[Gaius Valerius Verrens 05] - Enemy of Rome Page 7

  But the arrow storm was erratic, like a summer shower that came, and went, then came again, with no apparent rhythm. Experience told him there were not enough of the archers to keep the legionaries occupied indefinitely. Soon, he would have to throw his dismounted cavalrymen at the veterans across the way after all. Because, at last, he detected movement at the far side of the bridge. If he didn’t push the two Vitellian lines backwards on to the wooden decked pontoons, the force facing them would be reinforced by another full cohort.

  The arrow shower ceased and he opened his mouth to give the order to charge.

  ‘Wait.’

  Valerius froze at the harsh voice in his ear. ‘Where—’

  ‘Just wait.’ Serpentius nodded towards the legionary line. Valerius watched with growing unease as the two ranks resumed their steady approach untroubled by the occasional arrow that thudded into their shields.

  It had to be now. He tensed to give the order, but the Spaniard placed a hand on his arm. A heartbeat later he heard a hissing flutter of disturbed air followed by a sound like hail rattling on a tile roof. Hundreds of arrows arched into the legionary ranks from both flanks, seeking out throat and eye and groin and any gaps in armour. Valerius saw the centurion stagger, an arrow through his calf, but the man retained the presence of mind to give the order to form testudo. Harassed by three hundred Thracian archers Valerius had thought to hold in reserve, the survivors formed a carapace of shields and retreated steadily towards the bridge, leaving their dead lying in crumpled heaps.

  With a last glare at his enemy, the wounded centurion shook his head in weary frustration and joined the testudo as it edged backwards. Valerius watched, relieved to see them go, then tensed as the formation halted.

  ‘What are those bastards up to?’

  Still flayed by the arrow storm, the testudo had stopped a few paces on to the makeshift bridge. Moments later they heard the sound of axes.

  ‘Making sure we can’t follow them.’ Serpentius sounded almost admiring.

  With a convulsive lurch the ropes holding the bridge parted and the entire structure swung downstream as if on a hinge, drawn round and bucking like a maddened horse in the strong current. Valerius heard a cry of terror as a legionary was pitched from the wooden boards to disappear with a splash into the dark waters, doomed by the armour that had saved his life moments earlier. Others were flung into the river when the bridge smashed against the far bank, dislodging boards along its length. Some of the men escaped to stumble into the shallows, but far fewer than had mounted the fragile structure. A half-hearted cheer went up from the German auxiliaries but most only stared. A man could kill another man on the battlefield and take satisfaction in his death; watching a brave man drown was different. Valerius prayed the enemy centurion still lived. Staring death in the face all he’d wanted to do was kill and kill again, but standing here with a gore-stained sword and a mouth so dry it hurt to swallow he felt all the emotion drain from him. These were Romans they were killing, brave Roman soldiers. The only difference was the men behind the First Germanica’s shields chose to fight for an Emperor not worthy of the purple. He shook his head. Was that really true? Aulus Vitellius had a deserved reputation for sloth and greed, but Valerius remembered a mind as sharp as any philosopher’s, a conscience he tried to keep hidden, and a heart as big as his gargantuan belly. Vespasian might be a fine general and the father of his friend Titus, but he’d cheerfully climbed the social ladder over the bodies of former friends – would he be any better? Yet Vitellius had tried to have Valerius killed, and after the defeat at Bedriacum and the horrors that followed there’d been no option but to join Vespasian. Only Vespasian’s forces could carry him to Rome. And to Domitia Longina Corbulo.

  Octavius appeared at his shoulder. ‘A messenger just arrived from Patavium. Seventh Galbiana and Thirteenth Gallica joined Varus there last night, and General Primus has ordered them to march on Verona. You were right to fight here. If Vitellius’s legions had been able to cross the Athesis they could have taken our people in the flank and destroyed them.’ Valerius nodded absently, barely taking in the information. ‘What now?’ the German asked.

