Scourge of Rome

IV

Valerius reacted instantly. Even as he leapt from the blankets with gladius in hand his mind was calculating the direction of the agonized cry. One thing was certain, it had come from a woman, and one in terrible pain.

He dashed up the gully wall with the branches of scrub oak and cypress tearing at him, praying she’d cry out again so he could fix her position. Sharp stones cut into his bare feet, but that didn’t concern him so much as the noise he was making and the fact that he had no idea what was beyond the brow of the hill.

His brain only gradually came to terms with the fact that he was acting alone, with no Serpentius at his side. Reluctantly, he forced himself to slow. He would do the woman no good by getting himself killed. The best he could hope for from Ariston was that the Syrian looked after the horses and didn’t simply disappear into the night with them.

Another scream. Much closer now, long and drawn out, and he angled to his left towards the source. The word childbirth entered his mind – he’d look a fool if he burst in with a sword as the baby emerged – but he quickly dismissed it. He’d heard enough women give birth in the baggage camps that followed a legion to know this was a different kind of pain. A pain accentuated by terror.

He reached the lip of the rise and crouched among the bushes, staring into the darkness across the broken ground ahead. Perhaps a hundred paces away he detected a faint glow just visible through the stunted trees among the dips and the hollows. On the point of rising he froze, paralysed not by any hint of danger but by a sudden, unexpected and uncalled-for sense of self-preservation. His brain told him he didn’t have to do this. He had no obligation to whoever was out there being hurt. How many times had honour and duty driven him to risk his life, and for what? In Rome he’d been moments from a slow and agonizing death. In Armenia, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had sentenced him to be beaten with pickaxe handles. He’d lost his right hand in Britannia. He could turn back now and no one would ever know. No one but Gaius Valerius Verrens.

But Valerius had been fed a diet of honour and duty since he’d first suckled his mother’s teat. His father had beaten it into him with a vine stick and with every blow had suffered more anguish than his victim. Corbulo, whom he’d loved as a father, had gone to his death because he believed that an honourable man did not have the luxury of choice, only duty. How could he be any less of a man? Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet and slithered down the far side of the slope, leaving an almost invisible trace of dust in the darkness.

As he moved swiftly across the broken ground the soldier’s questions ran through his mind. How many? More important, how many of them would be willing to die? It was a fact of war that for every ten men you faced with a sword six would rather be somewhere else entirely, and two would run at the first sign of danger.

And their dispositions? Would they have posted a guard? That depended on whether they were soldiers or brigands. He could hear the sound of mocking laughter now, and in the background a woman pleading for an unlikely mercy. He touched the little wheel of Fortuna and prayed that any guard would be distracted by the sport. These were clearly men intent on their work. Men who enjoyed inflicting pain.

By now he could see the bright flicker of a fire through the trees and he padded softly towards the source. Despite the urgency, he took his time, allowing his eyes to adjust to the changing light and testing the air for danger with every step. Gradually moving shadows appeared, crouched low over something that glowed pale gold in the light of the flames, their hands busy and their minds intent on their victim. Four at least, perhaps five. He calculated the odds and was undismayed. Civilians, or at least dressed in civilian clothing. In an ordered world that should mean the sight of a naked blade would give them pause. If Valerius had his way that pause would kill them.

Three of the men held down their near-naked captive while a fourth gripped her wrist and intermittently forced her hand into the flames, accounting for the screams he’d heard. The final torturer was a huge man with features hidden behind a striped scarf wound around his head in such a way as to leave only the eyes showing. His role seemed to be limited to questioning the tormented woman.

Valerius waited for the next scream before he moved forward another step.

The hidden guard’s mistake was to charge from the bushes before calling out. Valerius caught the movement in the corner of his eye, and turned to meet the danger knowing he was already too late. The mouth of the swarthy, bearded face gaped wide as the man prepared to shout a warning to his friends. Before Valerius could even raise his sword, something like a silver bird flashed across his vision and the guard’s head snapped back, the mouth gaping still further. The only sound that emerged was a soft croak caused by the little throwing axe that had cut his vocal cords and severed his windpipe.

