‘I’ll come down twice a day to make sure they’re properly fed and watered,’ Serpentius said as they returned to the deck. Valerius nodded. He wouldn’t like to be whoever was responsible if Serpentius discovered that the horses were neglected. The former gladiator was the most capable fighter he had ever known and a slave in name only. Part companion, part bodyguard, the wiry Spaniard wore his manumission on a leather loop round his neck and swore he would use it when he elected and not when some Roman decided it was time. They had been together almost three years and the first time they’d met, on the dusty surface of a gladiatorial practice ground, Serpentius had tried to kill him. The resentful eyes and shaven head with its patchwork of half-healed scars made men wary of him, and they were right to be. There would come a time when the gladiator needed to be told the true nature of his mission. For the moment, all he knew was that Valerius was travelling to a new appointment in Antioch.
They emerged into the sunshine to the usual organized chaos of a ship being prepared for sail — with one peculiar difference. Amongst the sailors loading last-minute provisions Valerius saw one man sprinkling water on the planking: perfumed water, if his nose didn’t mistake him, that masked but didn’t quite overcome the stench from the bilges and the familiar scents of sea salt, male sweat and new laid pitch. Serpentius shook his head, muttered something about being right about the brothel, and went off to check their equipment was properly stored. Valerius noticed a heavily built man in conversation with a young legionary officer. The older man looked up and they both hurried across to greet him.
‘Aelius Aurelius, magister navis,’ the captain introduced himself in a voice that would be useful in a howling gale. His accent marked him as a southerner, as did his looks. Dark, soulful eyes shone from heavy-browed features weathered to the colour of polished teak and his hair was styled in long ringlets. A thick gold ring hung from the lobe of his right ear. ‘My apologies for not welcoming you on board the Golden Cygnet, tribune. But if I take my eyes off these dogs they’ll turn the deck into a latrine.’
Valerius smiled at the exaggeration. He doubted if a single rope’s end was out of place in this ship. ‘Unless my nose is mistaken your deck smells more like a lady’s bedroom than a latrine, captain. I had expected a less elaborate transport.’
Aurelius’s laugh sounded like a seal barking. ‘She may look like a fat-bottomed old tart in her imperial livery, but she’s the sweetest sailing ship in the Mare Nostrum and can lie closer to the wind than most. You may thank your fellow passenger for the Emperor’s generosity.’
The young soldier noticed Valerius’s look of surprise and shook his head. ‘Please don’t think I’m the cause of all this, sir. Tiberius Claudius Crescens, junior tribune, on the way to join General Corbulo’s eastern forces, and may I venture to say that your fame precedes you.’
Valerius studied him for any hint of mockery. He’d seen the pink-cheeked soldier dart a glance at his sleeve, where the walnut-carved fist replaced his right hand, the only visible scar of his encounter with Boudicca. The boy was what the legionaries called ‘frontier fodder’, one of the young officers Rome sent to the farthest points of her Empire to learn fast or die fast. Tiberius had the plump, earnest face and bright eyes of a teenager, but he must be past twenty and well connected to have been given such a prestigious assignment. Eventually, to the younger man’s relief, Valerius smiled acceptance of the compliment. ‘Then who is responsible for our good fortune?’
His question was answered by a commotion on the far side of the harbour which alerted them to the arrival of a four-wheeled carriage escorted by a detachment of German auxiliary cavalry. The coach clattered over the cobbles and drew to a halt by the foremost gangplank.
‘About time,’ the Golden Cygnet ’s master grumbled. ‘I’d have preferred to wait until the next grain convoy east, but my sailing orders were specific. The only consolation is that we’ll have a pair of galleys from the base at Misenum to keep us safe from any sea scum as far as Creta. The gods be thanked that she sent her baggage in advance. Still, we should make Neapolis by nightfall. Say a prayer to Poseidon and we’ll be in Seleucia Pieria in twelve days.’ He let out a roar. ‘Ready the sails!’
The ship burst into life around them and Valerius watched as a slim figure in a blue veil dismounted from the coach and swept up the gangway accompanied by a pair of dark slave girls. The little procession was followed by another, older woman, and finally four of the cavalry escort relinquished their mounts and marched towards the ship. Tiberius Crescens laughed.
