Douglas Jackson: Saviour of Rome

That vulnerability was the reason he’d ordered them to stay on the far side of the river and avoid contact. Their presence was a ruse designed to provide Serpentius with an opportunity, nothing more. He didn’t want anyone killed, on either side. In truth he’d been reluctant to use them at all. But his friend needed his help and there was no other way.

Serpentius reached the plain, but deliberately kept well back from the convoy, ready to drop into the skimpy cover of the dried grass and scrubby bushes that carpeted the valley bottom. Concealment became more difficult as he advanced and the valley narrowed. He slowed as the ford came into sight in the distance. The river here suited his purposes almost perfectly: not too shallow, fast flowing even in summer, fed by a thousand cool streams that tumbled from the rugged, cloud-wreathed mountains to the north.

With the convoy in view he had no choice but to go to ground. He dropped to his belly and crawled forward until he could see two clearly agitated horsemen peering past the last wagon in the direction of the river. The faint sound of shouted orders reached him, but there was no evidence yet of panic. It made sense for the infantry to remain in position while the cavalry vanguard assessed the strength of the force contesting their river crossing.

He knew what would be going through the escort commander’s mind. Was the threat only to his front, or was there a greater force ready to fall from the heights on to his flanks and rear? Until he was certain of the answer the infantry would stay by the wagons searching the ground around them for signs of bandits. Serpentius created a shallow nest in the dry earth and waited with tiny black ants crawling over his body and the scent of thyme in his nostrils. He pulled a scrap of stale bread from the pouch at his belt and chewed at it to extract what nourishment he could. When the sun had moved a certain distance across the great blue bowl above he risked another glance through the bushes. One of the cavalry rearguard had ridden off towards the head of the column, accompanied by half the infantry. Gambling that their advance would attract the focus of their comrades he slithered towards the rearmost wagon in a smooth, undulating crawl that would have graced his serpentine namesake.

A whiff of rank sweat from one of the bullocks told him he was close enough for now. He burrowed into the prickly depths of a thick patch of gorse and waited. His plan, such as it was, could hardly be described as detailed. First, they had to stop the convoy at a moment and in a location where the escort commander would have no choice but to form a defensive perimeter for the night. Naturally, the man would send a messenger for reinforcements, and Serpentius heard a shouted conversation and a clatter of hooves on the road that confirmed he’d just done so. Had he been inclined, the Spaniard could very easily have ambushed the courier further up the trail, but why take the risk when the closest available troops were several hours away? Now it was just a matter of waiting for an opportunity.

A few hundred paces distant his Asturians would be making occasional appearances among the rocks and keeping the auxiliaries’ attention with insults and threats. The first attempts would already have been made to shift them, but the threat of a lead slingshot hurled with enough force to take out an eye and pierce the brain would make even the bravest man pause. More infantry, advancing behind their painted oval shields, would soon have swept the bandits clear, but Serpentius guessed the auxiliary commander wouldn’t risk leaving the convoy entirely undefended. It meant he’d be unable to put together a sufficient force to make a decisive sortie into the jumble of boulders and gorse guarding the far side of the ford. Like Serpentius he would wait, hoping the bandits would see the futility of their position and withdraw. In the meantime the Spaniard could only pray the remaining guards would relax their vigilance long enough to give him his chance. This type of thing would have been much easier in the night, which was his natural element. But he couldn’t do what must be done in the dark.

The faintest of movements drew his gaze to the left and he froze. What he’d seen was a flickering tongue hidden in the shadows at the base of the gorse bush. Behind it dangerous bronze eyes with elliptical pupils gazed from a triangular head attached to a sinuous body the length of a gladius blade. The upturned snub nose and striped pattern on its scales told him it was an asp, the most venomous of all Hispania’s vipers, and the coiled defensive posture that it didn’t appreciate sharing its shady resting place. With infinite care Serpentius drew his right hand across his body, extended his forefinger and moved it right to left in a gentle arc. The motion attracted the snake and its head followed the waving finger, retreating as it prepared to strike. Serpentius’s left hand whipped round to take it behind the head before it had the chance. As the twisting body coiled round his wrist and the snake fought to sink its fangs into his flesh he rolled on his back, drew his dagger with his right hand and sliced the head from the body.

Hardly had he thrown the decapitated snake aside before a clamour of activity broke out somewhere close to the head of the convoy. He peered between the gorse stems in time to see the remaining rearguard mount his horse and ride towards the ford. At the same time, the two Parthian footsoldiers within his arc of vision looked at each other, scanned their surroundings one last time and jogged off in the wake of the trooper.

The driver of the rear cart watched them go, all his attention on what was happening further ahead. With a silent curse Serpentius realized his men had somehow overstepped themselves. Perhaps Buntalos, always keen to prove his courage, had made a feint charge too far into the ford and his comrades had been drawn after him. All it would take was the slightest miscalculation and the cavalrymen would be on them like hawks, with the infantry quick to join the bloodletting. A piercing scream confirmed his suspicions. No time for pity, even if he’d felt any. Their stupidity and their sacrifice had given him his opportunity. He slid through the scrub towards the rear wagon, one eye always on the back of the driver, who’d moved away from his charges to find a better view of the slaughter. A moment later he was hidden from potential discovery by the leather awning of the cart. He swung himself nimbly over the gate and into the bed of the wagon.

Serpentius had never been a man to show his emotions, but he felt a thrill of excitement as he recognized the vehicle’s contents. Four heavily built wooden chests stacked in the centre of the floor exactly as he’d been told, each fastened with an iron lock. The locks were sealed by red wax imprinted with the mark of the procurator. The Spaniard had no time for finesse. He knew that whoever his friend sought would quickly work out the purpose of the ambush.

A sweep of the blade sliced away the seal of the nearest chest to reveal the keyhole. From the pouch on his belt he retrieved a pointed piece of iron the length of his forefinger and narrow enough to fit into the lock. The fastening was sturdily made, but crude; familiar from the many hours he’d spent working on an identical model supplied by his friend in Asturica. He forced the iron rod into the keyhole and began to exert pressure in a certain way that would spring the mechanism. In practice he’d taken mere moments, but now his fingers felt uncharacteristically leaden. He was conscious of every passing second. His ears strained for evidence of the escort’s return. By now they’d have dealt with the ambushers and soon their suspicions would be aroused by the pitiful numbers who’d faced them. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. With a loud snap the lock opened. He lifted the lid and pulled back the linen cloth covering the contents.