Titus the general. Titus the man Vespasian was likely to appoint as his heir to the throne of the world’s greatest empire, though he would not only have to survive his father, but also prove his right to it, before he succeeded. When Valerius had first met Titus the young man had been a mere junior tribune newly appointed to command his father’s auxiliary cavalry. They discovered they were of an age, they’d both served in Britannia at the time of the great rebellion, and both took an unlikely joy in the art of soldiering. A shared background and shared interests led to friendship. Friendship brought Vespasian’s patronage at a time when Valerius desperately needed it, which had undoubtedly saved his life.
But the cheerful, enthusiastic young soldier of that first meeting had vanished entirely by the time their paths had crossed again the previous year. The Titus who urged Valerius to help his father by reining in the reckless instincts of Marcus Antonius Primus, commander of the Danuvius legions, was much harder-edged; a man for whom command was natural and authority came easily. What kind of man would he be now?
Valerius tensed. Something almost imperceptible had changed in his surroundings. Beneath the blanket his left hand crept to the hilt of his sword. His companion’s breathing, that was it. It had been regular and relaxed, but now the rhythm had an artificial quality, as if the other man were waiting for something. He pictured the campsite in his head. Perhaps four paces of open ground separated them, with the animals corralled to the right and the packs close by beneath the trees. He’d considered placing the packs between them, but that would have alerted the guide to his suspicions. Now he wished he hadn’t ignored his instincts. The Syrian hadn’t shown any weapon, but the voluminous robe he wore provided ample concealment for a sword or a knife. Valerius’s ears strained for the sound of movement and he tensed to meet an attack.
‘You will get very little sleep on this journey if you spend every night with a sword in your hand.’ Despite the gentle admonition Valerius’s fingers tightened on the weapon’s grip. Ariston sounded reasonable enough, but a seasoned killer would use soothing tones to get close enough to put a knife in his victim’s throat. ‘If you do not trust me I will turn back tomorrow,’ the Syrian continued. ‘You will be safe enough as far as Apamea, which is as welcoming to a Roman as Antioch. The road is good and I’ve had no word of bandits in the Orontes valley this season. You will be able to hire a guide there who is more to your taste.’
Valerius hesitated. ‘What makes you think I don’t trust you?’
‘You haven’t even told me your name.’ The other man’s bitter laugh made the horses twitch against their hobbles. ‘You think I don’t notice how you always keep your right hand hidden beneath your cloak with your fingers on your sword? Why, tonight you even ate with your left.’
‘My name is Gaius Valerius Verrens and perhaps you have not noticed that I do not have a right hand.’ A shiver ran down Ariston’s spine at the sound of the voice close to his right ear. He’d had no warning of Valerius’s approach: the man must move like a ghost. ‘Take your hand away from your knife.’
Ariston did as he was ordered. ‘Please …’
‘My right hand was once part of an oak tree.’ The Syrian winced as Valerius tapped him on the forehead with something that certainly wasn’t flesh and bone. ‘It identifies me as clearly as a senator’s purple stripe. As it happens I have reasons for not wishing to be identified.’
‘So that is why you avoided the mansio and insisted on having no fire.’ Understanding dawned on Ariston. ‘You fear someone might be following us?’
‘Perhaps.’
The Syrian waited for some further revelation, but the only sound was Valerius returning to his bedroll. ‘Then perhaps I can help,’ he suggested. ‘There are other ways than the road.’
‘We will discuss it again in the morning.’ Valerius lay back and pulled the blanket around him. His fingers automatically sought out his sword, but this time it was to return the blade to its scabbard.
‘Your arm? They caught you stealing?’
Valerius laughed and shook his head.
Ariston looked put out at his mistake. ‘It is the way of the desert tribes,’ he said defensively.
