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  ‘Aelius Aurelius, magister navis,’ the captain introduced himself in a voice that would be useful in a howling gale. His accent marked him as a southerner, as did his looks. Dark, soulful eyes shone from heavy-browed features weathered to the colour of polished teak and his hair was styled in long ringlets. A thick gold ring hung from the lobe of his right ear. ‘My apologies for not welcoming you on board the Golden Cygnet, tribune. But if I take my eyes off these dogs they’ll turn the deck into a latrine.’

  Valerius smiled at the exaggeration. He doubted if a single rope’s end was out of place in this ship. ‘Unless my nose is mistaken your deck smells more like a lady’s bedroom than a latrine, captain. I had expected a less elaborate transport.’

  Aurelius’s laugh sounded like a seal barking. ‘She may look like a fat-bottomed old tart in her imperial livery, but she’s the sweetest sailing ship in the Mare Nostrum and can lie closer to the wind than most. You may thank your fellow passenger for the Emperor’s generosity.’

  The young soldier noticed Valerius’s look of surprise and shook his head. ‘Please don’t think I’m the cause of all this, sir. Tiberius Claudius Crescens, junior tribune, on the way to join General Corbulo’s eastern forces, and may I venture to say that your fame precedes you.’

  Valerius studied him for any hint of mockery. He’d seen the pink-cheeked soldier dart a glance at his sleeve, where the walnut-carved fist replaced his right hand, the only visible scar of his encounter with Boudicca. The boy was what the legionaries called ‘frontier fodder’, one of the young officers Rome sent to the farthest points of her Empire to learn fast or die fast. Tiberius had the plump, earnest face and bright eyes of a teenager, but he must be past twenty and well connected to have been given such a prestigious assignment. Eventually, to the younger man’s relief, Valerius smiled acceptance of the compliment. ‘Then who is responsible for our good fortune?’

  His question was answered by a commotion on the far side of the harbour which alerted them to the arrival of a four-wheeled carriage escorted by a detachment of German auxiliary cavalry. The coach clattered over the cobbles and drew to a halt by the foremost gangplank.

  ‘About time,’ the Golden Cygnet ’s master grumbled. ‘I’d have preferred to wait until the next grain convoy east, but my sailing orders were specific. The only consolation is that we’ll have a pair of galleys from the base at Misenum to keep us safe from any sea scum as far as Creta. The gods be thanked that she sent her baggage in advance. Still, we should make Neapolis by nightfall. Say a prayer to Poseidon and we’ll be in Seleucia Pieria in twelve days.’ He let out a roar. ‘Ready the sails!’

  The ship burst into life around them and Valerius watched as a slim figure in a blue veil dismounted from the coach and swept up the gangway accompanied by a pair of dark slave girls. The little procession was followed by another, older woman, and finally four of the cavalry escort relinquished their mounts and marched towards the ship. Tiberius Crescens laughed.

  ‘I almost forgot. I’m supposed to take command of her guard.’ He rushed for the top of the gangway, grinning over his shoulder. ‘The lady Domitia Longina Corbulo, the general’s daughter. It should certainly make the voyage interesting.’

  III

  With a favourable wind and light seas the Cygnet made good time on the first leg of her journey south, and as her captain had predicted she set anchor off Neapolis as dusk fell. There was just enough soft roseate light to show the bay in all its glory: the familiar sweeping curve of low grey cliff and white sand, washed by a gentle sea the colour of aged Niger wine. Above it, the rustic cloak of grey and green that garbed the great mountain which dominated the city shone gold in the dying embers of the day.

  Valerius was relieved that he’d seen little of his fellow passengers during the sedate, timeless run down the coast from Ostia. The guilt he felt over his unwanted mission was more than enough without being confronted by Corbulo’s daughter to remind him of it. He had spent his time trying to discover some kind of escape, but without success. For the moment, all he could do was carry on and make his decision when the moment came.

