Sword of Rome (2 page)

Seventy paces.

The faceless mob took shape as a line of glittering spear points and glaring-eyed, bearded faces, lips drawn back and teeth bared. A wolf pack closing for the kill.

Fifty.

It must be soon. But not yet. Patience.

Thirty.

‘Boar’s head,’ Valerius screamed, and his command was instantly repeated by the signaller’s insistent call.

At his side, Serpentius effortlessly switched his sword from right hand to left and put the reins in his mouth. The Spaniard reached to his belt and in a single smooth movement drew back his arm and hurled one of the two Scythian throwing axes he always carried. The spinning disc of razor-edged iron took the centre horse of the Batavian line in the forehead and the beast reared and swerved, setting off a chain reaction as riders hauled their mounts aside to avoid a bone-crushing collision. For the space of two heartbeats the centre of the disciplined Batavian attack splintered into chaos. It was long enough. Valerius nudged his mount right and the Vascones automatically followed. The boar’s head was predominantly an infantry tactic, a compact wedge designed to plunge like a dagger into the heart of the enemy, but every Roman cavalry unit practised the manoeuvre. At Valerius’s command
the auxiliaries had moved seamlessly from line into an arrowhead formation, with Valerius, Serpentius and the signaller at the tip, aimed directly at the point where the stricken horse had swerved aside. Valerius hit the gap as the Batavian to his left tried to close it. He was already inside the rider’s spear point and he could smell the fear stink on the man’s wool over-tunic as his
spatha
swung in a scything cut that split ribs and breastbone, jarring his wrist and drawing a shriek of mortal agony from the other man. The dying Batavian reeled in the saddle even as Valerius’s angle of attack slammed his horse aside, creating more space for the rank behind. A simultaneous scream from his right told him that Serpentius had drawn blood and then they were through and clear. There was barely time to take a breath before he shouted his next orders.

‘Wheel left. Form line.’

He had intended to smash the Batavian attack and retire to protect Otho, but the instant he turned he recognized an opportunity too tempting to ignore. The charge had carved the Batavians in two and now the riders to the right of his line milled in confusion a hundred paces away. Six or seven men and two horses writhed in the dust where Valerius had struck the centre. Those on his left were closest and had held their nerve, but they were pitifully few, with perhaps a dozen troopers still in the saddle. Valerius still had more than twenty men and now he launched them against the nearest Batavian survivors.

‘Kill the bastards!’

The Vascones charged in open order while their enemies were still re-forming, and the Batavians had barely reached a trot before the Spanish tribesmen were among them, cutting right and left and howling their war whoops. Valerius picked out a mailed figure in the centre of the line and it was only as he closed that he saw how young the man was. Calculating eyes shone from a pale, determined face beneath the rim of a helmet that shone like gold. The Batavian drove his spear point at Valerius’s chest and only the speed of fear allowed the Roman to deflect the shaft upwards with the edge of his sword. He felt a bruising crunch as the point clipped his shoulder and ducked to avoid the ash shaft swung like a club at the side of his head. Still,
the cavalryman was able to batter his shield into Valerius’s body as they collided, almost knocking him from the saddle. They circled like fighting dogs, snarling and seeking out a killing opportunity. Valerius saw the moment his enemy’s eyes widened, the mouth opening in a final scream as the auxiliary felt the edge of Serpentius’s sword crunch into his neck between helmet and mail. In the same instant, Valerius rammed his
spatha
between the gaping jaws. He felt the jarring impact as the iron point met the back of the skull and hot blood spewed from the boy’s mouth to coat his sword hand. His victim was thrown back, already dead in the saddle, and his pony ran for a few strides before the body fell to sprawl among the corn stalks.

‘Must be getting slow,’ Serpentius muttered. ‘I’ve seen the day you’d have had a chicken like that for breakfast and spat out his bones.’

Valerius gasped his thanks and turned to survey the battlefield. Four or five dismounted Batavians still battled for their lives on foot, but the rest were dead or dying, and the survivors of the enemy left flank were still milling about where they had been when the Vascones had charged their comrades. ‘Enough,’ he ordered the cavalry leader.

