[Gaius Valerius Verrens 06] - Scourge of Rome (26 page)

Stepping carefully, he moved to a door that opened out on to a courtyard with a cistern at the centre to collect rainwater. A walkway ran round three sides and to his left was another doorway, just a black rectangle in the stone wall. Hardly daring to breathe, he moved towards it and slipped through into the gloom, taking a step to one side as he entered. A soft fluttering sound stopped his heart and he had an image of a knife spinning through the darkness to pin him through the throat. He tensed for the strike, but nothing happened apart from another soft explosion accompanied by the gentle cooing of the dove roosting in an alcove above and to his left.

Willing his heart to slow, he stood by the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the murk, gradually becoming aware of a familiar throat-filling stench. Hundreds of scroll cases littered the floor and scattered amongst them were the contents, ancient texts now torn and crumpled into small balls of papyrus or parchment. The stink came from the human excrement that covered the floor in heaps and fouled the manuscripts. In places great smears disfigured the walls and even the scroll alcoves were dirtied. Somehow the desecration of the books had a greater effect than the slaughter he’d witnessed an hour earlier. What kind of man used a library as a latrine? The answer wasn’t difficult to divine. A soldier. Like every soldier, the legionary was obsessed with his bowels. Bodily movements were the subject of intense discussion, extraordinary scrutiny and even competition. There’d been nights when he’d heard eight-man leather tents rattle to the sound of farting contests. They’d compete to see who could pass the biggest stool. He could imagine them in here, laughing as they wiped their arses on books that had sometimes taken a lifetime to write. ‘Look, I’ve got Archimedes’ screw up my bum.’ The shit was old and dry – he guessed the result of Titus’s depredations or perhaps a more recent Roman push into the area – but it still stank. Gamala had been abandoned for much of the time since the city’s capture and destruction and the men who had occupied it recently either hadn’t had the time to clean it up, or more likely were unwilling to soil their hands on Rome’s leavings.

Valerius was about to take a first careful step when he heard a muffled cry from somewhere close. There were no other doors or windows in the library. He guessed whoever had owned the books used the courtyard for reading and didn’t expose his treasures to the elements unless necessary. As he studied his surroundings he noticed a break in the random pattern of shit scattering the floor. In the far corner an area had been cleared. When he looked closer he recognized some sort of trap door. A heavy cabinet stood nearby and he guessed it had covered the hidden entrance until it had been moved. He crouched over the trap and with his left hand grasped the ring bolt set into the slab and heaved it up. It rose with a slight creak and in the opening he’d created he could see a set of stairs lit by a soft glow. He raised the door to its full extent and found, to his relief, that it had been designed to stay upright without any visible support. He ducked down to look inside and was greeted by a short chamber with doors to either side.

Before he went any further he removed his sandals and placed them beside the trap. In such a confined space the sound of the hobnails on stone would be as loud as a trumpet fanfare. When he was ready he reached for his sword, then changed his mind. The stairs were steep and awkward, especially for a man with one hand, and the slightest chink of metal would give him away. He’d draw it when he needed it. He wasn’t even certain he would.

One of the doors was open and he could hear the sound of a muted conversation followed by the clatter of metal, as if something had fallen. He moved slowly towards it and craned his neck to look inside.

Josephus had his back to the wall with the knife that had been knocked from his hand lying at his feet. A tall man faced him, dressed in Judaean clothing, with a cloth wound about his head to conceal his features. The tall man spoke Hebrew and held a long spear with a leaf-shaped blade to Josephus’s chest, jabbing it to emphasize his words. Josephus said nothing, but Valerius could see no fear in his eyes, only calculation. Clearly he hadn’t reconciled himself to what appeared to be almost certain death. The Judaean hadn’t noticed Valerius yet, but that would change in a moment. He only prayed Josephus was sensible enough not to show any sign that would give him away. He stepped into the room and his fingers closed on his sword hilt. Josephus’s eyes widened slightly, but otherwise his face remained impassive. Valerius pulled at the sword as he moved silently across the floor. Nothing happened. It was stuck fast in the scabbard. Fool, his mind screamed at him, to sheath it covered in blood.

