The roar that greeted the announcement split the hills and sundered the skies and Valerius knew that if Corbulo had asked these men to follow him through the gates of Hades and over the Styx they would have fought their way into the Otherworld with their bare hands for him. He held his breath, because it would have taken just one cry of ‘Corbulo for Emperor’ to unleash a wave of popular support that would carry him all the way to the threshold of Rome. But these were Corbulo’s soldiers and the iron discipline of their commander had been bred and beaten into them. There was no shout.
On the return march, with the Parthian threat reduced, Valerius spent less time in the saddle and often walked with Tiberius and the men of Corbulo’s personal guard who were now under the young tribune’s command. It amazed him how quickly the common soldiers were able to put the terrors of the battle behind them. When they weren’t talking about women and wine and what they would spend Corbulo’s bonus on, they sang traditional marching songs like the obscene ‘March of Marius’, which had more than twenty verses and chronicled the sexual exploits of a legionary from one end of the Empire to the other.
Tiberius was more subdued, the childlike exuberance overwhelmed by what he had seen and endured during the long hours of the Parthian arrow storm. The boy had become a man. Valerius knew only too well the horrors that visited in the night after a battle. The half-remembered glimpses of a human slaughterhouse: splinters of white bone against raw red meat, the obscene pink blue sheen of spilled entrails, or the fool’s grin on the face of a severed head. The hair’s-breadth escapes from death that hinged on the glint of a sword blade or an enemy spear point. The dead men who demanded why he had lived and they had not. These, as much as his wounds, were a soldier’s baggage of war.
As they marched together he tried to lighten the mood by talking of anything but the campaign, but Tiberius seemed obsessed by the notion of duty.
‘I felt sorry for the Parthian horses,’ he said, in a voice that was flat and emotionless. ‘But I knew I had to kill them. Some of them were beautiful and reminded me of Khamsin, but they died just the same, because it was my duty.’
‘If you hadn’t killed their horses, the Parthians would have killed you,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘War is about finding the enemy’s weakness and using it against them. The foot soldiers Serpentius and I faced didn’t want to fight us, but they had to be made to fear us or we would still be fighting yet, or more likely scattered across the plain with our guts hanging out.’
‘So you did your duty.’
‘As you did yours, Tiberius, and I will lose no sleep over it.’ He covered the lie with a smile.
‘But what if you were given an order you knew was wrong?’
‘I thought we had already discussed that? There is no right or wrong, only discipline. Discipline is what makes us what we are, Tiberius, Roman soldiers. That was what your father taught you, was it not? He might have been harsh, but he was right. Only discipline and your example kept your men in line as they died under the Parthian arrows. Without discipline we would all be dead and Vologases would be on his way to Artaxata and Armenia would be lost to Rome for a hundred years.’
The young man still looked pensive. ‘But what if there was a conflict between duty and loyalty?’
Valerius was bone weary and the question made even less sense than what had gone before. ‘No order is given without a purpose, Tiberius.’ The words came out more harshly than he intended. ‘Hesitation only kills the men you fight beside. Disobedience means your own death. If you are given an order, don’t think about it. Only obey.’
Tiberius darted an agonized glance at him, but Valerius’s gaze was fixed on the horizon. If he had looked, he would have seen the firm jaw set and the young tribune nod.
So be it. He was a soldier. He would do his duty no matter how wrong it felt or how distasteful that duty would be.
XLV
THE NEXT DAY the army of Corbulo reached one of the great supply dumps their general had prepared for the return march. For the first time in two weeks food and water were plentiful and the men not on guard duty were given an unprecedented two days without drill or training. The grateful satrap of Tigranocerta had sent two thousand amphorae of fine wine in thanks for his deliverance. Corbulo ordered a ration to be served to every man, but the legionaries and auxiliaries found the sweet Armenian brew less to their taste than the leaded tavern vinegar they were more accustomed to.
Valerius spent the evening with the general, but Corbulo was a disappointing companion compared to the man who had approached the battle with such mercurial energy. It was as if victory had stolen something from him, or diminished him in some way. Even the diabolical challenge of Caesar’s Tower couldn’t energize him and eventually he shook his head and with a tired smile suggested that Valerius should seek some better company. Valerius returned to his tent, but he found sleep difficult to come by. A chill wind from the north cut through the worn leather and made his missing hand ache. For a while he lay and endured the ghosts of the past, but when Domitia’s face reminded him that there were some things even courage and resolve could not make attainable, he rose and wrapped himself in a thick woollen cloak.
The moment he left the tent, Serpentius fell into step by his side. Valerius looked at him a certain way, but the Spaniard only shrugged.
‘Just because you’ve covered yourself in glory doesn’t mean your enemies will suddenly disappear. Everything’s too relaxed for my liking.’ He cocked an ear and Valerius made out the shouts of laughter from around the camp. Nearby, a legionary fashioned a melancholy tune on a whistle and someone crooned a love song. An argument flared and faded away in a few seconds. Normally the centurions and decurions would be moving among the men demanding silence, but clearly they had been lulled by the same post-battle euphoria as their troops. ‘I’ve seen it often enough in the arena. A fighter is celebrating victory over one opponent and forgets the man behind who’s about to put a spear through his backbone. It isn’t pretty.’
