The guard on the left was more asleep than awake. The first he knew of his coming death was a hand clapped over his mouth before the sting as the gladius was dragged across his throat. Serpentius held him till he died, feeling the last frantic beats of the heart in the shuddering body, and with the familiar metallic scent of blood in his nostrils.
From behind came groans and thrashing, muttered curses and the sound of metal upon metal. He dropped the dead man and turned to find Clitus and Thaumasto still struggling with the second guard. Thaumasto had his hands over the man’s face and Clitus was lunging with the sword at his chest. Serpentius bent to ram his own sword into the guard’s throat. He pulled back the cloak.
‘Chain mail,’ he whispered. ‘Always go for the throat. Quicker and quieter. You can let go now, Thaumasto. Dead men don’t shout for help. Fetch the others.’
By the time Serpentius and Clitus had dragged the dead men into the mine they’d been joined by the other prisoners. Serpentius stripped one of the corpses of his sandals and cut a piece from the guard’s tunic to wrap his bleeding feet. He stepped into the open and studied the skyline. The faint line had turned into a splash of orange and pink and against it he could see the silhouette of a straggling column of men. He turned to the prisoners. ‘Follow me and stay below the crest of the hillside. We go west, then north. If you become separated, just follow the course of the river into the mountains. We will find you.’
He set a fast pace he knew his companions couldn’t maintain for long, but there was no help for it. They had to get to the river before their former captors loosed the dogs.
When they were clear of the mine he took a last look back. Whatever happened he would die before he entered that den of Hades again.
XI
Rome
‘Tiberius likened ruling the Empire to having hold of a wolf by the ears. I do believe he understated the complexity. It is much more like trying to control an entire pack.’
Vespasian’s tone was cheerful enough as he made the pronouncement, but Titus could see that the cares of high office were already taking their toll of his father. Worry lines furrowed his brow and his mouth had assumed a habitual downturned look of grim contemplation. Sometimes it seemed that only in the arms of his lover, Antonia, did his father find peace. Not that the knowledge brought Titus any consolation. He still couldn’t wholly forgive Vespasian for ordering him to set aside Berenice, whom he’d loved with just as much devotion and passion. But that was in the past. Now they held the wolf by the ears and the first priority was to keep hold of it.
‘You would rather we had left all this to Vitellius?’ Titus waved a hand at the raised platform where Vespasian’s predecessor’s golden throne had sat until it was carried away to be melted down. The receiving room was in the heart of the great Golden House constructed by Nero. Vespasian was never comfortable in the grandiose palace complex, but had yet to find a use for it.
‘Thirty steps,’ the Emperor marvelled. ‘Perhaps he believed the closer to the gods he sat the more like them he would become. Poor man.’ Vespasian inspected the rear of the platform and the curious contraption there. ‘It’s rather like the lifts that take the beasts to the main level of the arena.’
‘He was so fat by the end he couldn’t climb the stairs.’ Titus didn’t hide his scorn.
‘Then he was no fool,’ his father said, a mild rebuke in his tone. Usurper or no, Vitellius had been Emperor. The legionaries of Marcus Antonius Primus claimed the Golden House had been stripped bare by the time they took the place. Vespasian’s younger son Domitian had not been inclined to believe them, but a few months earlier a building crew clearing the site of Vitellius’s burned-out villa had uncovered a fortune in gold coins and statuary buried in the garden. The Emperor bent and picked up something from the floor behind the platform. ‘A horse on wheels. A child’s toy.’ He shook his head. ‘I never intended for him to die, or the boy. In fact I ordered otherwise. He could have passed away his remaining years in relative comfort on Sicilia and I would have encouraged Lucius through the cursus honorum.’
‘Then the men who killed them did you a service,’ Titus said brutally. ‘It’s much tidier this way.’
‘True.’ A wry smile flitted across Vespasian’s puffy features and he replaced the toy. Titus returned the smile. His father could be kind-hearted and was seldom vindictive, but he could also be ruthless when he needed. He’d duped thousands of civilians to surrender at Tarrichaeae in Judaea with a promise of freedom, only to slaughter the elderly and infirm as a signal of the price for defying Rome’s rule. It had worked. All but three Galilaean fortress cities surrendered as soon as the legions appeared at their gates.
