Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Book
Dedication
Epigraph
Maps
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Historical Note
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Douglas Jackson
Copyright
CALIGULA
CLAUDIUS
HERO OF ROME
DEFENDER OF ROME
AVENGER OF ROME
SWORD OF ROME
ENEMY OF ROME
For more information on Douglas Jackson and his books, see his website at www.douglas-jackson.net
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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Douglas Jackson 2015
Douglas Jackson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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For my wonderful, long-suffering wife, Alison
What I now recount is an act unparalleled in the history of the Greeks or the barbarians, and as horrible to relate as it is incredible to hear.
Flavius Josephus, The Siege of Jerusalem
‘I fear I must report a failure in Athens.’ The only reaction from the man on the throne was a slight lift of the head, but the messenger flinched at the menace his words kindled in the dark, unforgiving eyes. ‘Our operative vanished,’ he stumbled on. ‘And the traitor was able to take ship for the East.’
‘Could he have been warned?’
The messenger took time to consider his reply. This was even more dangerous territory. His dealings with Titus Flavius Domitian, younger son of the Emperor Vespasian, had made him aware that the new prefect of Rome nurtured an irrational hatred for the man they were discussing. The reasons were lost amid the murk of intrigue and conspiracy of the eighteen-month civil war that had come so close to bringing Rome to her knees. Not five hundred paces from where Domitian sat they were still sifting charred bones from the burned-out ruins of the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. The seeds of the bitter conflict had been planted by Nero’s enforced suicide, after the erratic young Emperor’s downward spiral had cost him the support of the legions and the Senate. His successor, Sulpicius Galba, governor of Hispania, had made the mistake of cheating the Praetorian Guard out of the payment he’d promised them, and been murdered by Marcus Salvius Otho, the man he’d spurned as an heir. By the time the new Emperor took the throne, the German legions of Aulus Vitellius were already marching on Rome, and a disastrous defeat at Bedriacum had cost Otho his life. In a final twist, Domitian’s father Vespasian, general of the eastern legions, had been hailed Emperor by his officers. After a campaign which had left the soil of Italia bloodied and littered with sun-bleached bones, Vespasian’s supporters finally wrested the purple from Vitellius’s hands and butchered him on the Gemonian Stairs.
Now Vespasian was making his triumphal progress to Rome from Egypt while Domitian protected his interests in the capital, and his elder son Titus commanded the legions putting down the Judaean revolt. For the moment, Domitian was the city’s ruler in all but name, and he held the power of life and death over every inhabitant. The messenger knew his next words could bring that power into play. In the political crocodile pit that was Rome in the aftermath of Vitellius’s ignoble death, was it in his interest to offer a sacrifice? A slight chill tickled the back of his neck. A draught from the open window looking out on to the Forum? Or a warning that the palace walls had ears and another might be close whom he could not afford to offend?
‘I … I do not believe so,’ he admitted eventually. ‘The timings make it unlikely.’
Domitian rose from his cushioned seat and the messenger was struck by how slight he appeared in his purple-striped toga. Just a boy really, but one must never forget that the boy was his father’s son. Domitian had been trapped in the Temple of Jupiter with his uncle Sabinus, but while Sabinus’s body parts still lay on the Gemonian Stairs, Domitian had reappeared to assume power in his father’s name. To the messenger’s surprise, the young man smiled.
‘He would not be worthy of my enmity if he were not worthy of my respect.’ Domitian shrugged. ‘What have we lost? One man who promised more than he could deliver and no doubt paid the price.’ The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘The game goes on.’
‘Of course, lord.’ The man bowed and backed out of the room.
Domitian waited until he was alone. ‘You heard?’
A figure in military uniform emerged from the balcony. ‘These people are fools if they think their barrack room backstabbers and slow poisoners can kill Verrens. A man who stood alone against the rebel queen Boudicca and survived the intrigues of the past two years will not go so willingly to his grave.’
‘You sound as if you admire him.’
‘He’s proved he can soldier,’ the officer shrugged. ‘And he has a gladiator’s instinct for survival. If he lives your father may give him a legion.’
