[Gaius Valerius Verrens 06] - Scourge of Rome (11 page)

Ambush, betrayal, confusion and slaughter.

Tarichaeae. The name brought a cynical smile to Titus’s features as he reviewed his troops. ‘Your opportunity for glory,’ his father predicted. Opportunity for an early grave, more like.

Strong walls on three sides and the fourth facing the shore of the Sea of Galilee. The Judaeans kept a strong force outside the walls to maintain contact with a fleet waiting offshore, covered by archers and slingers from the ships. Vespasian had ordered him to sweep them away with a reinforced cohort. When Titus’s men refused to charge against such odds he’d been forced to take the lead. So many arrows smacked into his shield that it looked like a porcupine, while slingshots spanged off armour and helmet, leaving his head ringing and his body bruised. Six hundred Romans against four times their number. He remembered the stink of sweat and fear and torn entrails thick in his nostrils and the leaden taste of blood in his mouth. Wielding his blade until the muscles of his arm screamed and the shield felt as heavy as a cart wheel, cursing bearded faces shrieking defiance and invoking their god even as the
gladii
took their lives. Surrounded and knowing the awful shame of failure he’d felt the bowel-liquefying fear of approaching death. He was too young. He had so much to do.

‘Are you well, general?’ The concerned voice of Genialis, the camp prefect of the Fifteenth. The man who had saved his life by sending archers to overwhelm the storm of arrows from the ships and cavalry to drive the Zealots back.

Titus felt the sweat streaming down his cheeks, but managed a smile. ‘Chasing rebels is hot work. Your men are up for a fight?’ he said to change the subject.

‘They’d rather fight than march,’ Genialis snorted. ‘If there’s a foot of this gods-forsaken dustbowl they haven’t covered, I’d like to know where it is.’

Tarichaeae. Flames and screams in the night after Vespasian commanded that the ships be destroyed along with the thousands who had fled to take refuge on them. A soft, breathless morning when the charred corpses of men, women and children bobbed and dipped in the waves along the shore. Another morning watching a long column of non-combatants stream from the city after being urged to throw themselves on the mercy of Rome and guaranteed free passage as far as Tiberias. Rome – in the shape of his father – showing the true meaning of Roman mercy. Twelve hundred of the old and sick slaughtered in the stadium at Tiberias, the rest, almost forty thousand, sold into slavery to be worked to death at their masters’ pleasure. Vespasian justified the decision by the fact that as the story spread all but three of Galilee’s fortresses surrendered. Meanwhile, Tarichaeae’s gates hung open, the only occupants the dead or the soon to be dead beneath a giant pall of smoke that stank of roasting flesh.

And after Tarichaeae, more of the same at Gamala and Gischala, Jamnia and Azotus, Gersa and Jericho.

The long pause to draw breath after Nero’s death, waiting to see what would unfold. The day in Caesarea when the impossible happened and three legions declared a ‘new man’ Emperor of Rome. Hail, Caesar! His father’s dry, self-deprecating humour as he offered his son either a death sentence or an opportunity for his name to live on through history.

‘Whatever my legions say, I am not the Emperor until I am made so by the Senate and people of Rome. The day that happens I will appoint you my heir. For the moment I must ask you to command my armies in Judaea, though you may feel a cup of hemlock laced with honey would be a more attractive proposition.’

For weeks afterwards Titus had no time to dwell on his new status because of the huge amount of preparation needed for the next phase of the campaign. Three legions must be manoeuvred into position to destroy the last surviving pockets of rebel resistance. Yet they’d still have to rely on supplies of fodder in country stripped bare by the rebels and along roads always vulnerable to ambush by the insurgents. The critical shortage of cavalry and archers concerned him and he had to endure interminable negotiations with the jumped-up rulers of the city states of Syria, Armenia and Cappadocia. He commanded three legionary legates, each of whom demanded their unit should have the place of honour and the final glory. Well, he was resolved there would be glory enough for all when the time came. In the meantime they could obey orders with good grace. And always at his shoulder, Tiberius Alexander; mentor, wet nurse or spy?

