Scourge of Rome

III

Valerius lay beneath his blanket with the ground chill gnawing at his insides like a hungry rat and listened to the other man’s soft breathing. Despite his initial doubts he’d been impressed by the depth of Ariston’s knowledge and the way he’d explained the political and military situation in a few simple sentences. Jerusalem was the key. That was where the real Jewish fanatics – Ariston called them Zealots – had retreated and regrouped during the breathing space provided by Vespasian. According to the Syrian, Jerusalem’s walls had never been breached. The Great Temple was the centre of the Jewish religion and the Zealots would defend it to the last drop of their blood. To destroy the rebellion for his father, Titus must first take Jerusalem.

Titus the general. Titus the man Vespasian was likely to appoint as his heir to the throne of the world’s greatest empire, though he would not only have to survive his father, but also prove his right to it, before he succeeded. When Valerius had first met Titus the young man had been a mere junior tribune newly appointed to command his father’s auxiliary cavalry. They discovered they were of an age, they’d both served in Britannia at the time of the great rebellion, and both took an unlikely joy in the art of soldiering. A shared background and shared interests led to friendship. Friendship brought Vespasian’s patronage at a time when Valerius desperately needed it, which had undoubtedly saved his life.

But the cheerful, enthusiastic young soldier of that first meeting had vanished entirely by the time their paths had crossed again the previous year. The Titus who urged Valerius to help his father by reining in the reckless instincts of Marcus Antonius Primus, commander of the Danuvius legions, was much harder-edged; a man for whom command was natural and authority came easily. What kind of man would he be now?

Valerius tensed. Something almost imperceptible had changed in his surroundings. Beneath the blanket his left hand crept to the hilt of his sword. His companion’s breathing, that was it. It had been regular and relaxed, but now the rhythm had an artificial quality, as if the other man were waiting for something. He pictured the campsite in his head. Perhaps four paces of open ground separated them, with the animals corralled to the right and the packs close by beneath the trees. He’d considered placing the packs between them, but that would have alerted the guide to his suspicions. Now he wished he hadn’t ignored his instincts. The Syrian hadn’t shown any weapon, but the voluminous robe he wore provided ample concealment for a sword or a knife. Valerius’s ears strained for the sound of movement and he tensed to meet an attack.

‘You will get very little sleep on this journey if you spend every night with a sword in your hand.’ Despite the gentle admonition Valerius’s fingers tightened on the weapon’s grip. Ariston sounded reasonable enough, but a seasoned killer would use soothing tones to get close enough to put a knife in his victim’s throat. ‘If you do not trust me I will turn back tomorrow,’ the Syrian continued. ‘You will be safe enough as far as Apamea, which is as welcoming to a Roman as Antioch. The road is good and I’ve had no word of bandits in the Orontes valley this season. You will be able to hire a guide there who is more to your taste.’

Valerius hesitated. ‘What makes you think I don’t trust you?’

‘You haven’t even told me your name.’ The other man’s bitter laugh made the horses twitch against their hobbles. ‘You think I don’t notice how you always keep your right hand hidden beneath your cloak with your fingers on your sword? Why, tonight you even ate with your left.’

‘My name is Gaius Valerius Verrens and perhaps you have not noticed that I do not have a right hand.’ A shiver ran down Ariston’s spine at the sound of the voice close to his right ear. He’d had no warning of Valerius’s approach: the man must move like a ghost. ‘Take your hand away from your knife.’

Ariston did as he was ordered. ‘Please …’

‘My right hand was once part of an oak tree.’ The Syrian winced as Valerius tapped him on the forehead with something that certainly wasn’t flesh and bone. ‘It identifies me as clearly as a senator’s purple stripe. As it happens I have reasons for not wishing to be identified.’

‘So that is why you avoided the mansio and insisted on having no fire.’ Understanding dawned on Ariston. ‘You fear someone might be following us?’

‘Perhaps.’

The Syrian waited for some further revelation, but the only sound was Valerius returning to his bedroll. ‘Then perhaps I can help,’ he suggested. ‘There are other ways than the road.’

‘We will discuss it again in the morning.’ Valerius lay back and pulled the blanket around him. His fingers automatically sought out his sword, but this time it was to return the blade to its scabbard.

