Scourge of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘This one will do,’ he informed the horsemaster as he trotted up to the start line. The man shrugged, but his expression said he didn’t think much of Valerius’s choice. ‘What do you call him?’

  ‘This one? This one we call the Screw.’

  Valerius laughed. It was appropriate enough given that twisting ride, but no name for a war horse. ‘Then he will have to get used to a new name. I will call him Lunaris. There was never a better name to accompany a man into battle.’

  They arranged for Lunaris to be taken to the palace stables and Valerius and Ariston rode back to Emesa. ‘Who was this Lunaris?’ the Syrian asked. ‘A hero of old?’

  Valerius smiled, remembering the towering, indomitable figure who had stood beside him on the steps of the Temple of Claudius. ‘A hero, yes, but not of old. A simple Roman soldier who did his duty.’

  ‘He was your friend?’

  Valerius stared at the distant hills to the north, remembering Serpentius’s warning to keep the Syrian at a distance. ‘Yes, he was my friend, but he died.’

  When they returned to the guest quarters Valerius found that someone had laid out a milky white toga, the symbol of Roman citizenship, on the bed. Beside it was a note on a piece of reused papyrus. ‘A servant will call for you at the seventh hour and take you to your position.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do to turn up for the sacrifice smelling of horse,’ he said to Ariston. ‘You’d better bring me a bowl of water and a cloth.’

  Washed and shaved, he was ready when the servant – a young boy of fourteen – arrived. Serpentius wanted to accompany him, but Valerius insisted he would go alone. ‘And Serpentius?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tonight I’d like you to take Ariston and test the mood of the city. Trawl the bars and inns for information.’ He tossed the Spaniard a small purse. ‘With what you already have that should last you a good few hours. Should you end up in a woman’s bed so much the better, for we will be on the road in a few days.’

  Serpentius gave his bark of a laugh and the light of understanding flickered in his eyes. ‘If you want to be alone for a while, why don’t you just say so? After what happened yesterday, though … maybe I should stay within shouting distance.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. The guards in the corridors have been doubled and I’m assured that their loyalty to the king is total.’

  ‘All right,’ Serpentius agreed. ‘But be careful. Sometimes the deadliest adversaries aren’t the ones with beards and skinning knives.’

  XII

  Valerius found himself an object of curiosity in the parade of Emesan noblemen making their way to the Temple of the Sun God. He returned the frank stares and wondered idly if any of these men had ordered his death. The Emesans were tall, uniformly bearded, their hair falling in oiled ringlets to the shoulder, and scented with exotic oils. They wore long flowing robes of gaudy colours and patterns that would have attracted ridicule in a Roman market place. Gold chains hung at their necks and from their wrists, some of such weight it was a wonder they could stay upright. The most heavily laden drew gasps of wonder from the Emesan mob, who were kept at bay by armed soldiers not slow to wield their spear butts.

  Despite the previous evening’s attack Valerius felt no sense of threat. The aristocrats talked excitedly among themselves and a festival atmosphere prevailed. He noticed the highest ranking – those wearing the most gold – ensured that they only addressed their equals, looking down on those of humbler status in a manner that would have made a Roman consul proud.

  Soon the column approached the temple, perched on a raised promontory to the south of Sohaemus’s palace complex. In style and scale it was similar to the Temple of Apollo on the Palatine Hill, though Valerius noted that the precinct was much less elaborate. Where the Roman version had high walls and colonnaded walkways, a low parapet of cut stone enclosed the Temple of the Sun God. As the Emesan elite dispersed to positions allotted according to rank a servant, who went by the name of Julius, guided Valerius to a vantage point reserved for honoured guests.

  In the hush that followed Valerius studied the scene before him. The first things that caught his eye were the great double doors sheathed in gold and decorated with an enormous sunburst. A substantial wooden ramp covered the marble steps that led to the ceremonial platform and a distinctive pattern of scratches and chips scarred the paving inside the wall.

