Douglas Jackson: Avenger of Rome

‘That is what a commander must do,’ Valerius said airily. ‘As I am sure you will find out one day.’

Tiberius preened at the flattery, but he refused to be discouraged. ‘Yet the Emperor awarded you the Corona Aurea, the Gold Crown of Valour?’

Valerius shrugged. ‘Colonia was a disaster, but just one of many. When the last battle was won and Boudicca dead, the governor of Britain needed a hero — a live hero. As the only Roman survivor of the Temple of Claudius he had little choice but to honour me.’

Tiberius had stared out over the sea as it flowed beneath the wooden keel, endless and anonymous, barely rippling in the light breeze that carried them southwards. The land was just a faint presence on the far horizon. ‘And the barbarians took your hand. I think I would rather die than not be able to hold a sword again.’

If the words hadn’t been spoken so innocently — a little boy musing on whether the moon might be made of cheese — Valerius would have been tempted to throw the young man over the side. But Tiberius probably couldn’t swim, and since he’d just come off duty his buoyancy was unlikely to be helped by the plate armour that covered his chest and shoulders. He sighed.

‘We’ll see how well I can hold a sword tomorrow, tribune. Exercise for you and your men at dawn. I’m sure they will have some wooden practice swords and a couple of shields aboard that we can borrow.’

Tiberius turned and saluted. Was there just the hint of mischief in his eye? ‘Of course, sir. I will arrange it. Tomorrow at dawn. Exercise with sword and shield, sir.’

By the time Valerius woke, the Golden Cygnet was well under way and the sun came up between two hills on the eastern horizon, creating a spectacular bridge of light between ship and land. He took a deep breath of invigorating sea air and tasted the salt on his lips. Serpentius had already risen from his place on the deck, and the distinctive clash of two wooden swords, followed instantly by the boom of a blade against one of the big curved scutum shields, reminded Valerius how he had planned to start the day. His first action, as it was every morning, was to oil the mottled purple stump of his right arm and fit the wooden hand on its thick cowhide socket over the end. With his teeth and the fingers of his left hand, made nimble by habit, he tightened and knotted the leather bindings. The arm had been chopped off four inches above the wrist by a Celtic battle sword and the replacement was designed to exactly match the length of the original. Satisfied, he wrapped a short kilt round his waist and set out along the deck towards the small group of men gathered just behind the bow.

As he approached, Serpentius, tall and leopard lean, walked past and whispered: ‘Beware of the puppy.’

Valerius raised an eyebrow and the Spaniard grinned, taking his seat on a coiled pile of rope. Tiberius looked relaxed as he stood among his men, dressed in a short white tunic.

‘My apologies for keeping you and your men waiting, tribune.’ Valerius took in the glances at the carved walnut fist, which, as always, ranged between amusement and contempt, either of which was better than pity.

‘No apologies required, sir.’ Tiberius smiled. ‘We were eager to get started, and put on an exhibition of basic swordplay for your slave. He seemed most interested. Perhaps you should have him trained? He has the build for it and a slave who can fight might save your life one day.’

Valerius somehow kept his face straight. ‘I will think on it, Tiberius, but a slave with a blade seems quite wrong. The Spanish rogue is as likely to slit my throat as protect me.’

A big, curve-edged shield of raw wood lay against the bowsprit and Valerius pushed his arm through the leather strap and fitted the walnut fist, which had been carved specifically to take a standard scutum, to the grip. One of the cavalrymen handed him a practice sword cut from seasoned oak and he weighed it in his left hand. It was the same length and design as the basic legionary gladius, but almost twice as heavy. It had no edge and a blunt point, but in the right hands it could still be dangerous. ‘All right, who’s first?’

The German cavalrymen eyed him warily, taking in the hard eyes and sharp-edged, angular features of a face that wore its trials like a badge of honour. One-handed or not, the scars he bore were evidence they faced a veteran fighter. Valerius had always been powerfully built, but daily practice with Serpentius had broadened his shoulders and toughened his arms and legs. The former gladiator had taught him the merits of speed and footwork as well as a useful assortment of dirty tricks from the arena. He looked confident because he was. He chose the most likely of the four. ‘You.’

‘Sir!’ The man saluted and faced up to him three paces away on the wooden deck, crouching with his shield in his left hand and the sword in his right. His first moves were tentative because he had never faced a left-handed man. Valerius allowed him to take the initiative, meeting each attack as it came and leaving it until late to counter. Gradually, the cavalryman gained confidence and his attacks were launched with more venom. Valerius let him work up a sweat before calling a halt and ordering the next man forward. There was nothing to be gained by humiliating the soldier; bad feeling in the cramped confines of a ship, even one the size of the Golden Cygnet, would only fester and spread.

The bouts proved what he had expected. The gladius was an infantry-man’s weapon, designed to be used in a shield line. Double-edged, and with a needle-sharp triangular point, it was a highly efficient, deadly weapon in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. In battle, each legionary braced his shield against the man on his right and, once they were in contact with the enemy, rammed the shield forward to create a narrow gap through which the point of his gladius could dart into an opponent’s abdomen. They were taught never to inflict a wound more than three inches deep, but when combined with the classic ripping, twisting withdrawal such injuries were invariably fatal. Valerius had seen a legionary cohort cut down a force of attacking tribesmen twice their number, like farmers harvesting a field of corn.

These men were cavalry troopers, more used to wielding the longer and heavier spatha from the saddle. The spatha was a fearsome killer in the hands of a man who knew how to use it, but the technique, basically hacking and bludgeoning an opponent’s head and neck, was entirely different from the gladius — wielder’s. It meant the men were slow and awkward on their feet, lacked any feel for the sword and held the shield as if it was an encumbrance and not a weapon of both attack and defence. He resolved to repeat the exercise every morning, so that when they left the ship they were better equipped for battle than when they boarded. He felt an unaccustomed surge of joy overwhelm the melancholy that had settled over him since he’d left Fidenae. He was a soldier again.

‘I suppose I must be next?’ Tiberius smiled absently as he untied his tunic and pulled it over his head.

For some reason Valerius felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was exactly the feeling he’d had when he’d led patrols among the innocent woods and harmless rolling hills of southern Britain, right up to the moment the innocent woods had turned out not to be so innocent and the rolling hills had spewed out fifty blood-crazed Celtic champions.

Beware of the puppy. Tiberius Crescens might have the face of a benign cherub and the bumbling awkwardness of a fledgling philosopher, but when he stripped to his loincloth Valerius immediately recognized what Serpentius had known by sheer instinct. He was facing a warrior. The young tribune had the stocky, muscular physique of a professional athlete and short, solid legs, but he balanced on his feet like a dancer. The boyish features were like the velvet glove that covered a boxer’s brass knuckles: the disguise that made you underestimate the danger beneath. There was something else, too, a fierce concentration in the eyes and a tension in the body that reminded Valerius of a bear trap ready to snap shut. The last time he’d seen the combination was at the gladiator school in Rome where he’d found the Spaniard. All that was missing was hate.