But the archers were no longer there. He hauled Khamsin round and had a moment of breathless clarity. Hassan and the Thracians who had accompanied him were circling, seeking targets, but never staying still long enough to be targets themselves. Within the dust cloud of the battle, riders of both sides darted in and out of the fray. Valerius noticed a horse standing over a still figure with its head bowed and he remembered Tiberius’s sickening fall. He started towards the little tableau, but the horse was a roan, and Tiberius had been riding a grey. Desperately, he searched the dust for his friend. A gust of dry wind cleared the murk for a second and at last he found him. Tiberius crouched behind his dead mount, with a shield in one hand and the jagged remnant of a sword in the other. The shield had been pierced by a dozen arrows, the points three inches through the layers of ash, and the body of the grey was thick with others. Parthians hovered like vultures to his front and flanks looking for the killer shot. Even as Valerius watched, Tiberius staggered and almost fell with an arrow through his right leg. But he was alive. For the moment.
‘Hassan!’ The Syrian turned at the shout and followed Valerius’s pointing finger. Taking in the situation with a glance, he nodded and galloped towards Tiberius, calling his comrades with him. The enemy archers saw the danger and prudently retired to seek easier prey.
Tiberius looked up as Valerius rode towards him and raised a weary hand in salute.
Valerius was still fifty feet away when he sensed movement at the outer edge of his vision. In the next second the image crystallized into a charging Parthian spearman with his lance couched and the point aimed at the centre of Tiberius’s back. He screamed a warning, but the young Roman either didn’t hear him or was too shocked to react.
Valerius kicked Khamsin into a gallop. He knew he had no chance of reaching Tiberius in time, but he had to try. In desperation, he altered course to intercept the enemy spear. The Parthian only had eyes for his victim and he could already taste the joy of an easy kill. His first indication of danger was a flash of iron to his left, but as he dragged his ten-foot ash spear round to meet it, he was already too late. Khamsin smashed into the Parthian’s flank, a thousand pounds of solid muscle at full gallop, sending horse and man tumbling with a crash fit to wake the gods. The impact threw Valerius from the saddle, the breath knocked out of him and his sword sent flying. He felt the skin of his right cheek tear as he skidded across the unyielding earth. Desperately, he struggled to his knees to find the Parthian staggering towards him. The man’s spear had snapped in the collision, but he had recovered the final four feet with its gleaming spiked tip and now he held it in front of him like a sword. A big man, with a heavy beard, his nose had been smashed almost flat when he landed. But he was determined and he was dangerous and he only had one aim as he advanced towards the unarmed Roman.
Valerius let him come. His eyes flickered between those of his opponent and the point of the spear, searching for the moment of decision. In many ways it was easier to face a man with a spear. A sword could come at you from any angle, but a spear had only one focus of attack. The question was: high or low? The throat or the guts? Which would he choose? A gutter fighter might feint with his eyes or the spear point, but the Parthian’s tentative approach suggested that he was more accustomed to fighting on horseback than man to man on foot. High or low? The eyes said low and the spear followed them. Valerius twisted in a desperate sidestep that allowed the point to crease his right side, then spun along the shaft to smash the spearman in front of the ear with a fist of solid walnut that had all his weight behind it. The impact should have crushed the weak point of his enemy’s skull, but the blow was high and the rim of the Parthian’s helmet sapped the force of it.
The big man roared like a bull elephant and his arms enveloped Valerius, who realized when a leg wrapped round his that he had underestimated his opponent. The Parthian might not be a gutter fighter, but someone had taught him to wrestle. Sensing his advantage, the spearman used his weight to unbalance Valerius and they fell, the Parthian’s bulk pinning the Roman to the ground. Valerius bucked and wriggled for all he was worth, lashing out with both hands and kicking with his iron-shod feet, but he could make no headway against the implacable solidity of the man whose only aim was to kill him. The Parthian had recovered his spear and now he stabbed the point down at Valerius’s face. Somehow, Valerius managed to get his left hand to the other man’s wrist in time to check the plunging iron. At the same time he smashed at his enemy’s face with the wooden fist, but the Parthian ignored the blows as if they came from a child. Slowly, a hair’s breadth at a time, the needle tip drew closer, aimed unerringly for Valerius’s right eyeball. Screaming with frustration and fear, the Roman used every desperate ounce of his strength to arrest the progress of that wicked iron spike. The Parthian’s lips curled back from his yellowing teeth and his hand shook as he maintained the pressure, but the movement was unrelenting and Valerius let out an involuntary cry as he felt the point touch his eyelid. The cry was echoed by the Parthian, but it was no yell of victory. His eyes bulged and the pressure on Valerius’s left hand eased at the same time as he heard an obscene crunching sound. With a last shuddering intake of breath the spearman fell to one side to reveal Tiberius, swaying on his feet and with the jagged stump of the sword bloody in his hand.
