Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3)

by Douglas Jackson

  But it was the top floor, the fifth, which had drawn these people, the dregs of Rome, the debtors and the dispossessed, to the theatre of Pompey. The man who found his way through the flames to the top floor, if he returned at all, would return rich, thanks to the chest that had been hidden there by the girl, and contained vessels of gold, glittering jewels and enough golden aurei to set someone up in style for the rest of their life.

  ‘See how they cower, Tigellinus, burdened by the lack of courage ingrained in their breeding.’

  The Praetorian nodded gravely and tried to look interested. This was the fifth time he had seen The Fire and he knew that only by taking immediate advantage would any of the men have the chance to reach the top floor before it was consumed. ‘He who hesitates loses all, Caesar,’ he agreed in a bored voice.

  One man, a tall dark-haired fellow braver than the rest, broke the spell, timing his run to coincide with a gap in the flames. His courage inspired or shamed another, and then four or five. As one, they rushed for the stairs, ignoring the inferior treasures on the ground floor which would be secured by those less brave. But the stairway was only wide enough for one man. The dark-haired pleb made it first, with a stocky peasant, a thief by trade, with ugly misshapen features and a missing eye, hard on his heels. The others jammed the narrow space and fought for progress, kicking and punching, until one pulled a dagger and kept his snarling fellows at bay long enough to dart upwards. The house was of particularly cunning manufacture. The builders had used hard and soft woods, and designed damp and dry areas, so it burned in a particular way. This left the upper floors clear of fire, but difficult to access, while those below burned quickly, but still left enough of a way out for a man making his way to the top to believe he had a chance of escape. Already flames were consuming the third floor and those who risked their lives to reach that level had to dash through the narrowest of gaps to reach the next stair. The tall man and the one-eyed thief both made it through, but the man with the knife took one look and retreated. One of his companions darted past and made a grab for a pot overflowing with bronze coin, only to drop shrieking through a gap in the floor and into the maw of the flames on the level below. A roar of applause and guffaws of raucous laughter from twenty thousand throats accompanied his demise.

  By now the first man had reached the silver level. He was clearly the crowd’s favourite and they cheered him on, screaming at him to go for the gold. The slave girl, her stola already smoking in the intense heat, howled at him for help, but her voice was almost drowned out by the jeers of the audience. Remarkably, he hesitated. It was only for the merest fraction of a second, but long enough for the thief to smash him aside and send him sprawling. Still, he recovered quickly; without another glance at the girl he bounded for the stairs, taking them two at a time, only to be met at the top by a flying boot that took him clean in the face. He tumbled down the stairs and lay motionless at the foot. The crowd howled in outrage, but the thief put the chest to his shoulder and charged downstairs, leaping over the prone figure who clawed weakly at his legs. Time was running out. Every floor but the uppermost pair was a mass of flame, and it was clear these would soon be enveloped. Only the stairs provided a tantalizing, narrow and fast closing avenue of escape.

  The tall man rose groggily to his feet and the crowd could sense the calculations running through his mind. He hadn’t risked everything to leave empty-handed and his eyes flickered between the silver and the girl. They screamed at him to take the silver, but he could see it was impossible to carry it all. The girl was as valuable, perhaps more so, as anything he could take in his hands. He ran across floorboards glowing with heat, untied her hands and feet and pulled her upright. At first, she didn’t understand what was happening, but gradually a smile crossed her face. She said something to the tall man no one would ever hear and gave him a hefty push that sent him staggering backwards until his feet met air and he plummeted through the flames of the lower floors to land with a sickening crack on the flagstones four storeys below. As the crowd roared, the girl grabbed what she could from the table and ran for the stairs.

  Two floors below, the one-eyed thief exulted in the knowledge that he was a rich man. Clutching the casket to his chest he groped his way through the smoke to where the stairs to the ground floor smouldered. As he reached them, a faceless figure with the blackened remains of singed tunic protecting his face rose up and stabbed him deep in the guts. The thief screamed at the white-hot agony in his vitals and watched helplessly as the knife man prised the chest from his unprotesting fingers and disappeared from view. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t work. The pain in his insides was like nothing he had ever experienced, but when the flames reached out for him it paled into insignificance and his dying shrieks goaded the crowd to ever greater rapture.