Valerius stepped forward and caught the swaying body, taking the weight and easing the dying guard to the ground. A tall, emaciated figure with a shaven head and burning eyes stepped from the darkness. Valerius pulled the axe free and held it as if ready to throw. Instead, he wiped it on the dead man’s ragged tunic before handing it silently back and nodding his thanks. He could still barely understand what had happened or why, but for the moment the newcomer’s eyes held a question. Valerius answered it with a raised hand showing five fingers. His companion registered no emotion at the number.

Valerius pointed east, his mouth silently mouthing the word ‘horses’.

The newcomer raised a rebellious eyebrow and held up a hand showing an identical five fingers, a gesture that suggested the odds would require more than one man. Valerius knew he was probably right, but something told him it was important that none of these men escape. That meant someone had to find their mounts and kill whoever was looking after them. He shook his head and repeated, ‘Horses.’

The thin man acknowledged this with a soft grunt and set off silently over the rough ground on an arc that would take him to the far side of the camp without being seen. When he was gone, Valerius advanced directly towards the firelight.

The questioning must have been completed to the leader’s satisfaction because he laughed and the four men began to tear at the screaming woman’s remaining clothing. Two of them forced her legs apart while the others held her arms and pawed at her naked breasts. Valerius’s instinct was to rush straight to her aid, but he knew this was not the moment for impetuousness. For the time being she must endure. He forced himself to wait.

His opportunity came when the tall man advanced towards his helpless victim. Dark eyes gleamed in the cloth-covered face as he hitched up his tunic in a movement that left no doubt what was to come. The woman squirmed beneath her captors’ hands, but they only mocked her all the more, spitting in her face and making gestures that indicated they would be next.

Wait.

The big man forced his way between the pair holding the captive’s legs and knelt over his victim. Valerius could hear him talking to her in a soft voice, but without warning the tone turned savage and guttural. The man’s head rose and his hips prepared to thrust forward.

None of the torturers noticed the shadowy figure who emerged from the darkness and ran silently towards them. The triangular point of the gladius is its true strength in battle, but Valerius had always made sure the edge was keen enough to shave the hair on his arms. By the time the men detected his presence the sword was already coming down in a scything arc aimed at the point where the big man’s skull joined his neck. The razor-edged iron would have taken his head off at the shoulders had it not been partially blunted by the cloth of the headscarf. As it was, the blow was powerful enough to slice through the spine; his skull flopped forward and the rapist’s enormous body collapsed on top of his victim. The two men holding her legs were momentarily trapped beneath the still-shuddering corpse and Valerius used the split second to transform his sword swing into a neat back cut that slashed across a second man’s throat.

Ignoring the torturer struggling to free himself, Valerius confronted the pair who’d been holding the woman’s arms. They’d reacted to the sudden outburst of lethal violence by scuttling away from the danger on their backsides. Now they simultaneously clawed for their daggers as they struggled to regain their feet.

Valerius knew he had moments to win back the initiative. In desperation he leapt on the partially decapitated man’s back and launched himself in a flying kick. It took the closer of the two full in the face and the blow sent the man backwards spraying blood and teeth. A spear of pain shot up Valerius’s leg, reminding him he’d left his hobnailed sandals back at the camp. But the bloodied knifeman was far from finished. He sprang up and parried a thrust aimed at his abdomen. Somehow Valerius managed to turn his attack into a clumsy hack that chopped off his opponent’s left ear and four inches of scalp. As the shrieking man collapsed the Roman just had time to whirl with a panicked slash that blocked the wickedly curved blade aimed at his midriff.

Valerius had practised with the sword almost every day for a dozen years. On many of those days he’d found himself up against former gladiators like Serpentius, fighters whose speed so mesmerized their opponents that they were knocking at the gates of Elysium before they realized they were dead. A civilian with a knife, however deadly in appearance, should have been no match for him.