No time to change that. He released the hilt and moved his left hand to his right fist. Less than three paces away the spearman heard the sharp click and whirled, lightning fast, to face the new threat. Too late. Valerius was already inside the spear point and he rammed the wooden fist into the man’s unprotected stomach. All the air left him in one coughing gasp and his eyes, the only part of his face visible, widened in shock. The spear clattered to the ground and his hands clutched at his midriff. He brought the right up to his face, staring in disbelief at the blood staining his fingers. Valerius faced him, his right hand raised ready to strike again, but with a groan like a toppled tree the Judaean fell forward on to his face.

Josephus was staring at the wooden fist and the bloodied metal spike protruding from it. He took a deep breath, but otherwise the only sign of his ordeal was a slight paleness in his face. ‘A neat trick,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m very glad you didn’t experiment with it on me. Is he dead?’

Valerius heaved the body over with his foot and a pair of sightless eyes stared back at him. ‘It seems so.’

Josephus moved from the wall and crouched over the dead man, careful not to touch his body. ‘Please unwind the cloth from his face.’

Valerius did as he was asked. ‘Do you know him?’

The Judaean stared at the bearded features. ‘No.’ His eyes flicked nervously to Valerius. ‘Why should I know him?’

‘He followed you down here.’

‘A coincidence,’ Josephus shrugged, returning to the wall where a shelf held several dozen scroll cases. He picked them up one at a time, discarding some, but putting others to one side.

‘Why would he follow a fellow Judaean down into the depths of some palace cellar when there are several thousand Roman enemies he could have chosen from in the rest of the city?’ Josephus didn’t answer. ‘You knew this was here?’

Josephus looked up from his books. ‘Of course. Did I not tell you I designed the defences? This is the house of the High Priest. I was a guest here. I was naive then. I believed Gamala was impregnable, but I underestimated Vespasian’s ability to drive his troops across twenty miles of mountains to unlock the defences from the rear. Before I left for Jotapata I left some of my writings here. I hoped they might have survived, so I came to look for them. When I turned round this brute was standing with a spear pointed at me.’

‘You cried out.’

‘Did I?’ The Judaean’s face went blank. ‘I do not remember. I only had my knife, but he knocked it from my hand.’ He studied the offending appendage as if it had betrayed him. ‘You saved my life.’ He stretched out to take Valerius’s hand but stopped midway as he remembered it was wooden and had a vicious-looking knife protruding from the centre knuckle.

‘It was nothing. You can thank a young man called Dimitrios who runs the armoury in Emesa.’ Valerius placed the point against the top of the wooden table and pushed until the blade clicked back into place. He looked from the artificial fist to the man on the floor. ‘I wasn’t certain it would work.’

‘I’m glad it did,’ Josephus said with passion. ‘Mark my words, future generations will thank you for what you have done today. In these books lies the only comprehensive history of my people. Its loss would have been catastrophic.’ He bundled up the scrolls he’d collected in his cloak and set off for the trap door.

Valerius stooped to go through the dead man’s clothes and came up with a curved knife that looked disturbingly familiar. He slipped it into his belt and followed the Judaean, pondering on the curious mix of scholar, soldier and spy: a man who could cheerfully reconcile patriotism and collaboration; a commander who surrendered without shame and justified it by citing his people’s interest, yet could look death in the face without flinching; a dissembler who lied without conscious thought and a priest who never prayed. When he reached the top of the steps Josephus surveyed the devastation and filth of the library with a look of something like sorrow on his face.

‘Barbarians,’ he muttered, and set off across the floor with delicate footsteps.

Valerius and Josephus emerged from Gamala’s blood-soaked gateway to find Albinus making his report to the legate on the flat slope to the north of the city. Legionaries had cleared the field of the dead and now worked to raise the banks of tonight’s fort using rubble from the mud-brick walls being dismantled by their comrades. They made their way towards the little knot of officers.

‘We’ll leave one cohort up here to finish the job,’ Lepidus said. ‘They can act as the rearguard when we march tomorrow. An extra ration of wine for every man, but I want them ready to leave at dawn, Albinus.’ The
primus pilus
nodded. Lepidus grinned when he saw Valerius, but his expression sobered as he saw the blood staining his tunic and armour. ‘Albinus tells me I have you to thank for not having to haul my artillery all the way up here.’