  A cacophony of horns made his ears ring and the temple doors slowly opened to allow an enormously tall figure swathed in purple and gold to back out. Valerius belatedly recognized Sohaemus, his height emphasized by the largest crown the Roman had ever seen, almost half as tall as the wearer and elaborately worked in gold and jewels. The king moved slowly, and it became apparent that he was leading something from the shadows. Valerius sensed the excitement in the crowd grow as the tossing heads of four white horses gradually appeared.

  A loud shout went up – ‘Elah Gebal!’ – immediately repeated and magnified by a hundred voices and a hundred more, until every mouth chanted the name of the god. The tumult made the horses restless and the king hesitated, uttering calming words to the animals before resuming his progress, slowly inching his way backwards on to the ramp. Now the tempo of the chants grew as the crowd caught their initial glimpse of the chariot attached to the horses.

  ‘Elah Gebal! Elah Gebal!’

  ‘My lord king has vowed never to turn his back on the god,’ Julius shouted to make himself heard above the increasing volume of the crowd. ‘He wears the robes of the Foremost Priest of the Sun God and the great crown of Emesa, which has been passed down from his ancestors for time immemorial.’ The sun’s rays caught the golden chariot, but despite its brilliance the roars weren’t for the chariot, but for the object it carried. Sohaemus led the horses carefully down the ramp with priests hauling on ropes to keep the vehicle from picking up speed.

  Valerius strained his eyes for his first sight of this marvellous god, but he was destined to be disappointed. In a gilded cage stood a pyramid-shaped piece of rock about twice the height of a legionary gladius. It was a deep, almost subterranean black and gave the appearance of being enormously hard. Fissures and indents scarred the surface, but Valerius could identify no discernible pattern.

  The chariot reached the bottom of the ramp and Sohaemus, still walking backwards, led the horses on a circuit of the temple precinct. The god cruised slowly past and the Emesan nobility dropped to their knees before rising again and tearing golden chains from their necks and arms to throw them over the wall. Priests followed the chariot picking up the treasure and one took a careful inventory of the donations and presumably their donors, for the throwers immediately looked to the king for acknowledgement of their gift.

  Valerius estimated that, in the visible portion of the precinct alone, ten talenta of gold had been thrown in the wake of the sun god. He wondered just how often Sohaemus called these ceremonies. Not as often as he would like, or the Emesans would soon be impoverished. He said as much to Julius.

  The boy smiled at his naivety. ‘Those who pay tribute today know they will have their investment repaid tenfold in treasure and influence. Our great festivals occur only twice a year, during the summer and winter solstice,’ he explained. ‘Then, the rulers of Commagene, Palmyra, Chalcis and Laodicea send wagonloads of gold as tokens of their esteem for the god.’

  Despite the great devotion shown by the Emesans, Valerius found it difficult to imagine worshipping a stone, unique or not. Yet clearly these awed people believed Elah Gebal was the true incarnation of the sun god. It was also true that Nero had encouraged the cult of Sol in the last years of his reign. Valerius supposed it was little different from pouring a nightly libation to the kitchen god, or leaving tribute to the god of the crossroads after a wedding. He was as sceptical about the power of the gods as anyone trained by Seneca could be, but he still made the ritual sacrifices. A man, especially a soldier, had to make his own luck. In Britannia they’d believed every lake and river held a god,
and the druids had held their bloody rituals in oak groves.

  The king reappeared at the head of the chariot and the roars subsided as he led the horses to the bottom of the ramp. Four priests used a special frame to lift the sun god from its chariot and place it between the temple columns. A fifth steered the golden chariot away from the crowds. His eyes never leaving the god, Sohaemus took his place at the top of the temple steps.

  The sacrifice was as familiar to Valerius as his morning exercise with a sword. Priests led a white bull to the bottom of the steps where a victimarius used a hammer to stun it. A haruspex cut the collapsed animal’s throat and examined the entrails. Sohaemus smiled as the man declared the omens for the coming expedition auspicious.