The man looked mystified. Serpentius spat something in his own language and the officer called his men off. The surrounded Batavians formed a wary circle, but when Valerius ordered them to lay down their swords they complied readily enough. He heard the sound of hooves and Otho rode up with his guards. ‘Why have you spared these traitors?’

‘Because they’re not traitors. They were only obeying orders, just as we are. Think about it. If your mission succeeds, in a few weeks’ time we’ll all be fighting on the same side, so what’s the point of killing them?’

‘They would have killed us.’

‘I accept that, but—’

‘Then I’m ordering you to kill them.’

Valerius raised his sword and Otho edged back. ‘I gave them my word that they’d live.’

The other man bridled. ‘I—’

‘Look.’ Serpentius pointed to where the remaining Batavians were trotting back towards the edge of the wood, where another, larger force
had appeared. Valerius bit back a curse as he saw that the newcomers vastly outnumbered his men.

‘Form up,’ he roared. ‘Senator Otho, retire to the rear.’

He heard a sword being unsheathed. ‘I’ve done enough retiring for today.’

Serpentius laughed and Valerius shook his head wearily. ‘Very well, but stay close to this Spanish rogue. And if he says run, by Mars’ sacred arse, you run.’

By now the Batavian horsemen had reached the larger force. Valerius squinted in the bright sunshine as some sort of heated discussion took place among the enemy, punctuated by a sharp cry as one of the riders pitched from the saddle.

‘Now why would they do that?’ Serpentius asked no one in particular.

‘If the left flank had attacked us while we were busy with their friends,’ Valerius suggested, ‘they would be sitting here and we would be lying in the dust trying to push our guts back in. I think whoever commands has just given his opinion on their lack of action.’

‘A forceful kind of officer,’ Serpentius commented. Valerius nodded, but his eyes never left the cavalrymen on the other side of the field and his fingers tightened edgily on the hilt of his sword. Serpentius could count too and his horse tossed his head as it sensed his concern. ‘There are a lot of the bastards.’

‘There are, but … ah, I wondered when he’d make up his mind.’ A single horseman trotted across the bloodied ground towards them. When he reached halfway, he rammed his spear into the turf and advanced another ten paces before raising his hands to show he was unarmed. Valerius nodded to Serpentius. ‘Get the men back into the shelter of the trees and take the prisoners with you.’

‘Watch him,’ the Spaniard warned. ‘I don’t like the look of this one. If he’d kill his own, he’s not going to worry overmuch about turning you into buzzard bait.’

‘When did you become my nursemaid?’ Valerius didn’t wait for an answer, but every sense screamed at him to be wary as he kicked his horse into a canter. Before he reached the lone Batavian he heard the
sound of hoofbeats, and slowed to a walk as Otho joined him. ‘You’re an even bigger fool than I thought.’ He didn’t look at the other man, but let the anger turn his voice hard. ‘You’ll get us both killed.’

‘Always the hero, Valerius. You never let anyone forget Colonia and the Temple of Claudius. Do you think that my not having fought makes you a better man than I? Or perhaps you disapprove of the fact that I was once Nero’s friend?’

Valerius reined in and studied his companion. He could feel the Batavian’s eyes on them. ‘I counted your wife as a friend. She did not deserve what happened to her.’

Otho’s face froze and his hand slipped to his sword. ‘Perhaps one day I will kill you for that,’ he whispered.

‘Perhaps you will, but for the moment we have more important things to do. Like staying alive.’ Valerius hauled his horse round and together they approached the enemy.

He was dressed, like his auxiliaries, in plaid tunic and trews with a cloak of wolfskin, but his chain-link armour was close knit and of the highest quality. If that wasn’t enough to declare his status, he wore a heavy gold torc round his neck that was worth a year’s wages to the legionary who claimed it. The first thing Valerius noticed were his eyes, which were an empty washed-out blue that reminded him of sea ice. He had only seen eyes like that in one kind of man: a man who could kill without feeling and compassion and would keep on killing long after other men would be sickened by it. As he drew the roan to a stop, the pale, expressionless features forced their way into his consciousness and his heart fell as recognition dawned. They exchanged salutes. It was the Batavian who spoke first.

‘You have a decurion among your prisoners? Younger than his comrades—’

‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, late of Legio X Fretensis.’ The young man’s lips pursed in annoyance at the interruption. He glanced at Otho, expecting a similar introduction, but Valerius ignored him and the governor of Lusitania was sensible enough to keep his identity to himself.

