Sword of Rome (22 page)

They rode in silence for another mile; then, without a word, Serpentius handed the leading rein of the pack horse to Valerius and turned his own mount round. Valerius watched him go and felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. By now he knew trouble when he saw it. The Spaniard was gone for an hour before he caught up.

‘We should camp by the road tonight. I do not think we have time to make the next town by dark.’

They exchanged glances and Valerius nodded. A few miles further ahead they found an open clearing in an olive grove close to the road. Valerius used flint and iron to light a fire and they cooked a legionary’s supper of porridge and bacon over the meagre flames, washed down with wine, of which Serpentius swallowed more than his fair share. The Spaniard began to talk loudly of their time in Africa and then roared out a legionary marching song of more obscenity than originality, urging Valerius to join in with the chorus. Valerius caught his mood and they sang and talked until the fire burned low. They set their blankets in the shadow of an ancient olive, leaving saddles and pack close to the glowing ashes. It was their second day of pushing hard and Valerius’s rough bed had never been more welcome. He closed his eyes.

When he opened them he took a moment to realize where he was. The ashes were dead, but the cloud-veiled moon provided what might be called light and created a tangle of contorted shape and shade below the olive branches. On the far side of the clearing something moved, something as swift and silent as a hunting leopard. Serpentius? But the Spaniard’s bed was where he had set it, with the shape of a man clearly defined by his blanket. The shadow moved again and now Valerius lost sight of it. His hand went to his sword, but he knew that whoever was hunting him had the advantage. The last thing he would know was the flash of dull iron in the moonlight and the sting of a blade at his
throat. His eyes tried to drill into the night, and in a fleeting patch of lighter gloom there it was, slipping menacingly through the darkness towards him. Even as he watched, a second shadow seemed to sprout from the ground at the feet of the silent attacker. A flurry of movement followed and the two figures merged into one, wrestling and falling to the ground. Valerius rushed towards the struggling mass even as one of the shadows raised an arm ready to plunge his knife into the other. His arm snapped out by pure instinct and the man gave an awful cry as the point of the sword speared into his spine. As he slumped forward Valerius pulled the sword free and stepped back, shaking.

A wiry figure hauled himself free from beneath the shuddering body.

‘How did you know it wasn’t me?’ Serpentius’s voice held no hint of how close to death he’d just come.

Valerius could find no answer. The truth was that he’d reacted without conscious thought. Only the gods would ever know why he had struck. He stood on shaking legs above the man he had killed. Serpentius tossed him a wicked-looking curved dagger that glinted in the dull light.

‘The boy?’ the Roman choked.

‘I must be getting slow,’ Serpentius sighed. ‘At least he was alone. Better this way. He would never have given up: it was in his eyes. He was that kind of man.’

‘We humiliated him. Maybe that was a mistake.’

The veteran gladiator snorted. ‘His mistake. It wasn’t the humiliation or the pain that made him come. It was because he talked. His pride couldn’t bear that.’

Valerius stared down at the handsome young face that was already losing its definition against the bones of the skull. ‘We should bury him.’

Serpentius ignored the remark and wrapped himself in his blanket. ‘He can wait until morning. He isn’t going anywhere.’ When Valerius didn’t move, the Spaniard sat up. ‘Go to sleep, Valerius. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. And don’t waste your time mourning the boy. I have a feeling he won’t be the last corpse we see before we’re done.’

It was still early when they reached the next town. In the middle distance they could see a queue of animals, carts and people at the gates. Valerius drew up his horse and pulled the map of Imperial staging posts from the knapsack tied to his saddle.

‘This must be Parma.’ He frowned. ‘What do you think?’

‘Looks like some sort of checkpoint. They’ll be questioning everybody who enters. Could be a patrol from the Ala Siliana, or maybe the town has declared for Otho and they’re keeping the rebels out. Friend or enemy doesn’t really matter. We don’t want to get involved.’

