‘I do not have time for these distractions. We have a war to fight and it seems I will be safer in my campaign tent than in my own palace.’ He turned to Casperius Niger who stood at his shoulder. ‘Are the preparations in place?’ The camp prefect nodded. ‘Then we will march at
dawn
. Verrens?’ Valerius straightened and Corbulo handed back the scrap of green. ‘Neither of the two auxiliary units which supplied the escort will cross the Euphrates. They will help screen the Sixth Ferrata and the Third Gallica on the march south to join Vespasian. I will leave it to you to organize their replacements with Casperius. You will suspend your investigations for the moment.’
Valerius saluted and Corbulo and his aides marched off, the governor spraying commands like slingshot pellets and the gods help the man who didn’t catch his words the first time. Only Mucianus lingered, crouched over Turpio, studying the dead face and the awful red gash in the pale throat.
‘I see no murderer,’ he said carefully. ‘All I see is a slave sacrificed for expediency.’ He looked up and stared into Valerius’s eyes. ‘I know where your loyalties lie, tribune. I warned General Corbulo against keeping you too close. It would not be the first time a killer has played rescuer to reach his victim. You failed with the snake and used the general’s daughter to redeem yourself. I have no doubt you will try again.’ His unrelenting gaze moved to Serpentius. The wiry Spaniard tensed and Valerius willed him to keep his hand away from his sword. Mucianus’s face twisted into a glacial smile. ‘He has the look of a killer even without a blade in his hand. But the general has been warned. He will be watching you and the next time there will be no escape.’
He turned abruptly and walked off after the governor.
‘What did he mean by knowing where your loyalties lie?’ Serpentius asked, letting out a long slow breath.
‘He thinks we have been sent here by the Emperor to kill Corbulo.’
The Spaniard spat in the direction of the retreating legate. ‘I know who I’d rather kill.’
‘We have enough problems without worrying about Mucianus.’
Serpentius nodded. ‘Like who spattered blood on those sandals General Vespasian’s son gave you?’
‘When did you steal them?’
The Spaniard feigned shock. ‘Not steal, my lord. Borrow. Only until my spares are mended. Thanks for that.’
Valerius turned to him. ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’
‘No, but whoever did it is very good.’
‘As good as you?’
Serpentius grinned. ‘I hope we’ll find out.’
Valerius looked again at the green cloth that had been in Turpio’s hand. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. If this was planted on Turpio to point us in the direction of the auxiliaries, why bother implicating you? Bluff and double bluff? It just seems too complicated.’
‘There’s a simpler explanation.’ Serpentius bent to tie the straps of his sandal. ‘Someone in the palace hears that Turpio’s been found with his throat cut and decides there’ll never be a better opportunity to get rid of us.’
‘Which means that we don’t have just one enemy to find, but two, and the chances are that they’re both about to accompany us five hundred miles into Armenia.’
XXVI
‘MY CAVALRY COMMANDER
must have a horse worthy of him.’
If beauty is the perfection of form, she was the most beautiful thing Valerius had ever seen. A groom held the reins to steady her noble head and Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, proconsul of the east and governor of Syria, stood by her shining flank. The sword that hung from the four-pommelled cavalry saddle was the ceremonial blade Valerius had pulled from Corbulo’s wall, but it had been modified for war.
With a flourish the governor drew it free and the blue-sheened blade glinted menacingly in the morning sun. ‘It has a great history and it is not right that it should spend its life as a decoration.’ Corbulo’s voice contained that unsettling mix of steel, certainty and charm that made him who he was. ‘I have had the jewels removed and the hilt bound with leather strips to improve the grip. It is a soldier’s weapon now. The balance is a little unusual. You will notice that it is weighted towards the point, but that can be an advantage when you are using a sword from horseback. Here, take it.’
Corbulo spun the weapon with a soldier’s practised hands so that the hilt was towards Valerius. The young Roman took it remembering the weight and the feel from his encounter with the snake. The sword’s energy ran through him like heat from a blazing fire. He tried two or three cuts and it was as if the blade had a life of its own. Still, he only
had
eyes for the horse, and when Corbulo spoke again it was with an old cavalryman’s pride and a glint in his eye.
