Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3)

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘In Africa.’ Valerius was as taken aback by his appointment as Mucianus. ‘But only as part of legionary punitive expeditions.’

  ‘What is this but a large scale punitive expedition?’ Corbulo demanded of the room. ‘In any case, it must be enough. The coordination between cavalry and the heavy infantry of the legions will be vital. I need a soldier with a proven record as a fighting officer and experience of combined operations.’ He turned to Valerius. ‘Your light cavalry will be issued with double the standard number of javelins and the archers will take as many arrows as they can carry. I know it will create weight issues, but we will conserve their energy as much as we can on the march. Do you have any questions?’

  At least a hundred were running through Valerius’s mind, but they were questions he had to ask himself, not the governor. They would have to wait.

  The conference broke up with Mucianus still eyeing Valerius suspiciously, but as the other legates left Collega approached to shake the wooden hand and wish him luck.

  ‘Until I saw the hand I had not realized you were the same Verrens. You served with my brother Marcus in the Twentieth and he spoke highly of you.’

  Valerius thanked him. ‘You were right to speak out.’

  ‘And you, though I doubt you made yourself popular among the governor’s inner circle. They are very protective of his reputation, which is a fine one. Perhaps …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I may have done him an injustice. I have not served with him as long as some, but I have seen him on campaign and I respect his reputation. He is a man who knows his own mind and once it is made up he is unlikely to change it. But if Corbulo believes he can win, it would take a brave man to think otherwise.’

  As Collega left, the general called Valerius back to the table.

  ‘The first lesson a military commander learns is always to expect the unexpected. I must be seen to send Vespasian my most experienced cavalry leaders, therefore I must make do with what I have. You need not concern yourself with tactical considerations: the prefects of the cavalry units are veterans who know their business. Your job is to provide leadership and coordinate their actions with those of the infantry. Do not let me down.’ He tapped the map. ‘Rock and dust, chasm and cliff. It looks formidable, but we have been there before. We know the ground and we know the risks. Water for the men and fodder for the horses will be of vital importance, but I trust Niger to take care of that.’ He chewed his lip and his eye fixed on a single portion of the map. ‘The key is that we know the ground.’

  Valerius waited for more than a minute in silence.

  ‘Sir?’

  Corbulo’s grey eyes speared him. ‘One thing you must learn, tribune, is that I do not care to be plagued with details.’

  Valerius cleared his throat. ‘I carry a personal message from General Vespasian … to be delivered in private.’

  Corbulo went very still. ‘Then deliver it.’

  ‘He said: “Tell General Corbulo that whatever he decides I will support him”.’

  The governor frowned, the lines on his cheeks and brow creating dark fissures. Clearly the message troubled him. ‘Those were his exact words?’

  Valerius nodded.

  Corbulo gave a sour smile. ‘More politics.’

  Valerius turned to go, but a word from the general stopped him.

  ‘I have spoken to young Crescens. You were correct: an impressive soldier and of good family. You may tell him that he is to join the staff of the Tenth for the campaign ahead.’

  Valerius left the room with his head spinning. He suddenly realized how far out of his depth he was. Taking a legion and its cavalry contingent on a four-day expedition into the Atlas Mountains was entirely different from leading ten thousand men into one of the most inhospitable places on earth. He had an incredible amount to do in the few short hours before they marched. Not only did he have to organize his own depleted equipment for a campaign that could take as long as two months, he had to find out what he could about the units which would be serving under him and the officers who commanded them. But where to start? He had a vision of a swarthy face. Niger would know. Niger seemed to know everything. Suddenly something occurred to him and he couldn’t help smiling at the brilliance of it. At a stroke Corbulo had thwarted any plans he might have made to carry out Paulinus’s investigation. The Army of the East’s overworked cavalry commander would be fortunate to have a spare minute for weeks to come.

  On his way to consult Niger, he called at the slave quarters for Serpentius. ‘How are they treating you?’