The suggestion brought a grunt of bitter laughter from the young man on the throne. He had destroyed Gaius Valerius Verrens’ reputation by portraying his peace mission to Vitellius as treason; he would not let him recover it. ‘Yet you want him dead?’
‘I have my reasons. If he has a fault it is his honesty. One day it may be the death of him.’
A cold smile wreathed Domitian’s narrow features. ‘Then it suits both our purposes for you to join my brother in Judaea. You and Verrens are very much alike. He will instinctively trust you. You can get close enough to …’
The soldier’s stare silenced the younger man and Domitian bridled at the … contempt, yes, that was what he saw in the eyes, contempt. He was reminded that his physical weakness in the presence of men like these didn’t match the power of his position. When this was over …
‘Call off your dogs. They will only get in my way.’
‘No.’ Domitian recovered himself. ‘It may be that your mission has been completed for you before you arrive in Judaea. In that case you will get close to my brother. I want to know everything. Who he sleeps with. Who he plots with. His attitude to my father and his attitude to me. Who are his allies and what are his plans. You will place my brother’s fate in the palm of my hand, is that understood?’
‘Perfectly.’
A man would die in Antioch tonight. The assassin had stalked his victim for a week and knew his routine intimately enough to be certain of his destination. His target had taken lodgings in the cloth-making district where tight-packed, ramshackle houses lined the rat-infested Parmenian stream. It was a decision that spoke of an exceptionally tolerant sense of smell and a wish for privacy. The stench of fuller’s piss permeating the streets meant the vigiles kept their distance unless provoked. A perfect sanctuary for a fugitive, and his man certainly acted like a fugitive.
Normally, the assassin would have finished the job in a single night, leaving his victim just another corpse floating face down in the festering creek among the turds and the dead dogs. A long-nurtured instinct for survival told him that this one was different: a man with an equally well-honed sense of self-preservation. Instead, the murderer had watched and waited, his eyes never leaving the lodging house in the narrow alley the locals called, with supreme irony, the Street of Perfumed Gardens.
His target left the house twice each day, at noon and in the early evening, and though his route varied the destination was always the same, a tavern-brothel named the Vengeful Tenth after the legionaries who frequented it while on leave. There, he nursed a single drink and ignored the half-hearted ministrations of the whores until one of the merchants who organized the eastern caravans made his daily call. A short conversation ended with a shake of the head and a shrug that meant another day’s wait. Showing neither disappointment nor frustration the target would hand the trader a coin and re-arrange the rendezvous before making his way to the stables where the two horses he’d bought were being cared for. He would check their condition and question the groom before handing over another coin and returning to his accommodation.
The assassin had assessed the route and calculated the possibilities before making his decision where to strike. His favoured spot was reached not long after the man left the tavern, when he passed through a shadowed alley a few dozen paces long on the way to the stable. If someone happened to be around, another convenient place presented itself between the stable and his lodgings. The assassin was adept with either knife or strangling rope, but he’d chosen the former because the victim was a well-built man of above average height who had once been a soldier; a holder of the Corona Aurea, if his sources were to be believed. Despite his ragged clothing and broken-down appearance, the high military honour identified him as a formidable opponent. The assassin was a man who took no chances. Death must be instantaneous.
One other factor required consideration. His victim had a feature that made him instantly recognizable but also created, if not a problem, then at least an interesting dilemma. One hand, the right, was missing – an old battle injury, he’d been told – and had been replaced by a carved wooden fist. The question was: did that make the victim more vulnerable or less so? A less experienced killer would immediately have opted for the first, but the assassin was a thorough man. After some thought he’d decided that the fact that this man had survived with the mutilation for so long probably made him more dangerous. A left-handed victim was unusual and his reaction to an attack less predictable. Better to give him no time to react at all.
Tonight he didn’t follow the victim into the smoky, noisome interior of the Vengeful Tenth with its tawdry painted harridans and sour wine. Instead he wrapped his cloak tighter against the night cold and took up a position where he could watch the door. Patience was an exceptional virtue in his profession, and he was an exceptionally patient man.