‘I was one of a thousand,’ Valerius dismissed the compliment. ‘Every soldier of the First cohort was a hero today. You are fortunate to lead such men.’

‘Why, I do believe Albinus is blushing,’ the legate laughed. ‘Nevertheless, despite your modesty you may be sure I will say so in my report to Titus.’ He looked across to where another section of wall crumbled and fell under the legionary picks and mattocks. ‘I’d expected to be delayed another two or three days, which would have made the Tenth less than popular in certain circles.’ He turned to Josephus. ‘Were there any rebel leaders among the dead?’

‘I do not believe so. They were disaffected survivors from the Emperor’s Galilean campaign who have been terrorizing the communities that have accepted Rome’s rule.’ The Judaean’s voice was a brittle mix of anger and sorrow, but Lepidus was too elated by his victory to notice.

‘It is of no matter,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow we march south to join Titus.’

Valerius spent the night on the plateau with the men of the Tenth. The victory celebrations had been subdued because the legionaries knew they’d be on the march at first light. As the sun crept over the eastern mountains they made their sullen, heavy-footed way down the track from Gamala with the Sea of Galilee shimmering like a great bowl of liquid fire in the distance. The sight made Valerius shiver. There was something mystical about this land, mystical and terrible, that he doubted he would ever fully understand.

The fatalism and comradeship of the Judaeans who’d leapt to their deaths and whose shattered bodies now rotted in heaps among the nearby rocks kept coming back to him. You might defeat such men. You might kill them. But you could never destroy their spirit. If one tenth of that spirit existed behind the walls of Jerusalem, many of those he had fought beside at Gamala would die there. Who knew, perhaps it would be the grave of Gaius Valerius Verrens.

But he had lived too long with death to dwell on the inevitable. It would come in its own time, and no doubt sooner rather than later, but that was in the future. For the moment he revelled in the brotherhood of the men around him. They were the best of men and the worst. Illiterate savages who would rape and plunder and slaughter the unarmed and the helpless without compunction or conscience; who would beat an outsider to a pulp for the slightest hint of an insult. Yet they’d give their last sip of tepid water to a thirsty comrade or hold him in their arms as he took his final breath, weep over his body and pay for his gravestone. They were builders, engineers and craftsmen; artists in stone and wood and metal. Given the order, they would climb any mountain or swim any river. It was a privilege to serve with them and a privilege to lead them. All the doubt he had experienced after Paternus’s warning had been swept away by the terror and exhilaration of battle. When he reached the camp below the heights he saw the scarred tribune watching his arrival along with his servant. He ignored them. Whatever threat they posed, and he was still uncertain if any existed, they couldn’t touch him on the march.

Less dangerous, perhaps, but of more immediate significance, were the reproachful looks from Tabitha and Serpentius as he took his place in the column. He’d found a way to clean his armour of blood and borrowed a clean tunic before they saw him or the looks might have been worse. Part of him wanted to go to them and explain why he’d joined the attack, but he had good reasons not to. If he did face some kind of threat from Paternus, making contact might put Tabitha in danger. And then there was the mystery of her acquaintance with Josephus, which neither of them cared to acknowledge. Serpentius was more straightforward. As a former gladiator he believed that anyone who risked their life without good reason was a fool. Nothing Valerius could say would change that.

However, he wasn’t surprised when the Spaniard appeared at his side an hour after the column set off along the eastern shore of the Galilean sea.

‘That old bastard Albinus tells me you were a hero up there.’ Serpentius kept his eyes on the road, but his voice held a grudging respect. ‘Tell me there was a point.’

‘There was a point.’ A dozen explanations came to mind, but the Roman let them lie.

‘Then we’ll say no more about it.’

They rode on for a few moments before Valerius turned to his companion. ‘Has the famous gladiator turned into a mother hen watching over her chick?’

Serpentius suppressed a grin. ‘Watchful enough to notice that your little knife looks as if it’s had some use. Curious enough to wonder why, given that the shield I packed away had more dents and cuts in it than Paternus’s face.’