Saviour of Rome

XLIX

Harpocration angled his squadron to cut Valerius off from the hill, but Serpentius called out an order and half Valerius’s little force swerved to meet the Parthians head on. Fewer than ten men now accompanied Valerius, but they were brave men and they knew what was required to save their comrades on the plain. They surged ahead to form a protective shield between the one-handed Roman and the Parthian line. Valerius felt a prickle behind his eyes at this conscious act of self-sacrifice. There could only be one outcome in the unequal contest between the Asturians and the professional cavalry. Yet he had no time to mourn them. He sank lower in the saddle, his head between the horse’s ears. His only thought must be to make their sacrifice worthwhile. He must stay alive.

A clash of arms and a terrible shriek from behind and to his left. An image of Serpentius, savage, indestructible and indomitable, flitted through his mind before the Parthian line struck the charging Asturians. A long spear spitted the man in front of Valerius like a chicken and plucked him from the saddle. All around, a chaos of screaming ponies and dying men, spurting blood and shattered bone. For a moment he knew he’d failed. He could find no way through and he was surrounded by snarling Parthians and probing spear points. Then he saw it. A dried-up stream bed that split the Parthian line and led to the slope where Gaius Plinius Secundus watched implacably as his legionaries continued their relentless march towards Tito and his doomed Asturian farmers.

Valerius rammed his horse between two milling Parthians. A spear drove at his chest and he parried it upwards, but the shaft clattered against his head, leaving his skull ringing and his senses stunned. Another found its mark and a lightning bolt of agony sliced through his left side, but he was through and urging his mount up the stream bed. The gully twisted and turned, the sides steepening the further he progressed. As he searched desperately for an escape route he could almost feel the Parthian spears reaching out for his back. The clatter of hooves to his rear increased in volume. Soon those below would finish with Allius and the rest and join the pursuit to cut off his flanks.

A cry of triumph from terrifyingly close just as his eyes registered the only possibility of escape, a slope of pink scree slightly shallower than the rest. Valerius swerved the horse without slackening pace, hammering his heels into its ribs and slapping its sweat-foamed flank with his sword. Only a few more paces and he would have made it.

Without warning a huge shadow towered over him and he was thrown from the saddle as a Parthian mount smashed his horse backwards. Valerius landed with bone-cracking force, a bolt of agony in his ribs joining the burning in his side. Jagged stones scraped the side of his face raw as he tumbled head over heels into the stream bed, flailing hooves inches from his face and narrowly missing rocks that would have smashed his brains out. Somehow he clung on to his sword. When he crashed into the stream bed he managed to stagger to his feet, mind reeling and vision blurred. Two Parthians – or was it four? – prodded their spears at his chest. He slashed at the points and backed away. The Parthians laughed and more needle points pricked his back.

A bearded giant in fish scale armour and a green tunic grinned down at him from the saddle. ‘Our commander ordered us to take you alive,’ he said in a guttural and heavily accented Latin. ‘But he did not say you should be undamaged.’ To reinforce his words he jabbed his spear point into Valerius’s thigh. Valerius cried out and hacked at the shaft with his sword. The wound did no serious damage, but he could feel the blood running down his leg. Another point jabbed into his buttock and he spun to face his laughing attacker. The Parthians could do this until he was bleeding from a dozen wounds and still keep him alive long enough to suffer the torment Claudius Harpocration planned for him. He forced despair from his mind. As long as he could hold his sword they wouldn’t take him alive. But the resolution lasted only as long as it took for the ash shaft of an enemy spear to smash down on his wrist. Valerius cried out with frustration as the sword fell from his numbed fingers. His tormentors only laughed all the louder and the ring of spears closed in.

‘What is happening here?’ The imperious demand came from a tall, mounted figure who appeared at the top of the bank, silhouetted against the sun. Valerius looked up and raised his wooden right hand to shade his eyes. The man cried out in astonishment. ‘Valerius? I thought you were dead.’

Valerius had to choke back an outburst of hysterical laughter. ‘I will be unless you can convince these snakes to draw in their fangs, Pliny.’

