‘You have my thanks, Caesar.’ Domitian bowed his head with a furtive glance at his wife.
The great amphitheatre stood on ground that had once been a lake where Nero had staged naval battles for the benefit of those he favoured, and had been known to feed those he did not to the giant Nile crocodiles he kept in his zoo. Much of the Domus Aurea, his grandiose Golden House, had been torn down to make room for the gladiator schools and the pens and cages where animals would wait to provide entertainment for the eighty thousand Romans who packed the towering stands. A plaque above the main entrance recorded that Vespasian had ordered the construction to benefit the people of Rome and paid for it with his general’s share of the plunder from the sack of Jerusalem. In truth, it had cost much more, and they had been forced to impose the fiscus judaicus, a tax on every Jew under the Emperor’s rule. Was it guilt for Jerusalem that kept him awake at nights? A great victory. One that had won him glory and fame. Yet it had cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocents: starving pilgrim families he’d refused to allow to leave the city. The loss of irreplaceable objects dear to the Jewish faith, and the utter destruction of the Great Temple, one of the architectural wonders of the world. Could he have done more to save it? The fire that had destroyed the temple had been started either by the defenders or by the attacking legionaries, but Titus had been so consumed by his triumph against great odds that he’d barely noticed at the time. Josephus, the captured Judaean general his father had spared at Jotapata, who was part of this procession, would have told him that the fall of the temple was pre-ordained and foretold by the Jew Christus, who had led a cult that denied the teachings of the old religion. This Christus had told his supporters: There will not be left here one stone upon another that will not be thrown down. And so it came to pass. A cleansing, Josephus called it. A necessary cull that would one day strengthen the Jews. Still, Titus sometimes felt as if the sack of Jerusalem was consuming him the way the flames had consumed the Great Temple.
One element of Nero’s works which had survived still dominated the area between the Palatine Hill and the great amphitheatre. A great colossus of bronze over one hundred feet in height depicting Nero as the sun god Sol Invictus. Once covered in gold leaf, Vespasian had ordered it stripped to help offset the gold shortages at the start of his reign.
‘You should tear it down, or at least have Nero’s face chiselled off and replace it with your own,’ Domitian whispered. Titus smiled indulgently. He knew his brother had often urged Vespasian to rid Rome of the great monstrosity, but the Emperor had always declined.
‘Father always said he hoped his head would never be big enough to fit. It would not be becoming if I were any less modest. As he pointed out, brother, Nero is still popular among certain sections of the mob. Better not to tweak the wolf’s ear unless absolutely necessary.’
By now the four storeys of the arena towered over them and the procession turned left into the south entrance, reserved for the Emperor, his closest amici, senators and Vestal Virgins. Titus had viewed the stadium from this position many times, but the combined effect of the crowd’s adulation and the sight of such a great mass of people in such close proximity seemed to knock the breath from him. All around the stands soared high above, the higher the seats the steeper the climb, and every seat was filled: a head-spinning vision of row after row of screaming faces chanting his name.
‘By the gods, brother,’ he heard Domitian laugh. ‘This makes the Circus Maximus look like a dusty provincial theatre.’
The lictors led them round the great oval of the arena floor, surrounded by an unscalable wall three times the height of a man. Famous gladiators from all over the Empire had been brought to Rome to entertain the crowds over the next hundred days. Only the best, bravest and most fortunate would leave these now pristine white sands alive.
Finally they completed the circuit and returned to the passage. A doorway on the left led to marble stairs. A new, even more powerful roar erupted as they emerged. Domitia steered him gently towards his seat beneath the gold cloth awning of the Imperial box on the podium. ‘Sit with me,’ he ordered as she turned to move away. He beckoned Domitian to join them. ‘This is your day as well as mine, consul.’