  Makeshift accommodation had been created in the bow for Domitia and her women, and they’d stayed there all day, behind screens, amid rumours that the lady and her entourage were stricken by the usual first-time sailor’s malady. Seasickness had never bothered Valerius and the same was obviously true for Tiberius Crescens, who had divided his time between his duties as guard commander and badgering his superior for stories of the British war. Valerius had told the tale a thousand times and had perfected a version that played down his own part in the defence of Colonia and gave credit to the real heroes: men like Falco, veteran centurion of the Twentieth legion and commander of the Colonia militia; brave Lunaris, who had stood at his side through the dark days of the temple; and the legionaries, Gracilis and Messor, who had given their lives so that he could fight on.

  ‘So all you did was stand back and direct the battle?’ The younger man didn’t try to hide his doubt.

  ‘That is what a commander must do,’ Valerius said airily. ‘As I am sure you will find out one day.’

  Tiberius preened at the flattery, but he refused to be discouraged. ‘Yet the Emperor awarded you the Corona Aurea, the Gold Crown of Valour?’

  Valerius shrugged. ‘Colonia was a disaster, but just one of many. When the last battle was won and Boudicca dead, the governor of Britain needed a hero — a live hero. As the only Roman survivor of the Temple of Claudius he had little choice but to honour me.’

  Tiberius had stared out over the sea as it flowed beneath the wooden keel, endless and anonymous, barely rippling in the light breeze that carried them southwards. The land was just a faint presence on the far horizon. ‘And the barbarians took your hand. I think I would rather die than not be able to hold a sword again.’

  If the words hadn’t been spoken so innocently — a little boy musing on whether the moon might be made of cheese — Valerius would have been tempted to throw the young man over the side. But Tiberius probably couldn’t swim, and since he’d just come off duty his buoyancy was unlikely to be helped by the plate armour that covered his chest and shoulders. He sighed.

  ‘We’ll see how well I can hold a sword tomorrow, tribune. Exercise for you and your men at dawn. I’m sure they will have some wooden practice swords and a couple of shields aboard that we can borrow.’

  Tiberius turned and saluted. Was there just the hint of mischief in his eye? ‘Of course, sir. I will arrange it. Tomorrow at dawn. Exercise with sword and shield, sir.’

  By the time Valerius woke, the Golden Cygnet was well under way and the sun came up between two hills on the eastern horizon, creating a spectacular bridge of light between ship and land. He took a deep breath of invigorating sea air and tasted the salt on his lips. Serpentius had already risen from his place on the deck, and the distinctive clash of two wooden swords, followed instantly by the boom of a blade against one of the big curved scutum shields, reminded Valerius how he had planned to start the day. His first action, as it was every morning, was to oil the mottled purple stump of his right arm and fit the wooden hand on its thick cowhide socket over the end. With his teeth and the fingers of his left hand, made nimble by habit, he tightened and knotted the leather bindings. The arm had been chopped off four inches above the wrist by a Celtic battle sword and the replacement was designed to exactly match the length of the original. Satisfied, he wrapped a short kilt round his waist and set out along the deck towards the small group of men gathered just behind the bow.

  As he approached, Serpentius, tall and leopard lean, walked past and whispered: ‘Beware of the puppy.’

  Valerius raised an eyebrow and the Spaniard grinned, taking his seat on a coiled pile of rope. Tiberius looked relaxed as he stood among his men, dressed in a short white tunic.

  ‘My apologies for keeping you and your men waiting, tribune.’ Valerius took in the glances at the carved walnut fist, which, as always, ranged between
amusement and contempt, either of which was better than pity.

  ‘No apologies required, sir.’ Tiberius smiled. ‘We were eager to get started, and put on an exhibition of basic swordplay for your slave. He seemed most interested. Perhaps you should have him trained? He has the build for it and a slave who can fight might save your life one day.’

  Valerius somehow kept his face straight. ‘I will think on it, Tiberius, but a slave with a blade seems quite wrong. The Spanish rogue is as likely to slit my throat as protect me.’

