Sword of Rome(93)
And this was only the beginning.
XXXV
Valerius fought to hold on to the tiny sliver of hope that still existed deep at the very centre of him, to harbour the mental and physical strength that had seen him through every crisis. In his heart, survival was still possible, however unlikely. But in his mind Claudius Victor had already won. Better for you to think yourself already dead. The Batavians kept the fire banked high so he could see the instruments of torture which, by one road or another, would tomorrow bring him an eternity of suffering that could only be ended by merciful death. The guards entertained themselves by spitting in his face or holding a glowing branch against his flesh to remind him of what was to come. Their victim’s lack of reaction to his humiliation or the stink of singed hair and burned skin disappointed them, and only made them try all the harder. Valerius endured, drawing deeper within himself to escape the agonizing pain of the ropes cutting into his flesh. Despite his agony and the chill of the night, at one point he somehow managed to sleep, though even here the horrors he would endure at dawn followed him. Yet from within his tormented dreams an unlikely hope tempted him in the whispered voice of a ghost that seemed to come from very far away.
He came instantly alert. In fact, the whisper came from behind the trunk, on the side hidden from the men by the fire. Serpentius. ‘I’m cutting the ropes,’ the Spaniard informed him, ‘so you’ll only be held by a single strand. Do you think you’ll have the strength to break it when the time comes?’
Valerius felt a renewed surge of energy that almost made him cry out. Instead, he kept his head bowed so his captors wouldn’t see his lips move. ‘When will that be?’
‘Soon. You’ll know when it happens.’
‘Just free me and go,’ the Roman urged. ‘There are twenty of them and only one of you. All you’re doing is handing them another piece of meat to cook.’
‘Maybe, and maybe not,’ Serpentius grunted. ‘I’m sticking a sword in the ground at the base of the tree. When you free yourself, pick it up and kill anything that gets in your way.’
Valerius waited for further instructions, but there was only silence. His mind whirled. Was it possible they could get out of this alive? He almost laughed, because it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he wouldn’t have to endure the horrors these German savages had planned for him. He would escape or die in the attempt, and if he died he’d take as many of these Batavian bastards with him as possible. He was tempted to test his bonds, but he knew that if the rope snapped and fell away prematurely the Batavians would be on him like a pack of the wolves they so admired. He couldn’t feel his left hand and he would need it for the sword. He flexed the fingers until the blood flowed again and pains shot up his wrist. You’ll know when it happens. When what happens?
He didn’t have long to wait.
A Batavian with a flat moon face and slits for eyes picked up a brand from the fire and marched towards him. Valerius watched him come, the wild, untamed features a vision from Hades in the firelight. When he was halfway to the tree Valerius heard the sharp snap of a branch splitting and the auxiliary appeared to walk into an invisible wall. Without another sound he fell backwards. His slack-jawed comrades stared in stunned disbelief until someone noticed the Scythian throwing axe embedded in their comrade’s skull. As one, they began to rise. But they were much too slow.
A second axe took the man closest to the fire in the chest and he pirouetted into the flames with a shriek of agony. In the same instant, a hail of legionary pila killed or wounded half the remaining guards and a wave of howling figures launched themselves from the shadows. Most of the Batavians died in those first seconds, cut down by the blades of their attackers. But one warrior decided his last moments would be best used ensuring the prisoner met the painful end his lord had decreed. It might not be the drawn-out torment Claudius Victor had in mind, but the skinning knife in his hand would do the job. Valerius searched the darkness for Serpentius, but the Spaniard was lost in a maelstrom of whirling blades and dying men. He hurled himself from the tree and cried out in astonishment when the ropes snapped so easily that he flopped at his attacker’s feet. The Batavian lunged with the curved knife, a scything cut that would have opened Valerius from groin to breastbone if he hadn’t rolled out of reach. The Roman scrabbled frantically backwards using the tree as cover, his left hand reaching for the sword he knew was hidden there. A wild burst of elation as his fingers found the hilt, gone in the same instant as a hand wrapped itself in his hair and hauled his head back to expose his throat. With a convulsive heave he threw himself away from the sweeping blade, his vision turning red as a bolt of agony tore through his scalp. At the same time he stabbed blindly with the sword as the cavalryman tried to pin him with his body. With a high-pitched scream the squirming mass above him became a dead weight and Valerius lay back with a warm liquid feeling spreading gently over his stomach and chest. He would have been happy to lie there for ever if someone hadn’t hauled the dead Batavian off to reveal a bony, grinning face looming above him.