Sword of Rome

XXXV

Valerius fought to hold on to the tiny sliver of hope that still existed deep at the very centre of him, to harbour the mental and physical strength that had seen him through every crisis. In his heart, survival was still possible, however unlikely. But in his mind Claudius Victor had already won. Better for you to think yourself already dead. The Batavians kept the fire banked high so he could see the instruments of torture which, by one road or another, would tomorrow bring him an eternity of suffering that could only be ended by merciful death. The guards entertained themselves by spitting in his face or holding a glowing branch against his flesh to remind him of what was to come. Their victim’s lack of reaction to his humiliation or the stink of singed hair and burned skin disappointed them, and only made them try all the harder. Valerius endured, drawing deeper within himself to escape the agonizing pain of the ropes cutting into his flesh. Despite his agony and the chill of the night, at one point he somehow managed to sleep, though even here the horrors he would endure at dawn followed him. Yet from within his tormented dreams an unlikely hope tempted him in the whispered voice of a ghost that seemed to come from very far away.

He came instantly alert. In fact, the whisper came from behind the trunk, on the side hidden from the men by the fire. Serpentius. ‘I’m cutting the ropes,’ the Spaniard informed him, ‘so you’ll only be held by a single strand. Do you think you’ll have the strength to break it when the time comes?’

Valerius felt a renewed surge of energy that almost made him cry out. Instead, he kept his head bowed so his captors wouldn’t see his lips move. ‘When will that be?’

‘Soon. You’ll know when it happens.’

‘Just free me and go,’ the Roman urged. ‘There are twenty of them and only one of you. All you’re doing is handing them another piece of meat to cook.’

‘Maybe, and maybe not,’ Serpentius grunted. ‘I’m sticking a sword in the ground at the base of the tree. When you free yourself, pick it up and kill anything that gets in your way.’

Valerius waited for further instructions, but there was only silence. His mind whirled. Was it possible they could get out of this alive? He almost laughed, because it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he wouldn’t have to endure the horrors these German savages had planned for him. He would escape or die in the attempt, and if he died he’d take as many of these Batavian bastards with him as possible. He was tempted to test his bonds, but he knew that if the rope snapped and fell away prematurely the Batavians would be on him like a pack of the wolves they so admired. He couldn’t feel his left hand and he would need it for the sword. He flexed the fingers until the blood flowed again and pains shot up his wrist. You’ll know when it happens. When what happens?

He didn’t have long to wait.

A Batavian with a flat moon face and slits for eyes picked up a brand from the fire and marched towards him. Valerius watched him come, the wild, untamed features a vision from Hades in the firelight. When he was halfway to the tree Valerius heard the sharp snap of a branch splitting and the auxiliary appeared to walk into an invisible wall. Without another sound he fell backwards. His slack-jawed comrades stared in stunned disbelief until someone noticed the Scythian throwing axe embedded in their comrade’s skull. As one, they began to rise. But they were much too slow.

A second axe took the man closest to the fire in the chest and he pirouetted into the flames with a shriek of agony. In the same instant, a hail of legionary pila killed or wounded half the remaining guards and a wave of howling figures launched themselves from the shadows. Most of the Batavians died in those first seconds, cut down by the blades of their attackers. But one warrior decided his last moments would be best used ensuring the prisoner met the painful end his lord had decreed. It might not be the drawn-out torment Claudius Victor had in mind, but the skinning knife in his hand would do the job. Valerius searched the darkness for Serpentius, but the Spaniard was lost in a maelstrom of whirling blades and dying men. He hurled himself from the tree and cried out in astonishment when the ropes snapped so easily that he flopped at his attacker’s feet. The Batavian lunged with the curved knife, a scything cut that would have opened Valerius from groin to breastbone if he hadn’t rolled out of reach. The Roman scrabbled frantically backwards using the tree as cover, his left hand reaching for the sword he knew was hidden there. A wild burst of elation as his fingers found the hilt, gone in the same instant as a hand wrapped itself in his hair and hauled his head back to expose his throat. With a convulsive heave he threw himself away from the sweeping blade, his vision turning red as a bolt of agony tore through his scalp. At the same time he stabbed blindly with the sword as the cavalryman tried to pin him with his body. With a high-pitched scream the squirming mass above him became a dead weight and Valerius lay back with a warm liquid feeling spreading gently over his stomach and chest. He would have been happy to lie there for ever if someone hadn’t hauled the dead Batavian off to reveal a bony, grinning face looming above him.

‘You can rest when you’re dead, and that might be sooner than you think if we don’t get out of here. Is any of that yours?’

Valerius looked down to where the Batavian’s lifeblood had poured over his torso. ‘I don’t think so, but my head hurts.’