‘Ah, Domitian, you are here at last.’ Vespasian turned as a slight figure appeared in the doorway.
‘Father.’ The young man bowed. ‘Brother. I hope I see you well?’
‘All the better for seeing you, brother,’ Titus replied with an equal lack of sincerity.
‘I wanted to show you what we intend,’ Vespasian smiled, ‘before it is announced in the Senate.’
The smile on Domitian’s face froze at the word ‘we’. That ‘we’ meant the two men who jointly ruled Rome. A ‘we’ that excluded the third, and in Domitian’s view just as capable, member of the Flavian dynasty. They seemed to forget – or deliberately forgot – that in his father’s absence Domitian had taken control of Rome after the death of Vitellius. Reigned as Emperor in all but name for more than six months. He’d begun the rebuilding of the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus and the Castra Praetoria, both destroyed in the fighting. Since then he’d been reduced to minor roles. Even his consulship had been a mere suffect appointment, both temporary and honorary. Titus on the other hand was feted wherever he went, everyone’s favourite. Always at his father’s right hand and given command of the Praetorian Guard, a position of immense power. Domitian had been forced to ride with the generals in the wake of the chariot carrying Vespasian and Titus at the triumph to celebrate their victory in the Judaean Wars. Hundreds of thousands of Romans had hailed Titus Imperator as he rode with his father at the head of five legions and countless carriages piled high with the spoils of Jerusalem. Gold and silver wrought in every way imaginable, gems of extraordinary colour and lustre, loose or worked into crowns or diadems, bolts of silk in purple and gold. Had Domitian not fought too, in the final battle that defeated the Batavian rebels of Julius Civilis? And what was his reward? Nothing. Not even a word of thanks from his father, while Petilius Cerialis was appointed governor of Britannia.
‘You look out of countenance, my son. Is something wrong?’
‘A bad piece of fish,’ Domitian lied.
‘You should whip your cook,’ Titus said solemnly. He’d noticed his brother’s reaction and was perfectly aware of the reason. Perhaps if Domitian hadn’t styled himself Caesar and placed himself on the throne the moment Marcus Antonius Primus had retaken the city he might have fared better. It hadn’t helped that he’d married without his father’s permission before the Emperor returned to the capital. And there was something odd about that union. Titus was acquainted with Domitia Longina Corbulo. Clever, beautiful if you liked your women slight and delicate, and with a strong personality that mirrored her soldier father. Too strong, he thought, to be attracted to someone like Domitian. But then, who knew with women? He studied his brother. Unlike Titus, Domitian had failed to inherit his father’s strong features or physical presence. He had a weak chin and a curiously feminine mouth. Where Vespasian was straightforward, loyal to his friends and trustworthy, Titus knew Domitian could be cruel, capricious and downright treacherous. And then there was the matter of Valerius. ‘Come, brother, some fresh air will dispel the ill humours.’
As Vespasian led the way through the corridors to Nero’s man-made lake the two younger Flavians held slightly back.
‘A rumour reached me that a certain member of your household has been in touch with members of the Society,’ Titus said quietly.
‘You should kn
ow better than to believe everything you hear at the baths, brother.’ Domitian’s tight smile told his brother he’d been correct. The Society was a guild of criminals: gangsters, thieves and killers for hire. They had their stronghold in the Subura, a pestilential slum in the centre of the city, but their tentacles stretched across the Empire.
‘And you should know that Gaius Valerius Verrens is under my protection – and my father’s.’
‘Why should a crippled upstart with ideas above his station concern me?’ Domitian sneered.
‘You understand exactly what I mean, brother.’ Titus allowed his voice to harden. ‘Verrens is on a mission vital to all our interests. If he is not allowed to complete it you and I may end up in pieces on the Gemonian Stairs like uncle Sabinus.’
‘If he does not complete this vital mission it will not be because of anything I do, it will be because you selected a dangerous fool for the task.’
