With a last regretful glance at the dead assassin he set off again in the direction of the stables. More imperative than ever to ensure the horses were being well cared for and the stable hands were following his instructions. He was fairly certain the killer worked alone, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others nearby ready to take on the job if he failed. Valerius’s enemy was a man who could not be underestimated. Valerius had done that once and almost paid the price. To do so a second time would be suicidal.
He pondered whether to search the assassin’s rooms, but decided he might alert an accomplice he’d missed. The killer must have some means of reporting his success and the man who had sent him was not known for his patience. Did that mean he’d already been told of Valerius’s plan to join one of the caravans heading east for the next leg of his journey?
‘Spare a few as for an old soldier down on his luck?’
The slurred words came from a doorway to his right. Valerius automatically checked his left side in case the approach had been designed to distract him. When he was certain there was no danger he turned back to the man who’d spoken. A single red-rimmed eye shone from a face destroyed by a sword blade. It had caught him high on the right cheek and removed the other eye, half his nose and several teeth. He might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty and sat on a bundle of straw with one leg tucked under him. The stump of the other, removed at the thigh, jutted out in front.
‘What legion?’
‘Tenth Fretensis, your honour, Corbulo’s finest. Honourable wounds taken against the Parthian King of Kings.’
A shiver ran through Valerius at the reminder of Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, the most successful general ever to wield a sword for Rome and the man who’d been like a father to him. Corbulo had become so powerful that Nero had grown to fear him and, despite his professions of loyalty, ordered him to commit suicide. The Tenth Fretensis had held the Parthian charge at the Cepha Gap as arrows turned the sky black and King Vologases’ Invincibles crashed to their doom, but they’d suffered terrible casualties. Most of the badly wounded died in the unsprung carts carrying them back to the Euphrates crossing at Zeugma. This man must be tough to survive the ordeal – or he’d been graced with Fortuna’s favour. He weighed the assassin’s purse in his hands and threw it to the cripple.
‘Spend it wisely,’ he said.
Before he reached the stables he heard the cackle of laughter as the mutilated soldier discovered the value of the purse’s contents. A roar of ‘The drinks are on old Atticus tonight’ echoed down the street and told him his advice was unlikely to be taken.
The pure joy in the shout made him grin. In truth he could have used the money himself, but he had a feeling the gold was tainted and, in the long run, would bring him bad fortune. Another old memory stirred and he touched his throat where a silver wheel of Fortuna hung on a leather thong. It was his only physical link to Domitia Longina Corbulo, the general’s daughter, the woman he loved and the one who’d saved his life. She’d placed it round his neck on that last day in Rome. ‘You must forget me,’ she’d said. But her advice was easier to acknowledge than to put into practice.
In pursuing Domitia, Valerius had made a mortal enemy of Titus Flavius Domitian. That enmity had grown along with Domitian’s power until it became a homicidal obsession to rid himself of his love rival. When Valerius had knelt in the Forum, falsely accused of treason and with an executioner’s sword at his neck, Domitia had promised herself to his enemy to save him. Instead of death, Valerius had suffered permanent exile from the shores of Italia and been branded an enemy of the state.
Of course it wouldn’t end there. There’d never been any doubt that Domitian would send his assassins in Valerius’s wake. Even with Domitia’s support he wouldn’t have escaped Rome alive without the help of his former colleague Gaius Plinius Secundus. Pliny had loaned him money and supplied him with a list of contacts that allowed him to reach Antioch. Now he was on his own, and Valerius knew his only chance of long-term survival was to reach his friend Titus, Domitian’s brother, and somehow redeem his honour. It meant finding a way to Judaea, where Titus commanded his father Vespasian’s forces.
But Judaea was a province in revolt and a lone traveller’s chances of crossing its war-ravaged deserts and mountains alive were slim. Valerius had sought a place in a well-guarded mercantile caravan that would take him some of the way in relative safety. Thanks to the assassin he must now consider that route closed. He could return to the coast and take ship from Seleucia to Tyrus or Appolonia, but Domitian would undoubtedly have the ports watched.
