Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7]

by Douglas Jackson

  Aurelio was on Valerius before he could recover, driving him back with a flurry of attacks and using his horse to protect the fallen Melanius. The fact that he had half an eye for his master killed him. Valerius tried a cut that Aurelio was able to deflect easily. The Roman allowed his sword to fall away giving the other man an opening. He saw the glint in Aurelio’s eyes as the bodyguard recognized the opportunity and the blade came up. It was only the slightest flick of the point, yet it would have sliced Valerius’s throat open and drowned him in his own blood. But the opening had been deliberate and Valerius was able to divert the thrust with his wooden fist and simultaneously spear the clumsy Asturian sword through Aurelio’s exposed body. He felt the moment the point entered flesh, the jolt as spasming muscles clamped on the intruding iron, heard Aurelio scream in mortal agony. He was barely aware of the automatic twist of the wrist that freed the broad, curved blade and ripped Aurelio’s bowels from his stomach. Aurelio crouched grey-faced in the saddle clawing at his flopping guts and mewing like an injured child. His horse moved away and Valerius found himself staring down at the face of Marcus Atilius Melanius.

  Melanius struggled to his feet, his helmet askew and his armour dented by the fall. Somehow he managed to retain an injured dignity in the circumstances that Valerius found quite brave.

  ‘I surrender my sword and my person.’ The words emerged in a stutter, but he drew himself erect with his head held high. ‘I throw myself upon your mercy and that of Gaius Plinius Secundus.’

  Valerius paused to draw breath. He could hear Calpurnius Piso screaming at the men of the Sixth legion to advance. The sound of clashing metal told him that at least some of the men who’d made the charge with him survived to fight on. He could rely on Serpentius to take care of Severus. Melanius’s horse stood nearby, only slightly injured. All he had to do was allow him to get into the saddle and escort him from the field. But what then? He had a vision of the broken creature hanging in chains from the wall of the blood-spattered room in Pliny’s palace.

  ‘I grant you mercy,’ Valerius agreed. His sword rested on the pommel, level with Melanius’s pleading face. With a single movement he rammed the weapon forward and down so the point took Melanius just above his armour. The broad, curved blade pierced the folds of flesh at the base of his throat and lanced diagonally into his body. Melanius’s eyes rolled up into his head and a fountain of blood erupted from his gaping mouth. Valerius hauled the sword free and the dying man stood shuddering for a long moment until he dropped as if his legs had been cut from beneath him.

  But even as Melanius died Valerius knew it had all taken too long.

  XLVIII

  Despite Piso’s screaming exhortations the two cohorts of the Sixth still hadn’t moved and the long lines of legionaries stood motionless as some sort of altercation took place between the young tribune and Proculus. Had Proculus seen Melanius die, or was he just biding his time to discover who emerged victorious from the skirmish?

  He would certainly see Aulus Aemilianus Severus die. A hundred paces away Asturica Augusta’s duovir watched in terror as Serpentius dispatched the last of three Parthians who’d tried to stop him reaching Severus. Now he abandoned his horse and sought refuge among the rocks at the base of the far slope.

  Valerius watched as he scurried among the boulders and he could hear his plaintive shouts pleading for help from Proculus and his legionaries. But the ageing Severus was no match for Serpentius. The Spaniard caught up with his prey in seconds as Severus leaned against a rock, head down and chest heaving with the effort. Death came almost unnoticed. Serpentius despatched the duovir with the casual ease he would have butchered a rabbit. Valerius saw the sword rise and fall. It was done.

  Time to get out.

  Little knots of Asturian riders still danced around individual Parthians, but they were far fewer than when they’d ridden out from the gully. Small Asturian ponies dotted the plain, standing with heads bowed over the crumpled bodies of their owners. Beyond them – and between Valerius and the gully he’d marked as their escape route – at least two squadrons of the Parthian vanguard wheeled into position, while two more circled to cut off any escape to the south. With the Sixth legion blocking the road west and the bulk of the Parthian cavalry riding up from the ford they were trapped. Even if Proculus chose not to become involved the Asturians were outnumbered at least ten to one. Serpentius reined in beside Valerius, his face as bleak as a December morning in the Rhenus bog.