‘I owe you my daughter’s life, tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens, not once, but many times. I hope you will accept this gift in part payment. She is an Akhal-Teke, from my own stables: the horse of kings.’
Valerius stared at the astonishing animal whose forefathers had carried Alexander the Great from Athens to the shores of the Indus; freshly groomed she was a work of art in polished bronze, her coat of fine hairs gleaming in the sunlight. He approached the horse’s head and allowed her to take in his scent through wide nostrils which flared and snorted as he stroked her silken ears with his good hand. Only when he was sure she knew him did he look into the glistening dark eyes behind curling lashes and knew she was his for ever, and he hers.
‘They are by nature a desert breed,’ Corbulo continued. ‘But she has a touch of Karabakh in her; not enough to affect her speed or her stamina, but enough to accustom her to the mountains. They are hardy stock and need little water.’
She was long and lean with an elegantly curving neck and a proud head. Her breast was narrow, shaped like a ship’s prow and made for cutting through the desert air when she was given her head to run free on the long, slim legs. ‘I will call you Khamsin, after the hot desert wind Hanno warned me about,’ Valerius thought, only he must have spoken aloud because Corbulo nodded. ‘Yes, Khamsin. A great name for a great horse.’
‘Why don’t you try her?’ The familiar soft voice was betrayed by an edge of suppressed emotion. How had he not noticed she was there? He turned and realized that Khamsin was not the most beautiful thing in the world. Today, that honour belonged to Domitia Longina Corbulo. She wore a long dress of virgin white, belted with gold, that left her shoulders bare beneath the walnut tresses that flowed left and right of her wide forehead and framed the oval of her face.
‘With your permission, lady?’ He handed over his helmet, bringing a gasp of surprise from one of the watchers.
Domitia accepted the burden and nodded imperiously. As she watched, Valerius whispered encouragingly in the horse’s ear before
using
his left hand to help him vault into the saddle. The groom handed him the reins, and oblivious of all but Domitia’s gaze he walked the mare slowly to the gate. Beyond the trees lining the road lay the sandy ring of the governor’s personal circus and it took all Valerius’s patience to keep Khamsin to a walk. He was not the only impatient one. He could sense the controlled power surging below his loins and imagined the great heart thundering in her chest. She had a fine, high-stepping walk as befitted a mare whose sire a hundred generations earlier may have been brother to Bucephalus. His left hand was free to control the rein, but he wrapped the leather around the walnut fist of his right and used his thighs, knees and heels to command her. When he reached the circus he kicked her gently into a trot, feeling the free-moving muscles working sweetly beneath him as she danced across the packed sands. The warm breeze kissed his face and he laughed for the joy of it. Khamsin felt it too, pricking up her ears and shaking her head from side to side.
‘Very well,’ Valerius grinned. He reached to pat her neck and nudged her into a canter. The change was immediate and effortless, a surge in pace, and now she wasn’t just moving but flowing over the ground. Too soon, they reached the far end of the arena and he shifted in the saddle. Left knee forward, right knee back, and she pirouetted like a leaf falling from a tree. Not falling, dancing. A single fluid movement that left them facing the way they had come. Khamsin must have sensed his exhilaration because she whinnied with pleasure. There was no stopping it now. He dug his heels into her flanks, but truly she needed no encouragement. She moved straight to the gallop and suddenly they were speeding arrow-straight down the length of the arena. Valerius crouched low over her shoulders and saw the ground flying past in a blur below. He had never travelled at such a speed, but he felt no fear, only the astonishing sensation of the blood bubbling in his veins and thundering in his ears. She seemed to shift beneath him to ensure that he stayed fixed in the saddle and her movement was so smooth that he might have been in a carriage. He wanted it never to end, but here were Corbulo and his staff at the entrance, watching in astonished wonder. He saw Domitia’s face flash past, her eyes wide
with
delight and her mouth gaping, decorum forgotten as she clutched the fair girl who had replaced Suki. A ragged cheer broke out and for the first time he used the reins to gently coax her to a halt. He slipped from the saddle and stood by the horse’s head, whispering his thanks for her efforts. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, but he could tell it was with excitement, not exertion, and she gave off the satisfied feeling of a job well done. He wished he had something to reward her for her efforts.
