suspicion of an outsider was too entrenched to break. If they didn’t quite hate him, they resented and feared his presence in equal measure.
Corbulo had set up his headquarters in a villa overlooking the river, owned by the leader of the ordo, Zeugma’s council of a hundred leading citizens. The man had been only too happy to give up his home, one of the finest in the city, to his old friend the governor.
Valerius found him hunched over the mass of reports his officers and their agents brought him every day. From here he dictated the orders for tomorrow’s movements: miles to be covered, rations to be replenished, waterholes’ positions and the forces that would be needed to secure them. His voice rose in irritation at the news of a shortage of mules — this in a land where every second animal was a mule — when it was too late to requisition more from Damascus or Antioch. He ordered that every transport animal in Zeugma and for ten miles around be rounded up, but it still meant the legionaries would have to carry an extra two days’ rations on their backs.
Valerius passed the time studying the mosaic floor, which depicted a marine scene featuring a heavily bearded man with lobster claws for horns looking soulfully at a woman with long dark hair and wings growing from her forehead.
‘Enough. Leave us and order some food and drink.’ He looked up as Corbulo dismissed his clerks and rubbed his hands across his eyes. Despite his concentration on military problems the general had observed Valerius’s interest in his surroundings. ‘It is a depiction of Oceanus, the Greek god of the rivers, and his wife Tethys. Nikolos, who owns this house, is very proud of it. A little rustic and not quite the quality you would find in a villa at home, but pleasing enough in its own way.’
Valerius nodded his agreement. It wasn’t the standard of the mosaic or even the subject that caught his attention. It was the glowing pink figure of Eros, the god of love, who sat cheerfully in the top corner riding a dolphin across a sea of Aegean blue, and reminded him of the day on the galley when he had stood with Domitia with the dolphins playing beneath their feet.
A servant entered with a jug of wine and food on two individual platters. Valerius watched as the Syrian broke off a piece of bread on one of the plates and dipped it into the spiced goat stew, then stood back before swallowing it. Corbulo nodded. When the man left the room, the governor noticed Valerius’s puzzlement.
‘My aides insist that my food is tasted.’ He smiled. ‘After the incident with the snake, it seems they fear I might suffer the same fate as Germanicus, he who might have partaken of the wrong type of mushroom.’
Valerius picked up the wine jug and poured two cups. Very deliberately, he lifted one of the cups and put it to his lips. Corbulo laughed. ‘Your sacrifice does you credit, but the wine was tested earlier.’ He beckoned Valerius across the room to where Caesar’s Tower had been set up with the pieces exactly as they’d left them on the previous evening.
‘You see where you went wrong?’
Valerius nodded. ‘I allowed you to dominate my flanks and I did not have the strength to hold you back. The vertical movements weakened me at the moment I needed to be strong. I think I should have reinforced from the centre, but even then I suspect you would have prevented me. I still do not think in the third dimension.’
‘Good. You have made another step forward.’ Corbulo began moving the pieces back to their starting positions. ‘I think this game is beyond recovery, but we will begin another.’ He settled down on a chair on one side of the board and waved Valerius to the other. The evenings always started this way, with the game taking up the commander’s attention, but Valerius had noticed a subtle change as they had gradually become more relaxed in each other’s company. The breakthrough had come on the third night, when they had played in the governor’s pavilion beneath a stony outcrop midway between the Orontes and the Euphrates.
‘Do you understand why my officers resent you?’ Corbulo had asked, pinning the younger man with his uncompromising gaze.
Valerius held his stare. ‘Because they think I am here to kill you?’
‘No, because they think you are here to replace me. Are you?’
Valerius laughed at the thought. ‘The truth is that I have no idea why I was sent here apart from to prepare a report I wanted nothing to do with.’ He didn’t reveal that he had already decided what the report would say. The eastern command of Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo was as efficient, well trained and disciplined as any in the Empire. Its soldiers and officers were loyal to its general and its general loyal to Rome. He would have done his duty, Olivia would be safe and Paulinus could do with it what he would. ‘I have some experience of command, but not enough to justify appointing me your deputy. You, of course, already know that, which is why you have given me command of the auxiliary cavalry, a position which is largely meaningless because of the experience of my subordinates. It also, conveniently, keeps me away from your headquarters until I am summoned, unarmed and always watched by the two guards who are never more than ten paces from your side. If I am not qualified for the job I have been sent to do, what makes you believe I would want to take on a command which will always be beyond my capability and my rank?’
Corbulo sat back and gradually a smile broke the harsh lines of his face. ‘I have been asking myself the same question. Perhaps together we can come up with an answer?’
But the question was never raised again and gradually Valerius felt he was being taken into Corbulo’s trust. Now he would be asked his thoughts on the day’s dispositions, his opinions on the qualities of the commanders of his cavalry alae, the tactics he would use in this situation or that.
One night the subject of Khamsin came up. ‘It was against my better judgement to give you such a horse, but…’ He didn’t finish the sentence and Valerius now knew for certain that the Akhal-Teke mare had been Domitia’s gift, not her father’s. ‘I might as well have tied a millstone round your neck and ordered you to swim the river out there.’ Valerius opened his mouth to protest, but Corbulo insisted on finishing his argument. ‘Let me explain. On the one hand, a cavalryman without his horse is nothing, and your Khamsin makes you a formidable warrior against any enemy, even the Parthians, who ride as if they have sucked a mare’s tit since birth. Yet there is a paradox, because a cavalry trooper’s horse should mean nothing to him. It is his transport into the fight, a platform for his weapons, even his last meal if need be. He must be prepared to ride it to death, or ride it on to the very spear points of his foe, as long as it advances his commander’s strategy. I have seen you look at her, and unless you are a man without a soul you will hesitate when the time comes. And when you hesitate, you may cost a man’s life, perhaps cost your commander a battle.’
At first Valerius was uncertain how to reply, but then it came to him. He said: ‘ There will be a day when your soldiers are mere coins to be spent. What will you do then, when you know you must order them into the abyss? ’ Corbulo raised an imperious eyebrow. ‘Marcus Livius Drusus, legate of the Twentieth legion, asked me that in the September of the consulship of Titus Sextius Africanus,’ Valerius explained. ‘By the following July, Britain was in flames and as Boudicca of the Iceni turned her warriors on Colonia I had to ask myself the same question.’
‘And?’
‘I did not hesitate to sacrifice my friends. I will not hesitate to sacrifice my horse, or myself, if the need arises.’
Corbulo had nodded and Valerius understood that their relationship had altered once more. No, not altered — developed.
XXVIII
Every man in Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo’s army suffered the trial of heat and dust that was the endless trek from Zeugma. The Tenth Fretensis were in the van, the place of honour behind the general they had served so well, and they suffered least, because they did not have to eat the fine dust of those who had travelled before them. Those behind, the seven full cohorts of the Fifteenth Apollinaris and their attached auxiliary light infantry, marched in a thick brown fog for hour upon hour, never knowing how far they had tramped, only aware that every step was recorded in the pains in their aching legs and another mouthful of dirt. At first they had moved with their heads high, singing their obscene marching songs, but by the fifth day they had been worn down by the relentless sterility of their surroundings. Their eyes stared out of dust-brown faces like those of men peering into a blizzard, and they walked with their shoulders hunched and their heads thrust forward as if they were trekking through a storm. But they were Roman soldiers. Legionaries. Hard as the stones that formed the grey hills which surrounded them. For twelve long years they had marched behind this man. What was another mile? Or another ten? Or another hundred?
