Saviour of Rome

XXXVI

They sensed something was wrong as soon as they crossed the rise above Avala.

Serpentius studied the cloudless blue sky over the settlement where dark specks wheeled in the upper atmosphere. ‘Carrion birds.’ He drew his sword and would have put his heels to his mount, but Valerius laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait. Remember the field by the Rhodanus. Buzzards and crows and a Batavian ambush.’ They’d been fortunate to survive that day by the river when the bloated corpses blackened in the sun and the horsemen burst whooping from the trees. ‘It won’t do any good getting ourselves killed. If those things scattered by the gate are what I think they are, nothing will ever do them good again.’

‘Tito.’ Serpentius’s voice cracked with emotion.

‘Tito is his father’s son,’ Valerius said harshly. ‘He’s too clever to be taken by a few dozen lumbering auxiliaries.’

But judging by the signs as they gentled their horses down the slope, there had been many more than a few dozen. ‘Two hundred at least,’ Serpentius estimated as he looked out across the trampled crops. ‘Harpocration brought most of his cavalry. If the infantry were with them …’

If the infantry accompanied them they would have been strong enough to fight their way through the passes to the sanctuary. The closer they came to the castro the clearer it became that this was no sweep to round up workers for the mines. It was a massacre.

Valerius and Serpentius took their time, eyes searching for any sign of threat, but gradually they relaxed. They were alone except for the dead.

Hundreds of bodies lay scattered across the cultivated ground around the blackened remains of the castro. They lay in little mixed clumps where the menfolk had vainly attempted to protect their loved ones, or were scattered around individually, the swiftest cut down as they’d tried to flee. Valerius looked down into the dead eyes of a dark-haired boy of ten whose skull had been cloven from brow to teeth. A halo of blood, brain and bone fragments surrounded his head and the still figure of a girl who might have been his sister stretched out a forlorn hand towards him. Her curly blonde hair fluttered softly in the light breeze.

Valerius directed a questioning glance at Serpentius and the Spaniard shook his head with a frown. Serpentius dismounted and led his horse by the reins from one little group of fallen to the next, searching the faces for one he recognized, or turning over what looked like a familiar form.

Eventually, he stood surveying the field of dead. ‘I don’t understand it. There’s no one from Avala among them.’

‘We should check the houses,’ Valerius said. ‘If nothing else we might find a couple of shovels.’

‘You’ll bury them?’

‘As many of them as we can before dark. They deserve at least that.’

Serpentius hid his surprise. Death was no stranger to them. They’d both left friends to rot in the past when necessity demanded it. Maybe they were getting old.

The puzzle of the lack of familiar faces was partially solved when they approached the settlement. Dark patches of ash and the charred remains of blackened branches showed where scores of fires had been kindled and lit.

‘They must have come here for shelter when their own villages were attacked,’ Serpentius guessed. ‘But why would Tito not have taken them on to the sanctuary?’

‘I suspect we’ll find out in the morning.’

The light was fading and their muscles ached by the time they bedded down amongst the rocks overlooking Avala’s northern flank with not a twentieth of the dead beneath the earth. One way or the other tomorrow would be a long day.

The first hint of dawn was showing as an orange-pink line that silhouetted the peaks on the eastern horizon when Serpentius shook Valerius by the shoulder. The Roman raised himself up and bit his lip to stifle a groan at the pain in his back and hips. A little manual labour and he was scarcely more than a cripple. He must be getting soft. Or old. Serpentius peered through a gap between two rocks at the village below.

‘What is it?’ Valerius whispered.

‘Movement.’ The Spaniard summoned him with a jerk of the head and moved to the side. Valerius slithered across to take his place. The ground below was covered by a layer of mist and it took him a few moments before he saw it. The sight sent a shiver through him. Disembodied torsos seeming to float on the haze. Had the dead risen? Don’t be a fool. The dead are just the dead, you’ve killed enough people to know that. He looked to Serpentius.

‘I don’t know.’ The Spaniard spoke so softly Valerius struggled to hear him. ‘They came from behind us, in the direction of the sanctuary. Maybe the Parthian commander sent a cohort of infantry to slaughter our people, then told them to wait for our return?’

Valerius thought about it and shook his head. ‘No. Harpocration might be a psychopath, but he’s no fool. He’d have left half a squadron of horse in case we were able to make a run for it. There’s nothing Harpocration would like better than to place our heads at Melanius’s feet.’

A terrible scream rent the air and Serpentius leapt to his feet. This time Valerius didn’t have the chance to stop him. All he could do was follow as the Spaniard sprang from rock to rock until he reached the fields leading down to the castro. No time to contemplate what lay ahead down there in the mist. The bright blades and the spurting blood and the blessed release of the last cut. More screams, but now Valerius recognized them for what they were. Not the scream of someone in pain, but the prolonged cries of unbearable grief. His legs almost gave way with relief. He’d been certain he was charging to his death. Great Jupiter hear my prayer. If I survive this I’ll never stray from my hearth again.

