Douglas Jackson - Saviour of Rome

Piso looked sceptical. ‘But wasn’t Sertorius defeated in the end by Pompey?’

‘Not defeated, betrayed,’ Melanius insisted. ‘He believed his position powerful enough to deter any attack from Rome. We will not make the same mistake. This is not about Hispania, it is about seeing you hailed Emperor, by the Senate and people of Rome. When we march on Rome Vespasian is finished. An emperor needs the support of the army, the Senate and the mob. We have the Senate, he does not yet have the mob. We have the Sixth, the Tenth and the majority of the legions of Germania. All it takes is the defection of one or two more legions and we cannot be stopped. Caesar crossed his Rubicon. The moment we cross the Iberus, there is no turning back.’

The sentiment brought a sickly smile from Piso. He’d long dreamed of deposing Vespasian, winning the purple and of reclaiming his illustrious family’s destiny. Now he was on the brink of attempting it he’d begun to question whether he was up to the task. His lofty ambitions had provoked scorn from his friends and only Melanius seemed to understand. The older man had encouraged him, pointed out men who could help, and ways the dream might become a reality. Melanius had somehow won the cooperation of Proculus and the support of the Sixth, without which none of this would be happening.

Melanius provided the funds with which he had drawn tribunes from the legions on the Rhenus frontier into the plot. Melanius supplied the fortune that allowed him to win assurances of cooperation from the commander of the Tenth legion.

But what were those assurances truly worth?

He tried to remember the wording of the letters, letters that would destroy him if they ever found their way to the Palatine. But did it really matter? If they failed he would be dead anyway. A shudder ran through him at the thought. No, they could not fail. When ten thousand soldiers appeared at the gates of Tarraco, Gaius Plinius Secundus would have no choice but to surrender or flee. Piso saw himself being magnanimous in victory and his mood lifted. First Tarraco, then Hispania, and before Vespasian had the chance to react, on to Rome. To victory and immortality.

Claudius Harpocration nudged his horse a little closer to Melanius. ‘We will reach the river soon. Time to water the horses and allow the legionaries to catch up.’

Melanius nodded his agreement. He looked over his shoulder to where the cohort banner of the Sixth was barely visible. ‘I will talk to Proculus and insist the Sixth keep their position.’

Harpocration shrugged. It wasn’t for him to say that it would be much more sensible to dismount and walk their horses occasionally. Melanius was neither inclined nor suited to walking.

They’d ridden another half mile and the hills that marked the line of the river were in sight when one of the Parthian scouts rode up at the gallop and snapped out a report to his commander.

‘What is he saying?’ Melanius demanded.

Harpocration looked thoughtful. ‘It seems someone is trying to bar our way to the river.’

‘But why?’ Melanius shook his head. ‘No one can know … Could it be bandits?’

The tribune snarled a question at his scout. ‘Not bandits,’ Harpocration said when he’d listened to the reply. ‘Local tribesmen armed with axes and sickles. Perhaps a hundred of them.’

‘Should we talk to them?’ Severus looked shocked at this unexpected development.

‘You don’t talk to vermin, you slaughter them.’ Harpocration barked an order to the escort. ‘The only thing barring your way when you reach the river will be their dead bodies.’ He pulled his horse around and took his place at the head of the column of riders who’d formed up in fours at his command. ‘I’ll leave you half a squadron,’ he called to Melanius. ‘Wait here for the infantry to come up.’

Melanius watched them trot away. He looked back to the two legionary cohorts. They were still a long way off, but the little knot of Parthians gave him a feeling of security. Harpocration’s cavalry would soon deal with a few peasants. But the question of why they were there niggled at him. Finally a face swam into view, a beautiful face that always assumed an expression of contempt when she encountered him. He turned to Severus as a sudden flurry of rage rose in him. ‘You fool. You told your wife-’

‘No,’ Severus spluttered. ‘I-’

Melanius would have struck him, but for the warning shout from one of the escorts. ‘Look!’

Valerius and Serpentius waited in the depths of the gully, their mounts skittish beneath them as they sensed the nervousness of the men in their saddles. Around them, the hawkish bearded faces of the Asturians were set in grim resolution as they waited in the growing tension murmuring quietly to their horses or muttering prayers to whichever god they thought would aid them. Valerius was certain the hillmen would do their tasks to the best of their ability. The only question was whether their best would be good enough. Hidden amongst the rocks above, Allius called out the progress of the column, estimating the narrowing gap at every count of a hundred. Valerius could visualize what he was seeing. The head of the snake. It was just as Serpentius had predicted. Melanius, Severus and their Parthian escort had forged ahead of the legionary infantry.

‘They’ve seen the men at the river.’ The hidden informant couldn’t conceal his excitement.

Valerius shifted his grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of the unfamiliar, scythe-like Asturian sword. Beside him, Serpentius sat utterly immobile, his lined features a mask of concentration.

‘They’re talking,’ the disembodied voice announced. ‘Yes. Now the hook-noses are moving into formation. They’ve taken the bait.’

‘Wait!’ Serpentius snarled as one of the riders pushed his mount towards the entrance. ‘Another inch and I’ll take your head off.’

‘How many of the escort have they left?’ Valerius demanded.

‘Not more than twenty.’

Valerius turned to Serpentius. ‘We go the moment Tito retreats across the river.’ The Spaniard passed on the instruction to the others in his own language.

‘Where are they now?’ Valerius’s throat was so dry the words emerged as a croak. The timing of their attack was utterly crucial. He couldn’t afford to allow Melanius and his Parthian escort to get too far past the entrance to the gully. To do so would take them closer to the main cavalry force at the river and risk bringing the two cohorts of the Sixth within pilum range.

‘The cavalry or the fat man and his friends?’

‘Both.’

‘The cavalry are forming line short of the river. The fat man is fifty paces short of the gully.’

A few moments later the distant blare of a cavalry trumpet broke the silence. It was the sound of the charge. If Tito wasn’t retreating across the river by now his little force would be cut to pieces.

‘Now!’ Valerius shouted the order.

The Asturian riders burst from the gully in an untidy bunch, but by the time they’d gone twenty strides they’d formed a ragged version of an attack line. The only sound that accompanied their charge was the rhythm of hooves on the hard-packed earth. Valerius wanted no shouts or screams to alert the enemy. They headed directly for the flank of the little group of riders two hundred paces to their front. Valerius and Serpentius rode a little behind the main line, curbing their mounts to stop their fleeter horses overtaking the smaller Asturian beasts. The plan called for the Asturians to draw the attention of the Parthians and hold it. In the chaos that followed, the Roman and the Spaniard would find a way through to Melanius, Severus and Piso. Valerius glanced to his right where the First cohort of the Sixth were marching down the road four abreast, the long, compact column of legionaries disappearing into the distance. How would Proculus react when he realized what was happening? The best scenario for Valerius was if he perceived a real threat and formed a defensive square. That would keep the legionaries static long enough for his party to do what they’d come to do or die in the attempt.