They turned off to the right, through anonymous nut-brown fields criss-crossed by trackways and drainage ditches, avoiding the rough huts, farmsteads and occasional small villas that dotted the fertile countryside. Valerius studied the landscape around them. Away from the Via Aemilia the country was free of the threat posed by the bigger garrison towns. Politics and war held no sway here, only the all-encompassing, unbreakable cycle of the seasons and the weather. He felt the gait of his mount alter as its hooves pushed into the soft earth and the bitter-sweet scent of the soil filled his nostrils. The very land exuded a kind of eternal peace that he prayed would never be broken by the armies gathering beyond the western and southern horizons. East, too, because by now Otho’s messengers would have reached the
legions in Noricum, Pannonia, Dalmatia and Moesia and it could only be days before they marched to meet the threat from Vitellius’s army.

Serpentius caught his mood. ‘It’s good to be away from the road for a while.’

Valerius smiled. ‘Yes, but don’t be fooled. This tranquillity is deceptive. Somewhere not far from here land just like this was fertilized by the blood and bones of thousands of legionaries who marched north to stop Hannibal’s advance on Rome. They failed, but their sacrifice was not wasted, because the delay and the freezing weather killed off all but one of the Carthaginian war elephants.’

Serpentius made the sign to ward off evil; the nearest he would ever come to showing fear.

Without warning, a hole appeared in the previously unbroken layer of cloud blanketing the sky above them and for a few seconds a shaft of sunlight burst through to turn some hamlet on the far horizon into a glittering jewel. For no reason, an image of two towns they would pass on the way north appeared in Valerius’s head as they had on the map he had studied less than an hour before. Cremona and Placentia had been founded as military camps to protect Italy from the Celtic tribes of what was now Gallia Transpadana, the lands between the Padus and the Alps. It struck him that, along with the river that divided them, they formed a kind of intricate brooch that held the four corners of the Empire together; a Celtic knot that had to be unravelled before any invader could enter the Roman heartland from north, west or east. Vitellius would have to untie that knot if he wanted to secure the purple. Unless Valerius could persuade him to accept Otho’s offer the Rhenus legions would be marching this way, and it was possible that here on this rich plain the future of Rome would be decided. He felt a physical pain at the thought. Was it not enough that they had risked everything to rid the world of Nero? Now Romans must suffer for the greed and ambition of his successors. A kind of hardness developed inside him, as if a stone grew to fill his belly and chest. Gaius Valerius Verrens had never shirked a challenge, but this was his greatest test. He had to succeed, because if he did not war was coming. A war that
would divide friends. A war between brother and brother. The worst kind of war. Civil war.

By the time they sighted Placentia Valerius’s legs chafed against his mount’s flanks and man and beast were weary beyond measure. Even Serpentius rode slumped in the saddle. They had little option but to enter the city, if only to replenish their supplies and seek fresh horses. But the lure of a bed after days of having the cold earth clawing through their blankets and into their bones provided an added incentive. Dusk was falling when they reached the town, which guarded the only crossing point on the Padus for twenty miles and was surrounded by stout walls that showed recent signs of repair. As they made their way to the entrance, Valerius noticed Serpentius cast a sour glance at the city’s amphitheatre, a massive wooden structure that dominated the cluster of streets beyond the original city boundary. The former gladiator had fought for his life in a dozen stadiums like it and his friend reflected that it was no surprise he had little love for such places or the people who frequented them. The heavy wooden gates had already been barred and a decurion stepped sharply from a rough hut in the shadow of the twin towers that flanked them. Four spearmen appeared at his back and raw, suspicious eyes looked the two strangers over. Valerius saw the grip on each spear tighten when the men noticed the Imperial brand on their horses.

‘Your names and your business?’

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, on the road to Mediolanum, and this is my freedman, Serpentius of Avala. We seek a room for the night.’

The decurion had the lined face of a man who’d been forced to make too many tough decisions lately. He studied the Spaniard, taking in whipcord muscles and the menace in the dark eyes. ‘Freedman, eh?’

Valerius shrugged. ‘These are dangerous times. Even a humble trader in wheat and barley needs protection. We are on our way to negotiate a price for the next harvest with the farming commune of Claudius Cornelius, though I fear our timing could be better.’

‘I’ll grant you that,’ the soldier agreed. ‘But still I cannot allow you entry until I know where your loyalty lies.’

