Saviour of Rome

I

Northern Hispania, AD72

He lay in a shallow depression overlooking the dusty valley. The relentless Iberian sun beat down fit to melt the jagged rocks beneath him and the top of his skull burned like glowing coals despite the cloth scarf covering his face and head. Only the pitiless predator’s eyes remained visible to strike fear in anyone who looked upon them. He’d been stalking the convoy all this long, hot day, but it was only in the last few minutes that he finalized his plan of attack. He went over it once more in his mind before squirming backwards to where the others crouched, invisible behind the brow of the hill.

‘They have to cross the river at the old ford below Vulture Cliff.’ He drew a rough map in the sand with the point of his dagger and the ten men leaned close to catch his whispered words. ‘That’s where you’ll stop them.’

‘How?’ A throaty growl from a heavily bearded man with brick red features and eyes turned to mere slits by years of squinting into the Asturian sun. ‘There are thirty of the hook-noses guarding the wagons.’

The leader produced a grunt of irritation behind the cloth mask. Always it must be Buntalos with the unnecessary question. The hook-noses were a mixed squadron of Parthian auxiliaries from the wing based at Legio, and Buntalos was right, there were too many of them for a direct attack. One or two of the others darted a nervous glance at their comrade. They’d learned early it was unwise to risk the anger of the man who led them.

‘You do what we discussed last night.’ He let them hear his irritation. ‘Show yourselves among the rocks. Change positions to make them think your numbers are greater. They’ll be keen to reach the fort before nightfall, but the ford is rocky and the escort won’t risk an all-out charge against a well-positioned enemy. If they probe you, show them how good you are with a sling shot. That should hold them for long enough.’

‘And you, Nathair?’ This time it was young Sigilo and the leader allowed himself a hidden smile. It still sounded odd to hear the name in his own tongue rather than Latin.

Serpentius.

The Snake.

‘If you hold their attention I will do what must be done.’

His companions nodded solemnly, even Buntalos, who, for all his truculence, was a steady hand with a blade and a deadly slinger. A potter by trade, a bandit when it suited him. Serpentius had saved his life when the village where they’d wintered had turned out to fend off marauding wolves during a blizzard. Buntalos had followed him like a sheepdog ever since. The others were experienced night raiders who’d lifted sheep and goats from the villages in the lower valleys or snatched sacks of grain from a storehouse serving one of the Roman mines. Such raids were a rite of passage among the hill tribes and a link to the old ways. In the years before Serpentius returned to his homeland they’d become ever bolder as Hispania’s garrison troops were sucked into the civil war that had come close to tearing the Empire apart. Thankfully, the days of great retaliatory sweeps by thousands of merciless legionaries were long past, though the district procurator might send out a squadron or two of auxiliaries on a training exercise that doubled as a punitive expedition.

This raid would be different.

Serpentius watched his men trot off down a gully that would lead them to the river crossing. They wore homespun tunics and head cloths that matched the dusty mountain terrain and within moments they’d merged into the landscape. Buntalos and the others knew these hills as well as they knew the rocky fields and scrubby gardens of their home villages. They’d reach their destination well ahead of the heavy wagons and their mixed escort of auxiliary cavalry and infantry. The escort commander might send a small patrol to check the crossing, but Serpentius had faith in his men’s ability to stay out of sight. Any Asturian who retained a semblance of independence had years of experience avoiding patrols sent to comb the mountains for labour to work endless hours in the mines or smelting workshops.

He crawled back to the lip of the bowl and squeezed into a narrow gap between two large boulders. From this vantage point he could watch the road without exposing his silhouette on the skyline. Below, ten covered wagons lumbered into sight, each pulled by a team of four bullocks and guided by a driver walking at the shoulder of the lead beast. Serpentius turned his attention to the mounted escort, a dozen cavalry troopers from the wing at Legio. They rode with shoulders slumped and heads down, evidence of the boredom and frustration at having to match the slow pace of the carts. Ten of the Parthian cavalry rode in front of the wagons, with two acting as a rearguard. He counted another eighteen infantry trudging nine to each side of the line of carts and no doubt sick of eating the dust kicked up by the horses and the iron-shod wagon wheels. They’d be tired after the long march from the Red Hills mines, but they looked alert enough.