As he waited, he watched the sky turn from dark blue to inky black. The hills looming over the ancient city transformed from grey to silver and finally a ghostly, insubstantial haze that was eventually consumed by the night. He saw the merchant arrive and leave in the time it took to sup a single drink. Any moment now. He took a deep breath. There. A tall man silhouetted in the light from the curtained doorway, the bleak grey eyes mere pits of darkness in a hard-edged face with a distinctive white scar that ran from eye to lip on the left side. The man hesitated a moment before trudging off in the direction of the stables, slightly favouring his right side as if to compensate for the missing extremity. The assassin gave his victim twenty paces of a start before following, not so much moving over the ground as flowing from one shadow to the next, deathly silent and oblivious of the nameless filth beneath his feet.
This close to the kill his senses, always well developed, heightened so that every sight, sound and scent was recognizable even in the murky depths of the alley. Wary and wound tight as a ballista rope, he nevertheless felt an almost brotherly affinity with the victim. For instance, this past two days the man had taken on a heavy-footed gait as if someone had placed a great weight on his shoulders. Was it caused by the knowledge that the assassin’s patron nursed a vengeful hatred that knew no bounds and each day was likely to be his last? Well, the weariness and the worry were about to end. When the job was done the killer would take ship at Seleucia Pieria and return to the reward that was his due and the wife and daughters on whom he doted.
He didn’t think of himself as an evil man, not even a bad one. He was just a professional doing a job. Every man had to die some day, and few had the choice of the where, the how or the why.
At least for the former soldier it would be quick. He could visualize the gap between two ribs where the needle point of the long blue-tinged blade would enter the body. A moment of exquisite agony as it penetrated the frantically pumping heart. The muscle spasming to grip the bright iron until the knife twisted to break the hold, triggering a terrible long shudder that transmitted its way through the blade from victim to killer. A final breath and the familiar look of disbelief in the dying eyes.
Now! He increased his pace. His cloth-bound feet covered the ground in long soundless strides that brought him so close to the inviting, unsuspecting back that his nostrils twitched with the scent of the victim’s last cup of wine. The final rush was accompanied by a thrill of fear that the man would sense something and react, instantly replaced by the exhilaration of the faultlessly placed strike, the right arm punching forward, the aim and the angle exact. Perfection.
But why did the impact jar his arm? Why, instead of welcoming flesh, did the point meet something rigid and unforgiving? Even as the assassin’s mind made the link with the sensation of a blade being turned by metal, it was already too late. A warning scorched his brain like a bolt of forked lightning. That heartbeat’s hesitation gave Gaius Valerius Verrens his opportunity. He whirled in a single movement and his left hand came up to seize the attacker’s wrist. The would-be killer felt the bones grind together and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. He looked up into eyes that surprised him because they were filled with regret rather than hatred or vengeance. As he struggled to break free the oaken fist he’d forgotten existed came up and smashed into his jaw with a force that sucked the strength from his legs. But the assassin had not survived for so long without an inner strength that would have surprised anyone who looked upon his doleful, priestly face. As he fell to the cobbled street his mind still whirled with possibilities. Surely he would be questioned? The man would want to know who had sent him and why. The assassin decided he would lead him back to his lodging house. Offer him money. Perhaps even give up the next link in the chain that led back to Rome. So many opportunities for a man of enterprise to escape or turn the tables.
Even as he considered his next move his disbelieving brain registered the sting as the edge of his own blade sliced across his throat. So this was how it—
Valerius stood over the dying man until the soft gurgling faded, careful to stay clear of the spreading pool of darkness that threatened his feet. When all movement ceased he threw the knife into a nearby cesspit and searched the corpse. As he’d expected, the findings were of little interest: a purse containing a surprising number of gold coins, the usual phallic charm for luck – he looked into the dead eyes and shook his head at the irony of it – a second knife in a pouch strapped to the arm, and a braided rope that needed no explanation. He’d supposed the man might carry some token identifying his origin, but it didn’t really matter. Whether he was employed by one of the shadowy state-sponsored agencies in the Palatium or just another blade for hire, Valerius had no doubt who sent him.
