The king’s lips twitched to show he understood the compliment’s underlying message. ‘I also have a more personal gift.’ He waved forward a servant bearing a scroll case and Valerius opened it to find the papyrus copy of Aeneas on sieges he’d been reading in the library. ‘No thanks are required,’ Sohaemus assured him. ‘I have other copies and I believe the contents may be of some use to you when you reach General Titus.’
An hour later, Valerius joined the column of archers formed up beneath the cheering crowds lining the walls of Emesa. There were five hundred of them, in addition to Gaulan’s Chalcideans, a full cohort divided into ten squadrons each led by a standard-bearer carrying a flowing pennant. As a reinforcement for Titus’s army of forty thousand, they’d barely be noticed, but Gaulan assured Valerius that Titus desperately needed archers and their value went far beyond their numbers. Few or not, they were well equipped. Every man wore a padded tunic beneath a chain vest polished by rolling in barrels of sand, and on his head a shining brass helmet with chain neck guard.
Valerius had spent time watching them exercise and he’d been impressed by their horsemanship and skill with the bow. They could half turn in the saddle, fire three arrows over the horse’s tail and return to a normal riding position in the time it took to blink. Their bows were short, double curved weapons of wood and sinew that could launch an arrow twice as far as any hunting bow, and with the same accuracy. Though the archers carried the bows unstrung in pouches strapped to their backs it was the work of a moment to attach the cord and pluck an arrow from the leather quiver attached to their saddles at the knee. Fiercely independent men, they could have been brothers to the Parthians he had faced in Armenia.
To the rear, a baggage train of fractious, roaring camels and braying donkeys hauled supplies for the journey. A legionary cohort would have used bullock carts and been half the length, but the journey time would be double. Gaulan estimated it would already take two weeks or more if, as the king had hinted, Titus was already at, or close to, Jerusalem.
The column’s departure was delayed by King Sohaemus’s speech from a tower by the city gate. Valerius only heard a few unintelligible words on the breeze as he sat taking in the scent of nervous horse and fresh manure while the men shifted impatiently in their saddles and their officers fretted at the wait. Finally, the king waved a hand and they were on their way. Gaulan, who had overall command, rode at their head with Valerius at his side, but the Roman had seen no sign of Tabitha.
They’d been on the road for less than an hour when the sound of cantering hooves heralded the arrival of Serpentius at the front of the column. ‘A certain person is comfortably housed in a sprung wagon at the front of the baggage train, as befits her status,’ the Spaniard quietly informed Valerius. ‘Sohaemus has allocated twenty horses to ensure the pace of the column is not impeded and to show his love for his niece. She is protected by twenty of our Chalcidean friends who change guard every two hours.’
They followed the Orontes through a patchwork of lush fields and meadows and that evening they camped on a height above the banks on grass spun with spring blossoms. A legion would have fortified the temporary camp with walls and ditches, but the Emesans simply built fires and unrolled their blankets before cooking the evening meal. Valerius mentioned this to Gaulan, but the Chalcidean only shrugged. ‘They know their business. We are safe enough while we are in Emesan territory. It will be different after Heliopolis when we turn into the mountains. Ambush country,’ he said significantly, ‘and the Judaeans are masters of ambush, as your Twelfth legion discovered to their cost.’
Valerius woke to the usual military dawn chorus of coughs and farts, the familiar rattle of equipment, groans of complaining men and the rasped commands of their officers trying to get them moving with kicks and curses. The closest Emesans looked on with frank amusement as he oiled the mottled purple stump of his right arm. He ignored them and slipped the cowhide socket in place, tying the leather thongs with practised movements of his left hand and teeth. When possible he liked to exercise with his sword every morning, something he’d learned from Serpentius. He searched for the former gladiator, but Serpentius’s bedding still lay where he’d slept and there was no sign of the Spaniard. Valerius was unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed he wouldn’t face that lightning sword and relentless savagery today.
