Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] Page 8

  Pliny’s courier Marius, a legionary cavalryman, was, like most of his kind, young, intelligent and reticent to the point of secretive. He kept to himself and passed his time scratching at pieces of bark with the end of a burned twig, much to the amusement of the Vardulli. Still, it was difficult to be part of such a small company and not converse in some way. By the time they reached Esca he was comfortable enough to join the desultory conversation around the campfire. Valerius was curious about what he’d been doing with the twig and the bark. After some persuasion, Marius shyly showed him a series of remarkably lifelike drawings he’d made of the auxiliaries. There was even one of Valerius.

  ‘Do I really look like that?’ The man staring back at him had a hard, almost hawkish expression only softened by the sardonic twist to his lip, courtesy of the old knife wound that scored his cheek. Implacable obsidian eyes stared out from below unruly dark hair. He thought of himself as young, but in the drawing he looked what he was, a worn-out veteran of a dozen wars.

  ‘It’s probably not very good.’ Marius offered him another version, full length from a distance.

  Valerius smiled. ‘Better, but,’ he laughed, ‘you seem to have forgotten this.’ He raised the wooden fist.

  Marius gaped. ‘I didn’t know, sir.’

  Young soldiers, though they feigned disinterest, were always curious to know what had happened to Valerius’s hand. Normally, he would only say that he’d lost it in battle. Tonight he wanted to win Marius’s confidence, so he treated his companions to the defence of Colonia, and the last stand in the Temple of Claudius in all its horror and heroism.

  ‘Suetonius Paulinus awarded me the Corona Aurea.’ All the men not on guard lay by the fire listening and Valerius let his eyes drift around the circle of attentive faces until they fell on Marius. ‘And the Emperor Nero himself placed it upon my brow.’

  ‘What glory,’ the young man cried. ‘To have the Emperor’s favour.’

  ‘An emperor’s favour can be a fickle thing,’ Valerius shrugged. ‘And I would give back that golden bauble and all the glory and the honour to see the faces of my comrades and hear their voices one last time.’

  The veteran soldiers murmured agreement, but the eyes of the young men still glowed with visions of fame and valour.

  ‘And Boudicca? Is it true what they say of her?’

  ‘Ah, Boudicca.’ Valerius allowed his voice to quicken and his imagination to run free. ‘As tall as a rowan tree, with hair of burnished copper and breasts like the sweetest melons all painted gold …’

  They grinned at each other. This was the kind of story a soldier could appreciate, even if he didn’t believe a word of it.

  When the flames of the campfire died to a dull flicker Valerius unrolled his blanket beside Marius.

  The young cavalryman turned to face him. ‘What was Boudicca really like?’

  ‘A handsome woman consumed by hate,’ Valerius admitted. ‘But we had given her reason to hate. Tell me, Marius, if you are willing, how things stand in Asturica? I heard different tales in every tavern in Tarraco.’

  Marius hesitated only a moment to marshal his thoughts and knowledge into a coherent form. ‘I’m not surprised, sir, because the situation is confused whichever way you look at it. On the one hand there are whispers that the gold is running out and we’ll soon all be going home to Italia. Yet speak to a common miner and he’ll tell you of great nuggets gleaming in the lamplight just waiting to be plucked. It depends, of course,’ his voice took on a scholarly tone, ‘what kind of mine you are speaking of. There are several different methods, producing ore, dust or, more rarely, the sought-after nuggets.’

  ‘You are an expert, I find, young Marius?’

  Marius gave him an embarrassed glance. ‘If I have given that impression I apologize, sir,’ he laughed. ‘I only know what I have heard in passing. The locals are stubborn folk, tight-lipped and secretive, but treat them with courtesy and show an interest in the natural philosophy of their land and one or two will show a different side. Even those, though, have become more distant lately.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  Marius’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The ghosts of the past are stirring.’

  Valerius wondered if he’d misheard. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what they say, sir. I believe it means that some among them see an opportunity to return to the old ways, before the mine workings flattened their mountains, filled in their valleys and poisoned their rivers.’

