Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7]

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘It will be the highlight of her day,’ the trader assured Valerius, ‘but we’ll make this the last one just in case. Salus.’

  ‘Health,’ Valerius returned the greeting. ‘How long have you been here?’

  The merchant shifted his bulk to a more comfortable position. ‘I arrived two days ago. Fortunately, I picked up some bolts of fine cloth in Clunia for a bargain price from the wife of a recently deceased dressmaker. I’ve already made a decent return on my investment.’

  ‘And how do you find Asturica, apart from its rustic nature?’

  Petro took his time before answering. ‘Much like any other frontier town. Full of possibilities, but keep your eyes open because when they smile into your face like as not they’ll be picking your purse. And tense.’ He gave Valerius a shrewd look. ‘Take those two auxiliaries in the shadow of the awning about twenty paces up the street.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When they turned the corner they looked terribly concerned. Their eyes searched the street and when they fell on this bar they suddenly relaxed.’ He shrugged. ‘A trader learns to keep his wits about him and to read a man’s face or he won’t be a trader for long. They’ve been sitting there ever since, watching us. Tell me, is it me they’re interested in, or you?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Petro grinned. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’ He drained his cup and picked up the jug. ‘A pity to waste this.’ He stood up. ‘Wait a few moments before joining me inside.’ He disappeared through the doorway. Valerius took two more sips of wine and followed without a glance at the hovering auxiliaries.

  Petro was waiting by an opening at the rear of the bar, where the slave girl stood to one side rubbing a silver coin between her fingers. ‘This way,’ the merchant said. They emerged into a living area. From there Petro led the way to a doorway out on to a street that ran parallel to the one where they’d been sitting. ‘I will not ask you why someone would be following you,’ he continued. ‘For me, it is natural. A man who travels for a living picks up news and gossip and will trade it for other pieces of news and gossip. It is not long before he has the word “spy” dogging his footsteps.’

  Valerius nodded in understanding ‘A friend once told me: From Antioch to Alexandria every man is a spy and today’s friend is tomorrow’s deadly enemy.’

  ‘Wise words, lord,’ Petro said. ‘And you would do well to keep them in mind while you’re in Asturica. How long do you intend to stay?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ Valerius admitted. ‘My time here hasn’t been as productive as I’d hoped.’

  ‘A pity to be away from your new wife for any longer than necessary.’ Petro smiled at his reaction before Valerius remembered he’d let slip the news of his recent marriage during the voyage. ‘And perhaps the pain of your long parting might be eased if you returned with a suitable gift.’

  Valerius frowned. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘As it happens part of my haul in Clunia was a bolt of the finest Indian silk. I will sell you enough to manufacture a dress that will make your lady the envy of every other woman in Rome …’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘And at the same price I paid for it.’

  They’d returned to a square near the city’s main gate and Valerius stopped to consider. Perhaps Petro was right? He remembered Tabitha glowing with pleasure as she’d studied lengths of cloth outside a dress shop in Apamea. ‘Which is your stall?’ He looked around for a likely candidate.

  ‘Not in the city.’ Petro looked at him as if he were mad. ‘These thieves would squeeze me until I didn’t make a sesterce of profit. Taxes? Only a fool pays taxes. No, my wares are outside the walls. Come, I will show you.’

  Valerius followed him out of the gate past the disapproving glares of the tax officials. Petro flicked his fingers in an obscene gesture and laughed.

  The merchant crossed the ground surprisingly swiftly for such a bulky man. He led the way through the avenue of tombs that lined the road into Asturica, before turning off into a wooded area. They followed a path through the trees to a clearing by a stream where Petro had set up his tent. An assistant, who must have been recruited since the trader arrived in Hispania, watched over wares set out on a portable table. Nearby a tethered horse and a string of mules stood nibbling at the long grass.

  ‘The silk is too valuable to leave on display in the sun.’ Petro ducked into the tent. ‘See,’ he held out a bolt of shimmering turquoise cloth, inviting Valerius to run his fingers across it.

