Douglas Jackson: Saviour of Rome

‘You were right,’ he whispered to himself. He picked up one of the dull grey metal bars stacked inside and weighed it in his hand before returning it to its place. It took only moments to open a second chest, with similar results. Satisfied with what he’d discovered, he crawled across the remaining chests and looked past the edge of the leather wagon cover. He’d been informed the second to last wagon was also suspect and he’d planned to inspect the contents if he could. One look told him it was impossible. The driver was back at the head of his bullock with his stick raised ready to encourage the beast into movement.

Enough. Serpentius crept to the rear of the cart, slipped over the sill and wriggled through the grass towards the nearest patch of scrub.

He was halfway when he heard the shout and the thunder of hooves in the distance. The trooper had been returning to his rearguard position when he thought he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of something moving amongst the tussocks. Now the something became a man who rose to his feet and sprinted for the much too distant slope. The cavalryman, a bearded veteran, grinned and hefted the seven-foot spear in his right hand, already anticipating the kill. He’d been denied the opportunity of skewering one of the bandits who’d ventured too far into the river to taunt his comrades, but this one was as good as dead. He directed the leaf-shaped iron point at the centre of the cloth-covered back and kicked his mount into an easy canter.

Serpentius glanced over his shoulder and gauged his lead over the approaching trooper. He knew he had no chance of reaching the slope, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the man’s comrades as possible. The Spaniard felt no fear, quite the opposite. In combat he’d always found an icy calm that channelled what other men called fear into a potent mix of speed and agility. The attribute had kept him alive against men who thought they were quicker and better. He’d already noted the way the auxiliary handled his spear and the fact he was in no hurry, which spoke of an expert cavalryman. He could almost read the man’s mind: an easy kill, simpler by far than spearing a hare on the run or a wild boar. But Serpentius had faced mounted killers many times and the trooper’s experience only made him predictable. Certain elements of the strike would be ingrained on his soul. Without warning the Spaniard changed his angle so he appeared to be running diagonally for the safety of the slope. He heard a triumphant shout as the cavalryman altered course to follow him.

The more opponents Serpentius faced in the arena, the clearer it became to him that survival was more than a combination of physical attributes and mental awareness. He couldn’t fully explain it, but the most successful gladiators were those who found a way to block the emotions dictating their actions. Fear, anger or enthusiasm had no place on the bloody sands of an amphitheatre. More dangerous by far was an ice-cold detachment that took a man beyond emotion and handed control to some inner sense. He remembered the superstitious awe in the eyes of the Thracian who tried to describe it. ‘It takes a special kind of courage to give yourself up to something so ethereal and allow a power beyond understanding to rule heart and mind and body, but if you can find it you may live. You have everything else, but if you don’t take that final step you’ll eventually meet a man who has.’ His finger had sliced across his throat in a gesture that had sent a shiver of dread through the young Serpentius. A few months later the Thracian won his rudis , the wooden sword that proclaimed his freedom, but he was dead within a year, stabbed in the back over some trivial gambling debt.

Now Serpentius drew back the scarf covering his face and sought the inner tranquillity that was the prelude to the cold place. His mind tuned itself to the rhythm of his feet across the dusty earth, the thunder of hooves in his ears, and the warmth of the air across his cheeks. Gradually all disappeared and he became nothing but a shadow, aware, but not part, of the world around him. In his mind he saw the horseman closing, felt the excitement building as fingers tightened on the ash shaft of the spear. Closer still. He maintained his pace, choosing not to speed up even though it would have delayed the moment. A slight adjustment in the spearhead and he knew the exact place where it would strike. The horse’s snorted breath was almost on his neck. Hardened muscles tensed for the thrust. The spear arm stiffened to take the impact. The shadow was falling. No, not falling, diving. Into a tight forward roll that took Serpentius below the spear point. A somersault that brought him back to his feet so that within two strides he was at the astonished cavalry trooper’s side. Two hands reached out, one high, one low, to grasp the spear shaft. The rider’s grip instinctively tightened. Serpentius allowed himself to fall, his weight plunging the spearhead into the earth so the rider’s own momentum catapulted him from the saddle to land on his shoulder with bone-crunching force. As the Parthian auxiliary lifted his head, gritting his teeth against the fiery pain in his left arm, the last thing he saw was the lanky whip thin figure striding out by the cantering horse’s flank before vaulting effortlessly into the saddle.

Serpentius abandoned his mount near a hill village west of Asturica Augusta and took to rocky mountain paths where he would leave no tracks for any pursuer. He reached the city long after nightfall, but he knew the man he sought would still be at work. The town watch had barred the great double gates and he didn’t choose to draw the attention of the guards in the twin towers. Instead, he kept to the shadows beyond the city walls until he found the quadrant he was looking for. Asturica’s walls had originally been built for defence, but now their main function was to control the passing of those doing business in the district capital. Yet for a man with friends there were always ways to circumvent such obstacles. The small iron gate at the base of the stonework had once been used to access a well in the gully that ran below. The well had long dried up and the gate went out of use. Tonight, it would be open.

When Serpentius pulled at the heavy iron door he tensed for the scream of rusted metal, but he had nothing to fear. Meticulous to the last detail, someone had oiled the ancient hinges. He waited until a cloud obscured the full moon and slipped through the feet-thick wall into an unlit street. A momentary hesitation to search his surroundings for any patrolling vigiles and he was on the move again.

The house was on the north side of the city, part of an impressive block in a wealthy area frequented by lawyers who did the majority of their business at the nearby basilica. Serpentius became ever more watchful as he reached the street. Two lamps marked the entrance and he studied it for a count of a hundred to make sure it wasn’t under surveillance by anyone else. When he was certain he retraced his steps and darted into a stygian alley that flanked the side wall of the house. Without pausing he slipped across the wall with the help of a few handily positioned cracks in the masonry. His old friend had laughed at this excessive caution, but Serpentius reflected that it was obsession to detail that had kept him alive for so long. He crouched in the shadow of the wall for a few moments, noting that the shutters of one room were open a few inches allowing the dull glow of a small oil lamp to show. It was the signal that the man was alone and waiting to see him.

The Spaniard crossed the garden in a dozen strides and walked confidently through an open door and along the familiar painted corridor. He paused on the threshold. It was a big room, part bureaucratic headquarters and part dining room, with a half partition across the centre to divide the two functions. To his left the dining area lay in darkness, but shadows flickered on the walls of the office with its wooden niches filled with scrolls. It was only when he stepped inside and his nostrils picked up the familiar metallic tang that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. He should have run, but his feet carried him forward of their own volition. The slumped figure lay across the broad table and he might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for the great dark stain spread across the documents he’d been reading. Knowing it was pointless, Serpentius stepped forward and reached out for the shoulder of the man who’d been his friend.