He felt an instant, visceral loathing for the men in the pot helmets and chain-mail vests. Hired killers whose first thought was for plunder and rapine, they served Rome in return for a pension and a brass diploma that listed their service. On that final day the diploma would proclaim them a citizen of an Empire that placed a tax on anything born of nature, and much that wasn’t. A soldier would have applauded their dispositions: flexible enough to react to attack from any quarter, infantry providing close protection and cavalry able to respond quickly to the slightest threat. Serpentius would have preferred something a little more inviting, but given the importance of the cargo the precautions hardly came as a surprise. In fact, security was a little lighter than he’d expected, which raised certain possibilities. He scrutinized the line of wagons again because those possibilities were both positive and negative, but they could only be tested by close inspection.

When the rearguard disappeared from sight he counted to a hundred before slipping over the crest and down the boulder-strewn slope. He moved with animal stealth by long-honed instinct from one piece of cover to the next. In the past he wouldn’t have noticed the exertions of the day, but a pounding head and the dull ache in his lower back were a reminder of the wounds he’d suffered in Rome and Jerusalem. The medicus said the injuries would never fully heal, but they’d affected Serpentius more than he’d expected. His feet were less sure than of old and his breathing more ragged, causing an occasional dagger of pain in his chest. Some of the edge that had made him one of the most feared men in Rome was lost for ever. He could only pray that was all he’d lost.

He smiled. Despite the doubts, Serpentius understood the aura of threat he carried with him. Loss, suffering and the scars of war had given him a face that promised pain and death. Fifteen years a slave and a gladiator had honed his wiry frame into a lightning quick, whip thin weapon of muscle and sinew. His speed and endurance, and the skills he’d acquired to keep him alive in the most dangerous place on earth, turned him into a killing machine. He’d lost count of the opponents who’d died beneath his sword. The men he led believed him an invincible combination of the stealthy mountain lynx that threatened their flocks and the savage desert leopard, of which they’d only heard fireside tales. The gladiator tricks he’d taught these slow farm boys and pot makers gave them the swagger of warriors among their tribes and clans. They were proud men, brave and eager for the fight. Yet courage couldn’t hide the reality that in combat with the auxiliaries they’d last only as long as it took their enemy to decide between the throat and the heart.

That vulnerability was the reason he’d ordered them to stay on the far side of the river and avoid contact. Their presence was a ruse designed to provide Serpentius with an opportunity, nothing more. He didn’t want anyone killed, on either side. In truth he’d been reluctant to use them at all. But his friend needed his help and there was no other way.

Serpentius reached the plain, but deliberately kept well back from the convoy, ready to drop into the skimpy cover of the dried grass and scrubby bushes that carpeted the valley bottom. Concealment became more difficult as he advanced and the valley narrowed. He slowed as the ford came into sight in the distance. The river here suited his purposes almost perfectly: not too shallow, fast flowing even in summer, fed by a thousand cool streams that tumbled from the rugged, cloud-wreathed mountains to the north.

With the convoy in view he had no choice but to go to ground. He dropped to his belly and crawled forward until he could see two clearly agitated horsemen peering past the last wagon in the direction of the river. The faint sound of shouted orders reached him, but there was no evidence yet of panic. It made sense for the infantry to remain in position while the cavalry vanguard assessed the strength of the force contesting their river crossing.

He knew what would be going through the escort commander’s mind. Was the threat only to his front, or was there a greater force ready to fall from the heights on to his flanks and rear? Until he was certain of the answer the infantry would stay by the wagons searching the ground around them for signs of bandits. Serpentius created a shallow nest in the dry earth and waited with tiny black ants crawling over his body and the scent of thyme in his nostrils. He pulled a scrap of stale bread from the pouch at his belt and chewed at it to extract what nourishment he could. When the sun had moved a certain distance across the great blue bowl above he risked another glance through the bushes. One of the cavalry rearguard had ridden off towards the head of the column, accompanied by half the infantry. Gambling that their advance would attract the focus of their comrades he slithered towards the rearmost wagon in a smooth, undulating crawl that would have graced his serpentine namesake.

