Avenger of Rome (21 page)

Tiberius looked puzzled and his eyes went cold. Was it possible that the young man was frightened? It seemed unlikely, but it was
conceivable
. No matter how proficient a soldier was with his weapons, the thought of his first real battle was enough to turn the veins to ice water. But the expression only lasted a heartbeat before the young tribune recovered and his face broke into a grin.

‘So, I am to be blooded at last. I have waited for so long. It could only be better if you were able to fight by my side.’

Valerius heard a whisper in his head. He had a momentary vision of the younger tribune with blood on his face, but he kept his smile steady.

‘I will ask the general, Tiberius.’ He exchanged glances with Serpentius. ‘Who knows what can be arranged.’

XXIII

VALERIUS AWOKE IN
darkness, his head buzzing with the information he’d had to absorb and the details he would have to deal with in the coming twenty-four hours. Of the seventeen auxiliary cavalry regiments which were now his responsibility, apart from escort detachments, only one, the Thracian Third Augusta, was camped nearby, and that at Cyrrhus, a good fifty miles to the east. The rest were scattered across northern Syria or on the Cappadocian frontier with Armenia and were already making their way to Zeugma, where the army would converge to make the crossing of the Euphrates. It meant he had to decide whether to ride out immediately after Corbulo’s morning briefing, or wait until the Tenth had assembled and march with them. He washed and shaved in the baked clay basin the servant had brought before oiling the stump of his arm and fitting the carved walnut hand on its leather stock. He had decided not to wake Serpentius. The Spaniard’s ingenuity and patience had been tested to the limit the previous day begging, stealing and borrowing, but mostly stealing, the equipment they would need for the campaign and the mules to carry it, when every unit and every officer was frantically seeking the same thing. No legion or auxiliary cohort would go on campaign under-equipped if it could find a way to avoid it.

Valerius had spent his time with Casperius Niger, attempting to solve
the
problem of the extra javelins and arrows his cavalrymen would have to carry. The Syrian armouries in Antioch, Palmyra, Damascus and Tyrus had been working night and day since the beginning of the Judaean insurrection a year earlier, but it wasn’t just a question of sourcing the weapons. Valerius had to know how many extra spears a cavalryman and his mount were capable of carrying on the march, how many mules and camels would be needed to transport the numbers required to make up the shortfall in the general’s order, how much fodder would be needed for the mules, and how many mules and camels would be needed for the extra fodder for the transport animals. Was it any wonder his head ached as if it was the morning after the last day of Saturnalia?

He was struggling into his sculpted leather breastplate when Serpentius appeared yawning in the doorway to help him.

‘I told you to sleep until dawn,’ Valerius admonished him. ‘This could be the last time you have the opportunity.’

‘I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead,’ the Spaniard grunted. ‘How could I lie there and listen to you cursing over those straps? You remind me of a turtle that’s ended up on its back.’

Valerius didn’t bother to reply. He was proud of his ability to get in and out of the armour despite his missing hand and he didn’t care to be reminded that it sometimes took him longer than he liked.

‘When you’ve eaten, get the horses and the mules ready. We may have to leave when I’ve finished with the general. And hunt up some bread and olives, and some wine for the journey. I doubt we’ll be stopping before nightfall.’

He pretended not to hear Serpentius’s mutter that it was only the mad and foolish who rode through the midday sun and killed themselves and their horses.

Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo looked fresh and relaxed when Valerius was ushered into his room. The young Roman was again surprised that the only other person present was Domitia, who sat a little to one side of the desk, and more surprised still by what he witnessed as he waited. In front of the general, instead of the usual tidy pile of scrolls, sat a wooden gaming board, and as Corbulo reeled off a string of military
roles
, letters and numbers Domitia would take a carved wooden replica of the soldier he referred to and place it on a given square marked on the board. When they had placed ten or twelve of the figures, she smiled at her father and removed the pieces from the board again. Corbulo then closed his eyes while she mixed up the pieces and placed them on different squares.

‘Now.’

He opened his eyes and Domitia counted to ten before sweeping the pieces off the board and into a basket at her feet.

