Scourge of Rome

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Serpentius sent word that he’d spend the evening at the Chalcidean camp and he still hadn’t returned when Dimitrios, the armourer, reappeared as promised the next day. He carried a leather bag and was accompanied by three slaves bearing bulky, cloth-covered packages. From the bag he produced the Roman’s wooden fist on its cowhide stock, buffed, polished and almost unrecognizable from its earlier incarnation.

‘I have made certain modifications of which I hope you approve, lord.’ He slipped the stock over the freshly oiled stump of Valerius’s right arm and tightened the leather thongs to hold it in place.

‘It’s more comfortable,’ Valerius admitted. ‘And a better fit.’

Dimitrios’s eyes twinkled at the praise. ‘I added a lining of soft calfskin, which should stop any chafing. A simple addition that will make wearing it for lengthy periods less demanding.’ He snapped out an order in Aramaic. One of the slaves uncovered his burden to reveal a large shield – a full-size legionary scutum, the face painted in the colours of the Tenth legion. ‘Please …’

Two leather straps had been fitted to the right of the grip for better stability. Valerius pushed the wooden fist through them and pulled back to engage the hooked fingers of the carved hand with the shield’s grip. The balance and feel was much better and he said so.

‘I am glad you are pleased.’ The armourer waved to the other two slaves to unwrap their packages. ‘And I think you will be even more so. Of course, this is only a fitting. I will make adjustments later and by the time I am finished you will believe it was made for you.’

Valerius studied the gleaming pile of metal with disbelief. ‘I …’

‘It was a gift to King Sohaemus from the Emperor himself,’ Dimitrios said proudly.

It was a Roman general’s breastplate worked in silver and gold. A set of protective armour fit for a prince and, judging by the decoration, originally made for an emperor. A golden chariot pulled by a team of silver horses raced across the well-muscled chest, while below Mars, Jupiter, Juno and Minerva looked on approvingly. The breastplate lay on a scarlet tunic and a legate’s scarlet cloak, beside a helmet of equal quality. The brim of the helm was inlaid with four roaring lions’ heads and it had a crest of stiffened scarlet horsehair. As Valerius watched, the slaves each produced a pair of similarly worked greaves and arm protectors.

‘I can’t wear this,’ he protested.

‘But the king insisted.’ Dimitrios looked terrified. ‘It would be a mortal insult to refuse his gift. Please, at least try it on.’

Valerius knew he had no choice. He stripped off his tunic and replaced it with the scarlet version, which turned out to be made of the finest cotton he had ever worn. Dimitrios fitted the gilded breast- and backplate over his head and strapped them in place, then attached the greaves to his shins and the arm protectors about his wrists. Finally, the armourer produced an elaborately decorated scabbard on a leather baldric. He placed the strap diagonally across Valerius’s chest, so the sword rested on Valerius’s right hip, ready to be cross drawn by the left hand. Satisfied, he stepped back and studied Valerius with a look of almost religious awe. Valerius’s fingers automatically sought out the sword hilt and drew the gladius from its sheath with a spine-chilling hiss.

As he took the sword in his hand, Valerius felt a surge of immense strength run through him and he saw the awe in Dimitrios’s eyes momentarily turn to fear. Valerius studied the weapon in his hand. But for the decoration it might have been a standard military gladius, yet it was probably the finest sword he had ever held. It had been manufactured from the best carbon-rich iron to give it strength, yet the balance was perfect. Even with the ornamental eagle on the pommel it felt almost weightless. The ghost of the five or six carefully selected bars of metal that forged it were visible as silvery traces in the blade. Like the pommel, the hilt was heavily ornamented. Valerius knew that in a fight even a hand as calloused as his would soon be blistered and bleeding. Still, a strip of leather wound around the grip would make it more of a killing weapon. The feel of it reminded him of the sword of Julius Caesar that Vitellius had taken from the Temple of Mars Ultor. His friend had carried it with him to the great Golden House in Rome where he’d ruled the Empire for eight short months. He only hoped fate would be kinder to this sword’s new owner.

