Sword of Rome (28 page)

From a clump of trees on the summit they watched an endless column of legionaries pass. Century after century. Cohort after cohort. Ten eight-man sections to each century, six centuries to each cohort, apart from the First cohort, the elite of the legion, which would have eight hundred men: the shock troops who would go where the danger was greatest and the fighting hottest. Thousands of men, perhaps even tens of thousands. They marched south, filling the road as far
as Valerius could see. Their breath steamed in the cold air and their armour shone in the sunlight so that it was like watching a glittering river of soldiers; an utterly disciplined, implacable river. Each unit was followed by its baggage, the food and heavy weapons without which no legion could operate.

‘I saw two eagles,’ Serpentius said. ‘But only about fifteen cohort standards.’

‘Yes,’ Valerius agreed. ‘So a full legion and half of a second.’

‘And their auxiliaries.’

Yes, their auxiliaries, infantry and cavalry. There had been hordes of them, their identity clear in the oval shields they carried and the less disciplined ranks they kept. A small army, but still an army. And that meant Vitellius had been cleverer than anyone had expected. He’d split his forces in two and now they were closing on Italia like a scorpion’s pincers. If one army was blocked by Otho’s legions, the other would crush them like a piece of soft iron between a hammer and an anvil. Should he try to get back and warn the Emperor? The chances of bypassing the troops they had just watched march past were almost hopeless. No. Their only chance was to reach Vitellius and somehow persuade him to call off his dogs.

‘I have brought you here.’ Valtir stood by uncertainly, his eyes flicking to Serpentius.

‘And we thank you for it,’ Valerius assured him, ignoring the Spaniard’s snort of disgust. ‘We had a bargain.’ He reached inside his tunic and took out a small purse. The Celt frowned, but Valerius pressed it on him. ‘What happened happened, but it is in the past. You brought us where you said you would and by the quickest way.’ Still the little man hesitated. ‘If there is a debt to pay, then pay it by your silence.’

Valtir bristled. ‘Valtir is a prince of the Orobii, a man of honour.’ He reached to his belt and Serpentius’s hand went for his sword, but the Celt pulled out the small dagger Valerius had given him. ‘I cannot take this.’ He held out the knife in the palm of his hand.

Valerius kept his own hand by his side. ‘It is a pity to waste a good knife, but if you cannot take it, then give it as a sacrifice to the mountain gods and pray for our safe passage and our safe return. Only
one more thing will I ask of you. When you reach home, send word to the Emperor of what you have seen here.’

Valtir stared at him for a long moment, the narrowed eyes unreadable. Eventually he gave the slightest of nods and went to his pony. He rode off without a backward glance.

Valerius felt Serpentius’s eyes on him. ‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘But this is the way it will be.’

The Spaniard made to spit, then thought better of it. ‘North then?’

‘Yes, north.’ Valtir had assured them that all they had to do was follow the river north and they would eventually come to a trading settlement and another, much greater river, which must be the upper waters of the Rhenus. ‘We’ll keep to the riverbank, and stay clear of the road for the moment.’

‘Slow going.’

Valerius nodded. ‘That might change. We haven’t seen any carts or mule trains, in fact no civilians at all, so it looks as if the road has been closed to anything but military traffic. If it seems clear, we might risk travelling it by dark, but I want to be sure. No point in coming all this way and ending up on a nervous auxiliary’s spear point.’

‘Like thieves in the night.’

The Roman smiled. ‘Is there any other way?’

They waited until the road emptied, soothing the horses, which had become restless in such close proximity to others of their kind, and trying to stop their teeth chattering in the cold that seemed to eat into their bones. The road cut straight as a spear shaft across the flatlands, following the general course of the river. The river, as rivers do, wound its way without any apparent purpose, and its banks alternated between hoof-sucking bog and almost impenetrable brush, dotted by the occasional welcome water meadow. Eventually, their progress was so painfully slow that Valerius decided he had no alternative but to return to the muddy fields that flanked the road or they would never reach their destination.

Serpentius grunted approval. ‘We can bed down by the river at dark.’