He straightened with the weary grunt of a much older man and considered his options. The dead assassin was the latest of at least four killers who’d dogged his footsteps over the last two months. One of them had simply disappeared. He’d persuaded the second, a Moesian courtesan, that whatever she’d been offered wasn’t worth dying for. But in Athens there’d been a much too friendly merchant who’d surreptitiously poured powder into his wine cup, then taken so much interest in the establishment’s nubile entertainment that Valerius had managed to switch drinks with him. Such was his agony that the convulsions snapped his spine like an over-strained bow.
This one had been the best. It had taken Valerius two days to mark him and the assassin’s only mistake was not to strike earlier. The one-handed Roman thanked the gods for the whim that had led him to buy the rusting auxiliary chain armour he’d seen hanging at the back of an ironworker’s market stall. Without it, he would certainly be dead. Mars’ sacred arse, the bastard had been quick. One moment he’d been a dozen paces back and the next Valerius had the breath knocked out of him. It had been pure luck the point hadn’t punched through one of the armour’s many weak spots. As it was, he was certain the knife had still bitten deep into the heavy leather vest he wore under the chain. He stretched his lower back. He was getting too old for this. The thought made him laugh. He was thirty-four years old. At thirty-four, Augustus had conquered Egypt and ten years later he’d still had the strength of will to invade Parthia and recover the standards lost by Crassus at Carrhae.
With a last regretful glance at the dead assassin he set off again in the direction of the stables. More imperative than ever to ensure the horses were being well cared for and the stable hands were following his instructions. He was fairly certain the killer worked alone, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others nearby ready to take on the job if he failed. Valerius’s enemy was a man who could not be underestimated. Valerius had done that once and almost paid the price. To do so a second time would be suicidal.
He pondered whether to search the assassin’s rooms, but decided he might alert an accomplice he’d missed. The killer must have some means of reporting his success and the man who had sent him was not known for his patience. Did that mean he’d already been told of Valerius’s plan to join one of the caravans heading east for the next leg of his journey?
‘Spare a few as for an old soldier down on his luck?’
The slurred words came from a doorway to his right. Valerius automatically checked his left side in case the approach had been designed to distract him. When he was certain there was no danger he turned back to the man who’d spoken. A single red-rimmed eye shone from a face destroyed by a sword blade. It had caught him high on the right cheek and removed the other eye, half his nose and several teeth. He might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty and sat on a bundle of straw with one leg tucked under him. The stump of the other, removed at the thigh, jutted out in front.
‘What legion?’
‘Tenth Fretensis, your honour, Corbulo’s finest. Honourable wounds taken against the Parthian King of Kings.’
A shiver ran through Valerius at the reminder of Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, the most successful general ever to wield a sword for Rome and the man who’d been like a father to him. Corbulo had become so powerful that Nero had grown to fear him and, despite his professions of loyalty, ordered him to commit suicide. The Tenth Fretensis had held the Parthian charge at the Cepha Gap as arrows turned the sky black and King Vologases’ Invincibles crashed to their doom, but they’d suffered terrible casualties. Most of the badly wounded died in the unsprung carts carrying them back to the Euphrates crossing at Zeugma. This man must be tough to survive the ordeal – or he’d been graced with Fortuna’s favour. He weighed the assassin’s purse in his hands and threw it to the cripple.
‘Spend it wisely,’ he said.
Before he reached the stables he heard the cackle of laughter as the mutilated soldier discovered the value of the purse’s contents. A roar of ‘The drinks are on old Atticus tonight’ echoed down the street and told him his advice was unlikely to be taken.
The pure joy in the shout made him grin. In truth he could have used the money himself, but he had a feeling the gold was tainted and, in the long run, would bring him bad fortune. Another old memory stirred and he touched his throat where a silver wheel of Fortuna hung on a leather thong. It was his only physical link to Domitia Longina Corbulo, the general’s daughter, the woman he loved and the one who’d saved his life. She’d placed it round his neck on that last day in Rome. ‘You must forget me,’ she’d said. But her advice was easier to acknowledge than to put into practice.
