Douglas Jackson: Sword of Rome

‘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.’