  As the peasant burned, the knife man was making for safety through the flames of the ground floor and was already mentally spending his money when his foot hit some hidden pressure point. Before he could even scream a jet of burning liquid erupted between his feet and made him one with the inferno that surrounded him.

  Now the only living thing in the burning building was the slave girl. When she reached the first floor she could tell the location of the stairs by the blue flame that consumed the thief’s fat. She knew there was no escape by that route but she had lived by her wits for half her life and now it stood her in good stead. Still holding her loot, she ran directly into the flames and leapt through what had been the open front of the room. It was only a single storey, but when she landed she felt her ankle snap and she realized her hair was on fire. Her only consolation was the cheers of the crowd and the silver scattered around her.

  As she lay exhausted, the applause grew louder and she looked up into the face of the Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Germanicus, who regarded her with a benevolent smile. ‘Get rid of her, Tigellinus. She’s no good to anyone now.’ He turned away to accept the justified acclaim of the mob. Had there ever been a better entertainment?

  Just then, the storm broke and great droplets of rain hammered down on the dry stones and hissed among the burning timbers. He looked up to the heavens and allowed the cool water to pour over his face. It was a sign. He was still the favourite of the gods.

  XIII

  WHEN VALERIUS OPENED his eyes the storm might never have happened. After a night shivering in the open he luxuriated in the warmth of the first gentle rays of the dawn, but instinct told him he would be cursing the sun by the day’s end. It rose in the east, as always, creating a golden corridor across the darkened sands, but east was not where he expected it to be. It should have been behind him, as he faced the sea; instead, it was directly to his right. As he watched, the sands glowed first a fiery, orange red before mellowing to a deep pink, and he gradually became aware of his surroundings. The dangerous beauty of it assaulted his senses and the terrible reality turned his viscera to liquid ice.

  The two small groups of survivors were the only living things on a flat sandy beach that ran as far as the eye could see to east and west. Worse, when he looked inland the landscape consisted of fold after fold of rolling dunes stretching far into the distance. Not a tree or a blade of grass. No hint of water or habitation. Not even a scrap of cover. He tried to recall the details of the maps he had studied of the eastern Mare Nostrum. Unless the contours of the coastline were deceiving him, it seemed clear they had been driven much further south than any of them had anticipated. Not to the shores of Judaea, but to Egypt, and not to the fertile area of Egypt which flanked the Nile delta, but a much more forbidding shore: a sixty-or seventy-mile strip of deserted, barren coastline where even the nomads of the interior were reluctant to venture.

  Only when he turned back to the sea did he find any reason to hope. The Golden Cygnet, or at least part of her gilded hull, had somehow survived thanks to her solid construction. It rocked placidly in the waves of a wide, shallow bay, battered, but more or less intact, a hundred paces from the shore. Exhaustion weighed hi
m down, but he knew he had to stir himself. Already he could feel the strength of the sun growing. They needed to act or die.

  He called to Serpentius to issue a ration of water – two precious mouthfuls for every man and woman – and while it was handed out he gave his orders. Twelve crewmen survived from a complement of twenty, two of them with broken bones and another who was coughing blood and probably wouldn’t last the day. He tried not to give thanks for the five extra mouths who had perished in the surf as they escaped the shipwreck, but he knew their deaths and those of Aurelius, Capito, Cronos and Julius might mean the difference between death and survival for the rest.

  He called the sailors together, but kept Tiberius’s guards aside in a separate group. ‘We need to strip the ship of everything worthwhile.’ His voice sounded hoarse from two days of shouting against the wind. ‘The first priority is water, of which there may be more, even if it is slightly tainted. But we must also have shelter or the sun will roast us alive.’ He pointed to four of the men. ‘You will concentrate on shelter. If it has survived, bring the covered awning that was on the deck for the women. There must be a spare sail; bring that also, and rope.’ The others he tasked to scour the ship for water, food and any timber or tools that might be useful.

  ‘Why tools? If we’re here long enough to build something we’ll already be dead.’

