Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] Page 7

  The thought of sleep reminded him how exhausted he was in mind and body. Every day he spent in this fetid pit of Hades cost him strength he couldn’t afford to lose. He closed his eyes and tried to rediscover the ability to find oblivion he’d learned during the long campaigns with Valerius. He must not give up hope. Valerius would never give up hope. He thought of the times they’d risked life and limb together, always just one step ahead of the axe man, sharing a bond, a brotherhood so powerful it might even be called love. Where are you now, my brother? With that dangerous little Judaean beauty in the villa at Fidenae you always planned to return to?

  He tried to remember her name but it escaped him. It had been like this ever since some Flavian trooper put a dent in his skull during the sack of Rome three years earlier. His memory of things long past was as good as ever, but he would forget where he’d left objects or sometimes even whether he’d eaten. When he’d allowed his hair to grow in the Asturian fashion a woman had pointed out the white circle in the centre of the steely grey that turned him, quite literally, into a marked man. So, he’d shaved his head once more and reverted to Serpentius the scarred former gladiator. He ran his fingers across the half inch of stubble on his scalp. It had grown again now, but that was no reason for celebration down here, where the lice bred in their teeming thousands and seemed to favour any tuft of hair or fold in a tunic.

  At some point he must have slept because he woke automatically moments before the jailer appeared in the prisoners’ side tunnel and lit the first lamp. In the glaring flare of light Serpentius watched intently as the man entered a few paces ahead of the guards. They were still half asleep, but wary. This pair were just brutes in uniform, but the Spaniard had identified two former soldiers among the rest who would be more of a threat to his plan.

  ‘Don’t you want your bread?’ the jailer snarled.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ The Spaniard snatched the mouldy fragment and dashed it in the swill bucket.

  By the time they’d crammed the bread into their mouths the main chain had been removed and the guards kicked them into line to pick up their tools. Serpentius always ensured he slept close to the doorway so he didn’t have to carry a basket and none of the other prisoners had the will to challenge him. The free miners streamed past as he selected his pick. By now the tool was as familiar in his hands as a sword had once been, but before he could accept his oil lamp, someone smashed into him with enough force to knock him to the floor.

  A huge figure loomed over him. ‘I’ve told you before not to get in my way.’

  Serpentius stared up at his tormentor. No point in apologizing. An unmistakable message in the single eye told Serpentius this man meant to kill him. The only wonder was that it had taken this long. He remained the only link to the information Petronius had possessed. The big hammer twitched threateningly in the man’s hands and a little half smile flitted across his coarse features. They called him Cyclops.

  Serpentius pushed himself wearily to his feet and turned away. He sensed the moment the hammer came up to shoulder height in the big, meaty hands. Heard the gasps as it began the plunge towards his unprotected back. With a blur of movement he spun out of range as the iron head smashed with an enormous clang to raise a shower of sparks from the quartzite floor. Cyclops grunted with frustration and raised the hammer for a new attempt.

  It would have been so easy. For Serpentius the falling hammer was as sluggish as a gently turning water wheel. Even in his chains he could step inside it to left or right. A flick of the wrist would allow him to bring the pick head round to pierce the giant’s exposed belly and rip it clear to leave his guts spilling on to the ground. Or a pirouette – granted, not as simple with the iron around his ankles, but still possible – would plunge the point into Cyclops’ kidneys and condemn him to a well-deserved, painful, and lingering death as his piss turned black.

  The thought made him smile, but it couldn’t be. Making the kill look easy would show the guards just how dangerous Serpentius could be, and the mining overseers knew exactly how to deal with dangerous men. They would weigh him down with chains until he could barely move and his chance of escape would be gone.

  So Cyclops must live – for now.

  That meant Serpentius would have to take risks. Cyclops might be slow, but he was strong as a bull and the Spaniard’s strength had been sapped by the weeks underground. Serpentius’s speed, his greatest asset alongside his skill at arms, would inevitably be slowed by the chains and his movement restricted by the tight confines of the shaft. All these calculations went through his head in the time it took to dance out of range, forcing the crowd of watchers who penned in the two men to back away. A push in the back told him Cyclops might not be working alone, but that would have to wait for now.