They made what distance they could while daylight lasted, and the sun was well down before Valerius pointed the mare towards the river.
By the time they approached it, the brush was a solid barrier and they wandered upstream until they found what seemed to be a reasonably dry spot to bed down. The only drawback was a cloying, sickly-sweet scent that hung in the air around them and filled their throats and nostrils.

‘Mars’ sacred arse,’ Serpentius spat. When he turned to Valerius his eyes were bleak. ‘Nothing we can do tonight.’

The Roman nodded. They both knew well enough what they were smelling.

Valerius woke before dawn, grateful he couldn’t remember his dreams. He stretched, wincing at the sharp pain in his half-healed shoulder and bruised ribs, before wandering towards the river to piss among the bushes. Now the smell seemed worse than in the darkness and they practically had to force down the meagre breakfast Serpentius prepared. Daylight showed them camped south of a great bend in the river. Fighting off a disabling lethargy, the Spaniard found the strength to check the road for signs of activity. When he was certain it was safe they saddled up and made their way towards the source of the stench, cloaked in a terrible sense of foreboding at what they would find.

It was a familiar enough sight in its way. Still, Valerius felt the bile rise in his throat. The bodies carpeted the surface of a great eddy the river had dug from the bank, fish-belly white and bobbing obscenely in a froth of greenish foam. They could only have been dead for a few days, but already the expanding internal gases had bloated their corpses and those floating face up had lost eyes and tongues to the buzzards and crows hungry enough to brave the unstable platform.

Serpentius worked his way down the bank and hauled the nearest body half out of the water; a broad-shouldered giant with long moustaches and foul pink craters for eyes.

‘Tribesmen. Warriors, and they were killed in a fight.’ He pointed to the familiar jagged rip in the man’s stomach where a length of blue-grey intestine hung clear, twisting sinuously in the current like a plump eel. He frowned. ‘They didn’t die in the river. They’ve been stripped of anything of value; weapons, jewellery, everything. That means they
were butchered and then thrown in. Why would anyone do that when they knew they’d be depending on the river for water?’

‘Because they’re sending a message.’ Valerius nodded at the empty fields. ‘That’s why we haven’t seen a farmer or a slave in two days. They’re terrified to come near the river or the road, because that’s the way the man who’s commanding this part of Vitellius’s army wants it.’

The next day and the day after they found more of the army commander’s messages: bodies in the river or littered like dead fish along the banks. But there was worse to come.

A dark stain hung over what little was left of the Helvetii township; not smoke exactly, rather the shimmering aura of disaster. They rode through what had once been a substantial gateway, hoping to find a few buried stores to supplement their dwindling supplies. The moment he smelled the familiar roasted-meat scent Valerius regretted the decision.

‘Bastards.’ There was murder in Serpentius’s voice as he led his horse through what had once been the main square. To one side, in the angle between two houses, congealing blood caked the earth inches thick and the Spaniard picked up a stained wooden doll that had once been a child’s toy. Closer inspection showed that the blood lake was dotted with gobbets of flesh and hanks of blond hair. A sandal formed a small island at the centre and a tiny hand, severed at the wrist, seemed to be attempting to find sanctuary on it. ‘Bastards,’ the gladiator repeated, remembering another torched village and another dead child. He turned to Valerius with murder in his eyes. ‘So this is your Roman peace?’

Every building had been burned, but, at first glance, the job had been poorly executed. It was only when you looked closely that you realized the gently smouldering mounds were not half-burned timbers, but the charred remnants of the former occupants, twisted and blackened, red sinew still showing through cracks in the incinerated flesh, grinning teeth brilliant white in blackened skulls that were the gods’ way of showing the true nature of the human form. Old men, women and children, almost certainly, but it was impossible to be sure.

‘I don’t understand. What we saw was an army marching on Rome. These people would never have dared to oppose them.’

‘No, but their menfolk did.’ Valerius swallowed hard as he surveyed
the destruction and wanton carnage. The combination of rotting bodies and roasting meat filled his throat and made his stomach heave. ‘This is another of his messages. “Anyone who opposes me will be wiped from the map. Man, women and child.”’ He shook his head as the undeniable truth came to him. ‘Strategically, his reasoning is sound. He could not afford to leave an enemy in his rear when he marched south. He doesn’t have the troops to secure his supply lines, so he uses terror in their place. Paulinus did the same in Britain.’