In pursuing Domitia, Valerius had made a mortal enemy of Titus Flavius Domitian. That enmity had grown along with Domitian’s power until it became a homicidal obsession to rid himself of his love rival. When Valerius had knelt in the Forum, falsely accused of treason and with an executioner’s sword at his neck, Domitia had promised herself to his enemy to save him. Instead of death, Valerius had suffered permanent exile from the shores of Italia and been branded an enemy of the state.
Of course it wouldn’t end there. There’d never been any doubt that Domitian would send his assassins in Valerius’s wake. Even with Domitia’s support he wouldn’t have escaped Rome alive without the help of his former colleague Gaius Plinius Secundus. Pliny had loaned him money and supplied him with a list of contacts that allowed him to reach Antioch. Now he was on his own, and Valerius knew his only chance of long-term survival was to reach his friend Titus, Domitian’s brother, and somehow redeem his honour. It meant finding a way to Judaea, where Titus commanded his father Vespasian’s forces.
But Judaea was a province in revolt and a lone traveller’s chances of crossing its war-ravaged deserts and mountains alive were slim. Valerius had sought a place in a well-guarded mercantile caravan that would take him some of the way in relative safety. Thanks to the assassin he must now consider that route closed. He could return to the coast and take ship from Seleucia to Tyrus or Appolonia, but Domitian would undoubtedly have the ports watched.
Which left him with only one option.
‘I do not wish to appear ungrateful, lord, but the pittance I accepted to be your guide and protector on the road to Emesa did not extend to travelling through the hours of darkness.’
Valerius gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to snarl at his companion. He wondered how much longer he could stand the sing-song whine. For two hours now, or was it three, he’d been listening to a litany of complaint. The horse was too high-spirited. He’d have been much better with camels. The night was cold. The saddle was hard. The date was not auspicious. The route …
‘Did I mention that the coast road would be quicker, more comfortable and, now I remember, safer?’
‘I’ve seen enough of the sea.’ Valerius’s patience snapped. ‘I told you I wanted to experience the interior. You assured me this was the scenic route, fit for conquerors, kings and emperors. We will walk in the footsteps of Alexander, you said.’
‘Indeed, lord,’ the other man said patiently, ‘but it is so much more scenic, not to say less dangerous, if one travels it by the light of the sun. Who knows what djinns and sprites haunt the darkness? Foul shape-changers who lure you in woman’s lovely form before turning into monsters with hooked claws and fangs to rend your flesh asunder.’
‘Then you should feel quite at home here,’ Valerius responded through clenched teeth, ‘given the quality of the women in the tavern where I found you.’
Ariston, for that was the name he went by, registered the dangerous quality in the Roman’s voice and fell quiet. Dark-skinned and coarse-featured, he claimed to be of Greek origin, and had astonished Valerius with a laughable boast that he was descended from the Seleucid ruling house. If that were the case his bloodline had been much diluted. He’d been described by the barkeep who pointed him out as ‘part Bedou wanderer, part Palmyran bandit, with a touch of Gandhara Zoroastrian fire-worshipper thrown in to make him interesting’. The result was a hooked nose any eagle would have been proud of and a pair of luminous green eyes that darted restlessly from beneath a bush of curly hair. His almost feminine, thin-lipped mouth never seemed to shut. For conversation he favoured Greek, which suited Valerius well enough, but like many of the nomadic people of the province he could make himself understood in a dozen languages. Wrapped in a shapeless, hooded cloak of patched cloth that might once have been white, he appeared the least trustworthy-looking human being Valerius had ever laid eyes on. Yet when the Roman remarked that he’d doubtless have his throat cut on the first night, the innkeeper insisted that Ariston had a reputation for delivering those with whom he set out.
‘Then why,’ Valerius had asked, ‘if he is such a paragon, isn’t he a guide for the merchant caravans out of Palmyra where the real money is made?’
The man had shaken his head in mock sorrow. ‘That would be because the traders wouldn’t let him within a hundred paces of their daughters.’ He grinned. ‘He may not look it, but our Ariston is a terrible one for the ladies.’