They walked through the lines of tents to where Khamsin was tethered among the officers’ mounts and the mare snickered with pleasure when she caught their scent. Serpentius scratched her forehead and grinned. The Spaniard was the least tender of men, but like everyone else he had been captivated by Khamsin’s moist dark eyes, her ready intelligence and her courage. Valerius untied her and led her by the rope, taking comfort in her presence and the bittersweet scent she gave off. He marvelled at the good fortune that had brought her through the battle unscathed when so many other horses had died. Four or five times she might have been hurt or killed and he suspected it was only the Parthian love of good horseflesh that had saved her from harm. Their way took them round the camp perimeter in the cleared space between the lines of eight-man tents and the walls of piled stone. Despite the darkness, Valerius’s footsteps never wavered. A legionary marching camp was as familiar to him as the forum in Rome, every one as identical as the contours of the landscape would allow and built in the few hours between finishing the march for the day and darkness. Every eight-man tent – ten of them to a century – occupied the same space its section, the contubernium, would inhabit in their permanent barracks. The fifty-acre area within the walls was cut widthways by the Via Principalis, which they were now approaching and which ran between gates set into the longer sides of the rectangle. Another road, the Via Praetoria, divided the southern portion of the camp, running north to south and forming a junction with the Principalis near Corbulo’s living quarters in the praetorium. As they turned into the wide street, Valerius could see the flames of the twin torches which burned throughout the night at the entrance of the general’s quarters. Everything seemed normal, but as they got closer he felt a warning tickle at the base of his neck and Serpentius stiffened at his side. They stopped thirty paces short of the cloth pavilion and the Spaniard sniffed the air as if it carried the scent of trouble.
Valerius kept his eyes on the entrance, waiting for a return to normality. What was mi
ssing was the reassuring twinkle of torchlight on polished armour. A member of Corbulo’s personal guard should have stood alert at each the side of the doorway, but there was none. Six more would usually be positioned in pairs on each side of the tent, guarding against illicit entry. He searched the darkness for any sign of them.
‘Buggers must be pissed somewhere,’ Serpentius muttered, but he had his hand on his sword.
‘Check out the rear of the pavilion. If they’re not there find them and fetch … Tiberius.’
Slowly a terrible realization began to take shape in Valerius’s mind. One at a time the pieces dropped into place. Tiberius was commander of Corbulo’s personal guard, at Valerius’s bidding. He remembered the ready smile, the interest in every detail of his past, the almost desperate desire to impress. Perhaps you might commend me to General Corbulo and I have volunteered to take charge of those on guard duty. The odd reaction when he discovered they were marching, not to Judaea’s aid, but into Armenia. Just before the attempt to kill Corbulo. And that last anguished interrogation about duty and loyalty. He dropped Khamsin’s halter and started running.
He slowed as he approached the pool of dancing torchlight outside the tent. Logic told him there must be a harmless explanation for the missing guard, but the instinct that had kept him alive so often on the battlefield screamed at him to act. He kept his hand on his sword hilt. He wouldn’t draw it yet. To walk into the general’s quarters with a naked blade might invite the same accusations his racing mind was levelling at Tiberius.
The earlier laughter had died away to be replaced by the low mutter that was the normal background noise of the camp at night as five thousand men talked softly in the darkness before sleep. But Corbulo’s tent was utterly silent apart from the soft flutter of the torches in the light breeze.
With infinite care, he reached for the tent flap and drew it back an inch. Corbulo’s command tent was divided into four compartments by internal cloth partitions and the first was the general’s office. A dull orange glow painted the sparsely furnished space. Here was Corbulo’s campaign desk, light and portable, where he issued his orders and read the constant flow of status reports from the two legions and their attached auxiliary units. Behind it a collapsible chair. To one side a couch where the great man could ease the aching bones which were so obvious to Valerius, but he would mention to no one, not even his physician. Satisfied, he moved softly across the carpeted floor and checked the second room, where the remains of a meal of bread and olives and a flask of wine lay on a table and Caesar’s Tower stood as they’d left it two hours earlier. He became aware of a sort of grunting snore, like a pig shuffling in mud, and his heart slowed as he smiled to himself. Fool that he was to start at shadows. He would give those guards such a roasting tomorrow that they would think their arses were on fire. And Tiberius. How could the little bastard have let this happen?
Valerius turned to leave. He’d wait outside until the guard reappeared. But something made him hesitate. No point in being here if he wasn’t going to check. He only hoped that Corbulo wouldn’t wake from his noisy slumbers to find him sneaking about his sleeping quarters.
Very gently, he pulled back the curtain that divided the two rooms. The snuffling sound was louder now, but the room was so dark it took time for his eyes to adjust. This was a small sleeping space, with the general’s personal latrine curtained off at one end and his bed in the centre. Gradually, Valerius made out a dark hump where Corbulo’s head should be and his tired mind worked out that the hump appeared to be squirming.