Serpentius put his hand to the raw pink wound on his friend’s scalp and Valerius flinched. ‘Nothing that a little sheep fat won’t cure.’ He pulled the Roman to his feet and looked him over. ‘You’re a mess, but you’ll live. What happened to your hand?’

Valerius glanced at the stump of his right wrist. With all that had occurred since Claudius Victor had thrown the walnut fist in the fire he’d completely forgotten its absence. Now he was assailed by the same agonizing sense of loss he’d experienced at the time. Still he managed a smile. ‘It was only a lump of wood. I can always get another, and better to lose it than endure what that Batavian bastard had in mind for me.’

The Spaniard eyed the pair of stakes standing like grave markers in the centre of the clearing and his features darkened. ‘If any of them had lived I’d have left their leader something to remember us by.’

Valerius looked to where the fire still blazed and around twenty men were stripping the bodies of the dead and tending to two of their own who would soon be joining them. ‘Just who is us?’

‘I knew I couldn’t do anything alone,’ Serpentius explained, ‘so I thought I’d look for reinforcements. The big lad, Cornelius Metto, is a centurion from the Twenty-second Primigenia. He’s been around, he doesn’t think much of Vitellius and he didn’t want to end his enlistment as a rebel. The rest are the legionaries from the fort at Moguntiacum who refused to throw down the Emperor’s statues. I found out they were being held in a stockade outside the fort. They were for the axe, if they were lucky, so they didn’t take a lot of persuading. After that it was simple enough to break them out and they knew the way to the armoury.’

Valerius took a second to consider the frightening reality behind that bald statement before he used the contents of a Batavian water skin to wash the rapidly congealing blood from his body. He picked up his tunic, but it was torn beyond repair.

‘I was thinking that one of our dead German friends might have something that would fit you,’ Serpentius suggested. ‘In fact, I don’t think it would do any harm if we all turned into Batavian wolf men for a few days, at least until we’re somewhere safer than this.’

When Valerius had found a sweat-stinking, verminous tunic and a mail shirt that more or less fitted he called the legionaries together. There were still at least three hours until dawn and he could see the wariness in their eyes in the firelight. These were men who, in the elation of freedom, had agreed to help their saviour. Who knew how much more they were willing to give? He met their gaze one by one. ‘You will for ever have the thanks of Gaius Valerius Verrens and you may call on him for aid if ever you need it. When I return to Rome I will make sure that the Emperor hears of your loyalty and your valour.’ At the word Rome a mutter ran through the assembled soldiers and Metto barked a command for quiet. Valerius continued. ‘I cannot order you to come with me, and those who do not will not suffer in any way, but there will be rewards and honour for every man who accompanies us. Those who wish to should take a step forward.’

About a third of them complied, which was more than he expected. The rest formed a delegation behind a wiry decurion who said they’d rather take their chances heading for Gaul, if your honour didn’t mind. Metto, the bearded centurion, stepped forward threateningly, but Valerius waved him back.

‘I don’t command these men. They have the right to make their own decisions and I only want willing volunteers.’ He told Metto to split the Batavian supplies between the two groups. They were fortunate that most of the remaining legionaries could ride, after a fashion, or were willing to try when the alternative was being hunted down by the comrades of the slaughtered Batavians. He reminded them of what lay ahead. ‘They will not give up. Their leader will not allow them to; he is not that kind of man. He said he would not return until dawn, which should give us four hours by the time he works out which direction we’ve taken. We won’t get far in open country, so I intend to go back to the road and make as much distance as we can before daylight without tiring the horses. Remember, without your horse you are a dead man. Gather as much fodder as he can carry, but don’t overload him. We’ll ride night and day, rest when the horses begin to tire and not before, and stop for water when they need to drink, not us. Now, let us ride.’

Valerius rode at the head of the column with his scalp throbbing and the stump of his wrist hidden under a wolfskin cloak. He and Serpentius discussed what they would do if they met another patrol, or were stopped at a checkpoint.

‘We may be dressed like Batavians, but we don’t ride like them and we don’t speak their language,’ the Spaniard pointed out.

Valerius shrugged. ‘If it comes to it, we may have to fight our way through.’

‘And have every unit this side of the Alps on our tails within the hour? Not to mention giving away our position to a Batavian butcher who won’t be satisfied until he feeds you your own entrails?’

Valerius stared at him. ‘You have a better idea?’

‘Maybe.’ Serpentius chewed his lip. ‘According to Metto, there’s been bad blood between the auxiliaries and the legions on the Rhenus ever since the Batavians were shipped back from Britannia. They’re arrogant bastards, the wolf men. They didn’t appreciate the fact that the legionaries had been lording it over their people and romancing their women while they were off dying for the Empire.’ He darted a sideways glance at Valerius. ‘Not that you can blame them for that. Anyway, it’s got so bad that they can hardly look at each other without hands twitching for knife hilts. Even the officers barely talk to each other.’