They glared at each other for a moment. Vespasian tutted. ‘You must never fight, my sons. Our unity is our greatest strength. We three are the future of Rome. Come, Domitian.’
They followed their father out on to the balcony overlooking the lake. ‘This is where I will build our legacy. We will drain the lake and build the greatest arena the world has ever seen’ – he turned to his sons with a smile – ‘and a hundred generations of Romans will give thanks to the Flavians. I will place Nero’s colossus at the gates … with a few alterations, of course. It would be a pity to waste it.’
But Domitian’s thoughts were elsewhere. Rome’s future? His father was in robust health and might live another twenty years. Titus could last another forty and there was no reason he should not yet beget an heir. Only by a happy accident would Titus Flavius Domitianus ever wear the purple. And then there was Verrens. Had his brother been telling the truth about the urgency of this mission?
In a way it didn’t matter. An arrow loosed could not be returned to the bow no matter the good intentions of the archer. He had loosed the arrow and the arrow would take its course. But he had seen what was left of his uncle Sabinus on the Gemonian Stairs and he had no intention of ending up there. It would bear thinking about.
XII
They reached Legio on the afternoon of the twelfth day. A Roman fortification had existed here since the time of Augustus and the Cantabrian wars, and Valerius could see why. The fort stood in a perfect defensive position on a raised plateau cushioned in the junction of two rivers. The stone walls and wooden palisade dominated everything around and it could only be attacked directly from the north. Valerius’s little column was approaching from the south, travel-weary: even the seasoned cavalrymen of the Faithful Vardulli admitted to being saddle-sore after close to two weeks on horseback.
Now their minds were focused on a cool bath to wash away the all-encompassing dust of the journey, a cup of sour wine in a local tavern and the ministrations of a comely whore. In truth, it wasn’t much of a place. Valerius could see the red-tiled roofs of stucco-walled barrack blocks and administration buildings. A civilian settlement lined the road from the porta praetoria and sprawled on to the south bank of the smaller of the two rivers. They passed wooden shops and workshops, a forge where a smith’s apprentice was turning out iron hobnails for a nearby cobbler, and a stinking tannery where the women scraping hides didn’t even raise their heads as they passed.
Two men stood guard at the bridge, but they called out when they recognized Marius.
‘You’ll get it hot,’ one of them predicted with a grin. ‘Proculus was expecting you days ago. Everyone reckoned the Ghost had taken you.’
Mention of the Ghost took Valerius back to his conversation with the young courier a week and more earlier. Nathair. The snake. At first he’d been certain this Ghost must be his old Spanish comrade. The name and the description of his fighting qualities were too much of a coincidence. But the more he considered it, the more unlikely it seemed. More than two years had passed since he’d left Serpentius in Judaea being treated for a terrible sword wound that would have killed him if it had been more expertly placed. The Spaniard also suffered spasmodic fits after a legionary had smashed his skull during the fall of Rome. If he survived, Titus had provided the former gladiator with enough gold to buy a small estate where he could settle down and perhaps take a wife. Why would such a man turn bandit?
Yes, Serpentius had never hidden his bitterness against the Romans who burned his home and killed his family, but that had been twenty-odd years ago. The Spaniard was no fool and in all the time Valerius had known him he’d never talked of revenge. Yet the bandit raids were one of the factors the authorities in Asturica Augusta claimed were responsible for the lack of gold reaching Rome. Perhaps discovering more about this Ghost should be one of his lines of investigation.
‘I am afraid you may find our commander a little distracted.’ Young Marius didn’t seem put out by his welcome. ‘He has many conflicting responsibilities and few resources to fulfil them.’
‘You said he is the legion’s praefectus castrorum?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the courier confirmed. ‘Tiberius Claudius Proculus. The legate is with the main detachment of the legion at Moguntiacum on the Rhenus.’
The main gate of the fortress, the porta principalis, was on the east side and guarded by twin towers. To the north a squadron of auxiliary cavalry exercised their horses on a flat area of ground between the arms of the two rivers. Valerius was immediately struck by the style of their armour. Abilio, the escort commander, reined in beside him and studied the riders with professional interest as they wheeled and galloped across the iron-hard earth, forming line and square as if by instinct.