  During the ceremony and the excess that followed only one thing dominated Valerius’s mind. All he thought about during the feast was the fire in Tabitha’s eyes and the promise in her voice. He picked at his food, the finest cuts from the white bull, and barely touched the wine. Fortunately they’d seated him well away from the king, between two foreign dignitaries who were more interested in the food than in his company.

  When he finally returned to his rooms his heart fluttered like a lovestruck boy’s and he cursed himself for his weakness. What if he’d entirely misread her intentions? It wouldn’t be the first time. But then there was the touch of her lips on a cheek that still felt as if a glowing brand had seared the flesh. He lay on the bed for a time, then rose to pace the floor. What if she didn’t turn up? He tried to conjure up a vision of Domitia, but the face that appeared was always Tabitha’s. Where was she? Eventually he lay down again. His eyes closed of their own volition and the next thing he knew was the sound of whispered voices that made him sit bolt upright.

  A single oil lamp illuminated the room. Valerius slipped silently from the bed and smothered it, breaking his stride only to pick up the dagger from the table. In a heartbeat he was by the doorway.

  By now the whispers had faded, but he could hear a soft rustling and the sound of cushioned footsteps. The curtain rippled and he tensed, the knife ready in his left hand, held horizontal for the cutting stroke that would take out a man’s throat before he even felt the kiss of the blade. Another twitch and the heavy wool drew back and a shaft of light illuminated a hooded figure in a long cloak who stepped stealthily into the room. Valerius delayed his strike until the inevitable second assassin followed, but none appeared.

  The hood slipped back to reveal lustrous dark hair and a pale, slim neck. Tabitha turned with a look of mock irritation before her eyes caught the gleam of the knife and she smiled. ‘Is this how you greet all your women, Gaius Valerius Verrens?’ Valerius’s heart thundered fit to burst. He stepped forward to take her into his arms, but she pirouetted away like a dancer. ‘What better disguise for a spy?’ she asked, clearly pleased with herself. ‘Naturally, King Sohaemus would send a supple and experienced slave girl for the pleasure of his honoured Roman guest.’

  ‘Spy?’

  She laughed at the bewildered dismay in his tone. ‘I said I would bring you information, Valerius,’ she said, her voice suddenly turned low and husky, ‘but in truth I bring you a gift.’ Her hands went to her throat and the cloak fell away.

  A night of wonder. A night of discovery. A night Gaius Valerius Verrens would remember in every detail until his last breath. For a moment he froze, bewitched by the naked form silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the window, and then he picked her up in his arms.

  Much later she lay draped over him, one leg thrown across his thighs. A combination of softness and warmth, curves and hollows, the sweat still damp on her skin and the scent of their coupling a heady reminder.

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘You need to ask?’ The words were almost a purr and he could hear the smile in her voice. In the silence that followed she sensed he required a genuine answer. ‘I need a strong man, Valerius, a protector.’ Her hand stroked the stump of his mutilated arm. ‘I see in you a strength in mind and body I have seldom encountered before. And you … needed to forget.’

  He nodded. She had looked into his soul and seen the emptiness there. The loss of everything he had ever loved. He searched with his mouth until it covered her nipple, nibbling the tiny bud gently between his teeth and sucking deep. Tabitha gave a soft groan and moved against him. With a single movement he rolled on top of her, arching his back so he was looking down at her. The harsh need in his voice surprised him, but seemed to please her. ‘Make me forget again.’

  Valerius thought himself experienced in love, but she taught him things about pleasing a woman he would never have discovered for himself. He used the strength that had impressed her to impose his will. She quivered beneath him, the royal lady gone, replaced by the captive he had first happened upon. It was a contest that neither wanted to end, but when it did there was no loser, only winners.

  When the first pink of the coming dawn touched the sky, Tabitha stirred and slipped into her cloak, raising the hood to conceal her identity from the guards. Valerius rose and joined her at the doorway. She clutched at him and he willed her not to go, but eventually she raised her head to be kissed and slipped from his arms.