  They circled each other warily and he studied the man who faced him with increased concentration. The hammer wielder was plainly bemused at his lack of immediate success, but there was no hint of fear in his eyes. Cyclops truly was enormous, and hard with it. Iron-muscled and not an ounce of surplus flesh on that huge frame. Serpentius noticed the iron rings that decorated the other man’s knuckles and the shine that showed where they’d been deliberately roughened to do more damage.

  Serpentius had killed more opponents in the arena than he could count, but he wasn’t just a killer. Uniquely among warriors, gladiators were encouraged to entertain as they dispensed death. Serpentius killed with a style that had made him the crowd’s favourite. He could make an opponent look a fool or, if he happened to respect him, a worthy fighter who would be allowed to come within a hair’s breadth of disembowelling the champion right up to the moment his head rolled in the bloody sand. The hammer, clumsy as it was, presented the greatest danger. One tap on the ankle or knee and he’d be disabled and at the mercy of a killing blow. So.

  As Cyclops raised the hammer in a two-handed grip, Serpentius dropped the pick and swung his chains with all his strength so the heavy links wrapped around his enemy’s wrists. Had it been a lesser man, the brittle bones would have snapped, but Cyclops was made of stronger stuff. All the blow achieved was to numb his hands and forearms so the hammer dropped from nerveless fingers.

  Cyclops roared with frustration. ‘You will pay for that a hundredfold, little mouse.’

  The big man darted in with a flailing punch that would have near taken Serpentius’s head off had it landed, but Serpentius swayed back out of range. By now his mind operated on a level that was almost beyond what he would call ‘self’, allowing instinct to take over from consciousness. It took courage to give up command to something he didn’t truly understand, but that instinct had seen him to victory in countless arena contests.

  Now it had pinpointed a tiny scar, the legacy of an old injury or wound. Nothing was certain and Serpentius would have to get dangerously close, but it offered a definite opportunity. For the moment, though, he must stay clear of the shovel hands that could crush his ribs, tear his arms from their sockets or break his neck with a single twist of the wrist. His keen eyes ranged over the scarred arms and upper torso. He was so drawn to what he saw there that he almost fell to Cyclops’ latest rush, and only just managed to scramble away. The giant grunted in frustration, but the feral grin grew wider.

  ‘Run if you want, little mouse, but you can’t run for ever.’

  For the moment, Serpentius concentrated on staying alive. Yes, he was sure now. But it would have to wait. Patience. This was not the time to attack. Instead, he feinted left, drawing a strike from Cyclops that surprised him with its speed and connected with his upper arm with enough force to numb it.

  A ragged cheer went up from the shadows surrounding them and Serpentius was left in no doubt who the majority of the miners wanted to survive this contest. If that was the product of a glancing blow, just how much damage could Cyclops cause him? Yet something told him the other man wasn’t interested in punching his way to victory. No, his favoured method was to get close, accepting what punishment was required to smo
ther his opponent with his sheer bulk, crushing ribs and spine with arms that were capable of snapping a man in half. Nothing would please Cyclops more than the sound of snapping bone.

  Without warning, Cyclops rushed forward, his right hand reaching for Serpentius’s shoulder, but the leathery skin of his fingers slipped on the Spaniard’s flesh, made slimy by a combination of oil and sweat. Cyclops expected his opponent to dance clear; instead Serpentius darted forward and smashed a closed fist into his chest with enough force to make him grunt. The blow made the bigger man pause and Serpentius moved away. Cyclops rubbed at the skin where the blow had struck, a bare patch in the thick pelt of hair that covered his body. A look of puzzlement formed on the broad peasant face.

  Serpentius allowed himself a smile. Cyclops might be a miner now, but he was undoubtedly a former soldier. The punch had been aimed at a white pockmark the width of a man’s thumb just to the right of the giant’s left nipple. To a warrior who knew what he was looking for, the rubbery skin and the position hinted at a certain type of wound.