‘I think we are level now,’ the young tribune said, before his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed in a dead faint.
XXXII
SWEAT RAN IN rivulets from Tiberius’s forehead and he bit so hard into the strip of toughened leather that Valerius wondered his teeth didn’t break. His eyes were screwed tight shut in a face set in a grimace of pure agony that twitched with every movement of the iron forceps.
Gaius Spurinna, Corbulo’s personal physician, and a man with a wit as dry as the old bones he transported with him everywhere, kept up a cheerful running commentary as he worked. The bones had been collected for scientific study from the battlefield at Carrhae just south of their route, and he speculated that a particularly fine backbone might have belonged to Crassus himself.
‘If you had been more fortunate the arrowhead would have continued through to pierce the other side of the leg and I would have been able to saw it off and withdraw the shaft as sweet as a prick from a silky virgin crack. Of course, you wouldn’t have enjoyed the sawing. Then again, you could have bled out before your comrade here got you back to me, so we must be thankful for what we have.’
Tiberius didn’t appear thankful. Despite the tincture of poppy Spurinna had administered his face had taken on the colour of grey parchment. As the physician worked, his head began to thrash from side to side in his delirium and Valerius was forced to push down hard on his shoulders to keep him still.
‘The trick is to manoeuvre the grip of the forceps around the head of the arrow and therefore nullify the effect of the barb, whilst doing so without disturbing any of the major tubes which facilitate blood flow and killing the patient. As you can appreciate, it requires a combination of delicacy and strength which only a physician of my exceptional attributes has at his disposal. Hold still, damn you. A sip of wine, please.’ Valerius placed the cup to his lips. ‘In your case the operation is made more problematic by the fact that the arrowhead appears to be lodged in the complex group of bones which make up the knee. Fortunately, you are in the hands of no ordinary physician, but a man who knows his bones. In the hands of an ordinary physician you might be reduced to crawling on all fours like a dog. Yes!’ Tiberius gave a low howl not unlike a dog. Gaius Spurinna grunted with effort and his muscles bulged as he worked the forceps free with an obscene sucking sound, slowly bringing the shaft of the arrow with them. When it was clear, he gave a huge sigh, drained his wine and refilled the cup before washing the point of the arrow clean in it.
‘With a little good fortune, it won’t have been poisoned – for barbarians the Parthians are relatively civilized – and it carried no cloth into the wound, so if my theory is correct the chances of mortific
ation are reduced. You may thank me, my boy. It is possible you may yet live to die on the battlefield.’
He looked down at Tiberius, who was drifting in and out of consciousness, muttering to himself like a child in a dream.
‘Ungrateful wretch.’ Spurinna smiled benevolently. ‘Come,’ he said to Valerius. ‘We will report to the general. He favours the boy, you know.’
Valerius was about to follow, but Tiberius’s next words fetched him up short of the door.
‘I cannot do it. I cannot.’ There was something desperate in the way he spoke, as if he was pleading with someone only he could see. ‘Honour. Duty. Discipline. Honour, duty …’ The mantra faded as Valerius took the young man’s hand in his. ‘Yes!’ Tiberius’s eyes opened, but they were looking at something beyond the tent and Valerius made the sign against evil. ‘Yes, I see. It is clear now. I have no choice.’ The eyes closed again and his harsh breathing subsided.
Relieved, Valerius stood up to go, but a last whispered word froze him in place.
‘Treason.’
The army of the Corbulo travelled steadily northeast, skirting a range of low, featureless hills and alert for darting raids by the now ever-present Parthian scouts. Valerius stayed with the column, regularly checking on Tiberius’s progress in the two-wheeled cart that had been cleared for him.
Tiberius was still weary and talked of nothing but getting back into the saddle, but gradually Valerius steered the conversation round to what was concerning him.
‘When you were under the poppy you still seemed troubled by what happened at the village.’
Jammed into the corner among sacks of grain to reduce the effect of iron-shod wheels jolting across the rocks, Tiberius shook his head. ‘I can remember very little apart from Spurinna’s gentle ministrations.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, I know you were right. A Roman soldier’s job is to obey, and let others concern themselves with things like morality and justice.’
‘There was something else. An unguarded word. A word that can never be spoken lightly. Treason.’
For a few moments Tiberius might have been made of stone; then his expression changed. ‘It’s just a word. I didn’t know what I was saying.’
Valerius said steadily, ‘If there is something you know, Tiberius, you must tell me. It is much more dangerous to keep the knowledge to yourself.’
Tiberius hesitated. ‘There is talk.’