‘A trader doesn’t concern himself with politics, only with profit,’
Valerius said airily. ‘But Marcus Salvius Otho was still Emperor when I left Rome, and it is in his name this travel warrant is signed.’ He handed over the paper and the decurion studied it. ‘Will that suffice?’

‘It will suffice here.’ He waved at one of the spearmen to open the gate. ‘But it would have got you in trouble had you used it at Cremona, where we hear loyalties are confused; or in Mediolanum where they have already declared for the false Emperor, Vitellius; aye, and at Novaria, Vercelae and Eporedia, too, may the gods curse them.’

‘Is that how it stands throughout Gallia Transpadana?’

‘A little more or a little less,’ the decurion said thoughtfully. ‘We had a squadron of auxiliary cavalry pass through less than a week ago. Their officer demanded Placentia swear its allegiance to Vitellius and damn the killer of old men, Otho. But the men of Placentia know their duty. The Senate and people of Rome made us; sent six thousand veterans to carve out a home here on the Padus, gave them land and the means to work it.’ His eyes met Valerius’s and challenged him to deny it. ‘They were our forefathers. They, and they who came after, paid the price often enough in blood and fire, but we acknowledge their debt. The Senate and people of Rome proclaimed Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus Emperor and it is Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus who has our oath.’ He stepped back to allow a young family to pass through the gate carrying what looked like their entire possessions on their back. The grizzled features lost a little of their certainty. ‘That officer will have made the same demand of any number of places and more forcefully to the weak than to the strong. Some will have obliged him and meant it, others not – there has been smoke on the horizon where smoke should not be – but most will be like those fornicating bastards in Cremona and pledge their oath to whoever wants it at any given time.’

Valerius thanked him for the information, and enquired his name so he could show his thanks at a happier time. The decurion only grinned. ‘As you say, master merchant, these are dangerous times, and in dangerous times things can come back to cause a man pain, even his name. If it pleases you to suggest an extra wine ration for the first century of the town watch, then that is your business. For your kindness I will venture another. A word of advice. The way north was
safe enough when it was patrolled by loyal auxiliary cavalry, but that is no longer the case. Beyond the river most of the land is still untamed swamp and forest. Out of sight of the road it is the realm of bandits, thieves and escaped gladiators; outcasts who answer to no man and would cut your throat for the price of that patched cloak you wear. Join a larger group if you can, but, if not, be wary.’ He nodded, his advice given. ‘If you want lodgings for the night you could do worse than seek out the Fat Sturgeon. It’s on the far side of the city – the river side – past the street of the silversmiths, but worth the walk if a man likes his wine sweet and bread that won’t break his teeth.’

They led their horses through the gate and into the narrow streets, with their close-ranked tenement blocks and reeking gutters. Thanks to the guard officer’s directions they found the inn and discovered the way station nearby, just outside the walls of the fort that dominated the centre of the town. As they passed the fort’s gate a century of Gaulish auxiliaries marched out, presumably to relieve the guard manning Placentia’s walls. The fort, of a size that would be garrisoned by two cohorts, was sturdily constructed in red brick and confirmed what the man had said: this was a military town, built to withstand invasion and siege. The Gauls were garrison troops and garrison duty had a habit of dulling the senses, but Valerius noticed that these soldiers were hard-eyed and alert and they kept their weapons keen. There were other signs for a man who could read them. Even this late in the day, the streets of the city rang with the clatter of hammer on anvil and the familiar whispering song of a whetstoned sword being given a proper edge. As the two men stabled their horses a cart rumbled past filled with massive boulders. They exchanged glances. Someone had tried to disguise catapult ammunition as building stones, but had not quite succeeded.

‘Looks as if they’re expecting proper trouble,’ Serpentius said.

‘It was like this in Colonia before the rebel queen came calling, but I think they are better prepared.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ The Spaniard spat in the direction of a mangy tan mongrel that had strayed too close, but his hard eyes softened as a young woman hurried by with two small children. ‘I recall that things
didn’t end too well for the people in your Colonia. Maybe we should just change horses and move on. It would be foolish to wake up surrounded by our enemies.’