‘One of Corbulo’s officers? You are a long way from home. Claudius
Victor, prefect Third Augusta Batavorum, attached to Legio IV Macedonica. I repeat my question.’

‘I am sorry. He was very brave.’

The Batavian nodded slowly. ‘And now I must kill you.’

Valerius looked across the field to where the enemy dead lay. ‘You have already lost twenty men. Why would you wish to lose twenty more?’

Victor shrugged. ‘What are soldiers for?’

‘True,’ Valerius conceded. ‘But it makes their officers seem careless if they lose too many.’

The thin lips twitched, but if anything the pale eyes grew colder. ‘Then perhaps you would like to surrender? I can have three hundred men here by nightfall. You have nowhere to run. Patrols like ours are sweeping every district between Arausio and the river. Every pass to the east is guarded. I doubt you will want to go north. To the south, the sea. We could talk about your mission, which intrigues me. Late of Corbulo’s Tenth, but I would guess more recently with the traitor and coward Galba.’ He waited for a reaction, but when none came he ran his eyes over Otho, taking in the expensive horse, the fine clothes and the well-fed features. ‘Why would the pretender send a patrol so far into the territory of his enemies? A patrol with, let me guess, a
praetor
… no, not a
praetor
; these clothes belong to man of great means. A senator then, or of senatorial rank …?’

Otho’s horse sensed his unease and moved beneath him. Valerius decided the conversation had gone on long enough. ‘Surrendering to your tender mercies does not appeal,’ he said casually. ‘I have a better proposition. Since we both know you are lying about the patrols – we saw no sign of them yesterday – I suggest you allow us to withdraw to the river. If we are unmolested I will leave my prisoners and the wounded on this side of the ford.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘I will personally kill them, one by one, and take their heads.’ The words were said carelessly, but he kept his eyes as cold as the other man’s. ‘You must make your decision now. If you agree, you may recover your dead.’

Claudius Victor stared at him for a long time. Valerius had a feeling the Batavian wanted to tear him apart with his bare hands, but even as he watched the eyes lost their menace. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to appear any more careless than I do already. I accept.’ As he spoke, he moved his horse closer and Valerius’s hand strayed towards his sword. But the Batavian was only studying every detail of his face, taking in the lines, the scar that disfigured him from brow to lip, and the fathomless dark eyes that gave a hint to the qualities of the inner man: strength, determination and lethal intent. When he was satisfied, Victor looked down at Valerius’s carved wooden hand as if he had only just noticed it. ‘Not something to be easily forgotten,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I will remember you, cripple; killer of my brother. We are a patient people, and when we meet again, as we will, I will take great pleasure in killing you in the old way.’ He nodded and turned away, and Valerius and Otho rode back to the Vascones.

‘How do you know the slippery bastard won’t come after us anyway?’ Otho asked. ‘He didn’t look like the kind who would care too much about a few prisoners, especially if you killed his brother.’

‘No,’ Valerius didn’t look back. ‘But he’s lost a lot of men and I doubt his troopers would thank him for losing any more, especially if we keep their heads. The head is the repository of a Batavian’s soul. That’s why they keep skulls as trophies: to deprive their enemy of his. They’re a hard people, the Batavians; good soldiers, but quick to anger. If Victor sacrifices his men, the next head they take might be his.’

‘What did he mean by killing you in the old way?’

Valerius turned in the saddle and looked back to where his enemy watched implacably from the far side of the field.

‘It’s not encouraged these days, but the Batavians liked to burn their prisoners alive. Slowly.’

‘We don’t have any choice. We have to go back.’

Otho shook his head. The suggestion was unacceptable. ‘Our only option is to carry on. My orders from the governor of Hispania Tarraconensis were clear.’

Valerius noticed the aristocrat didn’t refer to Galba by the grandiose title the governor had awarded himself – Lieutenant to the Senate and People of Rome – and wondered what that signified. They had stopped to rest near the burned-out ruins of an estate on the west bank of the Rhodanus, the great river that linked Lugdunum with the port of Massilia. He walked to the pebble shore and looked out across the glittering waters, east, towards home.