  Valerius tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Why must they waste precious time? ‘Because with tools we can make fish hooks and spears. You’ve all speared flatfish? The sandy bottom is perfect for them. We can eat the flesh and drink the blood. If we move from here we can use the tools to fashion litters for the injured and to carry the food and water.’

  ‘Aye, blood,’ moaned another. ‘Flatfish isn’t the only thing in these waters. There’s sharks as well, I’ve seen them, long as a steering oar and with a mouthful of teeth that can tear a man’s arm off, begging your pardon, sir.’

  Valerius laughed with the rest and tossed the man his knife. ‘When it comes for you, kill it and we’ll have it for dinner. Now get on with it, before the sun broils our brains.’

  When they set off fearfully through the shallow seas – he had never met a sailor who was happy in water – he summoned the two fit cavalrymen. ‘Do it carefully,’ he told the senior of the two men, a Batavian named Civilis, ‘and without making it noticeable, but I want every weapon on that ship brought to me. Every spear and sword.’

  Tiberius had stood silent as Valerius gave the orders and now he nodded his approval. ‘We keep the weapons, the food and the water under our control, and build two separate shelters far enough apart to give the lady Domitia privacy.’ He studied Valerius seriously. ‘You realize that some of them saw her in her shift and liked what they saw? I have seen them looking at her. They are hungry, and not just for food.’

  ‘Why do you think I made certain the weapons will be in our hands, not theirs? They are decent enough by their own lights, but when a man thinks he’s going to die he will resort to desperate measures to get what another man is keeping from him. The second shelter will be split by a curtain to give the general’s daughter a space of her own, but allow one of us to always be with her.’

  Tiberius bowed. ‘I will guard her with my life.’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘I have another task for you, Tiberius.’ They walked to where Serpentius sat casually by the spot where they’d buried the pile of water skins to keep them out of the sun. The Spaniard was feeding the gelding with a mouthful of oats he had found among the foodstuffs they’d managed to rescue. The horse Tiberius had lost in the wreck had been one of the finest animals Valerius had ever seen and he guessed that the young tribune was more at home in the saddle than any of them. ‘I want you to ride for help.’

  Tiberius gave a little whistle. He looked up at the sun and then took in the scorched, barren landscape all around them. He knew he was being asked to commit suicide. ‘Of course, tribune.’ He produced a grave smile as he agreed to ride to almost certain death.

  ‘Serpentius? How many water skins?’

  The Spaniard shrugged. ‘Twenty at the last count, but maybe they’ll find more in the ship.’

  Valerius drew a curve in the sand. ‘If I’m right, here is Judaea to the northeast. To the west, Egypt proper where most of the settlements will be clustered along the valley of the Nile. Sixty miles between them. Which puts the wreck somewhere around here.’ He pointed to a patch of sand in the centre of the curve between the two areas he’d circled. ‘So, east or west?’

  Tiberius studied the impromptu map, frowning as he concentrated on the scrawls in the sand. ‘East or west?’ he repeated. ‘Thirty miles. Two days in the saddle if I rest at night. Thirty miles at most if we choose correctly, but there is no guarantee that we are in the geographical centre, so anything up to forty or fifty if we don’t.’

  Valerius nodded. They both knew that if they chose wrongly they were probably all dead. ‘We’ll split the water and pour as much into the horse as he’ll take. You can carry what’s left of your half with you.’

  Tiberius shook his head. ‘That only leaves ten water skins among twenty,’ he pointed out. ‘Two pints to a person. Even if I reach help on the third day it will take us another two to get back here. You’ll never survive on two pints of water a man in this heat.’

  Serpentius snorted and the two men looked at him. ‘I know, it’s a terrible plan,’ Valerius said. ‘But if you can think of anything better I’ll be happy to hear it.’ He waited, but it seemed no one could. ‘In this heat, ride through the night when it’s coolest. You’ll save the horse and save on water. I say go west. There’s a rebellion in Judaea and when there’s blood in the gutter people don’t take kindly to strangers. Even if you do reach a settlement there’s a good chance they’ll cut your throat just for being Roman.’