He turned at the sound of running feet to find Domitia approaching with his polished iron helmet in her hands. For the first time he truly saw her for what she was. A girl, not a woman. A girl on the verge of womanhood, perhaps, but one still with the ability to become lost in childish glee. After the exhilaration of the race he was overwhelmed by his own emotions and if she had come three paces further he would have swung her into his arms. But she stopped, took a deep breath, and with a mischievous smile handed him first the helmet and then a shining red apple, her fingers brushing the leathery palm of his left hand as she placed it there.
‘I must congratulate you on your horsemanship, tribune, and my father on his choice of gift. Truly she is a wonderful horse.’
He returned her smile, feeling like a boy again for the first time since he had left Rome for Britain to join the Twentieth. ‘The finest I have ever ridden, lady, and unless I am mistaken the choice of gift was not only your father’s.’ He accepted the fruit and Khamsin scented the apple and nuzzled his fingers until he handed it over. ‘A horse like Khamsin never forgets generosity,’ he added chivalrously, and more quietly, ‘and like Khamsin I will never forget this gift.’
She heard the catch in his voice and a shadow fell over her eyes. ‘Is it always like this when a woman sends her man away to war?’
His heart tripped at the phrase
her man
. ‘Seneca called it “this magnificent melancholy”. At the time I dismissed him as unduly sentimental because he was a fat old man who had never gone to war. But that wasn’t true. He had served on the Rhine frontier as a tribune.’
‘This magnificent melancholy.’ She ran the words over her tongue and liked them. ‘Yes, I can understand that. A mixture of feelings.
Pride
and sadness. Loss and …’ She couldn’t finish, but her eyes filled and again he felt that surge of need.
‘Tribune.’ There could be no doubt that Corbulo had seen what had passed between Valerius and his daughter, but the tone was almost kindly. ‘Your command awaits you. Work them hard and use them well. When you have fixed your defensive positions come to my headquarters tonight and we will see whether you can master Caesar’s Tower as well as you can master a horse.’
He nodded and offered Domitia his hand.
As they walked away, Serpentius ran up grinning. ‘Now that,’ he said with enormous understatement, ‘is a horse.’
XXVII
FOR A FRONTIER
town, Zeugma, a sprawling community of mud brick and marble built across a low hill which sloped gently down to the Euphrates, was a surprisingly sophisticated place. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Hanno, who had proved a wellspring of knowledge and experience during the six-day march from Antioch, informed Valerius that the city was another creation of Alexander’s general Seleucus. It had been built more than three centuries earlier, and until it had been conquered by Pompey the Great it had been known, like Antioch’s port, by his name.
‘Now it is Zeugma, the place of the bridge.’ The Syrian gestured towards the crossing, which was of a construction the Roman had never seen before. A bridge of perhaps twenty stone-built arches stretched two thirds of the way across the river and ended a hundred paces from the near bank. The gap between was filled by ten or twelve sturdy boats which carried a jointed wooden platform to complete the link to the bank. Hanno noticed his interest. ‘For two reasons,’ he said, holding up scarred fingers. ‘First, when the river floods the prefect in charge of the bridge will order the pontoons to be detached. If he is fortunate, they will swing back to the bank and he will recover them. If he is unfortunate, the river will wash them away. But he will only have lost part of the bridge and they are easily replaced, whereas if it was entirely
of
stone he would lose much more and it would be a major project to rebuild. Second, in time of war the pontoons can be removed and any invasion force from the east must find another place to cross.’
‘But we are at war now,’ Valerius pointed out.
‘Yes,’ Hanno grinned, his white teeth shining in the dark face. ‘But
we
are the invading force. The pontoons will remain in place until we return, either in triumph or, may Mars preserve us, pursued, as the lion sees off the jackal, by King Vologases’ cataphracts, his armoured cavalry.’
Valerius felt a shiver of unease as he looked down at the narrow structure and imagined a defeated army packed on to the narrow crossing with the Parthian army pressing it on every side. Arrows sheeting the sky. Carnage and chaos. Men fighting and dying. Bodies in the river and the sparkling grey-green waters running red with Roman blood. He shrugged off the unhappy thought.