  The Roman hesitated. ‘Leave a strong screen of archers in case they try again. We’ll bury the dead and take care of the wounded before we return to Patavium. The enemy dead too.’ He felt the German stiffen. Many of Otho’s casualties at Bedriacum had been mutilated after death and for all Valerius knew they still lay on the field where they fell. Octavius knew it too and he would have let the dead legionaries rot. Valerius couldn’t explain his decision. He only knew that he must do what was right. Eventually the German strode away with a shrug, shouting orders to his surviving troops. Swaying on legs that would barely hold him, Valerius shaded his eyes and looked up at the sun.

  ‘Less than an hour since dawn,’ Serpentius confirmed. He laughed, short and bitter. ‘I must be getting old. It feels as if it should be noon.’

  They waited a moment longer, staring out over the surging waters. A few of the enemy legionaries had formed a human chain to try to rescue a comrade still floundering in the margins between the shallows and the deeper water. As they watched, the last man in the chain stretched out a despairing hand that must have been agonizingly close. Valerius willed him to succeed with a passion that surprised him, but the drowning soldier lifted an arm in what might have been a final farewell and slid from sight. The rescuers trudged back to the bank with their heads bowed and a few moments later the remains of the bridge parted from the far bank and floated away downriver. Within a few heartbeats it, and the men who had fallen from it, might never have existed.

  IX

  ‘They tell me you did well, Verrens.’ The legate’s voice contained a hint of puzzlement as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. Marcus Antonius Primus’s nose twitched as he studied the tall figure who still stank of the alluvial mud clinging to his uniform and armour. Even the perfumed oil lamps that lit the dining room of the opulent villa didn’t dispel the lingering scent of death. From an adjoining room, Valerius heard the soft murmur of the general’s aides as they worked on the next phase of the campaign.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ He hid his surprise at the warmth of the welcome. But he had enough experience of the other man’s moods to know that a little praise didn’t make them friends.

  ‘You took a risk.’ Primus nodded. ‘But it was justified. If Caecina had crossed the Athesis in any force it would have placed us at a grave disadvantage.’ The patrician frowned as he imagined the enemy’s nine or ten legions formed up in their ranks on the flatlands between Patavium and the river. As it was, Gaius Valerius Verrens had presented him with the initiative and an opportunity. He turned to the map of northern Italia which was always near to hand. ‘Instead, I am in a position where audacity and enterprise may win what caution would put at risk.’ He hunched his shoulders and Valerius imagined a great weight bearing down on the figure brooding over the map. Only at that moment did he truly realize how much Primus had invested in this campaign.

  ‘You mentioned Caecina, General. Not Valens, then?’

  Primus looked up from beneath heavy brows, his dark hair flopping over a broad forehead creased with worry lines. ‘We have received information from … sources … close to the enemy camp.’ He didn’t mention the letter which had accompanied the information. He’d yet to decide whether it was genuine or not – and if it was, whether the contents were to be trusted. ‘Fabius Valens remains in Rome with the Emperor, sick or exhausted, our informant cannot decide which. Aulus Caecina Alienus is moving north to concentrate at Hostilia, on the Padus, a five-day march from Cremona. He commands four full legions, substantial cohort elements from three more and he has called the two British detachments south to join them. Only Fifth Alaudae and Twenty-first Rapax remain at Cremona, and three thousand men of the Ninth to hold Placentia.’

  Curiosity drew Valerius to his commander’s side. He traced the snaking line of the Padus east from Cremona until he f
ound the tiny dot on the map that represented Hostilia. Primus saw his puzzlement. ‘It is an insignificant place,’ he agreed. ‘A stopping place on the Via Claudia Augusta, nothing more.’

  ‘This movement would make sense if he still held the crossing of the Athesis, but we are aware of his plan.’ Valerius met his commander’s gaze and shook his head. ‘He can’t ferry his legions over the river now for fear that we’ll fall on them when they’re divided. As it is, Hostilia has no strategic value. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Unless he believes I am foolish enough to attack him with a weaker force?’ Primus mused. ‘That proposition might be attractive once we’ve been joined by Seventh Claudia and the Moesian legions.’