Somewhere below a gate opened and they heard the thunder of hooves. The crowd heard it too. Their applause had dropped to the buzz of a disturbed wasps’ nest, but now the sound grew again. A mixed herd of antelope and zebra galloped into view, their hooves rattling the wooden floor beneath the sand, followed by deer, bulls, buffalo and a pair of slab-sided, grey, horned monsters Titus recognized as rhinoceros. For two circuits they swept round the arena jostling for position, snorting, flanks heaving, zebras snapping at antelope, bulls slashing with their broad horns to right and left, tearing great gashes in any flesh unfortunate enough to be in their way. The blast of a horn brought a new crescendo of sound as a pair of gates opened at opposite ends of the arena. Two honey-brown streaks across the sands and two antelope were down, the fangs of a black-maned lion and his mate embedded in their throats. The herd milled in terror, seeking some sanctuary, only to burst into movement again as a massive tiger stalked slowly into view and crouched, tail swishing, the yellow eyes hungrily picking out his target, before three enormous leaps brought him on to the back of his choice, a zebra, which squealed in terror as claws like meathooks sank into its hindquarters before the mighty beast’s snapping jaws bit into its neck and snapped its spine. Another pair of lions joined the slaughter, but as they tore into the flesh of their victims the larger rhinoceros, seemingly a spectator in this fight, charged across the arena floor and impaled the male with his horn, flexing his massive neck so that the lion, entrails streaming, was tossed the height of the podium to crash back on the boards mortally injured but still in killing mood.
And this was just the start. Nine thousand animals hand-picked from every corner of the Empire and beyond had been brought here to die in the arena’s inaugural games. The slaughter would continue for the next hundred days.
Titus looked to his right where Domitia Longina sat, a model of composure, until you noticed the unnatural paleness of her skin and the delicate fists clenched so tight the knuckles gleamed ivory. Good. He took little pleasure from the spectacle himself, or the waste – the carcasses would be dragged from the arena and dumped in the festering rubbish pits out towards the River Teverone – and it pleased him to see that she had retained at least some of her humanity after all her years on the Palatine.
A pair of elephants stood, strangely lethargic at the centre of the killing ground, only reacting to any perceived threat. Titus called an aide forward.
‘Have them removed and returned to their pens,’ he said.
‘Come, Titus,’ Domitian snorted. ‘Wouldn’t that be the greatest spectacle of all?’
Titus ignored him and turned to Domitia with an apologetic smile. ‘Their trainers allowed me to walk among them. A mistake, perhaps. I looked into their eyes and saw intelligence there, perhaps even understanding. Despite their size I believe they are gentle creatures unless threatened. It would be like killing a favourite horse.’
‘Then I am glad, Caesar.’ Domitia bowed her head. ‘I understand that Vespasian’s memory must be honoured, but I deplore unnecessary bloodshed.’
‘Unnecessary?’ her husband interrupted. ‘Yet again you show the weakness of your sex. Every Caesar since Augustus has understood that if you don’t entertain the mob and let them wallow in the blood of animals, criminals and slaves, they will very quickly seek out other blood to shed. Would you rather it was yours or mine?’
Domitia answered him with a stare.
‘Come, my dear.’ Titus stood and held out an arm to her. ‘They are clearing the sands. If we are to survive the rest of the day we must have sustenance.’ Men ran into the arena carrying baulks of timber and crosses, which they set into pre-prepared slots in the floor. A ragged column of verminous, skeletal creatures followed, their shackles linked by chains. ‘The next hour wil
l be filled by the execution of the condemned. A necessary bloodletting, but hardly entertainment for the discerning. We will return for the gladiators.’
Domitia rose to her feet and joined him. As they left the Imperial box she chanced to look at her husband. Titus Flavius Domitianus stared at his brother’s back, eyes filled with the same predatory hunger she’d seen in the hunting tiger’s.
XXI
Trimontium
They’d been seeing the pillars of smoke all morning so Valerius knew what to expect. As he topped the rise beneath the loom of the three hills, nothing remained of the houses in the scattered settlement but blackened, smouldering timbers and glowing ash that scattered like drifting snow in the bitter wind. There must have been fifty huts cradled in the loop of the river. Beyond the settlement he could see his auxiliary infantry advancing in line to secure the far end of the valley. Another cohort had climbed the northern shoulder of the hills to protect the legion’s western flank. Not that he expected any trouble with so many cavalry patrols out hunting the former occupants of these houses. Satisfied with his dispositions, a cluster of buildings within a stone wall drew his eye. A horse was tethered by the gateway and he rode down the gentle slope accompanied by his staff.
