Scourge of Rome

XXXIX

The track was empty as Valerius made his way back towards the camp with a head full of hopes and dreams in the dry heat of the afternoon. Find the Book of Enoch and Tabitha was his for ever. They would make a life together. Not in Rome, because Rome, with Domitian close, was too dangerous by far. Somewhere in the provinces, where Titus’s friendship would protect him and Vespasian’s thanks for past services would provide a position. They would not want for gold, because Berenice insisted she wouldn’t allow her handmaiden to become a pauper. But first they must find the book. And the book was in Jerusalem.

It troubled him that only Tabitha could get them into the temple and knew the exact location of the book, yet there was some consolation in that they would face the danger together. They would have to use the tunnel again, and the thought gave him a shiver. What if …

He turned a sharp bend to find a rider facing him twenty paces ahead. The man wore a voluminous cloak in the Judaean fashion, but Valerius identified his horse as one of the big Roman cavalry mounts. His first thought was that Josephus knew of the summons from Berenice and had come – for whatever reason – to intercept him before he got back to Titus. But why?

A clatter of hooves from his right answered the question. In the same instant the waiting rider urged his horse into motion and drew a long cavalry spatha from the scabbard at his waist. Valerius hauled his gladius clear of the cloak. Mars’ arse, how could he have been so careless? One in the road to draw his attention and pin him in place, while the real threat came from the dried-out gully. He tried to turn Lunaris to meet the attack. Too late. Three of them, and they were already on him. The first rider hammered into the gelding’s flank and both horses went down screaming. As he fell, Valerius threw himself aside so he wouldn’t be pinned by his mount. Jagged rocks tore at his flesh as he rolled in the dust but he clung to his sword as if it were life itself. He struggled to his knees, half blinded by the hood of the cloak and lashed out at a shadow that came too close. The man laughed dismissively and kicked him in the chest so that he sprawled backwards, to be blocked by a rock wall. The hood fell back and he found himself facing a grinning, bearded auxiliary holding a long spear that darted expertly between his eyes and his throat. Valerius flicked the point away with the blade of his gladius, but it only came back all the faster. The other two watched from their horses in menacing silence, their faces emotionless. Half of Valerius’s brain applauded the expert professionalism of the ambush and acknowledged the likely outcome, while the other half worked feverishly to find a way to stay alive.

‘He’s mine.’ The owner of the voice was the rider who’d blocked the road. He sprang from the saddle and when he pulled back his cloak Valerius saw he was very young and that he wore the uniform of a Roman tribune. His first impression was of vivid blue eyes and handsome features set in a frown of businesslike concentration. Valerius had never seen him before in his life.

As the stranger approached, he whirled his sword in controlled, sweeping practice strokes. The razor edge whistled dangerously through the air with mesmerizing speed and Valerius’s heart quailed. Here was a man as dangerous as Serpentius. As if to prove the point the tribune launched straight into the attack with powerful cuts to left and right. Valerius met the first with a flailing parry, but the heavy sword jarred his wrist as he blocked it and he struggled to deflect the next hammer blow.

The young man stepped back smiling, letting Valerius understand that the first attack was merely designed to keep him honest. ‘Domitian wanted you to know why you were dying,’ he said cheerfully. ‘He says you are a coward and a traitor and this is the justice you deserve.’ He punctuated the words with feints to the one-handed Roman’s eyes and heart. Valerius ignored the provocation, using the breathing space to clutch at his jarred wrist with his right hand. He cried out at the pain as he flexed his fingers. The tribune’s smile grew wider. ‘Don’t worry, friend, your suffering will soon be over.’

‘I’m not your friend,’ Valerius rasped. ‘And this isn’t a game.’

‘Oh, but it is.’ The tribune seemed surprised by his opponent’s lack of appreciation. ‘A killing game at which we are both adept. Unfortunately, this is the last time you will play.’

The stranger attacked with blinding speed even before he finished the sentence, but Valerius had anticipated the move. He swayed his upper body to the left, allowing the spearing thrust to the throat to slide by a hair’s breadth from his neck. Only his speed saved him, because he knew he could never have parried it. His mind whirled, seeking a strategy that would keep him alive for a few minutes more. This man knew all about left-handed fighters. He would expect a counter with the gladius, but when it came he’d simply step to his left and saw the edge of the spatha across Valerius’s throat. Somehow Valerius managed to bring the short sword up to push the point of the spatha skywards, leaving an opening for his right hand to come across in a slashing hook towards his attacker’s jugular. The first spearman lunged with his point to press Valerius back and the young tribune touched his fingers to his chin, grimacing as they came away bloody. He looked down at the dagger point projecting from Valerius’s right fist and shook his head at his carelessness.

‘Very tricky,’ he said, flicking at the artificial hand with the spatha. ‘I should have realized you wouldn’t give up without a fight. But the game is over now.’ He sounded almost regretful as he called the two watching spearmen forward. ‘Now you die. You wouldn’t care to kneel and get it over quickly, I suppose.’

Valerius didn’t bother to reply. His eyes flickered between the three spearmen and the sword point. There must have been a hidden signal. One spearman darted forward to draw Valerius’s attention, but it was a feint and the shaft of another clattered into his helmet. The blow knocked it from his head and stunned him to his knees. ‘Time to finish it.’ Valerius looked up into the tribune’s unforgiving blue eyes as the man raised the heavy sword shoulder high. He tried to raise his gladius to meet the blow, but all the strength had gone from his fingers.