His sword was out of the scabbard before he had taken his first step, but the hooded man crouched over Corbulo had been alerted by the song of the blade and was already turning. Valerius went in low and fast, determined to drive his enemy away from the general. For all he knew Corbulo was already dead, or dying, his throat cut or a dagger through his heart, but he couldn’t take that chance. Yet nothing could have prepared him for his enemy’s astonishing speed of reaction. From nowhere, a heavy flour-filled sack slammed into his chest and slowed his attack. Tiberius. Only Tiberius was that quick. Even as his racing mind confirmed the assassin’s identity the sack was followed by the general’s gold-embossed helmet. The world went black and his skull seemed to explode as the heavy iron helm took him directly in the face. He was vaguely aware that his nose was broken as his legs gave way beneath him. Blinded by tears and with his head reeling he swung aimlessly with his sword until someone kicked it from his hand, leaving him helpless. He was dead. Tiberius would kill him and then finish what he had started. But if he was going to die he would die trying. With a snarl, Valerius shook his head and attempted to struggle back to his feet only to feel the sting of a sword point against the notch at the base of his throat. One push was all it would take. One push and the iron blade would pierce his windpipe and he would choke on his own blood until the moment the point was forced down to cut through his still beating heart. He raised his head to look into the face of his killer: Tiberius, wide-eyed and twitching, one hand on the grip and the other on the pommel, and both of them shaking.
‘Bastard,’ Valerius spat. ‘Traitor.’
He sensed the moment of decision. The slightest shift in weight that preceded the thrust. It didn’t come. Tiberius opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything Corbulo staggered to his feet with a roar.
‘Guards! Call out the guard.’
Tiberius brought his knee into Valerius’s face and smashed him backwards to be engulfed by the cloth of the tent wall. By the time he struggled free the young assassin was gone and Corbulo was on his knees retching. Valerius left the general and staggered through the tent and into the open. When he reached the doorway Tiberius was already halfway along the Via Principalis running towards the east gate. No escape there. The gate would be guarded and he couldn’t leave the fort without a pass. But Valerius knew his man. Tiberius would not have made his attempt without planning his escape route. That meant a bolt hole and he was far enough ahead to lose himself among the tents and wait for his chance. But he had reckoned without Khamsin. Somehow Valerius made the leap on to the mare’s back at the first attempt and kicked her into motion. Belatedly, he realized his sword was still lying in Corbulo’s tent. But he had no choice. If he didn’t catch Tiberius now he would be gone for good. For a moment he almost checked. What was he thinking? He knew what would happen to the young tribune if he was taken. But he was Gaius Valerius Verrens and he was as trapped in the twin coils of duty and discipline as Tiberius himself. He had given his loyalty to Corbulo and that meant that if his killer could be taken, he would be taken.
Tiberius heard the sound of hooves behind him and swerved between two lines of tents. For a few vital moments Valerius thought he’d lost him, but Khamsin made the turn in a single smooth movement and he picked out the dark figure a hundred paces ahead. Sleepy, astonished soldiers appeared in the tent doorways demanding to know what was going on, but Valerius didn’t check as he closed with his target. He understood how dangerous Tiberius was. On foot or not the boy was quick enough and good enough to kill him. Would Khamsin run him down, or would she baulk? He couldn’t take the chance. He would have to take him from the saddle. Thirty paces. Twenty. Valerius poised to make the leap. Then the cloak whirled and his quarry was gone, darting into the space between two tents. Too late to follow, but there was a junction ahead and he urged Khamsin on until the mare could turn and run parallel with the fleeing assassin. A set of pilum targets stored between the tents loomed out of the darkness like a legionary shield wall. Another horse might have hesitated, but Khamsin made the jump without altering her stride. Her hind legs smashed into the wood and she landed awkwardly, but she never missed a step. Desperately, Valerius scanned the tent lines for Tiberius, almost missing the telltale movement as the dark-clad figure ran across their front. He shouted a challenge and Tiberius hesitated. Stumbled to a halt. Now he had him.
The young tribune stood, head bowed and chest heaving. Valerius slowed K
hamsin to a walk, alert for any movement. Beneath the hood he sensed a prolonged sigh. An acceptance of the gods’ will. He was wrong. When it came it was faster than anything he had ever witnessed. Faster even than Serpentius. Tiberius’s hand reached out and the arm drew back with the fist gripped round the javelin from a rack that had been hidden by one of the tents. It whipped forward and the weighted spear sailed unerringly towards Valerius’s heart. His mind watched the spear come, but the invisible strings that controlled his reactions couldn’t keep pace with the gleaming metal point. He braced himself for the strike and Khamsin must have felt his unease because she reared up on her hind legs. He heard the wet slap of forged iron entering flesh, but surprisingly he felt no pain. It was only when Khamsin collapsed on her forelegs with a terrible scream, throwing him forward over her shoulder, that he realized what had happened. A rage as terrible as any he had ever experienced consumed him then, and he rolled to his feet and charged, screaming at his enemy.
Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3) Page 31