‘Release this man,’ Gaius Plinius Secundus snapped. The Parthians looked up in bewilderment at the imposing figure in a legate’s armour and scarlet cloak. More mounted figures appeared beside Pliny, the members of his personal guard. ‘Put up your spears,’ he repeated the command. ‘Or you will not live another heartbeat.’

The bearded giant rasped out an order and the ring of leaf-bladed points receded. Valerius scrambled through a gap in the iron and clawed his way up the bank to the governor’s side. From here he could see the legionaries continuing their steady march towards Tito’s Asturians, who stood in a disorganized huddle by the road. ‘Pliny,’ he said urgently. ‘You must withdraw your men. These are not your enemy. They are.’ He pointed to the Parthians on the dusty plain below, and beyond them the two cohorts of the Sixth.

‘I don’t understand,’ Pliny said. ‘Those are Roman soldiers.’

‘Melanius persuaded them to march on Tarraco. He was stealing the Emperor’s gold, Pliny. The proof is in the leather sack tied to the saddle of that horse. Melanius is dead and I doubt they’ll fight, but you must believe me …’ His voice failed him for a moment. ‘Mars save us. Serpentius!’ Only now did he notice that a single conflict still continued among the milling Parthians. Two horses wheeled and circled as their riders fought for position. ‘A mount, Pliny. A mount and a sword if you love me as a friend.’

Pliny responded instantly with an order and one of his escort jumped from the saddle and led his horse to where Valerius stood.

‘I will call off the attack.’ The governor handed Valerius his own sword. ‘Go to Serpentius and stop this bloodshed. Cassito?’ he called to the leader of the escort. ‘Take ten men and bring me whoever commands the Sixth, by force if necessary.’

Valerius galloped down the slope without waiting for the escort, snarling at any Parthians who blocked his way. A strange listlessness had overcome the bearded cavalrymen as they began to understand the significance of the newly arrived troops and they gave way without protest. Others formed a circle around the battle between the commander who had never lost a fight and the astonishingly swift enemy who had already brought him twice to the brink of defeat. A cry of agony pierced the air as Valerius broke through the Parthian ranks and his heart stopped as he saw Serpentius reel away clutching his stomach. Claudius Harpocration wheeled his horse, sword raised for the death blow. But Valerius’s gelding was cavalry-trained and didn’t break stride as he drove it chest to shoulder with the Parthian’s mount. The impact threw Harpocration clear of the saddle and he scrabbled in the dust to avoid his falling horse.

Valerius dismounted and advanced on his enemy as Harpocration struggled to his feet. A few Parthian spearmen moved to block his way until Cassito and the men of Pliny’s escort galloped up and snarled at them to stay clear. Harpocration was clearly suffering from the effects of the contest. His chest heaved beneath the heavy mail of his protective armour and the left arm of his tunic was soaked with blood where Serpentius had cut him at least once. But his eyes glittered with loathing and blood-rage. He moved confidently to meet Valerius’s approach.

Any man who wounded Serpentius was a warrior to fear, but Valerius felt the anger growing in him like lava ready to vent. His eyes never leaving his enemy he strode forward with his sword raised and his right side exposed. In battle, Serpentius had always acted as Valerius’s shield, or his strong right hand. Now that flank was an invitation to strike.

And Harpocration took it.

The Parthian commander lunged with the speed of a thunderbolt, the point of his sword like a dart aimed at Valerius’s unprotected chest. His victory cry rose in his throat, but it remained unfulfilled, because the air rang as Valerius swatted the blade away with a speed and a power that left Harpocration gaping. Before he could react Valerius hammered his wooden fist at the Parthian’s face. Harpocration ducked his head. It was all that saved him because Valerius had deployed the hidden blade and the point would have taken him in the right eye. Instead it was deflected by the iron dome of the Parthian’s helmet. Harpocration flailed blindly with the sword, forcing Valerius to step back and winning a moment to recover. But Valerius was back within a heartbeat, the sword in his left hand probing relentlessly at Harpocration’s flank and forcing him to parry awkwardly in a move he’d never trained for. Valerius could feel him slow as the strain of the fight with Serpentius continued to take its toll. Claudius Harpocration’s muscles were battle honed, but no man could fight for ever.