Which left him with only one option.
II
‘I do not wish to appear ungrateful, lord, but the pittance I accepted to be your guide and protector on the road to Emesa did not extend to travelling through the hours of darkness.’
Valerius gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to snarl at his companion. He wondered how much longer he could stand the sing-song whine. For two hours now, or was it three, he’d been listening to a litany of complaint. The horse was too high-spirited. He’d have been much better with camels. The night was cold. The saddle was hard. The date was not auspicious. The route …
‘Did I mention that the coast road would be quicker, more comfortable and, now I remember, safer?’
‘I’ve seen enough of the sea.’ Valerius’s patience snapped. ‘I told you I wanted to experience the interior. You assured me this was the scenic route, fit for conquerors, kings and emperors. We will walk in the footsteps of Alexander, you said.’
‘Indeed, lord,’ the other man said patiently, ‘but it is so much more scenic, not to say less dangerous, if one travels it by the light of the sun. Who knows what djinns and sprites haunt the darkness? Foul shape-changers who lure you in woman’s lovely form before turning into monsters with hooked claws and fangs to rend your flesh asunder.’
‘Then you should feel quite at home here,’ Valerius responded through clenched teeth, ‘given the quality of the women in the tavern where I found you.’
Ariston, for that was the name he went by, registered the dangerous quality in the Roman’s voice and fell quiet. Dark-skinned and coarse-featured, he claimed to be of Greek origin, and had astonished Valerius with a laughable boast that he was descended from the Seleucid ruling house. If that were the case his bloodline had been much diluted. He’d been described by the barkeep who pointed him out as ‘part Bedou wanderer, part Palmyran bandit, with a touch of Gandhara Zoroastrian fire-worshipper thrown in to make him interesting’. The result was a hooked nose any eagle would have been proud of and a pair of luminous green eyes that darted restlessly from beneath a bush of curly hair. His almost feminine, thin-lipped mouth never seemed to shut. For conversation he favoured Greek, which suited Valerius well enough, but like many of the nomadic people of the province he could make himself understood in a dozen languages. Wrapped in a shapeless, hooded cloak of patched cloth that might once have been white, he appeared the least trustworthy-looking human being Valerius had ever laid eyes on. Yet when the Roman remarked that he’d doubtless have his throat cut on the first night, the innkeeper insisted that Ariston had a reputation for delivering those with whom he set out.
‘Then why,’ Valerius had asked, ‘if he is such a paragon, isn’t he a guide for the merchant caravans out of Palmyra where the real money is made?’
The man had shaken his head in mock sorrow. ‘That would be because the traders wouldn’t let him within a hundred paces of their daughters.’ He grinned. ‘He may not look it, but our Ariston is a terrible one for the ladies.’
The Syrian had accepted the commission readily enough, but his protests started when Valerius insisted on setting out before daylight. Ariston boasted of being from a long line of fearless warriors whom no bandit would dare attack, but it seemed his fearlessness didn’t extend to the dark. ‘Only a fool or a fugitive creeps about after the sun has gone down,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We should wait.’
But
the dawn risked exposing Valerius to the eyes of his enemies and after further negotiation he persuaded Ariston into motion. They left the city by the Beroea Gate – two men and three horses, the pack horse heavily laden, helped on their way by a modest bribe to the gate guard. Ariston led Valerius along the eastern road, with the Orontes always to their left. It was his plan to follow the river to the next major stopping place, which meant a day’s march east before turning south. With the gods’ will it would take them another eight days to reach Emesa.