  Each time Serpentius danced away from the grasping fingers the howls of frustration from Cyclops’ supporters grew louder. But Cyclops could be patient too, and gradually he forced the Spaniard back against the crowd.

  This time when Serpentius darted for safety a foot stuck out from amongst the spectators and left him sprawling on the hard rock. He sprang upright into the path of a scything right hook and even a former gladiator’s lightning reactions couldn’t save Serpentius from a glancing blow to the side of the head. His vision went red and he felt the skin ripping as the iron-clad knuckles skidded across his scalp, drawing blood that poured down his face in a crimson rush. The force of the punch threw him into the crowd where eager hands immediately pushed him back towards the grinning giant. At last Cyclops managed to get his huge arms around Serpentius and no matter how he wriggled and twisted in the giant’s grip the Spaniard couldn’t break free. He’d never experienced such strength. Cyclops held him tight to his chest and slowly increased his power. Serpentius cried out as his ribs ground together and his back felt as if it were about to snap. The only thing that saved him was Cyclops’ decision to deny him a quick end. Cyclops grinned and nodded to the crowd. He relaxed his grip just enough to allow Serpentius to breathe. Serpentius’s head slumped against Cyclops’ shoulder and his cheek rasped against the other man’s coarse stubble. His brain still spun from the blow he’d taken, but he knew that unless he could free himself he would soon be dead.

  The massive arms resumed their pressure and Serpentius cried out to the ancient gods of the Astures for aid. He screamed and his mouth touched the other man’s cheek. In desperation he clamped his teeth on the bunched flesh, simultaneously shaking his head like a dog and working his jaw. The skin tore and blood flooded his mouth, but still he worked at the big man’s savaged flesh. Now it was Cyclops who shrieked as Serpentius growled and chewed until he came away with a mouthful of dripping meat that left a gaping gore-filled crater in the hammer man’s face. The Spaniard spat the obscene gobbet into the giant’s single eye. Yet still the great arms maintained their pressure. In desperation, Serpentius butted the exposed cheekbone making the bigger man mew like a suffering child. Cyclops turned his face away from the assault, but all he did was expose his right ear. Again the Spaniard closed his teeth over the rubbery flesh, drawing a howl from the other man. At last the hammer man released his grip and Serpentius fell free, still with the big Roman’s ear clamped between his teeth. Cyclops backed away attempting to stem the blood pouring from his wounds.

  Choking back the urge to vomit Serpentius staggered after him, knowing he only had one chance. With all the power he could generate he smashed his skull into the big man’s chest, making him stumble back. The blow seemed to paralyse Cyclops. He clutched at his breast in bewilderment and his eyes flicked from side to side seeking escape. But there was no escape from Serpentius’s lightning attacks. Again and again the Spaniard hammered his fist against the giant’s left breast where the arrow had struck the gods only knew how many years before. Struck in such a place and at such an angle that Serpentius knew the surgeons had been forced to leave it for fear of killing their patient. Instead, they had cut the shaft as short as they could and allowed the wound to grow over it, leaving it to the gods to decide whether Cyclops would live or die.

  Well, the gods would not save him now.

  Every blow forced the iron closer to Cyclops’ heart and the agony of it robbed him of his strength and forced him to one knee. Serpentius saw his chance. With one final leap that had all his remaining strength behind it, he landed a flying kick on the precise spot where the arrow had penetrated. Cyclops gave an awful cry and straightened for one last time as the iron ruptured his heart. The single eye widened in disbelief and his hands scrabbled desperately at his chest until, with a final choked groan, he pitched forward on to his face.

  Serpentius turned to glare at the men surrounding him. His eyes glittered in the light of the oil lamps and the blood streaming down his forehead and cheeks made him look like a demon from the underworld. Not one would meet his challenge, but he saw a look of bemusement on the overseer’s face that told him it hadn’t been meant to end like this. He saw Vegeto among the watching men. The miner gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement and the Spaniard bent and retrieved the pick. Without a word he set off for the gold face.