‘What happens if you’re caught with another man’s wife?’ He saw the Syrian wince and smiled. ‘I lost it in battle.’ The explanation was simpler than the reality, but it would do. The elevation of the rough track Ariston had chosen to the east of the river allowed occasional glimpses to the road below. It slowed their progress, but Valerius was satisfied. He’d seen two groups of horsemen and a few individuals travelling south at speed and had no wish to make their acquaintance. ‘It happened in a fight against an army led by a woman. A rebel queen.’
‘A woman defeated Rome?’ Ariston couldn’t hide his interest.
‘A queen,’ Valerius corrected. ‘She led an army of sixty thousand, while we were fewer than four thousand. At the forefront were her champions, giants who fought naked to prove their courage.’
‘Still,’ the Syrian sounded thoughtful, ‘a woman.’
‘We kept them from the temple for two days and watched as they burned the city around us.’ Valerius shrugged. ‘Sometimes there is only so much a man can do.’
‘But you lived.’
‘I lived.’
‘Rome defeated by a woman,’ Ariston repeated as if he didn’t quite believe the words he was saying.
‘She won every battle but the last.’ Valerius’s voice sounded so bleak that Ariston reined in his horse to study him.
‘What happened then?’
Valerius met his gaze. ‘Let us hope Titus is more merciful to the Judaeans than Rome was to Boudicca and her Britons.’
As they rode, Ariston explained that the old caravan road would eventually lead them to Darkush, famous for its healing waters, where they could replenish their supplies. After that they would cross the spine of the mountains into the next valley, far from any pursuit. ‘The valleys eventually meet again about twenty miles south, but it’s well populated country and we have a choice of roads to take. I doubt anyone will pay attention to us.’
Over the next three days Valerius gained a better appreciation of his Syrian companion. For a start, Ariston possessed an instinct for danger rivalling his own. In Darkush he bought Valerius a hooded cloak as voluminous as the one he wore himself. It provided the twin attributes of perfect anonymity and, despite being light and airy, giving as much protection from the cold as a much heavier garment.
When Valerius quizzed him about his own history he looked troubled. ‘A man like me has many lives. One for every town he visits and woman he lies with. My father owned a tract of good land north of Palmyra, but a neighbour coveted the sweet water that had been ours by right for five generations. When my father was found dead in his fields I sought out the neighbour and demanded compensation. He pulled out a knife …’ Ariston shrugged; it could have happened to anyone. ‘He had powerful friends, so I had to run or die. The Bedou took me in and I stayed with them for a while, but the desert is not for me. I found a position as a caravan guard and travelled deep into Persia and as far as the Indus. In Gandhara I took a wife, but she died along with our child.’
‘Did you ever go back?’
‘Only once. My mother was dead and my brothers worked the farm. I think they would have driven me off, but I only stayed an hour. After a few years in the saddle farming was not for me. A long road and a different bed every night are my life, and I am satisfied.’
‘A different woman, too, I would wager?’ Valerius attempted to lighten the mood. The Syrian’s words stirred an unfamiliar emotion. For the first time since he’d left Rome he felt free of responsibility. Thanks to Domitia Longina Corbulo’s intervention his sister Olivia had been allowed to keep the family estate at Fidenae. Olivia had brought her newborn son to visit him on the day he’d left the city. She knew she could never formally marry Lupergos, the child’s sire and her estate manager, and the boy had been named for Valerius’s father, L
ucius. He felt a rush of contentment at the memory. Perhaps it was the vibrant colour of the mountains that changed with every bend in the road and arc of the sun, or the sweet water and even sweeter air, but it felt as though he were on the cusp of a new existence. He knew it was dangerous to tempt the gods, but maybe, just maybe, he’d outridden the clutching fingers of the past.
That night they bedded down in a gully away from the road. Ariston estimated that they’d reach Apamea at noon the next day and boasted of the luxuries that would be available to them in the city’s markets.
An hour later they heard the screams.
IV
Valerius reacted instantly. Even as he leapt from the blankets with gladius in hand his mind was calculating the direction of the agonized cry. One thing was certain, it had come from a woman, and one in terrible pain.