  ‘I will come to you on the march,’ he whispered, holding back the curtain.

  ‘No.’ The want in her eyes denied her words, but she would not be moved. ‘It would not be seemly. We must be patient. When we join Titus it will be different. Please, Valerius, you must trust me.’

  ‘With my life,’ he insisted, but she was already gone.

  XIII

  Valerius was still basking in the soft glow left by Tabitha’s presence when the Emesan guard commander appeared at the door with two of his soldiers. The Roman suspected trouble the moment he saw the man’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I must ask you to accompany me,’ the officer said coldly. ‘I’m sorry, I have my orders.’

  A chill ran through Valerius at the tone of the response. Clearly the situation was worse than he’d imagined. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  A look of momentary confusion. ‘No … not unless you refuse.’

  ‘Then let me get my cloak and I will be happy to come.’

  Despite the guard commander’s words it felt like an arrest. Valerius expected to be taken to the king’s quarters, but they passed the entrance to the palace and headed towards the citadel’s gates. His mind fought for some explanation that would explain the sudden change in his treatment. Had someone informed Sohaemus about Tabitha’s visit to his room? Or worse, had something happened to her? It could be as simple as a change in the king’s policy towards Rome. Emesan loyalties seemed to fluctuate like the direction of the wind.

  He felt the men beside him stiffen as they approached the guardhouse. The commander forged ahead and threw open the door, and Valerius saw an untidy heap of blanket lying on the cobbled floor. An icy dagger of dread pierced his heart. ‘What …?’

  A guard drew back the coarse grey cloth and Valerius stifled a gasp. Ariston’s dark eyes bulged from their sockets and a permanent grimace twisted his face as if the ragged wound below his chin had come as an irritating surprise. He held his clawed hands at chest height as if he’d been fending off his attacker, which was odd. Valerius had seen enough wounds on the battlefield to know that whoever killed the Syrian had cut his throat from behind. The question was: where had Serpentius been?

  ‘Someone reported a brawl in one of the alleys in the tavern district,’ the guard commander explained in a flat voice. ‘When the watch arrived at the scene they found the dead man and his killer.’

  Valerius felt a surge of anger. He’d resigned himself to hearing that Ariston’s murderer had escaped, but now a desire to see justice done swelled his heart. ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘The penalty for murder is crucifixion.’

  Despite his grief for Ariston the dread word sent ice water running down Valerius’s spine. Not six months ago Domitian had sentenced him to be crucifie
d. Still, the man must be punished.

  ‘Where is the killer now?’

  The officer gave him an odd look. ‘He is in the next room. We were holding him here until you could be informed.’ He marched across the floor and pulled back a curtain.

  Valerius’s voice almost failed him as he studied the manacled figure seated on a bench with his head in his hands. ‘Serpentius?’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know if you killed Ariston?’

  The Spaniard shook his head. He was grey-faced and exhausted, with a distant, bewildered look in his eyes. ‘We’d left a tavern a few minutes earlier – Ariston said it was as welcoming as a Portus cesspit, the wine as sweet as the black heart of a Bactrian camel, and the women …’ he shrugged. ‘I think some men followed us.’

  ‘Think? Mars’ arse, you have to do better than that or they’ll have you hanging from a cross before nightfall.’

  ‘We were drunk,’ Serpentius said, as if that explained everything. ‘Ariston more than I. We talked; argued, maybe. Then something happened. I remember shouts, the flash of a blade and then it was like falling into a black pit, only the stars were whirling around like fireflies. When my eyes cleared Ariston was lying on the ground leaking blood and the watch had a spear at my throat.’

  Valerius considered the story. He wanted to believe that Serpentius hadn’t killed Ariston, but this wasn’t the Serpentius he had known before the head wound. An argument. A fight. A man with a bloodied sword standing over one with his throat torn out. Everything pointed to only one outcome. The Spaniard must die. All except one thing.