Flat slabs of local stone provided the road with a good surface and even in the dark they made good time. Dawn saw them skirting the foothills of the mountain range that hung like a wall over Antioch. The morning mist cleared quickly and they broke their fast in the shelter of an olive grove beneath a sky of pristine, eggshell blue while their horses drank from the foaming waters of the river. On the opposite bank, the valley was carpeted with fields already worked by slaves ploughing and planting the fertile dark earth. It was a tranquil pastoral scene, evidence of a land settled and at peace, and Valerius said so as they prepared to mount up.
His words drew a high-pitched laugh from his companion. ‘Ayah, peace provided at a price by your legions for the Greeks who own this land and these slaves and those vineyards on the hills yonder. All paid for by the taxes of people who have never seen a legionary, nor asked for or needed his protection.’
Valerius favoured him with an indulgent smile. It was the argument of the barbarian from one end of the Empire to the other. They were simple people who couldn’t understand that, just because the benefits provided by their taxes weren’t visible, it didn’t mean they didn’t exist. ‘But you have fine roads that can be travelled in all weathers,’ he pointed out as he pulled himself into the saddle. ‘Bridges that never wash away and wells that never dry up.’
Ariston shrugged dismissively. ‘Does it matter if a man reaches his destination in a day, or a week? The destination will still be there when he arrives. Or he gets his feet wet crossing a stream that will, in any case, cleanse them or cool them on a hot day? A well is very fine, but only a fool does not know how to find water.’ He looked towards the distant mountains. ‘This river was once named for Typhon, the dragon who was its creator. It is said the gods sought him out with their lightning bolts and in his agony he tore up the earth and created this valley, before fleeing underground where he unleashed the waters. Now it is the Orontes. Who knows what it will be next?’
‘Whether I reach my destination in a week or a month your mindless chatter isn’t taking us any closer.’ Valerius kicked his horse into motion, but Ariston’s words still rang in his head. What the Syrian said was true. Nothing was permanent but the earth and the mountains and the sea. Everything else had its time, even empires.
Ariston turned moody and sullen after the rebuke and they barely exchanged another two words before they halted in the late afternoon. The Syrian wanted to use the daylight to continue a few miles to a mansio, one of the government lodging houses that dotted the highway. Instead, Valerius insisted they sleep under the stars away from the road. Muttering complaints beneath his breath the guide tethered the horses and prepared the campsite.
For the hundredth time since leaving Rome, Valerius found himself wishing that Serpentius, the freed gladiator who had become his friend and bodyguard, had been able to travel with him. The Spaniard had suffered a dangerous head wound trying to save the life of Vitellius’s son Lucius during the Flavian sack of Rome. If he still lived he would be halfway to his home province by now. Serpentius had acted as Valerius’s shield when none was available, covering his right side in many a fight, and the Roman felt naked and vulnerable without his friend. A familiar itch reminded him that by now anyone who wanted to know would have discovered he’d left Antioch and might well be on the road behind them.
‘We’ll do without a fire this first night.’ The order drew a stare from his companion, but for once Ariston didn’t complain. He set out a cloth and laid it with rolled vine leaves stuffed with a moist, tasty combination of cereal and spiced ground lamb. Valerius pulled a flask from his pack and poured wine into two leather travel cups. The Syrian nodded his thanks and supped appreciatively as they ate.
‘You are a well-travelled man, Ariston,’ Valerius said. ‘Tell me what you know of the situation in Judaea.’
Ariston didn’t raise his eyes from his food. ‘The Jews are fools to fight you Romans, but they are like a lion trapped in a cave with the hunter’s spear at his throat. Ask them why and they will tell you that when a free man is forced to mortgage his lands and call another man master while he watches the flesh fall from his starving sons’ bones, there comes a time when he has no other choice but to fight.’
‘A fine speech,’ Valerius commented. ‘But I do not recognize this Rome you paint. Yes, Rome taxes, but it also builds, and it encourages those living under its rule to create further wealth that can be taxed in its turn. Surely to create wealth there must be peace, which benefits all?’