‘A proper bastard.’

‘Have you ever met a general who wasn’t?’ Serpentius met his eyes with a look of puzzlement and Valerius realized why. He shook his head. ‘There’s something wrong here. Vitellius would never sanction this.’

‘He tried to kill us once. And the boy,’ Serpentius pointed out.

‘That was politics.’

‘If he wants to be Emperor there will be worse than this before they open the gates of Rome to him.’

‘I don’t know … it just doesn’t seem right.’

‘I suppose there is only one way to find out.’

They urged their horses north towards the distant mountains of Germania, the Rhenus and Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator.

‘We seek an audience with the Emperor.’

The guard commander ran a jaundiced eye over the ragged figures who staggered wearily up from the wharf on legs that hadn’t touched dry land for a week. A younger man, dark hair slicked across his forehead by the incessant rain that had soaked the cloak and Celtic trews he wore, though he was no Celt. A face that had known life, as the old saying went, tanned and determined, the lines of its owner’s trials carved deep, and the pale shadow of an old scar running across one cheek. Merchants, he claimed, but merchants with nothing to trade who kept their hands hidden beneath their cloaks. And his companion less savoury still. Features more at home with a snarl than a smile, unless he missed his guess, and the hungry, calculating eyes he’d once seen in a caged leopard. Come a yard too close and you’d find your guts in your lap and your head between its jaws.

‘The Emperor is a busy man, as I’m sure you’ve heard.’ The words were meant to dismiss, but Valerius’s heart quickened when he heard them. Ever since they’d boarded the river galley at Augusta Raurica he’d been plagued by a terrible fear that Vitellius had already left Germania to join his army. The guard prefect had confirmed for the
first time that, at the very least, he was still here. Now all they had to do was reach him. ‘It could be a week. It could be a month,’ the man continued. ‘There’s a tavern down by the river, if it hasn’t already been washed away. In the meantime, let’s see your hands and your papers.’

They complied with the order and Valerius heard the familiar hissed intake of breath as he revealed the walnut fist. ‘At least make sure he is given my name.’

The guard stiffened at what wasn’t quite an order, but came close. Normally he’d reward such insolence by kicking the petitioners out on their sorry arses into the mud, but these weren’t normal times. In any case, what harm could it do?

All right. Name?’

‘Publius Sulla.’

‘Publius Sulla?’

A hand shook Valerius’s shoulder and he realized he’d been drowsing after two hours in a room that was little more than a cell and, judging by the heat, must have stood not far from the furnaces supplying the hypocaust system. He opened his eyes to be confronted by a tall, swarthy man with short-cropped hair and a slightly effeminate manner. A half-stifled yawn escaped his lips and the other man frowned and repeated his question, not bothering to hide his irritation.

‘You are Publius Sulla?’

‘Publius Sulla died three years ago in a dirt fort on the Dacian frontier. If the name was carried to Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator, he would know that.’ The slight chink of metal on metal drew his eyes to the doorway. Valerius heard Serpentius move and put out a hand to stay him, his eyes never leaving the armed guard accompanying the courtier who’d woken him. He allowed his voice to harden. ‘If you had given him the additional information that the Publius Sulla who sought an audience had only one hand, he would also have told you that your guards could keep their swords sheathed.’

He recognized the moment the veiled instruction registered. The man’s eyes glittered with suppressed malice, but he turned on his heel and walked out. A few minutes later two guards appeared to escort
Valerius through a warren of corridors to an enormous receiving room gorgeously decorated in purple and gold. Colourful hunting scenes decorated the ceiling, with toga-clad gods watching approvingly from behind puffy white clouds while barely clothed nymphs supplied the hunters with arrows. Painted marble busts of Vitellius’s ancestors stood on fluted pillars at intervals around the walls, each of them matched by a grim-faced and fully armed legionary with his hand on the hilt of his short sword. All this Valerius took in before his attention focused on the heavily cloaked figure lounging on a couch at the far side of the central fire. A puzzled smile flitted across the corpulent features of Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator, would-be Emperor of Rome, ruler of the two Germanias and commander of seven crack legions, the cream of which were currently converging on northern Italia.