  ‘I suppose we could always surrender.’

  ‘This is no time for jokes.’ Valerius looked to where Claudius Harpocration had halted his remaining six squadrons. A trumpet call rang out and the Parthians fighting Valerius’s Asturian allies disengaged and rode to join their comrades. The Asturians retreated in their turn to form a semicircle of riders behind Valerius and Serpentius. Fully half of them had suffered wounds and two or three were slumped in the saddle, barely conscious. ‘In any case I doubt that will be on offer.’

  It appeared the surviving officer from Melanius’s escort was trying to explain to Harpocration how he’d lost his charge and the cavalry prefect didn’t like what he was hearing. Without warning Harpocration and another man broke away and rode to where Valerius waited. They halted ten paces off and Harpocration removed his helmet and pushed dark hair from his eyes.

  ‘You will surrender Marcus Atilius Melanius and Aulus Aemilianus Severus to me now and I will spare your lives,’ the Parthian said without preamble.

  ‘Even if that were possible I doubt very much you’d keep your part of the bargain.’ Valerius kept his tone formal. ‘Unfortunately it is not.’

  He moved his horse to one side so Harpocration could see the bulky figure in the glittering armour who lay in the dust in a pool of blood. The Parthian growled, but besides anger Valerius saw a fleeting shadow of anguish cross his face. Harpocration knew perfectly well that Melanius’s death meant the end of his ambitions.

  ‘You can have Severus,’ Serpentius offered with a sneer. Something round and the size of a melon flew past Valerius’s right shoulder and landed to roll at the front hooves of Harpocration’s mount. The beast skittered and the Parthian looked down into the startled features of the duovir.

  ‘You will die slowly and in exquisite agony,’ Harpocration promised.

  Serpentius watched as the Parthian’s hand crept to his sword. ‘You’re welcome to try.’ Serpentius’s features twisted into the wolf’s grin that never touched his eyes. ‘I’d like that. Like it a lot. How about it, hook-nose, just you and me? Then we’ll see how brave you are. I noticed you’re happy to send other men to fight for you, but you stay away from trouble yourself.’

  Valerius laid a hand on his arm. ‘It may not come to that.’

  The Spaniard glared at him and Harpocration made to circle his horse and return to his men.

  ‘Wait.’ Valerius raised his voice to a shout. ‘It’s over and you know it. Without Melanius and Severus there is no rebellion. Look.’ He pointed to where the Sixth were lined up and Piso and Proculus stared at them with the rest. ‘Your Roman friends are in no hurry to get killed helping you. Vespasian knows everything, or if he doesn’t now, he soon will. There is no hope for you, Claudius Harpocration, but your men were only following your orders. You can save them if you surrender yourself to me.’

  ‘You think to turn them against me, Roman?’ The Parthian actually laughed. ‘Then think again. These are not just my men. They are of my people and my tribe. They are my brothers.’ Harpocration’s glittering eyes wandered over the riders gathered behind Valerius. ‘Soon your pathetic little band of farmers will feel the point of their spears. But not you.’ Now the hate-filled eyes pinned Valerius. ‘You and the old man beside you will be taken alive so I may have my pleasure of you. With a sharp knife and hot coals I will make your passing a torment beyond bearing and you will plead for death long before the end.’

  ‘This old man will carve his name on your face with his sword so every man knows who kil
led you,’ Serpentius spat.

  ‘Enough of this time-wasting.’ Harpocration spun his horse and trotted back to his men. ‘Remember what I said about your end, Roman. I look forward to our next meeting.’

  ‘A fine sentiment, writing your name on his face,’ Valerius observed mildly. ‘But I’m not sure it helped.’

  Serpentius shrugged. ‘An angry fighter is a careless fighter and I want the bastard angry when the time comes. In any case it can’t make it any worse. Do we make a break for it?’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. At least one or two of us might make it to the slope.’

  ‘I’ll be at your right hand at the end.’