But nobody had told this civilian. He had the balance of a gymnast and Valerius felt as if he’d been pegged to the ground as the man danced around him seeking an advantage. If ever there was a moment to regret sending his unexpected saviour to deal with the horse holders this was it. The knife darted and weaved in little half-moon arcs that threatened first one flank then the other. Valerius knew that somewhere behind him the man he’d left untouched would have freed himself, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off that glinting blade. A howl of terror from the direction of the fire drew his attention for a fatal heartbeat. He realized his mistake just in time to suck in his stomach so the dagger point barely scored his flesh in a white hot bolt of fire. Another desperate hack at his opponent won him the room to hobble out of range, but it was only a matter of time. Where in the name of Hades was his ally?

The sound of galloping horses from the darkness behind the knifeman answered his question and the resolve faded from the snarling features. With a frustrated glance towards the fire the killer darted off, pausing to casually run his blade across his wounded comrade’s throat as he went.

If Valerius was honest he’d expected the woman to be dead by now, but she had other ideas. She’d taken advantage of the surviving attacker’s momentary incapacity to snatch up a flaming brand and defend herself. From the look of his face, now a blackened, unrecognizable mess, it appeared she’d been all too successful. As Valerius watched, she continued to hammer the branch home with short, vicious, left-handed blows that landed with a wet slapping sound.

‘I’d have liked to be able to talk to at least one of them.’ The words were in Greek and his weariness tempered any tendency towards sympathy.

The woman looked up and he felt as if someone had run a gladius point down his spine. The deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen glared at him from beneath slanted lids. ‘Get this pig off me. Why did you let the other one get away?’

Her reply was also in Greek, which surprised him, because in Syria, as in Rome, it was the language of the educated and more affluent. He’d created an image of her as a village woman snatched by bandits to be used at their leisure and then discarded with her throat slit. But she was young, probably not yet twenty, and her tone was anything but that of a serving girl. If she’d been the daughter of a farmer or a merchant her skin would have been reddened by years of outdoor toil; instead it had the startling luminosity of a new-harvested pearl. A bruise to her right cheek was the only visible sign of her ordeal. She pushed vainly at the big man whose blood had drenched her torso and Valerius looked around for something to cover her.

A discarded cloak lay nearby. He handed it to her and hauled the near-decapitated giant aside, the dead man’s head flopping like a strangled chicken’s. The girl accepted the garment without a word of thanks, and struggled clear as the weight shifted. She wrapped the cloak around the tattered remnants of her clothing, spat on the man she’d killed and pushed him into the fire with her foot for good measure. His blood sizzled noisily in the glowing embers.

It was only when she tried to stand that it finally hit her. Valerius rushed to stop her toppling to join the man gently roasting on the fire. She was shorter than he’d realized, but the body beneath the cloak was full and well fleshed. Taking her by the shoulders he cursed himself as she flinched away from any contact on a right hand covered in blisters the size of ripening grapes.

‘Thank you,’ she said with enormous dignity before her eyes turned up in their sockets and she slumped into his arms.

At that moment, Valerius’s deliverer emerged from the darkness, leading a saddled mare. Lean as a stockman’s oxhide whip, his brutish features were a patchwork of shadowy planes that made an already frightening face all the more fearsome. Valerius felt a rush of pleasure at the appearance of this savage creature.

‘Seldom has a Spanish horse thief been a more welcome sight,’ he said with mock formality. ‘Serpentius of Avala, I thought you’d be halfway back to that nest of barbarians you call home by now.’

Serpentius spat towards the fire. ‘Do not think you can escape me so easily, Gaius Valerius Verrens. You’re not a hard man to track. I followed a trail of bodies from Achaia to Antioch before I lost you in the hills. I must have been up and down the Orontes road three times before I discovered where you’d crossed. A prudent man does not invade another’s camp by night, but when I heard the scream I knew you’d be around here somewhere.’ He nodded to the woman in Valerius’s arms. ‘You’ve been getting acquainted.’

‘She’s in shock,’ Valerius laid the woman gently on the ground, ‘and her fingers are badly burned. They were torturing her.’