‘Your arm? They caught you stealing?’

Valerius laughed and shook his head.

Ariston looked put out at his mistake. ‘It is the way of the desert tribes,’ he said defensively.

‘What happens if you’re caught with another man’s wife?’ He saw the Syrian wince and smiled. ‘I lost it in battle.’ The explanation was simpler than the reality, but it would do. The elevation of the rough track Ariston had chosen to the east of the river allowed occasional glimpses to the road below. It slowed their progress, but Valerius was satisfied. He’d seen two groups of horsemen and a few individuals travelling south at speed and had no wish to make their acquaintance. ‘It happened in a fight against an army led by a woman. A rebel queen.’

‘A woman defeated Rome?’ Ariston couldn’t hide his interest.

‘A queen,’ Valerius corrected. ‘She led an army of sixty thousand, while we were fewer than four thousand. At the forefront were her champions, giants who fought naked to prove their courage.’

‘Still,’ the Syrian sounded thoughtful, ‘a woman.’

‘We kept them from the temple for two days and watched as they burned the city around us.’ Valerius shrugged. ‘Sometimes there is only so much a man can do.’

‘But you lived.’

‘I lived.’

‘Rome defeated by a woman,’ Ariston repeated as if he didn’t quite believe the words he was saying.

‘She won every battle but the last.’ Valerius’s voice sounded so bleak that Ariston reined in his horse to study him.

‘What happened then?’

Valerius met his gaze. ‘Let us hope Titus is more merciful to the Judaeans than Rome was to Boudicca and her Britons.’

As they rode, Ariston explained that the old caravan road would eventually lead them to Darkush, famous for its healing waters, where they could replenish their supplies. After that they would cross the spine of the mountains into the next valley, far from any pursuit. ‘The valleys eventually meet again about twenty miles south, but it’s well populated country and we have a choice of roads to take. I doubt anyone will pay attention to us.’

Over the next three days Valerius gained a better appreciation of his Syrian companion. For a start, Ariston possessed an instinct for danger rivalling his own. In Darkush he bought Valerius a hooded cloak as voluminous as the one he wore himself. It provided the twin attributes of perfect anonymity and, despite being light and airy, giving as much protection from the cold as a much heavier garment.

When Valerius quizzed him about his own history he looked troubled. ‘A man like me has many lives. One for every town he visits and woman he lies with. My father owned a tract of good land north of Palmyra, but a neighbour coveted the sweet water that had been ours by right for five generations. When my father was found dead in his fields I sought out the neighbour and demanded compensation. He pulled out a knife …’ Ariston shrugged; it could have happened to anyone. ‘He had powerful friends, so I had to run or die. The Bedou took me in and I stayed with them for a while, but the desert is not for me. I found a position as a caravan guard and travelled deep into Persia and as far as the Indus. In Gandhara I took a wife, but she died along with our child.’

‘Did you ever go back?’

‘Only once. My mother was dead and my brothers worked the farm. I think they would have driven me off, but I only stayed an hour. After a few years in the saddle farming was not for me. A long road and a different bed every night are my life, and I am satisfied.’

‘A different woman, too, I would wager?’ Valerius attempted to lighten the mood. The Syrian’s words stirred an unfamiliar emotion. For the first time since he’d left Rome he felt free of responsibility. Thanks to Domitia Longina Corbulo’s intervention his sister Olivia had been allowed to keep the family estate at Fidenae. Olivia had brought her newborn son to visit him on the day he’d left the city. She knew she could never formally marry Lupergos, the child’s sire and her estate manager, and the boy had been named for Valerius’s father, Lucius. He felt a rush of contentment at the memory. Perhaps it was the vibrant colour of the mountains that changed with every bend in the road and arc of the sun, or the sweet water and even sweeter air, but it felt as though he were on the cusp of a new existence. He knew it was dangerous to tempt the gods, but maybe, just maybe, he’d outridden the clutching fingers of the past.

That night they bedded down in a gully away from the road. Ariston estimated that they’d reach Apamea at noon the next day and boasted of the luxuries that would be available to them in the city’s markets.

An hour later they heard the screams.