Avenger of Rome

XXVIII

Every man in Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s army suffered the trial of heat and dust that was the endless trek from Zeugma. The Tenth Fretensis were in the van, the place of honour behind the general they had served so well, and they suffered least, because they did not have to eat the fine dust of those who had travelled before them. Those behind, the seven full cohorts of the Fifteenth Apollinaris and their attached auxiliary light infantry, marched in a thick brown fog for hour upon hour, never knowing how far they had tramped, only aware that every step was recorded in the pains in their aching legs and another mouthful of dirt. At first they had moved with their heads high, singing their obscene marching songs, but by the fifth day they had been worn down by the relentless sterility of their surroundings. Their eyes stared out of dust-brown faces like those of men peering into a blizzard, and they walked with their shoulders hunched and their heads thrust forward as if they were trekking through a storm. But they were Roman soldiers. Legionaries. Hard as the stones that formed the grey hills which surrounded them. For twelve long years they had marched behind this man. What was another mile? Or another ten? Or another hundred? They hefted their sixty-pound loads on shoulders forged of iron and baked in their armour and never complained. They would endure. And he would give them victory.

Behind each unit came their pack animals, mules and camels, with the extra spears and the water that sustained man and beast. Next in line, the baggage carts that carried their eight-man tents with their rations and the other equipment they would need for camp each night. To right and left, ahead and in the rear ranged Valerius’s cavalry patrols, alert for any sign of Parthian attack. Each night the individual units created a defensive perimeter using what materials they could. No easily cut sods for the men of the Syrian legions, just dry stone and the earth they could chop from the iron-hard ground with their picks and mattocks. Every man knew his place and his duty, whether it was pitching tents, setting up kitchens or digging latrines. Every man who didn’t have sentry watch ate his meal, gulped down his ration of water and collapsed in his bedroll, trying not to dream of the next day’s ordeal.

Valerius spent his days in the saddle and his evenings with his commander. Only one man knew their eventual destination and with every mile they came closer his stature and his energy seemed to grow. In Antioch, Corbulo had been a tireless administrator and accomplished diplomat, a hounder of the incompetent and the criminal, a respected judge who tempered justice with compassion, if not mercy; a proconsul, with the power, though men could only whisper it, of an Emperor. In the field, Valerius saw a different Corbulo. Here was a leader the legionaries of Rome would follow to the very ends of the earth. On the march, he suffered their every privation, roaming the columns with his aides, encouraging and cajoling. He never seemed to tire. ‘Just one more mile, and then another ten,’ he would shout, and they cheered him through cracked lips from throats choked with Armenian dirt. He seemed to know every soldier in an army of twenty thousand men. If he recognized a legionary he had decorated, he would dismount and walk with the man and discuss their old campaigns. If he saw a man whose hob-nailed sandals were falling apart, he would reprimand his centurion for failing to have them replaced before the campaign began. He even supervised the placement and the provisioning of the supply depots set at three-day intervals which would provide rations, fodder and water for the army on its return. But there was another Corbulo still, a Corbulo honed to an edge that Valerius doubted even his daughter would recognize.

It happened early one evening, on the fourth day after they had crossed the Euphrates, as the Tenth Fretensis prepared their defensive rampart for the night. The previous day Corbulo had noticed the men discarding their weapons before they began work. With increasing signs of Parthian activity he had issued an order that all legionaries should wear their swords while digging. The commander, as always, inspected the defences while they were being dug, making recommendations for improvement and giving praise where it was due. When he reached the foundations of the northern perimeter he came across a soldier working naked, apart from a sword belt. Valerius heard later what followed.

‘You are improperly dressed, soldier.’

‘No, sir.’ The legionary, a veteran of twenty years, who had spent half his life in the legion and half of that fighting for the man addressing him, grinned. ‘The general specified that we should wear our swords while digging and I’m wearing my sword, sir.’ His companions laughed and Corbulo had returned the man’s smile. That night the soldier was charged with disobeying a direct order, found guilty and sentenced to death.

‘You think I am being overly harsh?’ the governor asked when Valerius made his evening visit to the command pavilion. ‘Corbulo the man can be mocked, but not Corbulo the commander. Corbulo the commander must be obeyed.’ Valerius could have argued that the legionary might have misinterpreted the order, but he knew that wasn’t the point. ‘Discipline is what makes us what we are. The finest fighting soldiers in the world. Discipline is what allows me to lead a force of twenty thousand against an army of fifty, sixty or seventy and still know I can win. Indiscipline is a sign of weakness. When that man challenged my authority he weakened his legion in the same way a coward weakens it when he runs from the battle line. I would be shirking my duty if I did not serve him in the same way I serve the coward. No, I am not harsh.’ By now Valerius had realized that the governor was not trying to justify his actions to the tribune who shared his wine and his battles in Caesar’s Tower, but to himself. ‘By our code, I would have been justified in having him beaten to death by his tent-mates, a long, painful and degrading end. Instead, he will die by the sword as he has lived by it, and men will say Corbulo has been not only just, but merciful. Discipline.’

It was only later that Valerius understood that when the general had uttered that final, fatal word, he was thinking not about the man who was about to die, but about the man who had stretched his Caesar’s authority to the limit and beyond. And the price he might one day have to pay.

Corbulo ordered constant cavalry patrols to see off any Parthian scouts who threatened to approach the column. The general made it clear he thought Valerius a fool for sharing these duties with his troops. For his part, Valerius knew the only way he would learn to think like a cavalryman was to live most of his waking hours in the saddle, sharing their hardships and dangers. He spent much of his time with Hanno’s Thracian auxiliaries, riding until every bone in his body ached, but he had yet to lay eyes on a Parthian warrior. In the last few days he had eaten more grit than army rations, and Hanno had been right: his tender backside was well on the way to being saddle-shaped and the texture of tanned leather.

