Sword of Rome (35 page)

‘How long to Lugdunum?’

‘Another day’s sailing. The smoke you see is from Cabillonum. Lugdunum is fifty miles downstream, where the Sauconna joins the Rhodanus. The Sauconna is wider and deeper than the Doubus we’ve just left, but still tricky to navigate in places. Normally, I would berth here and transfer you to another galley, but my orders are to take you as far as you wish to go. The little scorpion seemed happy to be rid of you on any terms.’

Valerius smiled at the nickname, so appropriate for the touchy bureaucrat at Vesontio. ‘In that case you will not mind if I ask you
to take us as far south as Vienne, or even Valentia?’ The sailor’s eyes widened a fraction, but he hid his surprise well. ‘It depends where we can most easily replace our horses,’ Valerius went on. ‘And on the best way to catch up with General Valens.’

‘In that case, Valentia,’ Marcellus said decisively. ‘Our transports have been carrying remounts there for weeks.’ A shadow fell over the cheerful, pink-cheeked features. ‘Even now the general must be preparing to cross into Italia.’

Valerius allowed a sympathetic smile to touch his lips. ‘These are troubled times,’ he said evenly. ‘But a man cannot serve two masters.’ It was a statement, but a statement that contained a question and Marcellus eyed him warily.

‘My only master is the governor of Gallia Lugdunensis … but I have no wish to see Roman fighting Roman.’

Valerius clapped him on the shoulder. ‘A good answer, Marcellus. You may even keep your head until this madness is over.’

As he moved away, Valerius’s cloak slipped aside and he saw the young man dart a glance at his right arm. The mottled stump identified him as surely as any slave brand and he had been careful to keep it hidden during the voyage. Annoyed with himself, he turned back so his face was close to the younger man’s and he kept his voice low and filled with menace.

‘Best to forget you ever saw that, boy. There’s nothing but grief for you there.’

Valens’ main force had used the right bank of the river as their line of march and from time to time the
Pride of Sauconna
would pass piles of charred timbers that had once been a town or a village, often with figures rooting among the ashes for the burned remnants of their lives. All too often there would be a mound of newly dug earth that spoke eloquently of whatever minor tragedy had been enacted there. Once they reached the Rhodanus at Lugdunum that changed. Marcellus explained that the elders of the city had been the first to recognize Vitellius and had welcomed Valens like a conquering hero.

‘He entered the city to a triumph worthy of an Emperor,’ the sailor
said. ‘They opened up the storerooms and the treasury and bade him take what he wished. It may be different when we reach Vienne, where people are less enthusiastic about our new Emperor, but possibly not. Two weeks ago bloated corpses were a more common sight on this river than ducks. The Viennese will be aware of the price they would pay if they attempted to delay the army of Vitellius.’

Every mile south brought a small, but welcome, warming of the air and the mood among Valerius’s men became almost festive as they realized how close they were to home and relative safety. A few miles downriver from Vienne, with Valentia less than half a day away, he drew Metto aside.

‘We are still in hostile territory and the closer we get to the Vitellian army the more hostile it will get. In a few days it will be different, but for the moment the only way we’ll all stay alive is to act like surly, incommunicative Batavian barbarians. Make sure your men know that. I don’t intend to get killed because some idiot from the fifth rank thinks he’s on furlough, and the first one who forgets that will find the point of Serpentius’s dagger in his ear.’

‘I’ll make sure the men understand,’ the big centurion growled. ‘My arse is as valuable to me as yours is to you, tribune, and you won’t need your Spanish assassin to put the fear of death into them. I’ll take care of that myself.’

The next morning they woke to find Valentia looming over the river from a hillside on the east bank and Marcellus brought them into the quay with barely a bump. Valerius thanked the young sailor and wished he had some kind of compensation for the crew.

‘I will buy them a flagon of wine in the nearest tavern and they will be happy enough,’ Marcellus said soberly. He looked out over the river. ‘A strange journey for strange times, but at least the chill is seeping from my bones. Edging your way up and down the Doubus day after day can be wearing, and the cold wind from the east gives a man aches that make him old before his time. I will not shake your hand, but you need not fear I will broadcast its lack. Though I do not know your name, I sense an honest man behind that fierce mask you wear and I wish you well in your mission, whatever it is.’ The last was said with a
twinkle that told Valerius his subterfuge was not as subtle as he thought it had been. Marcellus grinned at the look of consternation and saluted farewell.