  A big, curve-edged shield of raw wood lay against the bowsprit and Valerius pushed his arm through the leather strap and fitted the walnut fist, which had been carved specifically to take a standard scutum, to the grip. One of the cavalrymen handed him a practice sword cut from seasoned oak and he weighed it in his left hand. It was the same length and design as the basic legionary gladius, but almost twice as heavy. It had no edge and a blunt point, but in the right hands it could still be dangerous. ‘All right, who’s first?’

  The German cavalrymen eyed him warily, taking in the hard eyes and sharp-edged, angular features of a face that wore its trials like a badge of honour. One-handed or not, the scars he bore were evidence they faced a veteran fighter. Valerius had always been powerfully built, but daily practice with Serpentius had broadened his shoulders and toughened his arms and legs. The former gladiator had taught him the merits of speed and footwork as well as a useful assortment of dirty tricks from the arena. He looked confident because he was. He chose the most likely of the four. ‘You.’

  ‘Sir!’ The man saluted and faced up to him three paces away on the wooden deck, crouching with his shield in his left hand and the sword in his right. His first moves were tentative because he had never faced a left-handed man. Valerius allowed him to take the initiative, meeting each attack as it came and leaving it until late to counter. Gradually, the cavalryman gained confidence and his attacks were launched with more venom. Valerius let him work up a sweat before calling a halt and ordering the next man forward. There was nothing to be gained by humiliating the soldier; bad feeling in the cramped confines of a ship, even one the size of the Golden Cygnet, would only fester and spread.

  The bouts proved what he had expected. The gladius was an infantry-man’s weapon, designed to be used in a shield line. Double-edged, and with a needle-sharp triangular point, it was a highly efficient, deadly weapon in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. In battle, each legionary braced his shield against the man on his right and, once they were in contact with the enemy, rammed the shield forward to create a narrow gap through which the point of his gladius could dart into an opponent’s abdomen. They were taught never to inflict a wound more than three inches deep, but when combined with the classic ripping, twisting withdrawal such injuries were invariably fatal. Valerius had seen a legionary cohort cut down a force of attacking tribesmen twice their number, like farmers harvesting a field of corn.

  These men were cavalry troopers, more used to wielding the longer and heavier spatha from the saddle. The spatha was a fearsome killer in the hands of a man who knew how to use it, but the technique, basically hacking and bludgeoning an opponent’s head and neck, was entirely different from the gladius — wielder’s. It meant the men were slow and awkward on their feet, lacked any feel for the sword and held the shield as if it was an encumbrance and not a weapon of both attack and defence. He resolved to repeat the exercise every morning, so that when they left the ship they were better equipped for battle than when they boarded. He felt an unaccustomed surge of joy overwhelm the melancholy that had settled over him since he’d left Fidenae. He was a soldier again.

  ‘I suppose I must be next?’ Tiberius smiled absently as he untied his tunic and pulled it over his head.

  For some reason Valerius felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was exactly the feeling he’d had when he’d led patrols among the innocent woods and harmless rolling hills of southern Britain, right up to the moment the innocent woods had turned out not to be so innocent and the rolling hills had spewed out fifty blood-crazed Celtic champions.

  IV

  Beware of the puppy. Tiberius Crescens might have the face of a benign cherub and the bumbling awkwardness of a fledgling philosopher, but when he stripped to his loincloth Valerius immediately recognized what Serpentius had known by sheer instinct. He was facing a warrior. The young tribune had the stocky, muscular physique of a professional athlete and short, solid legs, but he balanced on his feet like a dancer. The boyish features were like the velvet glove that covered a boxer’s brass knuckles: the disguise that made you underestimate the danger beneath. There was something else, too, a fierce concentration in the eyes and a tension in the body that reminded Valerius of a bear trap ready to snap shut. The last time he’d seen the combination was at the gladiator school in Rome where he’d found the Spaniard. All that was missing was hate.

