The Scythian veteran commanding the escort spat on the sprawled youth. He snarled an order to the two men, and followed them as they dragged the boy away. Valerius tried not to hear the screams.
A few minutes later the Scythian returned. ‘He was holding the ponies back there and would have had his share of this.’ He tossed a leather bag to Valerius, who caught it in his good hand. ‘Silver. Enough to make them lords of these hills.’
‘Who paid them, and why?’
‘He said he did not know who. These people learn to lie with their first breath, but I doubt this one lied. He claimed it was a Roman who gave them the order and the silver, and they all look the same to him. As to why, it is simple. They were to kill the officer with the missing hand. They have followed us for a week to ensure they had the right man. The cargo was of no interest to them, my Roman friend. Only you.’
XX
Strabo, the Greek geographer, wrote that the inhabitants of upper Illyricum — now Moesia — ‘created caves beneath their dung heaps and lived in them’, but Valerius saw without surprise that the Seventh legion Claudia Pia Fidelis had made itself much more comfortable at Viminacium in a short space of time. On a rise above the meeting place of the Danuvius and one of its larger tributaries the soldiers had demolished a town of mud huts and replaced it with a fortress that made him feel almost as if he was coming home. He could have been approaching Colonia, Glevum or Londinium, or any of the great military encampments in the Empire. Inside the deep triple ditches and the palisade lay the principia, the administrative heart of the legion, surrounded by the long lines of wooden barrack blocks, and beyond it the workshops, marked by the smoke from their glowing braziers, the stables and the supply area. Legionaries patrolled the walls and a cavalry wing exercised in a separate annex on the east side. On a flat piece of ground to the north of the fort, merchants from the surrounding area had created a great market, and below was the reason for it. In the mouth of the smaller river the Seventh had built a new harbour, and from here trim, oared galleys of the Roman navy patrolled to north and south, guarding convoys of supplies for the legions and trade goods from the east and south on their way to Noricum, Raetia and, eventually, Italia. But the most astonishing thing at Viminacium was not the fort or the naval base, but the bridge. Downstream from the fortress, legionary engineers had built a slender wooden crossing over the Danuvius that must have stretched half a mile across the river’s narrowest point. Each end of the bridge was guarded by a section of brick-tunicked soldiers and Valerius noticed that on the far side a crowd had gathered waiting for permission to cross.
Marcus, Serpentius and Heracles rode up from the rear of the convoy with the pack mules. Dust had stained their tunics grey and dulled their armour and Valerius insisted they stop for a few minutes to beat the worst of the dirt from their clothing and polish breastplates and helmets. No amount of cleaning could wipe away the weariness that etched their faces. Four days earlier, the perpetual, dangerous mountains had given way to endless plains with barely a landmark to break the horizon. Since then, the monotony had worn down man and beast alike, inducing a hypnotic, heavy-eyed exhaustion that even sleep could not conquer. It was as if the very land was fighting them and Valerius had never been more relieved to complete a journey.
As he said his farewells to the leader of the caravan, Marcus nodded towards the fort, where a group of riders had just emerged from the gateway. ‘The natives don’t look too friendly.’
They trotted up the slope to meet them.
‘Your name?’
Valerius inspected the unsmiling young auxiliary prefect and suppressed an urge to tip him from his saddle into the dust. Not only was a Praetorian entitled to the respect his position demanded, he outranked the man and it was customary for officers to exchange names and pleasantries. He looked over the cavalry officer’s shoulder towards the fort, where he had no doubt keen eyes were watching the outcome of the confrontation. Someone was sending him a message.
‘I asked you your name?’ This time the question was more brusque, almost an order.
‘My name is not your concern, but your legate’s.’ Valerius’s tone might have been reprimanding a recruit on his first patrol and he saw the first seeds of doubt in the prefect’s eyes. ‘It is enough for you to know that I am a tribune of the Praetorian Guard and that I am on imperial business. My men and I have travelled from Acruvium and I will require accommodation and rations for at least one week. See to it that this is done.’
The young officer frowned. His horse caught his uncertainty and jerked beneath him, so he had to haul back on the reins to control it. ‘I-’
‘Are you questioning my orders, prefect?’ Valerius snapped impatiently. ‘Perhaps it is you who should give me your name? I doubt the legate will be pleased to discover that the Emperor’s personal representative has been obstructed from doing his duty.’
The officer swallowed hard and saluted. ‘I apologize, sir. Flavius Genialis, prefect of the Second Tungrian wing, at your service. We have had trouble with spies and Dacian infiltrators.’
Valerius heard Serpentius snort at the lame excuse and suppressed a smile of his own. ‘I doubt many of them were wearing Praetorian uniforms, prefect.’ He urged his horse up the shallow slope and his grinning companions followed.
Inside the fort, a servant ushered them to the officers’ mansio, the temporary accommodation for senior guests. Flavius had wanted to billet Marcus and his companions with the legion’s other ranks, but Valerius insisted they stay together.
‘You think there’ll be trouble?’ Marcus asked when the prefect had left them alone. ‘We’re as welcome as a turd in a punch bowl, but I doubt they’d try anything here, not with us being the Emperor’s personal representatives an’ all.’
Valerius grinned. ‘Let’s just say that after all the time we’ve spent together I’d miss your company.’
He washed and donned a clean tunic. This was an encounter he’d anticipated, but he’d heard so many differing views of the man he was about to meet that he was uncertain of the outcome. Serpentius gave Valerius’s sword a final polish and handed it to him. He replaced it in the scabbard on his right hip.
‘Let’s hope I don’t need it.’
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Guard.’ The aide announced his presence to the commander of the Seventh legion.
Valerius saluted the man standing at the far side of the room. By rights, Aulus Vitellius should have been leading an army, not a single legion. He had no record as a military commander, but that had never been an impediment to a military career. A decade and a half ago he had been consul and a favourite of Emperor Claudius. Under Nero his fortunes had first thrived, then waned, and now, it was said, were about to thrive again. In his mid-forties his handsome features had a florid, slightly pasty look, as if they had been modelled from damp clay, and he wore his hair brushed forward over a wide forehead to cover the growing expanse of bare scalp. His enemies said he was a drunkard who never held a thought long enough to make a rational decision. His friends said he was a misunderstood genius who would one day sit at the Emperor’s right hand.
As Valerius stood to attention, the general studied him with a hint of amusement in the light blue eyes.
‘I had expected you to be older.’ The voice was deep, the accent cultured, perhaps exaggerated to counter the detractors who said his family came from rough plebeian origins. ‘A year ago, Seneca talked of you as the next Scipio: a general in the making. I see a young man with little experience but a surfeit of conceit. Enough, in any case, to force his way into my command and embarrass one of my officers.’