Serpentius studied the woman’s injuries. ‘We should immerse the hand in cold water. Then a loose bandage soaked in olive oil.’ It was more an order than a suggestion, but Valerius remembered how Serpentius had treated his burns after an Egyptian shipwreck and knew better than to argue.

‘I-’

Without warning Serpentius spun round and one of the little Scythian throwing axes he favoured appeared magically in his hand.

‘No!’ Valerius’s shout made the Spaniard freeze a moment before he released the weapon. Ariston stood at the edge of the trees paralysed by fear, staring at the silver glint of death aimed at his heart.

‘I think our journey might take a little longer if you killed our guide,’ Valerius said with heavy irony. ‘Ariston, this is Serpentius, a friend who will be travelling with us.’

Ariston glared at the Spaniard, but his attention was quickly drawn to the near-headless body by the fire. He stalked over to kneel beside the corpse, hesitating before he peeled back the scarf and let out a low whistle. Taking it delicately by the hair he tilted the head so Valerius and the Spaniard could see the unwholesome grey flesh and twisted features, so contorted and swollen by disease as to be rendered almost inhuman.

‘No wonder he hid his face,’ Valerius said.

‘He didn’t hide it because he was ashamed of it,’ Ariston corrected him. ‘He hid it because he didn’t want to be recognized.’ He dropped the head and picked up one of the distinctive knives the men had carried. ‘His name is Shimon Ben Judah, and he is … was … high in the ranks of the Sicarii.’ He saw Valerius’s puzzlement and showed him the knife. ‘A society of assassins,’ he explained. ‘This is their mark. I don’t understand it.’

‘What’s to understand?’ Valerius grunted as he picked up the unconscious girl. ‘A murderer and rapist gets the justice he deserves.’

The Syrian shook his head. ‘The Sicarii seldom venture far from Jerusalem and I have never known them to appear this far north.’ He stared significantly at the bundle in Valerius’s arms. ‘They rarely kill for gain or satisfaction.’

As Valerius carried the girl back towards the camp he noticed that Serpentius hadn’t moved. The Spaniard stood among the bodies as if unsure what to do next. The inertia was so unusual that Valerius stopped and called to him.

‘Serpentius?’

The former gladiator shook his head with a look of bewilderment. ‘Was I … gone?’

‘You seemed a little strange, that’s all.’

‘It has happened to me a few times since this.’ Serpentius turned so Valerius could see the back of his shaven head. Among the old scars was a clearly visible depression the circumference of a wine cup. Valerius tried not to show his shock at the sight of the terrible injury. Domitia had hinted that the Spaniard had been badly hurt defending Vitellius’s son, but this blow must have come close to killing him. The bone of the skull had been smashed in by a sword or a club. If such a wound happened on the battlefield, the more experienced medici would use some kind of cutting tool to remove the shattered bone, then pick fragments of it from inside the head. Only one man out of a hundred lived to fight again. ‘They said the dent was too big.’ Serpentius read his eyes. ‘If they opened it up more than likely they’d kill me. The lady Domitia stayed with me until I recovered, but sometimes,’ he frowned as if the thought had just occurred to him, ‘it’s as if I’m just a memory. A ghost trapped between worlds.’

‘How often does it happen?’

‘I don’t know.’ Valerius saw a tear roll through the dirty grey stubble of his friend’s cheek and it disturbed him more than anything that had gone before. He’d never seen Serpentius show self-pity, never mind weep, not even when he talked of the wife and son murdered by Rome. The Spaniard was the hardest man he’d ever known, and the quickest with a sword; indomitable and without fear. ‘I let them down, Valerius.’ Serpentius shook his head. ‘I couldn’t save the boy. There were so many of them and then everything went dark.’

‘Nothing could have saved the boy.’ Valerius’s reply was harsher than he intended, but he knew Serpentius needed support, not sympathy. ‘He was dead from the day Vitellius announced him as his heir and I would rather he died than you. Now come. We have the girl to treat and a war to fight.’