  A flicker in Petro’s eyes should have warned him. As Valerius bent to touch the cloth a rope whipped round his neck and a knee smashed into his back knocking the breath from him. Only the act of bowing his head saved him from being choked to death in those first few seconds. Instead of tightening on his throat the cord caught on his chin, pinning it back against his neck. As he struggled against the terrible force his assailant sawed the rope into his flesh and tried to find a position where he could get a killing grip.

  Valerius ignored the burning pain and clawed at the rope with his left hand, flailing behind him with the wooden fist of his right. The blood roared in his ears, and he heard the sound of Petro’s mocking laughter. Something smashed into the back of his head and the assassin used the stunned heartbeat that followed to shift the position of the rope. Valerius cried out as he felt it tighten round his windpipe in a grip of iron. He couldn’t breathe. His vision began to go.

  ‘Remember to let him know he’s dying, Lucius,’ Petro ordered. ‘Our employer was most insistent about that.’

  A momentary slackening allowed Valerius to gasp in a mouthful of air before the rope tightened again. No matter how he struggled it was impossible to reach the man behind him. He was going to die.

  Without warning the rope slackened again. This time it was accompanied by a flood of something warm on the back of Valerius’s neck. He waited for a renewal of pressure, but it never came. Instead the cord fell away and he slumped forward clutching his throat and cawing like an angry crow. He looked up to see Petro standing with a look of horror on his face. The fat merchant turned to run, but before he’d gone two paces a knife hilt materialized in the centre of his back and he collapsed on his face with a cry of mortal agony.

  A tall, dark-haired man strode past Valerius and plucked the knife from Petro’s spine, wiping the blade on the trader’s tunic. He nudged the body on to its back with his foot and ran the knife across his victim’s throat just to make sure. When he was satisfied, he returned to where Valerius lay still stunned. Without a word he lifted the Roman’s chin. Valerius waited for the sting of the knife, but eyes the colour of a gathering storm only studied him thoughtfully.

  ‘You’ll live,’ the man said eventually. ‘It’ll burn for a few days, but you should find someone in Asturica who can give you balm for it.’ He nodded over Valerius’s shoulder. ‘You were lucky he was told to make it slow or they’d have been burying you along with them.’

  Valerius turned to see Petro’s servant lying on the ground with a pool of dark blood around his head and a ragged gash across his throat.

  ‘Who are you?’ He winced as he massaged his throat.

  The tall man ignored the question. ‘For reasons I haven’t been told, it would have been inconvenient if you died today, but my employer says to tell you the reprieve is purely temporary.’ A cold smile flickered across the craggy features. ‘Who knows, it might be me who comes for you next time.’

  ‘Your employer?’ Valerius was utterly bemused.

  ‘If you want my advice,’ his rescuer continued as if Valerius hadn’t spoken, ‘you’ll get out of Asturica tonight. I saw two auxiliaries following you, but there was another, more dangerous by far. I knew he was there, but I could never mark him. I’m sure he’ll be watching us now, which means my work in Asturica is done.’

  ‘I can’t leave …’

  ‘Then you will surely die here.’

  XXVIII

  The tall man departed without
a backward glance leaving Valerius sitting with two lifeless bodies. Valerius knew he should move, but somehow he couldn’t get the message to his legs. He’d seen this kind of behaviour before in the aftermath of a battle. Soldiers utterly paralysed by the recent terror of a brush with death. If he was found with Petro and his servant in their present state, awkward questions would be asked, at the very least. His powerful enemies in Asturica would certainly use it as a pretext to have him arrested or expelled from the city.

  He forced himself to his hands and knees. His mind spun and a fiery jet of bile burned his throat as he spewed up the contents of his stomach. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and tried to keep the folds of his toga out of the spreading pool of sick. The vomit seemed to clear his head and he managed to stagger to his feet with the help of the tent pole. He stood for a moment, swaying, before he headed back to the city on shaking legs.