‘Cavalryman: C4, C5, D6. Legionary: D1, D5, D8. Cataphract: F2, F3, F6. Mounted archer: F …’

The game was repeated three times more as Valerius watched and as far as he could see the general did not get a single figure out of place. He found himself astonished by the mental dexterity Corbulo had cultivated and wondered at its purpose; for if there was one thing he now realized, Syria’s governor never did anything without a purpose.

Domitia whispered something to her father and the general glanced up. ‘My apologies, tribune,’ he said gruffly. ‘One becomes engrossed. It is a game, but a useful one since I believe it aids the memory, which in my case is not what it once was. Would you care to try?’

The offer was made lightly, but the tone contained a hint of challenge that was mirrored in Domitia’s dark eyes. Valerius had never shirked a challenge. He took his place in front of the desk and studied the board, which was split lengthwise into twelve sections, eight deep.

‘A through to H,’ Corbulo indicated the depth. ‘And one to twelve. Ninety-six squares on which my daughter will place twelve figures. All you have to do is memorize which figure is on which square.’

It seemed almost childish. Valerius had studied under Seneca, committing vast tracts of dull Stoic philosophy to memory. His time in the law courts and as chief of staff to the proconsul of Africa had given him a mind as sharp as one of the jewelled ceremonial swords the governor displayed on his wall.

‘Close your eyes,’ Domitia said softly, and her voice transported him back to the shipwreck beach, smoke still heavy in the air, soft sand and a lithe, sinuous body twisting against his.

‘Now.’

He opened them again but his brain seemed to be frozen solid. He felt the first thrill of panic as Domitia began her relentless count.

‘… ten.’ A slim arm swept the pieces from the board. How … ?

‘You don’t have time to think on the battlefield,’ Corbulo barked. ‘Come on, man.’

Valerius licked his lips. ‘Cavalryman: D7, D8, F …’ He shook his head. ‘Legionary: A4, A … 6.’

Corbulo drew an impatient breath and Valerius rapped out the rest of the names and numbers by pure guesswork. When he was finished the general’s face was grim. Valerius had managed a pathetic five out of twelve correct. ‘Perhaps we should move on.’

But Valerius had looked into Domitia’s eyes and seen the flare of victory there. And in that instant it came to him: this wasn’t a game, it was a battle. He remembered how it had been in the field before Colonia with the howls of fifty thousand Celtic champions in his ears and the scents of blood, death and fear that had filled the air like a fog. The flash of swords and constant threat of spear and arrow that had dulled the mind and cloaked the rest of the battlefield from him. He had found himself operating on two levels. The here, where blade sank into cringing flesh and shield beat off one screaming tattooed attacker after the other. And the above, in that place of calm where the mind took in every subtle change in the pulse of the battle and he could feel its rise and fall like the breast of a sleeping woman.

‘One more time.’

Corbulo snorted and shook his head, but Domitia reached for the first figure.

The battle calm absorbed Valerius now. When the silken voice whispered that he should shut his eyes and he heard the pieces falling into place on the partitioned maplewood, it was as if he could see where each was placed. And when he opened them again it was as if they had never been closed. The figures and their locations seared themselves on the surface of his eyes and when it came time to place them he reeled off the locations without pausing for breath.

The general grunted approval. ‘Fortuna favoured you this time.’

Valerius shrugged. ‘Why don’t we find out? But this time double the number of figures.’

Domitia’s face lit up at this impertinence and she gave a delighted laugh.

‘Impossible,’ the general sniffed.

‘I have only eighteen,’ his daughter said innocently. ‘Perhaps Father should try first?’

Corbulo glared at the girl, but the impish look on her face overcame his irritation and when he turned to Valerius he was smiling.

‘I think we have had enough games for the moment. You have made your point, tribune. Now, to business. I have arranged for the prefect of the Thracian Third Augusta to join us here with as many of his senior officers as he can spare from the preparations. That will allow you to take the measure of your new command while we are on the march to Cyrrhus. I was a cavalry prefect myself and we are arrogant creatures, but if you can win his respect he will be able to teach you much that will be of use before you are called on to put it into practice. You will find that cavalrymen are as fickle as their horses, but guide them with a firm hand and they will never let you down. Report back to me when you have seen him.’