  ‘Can it really be so bad?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ came the matter-of-fact reply. ‘You only have to look at the Red Hills to understand how destructive it can be. Like your Boudicca, sir, they have reason to dislike us, and now that we have been weak for so long – I mean relatively speaking, of course – it may be that some of them believe they have an opportunity to do something about it.’

  ‘A rebellion? Do they understand what that would mean?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir.’ Marius’s voice had turned defensive, as if he felt he’d said too much. ‘It is difficult to tell with them. All I can say is that were I in their place I would not be satisfied. And then there are the bandits.’

  ‘I was told they had become more active and daring?’ Valerius invited a more detailed explanation, but the younger man only shrugged.

  ‘That may be the case, sir, but I haven’t witnessed it.’

  ‘You think I was misled?’

  ‘All I can say, sir, is that we – that is my commander – responds to every bandit attack with all the speed and force he can muster. Inevitably, by the time we reach the site the bandits have been fought off or have fled. They are never strong enough to take a full convoy, but one or two wagons will be missing, with perhaps a casualty or two among the wagon drivers or muleteers. The thing is, apart from the usual signs of disturbance around the camp or ambush site, any tracks fade and then vanish within a few hundred paces. It is as if the raiders suddenly take to the air. That’s why we – I mean the more superstitious among the men – talk about The Ghost.’

  ‘The Ghost?’

  ‘Laugh at me if you wish, sir,’ the courier said defensively, ‘but the men have a pure dread of ever meeting him.’

  ‘I would not laugh at you, Marius,’ Valerius said gently. ‘Tell me, does this Ghost have a name?’

  ‘In the Asturian tongue he is called “Nathair”. A man of almost supernatural powers, newly returned from only the gods know where. He can pin a butterfly to a tree with his knife point and is so fast with a sword that anyone who faces him is dead before they even realize he has unsheathed it. They say he cannot be killed.’

  Valerius experienced a chill at the familiar list of accomplishments. ‘Does he have a face, this Ghost?’

  ‘He keeps it masked. Only the shades of his victims have ever seen it.’

  ‘Nathair?’ He knew the answer to his question before it left his lips.

  ‘It means Snake, sir.’

  Serpentius?

  X

  Serpentius brushed away one of the big rats that sniffed about the sleeping prisoners every night. Large as cats, they lived mostly off dropped food and what had passed through men’s bodies, but they weren’t averse to human flesh. One bite from their foul teeth would be the prelude to a lingering, painful end.

  He willed himself to be strong. Experience had taught him how agonizing this would be, but when the alternative was certain death a man must be prepared to suffer pain. He had no idea how long it would take, or even if he’d succeed. But he had to try. He pulled the short section of shovel handle from his loin cloth, praying the balled piece of linen that passed as a stopper had held. Would it be enough? He’d used Vegeto’s nail to hollow out a cavity in the centre of the ash, but didn’t dare make it too large for fear the frail container collapsed.

  Holding the shaft upright he removed the linen ball and raised his body so he could pour the contents over his lower legs. Frugal with the first: he must share it equally. Mars save him
, but there wasn’t much. He rubbed the pitiful dribble of oil he’d stolen from the lamp over his ankles and feet beneath the iron rings of the shackles.

  Now for the difficult part.

  It was a trick he’d learned in his earliest days as a gladiator. Men destined to kill each other in the arena shared a special bond. As they’d been lying in their irons in the barracks of the ludus one night he’d been astonished when one of his companions stood up and walked to the door.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he’d whispered to the man next to him.

  ‘Nestor the retiarius has what you might call an assignation with a certain lady.’

  ‘You mean he’s escaping?’

  ‘Not escaping,’ the gladiator assured him. ‘You’re new here. Believe me, there’s no escape. Out there in the city you’d be picked up before the cock crowed three times and then what? I’ll tell you. The cross and a long, lonely death. It’s not a bad life here. Fed and watered, and the occasional woman. If you’re good enough you might even be handed the rudis and your freedom. If not, we’re all going to die anyway. With Fortuna’s favour it’ll be quick. A sword in your hand and a friend by your side, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Serpentius said uncertainly. ‘But how does Nestor do it?’ He shook his shackled ankle.