The armour, like the gladius, was made of the finest materials. It was a little too full at the chest and shoulders, but an adjustment of the straps and some padding would fix that. He knew it was an illusion, but the combination made him feel taller and stronger, and he grinned; a shark’s grin that sent a shiver through the other man. These glittering baubles had one purpose, and one purpose only: to project power. He replaced the sword to a sigh of relief from Dimitrios, picked up the helmet and placed it on his head.

‘No wonder the Romans conquered the world.’

Valerius looked round to find Tabitha staring at him from the doorway. ‘I must look like a golden peacock,’ he grinned.

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘You look like a warrior of old.’ She walked round him and he felt his face redden as she studied the effect from every angle. ‘You could be Titus, or his older, much more dangerous brother.’ She ended up facing him and it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. ‘What could a man like you not achieve,’ she frowned, ‘if he had an army at his back?’

Valerius glanced warily at Dimitrios and the slaves. ‘My loyalty is to Rome, lady, and let none think otherwise.’

‘Yet Rome has abandoned Gaius Valerius Verrens. Why else would he be wandering in the Syrian mountains with a single servant and the clothes on his back, relying on the goodwill of an old friend?’

‘We will speak no more of this,’ he insisted, working at the straps of the breastplate.

She smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘Just a girl’s silly reflections, Valerius. Not to be taken seriously.’

‘Perhaps I’ll keep it for Saturnalia.’ He handed the armour to an appalled Dimitrios, but Tabitha laid a hand on his arm.

‘Do not discard King Sohaemus’s gift so lightly, or underestimate the importance of appearances in this land. There will come a time when you need to impress, and no matter what you think of these glittering baubles, you look mightily impressive in that uniform. Think on it, Valerius. Will you arrive at Titus’s camp like a beggar seeking alms, or at the head of five hundred of Sohaemus’s desperately needed archers, looking what you are? A warrior. A leader. A Hero of Rome.’ The pause that followed reinforced her point, but it was her next words that caught his attention. ‘And there will be others watching, people who may have a profound influence on your future in the East.’

‘You make it sound like a threat.’

‘Not a threat, Valerius. An opportunity. Sohaemus is not the only person with reason to be grateful you saved my life. Titus will also hear of your valour.’

‘You are very well acquainted with kings and princes for a lady’s maid.’

‘That is because my lady is Queen Berenice of Cilicia, for which you also may have reason to be grateful.’ She laughed as she swept out of the room, leaving him with the slaves and Dimitrios, whose face was a picture of consternation.

‘Lord?’ the armourer pleaded, holding the breastplate like a sacrifice across his hands.

Valerius sighed. ‘Very well, but I will need a padded scarf for my neck and shoulders …’

Dimitrios nodded and began to withdraw, ushering the slaves with him.

‘… and I want a shirt of chain of a similar quality to here.’ He put his hands to the bottom of his ribs. ‘And make sure to pay particular attention to the sleeves. Those open armpits are an invitation for any spearman who wants to leave a battlefield a rich man.’

‘Of course, lord.’ Dimitrios hesitated. ‘And, lord, I hope you will not feel it an imposition if I add my own gift?’

Valerius smiled and shook his head, but eventually he bowed. ‘I would be honoured, Dimitrios, but only as long as it has a use and a dearth of golden decoration.’

When he was alone, Valerius poured himself a cup of water from a jug and marvelled at Tabitha’s ability to keep him off balance. Had she been hinting something when she talked about an army? Or had she just been blinded by the sight of the armour and, he allowed himself a smile, the man in it? Was it coincidence he’d been presented with a general’s uniform, or was this some subtle piece of trickery by Sohaemus? Certainly, from what Ariston had discovered, the Emesan ruler was devious enough. He’d already more or less offered Valerius a command in his army, what there was of it. Perhaps the armour was a clue to the rewards that went with the offer. He noticed a small cloth-wrapped bundle on the table beside the jug. Dimitrios or one of the slaves must have left it by mistake. Reluctant to see yet another golden trinket though he was, his curiosity soon had him tugging at the white material. It came away to reveal a highly decorated pugio, a legionary dagger and an unusual addition to a general’s regalia. He turned it over in his hands. Highly decorated, but killing sharp, with a needle point and curved edges. He returned it to its sheath and placed it back on the table.