He dashed up the gully wall with the branches of scrub oak and cypress tearing at him, praying she’d cry out again so he could fix her position. Sharp stones cut into his bare feet, but that didn’t concern him so much as the noise he was making and the fact that he had no idea what was beyond the brow of the hill.
His brain only gradually came to terms with the fact that he was acting alone, with no Serpentius at his side. Reluctantly, he forced himself to slow. He would do the woman no good by getting himself killed. The best he could hope for from Ariston was that the Syrian looked after the horses and didn’t simply disappear into the night with them.
Another scream. Much closer now, long and drawn out, and he angled to his left towards the source. The word childbirth entered his mind – he’d look a fool if he burst in with a sword as the baby emerged – but he quickly dismissed it. He’d heard enough women give birth in the baggage camps that followed a legion to know this was a different kind of pain. A pain accentuated by terror.
He reached the lip of the rise and crouched among the bushes, staring into the darkness across the broken ground ahead. Perhaps a hundred paces away he detected a faint glow just visible through the stunted trees among the dips and the hollows. On the point of rising he froze, paralysed not by any hint of danger but by a sudden, unexpected and uncalled-for sense of self-preservation. His brain told him he didn’t have to do this. He had no obligation to whoever was out there being hurt. How many times had honour and duty driven him to risk his life, and for what? In Rome he’d been moments from a slow and agonizing death. In Armenia, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had sentenced him to be beaten with pickaxe handles. He’d lost his right hand in Britannia. He could turn back now and no one would ever know. No one but Gaius Valerius Verrens.
But Valerius had been fed a diet of honour and duty since he’d first suckled his mother’s teat. His father had beaten it into him with a vine stick and with every blow had suffered more anguish than his victim. Corbulo, whom he’d loved as a father, had gone to his death because he believed that an honourable man did not have the luxury of choice, only duty. How could he be any less of a man? Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet and slithered down the far side of the slope, leaving an almost invisible trace of dust in the darkness.
As he moved swiftly across the broken ground the soldier’s questions ran through his mind. How many? More important, how many of them would be willing to die? It was a fact of war that for every ten men you faced with a sword six would rather be somewhere else entirely, and two would run at the first sign of danger.
And their dispositions? Would they have posted a guard? That depended on whether they were soldiers or brigands. He could hear the sound of mocking laughter now, and in the background a woman pleading for an unlikely mercy. He touched the little wheel of Fortuna and prayed that any guard would be distracted by the sport. These were clearly men intent on their work. Men who enjoyed inflicting pain.
By now he could see the bright flicker of a fire through the trees and he padded softly towards the source. Despite the urgency, he took his time, allowing his eyes to adjust to the changing light and testing the air for danger with every step. Gradually moving shadows appeared, crouched low over something that glowed pale gold in the light of the flames, their hands busy and their minds intent on their victim. Four at least, perhaps five. He calculated the odds and was undismayed. Civilians, or at least dressed in civilian clothing. In an ordered world that should mean the sight of a naked blade would give them pause. If Valerius had his way that pause would kill them.
Three of the men held down their near-naked captive while a fourth gripped her wrist and intermittently forced her hand into the flames, accounting for the screams he’d heard. The final torturer was a huge man with features hidden behind a striped scarf wound around his head in such a way as to leave only the eyes showing. His role seemed to be limited to questioning the tormented woman.
Valerius waited for the next scream before he moved forward another step.
The hidden guard’s mistake was to charge from the bushes before calling out. Valerius caught the movement in the corner of his eye, and turned to meet the danger knowing he was already too late. The mouth of the swarthy, bearded face gaped wide as the man prepared to shout a warning to his friends. Before Valerius could even raise his sword, something like a silver bird flashed across his vision and the guard’s head snapped back, the mouth gaping still further. The only sound that emerged was a soft croak caused by the little throwing axe that had cut his vocal cords and severed his windpipe.
