‘You can rest when you’re dead, and that might be sooner than you think if we don’t get out of here. Is any of that yours?’
Valerius looked down to where the Batavian’s lifeblood had poured over his torso. ‘I don’t think so, but my head hurts.’
Serpentius put his hand to the raw pink wound on his friend’s scalp and Valerius flinched. ‘Nothing that a little sheep fat won’t cure.’ He pulled the Roman to his feet and looked him over. ‘You’re a mess, but you’ll live. What happened to your hand?’
Valerius glanced at the stump of his right wrist. With all that had occurred since Claudius Victor had thrown the walnut fist in the fire he’d completely forgotten its absence. Now he was assailed by the same agonizing sense of loss he’d experienced at the time. Still he managed a smile. ‘It was only a lump of wood. I can always get another, and better to lose it than endure what that Batavian bastard had in mind for me.’
The Spaniard eyed the pair of stakes standing like grave markers in the centre of the clearing and his features darkened. ‘If any of them had lived I’d have left their leader something to remember us by.’
Valerius looked to where the fire still blazed and around twenty men were stripping the bodies of the dead and tending to two of their own who would soon be joining them. ‘Just who is us?’
‘I knew I couldn’t do anything alone,’ Serpentius explained, ‘so I thought I’d look for reinforcements. The big lad, Cornelius Metto, is a centurion from the Twenty-second Primigenia. He’s been around, he doesn’t think much of Vitellius and he didn’t want to end his enlistment as a rebel. The rest are the legionaries from the fort at Moguntiacum who refused to throw down the Emperor’s statues. I found out they were being held in a stockade outside the fort. They were for the axe, if they were lucky, so they didn’t take a lot of persuading. After that it was simple enough to break them out and they knew the way to the armoury.’
Valerius took a second to consider the frightening reality behind that bald statement before he used the contents of a Batavian water skin to wash the rapidly congealing blood from his body. He picked up his tunic, but it was torn beyond repair.
‘I was thinking that one of our dead German friends might have something that would fit you,’ Serpentius suggested. ‘In fact, I don’t think it would do any harm if we all turned into Batavian wolf men for a few days, at least until we’re somewhere safer than this.’
When Valerius had found a sweat-stinking, verminous tunic and a mail shirt that more or less fitted he called the legionaries together. There were still at least three hours until dawn and he could see the wariness in their eyes in the firelight. These were men who, in the elation of freedom, had agreed to help their saviour. Who knew how much more they were willing to give? He met their gaze one by one. ‘You will for ever have the thanks of Gaius Valerius Verrens and you may call on him for aid if ever you need it. When I return to Rome I will make sure that the Emperor hears of your loyalty and your valour.’ At the word Rome a mutter ran through the assembled soldiers and Metto barked a command for quiet. Valerius continued. ‘I cannot order you to come with me, and those who do not will not suffer in any way, but there will be rewards and honour for every man who accompanies us. Those who wish to should take a step forward.’
About a third of them complied, which was more than he expected. The rest formed a delegation behind a wiry decurion who said they’d rather take their chances heading for Gaul, if your honour didn’t mind. Metto, the bearded centurion, stepped forward threateningly, but Valerius waved him back.
‘I don’t command these men. They have the right to make their own decisions and I only want willing volunteers.’ He told Metto to split the Batavian supplies between the two groups. They were fortunate that most of the remaining legionaries could ride, after a fashion, or were willing to try when the alternative was being hunted down by the comrades of the slaughtered Batavians. He reminded them of what lay ahead. ‘They will not give up. Their leader will not allow them to; he is not that kind of man. He said he would not return until dawn, which should give us four hours by the time he works out which direction we’ve taken. We won’t get far in open country, so I intend to go back to the road and make as much distance as we can before daylight without tiring the horses. Remember, without your horse you are a dead man. Gather as much fodder as he can carry, but don’t overload him. We’ll ride night and day, rest when the horses begin to tire and not before, and stop for water when they need to drink, not us. Now, let us ride.’