By now it was late afternoon. Valerius had sent Ariston to the market to learn what he could about the kinds of threats they might encounter between Emesa and Jerusalem. Sohaemus had promised one of his cavalry commanders would brief Valerius before they left, but the Roman preferred to have his own sources of information. Until the guide returned there was nothing he could do to prepare for the journey. He decided to take up the king’s offer by visiting the palace libraries while there was still enough light to read by.

He guessed it would be cool by the time he returned and threw on the cloak Gaulan had given him the previous day. Standing by the curtained doorway he hesitated for a moment. Only the guards were allowed to carry weapons in the palace, but he remembered Dimitrios’s warning. Had he left the dagger for a purpose? On impulse, Valerius picked up the knife and strapped the belt beneath his cloak where it couldn’t be seen.

To reach the library he had to pass through a series of corridors in the sprawling guest quarters and cross a large, paved courtyard. The guards at the library door were big, bearded men in fish scale armour with spears in their hands and curved swords at their sides. He realized Sohaemus might not have passed word that he was free to enter and resolved not to make an issue of it. There would be other times and there was no point of making a nuisance of himself. In the event, he had nothing to fear. When he presented himself at the door the two soldiers nodded him through into the great echoing space of the first room. The clerks were at their desks, hunched over rolls of parchment, their narrowed eyes darting between the original manuscript and the copy they were making. Valerius wandered among them, trying to view the books they were working on without getting in their light.

‘Is there a particular work you are interested in, lord?’ The speaker was Philippus, the young man Sohaemus had spoken to the day before. His cheeks were smudged with dark streaks where he’d rubbed ink across his face. ‘The king asked me to ensure you were given every facility as well as access to any book, however obscure, and we have many of those.’

Valerius complimented him on the fluency of his Greek and the clerk blushed beneath the ink.

‘So it should be, since I was born in Athens. My father made sure I was taught to read and write from a young age and my tutor soon discovered I was an acceptable copyist. A few years later King Sohaemus heard of my ability and persuaded my master to allow me to come here. He treats me well and I am rewarded for good work. I have no complaints.’

‘How long have you been with him?’

‘Ten years now.’ The young man frowned. ‘But a copyist is only as good as his eyes and I do not know how much longer I will be able to continue.’

‘I am sorry to hear that.’

‘It is the fate of many in my profession.’ Philippus’s tone was philosophical. ‘Fine work seems to drain the ability to see clearly the way a tiny pinhole will eventually empty a wineskin. No one will employ a copyist who writes large, because of the high cost of a roll of parchment. I am one of the fortunate ones. I have some money put away and King Sohaemus says he will find me a position teaching the children of his lords their letters. Still, I hope to complete the Herodotus. For the moment that is all I could ask. Would you like to see it?’

‘I would be pleased to.’

He followed Philippus to his desk, where the original of the book was still pinned. Perhaps forty lines of writing were visible on the crumbling papyrus. On the copy to the right stark lines of Greek symbols leapt from the creamy white of the softened goatskin. ‘We combine soot, vinegar and wood gum to create the ink,’ Philippus explained. ‘I am just waiting for this to dry before I roll it up for the night. King Sohaemus prohibits us from working by lamplight because of the risk of fire. He is very conscious of what happened in Alexandria. Some of our books were recovered from the library even as it burned. But I am boring you.’ He shook his head. ‘You did not come here to listen to me talk about my work. What would it please you to read?’

Valerius assured the Greek he was far from bored. ‘There are so many books here it is impossible to choose. Perhaps I could ask you to do so for me. I am a military man, with an interest in philosophy and the law.’

Philippus nodded thoughtfully. ‘Philosophers we have by the basketful, and legal cases so lengthy and dull your head would fall off before you were halfway to the conclusion. But writers on military matters …’ His eyes scanned the niches and their contents. ‘Yes, I have it. I can offer you Polybius’ Histories, though it is not an original and I fear the copyist had literary ambitions of his own.’ Philippus sniffed to show what he thought of the changes. ‘We have Homer, of course, but you will be familiar with his works, and Aeneas on siege operations …’

Valerius dredged up a memory from the long days spent with Seneca during the philosopher’s exile on Corsica. The old man had insisted Valerius read military texts as well as the dry, dusty tomes of the Stoics because: ‘I am not sure you are cut out to be a philosopher, Valerius. Your father will thank me one day.’