By now the sun was over the horizon and the mist cleared to a few stray wisps. Across the fields below Avala hundreds of men and women stood or knelt over the bodies of the slaughtered families. Some plainly knew the dead and their cries were painful to hear, but most just mourned the violent passing of another human being.

A few people recognized him and he heard muttering among the men. Several turned to stare at him and their hands twitched over their daggers, held back only by the sword in his hand. He was a Roman and Romans had brought this upon their people. It would only take one a little braver than the rest and he’d be cut to pieces under a hail of scything blades.

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens is a friend of the Zoelan people,’ a harsh voice cut the silence. ‘And he is under my protection. If any one of you wishes to dispute that I will be pleased to accommodate you. For me, there are enough Asturians who will be under the earth by tonight and we will need every able-bodied man to put them there.’

Serpentius stood with an arm around his son, the first time Valerius had seen him show physical affection to another male. Julia Octavia Fronton was a few paces behind Tito’s shoulder, her face a pale ghostly white. Even as Valerius watched she cried out and crumpled to the ground. Tito wrenched himself from his father and ran to her side.

The young warrior picked her up tenderly and carried her off to where some of the women were raising water from the village well. Nearby lay a number of badly wounded tribespeople who had somehow survived the Parthian attack.

‘So they’re all safe?’ Valerius asked. ‘The people of Avala?’

‘Not all, but most.’ Serpentius’s face had a haunted look. ‘I must organize the burials. Tito will tell you what happened.’

The Spaniard strode away, leaving Valerius trying to rationalize the pointless slaughter. Did the Parthians think they’d wiped out Serpentius’s band, or was this part of some wider plan? He walked to where Tito watched as one woman bathed Julia’s brow with a wet cloth while another placed a ladle to her lips. ‘I will be all right in a moment,’ the girl whispered. She tried to raise herself, but the elder of the women pushed her back.

‘I will tell you when you can get up, girl. You may leave her with us, young Tito,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘This is no place for a man.’

Tito’s cheeks turned red and he noticed Valerius for the first time. ‘She fainted.’ The unnecessary explanation was coupled with a look of baffled innocence that made the bearded warrior appear for a moment like a ten-year-old child. ‘So many dead, and killed by her own people – it overcame her.’

‘Not her own people,’ Valerius said. ‘A band of Parthian mercenaries in the pay of a gang of Roman crooks. Your father said you would tell me what happened.’

‘Yes.’ Tito looked back to where Julia lay. ‘Of course. Our scouts reported two hook-nose columns approaching the castro from different directions. We were close to being overwhelmed by families fleeing from the other villages and we were too few to face the Parthians. It made sense to retreat to the sanctuary before they were too close.’ His face darkened. ‘I’d been told that the last of the refugees had come in, but these people must have arrived just as night fell. They had no way of knowing the route to the sanctuary and they must have been exhausted. The hook-noses would have seen their fires and waited to strike at dawn.’ He shook his head. ‘I should have left a man here to guide them to the caves.’

‘Better that you did not,’ Valerius assured him. ‘All he would have done is lead the Parthians to the sanctuary and you would all be dead by now. What I don’t understand is why they killed everyone when your father tells me they are desperate for labour for the mines?’

Tito’s dark eyes drifted to where Serpentius was mustering the men into teams to gather the dead and dig pits to bury them. ‘Come with me.’ He led Valerius back to where they’d left Julia, but they bypassed the girl and instead approached one of the bandaged survivors. He lay on his back staring at the sky and Valerius felt the bile rise in his throat as he noticed the tribesman had no hands.

‘They let him live,’ Tito explained. ‘But they left him like this. The hook-nose commander, the prefect Harpocration, first gave him a message to be passed on to the people of these hills, then made him repeat it. When he was satisfied, he ordered his men to hold out first one arm, then the other, over a wooden barrel, and chopped his hands off.’ His eyes drifted to Valerius’s wooden fist, but his expression didn’t alter and Valerius saw that he was like his father in more than just looks.

‘What was the message?’ Valerius asked, though he knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

‘Cadriolo,’ Tito bent over the injured man, ‘tell the lord what the hook-nose devil told you to say.’

At first Cadriolo didn’t seem to hear, but gradually his eyes focused on Valerius. ‘He was like a wild beast.’ His voice was a hoarse, pain-racked whisper. ‘First he killed my wife. Then my children. Why did he not kill me?’

‘The message, Cadriolo,’ Tito insisted. ‘Tell us the message.’

Cadriolo raised himself on his elbows, his neck muscles bulging with the enormous effort. Pink appeared on the bandages over his stumps and quickly turned red. ‘Tell them that the Ghost brought this upon them, but …’ his voice wavered and almost died, ‘but they should know they can stop it by delivering his head to the Prefect Harpocration of the First ala Parthorum at Legio.’ With his final words the injured man fell back and resumed staring at the sky.

‘And that was all?’ Valerius asked him. ‘That was everything he said?’

‘If it is not,’ Tito turned away, ‘he will never tell us now.’