Yet at least once a day came a moment of startling clarity as he realized who and
what
he was. One step away, at the age of thirty, from being the ruler of the greatest empire the world had ever known. Yes, a war must be fought and won before that was certain, though let no man believe it was a war either he or his father had wanted. But it had to be fought, and now it
was
won. Vitellius was dead. In a few months Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus would be hailed Emperor of Rome and on the same day he would declare Titus his heir. Did he deserve this honour? Of course not. He was but a simple soldier, who, he prayed, had risen to his present position by his abilities and not by hanging on to the laurels won by his father. Yet what else could he do but stand by Vespasian and accept the responsibilities placed upon him? What son would do otherwise? Of course, he had doubts. He’d felt the entire weight of the Empire looming over him like a collapsing
insula
the moment his father announced his intentions; all the breath knocked from his lungs as if he’d been punched by a boxer. Yet there’d been excitement, too, and a growing inside, an expanding of the mind as he understood that he, Titus Flavius Vespasian the younger, was capable of greatness. He had already shown courage and leadership; he must learn wisdom and statesmanship and how to wield authority.

If he’d been in command at Tarichaeae, Titus would have stuck to the principle of the bargain and freed the non-combatants. By killing a thousand sick and elderly and sending the rest into slavery, his father showed a superior understanding of the situation. The dead were useless mouths who would have died in time anyway. Many were troublemakers who had flocked to Judaea to join the rebellion against Rome. Sacrificing a few thousand saved tens of thousands of lives by sending a clear message to the other fortified cities of Galilee that if they didn’t surrender without a fight they were doomed. Titus had absorbed the lesson. Sometimes a man must harden his heart in the present to save the lives of his soldiers in the future.

A rider approached and he heard the man pass his message to Tiberius Alexander. ‘We have them trapped against a bend of the Jordan, tribune. The river is in flood and they have no escape.’

Titus made his decision before the Alexandrian turned to ask for orders. The slave pens were full and he had no provisions to feed prisoners. Other battles must still be fought and he couldn’t afford to have insurgents operating at his rear.

‘Kill them. Kill them all.’

Serpentius sent word that he’d spend the evening at the Chalcidean camp and he still hadn’t returned when Dimitrios, the armourer, reappeared as promised the next day. He carried a leather bag and was accompanied by three slaves bearing bulky, cloth-covered packages. From the bag he produced the Roman’s wooden fist on its cowhide stock, buffed, polished and almost unrecognizable from its earlier incarnation.

‘I have made certain modifications of which I hope you approve, lord.’ He slipped the stock over the freshly oiled stump of Valerius’s right arm and tightened the leather thongs to hold it in place.

‘It’s more comfortable,’ Valerius admitted. ‘And a better fit.’

Dimitrios’s eyes twinkled at the praise. ‘I added a lining of soft calfskin, which should stop any chafing. A simple addition that will make wearing it for lengthy periods less demanding.’ He snapped out an order in Aramaic. One of the slaves uncovered his burden to reveal a large shield – a full-size legionary
scutum
, the face painted in the colours of the Tenth legion. ‘Please …’

Two leather straps had been fitted to the right of the grip for better stability. Valerius pushed the wooden fist through them and pulled back to engage the hooked fingers of the carved hand with the shield’s grip. The balance and feel was much better and he said so.

‘I am glad you are pleased.’ The armourer waved to the other two slaves to unwrap their packages. ‘And I think you will be even more so. Of course, this is only a fitting. I will make adjustments later and by the time I am finished you will believe it was made for you.’

Valerius studied the gleaming pile of metal with disbelief. ‘I …’

‘It was a gift to King Sohaemus from the Emperor himself,’ Dimitrios said proudly.

It
was a Roman general’s breastplate worked in silver and gold. A set of protective armour fit for a prince and, judging by the decoration, originally made for an emperor. A golden chariot pulled by a team of silver horses raced across the well-muscled chest, while below Mars, Jupiter, Juno and Minerva looked on approvingly. The breastplate lay on a scarlet tunic and a legate’s scarlet cloak, beside a helmet of equal quality. The brim of the helm was inlaid with four roaring lions’ heads and it had a crest of stiffened scarlet horsehair. As Valerius watched, the slaves each produced a pair of similarly worked greaves and arm protectors.

‘I can’t wear this,’ he protested.

‘But the king insisted.’ Dimitrios looked terrified. ‘It would be a mortal insult to refuse his gift. Please, at least try it on.’