A whiff of rank sweat from one of the bullocks told him he was close enough for now. He burrowed into the prickly depths of a thick patch of gorse and waited. His plan, such as it was, could hardly be described as detailed. First, they had to stop the convoy at a moment and in a location where the escort commander would have no choice but to form a defensive perimeter for the night. Naturally, the man would send a messenger for reinforcements, and Serpentius heard a shouted conversation and a clatter of hooves on the road that confirmed he’d just done so. Had he been inclined, the Spaniard could very easily have ambushed the courier further up the trail, but why take the risk when the closest available troops were several hours away? Now it was just a matter of waiting for an opportunity.

A few hundred paces distant his Asturians would be making occasional appearances among the rocks and keeping the auxiliaries’ attention with insults and threats. The first attempts would already have been made to shift them, but the threat of a lead slingshot hurled with enough force to take out an eye and pierce the brain would make even the bravest man pause. More infantry, advancing behind their painted oval shields, would soon have swept the bandits clear, but Serpentius guessed the auxiliary commander wouldn’t risk leaving the convoy entirely undefended. It meant he’d be unable to put together a sufficient force to make a decisive sortie into the jumble of boulders and gorse guarding the far side of the ford. Like Serpentius he would wait, hoping the bandits would see the futility of their position and withdraw. In the meantime the Spaniard could only pray the remaining guards would relax their vigilance long enough to give him his chance. This type of thing would have been much easier in the night, which was his natural element. But he couldn’t do what must be done in the dark.

The faintest of movements drew his gaze to the left and he froze. What he’d seen was a flickering tongue hidden in the shadows at the base of the gorse bush. Behind it dangerous bronze eyes with elliptical pupils gazed from a triangular head attached to a sinuous body the length of a gladius blade. The upturned snub nose and striped pattern on its scales told him it was an asp, the most venomous of all Hispania’s vipers, and the coiled defensive posture that it didn’t appreciate sharing its shady resting place. With infinite care Serpentius drew his right hand across his body, extended his forefinger and moved it right to left in a gentle arc. The motion attracted the snake and its head followed the waving finger, retreating as it prepared to strike. Serpentius’s left hand whipped round to take it behind the head before it had the chance. As the twisting body coiled round his wrist and the snake fought to sink its fangs into his flesh he rolled on his back, drew his dagger with his right hand and sliced the head from the body.

Hardly had he thrown the decapitated snake aside before a clamour of activity broke out somewhere close to the head of the convoy. He peered between the gorse stems in time to see the remaining rearguard mount his horse and ride towards the ford. At the same time, the two Parthian footsoldiers within his arc of vision looked at each other, scanned their surroundings one last time and jogged off in the wake of the trooper.

The driver of the rear cart watched them go, all his attention on what was happening further ahead. With a silent curse Serpentius realized his men had somehow overstepped themselves. Perhaps Buntalos, always keen to prove his courage, had made a feint charge too far into the ford and his comrades had been drawn after him. All it would take was the slightest miscalculation and the cavalrymen would be on them like hawks, with the infantry quick to join the bloodletting. A piercing scream confirmed his suspicions. No time for pity, even if he’d felt any. Their stupidity and their sacrifice had given him his opportunity. He slid through the scrub towards the rear wagon, one eye always on the back of the driver, who’d moved away from his charges to find a better view of the slaughter. A moment later he was hidden from potential discovery by the leather awning of the cart. He swung himself nimbly over the gate and into the bed of the wagon.

Serpentius had never been a man to show his emotions, but he felt a thrill of excitement as he recognized the vehicle’s contents. Four heavily built wooden chests stacked in the centre of the floor exactly as he’d been told, each fastened with an iron lock. The locks were sealed by red wax imprinted with the mark of the procurator. The Spaniard had no time for finesse. He knew that whoever his friend sought would quickly work out the purpose of the ambush.