  Nobody took any notice as Valerius staggered through the gate against the flow of traders leaving for the night. He made his way east towards his lodgings. The rope burns on his chin and neck throbbed terribly. He should buy some kind of ointment, but most of the shops were closed.

  He flinched as someone appeared at his side without warning. ‘Are you all right, lord?’ Aurelio asked. ‘I saw you stumble a while back and your face is very pale.’

  ‘I …’ Valerius couldn’t get the words out and his vision blurred. Aurelio took him by the arm and led him towards a nearby bar, coincidentally the one he’d sat at earlier with the now deceased Petro.

  ‘A cup of wine will help,’ Aurelio said. Valerius reached for his purse, but the other man shook his head. ‘Elia?’ he called. ‘Two cups of well-watered wine and put it on the master’s account.’

  The slave girl emerged and placed the order on the bench beside them. Aurelio handed Valerius one and he tentatively lifted it to his mouth. The action exposed his neck and Aurelio sucked in a breath.

  ‘What happened to your throat?’ Valerius shook his head mutely, still unable to speak. ‘You look as if you’ve tried to hang yourself. Or,’ he’d said it with a smile, but the smile transformed into a frown, ‘someone tried to do it for you?’

  Valerius took another drink, swallowed tentatively and at last found his voice.

  ‘Two men,’ he croaked. ‘They tried to kill me.’

  ‘Two men? Here?’

  ‘Outside the walls. There’s a wood. They lured me there and one tried to strangle me.’

  ‘But why?’ Aurelio demanded. ‘Why would anyone want to kill you, unless … Could it be something to do with your search for your friend?’

  Valerius shook his head and took another drink. ‘Thank you.’ He lifted the clay cup. ‘No. One of them was on the ship that brought me from Rome to Tarraco. He befriended me during the voyage and must have tracked me to Asturica. Like a fool I followed him.’

  ‘Yet you survived.’ Aurelio’s eyes drifted back towards the main gate. ‘And they?’

  ‘Are dead.’

  Aurelio considered this for a few moments before making his decision. ‘You must wait here.’ He got to his feet. ‘If you need another drink just ask Elia. Melanius needs to know about this. The odd murder isn’t unusual in Asturica, but two in one afternoon might draw attention where it’s not needed. It’ll be dark soon so they probably won’t be found until morning. If we act quickly, maybe we can do something about it by then.’

  He stalked off leaving Valerius with his drink. Though his mind still reeled from what had happened it had begun to recover its logical powers. He noted, for instance, that Aurelio hadn’t asked how the two men died, assuming that Valerius had somehow overpowered them. It meant either he had a surprising faith in Valerius’s physical capabilities – of which the Roman was certain he’d given no evidence – or Melanius had revealed more of Valerius’s background than he was comfortable with. Likewise the sudden, violent deaths of two men had elicited no visible reaction. That was unusual in a civilian, even one employed by the very capable Melanius. One thing was certain. The Aurelio who’d accompanied him to the Red Hills mine differed greatly from the man who’d reacted so calmly tonight. And that bore thinking about.

  As did the man who’d saved him. Only now, when the turmoil in his mind had settled, could he properly consider what had occurred and what had been said.

  It would have been inconvenient if you died today, but my employer says to tell you the reprieve is purely temporary.

  There were plenty of reasons in Valerius’s past that could have brought Petro to Asturica. He was not a man who made friends easily, but he’d made enemies from Britannia to Syria, some of them at the highest levels of Roman society. Yet when he recalled Petro’s last words only one face came to mind.

  Remember to let him know he’s dying, Petro had said. That spoke of a long-nursed hatred and a deadly enmity. Titus Flavius Domitianus had sent assassins to dog his footsteps from Rome to Antioch and beyond. Valerius had killed at least two and seen off several more. Domitian was now a prince of Rome. Valerius had believed his own new status as a valued adviser to the Emperor gave him immunity from his enemy’s wrath. Yet Petro had undoubtedly been sent by Domitian.

  So who had sent his saviour?

  My employer says to tell you the reprieve is purely temporary. Who knows, it might be me who comes for you next time.