  Valerius felt a lump in his throat. ‘A friend by your side and a sword in your hand?’

  ‘Let us make it so. At least …’ Serpentius’s eyes were drawn towards the river. ‘Venus’ withered tits, what’s he doing?’

  Tito had done exactly as his father ordered. When the Parthians advanced he withdrew his men through the maze of boulders and cunningly disguised spiked pits he’d created in the bed of the ford. On the far side they’d taken up position among the rocks and behind a rocky barrier they’d created to block the road. A few men stayed on the bank to taunt the enemy and hopefully goad a few into charging to be pinned by a spear or brought down by one of the traps.

  But it hadn’t worked.

  It had been a good plan, but it depended on perfect timing and the cooperation of the hook-noses. In war, as his father had advised often since his return, nothing was predictable. Harpocration had been attracted by the bait, but he was as wary as a fox approaching a farm at night. Tito would swear the Parthian sensed the clash to his rear even before the sound of fighting reached them. His men had lined up along the river bank for no more than a few moments before their commander’s head whipped round. With a contemptuous glance at the ford’s defenders he turned away and Tito could only watch as close to three hundred riders carried their spears to where his father and Valerius were likely fighting for their lives.

  Serpentius’s instructions in these circumstances had been clear. The Asturians were to stay in place as long as their presence would draw off any of the Parthian cavalry. If not they must withdraw and disperse, to regroup at Avala, where the others would join them … if they were alive.

  But Tito was his father’s son and his father was out there on that dusty plain. What would Serpentius of Avala, Barbaros the Proud, do in his place? He drew his sword.

  ‘You may take the men and lead them to the hills,’ he told Placido, who stood by his side. ‘I will go to my father.’

  He made to walk towards the river, but Placido followed and grabbed him roughly by the arm. ‘I came here to have my revenge on the hook-noses. I will not walk away without a fight.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said the nearest man, and his cry was taken by another, then another. Men could see Tito on the river bank with his sword bared. They knew what had happened and they understood his intention, knew also the certain outcome, but soon they were streaming from the rocks by the score. Tito watched them come and his heart stuttered with pride. But this was no time for emotion. He was perfectly aware of the Parthian cavalry’s capabilities, but he would not make it easy for them.

  ‘At least he’s had the sense to form them into a square,’ Valerius said. It wasn’t by any means a Roman square, a compact, prickling hedgehog of spears capable of holding off auxiliary cavalry. More a ragged, shambling hedge of men that created a vague representation of that shape.

  ‘They’ll still be slaughtered.’

  ‘Like as not.’ Valerius watched intently to see how Harpocration would react to this new threat. ‘But at least he’s given us a chance.’

  Not much of a chance, it was true, but the Parthian leader felt the need to detach three squadrons – close to a hundred men – to contain Tito’s hundred and fifty. A force strong enough to keep the Asturians occupied until they could be destroyed at his leisure. But first he would deal with the men who had thwarted the great conspiracy.

  More shouted orders and the blare of the trumpet. The remaining squadrons began to close in at a walk on the twenty or so fighters who now made up Valerius’s little group. The Roman risked a glance to where the Sixth remained in place. Surely this would goad Proculus into a decision?

  ‘On my command,’ he called, ‘we make for the slope; some of us may get through.’ Serpentius nodded and relayed the order to his men. They gripped their spears with new strength and acknowledged the order with a throaty growl.

  Valerius searched in vain for a weak spot in the ring of Parthian spears. He wrapped the reins tight around his wooden fist and hefted his sword. Whatever happened he would not be taken alive. He scanned the long lines of the Sixth. No way of breaking through and Proculus, whatever his actions so far, would offer no sanctuary. He opened his mouth to give the order.

  ‘Wait, Valerius.’ An urgent shout from Serpentius. Something was happening among the Sixth. Valerius could hear Piso shouting and even as he watched a blade flashed in the sunlight and the shouting was replaced by a terrible scream as the young tribune died.

  ‘Look!’ Allius, his face a mask of blood, pointed to the southern crest overlooking the valley where a long line of armour glittered in the afternoon sun, soon joined by another and a third. At their centre a group of men on horseback stood beside a standard. Though it was too small to be fully visible Valerius recognized it immediately. An eagle.