‘Barbarian bastards haven’t left us an ear of wheat or a grain of barley,’ Quintus Naso grumbled. ‘If you hadn’t thought to bring our own timber we’d have spent the winter in tents foraging for twigs and been eating our horses by Saturnalia.’
‘We might yet,’ Valerius replied. ‘The weather has changed this last few days. If the supply galleys don’t arrive soon the river could freeze over. How much food and fodder do we have?’
‘A week’s supplies, perhaps a little more if we tighten our belts even further.’
‘They’ll come.’ Valerius considered the hills to his left. ‘Get a patrol up the northernmost hill and set up a lookout post. I want a watchtower and a signal station up there by dusk.’
Naso saluted and turned away, calling for his engineers. Valerius reined in beside the tethered horse and handed his reins to Shabolz. Off to his right the river flowed in a curving arc, deep, dark foam-flecked waters the colour of the beer the natives brewed. ‘Check upstream and down,’ he told the Pannonian. ‘There must be a ford somewhere near here. We’ll site the fort on the closest suitable piece of high ground.’
Shabolz acknowledged the order and Valerius strode into the walled enclosure. Gaius Rufus crouched among the still smouldering ashes of the largest house. ‘Whoever lived here was important.’ He showed Valerius a thin piece of metal he’d found among the debris. ‘A gold pin from a brooch, I’d guess. It must have slipped between the floorboards of the living area. I doubt any ordinary Selgovae housewife would own something so precious, never mind ignoring its loss. And look at the layout of this place.’ He waved a hand to the smoking heaps around him. ‘Seven buildings. Storehouses and cattle sheds at a guess. No cow ever slept on the floor of this one. And look at that wall. The stonework is some of the finest I’ve seen in Britannia.’
‘Calgacus?’
‘Or someone similar. You can ask him when you meet.’
‘That’s not a subject for jest, little man.’
Rufus grinned. ‘You think he’ll just sit out the winter and leave you alone?’
Valerius shook his head and crouched down beside the little scout, sifting the warm ashes through his fingers. It had all seemed simple enough when he’d outlined his strategy to Naso at Brynmochdar. Create a place of sanctuary where the Ninth could sit out the winter, well fed and comfortable, and at the same time harry the Selgovae heartland and the eastern dales that supplied their granary. Kill every warrior they found and burn the farmers out so they would become a burden on Calgacus’s stores. Either goad the barbarians into attacking or hit them hard when they inevitably emerged from their lair in the spring. But Calgacus had done the burning himself, leaving the Romans without a natural target, and gone … where?
‘You followed their trail?’
‘They went west. Some of those valleys are as tight as a mouse’s arsehole and twist so much you could end up following yourself. A veritable labyrinth like the place that fellow Theseus slew the Minotaur.’
‘Do you think you could lead a fighting patrol to let them know we’re here?’
Rufus sucked at his crooked teeth. ‘How big a patrol?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever strength you think is needed to do the job. A full cohort and an auxiliary cavalry wing if necessary.’
‘Those valleys.’ The scout shook his head at the memory. ‘Half a dozen river crossings. Bog and forest. These are their lands. They know every ford and every track. We go there, in whatever strength, and they get between us and help … Not many of us would be coming back out again.’
‘All right.’ Gaius Rufus had led two cavalry wings on a night march through mountains filled with Ordovice warriors. If he said it couldn’t be done, best not to try. ‘We go in as far as you think it’s safe. Set up forts to block any movement through the valleys. A network of signal stations to warn of any major force that makes an appearance.’