  The answer was that Nestor was one of the smaller gladiators, with correspondingly small feet. With the help of a little oil and the loss of a few inches of skin he could work his feet through the shackles. Serpentius had been born lean, and his calling had transformed him into a lethal blade of bone, sinew and muscle, but he had normal-sized feet. In time, he could do what Nestor did, but at greater cost.

  Now, in the mine, he began working at the ring on his left ankle, twisting and pushing at the same time.

  What seemed a lifetime later sweat was running down his body and his heel and the front of his foot were a ball of agony and rubbed raw. Blood caked his hands, but he was nowhere near freeing the ring. Twist and push. Twist and push. How many times had he done it? Two hundred? Four? Twist and push. Ignore the pain.

  As he worked he whispered instructions to Clitus.

  ‘Your job, and the job of the others, is to look after the jailer. He must not make a sound. You’ll have one chance. Don’t worry about the guards. I’ll take care of them.’

  ‘But your chains, you can’t—’

  ‘Trust me.’ Serpentius gritted his teeth to stifle his groans. Twist and push. Twist and push. Flesh is only flesh. Iron is iron. If he’d had a knife, he’d have cut the solid pad of his heel away. Could a man walk without a heel? But he didn’t have a knife. Twist and push. Mars and Jupiter, would it never end? Twist and—’ He slumped back, resisting the urge to cry out as the bloody ring slipped over his foot to free his left leg. It could be done. But how long had it taken?

  He reached for his right ankle.

  According to Vegeto, the free workers made their way to the mine at dawn. That meant, on this day, flushing-out day, the jailer and the guards with the water pipe should appear an hour before dawn. Dawn. Serpentius raised his eyes to the invisible ceiling of the sleeping chamber. He’d lost count of how long he’d been here. How many days was it since he’d seen a dawn. Forty? Fifty?

  One way or the other he vowed this would be the last.

  He crouched in the darkness to one side of the entrance, his agonized feet deep in the filthy ooze. Surprise was the key. If the jailer noticed a gap in the bodies on the floor he’d alert the guards. To ensure he didn’t, Clitus and the others had shifted together to mask the space where Serpentius usually lay. Could they take the jailer? That couldn’t be his concern. He had enough to think about. His heart thundered in his chest and he willed it to slow. If ever he’d needed calm it was now. He ran through what was about to happen in his mind, trying to establish the rhythm that would govern his actions and reactions. To identify the imponderable that would imperil his plans and what he must do to negate it. His fingers shifted their grip on the nail.

  Voices echoing in the main shaft. A man complaining about the weight of the pipe. The jailer would enter first to light the oil lamps. The guards would follow close behind carrying the pipe, their spears laid aside just this once.

  A soft glow of light in the entrance. Serpentius pressed himself back, trying to make himself one with the wall. Still. Be invisible.

  First, the jailer, muttering to himself, his starved rat’s face illuminated by the oil lamp he held in front of him, eyes only for the first lamp in its niche in the wall. One, two, three steps. The first guard appeared hauling at the leather pipe and grunting. The jailer reaching up to light the lamp with the one in his right hand, the bucket of slops in his left. The second guard giving the pipe one last heave and stepping into the chamber.

  Now.

  There is a lump on a man’s throat that is uniquely vulnerable to attack and also part of the apparatus that allows him to communicate. Serpentius was a keen student of the myriad ways of dealing death. A punch directly on the lump, with the knuckle protruding, would have done the job, but the rusty, four-inch iron nail did it better. The first the guard knew of his impending doom was a choking sensation. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t breathe and someone had lit a fire in his throat. By now Serpentius was already turning away, the wrist chains whirling towards the second guard alerted too late by the sound of his comrade’s last indrawn breath. As he pivoted to meet the threat Serpentius’s chains settled round his neck and instantly tightened, choking off any shout for help. The Spaniard hauled with all his strength, twisting the links so the loop tightened like a strangling rope until, with a crack like a snapping twig, the guard’s neck broke. He laid the twitching body to the ground, taking in the welcome sight of the jailer being drowned in his slop bucket before turning back to the first man.

