Avenger of Rome (Gaius Valerius Verrens 3)

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘No,’ the legionary rasped through gritted teeth. ‘Here I am and here I’ll stay. Just let the bastards come.’

  But the bastards would not come. Not until the Roman line was a shattered, reeling shadow of what it was now. Only when Corbulo’s proud legions had been humbled would Vologases loose his champions, the armoured cataphracts led by men like Sasan, invulnerable to arrow, sling and spear and wielding the twelve-foot lance that could smash through a shield to pin a legionary like a cockroach. They would scythe through the thinned ranks the way he had once seen a runaway cart smash through a market crowd, leaving broken bodies in their wake for the Parthian infantry, the poorly armed dregs of Vologases’ army, to finish off. Then the way would be open to Tigranocerta and Artaxata and the King of Kings would sit upon his brother’s throne and dare Rome to evict him.

  But Corbulo had not come here to lose, just as Tiberius had not come here only to fight and die.

  Night must arrive soon, and with it respite, and somewhere out there in the darkness was Valerius with the Roman cavalry. Thoughts of Valerius made him ponder the nature of friendship. For a few blessed moments he allowed his mind to wander. Tiberius Claudius Crescens was a young man whose upbringing had made friendship difficult, if not impossible. Discipline had been beaten into him from the beginning and with discipline came responsibility. He was a personable child and people warmed to him, but whenever he became close to the men of his father’s command, or the bastard children who swarmed the village outside the fort, something always seemed to happen. He would see a rusty sword which must be reported. A boy’s mother might have stolen an egg or another woman’s ragged blanket. He called it honesty. They called it betrayal. Gradually they had learned not to trust him, and eventually to avoid him entirely. Even his brother had not been his friend, for he had been engineered to exhibit the same qualities. Eventually he had doubted that he would ever know the true meaning of friendship. Yet when he had met Valerius he had felt an unexpected warmth for another human being that surprised him. It was not only admiration for the scarred tribune’s fighting qualities and the battle honours he had won. From the first, Valerius had treated him with respect and an affection that was almost brotherly. He remembered the epic fight on the ship and the contest of minds that was as intense as that of the swords. Somehow there was a bond between them that transcended mere acquaintance. He knew he didn’t lack courage, far from it, but sometimes the battlefield could be a lonely place and he wished more than anything that Valerius could be here by his side. A weary sigh escaped him. What would tomorrow bring? For the moment, he was beyond caring. All he knew as the great drums thundered, the arrows fell and the men died, was that he must endure. And survive.

  From his position behind the Roman line Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo watched his soldiers suffer and die. This was his plan, his decision, and there was no place in his mind for uncertainty. Yes, he could feel pride, even compassion for the men under his command who were bleeding out on the plain, but wars could not be fought without casualties. These men were legionaries and sometimes it was a legionary’s duty to suffer and die, just as it was a commander’s duty to stand and watch them do so. He studied the ebb and flow of the attacks with intense concentration. Somewhere in the centre of that immense throng the King of Kings wrestled with his own version of Corbulo’s Caesar. He could almost feel the other man’s frustration. More than ever, he was certain time was the enemy of Vologases. The Parthian army was composed of a volatile mix of the followers of power-hungry warlords and petty kings from all over his empire. They were impatient men with estates to work and harvests to gather. Flattery and bribery were the only diplomacy they understood. The King of Kings had promised them swift success and all the plunder they could carry. He could not afford to be blocked for long. Vologases’ dispositions opened up his mind to Corbulo as if he was reading a map. The Parthian needed a quick victory, but was wary of the heavy casualties it might require. So far there was nothing new, and despite the losses Corbulo was suffering he found that reassuring. Vologases’ horse-archers came in their thousands all along the Roman line, and with each wave a hail of arrows poured down on the wall of shields. Many of those shields must now be twice as heavy as when the day started because of the sheer weight of arrows embedded in them. But some of the arrows found gaps. Men bled or died in their ranks or crawled away between their comrades’ feet to be replaced by those to the rear.

