as proud of it as Nero of his great Golden House. He felt a lightning bolt of anger and sorrow as he remembered that final day. Fighting the Romans to his last breath as the torches rained down on the thatch and in the doorway. The flames leaping up like a great red and gold curtain trapping them inside. Lyda’s screams as she burned alive. With his son. He only realized he’d bitten through his lip when the blood ran down his chin and into the hollow at his throat.

  They were thirty paces from the settlement when a group of men emerged. Savage, uncompromising eyes stared at them from bearded faces hardened by wind and weather and bitter experience. A few of them held spears, but most carried axes and scythes and held them as if they were ready to use them. They wore familiar striped tunics and braccae leggings to below the knee. Serpentius watched them, gauging the threat they posed, and smiled as ten more appeared to the right, and others to the left.

  The smile only made them angrier. Hands tightened on the shafts of spear and axe. ‘Lay down your weapons.’ He placed his spear on the ground and unhooked the sword belt at his waist.

  Placido hesitated. ‘They’ll just slaughter us anyway.’

  ‘Just do it.’ Serpentius’s eyes never left the men in front of him. Placido’s sword clattered to the ground to join the rest. The Spaniard singled out a grey-bearde
d elder in the front rank of the men at the gate. ‘This is Castro Avala and you are of the Reburi clan of the tribe Zoela?’ The old language sounded unnatural on his lips, but he saw their puzzlement at hearing their own tongue from the mouth of a stranger. The men opposite handled their weapons uneasily and looked to the grey-beard for leadership. He glared at Serpentius for a long moment before he spoke.

  ‘And how would a foreigner know these things about us?’

  ‘What makes you think I am a foreigner?’ Serpentius drew himself to his full height and stepped forward. A rustle ran through the ranks facing him as they began to understand the manner of man who had appeared among them.

  ‘Because you wear Roman tunics and carry Roman swords.’ Serpentius was surprised that the voice came from the group to his right. ‘Yet you have the ragged appearance and pallor of escaped slaves and the Romans pay well for escaped slaves, even from the likes of us.’

  Serpentius searched the men for the source of the words.

  ‘Whatever the pay, you will discover the price of earning it is too high,’ he assured whoever had spoken. He fixed on a pair of intense feral eyes in a face that might have been carved by an axe. A flick of long dark hair hung over a narrow brow and the man had a thin-lipped mouth that reminded Serpentius of a cobra he’d once encountered. Young, perhaps not much more than twenty, but a thrill of anticipation ran through him as he understood where the true danger lay. And the leadership. One thing was certain: if it came to a fight, this one would be the first to die.

  ‘Brave words from a ragged outcast,’ the young man said. ‘But we are thirty and you are four.’

  ‘You may be thirty now.’ Serpentius grinned and allowed his fierce gaze to travel over the men opposite. ‘But ask yourselves how many you will number when it is over. I see farmers and fullers and potters, able enough to see off a wolf or a bear, but who have never faced warriors.’

  ‘And I see a worn-out old man,’ the voice sneered. ‘They had a bear once, in Asturica, chained to a pole to be baited by dogs. It was old and scarred and beaten. You remind me of it.’