Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3)

by Douglas Jackson

  Every eye homed in on the pointing finger. The Tigris wound its way through the mountains and eventually entered a broad, steep-sided valley. So narrow it was barely visible, a second valley cut northwards through the hills which were the last natural barrier between the Parthians and Tigranocerta, creating an avenue to the plain. Valerius pictured it in his mind. The valley was a dagger in the heart of Corbulo’s plans. Through here, Vologases’ mighty army would stream in their regiments and their divisions to deploy on the flatlands ready for the final march on the fortress. But …

  ‘We cannot afford to meet him in the open. Crassus made that mistake when he faced Surenas at Carrhae and the Parthians destroyed his army one piece at a time. When Paetus campaigned here not five years ago, Tiridates served him the same way. A hundred archers, charging to fire, then retreating before our own could reply. A thousand minor engagements, each one causing more casualties, more confusion and more uncertainty. No, it will not be that way.’ He picked up the banner representing his army and placed it at the north end of the valley. ‘We will draw Vologases deep into the valley and there we will hold him, like a stopper in the mouth of a wineskin.’

  ‘With respect, general … ?’ Corbulo nodded to Traianus to continue. ‘How are we to do that with less than two legions and a few auxiliaries? The King of Kings is no fool. Is it not possible you are leading us into a trap of our own making? You are inviting the Parthians to do to us what they did to Crassus. Attack and retreat. Kill and kill again with impunity. Their archers will bleed us dry and when at last we are forced to withdraw, their armoured heavy cavalry will cut us to pieces on the open plain. Surely it is better to fight beneath the walls of Tigranocerta where we at least have a line of retreat?’

  Corbulo smiled, but it was a smile that contained a warning. Traianus, who had served with his commander in the Armenian campaigns of three years earlier, saw the look and seemed to shrink inside his uniform.

  ‘Brave words, Traianus, and prudent ones. It is a fortunate commander who has officers willing to risk all if they believe he is wrong.’ Corbulo allowed his words to hang in the air until the tension was almost unbearable. ‘But I do not believe I am wrong. Vologases is indeed no fool, but, like every Parthian ruler before him, he leads an army not of regiments but of war bands, each with its own warlord, and each with its own strengths … and weaknesses. Not all of those leaders are as enthusiastic about this enterprise as the King of Kings. They have been forced to strip their lands bare before the final harvest is in, and now their women must do the work of men and slaves. They believe the eyes of Rome are fixed upon Judaea and they have a free hand here. He has convinced them that they will meet little opposition and the Armenians will welcome them. The last thing they expect is to meet a Roman army. Unless he achieves a quick victory and the plunder he has promised them they will soon pine for the warmth of their own hearths. Time is my enemy’s enemy, Traianus. If we can stop them and hurt them, Vologases will retreat back to Ctesiphon, Tiridates will return to his throne and Armenia will be a Roman province for generations to come.’ The pale, intractable eyes fixed the other man. ‘Put your faith in me, Traianus.’

  Traianus hesitated, studying the sand table in front of him and frowning over the narrow cleft as if he was seeing the army’s doom. Eventually, he looked up. ‘Very well, we can stop them. But how do we hurt them badly enough to force Vologases to retire?’

  Valerius had been as intent on the sand map as the Tenth’s commander and it was only gradually that he realized that every eye in the room was now fixed on him. He raised his head and found himself meeting Corbulo’s implacable gaze.

  ‘That will be the mission of my loyal commander of cavalry, Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

  XXXIII

  VALERIUS KNEW HIS general well enough by now to recognize the moment of drama on which the whole performance hinged. Corbulo had drawn them in. Played on their fears. Now he was about to reveal his genius. But that genius depended on the fighting powers of Valerius Verrens and his cavalry and Valerius wondered how he was expected to live up to his commander’s hopes.