Valerius, Serpentius and Metto installed the legionaries in a secluded square behind the market with instructions to keep their mouths shut and set off to find the cavalry headquarters. Valerius had no illusions that it would be easy. This would be no bored functionary like Nepos who could be bullied into doing what he wanted. They were in a war zone now, and in a war zone men tended to be wary and suspicious. As it turned out, though, he was wrong. The prefect in charge of remounts was a harassed fat man fit only for garrison duty. His red face and hoarse breathing hinted at an early seizure and he was having to deal with twenty similar requests an hour. With a single glance at Valerius’s warrant, he gasped an order to an equally stressed clerk, and Valerius walked out with a docket for saddlery and cavalry horses for eight men. He sent Metto off to search out supplies for the journey, while he and Serpentius located the horses.

‘Have you noticed that we’re as popular around here as a turd in a fruit bowl?’ Serpentius asked quietly as they walked across the town forum.

Valerius didn’t reply immediately. He too had noticed the angry stares and muttered insults from the off-duty soldiers they passed. At first he’d feared that Claudius Victor had somehow got word to Valentia, but gradually he realized the loathing wasn’t aimed at them in particular, but Batavian auxiliaries in general. He studied his companion and laughed as he realized they probably looked more dangerous than the troopers whose disguise they’d taken on. Serpentius’s cloak looked as if the wolf it had come from had been dead for a month before he skinned it, and smelled as bad. The plaid
bracae
he wore were ripped at the knees and the arse. His helmet was ill-fitting and rusty and beneath it the menace of the savage eyes and rat-trap mouth was magnified by a week’s growth of stubbled beard that covered his upper lip and lower jaw. ‘It seems Vitellius’s legions and their provincial allies aren’t on friendly terms. Remember what Metto said about the auxiliaries at Moguntiacum? Give the Batavians a battle to fight and they’re happy,
but they’re proud and arrogant and they’ve never been that fond of us. They’ve come back from Britannia to find legionaries having their way with their women and robbing their villages blind. If they didn’t like each other at the start of the march, who’s to say what the relationship is like now? A civil war isn’t like a war against barbarians. For most of his march, Valens has been in the lands of tribes who support Vitellius, or at least won’t oppose him. That means little fighting and less loot. The Batavians won’t have liked that. Maybe they’ve been doing a little raiding on their own. That could help us. The more chaos the better. Claudius Victor is a day or so behind. That should be enough of a breathing space to get through to Otho’s lines.’

‘Maybe so,’ the Spaniard spat. ‘But I don’t like the feel of this place. The sooner we’re out of here, the happier I’ll be.’

Valerius agreed, and when they’d gathered up the men and horses they left Valentia by the east gate, towards a land that would soon be filled with the stink of blood and death and war.

The men shivered around the meagre campfire Valerius had allowed in the damp gully that was their refuge. Refuge, not camp. A place to hide from enemies who by now would be sharpening their blades in anticipation of a painful and hideous revenge for the deaths of their comrades.

A dark shape appeared from the shadows and seven hands dropped to their swords in alarm.

‘Like a cork in a wineskin.’ Serpentius shook the rain from his cloak. ‘A camp or a patrol guarding every road and no way past that I could find.’

Valerius cursed under his breath. Things had gone so well for the first three days after they’d left Valentia. They had followed the trail of Valens’ army through the mountains from marching camp to marching camp, staying just far enough back to avoid his rearguard. But on the fourth day they found themselves almost colliding with his baggage train and Valerius had been forced to waste precious hours in hiding, waiting for the invasion force to reach open country where there would be ample space to bypass them. But it seemed Valens was in no hurry to reach the plains, because he had halted his army in the mountains west of Augusta Taurinorum, where the hills opened out on to the flatlands of northern Italia.