‘I almost forgot. I’m supposed to take command of her guard.’ He rushed for the top of the gangway, grinning over his shoulder. ‘The lady Domitia Longina Corbulo, the general’s daughter. It should certainly make the voyage interesting.’
III
With a favourable wind and light seas the Cygnet made good time on the first leg of her journey south, and as her captain had predicted she set anchor off Neapolis as dusk fell. There was just enough soft roseate light to show the bay in all its glory: the familiar sweeping curve of low grey cliff and white sand, washed by a gentle sea the colour of aged Niger wine. Above it, the rustic cloak of grey and green that garbed the great mountain which dominated the city shone gold in the dying embers of the day.
Valerius was relieved that he’d seen little of his fellow passengers during the sedate, timeless run down the coast from Ostia. The guilt he felt over his unwanted mission was more than enough without being confronted by Corbulo’s daughter to remind him of it. He had spent his time trying to discover some kind of escape, but without success. For the moment, all he could do was carry on and make his decision when the moment came.
Makeshift accommodation had been created in the bow for Domitia and her women, and they’d stayed there all day, behind screens, amid rumours that the lady and her entourage were stricken by the usual first-time sailor’s malady. Seasickness had never bothered Valerius and the same was obviously true for Tiberius Crescens, who had divided his time between his duties as guard commander and badgering his superior for stories of the British war. Valerius had told the tale a thousand times and had perfected a version that played down his own part in the defence of Colonia and gave credit to the real heroes: men like Falco, veteran centurion of the Twentieth legion and commander of the Colonia militia; brave Lunaris, who had stood at his side through the dark days of the temple; and the legionaries, Gracilis and Messor, who had given their lives so that he could fight on.
‘So all you did was stand back and direct the battle?’ The younger man didn’t try to hide his doubt.
‘That is what a commander must do,’ Valerius said airily. ‘As I am sure you will find out one day.’
Tiberius preened at the flattery, but he refused to be discouraged. ‘Yet the Emperor awarded you the Corona Aurea, the Gold Crown of Valour?’
Valerius shrugged. ‘Colonia was a disaster, but just one of many. When the last battle was won and Boudicca dead, the governor of Britain needed a hero — a live hero. As the only Roman survivor of the Temple of Claudius he had little choice but to honour me.’
Tiberius had stared out over the sea as it flowed beneath the wooden keel, endless and anonymous, barely rippling in the light breeze that carried them southwards. The land was just a faint presence on the far horizon. ‘And the barbarians took your hand. I think I would rather die than not be able to hold a sword again.’
If the words hadn’t been spoken so innocently — a little boy musing on whether the moon might be made of cheese — Valerius would have been tempted to throw the young man over the side. But Tiberius probably couldn’t swim, and since he’d just come off duty his buoyancy was unlikely to be helped by the plate armour that covered his chest and shoulders. He sighed.
‘We’ll see how well I can hold a sword tomorrow, tribune. Exercise for you and your men at dawn. I’m sure they will have some wooden practice swords and a couple of shields aboard that we can borrow.’
Tiberius turned and saluted. Was there just the hint of mischief in his eye? ‘Of course, sir. I will arrange it. Tomorrow at dawn. Exercise with sword and shield, sir.’
By the time Valerius woke, the Golden Cygnet was well under way and the sun came up between two hills on the eastern horizon, creating a spectacular bridge of light between ship and land. He took a deep breath of invigorating sea air and tasted the salt on his lips. Serpentius had already risen from his place on the deck, and the distinctive clash of two wooden swords, followed instantly by the boom of a blade against one of the big curved scutum shields, reminded Valerius how he had planned to start the day. His first action, as it was every morning, was to oil the mottled purple stump of his right arm and fit the wooden hand on its thick cowhide socket over the end. With his teeth and the fingers of his left hand, made nimble by habit, he tightened and knotted the leather bindings. The arm had been chopped off four inches above the wrist by a Celtic battle sword and the replacement
