Douglas Jackson: Scourge of Rome

Valerius pulled the torch free from the bag, but one touch of the soaking pitch-covered rag told him it would never light. ‘I don’t know for certain.’ His voice echoed and he understood they must be in one of the areas where the roof was far above. ‘All we can do is keep going until we reach the exit.’ He reached out for her and drew the shivering body against his. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘All I did was what you told me to.’

‘I know, but thank you anyway.’

They pushed ahead through waist-deep water, successfully skirting the sinkhole that had almost swallowed Serpentius. After two or three false alarms, they reached a point where the tunnel definitely disappeared beneath the surface and Valerius judged they must be close to the entrance.

‘I think this is it.’

‘You think?’

‘There’s only one way to find out. Take my-’

He heard a splash. Silence answered his desperate cry of ‘Tabitha?’ ‘Mars’ sacred arse,’ he cursed. ‘The gods save me from beautiful women with minds of their own.’ He dived under the surface and pushed his way forward with strong, powerful strokes. There came a moment when he sensed the tunnel widen. A few strokes later the darkness faded to be replaced with a dull red glow and he clawed his way to the surface. To his right, Tabitha was already climbing the steps of the Pool of Siloam. She had the folds of her dress in her hands and was squeezing water from them. He called out to her, but she only had eyes for the sky to their north.

It was on fire.

As Serpentius sat in the darkness trying to control the shaking in his hands, his mind tried to come to terms with the enormity of what had just happened. The voices in the passageway faded and finally disappeared altogether and he’d never been more alone. More alone, even, than when he walked out on to the bloody sand of the arena to take another man’s life in front of twenty thousand blood-hungry vultures. He felt a rush of revulsion for a people whose combined value as human beings didn’t add up to the life of the single brave gladiator who knew he was about to die. How many times had he walked into danger at the side of Gaius Valerius Verrens? And all he’d ever felt was pride that Valerius chose him, a Spanish peasant, to be his friend and comrade. Even as a slave he’d known that pride, but when Valerius made him a free man it grew tenfold. And now he’d failed him.

Serpentius of Avala did not experience fear, or at least not as other men experienced it. Something inside him had always distilled the essence of fear into an elixir of power: a quickness of hand and eye and a mental dexterity that allowed him to think four moves ahead when the very best he faced could think only two. The Romans would never have taken him but for the lust for revenge that made him stand fast when he should have run. In the arena, the combination of skill and speed made him feared and respected. When others tried to make an ally of him, even a friend, he despised them for their weakness. He preferred to be hated.

Valerius had rescued him from the arena when his stubborn refusal to entertain was about to get him killed, matched against fifteen or twenty in a contest with only one end. In his turn he repaid Valerius with loyalty, and by teaching him how to turn a talent for soldiering into a talent for killing. It had been as much of a surprise to one as to the other when comradeship evolved into a type of wary friendship, and, eventually, into something beyond friendship. He looked towards the entrance slab he’d just replaced. There was still time. Valerius needed him and all he had to do was remove the stone and walk down the stairs into the darkness. But the very thought of it made him feel sick and the shakes got worse. When he willed his legs to move nothing happened.

He was a coward.

Eventually he managed to raise himself up. He retraced his steps up the slope past the tombs and exchanged watchwords with the guards at the gateway of the Tenth’s camp. He found the tent with his equipment and sat with his head in his hands. Gradually, the terror faded and his mind began to clear. There was one way to erase the shame of what had happened earlier. Valerius hadn’t told him everything about tonight’s mission, but the Spaniard’s instinct was that his friend and Tabitha were going into great danger. Valerius had said to meet him at the temple. He would do better. He would be there waiting for him.

And there was only one way to do it. He would join the attack on the Antonia.

He retrieved his horse from the lines and made his way west. Lepidus had said the Fifth was the legion with the best chance of making a breakthrough, so it was to the Fifth he rode. His route took him through the rear ranks of the Fifteenth as their siege rams continued to batter the north flank of the fortress. At a point where a few buildings survived he dismounted and continued on foot, instinctively following the sound of fighting, reading every nuance in the ebb and flow of the battle. The houses and apartments around him subdued the muffled roar, but he knew he was going in the right direction. Wounded men passed him in a stream, stumbling, staggering and crawling the opposite way.

An increase in volume confirmed his suspicion that he was approaching the Antonia. A little later he reached an area where the engineers had levelled entire streets to allow the Fifth Macedonica to deploy. Illuminated by the light of a thousand torches the Fifth’s cohorts had packed into the confined space. Across their heads Serpentius could see that a combination of ram and mine had brought down the southern tower of the fort’s western frontage. Marked by the burning oil the defenders had poured down it, the rubble from the collapse had provided the Romans with a new, unplanned third ramp. In a stroke of good fortune it formed a narrow valley that led to not just the upper walls of the Antonia, but to the adjoining angle of the temple portico.

Cerealis urged his men forward, the centurions screaming at them to take the wall and reminding them of the plunder that lay beyond it. To Serpentius those walls meant Valerius, and this time he would not fail his friend. He pushed his way through the soldiers, only to be blocked by the sheer mass waiting their turn to face death in the assault on the fortress.

And death was what awaited them.

John of Gischala and his Galileans were as aware of the importance of the breach as the Romans they fought. He’d placed his best men there, including James, the Idumaean general he had once called enemy. With him came the hill warriors who’d been the shock troops of Jerusalem’s defence. Every Roman who ran the gauntlet of spears, darts and rocks to reach the top of the valley was driven back in a welter of blood. Serpentius saw that the only way to break the deadlock was by a concerted assault, but the centuries who made the attempt were always broken up before they reached the summit. Only the bravest would make the final climb to certain death, and many hesitated. Serpentius looked around, but he couldn’t find the men he sought. What they needed were archers to sweep the walls with their arrows and cover the next assault. But Titus had always been short of archers and their lack was blunting his best chance of taking the tower and the temple.

The Spaniard forced his way through to where Cerealis stood directing the attack with his senior officers. Titus was absent, and Serpentius guessed he would be with the Fifteenth. The legate’s guards stepped in front of him, but Cerealis recognized the whip-thin figure with the scarred head and welcomed him with a tight smile.

‘Ah, Verrens’ Spanish wolf. Where is your master? Our commander has been most concerned.’

Serpentius ignored the question. ‘If you could concentrate your artillery on what’s left of the tower and the angle of the temple wall, I’d be prepared to lead the next assault.’