  Shock had pinned him in place, his hands clawing at the terrible spike in his throat and the blood running down his neck, but now he realized his error and turned to stagger towards the guardroom. Serpentius was on him in two bounds, his hand twisting in the man’s hair. Somehow he’d found a heartbeat to retrieve the dead guard’s gladius. Now he sawed the nicked blade across the man’s neck in a single stroke that released a fountain of blood.

  He hauled the body back into the chamber. The jailer’s legs gave one last jerk and a large bubble burst in the slops with a ‘plop’ that broke the stunned silence. Clitus and another man – Thaumasto, wasn’t it? – stared at him with gaping eyes as if they couldn’t believe what they’d done. Serpentius held out his arms with the chain hanging between. Clitus was the first to recover. He searched the jailer’s clothing until he found the crude key to unlock Serpentius’s shackles.

  ‘Now do the rest,’ the Spaniard growled softly. He stood over the remaining prisoners. ‘Any who are able should come with us,’ he whispered. ‘There is only pain and death if you stay.’

  ‘Pain and death if we come,’ one man, more feeble than the rest, muttered. ‘They’ll catch you before you get out of the valley.’

  ‘So be it.’ Serpentius nodded. ‘But all are welcome.’ To Clitus: ‘Take the guards’ uniforms. Give them to whoever fits best.’ Clitus picked up the second guard’s sword and held it awkwardly, but his eyes were filled with determination.

  ‘No.’ Serpentius managed a rictus of a smile. ‘I’ll do this alone.’

  He stalked silently up the ill-lit passage until he came to the curtained guard chamber. The sound of soft breathing and one rasping snorer greeted him. From what he’d learned there should be four. He twitched the curtain aside and in the dull light of the oil lamps in the main passage he made out their sleeping forms. It was the work of moments. The fourth guard came awake as Serpentius stood over him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Go back to sleep, friend.’ Serpentius placed the point of the sword beneath the man’s breastbone and put his weight behind it.

  Six men in uniform, escorting eight prisoners to the entrance of the mine
shaft. Fortuna had favoured them so far, but Serpentius knew it wouldn’t last. Some of these men were going to die. He’d given them their chance. The strong would survive and at least the weak would slow and divide the pursuit. And, he vowed, the strong would have their revenge. But to do that they had to get out of the mine before the main workforce arrived.

  Thanks to Vegeto he had the layout of the outer mine in his head. Two guards at the entrance, but a half century within call. The legionaries were divided between the smelting house, where the gold was extracted from the crushed rock and turned into ingots, and the fortress-like storehouse where the ingots were held before being transported to Tarraco. The air turned cool and fresh and the oil lamps flickered in the draught and Serpentius knew they were approaching the entrance. He whispered to the others to wait and summoned Clitus and Thaumasto to follow him.

  ‘They will be tired, bored and desperate for their relief,’ he assured them. ‘Their attention will be on the east and the first hint of the rising sun. They stand one to each side of the entrance. You will take the guard on the right. The right,’ he gestured with his sword to that side of the tunnel, ‘you understand?’ Clitus nodded and Thaumasto’s eyebrows knotted in concentration. ‘It will be like the jailer. One to silence him and the other to kill him. I will take the one on the left. Wait for my signal. We must act together.’

  They crept up to the entrance. Serpentius seemed to flow over the ground, but his companions agonized over every step. The Spaniard waited till he could hear the sound of a man breathing and raised his left hand. Two more strides and they could see the blue-black of the night sky and the first faint trace of dawn on the skyline. The outline of a Roman helmet pinpointed the guard on the right. Serpentius dropped his hand and stepped out into the open.