  ‘I’ve been in worse billets,’ the Spaniard grunted. ‘They wanted me to clean out the stables, but after I told the overseer I only answered to you and I’d cut off his balls if he thought otherwise, they seemed to see reason.’

  Valerius laughed. ‘You’ll have the chance to shovel dung another time. For the moment, I need you to put together the essentials for a two-month campaign in the mountains. We’ll be fried during the day, frozen during the night and the chances are some bearded Parthian will want our balls to take home as a present for his wife.’ He handed over the small wooden tablet which bore his seal of office. ‘From now on you are my freedman, not my slave. That means I can conscript you into the army and no one’s going to kill you for it, except the enemy. Take this to the beneficiarius and get yourself a uniform, weapons and armour. Then check with the cavalry out by the gate. Those veterans have been fighting Parthians for years and they’ll certainly have added a few modifications that will help stop an arrow. Oh, and remember to sign up to the funeral fund.’

  Serpentius reached for the bronze plaque at his neck and untied it. It was the manumission Valerius had granted him after their near-fatal mission for Nero almost three years earlier. Not that the Emperor knew anything about it. His late wife Poppaea had been grateful enough to grease the wheels that would allow a gladiator his freedom. The Spaniard was as hard as the mountains that bred him and Valerius had never seen him show emotion, but there was a catch in his throat when he spoke.

  ‘I suppose no man is ever truly free, but I haven’t felt like a slave since that day on the Danuvius when the Dacians were chasing us with their skinning knives. I always knew there would be a time, though, and I suppose this is as good as any. When I was waiting to fight in the arena, I used to dream of this day, but I never really thought it would happen. I suppose …’

  ‘No.’ Valerius stopped him with a smile. ‘There’s no point in thanking someone who’s probably going to get you killed.’

  Serpentius sniffed and brusquely changed the subject. ‘What about horses? Those spavined, bow-legged nags they gave us at the port won’t last a day where we’re going.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be in charge of a cavalry wing.’ Valerius shrugged. ‘We’ll be in trouble if they can’t provide their new commander with a decent horse.’

  By now it was clear that the sense of suppressed excitement from the conference had infused the entire palace as word spread that the legions were on the move. He found Tiberius outside in the grounds. The young man was talking to a senior officer in the shadow of a grove of carob trees, but by the time Valerius reached him the other man had disappeared.

  ‘My apologies, Tiberius. The general wanted me to tell you myself, but I see you already know.’

  Tiberius looked up sharply, but relaxed when he recognized Valerius. ‘I would not have this posting if it hadn’t been for you, tribune. They tell me that the Tenth will soon be on the move. Judaea, I expect, with General Vespasian and Titus?’

  Serpentius gave him a wry smile of congratulation and Valerius drew the young man aside. ‘You are not going to Judaea, Tiberius,’ he said quietly. ‘The Tenth will be moving northeast, into Armenia. We have information that a Parthian army is on the march and General Corbulo intends to intercept it. There will be a battle.’

  Tiberius looked puzzled and his eyes went cold. Was it possible that the young man was frightened? It seemed unlikely, but it was conce
ivable. No matter how proficient a soldier was with his weapons, the thought of his first real battle was enough to turn the veins to ice water. But the expression only lasted a heartbeat before the young tribune recovered and his face broke into a grin.

  ‘So, I am to be blooded at last. I have waited for so long. It could only be better if you were able to fight by my side.’

  Valerius heard a whisper in his head. He had a momentary vision of the younger tribune with blood on his face, but he kept his smile steady.

  ‘I will ask the general, Tiberius.’ He exchanged glances with Serpentius. ‘Who knows what can be arranged.’