  While Corbulo had outlined his strategy to Traianus, Valerius had been concentrating on the map, trying to understand how his cavalry would fit into the general’s battle plans. No matter how hard he looked, he could not see it. He could visualize the valley, a mere slice in a ridge of sand on the map table, but in reality perhaps a mile wide, with steep, weathered sides. If he guessed correctly Corbulo would anchor the flanks of his army against the valley walls using his auxiliaries and line his heavy infantry three cohorts deep in the centre, where they would face Vologases’ elite mounted archers and spearmen. The valley would contain the attacking potential of both armies within a narrow front which would reduce the mobility of the Parthian cavalry and favour Corbulo’s defensive strategy. But Traianus was right: it would still allow the enemy to use their archers to inflict a steady stream of casualties on the Romans. It would be a battle of attrition. And in a battle of attrition the side with the greater numbers would always win. Vologases wouldn’t just give up and turn back. Romans would stand, and they would die, and eventually the Parthian king must have his victory.

  And while they were dying, the ten thousand auxiliary cavalry which Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had insisted were his greatest strength against the Parthian horse would be stranded useless behind the Roman line.

  It was the strategy of madness.

  Until Corbulo revealed his master stroke.

  Valerius listened to the general’s plans with growing dismay, but his eyes were drawn back to the map and the narrow valley. He studied every particle of sand as if it would reveal the true detail of the terrain. It had never been done before. Not in his lifetime. It was unorthodox – no, it was beyond unorthodox, stranded somewhere in that fog between genius and madness. Could it be done?

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘If it can be done we will do it.’

  ‘You understand the importance of the timing?’

  ‘I must strike at the rising of the sun on the second day.’

  ‘It will be difficult. You must curb your impatience and that of your men.’

  ‘They will not gladly suffer hiding in the shadows while their comrades are dying.’

  ‘But it must be done.’

  ‘It will be done.’

  ‘Then we are in agreement. Traianus, you are satisfied?’

  The Tenth’s legate nodded agreement with a tight smile, but Valerius knew he was imagining the hours his men would have to spend being flayed by the Parthian arrows.

  ‘Very well, return to your units. If the gods are willing we will reach our destination in four days. Tribune Verrens, stay, please.’

  The general called for an aide to bring wine and ushered Valerius through to his private quarters at the rear of the tent. When they were seated he gave the younger man a long look.

  ‘I sense you are not convinced?’

  Valerius drew a deep breath. Again he remembered Vespasian’s words. A good officer must say what needs to be said.

  ‘I think it is a good plan … provided everything goes well. But there are a thousand reasons why everything may not go well. Traianus was right to speak out. For my own life it does not matter, but you are risking the lives of more than twenty thousand men and the reputation you have won over thirty years.’

  ‘All war is risk.’ Corbulo glanced at the wooden hand and studied Valerius’s scarred face. ‘How many men did you lead against Boudicca at Colonia?’

  ‘Three thousand veterans and a handful of legionaries.’ Valerius felt the familiar mix of pride and sorrow that always accompanied mention of Colonia. He saw again the faces of Falco and Lunaris, Messor and Corvinus. Smelled the smoke and the salt-sweet scent of roasting flesh.

  ‘Three thousand against fifty thousand.’

  ‘Yes, three thousand against fifty thousand, but I did not gamble their lives, I spent them in the knowledge that Boudicca had to be stopped, or at lea
st slowed.’

  ‘And was she slowed, this rebel queen?’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘She waited a day to burn Colonia and then marched on Londinium. She would have done that whether we fought her or not.’

  ‘Yet you still fought her. Why?’

  The younger man hesitated. ‘I have asked myself a thousand times. I could have fallen back on the Londinium road and used the militia to slow her progress with one ambush after another. We could have withdrawn to the woods and harassed her flanks and rear; cut off her supply lines. No one would have blamed me.’

  ‘I repeat my question, then. Why did you fight her?’

  ‘Pride.’ Valerius met Corbulo’s unyielding stare. ‘And duty. Catus Decianus had tasked me to hold Colonia. I fulfilled my orders. To the last man.’