Valerius knew he had no choice. He stripped off his tunic and replaced it with the scarlet version, which turned out to be made of the finest cotton he had ever worn. Dimitrios fitted the gilded breast- and backplate over his head and strapped them in place, then attached the greaves to his shins and the arm protectors about his wrists. Finally, the armourer produced an elaborately decorated scabbard on a leather baldric. He placed the strap diagonally across Valerius’s chest, so the sword rested on Valerius’s right hip, ready to be cross drawn by the left hand. Satisfied, he stepped back and studied Valerius with a look of almost religious awe. Valerius’s fingers automatically sought out the sword hilt and drew the
gladius
from its sheath with a spine-chilling hiss.

As he took the sword in his hand, Valerius felt a surge of immense strength run through him and he saw the awe in Dimitrios’s eyes momentarily turn to fear. Valerius studied the weapon in his hand. But for the decoration it might have been a standard military
gladius
, yet it was probably the finest sword he had ever held. It had been manufactured from the best carbon-rich iron to give it strength, yet the balance was perfect. Even with the ornamental eagle on the pommel it felt almost weightless. The ghost of the five or six carefully selected bars of metal that forged it were visible as silvery traces in the blade. Like the pommel, the hilt was heavily ornamented. Valerius knew that in a fight even a hand as calloused as his would soon be blistered and bleeding. Still, a strip of leather wound around the grip would make it more of a killing weapon. The feel of it reminded him of the sword of Julius Caesar that Vitellius had taken from the Temple of Mars Ultor. His friend had carried it with him to the great Golden House in Rome where he’d ruled the Empire for eight short months. He only hoped fate would be kinder to this sword’s new owner.

The armour, like the
gladius
, was made of the finest materials. It was a little too full at the chest and shoulders, but an adjustment of the straps and some padding would fix that. He knew it was an illusion, but the combination made him feel taller and stronger, and he grinned; a shark’s grin that sent a shiver through the other man. These glittering baubles had one purpose, and one purpose only: to project power. He replaced the sword to a sigh of relief from Dimitrios, picked up the helmet and placed it on his head.

‘No wonder the Romans conquered the world.’

Valerius looked round to find Tabitha staring at him from the doorway. ‘I must look like a golden peacock,’ he grinned.

‘No,’ she said seriously. ‘You look like a warrior of old.’ She walked round him and he felt his face redden as she studied the effect from every angle. ‘You could be Titus, or his older, much more dangerous brother.’ She ended up facing him and it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. ‘What could a man like you not achieve,’ she frowned, ‘if he had an army at his back?’

Valerius glanced warily at Dimitrios and the slaves. ‘My loyalty is to Rome, lady, and let none think otherwise.’

‘Yet Rome has abandoned Gaius Valerius Verrens. Why else would he be wandering in the Syrian mountains with a single servant and the clothes on his back, relying on the goodwill of an old friend?’

‘We will speak no more of this,’ he insisted, working at the straps of the breastplate.

She smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘Just a girl’s silly reflections, Valerius. Not to be taken seriously.’

‘Perhaps I’ll keep it for Saturnalia.’ He handed the armour to an appalled Dimitrios, but Tabitha laid a hand on his arm.

‘Do not discard King Sohaemus’s gift so lightly, or underestimate the importance of appearances in this land. There will come a time when you need to impress, and no matter what you think of these glittering baubles, you look mightily impressive in that uniform. Think on it, Valerius. Will you arrive at Titus’s camp like a beggar seeking alms, or at the head of five hundred of Sohaemus’s desperately needed archers, looking what you are? A warrior. A leader. A Hero of Rome.’ The pause that followed reinforced her point, but it was her next words that caught his attention. ‘And there will be others watching, people who may have a profound influence on your future in the East.’

‘You make it sound like a threat.’

‘Not a threat, Valerius. An opportunity. Sohaemus is not the only person with reason to be grateful you saved my life. Titus will also hear of your valour.’

‘You are very well acquainted with kings and princes for a lady’s maid.’

‘That is because my
lady
is Queen Berenice of Cilicia, for which you also may have reason to be grateful.’ She laughed as she swept out of the room, leaving him with the slaves and Dimitrios, whose face was a picture of consternation.