  Behind the archers waited the heavy cavalry so central to the Parthian war machine. Magnificently armoured warriors, the cream of the Parthian nobility, mounted on big horses bred to take their enormous weight. They would not be used until Vologases was certain of victory. Behind them and forming the great mass of the army were the infantry, peasant conscripts dragged reluctantly from their homes and farms by their overlords. Poorly equipped and poorly led, they were of use only once the enemy was broken and on the run. Against a determined legion they were little more than fodder for his men’s swords, but their sheer numbers made them a threat and Corbulo knew he could not discount them from his plans. Furthest back, out of Corbulo’s sight, would be the Parthian baggage train, from where the long lines of camels ambled forward to resupply the archers. There, far beyond his reach, lay the vast supplies required to keep an army of this size in the field.

  He looked to the sky. Another hour before darkness. He doubted that Vologases would send his cataphracts now. Darkness was Rome’s ally. It would give the soldiers of the Tenth Fretensis respite from the storm of arrows they had endured for most of the long afternoon. But respite did not mean rest.

  It was not the Parthian way to attack at night, but that might not always be so. If he were Vologases he might risk a massed attack of heavy cavalry riding shoulder to shoulder beneath a sky filled with fire arrows. A guard must be set and a line maintained. He studied his battered cohorts. They had borne their torment well, perhaps too well. Tomorrow, timing would be everything. Vologases must be tempted by his enemy’s weakness.

  He called the commander of the Tenth Fretensis to him. The grey-haired legate’s face was lined with exhaustion, but his salute was brisk. ‘Are the screens ready, Traianus?’

  ‘Another hour, I believe, sir.’

  It would have to do. ‘I want them in place as soon as darkness falls. Once it’s done remove every second century behind the pit line. At first light they are to lie down behind the auxiliaries where the Parthians can’t see their shields. The Fifteenth will also withdraw behind the pits and form a new defensive line there. Vologases must be enticed by our weakness, but we cannot be so weak that he thinks he is being drawn into a trap.’

  ‘Then may I make a suggestion?’

  Corbulo nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Place the remaining cavalry ala in the front line in two wings protecting the flanks. Vologases will believe you have been forced to use every man to hold it.’

  It was a sensible idea and Corbulo pondered it for a few moments before deciding against. ‘Either we lose too many horses when we withdraw through the pits, or they take the diagonal paths and risk the enemy identifying them and using them as well. No, the shields will hold the line.’

  So tomorrow the legionaries would again suffer and die beneath the arrow showers until they were reduced enough to invite the twelve-foot spears of Vologases’ cataphracts to annihilate them.

  And unless Gaius Valerius Verrens and his cavalry could do the impossible, the army of Corbulo would die with them.

  XL

  UNDER THE DULL light of an ochre moon, Valerius allowed himself to be pulled up the track holding tight to the tail of the horse in front while he led Khamsin by her harness. The path was so narrow and hemmed in by rocks that they had been forced into single file, but the engineer assured him that when they reached the top of the steep slope the column would be able to disperse. Valerius prayed that was true, because the last thing he needed was a fighting force scattered across ten miles of mountains. For the hundredth time he told himself th
at this was no place for horses and that Corbulo’s plan was madness.

  He was grateful for the moon, because no man liked darkness and a soldier’s superstitions were multiplied by the night. Before the march his cavalrymen had hurriedly made their sacrifices to Mars or Mithras, but the gods, Roman or Syrian, could only placate the dead, not banish them, and their ghosts undoubtedly inhabited these fearsome hills. Valerius had learned not to fear the dead in Britain, where he had once spent the night surrounded by three thousand gutted corpses from the Ninth legion. The memory was with him still, but it was a memory of courage and sacrifice and a fight to the death with no thought of surrender. He tried to focus on Domitia, but her face was distorted as if he was seeing it through shattered green glass and only her eyes were distinct; eyes that did not carry the message he expected or hoped for. A stumble forced him to concentrate on the path. It followed the contours of the hills, which loomed above like broad-shouldered giants, and the men allowed the horses to pick their own way on cloth-wrapped hooves through gullies and across precipitous slopes where the track had been gouged from the earth. Often, Valerius found himself walking in dense blackness with a sense of an immense void a few feet to his right, but he had trusted in Khamsin and she never let him down.