‘How does that help us?’

‘If we hold our nerve and stick our noses in the air, all we have to do is ignore any bastard who tries to stop us. If they persist, we snarl and spit in their eye and it’ll be exactly what they expect from a surly, suspicious barbarian. Unless we meet a centurion with a head full of hangover I reckon it should get us past most of the units we meet.’

Valerius grinned. It was worth a try. ‘All right, but if it comes to it, I’ll be the one with my nose in the air. You can do any snarling and spitting that’s needed. You have the face for it.’

The Spaniard grunted. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Two days of hard riding brought them to the point where the road branched off towards Vesontio, where Divine Caesar had defeated the German king Ariovistus, and more recently Verginius Rufus’s legionaries had slaughtered Gaius Julius Vindex’s Gaulish rebels. The valley would take them in turn to the Sauconna and the Rhodanus, the rivers that would lead them home. Serpentius’s tactic of steadfastly ignoring authority had served them well and the journey passed without incident, if you didn’t count the cracked ribs and mild concussion suffered by legionaries who temporarily parted company with their horses.

‘They’re still with us.’

Valerius didn’t need to ask who, or how the Spaniard knew. All he had to do was close his eyes and he was looking at the burning embers in the depths of Claudius Victor’s soul. ‘He won’t give up until one of us is dead.’

‘If we sent Metto and his men on upriver to Augusta Raurica while we head west,’ the Spaniard suggested, ‘it might confuse them, or at worst make him split his forces.’

‘I thought you knew me better, Serpentius.’ Valerius shook his head. ‘Those men helped save my life. I won’t ask them to sacrifice themselves for me. That would make me as bad as the man who’s hunting us. In any case, he’ll have brought a full squadron. Even if he did split his forces we’d still have twenty or thirty on our heels. No, we stay together.’

They rode on, first west, then Valerius planned to turn south, which would take them finally into the wake of Gaius Fabius Valens’ marauding army. Enemies to the front and enemies to the rear. Gaius Valerius Verrens had been in tighter situations, but he had never faced an enemy as implacable as Claudius Victor. He knew in his heart that the only way he was ever going to escape the Batavian was to kill him.

At first, the road took them through soft rolling countryside, dotted with farms and homesteads, and between mountain ranges that dominated the landscape to north and south. They saw little military activity, but Valerius knew that would change when they reached Vesontio, which was a major stop on the trade route formed by the Rhodanus, the Sauconna, the Mosella and the Rhenus. Up and down these rivers travelled olive oil, wine and garum from Massilia in the south, and grain, furs and timber from Colonia in the north. These were the rivers that had carried Vitellius’s western army on its dash south. Vesontio opened up possibilities, but there would be time to think about that.

Early on the third day the ground became more difficult: low hills, rough grassland and swampy, wooded river valleys. They were breasting a rise as the ground fog cleared when Serpentius suddenly stiffened in the saddle and looked back. ‘Riders, maybe fifteen or twenty of them, and coming up fast along our trail.’

Valerius followed his gaze and saw nothing in the broken countryside, but the Spaniard was certain. ‘Victor has split his forces,’ Valerius thought aloud. ‘He’s sent an advance guard of his best horsemen to either pin us in place or make us turn and fight.’

‘Then here is as good as anywhere.’ It was Metto. The big centurion’s voice sounded weary and his words received muttered support from his men, who were arse-sore and exhausted after days and nights of struggling to stay in the saddle. ‘We can ambush the bastards among the trees.’

‘There aren’t enough of us,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘Would you fight them on horseback?’

Metto shrugged, but it was clear that a mounted battle with veteran cavalrymen could only have one winner.

‘And we can’t fight them from the ground, because they’ll cut us to pieces.’

‘So what do we do?’ the centurion demanded.

‘There may be a way.’ Valerius took Serpentius aside. ‘I want you to ride ahead and find a place. Remember the Cepha gap. Somewhere we can’t be outflanked.’

The Spaniard’s eyes lit up with understanding. ‘I know. If such a place exists, I will find it.’

An hour later, Serpentius met them where the road turned sharply from the river valley at the edge of a green meadow. The meadow was almost a mile deep, disappearing into heavy forest at the far end, bounded on one side by a scrubby hillside impassable to a horse, and on the other by the thick trees and bushes that lined the river bank.

Valerius shot a puzzled glance at the Spaniard.

‘You’ll see,’ Serpentius said. ‘We ride halfway across the meadow at the trot. When we get there you’ll see a branch I’ve pushed into the turf. That’s when you dismount and lead your horse. Go gently and stick close together on the line I’ve marked.’