  ‘If he stays where he is,’ Valerius pointed out, ‘he threatens Venetia and the eastern route that General Mucianus must take to join you. Perhaps,’ he said warily, ‘the Emperor-elect is right to urge caution.’

  To his surprise, rather than exploding in rage, Primus laughed out loud; true, incredulity was mixed with the humour, but the laugh was genuine enough. ‘By the gods, Verrens you do like to dangle your eggs over the fire. You urge restraint on me three days after you almost had your arse roasted using dismounted cavalrymen to take on a crack legionary cohort. If I didn’t loathe your poxed lawyerly flesh, I might get to like you. You think I don’t know the game you’re playing?’ The patrician face flushed red and it had nothing to do with the wine he was drinking. ‘Keep him on the leash, that fornicating little mummy’s boy Titus told you. Well, Marcus Antonius Primus doesn’t react well to the leash. I was tempted to arrange a nasty accident for you, but I’m glad I didn’t. You see, boy, you may think me a bully and a cheat who likes long odds and short races, but you’re not the only one who’s served. I’m soldier enough to respect courage and loyalty – even in a man who has done me a disservice – cleverness, too, although many would say that’s not something to encourage in a military man. The way you used the ditches to get close enough to the fort to surprise the defenders. Then letting that cohort of the First think they were going to slaughter you so that they opened up to the archers on the flanks. A ruse worthy of Caesar himself.’

  ‘I was responsible for neither,’ Valerius said. ‘The first was the suggestion of my freedman. The second was his way of stopping me getting myself killed.’

  ‘So I understand.’ Primus laughed. ‘I’ve already had a complaint from the prefect of the Thracian cavalry demanding I send him the Spaniard’s head on a plate. A barbarian of some resource and a dangerous one at that, if I remember him rightly from the arena.’ His face twisted into a sly smile. ‘He’s the other reason you didn’t have a nasty accident. The man seems to have eyes in the back of his head.’

  Valerius didn’t react to the confirmation that Primus had planned to have him killed. ‘I hope the general will reward rather than punish him.’

  Primus nodded absently and picked up a wax tablet, inscribing it with short confident strokes of a metal stylus. He handed it to Valerius. ‘Give this to my clerk on the way out and tell the Spaniard he’s fortunate it’s not an execution order. That’s the problem with giving slaves their freedom, they get ideas above their station. Look at that bastard Tigellinus.’ He scowled at the memory of Nero’s freedman who’d risen to become commander of the Praetorian Guard. ‘Asked for fifty thousand to guarantee a not guilty verdict. I told him to go and sodomise himself with a spatha and bribed the quaestor in charge of the count – much good it did me. I’d dance on the bastard’s grave if I could find it.’ Primus blinked, deciding he’d said more than was sensible. ‘Anyway, tell the Spaniard to mind his manners. What was I saying?’

  ‘That I was about to have a nasty accident.’

  The general grinned. ‘Courageous and loyal; honest too, I shouldn’t wonder. I’m not myself, but I admire it in another man. Makes them easier to fleece. That’s why you’re here, because I know you won’t stick a knife in my belly.’ He turned back to the map. ‘That and the fact that the army of Marcus Antonius Primus is not going to be cautious, whatever Vespasian and Mucianus may say. We will move up the Via Postumia to Verona, which is big enough and rich enough to resupply my legions, and if Caecina stays at Hostilia we’ll march up the road and take Cremona before he can react.’

  ‘And if he crosses the Athesis?’

  ‘We’ll still have time to about turn and crush him like a nut between the Pannonian legions here and the Moesian legions on their way from Noviodunum. You fought at Bedriacum, so you know the road and the terrain?’ Valerius nodded, trying not to remember the blood-drenched earth, the severed limbs and the strings of blue-veined, flyblown guts. A battle that should never have been fought and was lost from the moment the first trumpet blew. ‘That’s why I want you close, Gaius Valerius Verrens. Because you fought over that ground and may have to again.’

  ‘Fought and lost,’ Valerius pointed out.