A sweep of the blade sliced away the seal of the nearest chest to reveal the keyhole. From the pouch on his belt he retrieved a pointed piece of iron the length of his forefinger and narrow enough to fit into the lock. The fastening was sturdily made, but crude; familiar from the many hours he’d spent working on an identical model supplied by his friend in Asturica. He forced the iron rod into the keyhole and began to exert pressure in a certain way that would spring the mechanism. In practice he’d taken mere moments, but now his fingers felt uncharacteristically leaden. He was conscious of every passing second. His ears strained for evidence of the escort’s return. By now they’d have dealt with the ambushers and soon their suspicions would be aroused by the pitiful numbers who’d faced them. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. With a loud snap the lock opened. He lifted the lid and pulled back the linen cloth covering the contents.

‘You were right,’ he whispered to himself. He picked up one of the dull grey metal bars stacked inside and weighed it in his hand before returning it to its place. It took only moments to open a second chest, with similar results. Satisfied with what he’d discovered, he crawled across the remaining chests and looked past the edge of the leather wagon cover. He’d been informed the second to last wagon was also suspect and he’d planned to inspect the contents if he could. One look told him it was impossible. The driver was back at the head of his bullock with his stick raised ready to encourage the beast into movement.

Enough. Serpentius crept to the rear of the cart, slipped over the sill and wriggled through the grass towards the nearest patch of scrub.

He was halfway when he heard the shout and the thunder of hooves in the distance. The trooper had been returning to his rearguard position when he thought he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving amongst the tussocks. Now the something became a man who rose to his feet and sprinted for the much too distant slope. The cavalryman, a bearded veteran, grinned and hefted the seven-foot spear in his right hand, already anticipating the kill. He’d been denied the opportunity of skewering one of the bandits who’d ventured too far into the river to taunt his comrades, but this one was as good as dead. He directed the leaf-shaped iron point at the centre of the cloth-covered back and kicked his mount into an easy canter.

Serpentius glanced over his shoulder and gauged his lead over the approaching trooper. He knew he had no chance of reaching the slope, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the man’s comrades as possible. The Spaniard felt no fear, quite the opposite. In combat he’d always found an icy calm that channelled what other men called fear into a potent mix of speed and agility. The attribute had kept him alive against men who thought they were quicker and better. He’d already noted the way the auxiliary handled his spear and the fact he was in no hurry, which spoke of an expert cavalryman. He could almost read the man’s mind: an easy kill, simpler by far than spearing a hare on the run or a wild boar. But Serpentius had faced mounted killers many times and the trooper’s experience only made him predictable. Certain elements of the strike would be ingrained on his soul. Without warning the Spaniard changed his angle so he appeared to be running diagonally for the safety of the slope. He heard a triumphant shout as the cavalryman altered course to follow him.

The more opponents Serpentius faced in the arena, the clearer it became to him that survival was more than a combination of physical attributes and mental awareness. He couldn’t fully explain it, but the most successful gladiators were those who found a way to block the emotions dictating their actions. Fear, anger or enthusiasm had no place on the bloody sands of an amphitheatre. More dangerous by far was an ice-cold detachment that took a man beyond emotion and handed control to some inner sense. He remembered the superstitious awe in the eyes of the Thracian who tried to describe it. ‘It takes a special kind of courage to give yourself up to something so ethereal and allow a power beyond understanding to rule heart and mind and body, but if you can find it you may live. You have everything else, but if you don’t take that final step you’ll eventually meet a man who has.’ His finger had sliced across his throat in a gesture that had sent a shiver of dread through the young Serpentius. A few months later the Thracian won his rudis, the wooden sword that proclaimed his freedom, but he was dead within a year, stabbed in the back over some trivial gambling debt.