The death sentence still hung in the air when it was punctuated by a sort of wet slap. When Valerius looked up the young assassin had sprouted a feathered shaft from the notch between chin and breastbone. He collapsed to his knees with an awful gurgling sound and clawed at his throat as he slumped forward on to his face. The closest spearman gaped in disbelief before he was punched back by a second arrow. Without another word the survivors tried to turn their horses, only to be surrounded in seconds by a swarm of auxiliary cavalry archers.

Valerius sheathed his sword and pushed himself to his feet with the aid of the abandoned spear. Lunaris stood nearby on shaking legs and the Roman walked past the still shuddering bodies to pat him on the muzzle. ‘No fool like an old fool,’ he confided with a sigh. ‘Time they put us both out to grass.’

A shadow fell over him and he looked up into the grinning face of Gaulan, commander of the Chalcidean archers. ‘You believe in living dangerously, my Roman friend. I almost didn’t take the shot when I saw his tribune’s armour.’ He nodded to the man who rode up to his side. ‘Fortunately we were accompanied by someone with more authority than I.’

‘I thought you …’ A shudder ran through Valerius at the thought of what would have happened but for the presence of Claudius Florus Paternus.

‘Circumstances change.’ Paternus shrugged. ‘My brother’s shade visited me on the night the Tenth was attacked and bade me stay my hand till I was sure. You have shown your true worth.’

‘Tiberius was a good friend and a good soldier,’ Valerius said. ‘He did his duty to the last, as I did mine. How did you come to be here?’

‘A security patrol to pave the way for Titus.’ Paternus walked his horse across to where the two bodies lay bleeding in the dust and Valerius accompanied him. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, but I’d like to find out.’

‘Does anyone recognize him?’ Titus Vespasian pulled back the blanket covering the dead man.

The legates of his four legions stepped forward to study the marble face. In death, Valerius’s assailant seemed to have shrunk. He looked like a half-grown boy lying on the earth floor of the command tent with blood caked on his lips and the arrow still buried to the fletching in his throat.

‘His name is – was – Lucius Silvanus Capito.’ Phrygius winced. ‘He joined the Fifteenth two weeks ago straight from Rome. An excellent young soldier with an escort of Thracian auxiliaries. I’d considered suggesting you appoint him to your staff,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘You will never make a politician, Phrygius.’ Vespasian’s son laughed to cut short the stunned silence. ‘Do you have any idea who could have sent him, Valerius?’

‘No.’ Valerius gave Titus the answer he required rather than the truth. ‘Every man makes enemies. I fear I’ve made more than most, but none who would want me dead.’

‘Very well.’ Titus called his guard. ‘Take him away and have him buried.’ He met the eyes of each man in the tent, leaving them in no doubt about the sincerity of his words. ‘This ends here. A coincidence, a mistake or an accident. But I want it known, discreetly, that any further attempt on a fellow officer’s life will not be met with mercy.’

‘The Thracians?’ Phrygius asked. ‘Should I put them to the question? Perhaps …’

‘It is finished. They are condemned by their own actions and will suffer death. But do it quietly, Phrygius. Make them disappear.’

The legate nodded.

‘This is Domitian’s doing?’ Titus asked when he and Valerius were alone.

‘It appears so.’

The young general looked up and his eyes were hard. ‘His actions shame me and shame our father. This will not happen again. You will concentrate on your duties.’ He returned to his papers and Valerius went to the door of the tent. ‘And Valerius?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should look to Serpentius. He is unwell. My physician is with him.’

Valerius hurried back to his tent to find Serpentius lying on his blanket with his head back and his mouth open, snoring through his nose. The Spaniard’s flesh had the pallor of a week-old corpse. Alexandros, the Egyptian medicus who attended Titus, stood over him watched by Apion, the black legionary.

‘Is he …’

‘I have given him a weak solution of henbane to help him sleep,’ Alexandros said. ‘He had a shaking fit and might have choked on his own tongue had it not been for this man.’ He waved a limp hand at Apion. ‘It is not uncommon among those with this type of injury.’ He reached down to run his fingers gently over the depression in Serpentius’s skull. ‘Even if the skull isn’t smashed, when a man is hit on the head with such force splinters of bone can be driven into the brain. Sometimes death is instantaneous, sometimes it is delayed, and sometimes the victim can carry on a relatively normal life, but it always has effects. Whatever the outward resemblance, your friend is not the same man he was before he received this wound.’

‘Thank you. I will remember.’

‘Do you want me to remain?’

‘No, I will stay with him. If there is a … problem … I will send for you. Thank you for tending him.’

‘You should thank the general.’ The doctor’s face was set in a tight smile that told Valerius he’d never have gone near a former slave if Titus hadn’t ordered it.

‘I also owe you my thanks,’ Valerius said to Apion, who hovered by the doorway.

‘He is my friend,’ the Syrian said. ‘And he was kind to me. It is not always easy being different. He taught me things.’ Valerius nodded. He could imagine the kinds of ‘things’ Serpentius would teach. The open-handed blow to the nose that sent the bone up into the brain like an arrowhead; the belly punch that left you pissing blood; the pressure point between neck and shoulder that would leave a man momentarily paralysed so you could kill him at your leisure. All of them could come in useful for an outsider trying to make a place for himself among his iron-hard tentmates.

Apion left, and Valerius drew up the warped base of a cedar tree he and Serpentius used as a chair or table and sat down to watch over his friend.