  Tiberius picked up a shield and moved into position, the wooden gladius steady in his right hand. At first Valerius wondered why the boy had revealed his true self. Why not maintain the disguise and take his opponent by surprise? A hint of a smile flickered on the younger man’s face and gave Valerius his answer. It wasn’t, as he’d half suspected, arrogance or conceit: quite the opposite. Tiberius wanted him to know, because, above all, Tiberius wanted his respect. A fair contest between the unblooded boy and the seasoned Hero of Rome. No subterfuge. No tricks. Just warrior against warrior. Valerius felt a rush of energy as he realized he could be in the fight of his life.

  Battle madness they called it, but there were different kinds of battle madness. He had seen British warriors drunk on blood charge into a wall of shields and try to tear out Roman throats with their teeth. He had felt it himself, in the final moments in the Temple of Claudius when the great double doors had smashed open in an explosion of fire and smoke. And there was the mechanical madness of the fighting machine that was the Roman legion, as it killed and killed again until there was nothing left to kill on the slope where Boudicca had fought her last battle. This was the white heat of war, when a man lost his mind and rose above the field of blood on a red-eyed wave of Elysian rapture.

  Then there was the kind of madness Valerius needed now. The cold, detached madness of the true killer. A man had to seek this madness within. It took a different kind of courage to allow some inner power to rule heart and mind and body. To let speed and power and instinct be dictated by a force beyond understanding or design. Valerius never took his eyes off his opponent’s and he saw the moment Tiberius found what he sought. He allowed his mind to clear and his body to empty of emotion. It was like being inside a flawless diamond. The coldness started at the centre before expanding to fill him from head to toe.

  ‘Fight.’

  To the watchers, the early movements were less a battle than a courtship. A gentle collision of sword and shield. A ritual coming and going of bare feet on boards now hot from the morning sun. A seeking without finding. Probe and counter probe. Stroke and counter stroke.

  In the cold core of his mind Valerius understood that Tiberius had watched and analysed every action of the earlier bouts, and from that briefest of scrutinies had formed a greater understanding of a left-handed fighter’s strengths and weaknesses than any other man he had faced. But Valerius was a left-handed fighter and he knew what Tiberius had only seen. Each attack came from the angle he expected. When the young tribune’s deft feet carried him to an impossible position of strength, Valerius was there to meet the blow before it began to fall. A moment of comedy, with each man so attuned to the other’s movement that they appeared to be dancing.

  Slowly, the tempo increased as they found each other’s measure. Sword against sword, shield against shield. Feinting right and left, up and down, always seeking that elusive opening. The cavalrymen gasped at the speed of the attacks and even Serpentius’s face wore a puzzled frown. By now the sweat was coursing over Valerius’s eyes, but his unconscious mind saw beyond it. Tiberius was like a wr
aith in the distance. Where the spectators saw a halo of blurred movement, Valerius experienced everything as if the two men were fighting under water. It was as though he could read his opponent’s every thought and intention, prepare for each attack and have the time to choose the exact manoeuvre that would nullify it. He wasn’t aware of effort or tiredness or pain. He was what he was. Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome.

  A blade’s length away, Tiberius barely noted his opponent’s existence. He recognized the sweat-slick, muscled figure with the sword-scarred face only as a machine that countered his every move. Make one attack and three came back in reply. Find an opening and the body that had invited the sword was gone before the point could reach it. At times it was as if he was fighting two men. By now he understood they were equal in strength and speed and stamina. Their ability with the weapons matched as if they had emerged from the same womb. Still he knew that he would win, because this was what he had been born for.

  The rattle of oak upon oak was a never-ending roll of thunder. The speed, which for ordinary men would have been impossible to maintain for a few minutes, had been kept up for more than fifteen. And still the swords flew and the noise grew to a climax. It could not last. Surely one of them had to give? No man was capable of sustaining such a tempo.

  A snapping crash. A fracture in the rhythm. A scream of victory.

  ‘No!’

  Valerius felt an iron grip on his sword arm. His eyes focused on Serpentius standing beside him. Tiberius lay on his back with the splintered remains of his sword in his hand and the point of Valerius’s wooden gladius an inch from his right eye. He was still smiling.