  It seemed so bizarre and unlikely as to be impossible, yet there could be no other explanation. Domitian had sent the first assassin, Petro, and for some reason experienced an unlikely change of heart. In typically ruthless fashion he’d then dispatched a second assassin to assassinate the first. What had caused this change that saved his life? Valerius could only speculate, but he guessed it must have involved pressure from the Emperor, or Domitian’s brother Titus. There was also a third, tantalizing, possibility. That somehow Domitia Longina Corbulo was involved.

  Whatever the reason, he was alive. The only question was whether he could stay that way. Elia emerged from the bar, lit two lamps and hung them from the awning. Soon Valerius would need a torch to see him home and there was no sign of Aurelio. He made his decision.

  ‘If Aurelio comes back tell him I decided to leave,’ he told the girl.

  Few carts used the streets at this time of the night and he kept to the centre of the cobbles, his way lit by the glow of lamps from the adjoining houses and workshops. Every shadow and darkened alleyway felt like a threat. The scent of woodsmoke from a thousand cooking fires competed with the daytime reek from gutters that were little more than open sewers, and the warm, soft air created an almost physical barrier. He touched his left hand to his neck where the rope had bitten into his throat and winced at the fiery bolt that made his eyes water. Two more seconds. If the tall man … The thought made him shudder. One more try. He would give it one more try and if it failed he would return to Tabitha, forget Asturica ever existed and make a life in Fidenae. For the first time in a long while he felt alone and vulnerable. Vespasian and Titus thought him hard and ruthless – he almost laughed aloud – but, in truth, war had worn him thin. Not physically. He retained the physical attributes that had kept him alive against all the odds. Inside his head, in a way that made him a shadow of the man he had once been. He hated this solitary existence in a place where he could trust no man and call none friend. He remembered Petro’s companionable laughter and the moment his face had changed. The old Valerius would have been ready with a blade in his hand. Would never have turned his back on the servant. He longed for the comradeship of Serpentius and the brotherhood of the legions. A companion to share his worries and act as his faithful right hand.

  The distant mountains created a jagged silhouette against the faint glow of the dying sun. Where was Serpentius now? Was he truly the bandit they called the Ghost? Or had he set up home with some dark-eyed beauty, drinking his own wine and making a fortune growing olives? The hills drew Valerius’s eyes again. He snorted with self-disgust. He wouldn’t know where to start looking and without an escort he
’d be as vulnerable as a newly hatched chick.

  The faint sound of stealthy footsteps behind him. His left hand slipped towards the wooden fist and anyone listening carefully would have heard a soft metallic click. He turned the next corner and in a single fluid movement slipped into the nearest shadow.

  A hooded figure appeared with its right hand raised. Valerius stepped forward and placed the tip of the wooden fist’s four-inch blade against the pulsing artery in his pursuer’s neck.

  ‘You have many enemies in Asturica, Gaius Valerius Verrens, but I am not one.’ The hood slipped back of its own accord and Aurelio opened his fist to reveal a small wooden tub. ‘A balm for your burns. It is made from aloe and spirits of wine and the man who mixed it assures me it will ease your pain.’

  Valerius took a step back, but he didn’t lower the blade.

  The Asturian’s eyes widened imperceptibly when he saw the hidden weapon and his voice was full of admiration. ‘Clever. Very clever. Now I understand how you were able to survive the attentions of a pair of hired assassins. Don’t worry, your trader friend and his assistant won’t trouble you any further. They will vanish like the fog on a summer morning and I’m pleased to say their wares will pay for it.’ He grinned at his own ingenuity. ‘That was what kept me, but you shouldn’t have left the bar. These streets can be dangerous.’

  Valerius turned and pressed the point of the knife against a wooden doorpost so it retracted into the fist.

  ‘Before I was attacked tonight I attended a dinner at the house of Severus, the duovir. There was a young man, a tribune from the Sixth at Legio, Calpurnius Piso. What can you tell me about him?’