Valerius thanked him. ‘On the subject of horses, sir, I’ve been having trouble finding suitable mounts for myself and my freedman. I have conscripted him to the ranks as an auxiliary, acting and unpaid, of course.’

Corbulo gave a thin smile. ‘Naturally. I have already heard tales of his bargaining skills … and certain mysterious losses. Mucianus was most put out. He is old-fashioned in his way, and the thought of a slave wearing the Emperor’s uniform had him calling for the lictors. But I have seen your man exercising and I can understand why you would want him close, and with a sword in his hand. He looks quite impressive. A Spaniard I would guess, from his looks and his tongue.’

Valerius nodded. ‘A Spaniard and a gladiator.’

‘A formidable combination. Would that more of my army had his bloodline and his temper. In any case, there will be no further
obstructions
. A cavalry-trained horse is at a premium in these troubled times, but I will issue orders that your needs be met.’

As he was leaving Valerius’s eye was drawn to what looked like a model of a siege tower on a cabinet by the doorway. Corbulo noticed his interest.

‘Another diversion of mine and one of my own invention. It is based on Caesar. I call it Caesar’s Tower.’ Valerius saw now that the tower consisted of four of the boards they had played the memory game on, set eight inches apart one on top of the other. Caesar was a game contested on a single level by legionaries in their short hours of leisure time. The two players each had twelve identical markers, white for one side and blue for the opponent. In addition, each had a thirteenth, smaller counter about the size of a rabbit dropping. The large markers could only move a single square at a time in any direction, but Caesar, the small token, ruled the board and could move anywhere as long as it was in a straight line. The aim of the game was to capture the opponent’s stones by ambushing them between two of your own and it ended when one side captured the other’s Caesar. It was a game of strategy that could be fiendishly complex when played by two skilled players, but this was different. ‘I have developed it so that it is played in three dimensions,’ Corbulo continued. ‘I have never been defeated,’ he smiled at his daughter, ‘though Domitia has come close. Perhaps, when we are on campaign, you would care to try.’

Valerius could think of no worse field punishment than spending his nights being made to look a fool by his commanding officer, but he was a soldier and sometimes a soldier had to make sacrifices.

‘Of course. I would be delighted.’

Domitia picked up the kitten which had been rubbing itself against her feet and stroked it. ‘If the tribune could spare an hour this afternoon, perhaps I could teach him the basics of the game?’

Corbulo blinked and Valerius thought he saw a flare of suspicion in the grey eyes. He struck before it could develop into something worse.

‘I fear I will be too busy with our preparations, lady,’ he said quickly. ‘Perhaps when we return.’

‘Such a pity,’ the dark-haired girl pouted. ‘My father takes so much
delight
in beating his enemies into submission that it would have done him good to face someone who might show him the meaning of humility.’

While Corbulo glowered, Valerius bowed his farewell and made his escape. It occurred to him that Domitia was more dangerous than Boudicca.

XXIV

VALERIUS’S THRACIAN CAVALRY
escort set up camp outside Antioch close to the temporary mud-brick fort that was currently home to the Legio Tenth Fretensis. When they were settled, Valerius rode out to greet its commander, a solemn, bearded young man who introduced himself as Claudius Hanno, a Roman citizen, but born and brought up by his Syrian parents in the oasis city of Palmyra.

The main Thracian force remained at Cyrrhus, halfway to the crossing point of the Euphrates. Hanno reported their readiness was high, although he produced the usual list of complaints about the quality of the replacement horses and equipment they had been given.

‘It will be good for once to have a friend at headquarters. Anything you can get for us in the way of harness and saddlery would help. Boots, too. The desert air is not kind to leather.’ Professional eyes ran over Valerius’s horse. ‘Though I see from your mare that it is not worth begging for a new batch of remounts.’

Hanno’s mood brightened when Valerius revealed Corbulo’s order for the cavalry to carry extra javelins.