The Syrian had accepted the commission readily enough, but his protests started when Valerius insisted on setting out before daylight. Ariston boasted of being from a long line of fearless warriors whom no bandit would dare attack, but it seemed his fearlessness didn’t extend to the dark. ‘Only a fool or a fugitive creeps about after the sun has gone down,’ he muttered peevishly. ‘We should wait.’
But the dawn risked exposing Valerius to the eyes of his enemies and after further negotiation he persuaded Ariston into motion. They left the city by the Beroea Gate – two men and three horses, the pack horse heavily laden, helped on their way by a modest bribe to the gate guard. Ariston led Valerius along the eastern road, with the Orontes always to their left. It was his plan to follow the river to the next major stopping place, which meant a day’s march east before turning south. With the gods’ will it would take them another eight days to reach Emesa.
Flat slabs of local stone provided the road with a good surface and even in the dark they made good time. Dawn saw them skirting the foothills of the mountain range that hung like a wall over Antioch. The morning mist cleared quickly and they broke their fast in the shelter of an olive grove beneath a sky of pristine, eggshell blue while their horses drank from the foaming waters of the river. On the opposite bank, the valley was carpeted with fields already worked by slaves ploughing and planting the fertile dark earth. It was a tranquil pastoral scene, evidence of a land settled and at peace, and Valerius said so as they prepared to mount up.
His words drew a high-pitched laugh from his companion. ‘Ayah, peace provided at a price by your legions for the Greeks who own this land and these slaves and those vineyards on the hills yonder. All paid for by the taxes of people who have never seen a legionary, nor asked for or needed his protection.’
Valerius favoured him with an indulgent smile. It was the argument of the barbarian from one end of the Empire to the other. They were simple people who couldn’t understand that, just because the benefits provided by their taxes weren’t visible, it didn’t mean they didn’t exist. ‘But you have fine roads that can be travelled in all weathers,’ he pointed out as he pulled himself into the saddle. ‘Bridges that never wash away and wells that never dry up.’
Ariston shrugged dismissively. ‘Does it matter if a man reaches his destination in a day, or a week? The destination will still be there when he arrives. Or he gets his feet wet crossing a stream that will, in any case, cleanse them or cool them on a hot day? A well is very fine, but only a fool does not know how to find water.’ He looked towards the distant mountains. ‘This river was once named for Typhon, the dragon who was its creator. It is said the gods sought him out with their lightning bolts and in his agony he tore up the earth and created this valley, before fleeing underground where he unleashed the waters. Now it is the Orontes. Who knows what it will be next?’
‘Whether I reach my destination in a week or a month your mindless chatter isn’t taking us any closer.’ Valerius kicked his horse into motion, but Ariston’s words still rang in his head. What the Syrian said was true. Nothing was permanent but the earth and the mountains and the sea. Everything else had its time, even empires.
Ariston turned moody and sullen after the rebuke and they barely exchanged another two words before they halted in the late afternoon. The Syrian wanted to use the daylight to continue a few miles to a mansio, one of the government lodging houses that dotted the highway. Instead, Valerius insisted they sleep under the stars away from the road. Muttering complaints beneath his breath the guide tethered the horses and prepared the campsite.
For the hundredth time since leaving Rome, Valerius found himself wishing that Serpentius, the freed gladiator who had become his friend and bodyguard, had been able to travel with him. The Spaniard had suffered a dangerous head wound trying to save the life of Vitellius’s son Lucius during the Flavian sack of Rome. If he still lived he would be halfway to his home province by now. Serpentius had acted as Valerius’s shield when none was available, covering his right side in many a fight, and the Roman felt naked and vulnerable without his friend. A familiar itch reminded him that by now anyone who wanted to know would have discovered he’d left Antioch and might well be on the road behind them.
‘We’ll do without a fire this first night.’ The order drew a stare from his companion, but for once Ariston didn’t complain. He set out a cloth and laid it with rolled vine leaves stuffed with a moist, tasty combination of cereal and spiced ground lamb. Valerius pulled a flask from his pack and poured wine into two leather travel cups. The Syrian nodded his thanks and supped appreciatively as they ate.