  He walked behind the engineer near the head of the snaking, endless line of men and horses and Petronius told him how he came to know this inaccessible wilderness.

  ‘It was at the end of the second campaign, while Corbulo was negotiating the peace. He had heard of the Cepha gap and immediately recognized its strategic importance – he is like that, no detail is too unimportant to be ignored – and asked me to survey it and the surrounding area. I was here for two months dressed in Armenian rags in the dead of winter. I marked out the site for a fort, if ever one were needed, but I wanted to know if the fort could be outflanked to the east, and if truth be told these mountains have a certain fascination. Men have lived here for thousands of years. There are cave cities close to our route that I would like to have visited again, but I fear we will have other priorities …’

  A ragged scream cut the darkness from somewhere behind, followed by the muted thunder of crashing rocks. Horse or man or both? Petronius hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing anyone could do. The gods only knew how many more had been lost among the forces behind. For a few oppressive moments they waited for the sound of violent reaction that would signal the column’s discovery, but Valerius knew he could depend on the scouts who ranged ahead seeking any sign of a Parthian presence. The two men carried on until they reached a broad basin, almost a huge natural amphitheatre, and Valerius ordered the lead elements to halt and allow the tail of the column to catch up.

  ‘Make the most of the next two or three miles,’ Petronius advised. ‘The worst comes when we leave the road and begin our descent towards the Tigris.’

  ‘Road?’ Serpentius laughed. ‘Even in Asturia this wouldn’t be called a road.’

  ‘Well,’ the engineer said, offended. ‘You will see just how good a road this is before dawn.’

  It was past midnight now. They had been in the hills for four hours and Petronius reckoned they had only covered half the distance they needed before dawn. The route had taken them in a great flanking arc from the Cepha gap, first to the east and then south, on a perilous, little-used smugglers’ track. ‘There is a dried-up watercourse to the west, below the road,’ the engineer explained. ‘I will know it when I see it, but that is difficult enough in daylight. It leads to a broad gully that will bring us to the river downstream of the Tigris crossing point. If we can gather there undetected and form up on the open plain north of the river we have a chance.’

  He didn’t have to say it was only a slim chance and that at the first shout of warning Valerius and his ten thousand would be facing the bulk of the King of Kings’ seventy-thousand-strong army. But that was for the future. What mattered now was that they reach the gully before dawn.

  Despite their slow progress, Petronius insisted it could be done, and done in time, but that was before the patrol returned and reported the lights. The scout was a wiry, dark-skinned Numidian and he made his report in the slang-ridden dog Latin that was the common tongue of auxiliary units across the Empire.

  ‘We saw fires in the ground, lord …’

  ‘He must mean the caves,’ Petronius interrupted.

  ‘We obeyed your order not to attack, only look. They were hid in the ground, so I had to go closer to count their numbers, lord.’

  ‘How many were they?’ Valerius asked.

  The man raised his open hands twice in answer, then showed four fingers.

  ‘And where?’

  He gave a long complicated explanation and Petronius groaned aloud.

  ‘I know this place. A mile ahead. Caves set into the base of a cliff wall in the next valley.’

  His face gave Valerius his answer before he asked the question. ‘Can we bypass them?’

  Petronius shook his head. ‘We need to go through the valley to reach the riverbed. We could never slip past unnoticed with this many men.’

  Valerius could feel the weight of the cavalry units backing up behind. There could only be one decision. He called for Hanno. ‘A hundred of your best. This man will guide you. Make it quick, but be sure none escapes.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Serpentius volunteered. Valerius opened his mouth to refuse, but Serpentius was like a ghost in the dark and as good a man with a knife as he’d ever known. The Spaniard had also acquired a pair of Sarmatian throwing axes with which he was now as proficient as their previous owner. Valerius nodded and Serpentius grinned in the darkness and started removing his armour and anything else that might make a noise that would alert the enemy.