‘Just so.’ Restless green eyes stared out from beneath the heavy brow. ‘But what happens when the wealth is created by the sweat and blood of the poorest and none is returned? For sixty years they watched their gold being shipped to Rome or used by their priests – priests appointed by Roman masters, mark you – to decorate the Great Temple of Jerusalem and glorify the Judaean god at enormous cost to his long-suffering people. Then your procurator marched his men to the temple and demanded seventeen talents of gold – the weight of ten men – in compensation for some imagined slight. In such circumstances all that is required is a spark.’ The Syrian shrugged. ‘They are a superstitious people and when a light in the sky appeared in the shape of a sword, the spark was provided. When they saw the anger of the common folk, the priests suspended sacrifices in honour of the Emperor.’
Listening to the other man’s words, Valerius realized he hadn’t been entirely accurate when he’d said he didn’t recognize Ariston’s Rome. A face swam into view, narrow and sharp-edged, with a long nose and a drooping petulant lip. Catus Decianus, procurator of Britannia, had also impoverished his subjects on behalf of Nero and provided the spark for a bloody insurrection when he’d scourged Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.
‘What happened next?’ he asked, though he could imagine it easily enough.
‘Leaders appeared, and the country people rose up and invested the towns where they believed the riches of the land were stored. Roman garrisons were slaughtered along with any Judaean who supported them. So Rome had to act. A competent general would have smashed them in weeks, crucified a few of their commanders and sent the rest back to their fields.’
Valerius felt a flush of anger at the memory of his army’s shameful record in Judaea. The Roman generals Nero sent had been far from competent. Cestius Gallus rushed his legions from Syria to suppress the rebellion, but after initial successes he’d been forced to retreat. Worse, the Twelfth Fulminata had lost its eagle. Rome had not only been defeated, it had been humiliated. Brute force had failed, but Rome did not negotiate with rebels in a backwater like Judaea. The answer was to find a more competent brute.
Nero had been a wastrel and a fool who alienated his generals, but he’d kept one old soldier close. While Domitian was detained in Rome under the watchful eyes of the Emperor, Flavius Vespasianus could be relied upon to put down the rebellion with all the power at his command. Valerius had met Vespasian three years earlier, at Alexandria, while the general was planning the subjugation of Judaea, and later at Ptolemais on the eve of the campaign. He’d been impressed by a logistical brain that rivalled Corbulo’s and a decisiveness that didn’t bode well for the Jewish rebels.
‘When Vespasian took the field,’ Ariston continued, ‘the Judaeans had control of every town and city of any strategic value, but within the year they had lost all. Gabara fell swiftly, but forty thousand died in the fight for Jotapata, betrayed at the last by their commander. At Gamala the streets ran with blood and the place was only
taken when the general’s son Titus personally led the assault. They are fanatics, the Jews, who would rather die than submit to authoritarian rule. Jericho followed, but when Vespasian heard of the trouble in Rome he was unwilling to commit his soldiers to a new assault when they might be required elsewhere. Of course, all that has changed. Vespasian is Emperor and Titus commands in Judaea.’
‘Do you know where Titus is based?’ Valerius asked. ‘I would think that by now his troops will be coming out of their winter quarters and preparing for a new campaign.’
Something in the Roman’s tone made Ariston frown. ‘I do not know where he is, but I know where he will go.’
‘Where?’
‘Jerusalem.’
III
Valerius lay beneath his blanket with the ground chill gnawing at his insides like a hungry rat and listened to the other man’s soft breathing. Despite his initial doubts he’d been impressed by the depth of Ariston’s knowledge and the way he’d explained the political and military situation in a few simple sentences. Jerusalem was the key. That was where the real Jewish fanatics – Ariston called them Zealots – had retreated and regrouped during the breathing space provided by Vespasian. According to the Syrian, Jerusalem’s walls had never been breached. The Great Temple was the centre of the Jewish religion and the Zealots would defend it to the last drop of their blood. To destroy the rebellion for his father, Titus must first take Jerusalem.
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