He shrugged off his tunic and slipped the ceremonial sword from its sheath, shivering slightly in the still air. Men watched curiously as he walked through the camp and down the slope through the trees until he found a small clearing. He instinctively checked his surroundings for potential threats, but the only sound was the gentle twitter of birds somewhere close among the branches and the soft rush of the river from further down the slope. Satisfied he was alone, Valerius began a series of cuts and thrusts, parries and counter-thrusts, dancing first backward then forward, switching his weight from one foot to the other. Gradually he increased the pace until his mind began to soar to the rhythm of the movements and the sweat coursed down his back. Now the sword wove increasingly more intricate patterns and he darted from one side of the clearing to the other, performing pirouettes and changing direction without warning, ducking and weaving. Attack low, change in mid-thrust to a controlled throat-high slash, and use the movement to sweep aside the point that’s about to skewer your liver. Dance left away from another attack. Regroup and counter. Hear a rustle in the bushes behind you, spin and … thrust.
The stranger didn’t even blink as the gladius point came to a halt a belt notch from his eyeball.
‘So it is you? An impressive display.’ Valerius ignored the cosy familiarity in the words; the voice a little slurred, but with a cultured, educated Latin. The reason for the slur wasn’t difficult to work out. One side of the man’s lips – the left – hung lifelessly, as if they’d given up on the rest of his features. Like most of that portion of his face they were a wrinkled, mottled purple, the colour and texture of a turkey crop.
‘You don’t recognize me?’ Valerius’s sword point didn’t stray the width of a hair. ‘Perhaps …’ the newcomer moved his head only to freeze again as the point touched the flesh at the base of his throat, ‘perhaps if you allow me to show you my more attractive profile?’
Valerius’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes shifted from the disfigured features to the trees beyond the newcomer’s shoulder. Tabitha stood silently twenty paces away, a ghostly, ethereal figure dressed all in vestal white. How long had she been there? Had she seen the man approach? Her face remained unreadable and when he looked again all that remained were leaves fluttering in the soft breeze.
He turned his attention back to the scarred interloper. The sword point moved an inch away from the man’s throat, allowing him to turn his head to reveal the uninjured side of his face. A handsome profile, fine-boned, with an aquiline nose and thin lips that curved slightly upwards in a smile that, for all its allusions to friendship, remained devoid of any humour or warmth. Dark hair flecked with grey flopped over his brow above an eye as cold as a misty Iceni morning. A man whose visible scars were not the only ones he bore, but Valerius knew all about that.
‘No?’ The other man broke the silence. ‘I am disappointed. Britannia? The Twentieth? You were returning to Rome while the rest of us cursed and sweated trying to prepare for Paulinus’s march on Mona. Of course,’ the eye drifted to Valerius’s wooden fist, ‘you didn’t get there. I heard about your exploits at Colonia and winning the Corona Aurea. That came later, of course, after Paulinus had us patrolling in the woods and some Celts decided I should make closer acquaintance with the coals of their fire.’
Valerius studied him more closely. Still no hint of recognition, but that wasn’t surprising. When he thought of Britannia it was the faces of the dead who came to him, as if those still living and breathing had never really existed.
‘Claudius Florus Paternus,’ the newcomer introduced himself. ‘We served together for two weeks and I was the most junior tribune.
I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, but I remember you. There was a Celtic hill fort on the Silurian border. Legate Drusus reckoned he’d never seen an assault better planned or led.’
Valerius frowned. This he did remember. The stink of sweat and fear at the centre of a testudo formation as the spears and boulders battered down on the roof of shields. A grinning gap-toothed face that disappeared in a spray of scarlet. He still had the scar on his leg from the burning fat, and the memory of a soldier’s worst nightmare: the enemy who decided that the pleasure of killing him was worth dying for. He allowed the sword to drop, but not so far that Paternus was out of range.
‘Why are you here?’
‘No joyous welcome for an old comrade?’ Despite the admonition, Paternus visibly relaxed. ‘Given your particular circumstances that’s probably understandable. I am ordered to join the army of General Titus as aide to his chief of staff Tiberius Alexander. A storm forced us into Tripolis, but the rebels had cut the coast road. My guide advised that the Emesans might provide safe passage, and here I am.’
‘No, I mean why did you follow me here?’