Harpocration cried out as Valerius’s edge added another cut to the one Serpentius had inflicted. Oddly, the shoulder wound seemed to galvanize the Parthian and for a few deadly seconds he hacked at Valerius with renewed strength. For the first time he noticed the blood that streaked Valerius’s legs and filled his sandals. A new confidence welled up inside him as he sensed his opponent weakening. Suddenly Valerius’s thrusts were less certain and Harpocration knew he had one chance to finish this quickly. He launched a whirlwind attack that tested first right, then left and as his opponent reeled, a final double-handed overhead cut that should have split Valerius from skull to chin. Instead, it met thin air.

Serpentius had taught Valerius that footwork was as important to a swordsman as the blade in his hand. Now Valerius put all the gruelling hours of practice into effect. He spun clear in a pirouette that positioned him for a savage backhand. If it had landed perfectly the blow would have taken the top off Harpocration’s skull as if it was an egg. The Parthian managed to sway out of killing range, but the point of the sword scored a bloody line across his eyes.

The Parthian reeled away shrieking as he realized he was blinded. He clawed at his face with his left hand, but he still had the presence of mind to retain his sword in the right. He staggered backwards sweeping the blade from side to side in a desperate bid to survive. Valerius disarmed him with an almost casual flick of the sword point and kicked him in the chest so he fell on his back. For a moment he stood over his enemy, breathing hard, staring down at the ruined features of the man who had planned to torture him to death.

In that moment it occurred to him that a life condemned to eternal darkness was what Harpocration deserved. But that was not Gaius Valerius Verrens’ way. He lifted the sword and plunged the point into Harpocration’s throat with enough force to sever his spine. Blood spurted the length of the blade and the Parthian jerked and flopped like a stranded fish before going still.

Looking down at the dead man, Valerius felt terribly weary, weary unto death. Then he remembered Serpentius.

The Spaniard lay on his back a dozen paces away with Tito kneeling at his side. The younger man had his head bowed as if he was listening. Valerius approached them and Tito looked up, his hatchet face a rictus of anguish and his cheeks wet with tears. Shaking his head, he rose slowly to his feet and walked away.

Valerius took his place, wincing at the dark stain on the Spaniard’s tunic; he’d never felt such helplessness and despair. He reached to pull the torn cloth aside but Serpentius’s hand came up and his fingers gripped Valerius’s wrist so fiercely the Roman thought they would tear the flesh.

‘No point.’ The former gladiator managed to open his eyes. ‘I’ve killed enough people to know when I’m dead. My sword?’

Valerius reached for the fallen blade and placed it in his friend’s hand. ‘Hold on,’ Valerius whispered. ‘Pliny will send his personal medicus.’ Serpentius closed his eyes and gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. Valerius had always thought of the Spaniard as a big man; now he realized that his size was an illusion created by his strength and his speed and his presence. He bit back the sob that filled his chest and turned it into a cough.

Serpentius’s eyes opened again and he stared at Valerius’s face as if memorizing it. ‘Cold.’ The word was so indistinct Valerius almost missed it. The Spaniard let out a long sigh and Valerius had a moment of panic-stricken terror, but the grey eyes brightened a little and the gravel voice rallied. ‘You saved me.’ A desperate urgency filled Serpentius’s words. ‘And you freed me. But I was never so free as when I fought by your side.’ His voice faded and he sounded almost puzzled. His final words emerged as one long sigh. ‘I’m going home.’

Slowly, the iron grip slackened and the lifeless fingers fell away. When Valerius could bear to look the Spaniard’s grey eyes had already dulled. Gaius Valerius Verrens knelt over the body of Serpentius of Avala, a prince of his tribe, a slave, a gladiator and a friend, and wept.