Sword of Rome(129)

In the morning, Valerius broke his fast with Serpentius among the gladiators who were his new command, and waited until the Emperor’s convoy began to line up for the journey back to Brixellum. The carriage carrying Domitia had a place in the centre of the column, as part of the Emperor’s baggage train and close to the civil servants who travelled everywhere with him. He’d hoped at least to see her and try to convey some message, but the vehicle’s heavy curtain remained closed.

‘I would have thought you would have better things to do with your time.’ The familiar sneering voice came from behind and he turned to find Titus Flavius Domitianus looking down at him from the saddle of a fine black stallion. Just for a second it seemed a good idea to tip him off into the churned-up dirt, but Valerius resisted the impulse and the younger man continued. ‘You may find it difficult to believe, but I hope you survive the battle. My servant died and my uncle Sabinus is preparing murder charges against you. It will be my pleasure to see you in the carcer as you await your fate. As for the lady,’ he sniffed condescendingly, ‘she is my responsibility now.’

There was something about the way he said responsibility that conveyed much more. Valerius smiled and moved closer to the fidgeting horse. Domitianus froze when he felt the point tickling his thigh.

‘I hope you understand your obligations, little man. Because if any harm comes to the lady, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you one at a time. Nod if you understand.’ Domitianus’s head twitched. ‘Good, we understand each other. Now go away. I’m sure you have something better to do.’

Domitianus reluctantly complied with his dismissal, but with a murderous look that told Valerius he had made an enemy for life. And a dangerous enemy at that. With a last glance at the coach, he walked away towards the gladiator lines. To a new command, a new battle, and, if the gods willed it, a new victory.

He was a heartbeat too late to see the curtain flick back and catch the desperate eyes and the lips that moved in a silent message.

‘Come for me.’





XLV


Marcus Salvius Otho Augustus delayed his departure long enough to make a rousing speech which extolled honour, duty and courage and his right to rule as directed by the Senate and people of Rome. It was a fine speech, with Otho at his charming, persuasive best, and its message was that they could not lose. The legions cheered him to the heavens.

But later, as they watched the Emperor ride away with an escort of six cohorts of elite Praetorian Guards, Valerius felt the mood change. There were no cries or protests, but he could see the looks of puzzlement and disappointment in the faces of Juva and the First Adiutrix, and Marcus and his gladiators. For the first time he realized the true magnitude of Otho’s misjudgement.

‘They think he’s deserting them,’ Serpentius voiced the unspoken thought.

Celsus had claimed no Emperor since Augustus had fought beside his legions. But those legions had not been fighting a civil war, they had been fighting for the expansion of the Empire against barbarians. In the coming days, Otho’s legions would meet fellow Roman citizens in battle, and would be fighting not for the Empire, but for a man. Now that man was riding to safety, leaving them to serve under leaders in whom they had little or no trust, and, worse, he was taking with him three thousand men who should have been fighting at their side.

Valerius was reminded of that moment during a conference of senior officers two days later beside the Via Postumia. They had covered barely twelve miles on the first day, delayed by confusion in the baggage train. Today they had marched until the sixth hour across the flat, featureless landscape on a raised causeway barely wide enough to take eight men, bounded by ditches that would hamper the legions’ ability to deploy into battle order. Paulinus wanted to leave the road and make camp for the night, arguing there was no point in going any further before nightfall. ‘We can set up a defensive position here and be on the outskirts of Cremona tomorrow with a full twelve hours of daylight ahead. There is ample water and the ground is soft enough to dig.’

‘We should continue.’ Licinius Proculus, the Praetorian prefect, had accompanied Otho’s brother Titianus from Rome and shared his authority. ‘We can march another four or five miles before we have to make camp. Perhaps age wearies you, consul?’ The words were accompanied by a smile but his voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’m sure we can find you a carriage.’

Paulinus had commanded great armies and fought more battles than he could count. The insult made no more than a scuff on his armour. ‘You are right, Proculus, I am getting old, but I am perfectly capable of riding another five miles. And age means I need not defer to a man whose closest acquaintance with the blood and guts of battle has been breaking plebeian heads in the Forum during a bread riot.’ The barb was accompanied by a vicious, shark-toothed smile. ‘If we meet the enemy on the march, he will have travelled four miles and be as fresh as the moment he broke fast. We will have marched thirty in two days and even you must have noted the shambles behind us.’ He gestured back along the road, where auxiliaries mixed haphazardly with legionaries, and pack mules and baggage carts had forced great gaps between cohorts and centuries. ‘Only a fool would put himself in a position where his foes could bring him to battle with two hours to darkness. You have fought a night action, perhaps, Proculus, in your bed at the Castra Praetoria?’