No cities barred their way in this wilderness, but sometimes they would come across a huddle of mud-brick huts where they would be greeted by some bearded ancient expendable enough to the village to be sacrificed to dangerous Roman whim. As long as they posed no threat, Corbulo ordered these communities to be left unharmed and his quartermasters bought up every spare piece of Armenian clothing they could lay their hands on. Most cooperated, but occasionally one did not. Eventually Corbulo lost patience.

Valerius was walking Khamsin when he found Tiberius at his shoulder, bright-eyed with excitement. The young man had spent the past few days complaining that he didn’t have enough responsibility. ‘I am the most junior of junior tribunes,’ the boy lamented. ‘Of course, I would never criticize my senior officers. Legate Traianus is a fine soldier and knows his business. But… but it can be irksome to be told always to stand and be silent, to listen and learn. I do not have the slightest authority, even over the meanest new recruit. I try to do my duty and tell myself that I will be accepted for my diligence and commitment, but I long to be accepted. I have volunteered to take charge of those on guard duty, but I am refused even that. If there is anything…’

Valerius had spoken to the legate and Tiberius’s face told him the situation had changed. The boy’s blurted announcement confirmed it. ‘I am to have my first independent command,’ he boasted.

Valerius waited.

‘Well,’ Tiberius admitted, ‘I am to be nominally in command, but I must heed the words of the centurion.’

Valerius smiled. ‘And what is this epic mission?’

‘Oh, it is nothing important. A few villagers drove off some of our horses and their enemies in the next hamlet claim they were sold to a Parthian patrol. I’m to lead four centuries of the fifth cohort. We are to teach them a lesson.’

The smile froze on Valerius’s face. ‘And do you know what form this lesson is to take?’

Tiberius shrugged. ‘Burn a few huts, I suppose. I know it’s not much…’

But Valerius had been on patrols where barbarian villages had been taught a lesson, and he feared that Tiberius might be about to learn a harsh lesson of his own.

‘Look, Tiberius. It may be more than that. You may be asked to do things that seem distasteful to you.’ The younger man looked mystified, but Valerius knew it was something he must discover for himself. ‘Just remember that you have your orders and let the centurion take the lead. Do what you have to do, but always remember you do it for your legion and for Rome.’

He abandoned the next day’s patrol so that he could be with the main column when Tiberius returned from the punitive expedition. The young tribune led his three hundred legionaries into the fort, but this was no triumphal entry. He rode straight-backed, as always, never looking right or left, but even from a distance Valerius could see the unnatural set of his mouth and the blood that stained his face and armour.

Later, he found Tiberius sitting alone in his tent staring at his hands. The boy didn’t look up when Valerius entered. When he spoke his voice was as cold as an empty grave.

‘They were women and children, mostly, and a few old men, but you knew that. It was what you tried to warn me about yesterday. The centurion took charge and told me to stay close. We surrounded the village, so not as much as a mouse could escape, and then we advanced. There had been no orders, but I realized later that the men had done this so often that they didn’t need them. They herded the villagers into the centre — there must have been a hundred of them — and the centurion read out a decree from Traianus that the people could not understand. Women were weeping. No screaming, not then. There were children, too young to know what was going on, playing and laughing. A pretty little girl looked up at me and smiled. I… didn’t understand what was happening at first. But then the centurion told me to draw my sword. It was orders, he said: no man could stand back from the dirty work. The legate wanted me blooded, and I would be blooded. Then we killed them. No, we butchered them. It didn’t take long. Three hundred swords against a hundred unarmed women and children, it wouldn’t, would it? The little girl was still smiling when I killed her. Then I killed her sister and mother. When we finished they were just a big pile of corpses in a spreading lake of blood. The centurion was pleased. Quick and clean, he said, and no opposition.’ He shook his head. ‘I can kill, Valerius, believe me when I say I am a very good killer. But I did not come here to slaughter women and children because their menfolk might have stolen a few horses.’

‘You didn’t kill them because they stole a few horses.’ Valerius kept his voice harsh. He knew sympathy was the last thing Tiberius needed. ‘You killed them because it was your duty. That was the lesson Traianus wanted you to learn. Duty is everything. A legionary must not only be disciplined. He must be hard. Remember what you said when I told you my plan on the ship? You’re as hard as the iron in that gladius you wear. Well, this is the world we inhabit, Tiberius. Traianus decided an example must be made and if an example is to be made there is no place for pity or mercy. What would happen if every village on our line of march believed they could steal our horses with impunity? That would only be the beginning. They’d start raiding the supply lines, killing our sentries, and because we weren’t strong enough or hard enough to make a proper example the whole country would band together and believe they could defeat us. Then how many would we be forced to kill? Not a hundred, not even a thousand. Ten thousand, and the rest would be taken as slaves. Hundreds of your comrades would be dead. By doing your duty and killing those Armenian villagers, you saved Roman lives. Occasionally, you will be given an order you do not agree with, like today. But always remember, there is a greater purpose.’ He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. ‘This is the army, Tiberius. If your commander tells you to march off a cliff, all you can do is ask which spot would give him the most pleasure.’

‘I will try to remember that. I wish…’

Valerius made a decision. ‘Tomorrow I am taking out a patrol.’ For the first time, Tiberius looked up and met his eyes. ‘I doubt we will encounter any Parthians, but at least it will give you the chance to carry your sword against a proper enemy.’