  ‘That’s a full legion,’ Serpentius whispered. ‘Where in the gods’ name did he find them?’

  Valerius was too busy trying to work out the implications of what he was seeing to answer. It felt like a rescue, but even as the thought formed he saw a ripple run through the wall of shields on the ridge line as the long lines of legionaries began to advance. Not towards them. Not against the enemy Valerius had sought out and identified for Gaius Plinius Secundus. But diagonally across the slope in a deliberate, steady march that would bring them against the flank of Tito’s ragged band of spearmen. Betrayal? Incompetence? Then it came to him. Pliny had never received his message. This was Vespasian’s doing. The Emperor had lost patience and sent a legion to provide Pliny with the military strength to deal with the threat to his gold supplies in Asturica Augusta. But Pliny believed the threat came from Asturian rebels.

  ‘Now!’ Valerius kicked his horse into motion. Serpentius took up the cry, urging his riders towards the slope. Both men knew they had only one chance to stop Gaius Plinius Secundus destroying Tito and his men. Someone had to break through to the governor and inform him of his error. And the only person he would listen to was Valerius.

  But the same thought had occurred to Claudius Harpocration. He howled at his men to attack.

  XLIX

  Harpocration angled his squadron to cut Valerius off from the hill, but Serpentius called out an order and half Valerius’s little force swerved to meet the Parthians head on. Fewer than ten men now accompanied Valerius, but they were brave men and they knew what was required to save their comrades on the plain. They surged ahead to form a protective shield between the one-handed Roman and the Parthian line. Valerius felt a prickle behind his eyes at this conscious act of self-sacrifice. There could only be one outcome in the unequal contest between the Asturians and the professional cavalry. Yet he had no time to mourn them. He sank lower in the saddle, his head between the horse’s ears. His only thought must be to make their sacrifice worthwhile. He must stay alive.

  A clash of arms and a terrible shriek from behind and to his left. An image of Serpentius, savage, indestructible and indomitable, flitted through his mind before the Parthian line struck the charging Asturians. A long spear spitted the man in front of Valerius like a chicken and plucked him from the saddle. All around, a chaos of screaming ponies and dying men, spurting blood and shattered bone. For a moment he knew he’d failed. He could find no way through and he was surrounded by snarling Parthians and probing spear points. Then he saw it. A dried-up stream be
d that split the Parthian line and led to the slope where Gaius Plinius Secundus watched implacably as his legionaries continued their relentless march towards Tito and his doomed Asturian farmers.

  Valerius rammed his horse between two milling Parthians. A spear drove at his chest and he parried it upwards, but the shaft clattered against his head, leaving his skull ringing and his senses stunned. Another found its mark and a lightning bolt of agony sliced through his left side, but he was through and urging his mount up the stream bed. The gully twisted and turned, the sides steepening the further he progressed. As he searched desperately for an escape route he could almost feel the Parthian spears reaching out for his back. The clatter of hooves to his rear increased in volume. Soon those below would finish with Allius and the rest and join the pursuit to cut off his flanks.

  A cry of triumph from terrifyingly close just as his eyes registered the only possibility of escape, a slope of pink scree slightly shallower than the rest. Valerius swerved the horse without slackening pace, hammering his heels into its ribs and slapping its sweat-foamed flank with his sword. Only a few more paces and he would have made it.

  Without warning a huge shadow towered over him and he was thrown from the saddle as a Parthian mount smashed his horse backwards. Valerius landed with bone-cracking force, a bolt of agony in his ribs joining the burning in his side. Jagged stones scraped the side of his face raw as he tumbled head over heels into the stream bed, flailing hooves inches from his face and narrowly missing rocks that would have smashed his brains out. Somehow he clung on to his sword. When he crashed into the stream bed he managed to stagger to his feet, mind reeling and vision blurred. Two Parthians – or was it four? – prodded their spears at his chest. He slashed at the points and backed away. The Parthians laughed and more needle points pricked his back.