The disfigured face twisted into what passed for a grin. ‘I caught glimpses of a legate’s helmet and cloak during the march yesterday and it naturally made me curious. The Emesan cavalry troopers of my guard talked of a Roman officer with one hand who had won King Sohaemus’s favour. The single hand stirred a memory. I was under the care of Paulinus’s personal medicus when we camped somewhere close to Verulamium. He’d given me some herb concoction and I was only semi-conscious, but I remember him treating a man who’d lost his hand. He was quite proud of the leather cover he designed to protect the stump. When I saw you leaving the camp I decided to follow. It seemed the best chance to introduce myself.’
A plausible enough explanation for his sudden appearance, with the added advantage that Valerius remembered the man who’d treated him in the hospital tent. A Greek. What had his name been? Cornelius? No, Calpurnius, that was it. Tiberius Calpurnius. He’d wanted to remove more of Valerius’s arm for the sake of neatness, and been quite put out when Valerius refused. Still, something didn’t quite fit.
‘You say it seemed the best chance to introduce yourself, but wouldn’t it have been a little odd if I’d been at the latrine?’
The scarred face creased into a perplexed frown. ‘What kind of man takes a sword to the latrine?’
Valerius raised his gladius so the point touched the other man’s breastbone.
‘A careful one.’
XVI
‘The legate’s uniform and armour were the only things that made me think I might be mistaken,’ Paternus explained as they walked back through the trees to the camp. ‘It would have been a sudden and unlikely elevation for a man in your position.’
Valerius turned to stare at him. ‘You mentioned my particular circumstances. What did you mean by that?’
‘I heard what happened to you in Rome.’ For the first time the scarred tribune looked uncomfortable. ‘I was on garrison duty in Achaea during the troubles, and glad of it. My commander declared first for Galba, then Otho. Dithered in terror for six months when Vitellius came to power, before declaring for Vespasian. By the time the Palatium recalled me to Rome it was all over, though the ruins of the Capitoline still smouldered and they were cleaning blood from the Forum. Mucianus, Domitian and Primus apart, Gaius Valerius Verrens was the talk of the city. To some …’ He looked to Valerius, wondering if he should continue, but the one-handed Roman gave him no hint.
I heard what happened to you in Rome.
Just how much, Valerius wondered, had Paternus heard and from whom? Pliny would have told him that Valerius risked his life to reach Aulus Vitellius, persuade him to give up the purple and spare Rome from sack and massacre. He would have said the Vitellian attack on the Capitoline, in which Valerius had taken part, and the burning of the great Temple of Jupiter were the result of the cowardice, intransigence and downright foolishness of Vespasian’s brother Sabinus. Domitian’s allies, on the other hand, would have condemned Gaius Valerius Verrens as a traitor who betrayed his friends and his Empire and quite possibly threw the brand that razed the temple to the ground.
Paternus read the message in Valerius’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry if this causes you pain, but if we are to travel together I feel it is wisest to be frank. To some, you were the traitor who had destroyed and defiled Rome’s most sacred site. Still, I wondered how such a man could escape execution. I spoke to a young tribune who’d been deputy commander of the Seventh Galbiana …’
‘Claudius Ferox?’
‘I believe that was the name,’ Paternus nodded. ‘He had a different story. Of a soldier who had lived up to his reputation as a Hero of Rome, saved Primus’s command on the road to Cremona, and somehow become involved in negotiations too secret ever to be revealed. He didn’t believe what he heard at your trial. His version went some way to explaining why Domitian chose to sentence you to exile instead of crucifixion, so I reserved judgement. I had no idea you were travelling east.’
Valerius knew Paternus expected some kind of reaction or explanation, but what was the point? Words would change nothing. The only way he would regain his reputation was on the battlefield and only Titus could give him the opportunity. Still, politeness required a response. ‘I suppose you should …’ The words froze in Valerius’s mouth and his sword came up in a blur of light as a figure appeared on the slope above them.
Paternus placed a hand on his arm. ‘My servant, Gavvo. He must be searching for me.’