‘Aeneas of Stymphalos?’

‘The same.’

‘Then I would be happy to read him, and anything else you have on the subject.’

Philippus called for a slave. ‘Room two, section four, niche five,’ he ordered. The man dashed off, returning a few minutes later with a set of scroll cases. Philippus selected one and took out a roll of papyrus. ‘This is the start.’ He unrolled the scroll, revealing faded brown writing: ???? ??? ???????? ?? ??? ????? ?????????? ????? ????????? ?? ?????? …

‘When men leave their country and engage in warfare and encounter perils beyond their own frontiers …’ Valerius read aloud.

Philippus went back to Herodotus, leaving the Roman alone with his book. Valerius’s choice was not entirely random. Ariston had described Jerusalem as a massively fortified city occupied by fanatical defenders determined to hold their sacred places to the last man. A siege appeared inevitable. Valerius had experience of sieges from the point of view of both defender and attacker. Did Aeneas, who had himself been a general, have anything new to teach him? Disappointingly, it turned out that most of the Greek’s analysis proved to be very basic. He began with organizing the defenders and placing sentries, keeping the population in order and pooling food and supplies, creating passwords and making sallies against the besiegers. Valerius carried on reading and discovered the author mirrored his observations on entering Emesa by suggesting a series of fallback positions in case the walls fell to the enemy. There were sections on mining and counter-mining and methods of repelling the besiegers by destroying their siege machines with rocks. This last brought an image of Juva, the Nubian he’d fought beside at Placentia, hurling a great grinding stone over the parapet to smash an enemy ram. At last he found a section that truly interested him. Aeneas suggested several devious ways of smuggling a secret message through enemy lines. And, though he’d compiled his treatise almost four hundred years earlier, he proposed the use of coded letters. A simple enough system, using pinholes invisible to the naked eye to identify certain letters in a book when the parchment was held up to the light. He also advocated the use of ciphers. Seneca had always claimed that Julius Caesar had devised the first code, but for once it appeared the old philosopher was wrong.

By now the light had begun to fade and Valerius found himself squinting to make out the words. He blinked his eyes to clear them. No wonder Philippus and his fellow workers suffered eye problems if they had to concentrate like this every day. He rolled up the scroll and placed it back in the leather container, looking round for a slave to take the book back to its niche. Instead he found Philippus approaching.

‘I came to warn you that King Sohaemus allows no one in the library after dusk. It is part of my duty to make a final check of the rooms. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’

Valerius followed him through the echoing halls and the rows of empty desks.

‘It seems you have every book in the world here, or at least every book worth reading,’ the Roman commented.

‘Not every book,’ Philippus smiled. ‘But certainly a vast fount of knowledge.’

‘Yet the king mentioned a single book that would make his collection complete?’

‘He told you about that?’ The clerk laughed. ‘The Book of Enoch. No one is even certain it exists, and if it does, whether it is a work of genius or madness.’

‘Why is the king so interested in it?’

‘There are many reasons. The first is that it is possibly unique; a single copy in the entire world. The second, that it is said to encompass the entire span of the Judaean race from the creation to the apocalypse and the king believes that he cannot know too much about his neighbours.’

‘So this Enoch could see the future?’ Valerius had come across several men who had claimed to be prophets, but most had been obvious frauds.

‘So it appears.’ Philippus’s tone was scornful. ‘The other reason the king seeks the book is because it is said to foretell the coming of the man Christ whose followers the Jews hate so much. A delegation of these Christians appeared at the gates of Emesa a few years ago demanding to search the library for the book, which they claimed as their own. They also pleaded with the king to give up the Black Stone of Elah Gebal and worship Jesus. He told them he would be happy to do so if they could prove the gift of eternal life they offered was a reality. He had them executed in a number of individual ways in an attempt to provide the proof. None came back to life, but one who was about to be burned to death offered to renounce Jesus and worship the Black Stone if he was allowed to live.’

They’d reached the doorway of the library and Valerius said farewell.

‘Do you wish me to accompany you, lord? The palace is a maze of corridors.’

‘I know my way, Philippus.’ Valerius smiled his thanks. ‘I’ll be safe enough on my own.’