Valerius stepped forward and caught the swaying body, taking the weight and easing the dying guard to the ground. A tall, emaciated figure with a shaven head and burning eyes stepped from the darkness. Valerius pulled the axe free and held it as if ready to throw. Instead, he wiped it on the dead man’s ragged tunic before handing it silently back and nodding his thanks. He could still barely understand what had happened or why, but for the moment the newcomer’s eyes held a question. Valerius answered it with a raised hand showing five fingers. His companion registered no emotion at the number.
Valerius pointed east, his mouth silently mouthing the word ‘horses’.
The newcomer raised a rebellious eyebrow and held up a hand showing an identical five fingers, a gesture that suggested the odds would require more than one man. Valerius knew he was probably right, but something told him it was important that none of these men escape. That meant someone had to find their mounts and kill whoever was looking after them. He shook his head and repeated, ‘Horses.’
The thin man acknowledged this with a soft grunt and set off silently over the rough ground on an arc that would take him to the far side of the camp without being seen. When he was gone, Valerius advanced directly towards the firelight.
The questioning must have been completed to the leader’s satisfaction because he laughed and the four men began to tear at the screaming woman’s remaining clothing. Two of them forced her legs apart while the others held her arms and pawed at her naked breasts. Valerius’s instinct was to rush straight to her aid, but he knew this was not the moment for impetuousness. For the time being she must endure. He forced himself to wait.
His opportunity came when the tall man advanced towards his helpless victim. Dark eyes gleamed in the cloth-covered face as he hitched up his tunic in a movement that left no doubt what was to come. The woman squirmed beneath her captors’ hands, but they only mocked her all the more, spitting in her face and making gestures that indicated they would be next.
Wait.
The big man forced his way between the pair holding the captive’s legs and knelt over his victim. Valerius could hear him talking to her in a soft voice, but without warning the tone turned savage and guttural. The man’s head rose and his hips prepared to thrust forward.
None of the torturers noticed the shadowy figure who emerged from the darkness and ran silently towards them. The triangular point of the gladius is its true strength in battle, but Valerius had always made sure the edge was keen enough to shave the hair on his arms. By the time the men detected his presence the sword was already coming down in a
scything arc aimed at the point where the big man’s skull joined his neck. The razor-edged iron would have taken his head off at the shoulders had it not been partially blunted by the cloth of the headscarf. As it was, the blow was powerful enough to slice through the spine; his skull flopped forward and the rapist’s enormous body collapsed on top of his victim. The two men holding her legs were momentarily trapped beneath the still-shuddering corpse and Valerius used the split second to transform his sword swing into a neat back cut that slashed across a second man’s throat.
Ignoring the torturer struggling to free himself, Valerius confronted the pair who’d been holding the woman’s arms. They’d reacted to the sudden outburst of lethal violence by scuttling away from the danger on their backsides. Now they simultaneously clawed for their daggers as they struggled to regain their feet.
Valerius knew he had moments to win back the initiative. In desperation he leapt on the partially decapitated man’s back and launched himself in a flying kick. It took the closer of the two full in the face and the blow sent the man backwards spraying blood and teeth. A spear of pain shot up Valerius’s leg, reminding him he’d left his hobnailed sandals back at the camp. But the bloodied knifeman was far from finished. He sprang up and parried a thrust aimed at his abdomen. Somehow Valerius managed to turn his attack into a clumsy hack that chopped off his opponent’s left ear and four inches of scalp. As the shrieking man collapsed the Roman just had time to whirl with a panicked slash that blocked the wickedly curved blade aimed at his midriff.
Valerius had practised with the sword almost every day for a dozen years. On many of those days he’d found himself up against former gladiators like Serpentius, fighters whose speed so mesmerized their opponents that they were knocking at the gates of Elysium before they realized they were dead. A civilian with a knife, however deadly in appearance, should have been no match for him.
Scourge of Rome Page 3