‘Talk of what? There is always talk. Have you ever met a soldier who didn’t have something to complain about? If they’re not complaining about the food, it’s the quality of their boots or the weight of their shields. A thousand years from now soldiers will still be grumbling about the same things.’
‘This is different,’ Tiberius insisted. ‘This is the officers, not the men. They wonder why we are here. In Judaea, a Roman province is being torn apart and Roman soldiers are dying. An eagle has been lost and Rome’s honour dragged through the dirt. Yet we are marching in the opposite direction.’
‘We are here because Corbulo has led us here,’ Valerius interrupted. ‘And where the general leads we follow. Somewhere out there the Parthian army is marching north to invade Armenia. With their king in Rome, the Armenians will stay in their fortresses and try to wait out the storm, but the storm will inevitably overwhelm them. The only way to stop the Parthians is to intercept and destroy them.’
Tiberius answered, ‘Do not mistake me, tribune; the Tenth worships the general. They do not fear what awaits them if they fail, only the consequences if they succeed.’
Valerius gave a sigh. This was exactly what Vespasian had feared and Paulinus had hinted at. But the die was cast. ‘General Corbulo is proconsul of the east; the Emperor has granted him imperium. He sees the greater long-term threat from the Parthians and he has the authority to make his own decisions. Do not concern yourself with strategy, Tiberius,’ he said more gently. ‘We are soldiers, you and I, and it is a soldier’s duty to obey. Our loyalty is to Rome and to the Emperor, just as the general’s is.’
‘But that is why I spoke out.’ Tiberius lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘If the general succeeds there is talk of proclaiming him Emperor in Nero’s place.’
On the fourth day after the ambush they entered a broad, flat plain a day’s march across, and Tiberius, aided by the healing powers of youth, was back in the saddle, though he winced with every step his horse took. Valerius knew he would have to report the young tribune’s revelation at some point, but the time never seemed right. Corbulo’s army had been on the march for thirteen consecutive days and Valerius sensed his general’s confidence growing with every passing hour.
His suspicions were confirmed when the Roman commander summoned a conference of his senior officers. An elaborate sand table was set up in the headquarters tent and Corbulo stood over it, with the Tenth’s legate Marcus Ulpius Traianus to his left and Aulus Marius Celsus, who commanded the contingent of the Fifteenth Apollinaris, to his right. Valerius waited with the commanders of the auxiliary detachments. In addition to Valerius’s cavalry wings, Corbulo’s legions were accompanied by ten cohorts of Syrian and Numidian infantry, equally split between spear-and bowmen, two cohorts of Cretan slingers who could take a man’s eye out at fifty paces, and a cohort of mountain troops. The specialized skills of these wiry highlanders, recruited from distant Noricum, would be invaluable if Vologases decided to make directly for Artaxata through the mountain country east of the great inland sea which was marked on Corbulo’s sand map by a large silver bowl. The general’s aides had placed small banners on the table to show the relative positions of the Roman and Parthian armies. Between the column and the sea lay a great flat plain bounded by mountains to north and south.
Corbulo leaned over the sand table and Valerius had an image of a great eagle sweeping over the landscape and taking in everything below. At last, he raised his head and the grey eyes surveyed the men in the room as if he was seeking out some buried fear or weakness.
‘Tigranocerta.’ He pointed to a banner on the edge of the hills at the eastern end of the plain. ‘Three days’ march away, the strongest fortress in the kingdom and the key to southern Armenia. I believe King Vologases must take it if he is to advance on Artaxata with any prospect of success. The governor is a client of Rome’s ally, King Tiridates, and he has sent word that while he cannot help us, neither will he hinder our passage. By now, Vologases’ scouts will have informed him of our strength, our progress and our line of march. Given the disparity in our forces, he will expect us to march directly for Tigranocerta either to bolster its defences or to bring him to battle outside its walls where we will have the support,’ he gave a thin smile, ‘for what it is worth, of our Armenian allies. Either event will give him pause, but neither will stop him. If we fight from within Tigranocerta, he will be confident that he can bottle us up and starve us out. In open battle, he outnumbers us three to one and if we give him the opportunity he will destroy us, winning eternal fame as the man who defeated Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo. I will not let that happen.’ The final six words were rapped out with the unrelenting certainty of an executioner’s axe.
‘The main Parthian army is here.’ He pointed to a group of flags positioned beyond the hills to the south of the plain and grouped by the side of a snaking line that must be the Tigris. ‘They will follow the traditional invasion route along the river, which provides them with a guaranteed source of water for men and horses.’ He frowned as his finger traced the winding route through the mountains. ‘His is a mobile army, but they cannot travel faster than their supplies. The route is narrow. It will take time. More important, it will give us time. Gentlemen, I mean to meet Vologases and I mean to stop him. Here, north of Cepha.’
Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3) Page 22