  When their voices couldn’t be heard above the crash of hammers, Serpentius held a whispered conversation with Vegeto. At first the Asturian was astonished by the Spaniard’s request, but what he’d seen in the tunnel was proof enough that this was a man whose powers were to be respected. In his stolid way he outlined what he already knew and added: ‘There will be more. I will find out the rest tonight.’

  ‘Do not take any risks, Vegeto. I do not want your life on my conscience.’

  The big man snorted as if the suggestion was an insult. ‘I am of the Paesici, stranger, I can move like a wolf in the night.’

  Serpentius smiled at this unlikely claim, but Vegeto only nodded grimly, and he knew he would do his best.

  On the way back to the sleeping place, Serpentius managed to pull a startled Clitus into a side chamber. A tall, saturnine man whose wasted frame must once have been powerful, Clitus was one of the prisoners Serpentius had identified as having the strength of body and will to be part of what he planned. Now he named the others and asked Clitus to do what he could to have them lie in a group that night.

  ‘We have to escape or we die here,’ he said in a voice so low as to be inaudible beyond the man it was aimed at.

  ‘Escape is impossible,’ Clitus hissed. ‘The chains. The guards. And even then what?’

  ‘You saw me fight today. Nothing is impossible. You must explain that to the others. If we work together we can escape. Anyone who is willing and able. If we stay here we die.’

  ‘How?’ Suddenly Clitus’s voice held a faint edge of hope.

  ‘When do they wash us down again?’

  The other man thought for a moment, counting the days in his head. ‘Four days,’ he said.

  ‘Good. For now bide your time and keep your strength. I will give you more information closer to the time.’ Serpentius kept his tone flat and emotionless, but inside his spirits soared. What Vegeto had told him had confirmed it could be done. Now it was up to him.

  IX

  There had been times in his life when Valerius felt the saddle was his only home. He’d travelled from one edge of the Empire to the other: endured avalanches crossing the Alps, traversed the length of Germania pursued by crazed Batavian auxiliaries, marched over the parched plains of southern Armenia on the way to a victory that never was, and ridden the length of Roman Syria in the company of the woman who would become his wife. Now the mountains of northern Hispania awaited him.

  It helped that his escort consisted of a good-natured group of auxiliary horse soldiers from the First cohort of the Faithful Vardulli. The men were on detachment to Pliny, bu
t the main element of their unit remained in Britannia. Their cheerful demeanour told him they were pleased to be back in their native land carrying out ceremonial duties for the new governor rather than playing hide and seek in the mountain mists with the Ordovices or the Deceangli.

  ‘But it’s good to be in the saddle,’ said Abilio, the escort’s decurio. A twenty-year veteran, he had keen dark eyes and moustaches that drooped to his chin, a style favoured by most of his men. ‘You soon tire of spending hours polishing parade helmets and it’s not good for a cavalryman to let his backside get soft.’

  Valerius returned his grin. ‘A Thracian archer of my acquaintance once told me a proper cavalryman should have a backside like leather …’

  ‘And thighs that could crack a nut,’ Abilio confirmed with a bark of laughter. A distinctive brass helmet fitted with ornate cheekpieces hung by a strap from his shoulder and he wore a vest of light chain armour. Like his men’s his legs were encased to the knee in striped braccae; a heavy cavalry spatha hung from his belt and he carried a seven-foot spear. ‘I like the Thracians,’ he said. ‘Born in the saddle and prepared to follow orders. Not like those mad Pannonian bastards. They’d start a fight in an empty room and charge through a stone wall just to show how hard they were.’

  On the second day, they emerged from the coastal mountains that guarded Tarraco on to a great open plain, skirting round the city of Ilerda, where Divine Caesar had famously defeated Pompey the Great. The weather stayed fine and they bypassed the doubtful pleasures of the Imperial guest houses that dotted their route. Instead, they camped in the open, only visiting towns when they needed to change their mounts and the pack horses carrying their supplies. Valerius gained his companions’ respect by volunteering to share their duties despite his unusual status as a more-or-less guest. Soon the saw-toothed rampart of the Pyrenees mountains dominated their eastern horizon, while to the west a thick haze shimmered over the fertile, cultivated plain.