Now Serpentius drew back the scarf covering his face and sought the inner tranquillity that was the prelude to the cold place. His mind tuned itself to the rhythm of his feet across the dusty earth, the thunder of hooves in his ears, and the warmth of the air across his cheeks. Gradually all disappeared and he became nothing but a shadow, aware, but not part, of the world around him. In his mind he saw the horseman closing, felt the excitement building as fingers tightened on the ash shaft of the spear. Closer still. He maintained his pace, choosing not to speed up even though it would have delayed the moment. A slight adjustment in the spearhead and he knew the exact place where it would strike. The horse’s snorted breath was almost on his neck. Hardened muscles tensed for the thrust. The spear arm stiffened to take the impact. The shadow was falling. No, not falling, diving. Into a tight forward roll that took Serpentius below the spear point. A somersault that brought him back to his feet so that within two strides he was at the astonished cavalry trooper’s side. Two hands reached out, one high, one low, to grasp the spear shaft. The rider’s grip instinctively tightened. Serpentius allowed himself to fall, his weight plunging the spearhead into the earth so the rider’s own momentum catapulted him from the saddle to land on his shoulder with bone-crunching force. As the Parthian auxiliary lifted his head, gritting his teeth against the fiery pain in his left arm, the last thing he saw was the lanky whip thin figure striding out by the cantering horse’s flank before vaulting effortlessly into the saddle.

Serpentius abandoned his mount near a hill village west of Asturica Augusta and took to rocky mountain paths where he would leave no tracks for any pursuer. He reached the city long after nightfall, but he knew the man he sought would still be at work. The town watch had barred the great double gates and he didn’t choose to draw the attention of the guards in the twin towers. Instead, he kept to the shadows beyond the city walls until he found the quadrant he was looking for. Asturica’s walls had originally been built for defence, but now their main function was to control the passing of those doing business in the district capital. Yet for a man with friends there were always ways to circumvent such obstacles. The small iron gate at the base of the stonework had once been used to access a well in the gully that ran below. The well had long dried up and the gate went out of use. Tonight, it would be open.

When Serpentius pulled at the heavy iron door he tensed for the scream of rusted metal, but he had nothing to fear. Meticulous to the last detail, someone had oiled the ancient hinges. He waited until a cloud obscured the full moon and slipped through the feet-thick wall into an unlit street. A momentary hesitation to search his surroundings for any patrolling vigiles and he was on the move again.

The house was on the north side of the city, part of an impressive block in a wealthy area frequented by lawyers who did the majority of their business at the nearby basilica. Serpentius became ever more watchful as he reached the street. Two lamps marked the entrance and he studied it for a count of a hundred to make sure it wasn’t under surveillance by anyone else. When he was certain he retraced his steps and darted into a stygian alley that flanked the side wall of the house. Without pausing he slipped across the wall with the help of a few handily positioned cracks in the masonry. His old friend had laughed at this excessive caution, but Serpentius reflected that it was obsession to detail that had kept him alive for so long. He crouched in the shadow of the wall for a few moments, noting that the shutters of one room were open a few inches allowing the dull glow of a small oil lamp to show. It was the signal that the man was alone and waiting to see him.

The Spaniard crossed the garden in a dozen strides and walked confidently through an open door and along the familiar painted corridor. He paused on the threshold. It was a big room, part bureaucratic headquarters and part dining room, with a half partition across the centre to divide the two functions. To his left the dining area lay in darkness, but shadows flickered on the walls of the office with its wooden niches filled with scrolls. It was only when he stepped inside and his nostrils picked up the familiar metallic tang that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He should have run, but his feet carried him forward of their own volition. The slumped figure lay across the broad table and he might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for the great dark stain spread across the documents he’d been reading. Knowing it was pointless, Serpentius stepped forward and reached out for the shoulder of the man who’d been his friend.

A bulky figure in the uniform of a senior Roman officer stepped from the shadows accompanied by two soldiers. Serpentius could hear others pouring into the room behind him, but he didn’t resist as rough hands gripped his arms.

‘You are under arrest for the murder of a consular official and treason against the state.’