  XXIII

  VALERIUS AWOKE IN darkness, his head buzzing with the information he’d had to absorb and the details he would have to deal with in the coming twenty-four hours. Of the seventeen auxiliary cavalry regiments which were now his responsibility, apart from escort detachments, only one, the Thracian Third Augusta, was camped nearby, and that at Cyrrhus, a good fifty miles to the east. The rest were scattered across northern Syria or on the Cappadocian frontier with Armenia and were already making their way to Zeugma, where the army would converge to make the crossing of the Euphrates. It meant he had to decide whether to ride out immediately after Corbulo’s morning briefing, or wait until the Tenth had assembled and march with them. He washed and shaved in the baked clay basin the servant had brought before oiling the stump of his arm and fitting the carved walnut hand on its leather stock. He had decided not to wake Serpentius. The Spaniard’s ingenuity and patience had been tested to the limit the previous day begging, stealing and borrowing, but mostly stealing, the equipment they would need for the campaign and the mules to carry it, when every unit and every officer was frantically seeking the same thing. No legion or auxiliary cohort would go on campaign under-equipped if it could find a way to avoid it.

  Valerius had spent his time with Casperius Niger, attempting to solve the problem of the extra javelins and arrows his cavalrymen would have to carry. The Syrian armouries in Antioch, Palmyra, Damascus and Tyrus had been working night and day since the beginning of the Judaean insurrection a year earlier, but it wasn’t just a question of sourcing the weapons. Valerius had to know how many extra spears a cavalryman and his mount were capable of carrying on the march, how many mules and camels would be needed to transport the numbers required to make up the shortfall in the general’s order, how much fodder would be needed for the mules, and how many mules and camels would be needed for the extra fodder for the transport animals. Was it any wonder his head ached as if it was the morning after the last day of Saturnalia?

  He was struggling into his sculpted leather breastplate when Serpentius appeared yawning in the doorway to help him.

  ‘I told you to sleep until dawn,’ Valerius admonished him. ‘This could be the last time you have the opportunity.’

  ‘I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead,’ the Spaniard grunted. ‘How could I lie there and listen to you cursing over those straps? You remind me of a turtle that’s ended up on its back.’

  Valerius didn’t bother to reply. He was proud of his ability to get in and out of the armour despite his missing hand and he didn’t care to be reminded that it sometimes took him longer than he liked.

  ‘When you’ve eaten, get the horses and the mules ready. We may have to leave when I’ve finished with the general. And hunt up some bread and olives, and some wine for the journey. I doubt we’ll be stopping before nightfall.’

  He pretended not to hear Serpentius’s mutter that it was only the mad and foolish who rode through the midday sun and killed themselves and their horses.

  Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo looked fresh and relaxed when Valerius was ushered into his room. The young Roman was again surprised that the only other person present was Domitia, who sat a little to one side of the desk, and more surprised still by what he witnessed as he waited. In front of the general, instead of the usual tidy pile of scrolls, sat a wooden gaming board, and as Corbulo reeled off a string of military roles, letters and numbers Domitia would take a carved wooden replica of the soldier he referred to and place it on a given square marked on the board. When they had placed ten or twelve of the figures, she smiled at her father and removed the pieces from the board again. Corbulo then closed his eyes while she mixed up the pieces and placed them on different squares.

  ‘Now.’

  He opened his eyes and Domitia counted to ten before sweeping the pieces off the board and into a basket at her feet.

  ‘Cavalryman: C4, C5, D6. Legionary: D1, D5, D8. Cataphract: F2, F3, F6. Mounted archer: F …’

  The game was repeated three times more as Valerius watched and as far as he could see the general did not get a single figure out of place. He found himself astonished by the mental dexterity Corbulo had cultivated and wondered at its purpose; for if there was one thing he now realized, Syria’s governor never did anything without a purpose.

  Domitia whispered something to her father and the general glanced up. ‘My apologies, tribune,’ he said gruffly. ‘One becomes engrossed. It is a game, but a useful one since I believe it aids the memory, which in my case is not what it once was. Would you care to try?’

  The offer was made lightly, but the tone contained a hint of challenge that was mirrored in Domitia’s dark eyes. Valerius had never shirked a challenge. He took his place in front of the desk and studied the board, which was split lengthwise into twelve sections, eight deep.