‘They’re good,’ he said. ‘Not as good as us, but still good.’
Valerius smiled at the grudging respect of one horse warrior for another. ‘Their equipment is unusual.’ Something about the tall, plumed helmets and fish scale armour appeared chillingly familiar.
‘Not Thracians, that’s for certain. Moesian?’
‘They’re from the First ala Parthorum,’ Marius informed them. ‘One of the few auxiliary regiments they left us. Four hundred cavalry and six hundred light infantry.’
‘Parthians?’ Valerius had never heard of a Parthian auxiliary unit.
‘Yes, the ala has been in Hispania since the Cantabrian war. Some minor Parthian lord decided he owed tribute to Augustus and they’ve been supplying recruits ever since.’
Valerius detected something in the way he spoke about the easterners.
‘You don’t approve, Marius?’
‘It’s not for me to approve or disapprove, sir,’ Marius said defensively. ‘All I will say is that my commander is very short of mounted soldiers and they are given a latitude not allowed some other units.’
Valerius would have probed deeper, but he saw they were being watched by the officer supervising the auxiliaries. The man considered the newcomers for a few moments before guiding his horse towards them. Valerius kept his wooden fist beneath his cloak, but he needn’t have concerned himself. The officer, a dark-eyed, bearded hawk of a man in a green tunic and polished chain armour, ignored the mere civilian and addressed his auxiliary counterpart.
‘Claudius Harpocration, prefect First ala Parthorum, and you are?’
‘Abilio Sabinus, decurio, First Faithful Vardulli.’
‘So not the reinforcements I asked for?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. Attached to the governor’s household, and currently on escort duty.’ He nodded to the courier. ‘Nursemaids, you might say.’
Harpocration didn’t smile. ‘And how long will you be in Legio?’
‘We’re to accompany the next gold shipment back to Tarraco. We were told we might be here for a week.’
Harpocration stared at him, then nodded slowly. His eyes passed over Valerius as he hauled his horse’s head round and rode back to his men. The one-handed Roman studied the retreating horseman. The last time he’d seen that look was from a Parthian Invincible on the field at Cepha wh
o’d promised to take his head and use it as a drinking bowl.
‘A strange character, and very interested in your comings and goings,’ Valerius said to Abilio.
‘They are a proud people, and arrogant with it,’ Marius answered.
‘Just running an eye over us,’ Abilio said. ‘Not that we’re much to look at, only the ten of us. Now, Marius, which way to the bath house? We’ll want to get cleaned up before we pay our respects to your commander.’
The bath house lay in the south-eastern corner of the fort. Once they’d washed and changed into fresh clothes they made their way through the barrack blocks.
By the time they reached the headquarters Marius had already reported to Tiberius Claudius Proculus. The camp prefect’s secretary announced that he would receive the others individually. Valerius waited in an anteroom while Abilio, the serving officer, had his audience. The legate’s administrative offices formed three sides of a large parade square perhaps a hundred paces in width. The complex stood at the very heart of the camp, at the junction of the Via Praetoria and the Via Principalis. As well as offices it housed a basilica where the commander could address his troops under cover, and the sacellum, where the Sixth’s standards, including its eagle, would normally be stored in suitable dignity. In this case, Valerius suspected, the eagle would be with the legion’s legate at Moguntiacum and the sacellum would contain only a few cohort and century banners. Close to the principia stood the praetorium, the legate’s living quarters.
Eventually, Abilio was ushered out. He flashed Valerius a wry look as he passed. The secretary stood by the door and Valerius walked past him into the inner office. He’d dressed in a fine toga for the meeting and the man behind the desk looked up in surprise.
‘You asked to see me?’ The voice was brittle with suppressed irritation and Proculus’s expression matched it. He had the tormented features of a man condemned to spend life chewing pebbles and broken glass and wondered when the next portion was about to arrive. An unhealthy grey shadow tinged his sunken cheeks.
Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] Page 9