Rufus dug at the ground with his knife, stabbing in the point and twisting. ‘You’d need three forts, maybe four. If you garrison them with too few troops, there’s the chance Calgacus would overrun one or all of them. Man them so well that he wouldn’t dare and you’re splitting your force and dangerously weakening the position here. If he stays home, the forts might as well not be there in the first place. If he comes out … well.’ He waved a hand at their surroundings. ‘This is where you should be fighting him, not in a place where the terrain strings out your column for miles and leaves every cohort asking to be ambushed.’
‘You’re right.’ Valerius laughed ruefully at his own foolishness. ‘Maybe you should be the legate and not me.’
‘I don’t think you’d find a uniform to fit me,’ Rufus answered with a grin.
Valerius stared downriver. ‘So we just sit here all winter and do nothing.’
‘Let me use the time between now and the first snows to get to know the country,’ the scout suggested. ‘Perhaps there is a way to get to the Selgovae wintering grounds without going through the labyrinth. If I can find a route to get two or three cohorts behind him or on his flank, we could drive Calgacus and his people away from their food and shelter. By spring they’d be so weakened an auxiliary cohort could defeat them.’
Valerius was about to reply when a voice hailed him. ‘Lord!’ Shabolz urged his mount towards them through what had been fields and gardens. Valerius went to meet him and Rufus unhitched his horse and followed. ‘There is a ford just beyond the broad plateau there, legate.’ The Pannonian pointed to a rise about a mile or two downriver. ‘Better you see the rest for yourself.’ Grinning, he helped Valerius mount the horse he led and the three men rode east. When they reached the rise, Shabolz pointed downstream. ‘Look,’ he said.
Valerius followed the pointing finger. Boats. Flat-bottomed and heavily laden. A long line of them, as far as the eye could see, straining against the current and driven by ten oarsmen apiece. His heart soared. ‘The supplies.’ He almost choked with relief. ‘The quartermaster, Shabolz, and quickly. And men, lots of men. We need to get everything up here before dark. This is where we will build the fort.’ He looked up at the three hills. ‘Trimontium.’
‘Of course, there is another possibility.’
Valerius turned, ready to snap at Rufus for questioning his decision. But the little man’s grin stilled his tongue. This wasn’t about the siting of the fort. ‘What?’
‘Do you think Calgacus will be content to stay in camp all winter and let you sit here in comfort?’
‘No,’ Valerius said. ‘He won’t. Not a man like him.’
‘Then,’ Rufus nodded to the supply boats, ‘perhaps at some point we can provide him with an incentive.’
A dawning understanding set a string of possibilities flickering through Valerius’s mind. Yes, it might w
ork. But it was for later, when the snows came and the Selgovae were scratching around the frozen fields for the carelessly dropped ears from last year’s harvest. He gave voice to his thoughts.
‘Better if their bellies are resting against their backbones. While the weather holds, do as you suggested and seek out a way to take them by surprise. You’ll have your choice of the auxiliary cavalry squadrons as escort. By the time you come back we will have built our nest for the winter and we will talk further of incentives.’
‘Till the first fall of snow, then.’ The scout saluted and rode north towards the auxiliary picket lines.
Engineers laboured to mark out the lines of a camp large enough to house the entire contingent on the gently sloping ground between the hills and the river. At last a stake marked the position of the principia and legionaries began erecting the headquarters pavilion that would be Valerius’s home until something more substantial could be constructed. Others were already hacking at the ground with mattock and spade to excavate the ditches and raise the banks that would be the foundation of their defences in the coming months. They worked in their eight-man contubernia, each with his appointed task. Four men laboured in the ditches while the others carried out the essential tasks of preparing the camp: erecting tents, setting up ovens, digging latrines. Whatever his task, every man worked in his armour and with his sword at his side. They were in enemy territory now and Valerius had instilled in his legion the necessity of always being ready to fight off an attack.
He was about to set off for his tent and the dull but vital task of supervising the supply tallies when an aide drew his attention to a little group moving up the slope from the river. The figure at the centre wore the yellow cloak that marked him as an Imperial courier. Valerius felt a shiver of anticipation, but wasn’t sure whether it was caused by excitement or foreboding.
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