  ‘But you weren’t fighting for Marcus Antonius Primus,’ the other man said with the certainty of a man who knew he couldn’t lose.

  Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus contemplated whether to call a slave or heave himself off the chair. It was becoming more difficult to get up every day and he wondered if, after all, a man could actually be too fat. He’d always looked upon his gluttony as a matter of pride. At Tiberius’s court, during the days when the old pederast had hidden himself away on Capri trying to play hide the sausage with young Gaius, or the sisters, Julia Livilla and the pretty one who’d died, it was a matter of pride to eat and drink more than any other man at the table. Tiberius, who loved excess the way a gambler loved a fixed race, had laughed uproariously and rewarded him with gold and jewels. He sighed. Happy days. Who would have predicted then that the man who would rather foul himself at the table than give way to another would be sitting here, in the great Golden House created to ensure Nero’s immortality?

  Eventually he pulled himself up with a groan, deciding it unbecoming for an Emperor to require the help of a servant just to get off his backside. It was almost an hour since he’d eaten, and he was already feeling the pangs, but he would starve himself for another few moments.

  He walked carefully across to the great window where he could see over the sprawling parkland that stretched towards the Esquiline Hill. The Esquiline’s red-tiled villas and temples looked down on the stinking rathole of the Subura the way that old snob Galba once looked down his long nose at everyone. To his left, he could just see the outstretched hand of the enormous gilded statue of Nero that towered over the Domus Aurea’s entrance hall. Vitellius had already decided to replace the head with one of his own, but he was uncertain which expression it should wear. Noble, of course, but noble and what? Frowning with the cares of state? How did one portray wisdom? Or statesmanship? He must consult the Imperial sculptors already working on at least a hundred statues and busts that would fill the niches recently vacated by the head of young Otho.

  But – and now he experienced a shudder of revulsion and fear – would that ever come to pass? Everything he looked upon from this window, every soul living out their little lives in their little houses, was his to command, but for how long?

  It had started so well. Otho, defeated comprehensively on the field at Bedriacum, conveniently committed suicide to save further bloodshed and humiliation. His remaining troops had submitted meekly and took the oath to their new Emperor. Vitellius had wanted to ride into Rome at the head of his army, in a general’s armour and carrying Julius Caesar’s sword. Valens had cleverly pointed out that glorifying a victory in which tens of thousands of Roman citizens died might not be the wisest way to commence his reign. Instead, he’d worn the purple toga signifying his rank and spent a long, wearying day on foot, sustained only by the cheers of the crowds. Following him marched his officers, the eagles of four full legions and the banners of another seven, at the head of thirty thousand legionaries and auxiliaries. At the end, he’d taken his place on the Capitol and watched them march past before sacrificing to Jupiter,
best and greatest. It was the most wonderful day of his life, but even then he knew the first stirrings of doubt.

  In a matter of days word arrived that the eastern legions had hailed Titus Flavius Vespasian Emperor and Vitellius knew he was in a fight for his very life.

  A comforting presence appeared at his side and he didn’t have to look to know it was his wife.

  ‘You will win, husband.’

  Vitellius smiled. She’d sensed his mood. Galeria Fundana had always been able to read his mind. As small in stature as her husband was great, she wore her thick, dark hair tight bound to her head and her words could be as sharp as a wasp’s sting. Her features were angular, almost mannish, and a large wart that disfigured the left side of her chin gave her a … yes, it had to be admitted … a rather startling presence. But he hadn’t married Galeria for her looks. Money and power had been his objectives in negotiating the match with her father. Yet they had developed an unlikely affection based on shared cynicism and she’d borne him a son to be proud of and a daughter to be married off in her turn. If she had been with him in Germania, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

  ‘Yes, I will win,’ he agreed. ‘Vespasian and his legions are far away in the East. His supporters plot and spy, but for the moment they have little influence.’

  ‘You allow his brother, Sabinus, and that brat of his too much freedom,’ his wife pointed out. She said it lightly enough, but Vitellius knew the words contained a suggestion that might be turned into action of a different, and potentially fatal, variety.