Valerius studied the man, who stared back impassively. He reflected that the last time he’d looked into eyes with quite that hint of menace had been on the day he’d first met Serpentius. Nondescript and so ordinary as to be almost featureless, he none the less possessed a stillness that sent a message to anyone capable of understanding it. Valerius lowered the sword.
‘You pick your servants well,’ he said with heavy irony. Paternus laughed and they continued up the slope. Valerius avoided making eye contact with the lithe, shaven-headed figure who sat unnoticed among the trees on a stump, cleaning his fingernails with a fruit knife.
Later that day the column left the river for a broad valley and made good time on another of the well-found roads that spoke so eloquently of Rome’s long-term presence. At first the surrounding country appeared barren – a few isolated farmsteads eking out a living on the thin, dry soil – but with every mile south the land became more fertile. Soon they rode through a landscape of well-cultivated wheat fields and vineyards. Valerius the farmer noted a familiar golden tinge to the wheat crop that warned a landsman to start preparing for harvest, and the individual ears had begun their characteristic bow in homage to the sun. It didn’t look like a place ravaged by civil war for five years.
‘The land all the way to Heliopolis and beyond belongs to the city of Berytus, which is loyal to Rome,’ Gaulan, who accompanied them, responded to a question from Paternus. ‘Most of the farms you see are owned by the families of retired legionaries settled here by Augustus. They are Roman citizens and Rome’s rule here is absolute. You are as safe in the valley as you would be in Antioch or Apamea, even Rome itself. That is why the men are so relaxed. Any Judaean rebel who ventured this far north would find the entire countryside against him. We will not reach Judaea proper for another three or four days. Then it will be different.’
If Paternus realized that Valerius was doing his best to ignore him he took no obvious offence. The scarred tribune seemed to assume his fellow Roman would be desperate for news of Rome. Valerius faced the choice of listening politely or dropping back to ride beside Serpentius a few files back.
‘You know about the Temple of Jupiter and the Castra Praetoria, of course? Domitian, who rules as city prefect, has pledged that his father will rebuild them in greater splendour than before. He sent two of the three legions that took the city south under Primus to mop up the last of the rebels. The third provides security until a new Pra
etorian Guard has been formed.’ Valerius heard Gaulan curse as they came up behind a farmer driving his herd of skinny goats to another field or a nearby market. Despite the muttered grumbles from his rear, the ragged herder showed no inclination to allow the column to pass and they were forced to slow. Paternus frowned irritably at the delay, but he could see no solution and continued: ‘Most of Vitellius’s supporters died when the city fell or in the bloodletting that followed.’ Valerius had to grit his teeth. Had the man no feeling? Valerius had been there; he’d seen the chopped-off limbs, gaping mouths and staring eyes. ‘But Vespasian has pledged that any man who takes the oath to him will be pardoned. For his own reasons Domitian claims not to have received the instruction. He continues to hunt down any former Vitellian he can find, especially those involved in the murder of his uncle, Sabinus. Despite his youth he commands respect as well as fear among the populace, but he will never be liked for himself. Any popularity stems from the efforts of the lady who is to be his wife, Corbulo’s daughter Domitia, who it is said works tirelessly for reconciliation.’
Valerius flinched at the mention of the name. Had things been different Domitia Longina Corbulo would have married him. Instead, she’d sacrificed her future to save his life, pledging herself to Domitian. Valerius still didn’t know whether to admire or hate her for it.
‘It is Domitia,’ Paternus continued, ‘who controls the effort to feed the poor and hungry, who are legion in a city where most of the supplies burned during the fighting. She persuaded Domitian to send aid to the city of Cremona and to incorporate the survivors of the old Guard into the legions rather than executing them …’
I am my father’s daughter. Valerius heard the words ringing in his head as the goatherd bustled his animals on to a track with whistles and the use of his staff. That was her fate and what defined her. Of course she would use Domitian’s power to help the poor and the dispossessed. What power could Valerius have offered? Ruling over the little farming estate at Fidenae they’d have shared with his sister Olivia and her husband? It would have been like putting her in a cage. And what was the alternative? An army wife playing hostess at a crude fort on the Danuvius frontier or in the wilds of Britannia? How could he ever have dreamed she would be his?
Scourge of Rome Page 13