  The general gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘To the last man. Yes. I can understand how a man like you would do that, Valerius.’ He poured another drink for each of them and picked up his cup. ‘I also understand duty. It is my duty to stop King Vologases from restoring Armenia to Parthian rule. Not my duty to the Emperor, who would rather I was back in Antioch shuffling my forces against an enemy who will never come. Do not mistake me, I understand that I am placing my career and perhaps my life in the Emperor’s hands. He is my Emperor and I trust him as he must trust me to do as I think right. But my first duty is to Rome. And to my soldiers. The soldiers I have spent to ensure that Armenia remains loyal to Rome and acts as a counterbalance against Parthian ambition. There will be a further cost, no man knows that better than I. The Tenth, though Traianus commands it, is my creation and I know that I will have to watch the men of the Tenth die. But we will win, Gaius Valerius Verrens, do not ever doubt that.’

  Valerius nodded. If he had ever doubted it, he did not doubt it now. ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I will return to Antioch, and support Vespasian as well as I am able.’

  The only sound in the tent was the gentle rustle of cloth moving in the breeze and the flutter of insects flirting with the flames of the oil lamps. Valerius wondered if Corbulo’s servants could hear their conversation. Nero would have his spies in the general’s camp, that was certain. Yet Corbulo had spoken openly and without fear and that gave Valerius the courage to do likewise.

  ‘Men speak of you as the next Emperor.’

  Corbulo went very still and Valerius wondered if he had misread his man. ‘Then give me the names of those men and I will have them executed in front of the whole camp tomorrow.’

  ‘I have no names.’

  ‘Have I misjudged you, Gaius Valerius Verrens? Have you been sent here to incriminate me?’

  Could silence truly have an edge like a sword blade? Corbulo waited for his answer, but Valerius knew that if the general needed one, he might as well go back to his tent and cut his wrists. Eventually, the other man rose and walked to the Tower of Caesar. He studied the tokens which had been placed in exactly the same positions they had occupied when the two men had finished their game the previous evening. With a nod, he picked up the blue stone representing the Emperor.

  ‘Rome is not perfect, Valerius. Nero is not perfect. But Rome is Rome and Nero is our Emperor. No man can usurp the Emperor without disturbing the delicate balance that is the Empire. Rome is full of ambitious politicians who would not stand idly by as another stole their power. The city would have to be fought for. Fought over. And we both understand exactly what that means. Fire and sword. Blood and sorrow. Think of this stone thrown into a still pond. Watch the rings expand until they reach every corner of the surface. That is how it would be. Every man, woman and child in the provinces we rule, even those we merely dominate, would have their lives thrown into turmoil.’

  He replaced the counter. ‘You are correct. Other men would urge me to act. I hear the whispers – the message you brought from General Vespasian was one – Whatever he decides, I will support him. I honour Vespasian as a man, a soldier and a friend, but he mistakes me. If I march, he will march with me. But what happens in Syria and Judaea and Cappadocia when we are gone? Will Vologases politely stand by as the legions leave the frontiers open? Would the Balkan legions support me or oppose me? Or those of upper and lower Germania? Would you ask me to risk Roman fighting Roman? No, if Vespasian marched, I would have to stop him. We talked about duty. My first duty is to Rome and to my province, which it is my sacred purpose to protect. Another man might act in his own self-interest, Valerius, but that man is not Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo. We will speak of this no more.’

  Valerius nodded, and the general returned to the game. ‘You have improved remarkably over the past week. I fear you have me at bay.’ Valerius was surprised when he began to remove the pieces and place them in their starting positions. Corbulo saw his look. ‘We will not be finishing this game. Traianus was right. Vologases is no fool. He knows that time is his enemy as well as I do. Soon he will realize that we have turned away from Tigranocerta and he will wonder why. At some point he will send his light cavalry ahead to secure the Cepha gap. I intend that you will be there first. I want you to take four cavalry wings of archers and spearmen and enough fodder, rations and water for five days. You will ride ahead of the main column and avoid all combat until you reach the gap. Your orders are simple. Once there, you will defeat any enemy forces who confront you, form a defensive line and hold the position until you are annihilated, relieved or the main column arrives. Have you any questions?’

  ‘None, sir.’ Valerius risked a smile. ‘As you say, my orders are simple.’