  Hanno clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Caladus will lead, but he will be happy to have you with him.’

  He called his men together and gave them their instructions.

  Caladus and Serpentius stared down the valley at the almost imperceptible orange glow the Numidian had pointed out at the base of the cliff. It was so faint that only someone passing close by – or one with eyes that could see like the desert falcon of his Berber homelands – would have noticed it.

  ‘They have been here all night and seen nothing,’ Caladus guessed. ‘Perhaps they have been here several nights. Their commander has allowed them a fire in an inner room where he believes it is well enough hidden.’

  ‘Careless,’ Serpentius said.

  ‘So careless it will cost him his life,’ Caladus agreed.

  ‘But not so careless that they have not set guards,’ the Numidian whispered. ‘Do you see them?’

  The Thracian and the Spaniard peered into the darkness, but they could see nothing but shadows and rocks.

  ‘To the left of the entrance. A tall man who stinks like a houri and then, across the valley where he thinks he is hidden, a second, fat as a pig, though he moves lightly. And the third, hardly more than a boy, but more alert than the others, stands by the horses in a hollow beyond the next bend. The others are all in the caves, sleeping or talking.’

  Caladus pondered his options. ‘The boy with the horses is the greatest danger. One shout and he will be gone. Serpentius? Do you think you can get past the guards to the horses without being seen?’

  ‘Keep to the centre of the valley,’ the Numidian advised. ‘There is the shadow of an ancient stream bed. Stay low and silent as the hunting leopard, and you will do it easily. I will take the guard on the far side.’

  Serpentius nodded.

  ‘I’ll give you to the count of two hundred. A single arrow will deal with the third sentry. Then we’ll surround the caves and kill the rest.’ Almost before Caladus had finished speaking, Serpentius was gone, disappearing into the darkness with the Numidian at his heels.

  The Spaniard slithered down the valley on his belly like the snake he was named for, ignoring the dry stalks and sharp stones that stabbed his flesh and tore his tunic. He kept his face low to the ground
and trusted to the Numidian’s instinct that the slight fold in the sweet-smelling earth would cover his movements from the watchers on either side of the valley. Despite the dangers, his breathing was slow and easy. This was nothing new for Serpentius. It reminded him of the night raids of his youth against neighbouring villages. But that was before the Romans came, with their lust for gold, their lists and their order. Before they took him for a slave and turned him into an animal in a cage to be exhibited before the scum and the degenerates in the arena. For a moment his mind was consumed with a familiar hatred, and it was not hatred for the Parthian warrior he stalked. This was not his fight and the Romans were not his people. But he had pledged his life to Valerius and Valerius was the closest thing to a friend he had. So he would kill. He would kill with regret, but the Parthian was already in his grave.

  He made swift progress along the shallow depression and he neither saw nor heard the guards as he passed the pale light among the rocks. A minute later he smelled the horses.

  A mile away to the north, Valerius willed himself to stay calm. Every minute was precious. Every minute they wasted here was another minute when the men of Corbulo’s army must suffer the agony of the Parthian arrows. It would take time to get the column in motion again. Time to negotiate the gully that would bring them to the river. And time to form up his men for the attack. Too much time. All around him men and horses waited impatiently for the order to move.

  A gentle whisper reached Serpentius as he lay face down in the rough grass ten paces from the tethered Parthian mounts. The count of two hundred had long come and gone, but he could not afford to hurry. He would have the chance for one strike and one only. The knife or the axe? The knife: quicker, cleaner and surer. The unwary Parthian sentry was talking quietly to his horses as they snickered nervously in their halters. They were upwind, if the gentle movement of the air could be called a wind, of the Roman column, but some instinct had alerted them to the presence of others of their kind. Their nervousness should have alerted the guard, but Serpentius guessed there would have been many such false alarms in hills roamed by the lion, the leopard and the wolf. If anything, it increased his chances of success. Even if the animals became aware of him, the sentry was unlikely to react swiftly enough.