Sword of Rome(91)

Serpentius stared at him, the whites of his eyes gleaming like fireflies in the soft glow of the dying embers. Without a sound, he dropped to the damp earth and slithered into the darkness. Meanwhile, Valerius backed away from the entrance to the makeshift enclosure to prepare the horses. He worked silently to untie the pack with his left hand and distribute what supplies he could between the two cavalry mounts. No question of taking the lead animal. It would be a quick prayer and a mad neck-or-nothing dash into the darkness with swords flying. The tactic had worked before when Valerius and his patrol had been trapped beyond the Danuvius by a horde of Dacian warriors. If Serpentius could find a weak spot in the enemy perimeter they had a chance; if not … well, the gods would decide.

As he worked at the leather straps the slightest movement caught the corner of his eye. A shadow that wasn’t quite a shadow. He froze, not daring to breathe. Serpentius? But when his eyes probed deeper he realized the ground beyond the fence was a living carpet. He wrapped the reins of the Spaniard’s mount round the wooden fist and vaulted into his saddle, simultaneously drawing his sword and kicking the beast’s ribs. Too late. They were on him before the animal reacted, swarming across the fence in a howling rush that matched the wolf cloaks they wore. Hands clawed at his legs and he hacked at a snarling face that fell away in a screaming welter of blood. Another took its place and received the same treatment, but they were all around Valerius and no matter how often the blade connected, a new threat always appeared. With every second he expected to feel the agonizing bite of spear or sword, but it never came. The horse shied and he felt himself being hauled from the saddle and pinned to the damp earth, kicks and punches raining down on him, accompanied by animal grunts and howls. Rough hands pinned his sword arm and prised the blade from his fist. Now, he thought. It will end now. Instead, a guttural command cut short the assault and he was dragged to his feet in a circle of snarling faces that demanded blood vengeance for the four men who lay groaning in pools of darkness.

A tall figure marched out of the shadows, his face hidden by the wolf’s mask that covered his head. The soldier bent towards the fire and stirred the glowing ashes until the brand he held caught light. He raised it to illuminate the prisoner’s face and the glow caught the expressionless features beneath the hood. Valerius’s breath died in his chest when he recognized his captor.

Twenty paces away, hidden in the trees, Serpentius froze as the torch flared and he saw the face from the blood-soaked field by the Rhodanus. He had already killed four of the Germans, but they swarmed in the woods all around and he knew his time was running out. His first instinct was a red-eyed impulse to rush his enemies and free Valerius or die in the attempt. But that would not help his friend. He had to find another way. He slid backwards and disappeared further into the brush as his hunters closed in.

Claudius Victor fixed Valerius with his pale eyes and the Roman flinched at the malignant spark of triumph he saw in their otherwise lifeless depths. The Batavian studied him for more than a minute, as if he was trying to work out what lay beneath the skin of the scarred face. He reached out and his fingers gently caressed the carved walnut fist. Valerius automatically flinched away and felt the skin crawl on a hand that had been buried in the ash of a Celtic hovel for eight years. Fear formed a squirming ball in his guts and he fought it as it rose to fill his chest and throat. He had never needed his wits more, and if he allowed fear to overwhelm his mind all would be lost. Somehow he had to talk his way out of this.

‘I carry dispatches from Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Augustus to Marcus Salvius Otho and any man who stands in my way risks the wrath of the one or the other.’ He spoke the words with all the authority and arrogance he could muster, but the Batavian barely acknowledged them. His thin lips twitched, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgement that the situation was not without a certain humour. Without warning, the hand that had been touching the wooden fist came up in a backhanded sweep that took Valerius on the right cheek, making him stagger back and filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood.

‘You carry nothing, Roman, and you are nothing. Better for you to think yourself already dead, for you will soon wish you were. I see you remember me. What else do you remember of that day?’ The voice was soft and low, almost seductive, but there was an unhinged quality to it, as if the speaker was teetering on the edge of terrible violence or screaming madness. ‘Answer me.’ The hand came up again, and Valerius reeled from the power of it.

‘I remember a fight. Men died when there was no need, as there is no need for this. If my message gets through, war may be avoided. Do you want to be responsible for thousands of deaths?’ The question was aimed not at the man who faced him, who he guessed would slaughter thousands at a whim and think no more of it than of sacrificing a chicken, but at the ring of pale faces whose dark eyes gleamed like shards of quartz in the torchlight.