  Yes,’ Tiberius said slowly. ‘I agree. West. If I keep the sea always to my right and follow the beach I could make good time.’

  Valerius nodded his approval, relieved that the decision had been taken. It was only later that the awful twisting in the guts of not knowing whether it had been the right one would come. But this was no time for doubt. He clapped the young man on the shoulder.

  ‘Then let’s get it done,’ he said decisively. ‘You can make ten or fifteen miles then hole up in the nearest shade, if you can find any, until nightfall. I want you out of here before the crew returns from stripping the ship. If they find out we only have half the water they think we have I’ll have another mutiny on my hands.’

  Serpentius was already digging for the water skins and Tiberius took the horse aside to check his gait and hooves. Valerius knew by the way he vaulted on to the animal’s back that he had made the right choice.

  ‘Does he have a name?’ Tiberius asked.

  ‘He’s a soldier’s horse. He doesn’t need one.’

  ‘Then I’ll call him Hercules.’ Tiberius grinned. ‘We need a hero.’

  While they were waiting for the water, Domitia hobbled up with her arm round Suki, the African slave girl. Valerius explained Tiberius’s mission.

  ‘I pray for Fortuna’s good wishes, and may you travel with the speed of Mercury,’ Domitia said, and Valerius could have sworn Tiberius glowed in the light of her favour.

  ‘I will not let you down, lady,’ he assured her with a shy smile.

  While Serpentius watered Hercules. Valerius gave the younger man some last advice. ‘Take it gently at first. Get used to each other. When night comes make the best speed you can, but don’t push too hard. Don’t kill yourself but, more important, don’t kill the horse. I want him back.’

  Tiberius smiled at the poor jest and mounted Hercules, with the water skins draped around him. Before he rode off he leaned from the saddle and took Valerius’s wooden fist in his hand. ‘I promise I will not fail you, my friend.’

  Valerius turned to find Domitia staring at him. For a moment he was lost in the dark eyes, before he remembered that she was the general’s da
ughter. It was the first time in days he’d thought about his original mission. Paulinus’s appearance at the villa seemed a long time ago; Domitia’s father’s guilt or innocence insignificant. Even the thought of the threat to Olivia produced nothing more than a dull ache. These things were beyond his control now. They could be left to the Fates.

  His immediate priority was to keep Domitia Longina Corbulo alive, at least until everyone else was dead. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but you couldn’t drink hope. He picked up one of the water skins. It would deprive someone of their share in thirty-six hours or forty-eight, but it might mean she lived for the last hour it took for help to arrive, and that made it right.

  He held out the skin. She licked her lips, but shook her head. ‘I will drink when everyone else does.’

  Valerius resisted the temptation to insist. Clearly, keeping her alive was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

  The first sailors returned carrying pieces of the curtained awning and it was the work of a few minutes to erect a tent on the sand. Domitia and her girls retired gratefully away from the worst glare of the sun. He noticed that the sailors were very keen to return to the ship, and also that those he had sent to fetch water still hadn’t returned. That made him wonder, and the suspicion prompted him to order Serpentius to disinter two of the water skins from the pit and conceal them somewhere else. Perhaps he was wrong to put so little faith in the men’s honesty, but he doubted it. The Spaniard laughed and Valerius realized he’d already taken the precaution of laying one or two aside.

  The bulk of the men returned thirty minutes later, suspiciously cheerful and a few of them carrying water skins that they dumped in the sand at Valerius’s feet. Still not enough for five days, but an improvement. The haul of other goods was better than he had expected, including a flint and iron from Aurelius’s belongings that would allow them to start a fire if they could find something to fuel it. There were sacks of damp wheatmeal that would only be a little saltier than normal when they turned it into porridge, and sufficient board and sailcloth to make a second shelter and provide a substantial enough partition for Domitia’s pavilion to make it respectable for her guards to sleep there. He waited until they had all returned and Tiberius’s German cavalrymen had deposited their clanking sacks with Serpentius before he gathered the sailors in an untidy mismatched rank to thank them for their efforts. A few just stared at him, but enough of them were hiding grins and shuffling their feet to make him sure he was right.