  Corbulo came close and grasped the younger man by the arm, his grip firm. ‘Win it for me and hold it for me, Valerius, and together we will inflict a defeat on the Parthians they will remember for a thousand years.’

  XXXIV

  Athens, Greece

  HIS WORLD SEEMED to be closing in on him, until it had been reduced to this tiny dungeon in the palace he had commandeered on the slopes below the Acropolis. It had all seemed so different this past week.

  For a few days during the Games on Mount Olympus he had felt as if he was soaring with the gods themselves. The wonder of his songs and oratory had beguiled the greatest artists in Greece, the cradle of culture and civilization, and they had hailed him as an Olympian on the very mount that had given the Games their name. In those few glorious moments he had left behind the troubles and consternation of the Empire and been able to bask in the glory of his own genius, to bathe in the cheers of the multitude and to drink the ambrosia of Zeus, Artemis and Apollo.

  He sighed.

  And now Tigellinus had dragged him back to an earth which, even at its best, was tawdry by comparison. The smell of burning flesh reminded him of the Great Fire.

  The two men hanging from the seven-foot iron triangles were brothers and until recently they had been the governors of the two Germanias, Superior and Inferior. Tigellinus had brought Rufus and Proculus Sulpicius Scribonius to meet their Emperor on the pretext that they were to receive the triumphal regalia for their victories over the Chatti and the Cherusci, Germanic tribes who had plagued Rome’s frontiers for centuries. But instead of honours, all they had received was pain.

  Nero walked past the torturers and lifted the chin of the elder Scribonius, Proculus, so he could see into his eyes. He had been very brave. Had offered himself for the glowing iron and the knives and the pincers if it would only spare his brother the trial. Instead, Tigellinus had used his courage against him and had the younger brother trussed up first. Nero had watched Proculus throw himself against his bonds as they had placed the red-hot barbs in Rufus’s flesh, torn his nipples out and removed his nose, all to the accompaniment of the torturers’ chorus of shrieks and howls and agonized groans. Then he had ordered the older brother’s legs broken, so he had to crawl to the triangle where he could bring an end to his brother’s suffering by replacing him. Of course, that could not happen. Each was the other’s weakness. They must witness the other’s pain and mutilation while Tigellinus and his clerks recorded the na
mes that must eventually be uttered through broken teeth and torn lips.

  ‘You were my friend, Proculus. Why must all my friends betray me?’

  It was astonishing the change that fire and iron could accomplish in such a short time. The brothers had been young men in the prime of life when they walked into the receiving room. In their senatorial robes, they had carried themselves like the patricians they were: dark, leonine heads held high, proud of their achievements and proud of each other. With their long noses and eyes that disdained all but their own kind, men like this had opposed him at every turn since the day he had donned the purple. They had blocked his improvements, refused him the money he needed to emulate his illustrious ancestors, laughed behind their hands at his performances and sneered at his pleasures. Yet he had taken the brothers Scribonius into his trust. Not for them the tender mercies of Tigellinus, the threat of the arena, the sequestration of their estates and property. Not even the seduction of their wives. He had rewarded them with advancement, not because they were worthy, but because they were too indolent to do harm.

  In the hands of an able governor either of the two Germanias could swiftly become a threat on Rome’s doorstep. The legions of the Rhine frontier were elite, battle-hardened soldiers, who protected the Empire from the eastern hordes. They complained constantly of poor pay and poor rations and poor accommodation. It made them fractious and difficult to control. And dangerous. No Corbulo would ever command in Germania while he was Emperor. It would be like handing a condemned man a sword. Instead, he had given command to wastrels like these, in the sure knowledge that they would spend their time gossiping and entertaining. But they had proved him wrong. For the brothers Scribonius had plotted.

  ‘Names, Proculus,’ he said softly. ‘Give us names and places and dates and your brother will be spared.’

  Through the lightning bolts of agony that tore his body, Proculus Sulpicius Scribonius heard the voice. He had called on all the courage of his ancestors to be able to bear his torment and he would have borne it until death. But his baby brother’s shrieks had eroded his resolve until he could take no more. His delirious mind screamed at him to save Rufus. Whatever the cost.