  ‘A through to H,’ Corbulo indicated the depth. ‘And one to twelve. Ninety-six squares on which my daughter will place twelve figures. All you have to do is memorize which figure is on which square.’

  It seemed almost childish. Valerius had studied under Seneca, committing vast tracts of dull Stoic philosophy to memory. His time in the law courts and as chief of staff to the proconsul of Africa had given him a mind as sharp as one of the jewelled ceremonial swords the governor displayed on his wall.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Domitia said softly, and her voice transported him back to the shipwreck beach, smoke still heavy in the air, soft sand and a lithe, sinuous body twisting against his.

  ‘Now.’

  He opened them again but his brain seemed to be frozen solid. He felt the first thrill of panic as Domitia began her relentless count.

  ‘… ten.’ A slim arm swept the pieces from the board. How … ?

  ‘You don’t have time to think on the battlefield,’ Corbulo barked. ‘Come on, man.’

  Valerius licked his lips. ‘Cavalryman: D7, D8, F …’ He shook his head. ‘Legionary: A4, A … 6.’

  Corbulo drew an impatient breath and Valerius rapped out the rest of the names and numbers by pure guesswork. When he was finished the general’s face was grim. Valerius had managed a pathetic five out of twelve correct. ‘Perhaps we should move on.’

  But Valerius had looked into Domitia’s eyes and seen the flare of victory there. And in that instant it came to him: this wasn’t a game, it was a battle. He remembered how it had been in the field before Colonia with the howls of fifty thousand Celtic champions in his ears and the scents of blood, death and fear that had filled the air like a fog. The flash of swords and constant threat of spear and arrow that had dulled the mind and cloaked the rest of the battlefield from him. He had found himself operating on two levels. The here, where blade sank into cringing flesh and shield beat off one screaming tattooed attacker after the other. And the above, in that place of calm where the mind took in every subtle change in the pulse of the battle and he could feel its rise and fall like the breast of a sleeping woman.

  ‘One more time.’

  Corbulo snorted and shook his head, but Domitia reached for the first figure.

  The battle calm absorbed Valerius now. When the silken voice whispered that he should shut his eyes and he heard the pieces falling into place on the partitioned maplewood, it was as if he could see where each was placed. And when he opened them again it was as if they had never been closed. The figures and their loca
tions seared themselves on the surface of his eyes and when it came time to place them he reeled off the locations without pausing for breath.

  The general grunted approval. ‘Fortuna favoured you this time.’

  Valerius shrugged. ‘Why don’t we find out? But this time double the number of figures.’

  Domitia’s face lit up at this impertinence and she gave a delighted laugh.

  ‘Impossible,’ the general sniffed.

  ‘I have only eighteen,’ his daughter said innocently. ‘Perhaps Father should try first?’

  Corbulo glared at the girl, but the impish look on her face overcame his irritation and when he turned to Valerius he was smiling.

  ‘I think we have had enough games for the moment. You have made your point, tribune. Now, to business. I have arranged for the prefect of the Thracian Third Augusta to join us here with as many of his senior officers as he can spare from the preparations. That will allow you to take the measure of your new command while we are on the march to Cyrrhus. I was a cavalry prefect myself and we are arrogant creatures, but if you can win his respect he will be able to teach you much that will be of use before you are called on to put it into practice. You will find that cavalrymen are as fickle as their horses, but guide them with a firm hand and they will never let you down. Report back to me when you have seen him.’

  Valerius thanked him. ‘On the subject of horses, sir, I’ve been having trouble finding suitable mounts for myself and my freedman. I have conscripted him to the ranks as an auxiliary, acting and unpaid, of course.’

  Corbulo gave a thin smile. ‘Naturally. I have already heard tales of his bargaining skills … and certain mysterious losses. Mucianus was most put out. He is old-fashioned in his way, and the thought of a slave wearing the Emperor’s uniform had him calling for the lictors. But I have seen your man exercising and I can understand why you would want him close, and with a sword in his hand. He looks quite impressive. A Spaniard I would guess, from his looks and his tongue.’