‘Why is he holding back?’ Valerius directed the question at Serpentius and Metto, but he knew there were a hundred possible answers. Perhaps some kind of negotiation had begun between Otho and Vitellius and they’d agreed to halt their forces until it was complete. Maybe, somewhere beyond the hills, Otho had put together an army that had bottled Valens up in the passes. Or Caecina could be stuck in the Alps and his rival was wary of taking on Otho’s forces alone. He felt the eyes of the others on him and knew the reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were looking for a decision from their leader because they knew that Claudius Victor and his skinning knife were somewhere close. Very well. ‘There is no other option. We have to go back.’ He heard a sharp intake of breath and sensed the men’s dismay at the prospect of retracing their steps through the narrow, steep-sided valleys where they might meet Victor’s Batavians round every corner. ‘We’ll find a way south and another route home.’

‘That could take weeks.’ The challenge came from Fuscus, one of the legionaries. It had to be Fuscus, who had moaned and whined all the way from Moguntiacum. Fuscus who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. ‘Maybe we should split up and try to get through in pairs?’

‘In Batavian breeches and cloaks?’ The gully rang with a sharp crack as Metto slapped his comrade on the back of the head. ‘Without a pass or today’s watchword? We wouldn’t last beyond the second hour. And then it would be the axe or the fire, maybe even the cross for traitors like us.’ The other legionaries growled at the hated word, but Metto was unrepentant. ‘Aye, curse you may, but that’s what we are as far as those men out there are concerned. Traitors deserving of a traitor’s death.’

‘Maybe we should turn ourselves in,’ Fuscus persisted, rising to his feet. He pointed at Valerius. ‘If we handed him over we might even get a reward. They’d pay well for one of Otho’s spies …’ His voice tailed off with a curious hissing sound like an angry snake. Or a man who’d just had a long knife pushed very deliberately between his ribs and into his heart.

Serpentius pulled the blade free and allowed the legionary’s body to drop to the earth. ‘Only one step from saying it to doing it,’ the
Spaniard said cheerfully, wiping the blade on Fuscus’s cloak. ‘Anyone else have any ideas they’d like to share?’

Valerius had been as surprised as any of them by Serpentius’s swift response to Fuscus’s revolt, but he dared not show it. With barely a glance at the dead man, he met the remaining legionaries’ eyes one by one. When he reached Metto, the centurion gave him an almost imperceptible nod that confirmed he still had them. He’d been fortunate that Fuscus was a fool, and a fool who had made himself unpopular at that. If it had been one of the others, the outcome might have been different.

They doused the fire and readied themselves in the darkness. Valerius knew they had to get as far from Valens’ army as they could before daylight, but there was another, greater danger to be considered. Claudius Victor was out there somewhere and he would know he had his prey in a trap. They travelled through the hills in single file with every man thanking the gods for the lack of a moon and the pitch black night that hid them from their enemies. Serpentius was mountain born and mountain bred, and he could move in the dark as easily as in the day. With barely a pause, he took them westwards where he had identified a valley that led south and would, in time, hopefully bring them to the plain and Italia. Despite the Spaniard’s lead, the men were wary and progress was necessarily slow. Valerius hid his frustration. He knew every moment of delay put his mission at greater risk and might cost thousands of lives. Otho would be aware of his enemy’s dispositions by now, but Valerius had learned much that could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

When they reached the valley mouth, Serpentius halted the little column and made his way back to where Valerius waited. ‘Something doesn’t smell right.’

‘Take Metto.’ But his words were wasted. Serpentius was already gone.

They waited for what seemed like an eternity, the horses moving restlessly, but cavalry-trained to stay silent. Valerius strained his ears until they hurt and his eyes searched the darkness until every variation of shade seemed to move and threaten. Eventually, he could take no
more and lifted his heels to push his horse into motion. ‘Only one.’ The whisper almost stopped his heart as Serpentius threw a wolfskin cloak across his saddle. The Roman shivered. Mars’ arse, he must be getting old. He hadn’t had the slightest notion of the former gladiator’s return until the weight of the cloak fell on his knees.

They were three more days in the mountains, eking out their rations and watering their horses in the streams that cut every valley. Serpentius had buried the Batavian whose wolfskin cloak now acted as Valerius’s saddle cloth, but they knew the fact that the man was missing would be as good as a signpost to Claudius Victor. Valerius could almost feel the Batavian’s warm breath on his neck.