‘You are a well-travelled man, Ariston,’ Valerius said. ‘Tell me what you know of the situation in Judaea.’
Ariston didn’t raise his eyes from his food. ‘The Jews are fools to fight you Romans, but they are like a lion trapped in a cave with the hunter’s spear at his throat. Ask them why and they will tell you that when a free man is forced to mortgage his lands and call another man master while he watches the flesh fall from his starving sons’ bones, there comes a time when he has no other choice but to fight.’
‘A fine speech,’ Valerius commented. ‘But I do not recognize this Rome you paint. Yes, Rome taxes, but it also builds, and it encourages those living under its rule to create further wealth that can be taxed in its turn. Surely to create wealth there must be peace, which benefits all?’
‘Just so.’ Restless green eyes stared out from beneath the heavy brow. ‘But what happens when the wealth is created by the sweat and blood of the poorest and none is returned? For sixty years they watched their gold being shipped to Rome or used by their priests – priests appointed by Roman masters, mark you – to decorate the Great Temple of Jerusalem and glorify the Judaean god at enormous cost to his long-suffering people. Then your procurator marched his men to the temple and demanded seventeen talents of gold – the weight of ten men – in compensation for some imagined slight. In such circumstances all that is required is a spark.’ The Syrian shrugged. ‘They are a superstitious people and when a light in the sky appeared in the shape of a sword, the spark was provided. When they saw the anger of the common folk, the priests suspended sacrifices in honour of the Emperor.’
Listening to the other man’s words, Valerius realized he hadn’t been entirely accurate when he’d said he didn’t recognize Ariston’s Rome. A face swam into view, narrow and sharp-edged, with a long nose and a drooping petulant lip. Catus Decianus, procurator of Britannia, had also impoverished his subjects on behalf of Nero and provided the spark for a bloody insurrection when he’d scourged Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.
‘What happened next?’ he asked, though he could imagine it easily enough.
‘Leaders appeared, and the country people rose up and invested the towns where they believed the riches of the land were stored. Roman garrisons were slaughtered along with any Judaean who supported them. So Rome had to act. A competent general would have smashed them in weeks, crucified a few of their commanders and sent the rest back to their fields.’
Valerius felt a flush of anger at the memory of his army’s shameful record in Judaea. The Roman generals Nero sent had been far from competent. Cestius Gallus rushed his legions from Syria to suppress the rebellion, but after initial successes he’d been forced to retreat. Worse, the Twelfth Fulminata had lost its eagle. Rome had not only been defeated, it had been humiliated. Brute force had failed, but Rome did not negotiate with rebels in a backwater like Judaea. The answer was to find a more competent brute.
Nero had been a wastrel and a fool who alienated his generals, but he’d kept one old soldier close. While Domitian was detained in Rome under the watchful eyes of the Emperor, Flavius Vespasianus could be relied upon to put down the rebellion with all the power at his command. Valerius had met Vespasian three years earlier, at Alexandria, while the general was planning the subjugation of Judaea, and later at Ptolemais on the eve of the campaign. He’d been impressed by a logistical brain that rivalled Corbulo’s and a decisiveness that didn’t bode well for the Jewish rebels.
‘When Vespasian took the field,’ Ariston continued, ‘the Judaeans had control of every town and city of any strategic value, but within the year they had lost all. Gabara fell swiftly, but forty thousand died in the fight for Jotapata, betrayed at the last by their commander. At Gamala the streets ran with blood and the place was only taken when the general’s son Titus personally led the assault. They are fanatics, the Jews, who would rather die than submit to authoritarian rule. Jericho followed, but when Vespasian heard of the trouble in Rome he was unwilling to commit his soldiers to a new assault when they might be required elsewhere. Of course, all that has changed. Vespasian is Emperor and Titus commands in Judaea.’
‘Do you know where Titus is based?’ Valerius asked. ‘I would think that by now his troops will be coming out of their winter quarters and preparing for a new campaign.’
Something in the Roman’s tone made Ariston frown. ‘I do not know where he is, but I know where he will go.’
‘Where?’
‘Jerusalem.’
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.
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.