The men did as they were ordered, and as he walked his horse through the branches Serpentius had placed Valerius realized the genius of the plan. ‘Will it work?’

The Spaniard shrugged. ‘It’s the best I can do. It depends on how determined they are to get you and how blown their horses are. If it doesn’t, we take our chances among the trees.’

When they reached a point about three-quarters of the way across the green sward, Valerius halted the men.

‘Now we wait. Metto?’ The centurion nodded. ‘When they come into view we’ll be arguing. You want to go back. I want to go on. Lots of arm waving. The others will mill about looking demoralized and beaten. You hear that, you bastards? They’ve beaten you. Those sons of dogs have ridden you into the ground and now you’re ripe for their spears.’

A pent-up growl of frustration went up from the legionaries, but Valerius silenced it with a snarl. ‘Save your anger for the Batavians. If they win, you’ll find yourself with a stake up your arse and a flaying knife tickling your foreskin. They believe they’re going to win because they outnumber us two to one. But Serpentius thinks we can beat them and Serpentius survived a hundred fights in the arena so he knows what he’s talking about.’ The men glared at the Spaniard, hating him for bringing them to this place and their potential doom. Each of them was armed with the pair of legionary pila they had stolen from the armoury at Moguntiacum. ‘When the time comes, you slaughter them.’ Valerius’s voice rose to a shout. ‘You slaughter every last one of the bastards.’

The thunder of hooves heralded the arrival of the enemy. Valerius prayed to Mars and Jupiter for Claudius Victor to be leading the men, but one glance told him the glacier-eyed Batavian had stayed with his main force. Metto was red-faced and roaring obscenities, waving his sword back to the road, and Valerius had a feeling it wasn’t entirely an act. His men were doing their best to look defeated.

Valerius recognized the moment the auxiliary leader saw the small group trapped in the middle of a broad field. He knew what his adversary would be thinking: a perfect target, half his strength and ripe for the slaughter. The man swerved off the road and led his troopers at the gallop across the meadow towards the confused fugitives. Of course, he would be suspicious. One part of him would be thinking it was too easy, but he’d have the scent of blood in his nostrils and his commander’s warning of the consequences of failure in his ears. It was obvious they’d ridden at a killing pace to get here. The horses were pop-eyed with exhaustion, their coats foam-flecked and silver-bright with sweat, but they still had one last charge in them and against so few their commander would be gambling that one would be enough.

Valerius watched them come, following the innocent hoof pattern. Saw the moment the commander registered the change and lost his certainty. But before the auxiliary’s mind could assess the implications of what he was seeing, his mount had covered another four strides. To disaster.

At the battle of the Cepha gap, Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo had used concealed pits and viciously spiked four-toed metal caltrops to confound the elite heavy cavalry of the Parthian host. Here, Serpentius had marked a path for Valerius and his men on the very edge of a bog concealed by heavy grass. By dismounting and leading the horses at a walk, they had ensured that the beasts’ hooves had cut into the surface crust of the bog without breaking it. But the Batavian horses covered the ground at the gallop with a fully armed and armoured cavalryman in each saddle. The moment they hit the soft ground their hooves plunged two feet into the clinging black ooze. At best, the horses hurtled to an instant halt in a welter of mud and water, throwing their riders into the mud. Animal screams of terror and pain told Valerius that several had broken legs and would never be ridden again.

‘Now!’

Valerius stayed in the saddle while his legionaries dismounted and hefted their heavy javelins with professional ease. Most of the Batavian riders were down, struggling to free themselves from the mud and groping desperately for swords or the long spears they’d lost in the thick sludge. Three had managed to stay in the saddle and were now urging their mounts to the edge of the bog and it was to these that Valerius directed the first of the spearmen. They aimed for the horses, because they were the more certain target, and soon all three were down or standing shaking, knee deep in the mud and with a pair of the deadly pila projecting from their rib cages. A well-trained legionary could pin a moving target at forty paces. Now they were confronted with trapped and struggling men at twenty feet. The heavy mail the auxiliaries wore was designed to stop a sword cut, but the triangular points of the weighted javelins carved through the rings like paper to pierce hearts and lungs and guts. Serpentius circled the bog to cut off any retreat. As the remaining Batavians tried to struggle clear, they were chopped down before they touched dry ground. Two tried to surrender, but they were treated to the mercy they would have given their quarry.

When it was done, Serpentius put the injured horses out of their misery and the surface of the swamp was stained red. Valerius ordered his men into the saddle. There was no time to lose. Claudius Victor would be hard on his vanguard’s heels and the slaughter of his men would only add to his fury.