work will continue, you know. All through the Empire men like Cornelius are spreading the message of Jesus Christus. Every day, more and more are willing to do God’s work, and I doubt that even Nero can kill us all. He seeks to destroy us because he fears us, and he is right to fear us, because no matter what he does to us we will only become stronger. You might think that the legions are stony ground in which to plant the seeds of change, Praetorian, but you would be wrong. Who needs his god by his side more than a soldier about to march out and die? Tell him they are out there, waiting for the day. When the day comes it is God’s will that must prevail. But then I doubt you understand what I am talking about.’
‘I understand.’
Publius looked up in surprise and something flickered in his eyes. Hope? ‘You know about the great forces at work here, yet you still do his bidding?’
Valerius straightened. ‘Like you, tribune, I am a soldier, and soldiers follow orders.’
Publius rose to his feet and walked in three strides to the bed. Too late Valerius remembered where he had left his sword. He heard the familiar, almost musical hiss of a gladius being drawn from its scabbard. Publius kept his face to the tent wall so that Valerius couldn’t read his expression. ‘Cornelius was strong, but he lacked physical courage. It was something he was always ashamed of,’ he said softly.
‘He did not lack courage at the end.’ Valerius remembered the crimson streak running down the tar from the young aristocrat’s torn lip. ‘I have never seen a braver man.’
Publius nodded to himself. ‘Yet he would not have fought them. He would have gone with them like a lamb. A lamb to the slaughter. Well, know this, Gaius Valerius Verrens.’ He turned at last, the naked blade bright in his hand. ‘Publius Sulla is a soldier and will die like a soldier. I will not go gently like a lamb to Nero’s slaughter.’
Valerius tensed, ready to meet the tribune’s attack. He knew he had little chance of surviving if Publius was as comfortable with the sword as he appeared but he vowed to die trying. When he was dead, Publius would have Marcus, Serpentius and Heracles arrested on some trumped-up charge, perhaps even for Valerius’s murder, and there would be an unhappy accident on the way back to Viminacium. Maybe this was the way General Vitellius had planned it all along.
But Publius hadn’t finished. ‘Senators, soldiers and slaves, men and women of all ranks, aye, to the very highest, even in the heart of the monster’s lair at the very centre of Nero’s court, are already waiting to replace me. I have only one last request, Praetorian, and I make it because I sense a decency in you that belies your words and your mission. Do what you can for my family.’
With his final words Publius Sulla placed the point of the gladius against his sternum and used all his strength to drive its length up into his heart.
‘No!’ Valerius dived across the room, but it was already too late. With a sharp cry, Publius fell back on the bed, his whole body shuddering, hands still locked on the sword hilt and eyes bulging as his boyish face turned old in a heartbeat. Valerius knelt at the young man’s side and cradled his head. ‘Publius,’ he whispered urgently. ‘I will help your family if I can. I will help them all. But you have to tell me how to find Petrus. I must find Petrus.’
Publius opened his mouth, but Valerius would never hear his answer. Dark blood welled up in the tribune’s throat and spilled like wine from his lips. He gave one last convulsion and was still. With a sigh Valerius looked down on the dead boy.
Gradually it dawned on him that with his emotional final words Publius might have revealed more than he had intended. ‘Senators, soldiers and slaves, men and women of all ranks… even at the very centre of Nero’s court.’ Cornelius had been a member of Nero’s court, but a peripheral figure, never at the very centre. It meant that someone at the highest level had a powerful incentive for thwarting the investigation, and, more important, the power to ensure that happened.
He pulled the tent flap aside and looked across the parade ground. Marcus, Serpentius and Heracles were talking together by a rampart where the cook’s fire had been set into the dirt mound. Valerius called them across. Inside the tent Serpentius produced a low whistle and Marcus gave the sign against evil. Heracles just stared with his mouth open.
‘We don’t have much time,’ Valerius warned them. ‘I suspect Publius was a popular officer and the likelihood is that the men will take their officer’s death badly. We are going to call the senior legionary. When he gets here, flank me, and for the gods’ sake try to look like Praetorians.’
He went to the door and asked a passing legionary to send Clodius to the tent. The man shot him a puzzled look, but saluted and ran off in search of the duplicarius. When Clodius appeared, Valerius drew him inside. Seeing the dead man, the veteran gave a low growl and his hand went to his sword. Before he could draw it he froze with the needle tip of Marcus’s gladius against his throat.
‘Soldier.’ Valerius kept his voice steady. ‘Do you recognize what this is?’ He held up the chain with the imperial seal. Clodius had to look twice, but eventually he nodded.
‘Publius Sulla was an enemy of Rome and has paid for his crime with his life. My name is Gaius Valerius Verrens, tribune of the Praetorian Guard, and I am taking temporary command of this outpost.’ Valerius paused and Clodius clearly expected the next order to be for his execution. ‘But when I leave, the fort will be your responsibility. Do you understand?’
Clodius frowned, but he risked another nod. Valerius’s next words surprised him.
‘I can’t order you to abandon your position, but with your officer dead and rations running out you would be justified in returning with us. If you choose to leave, the men have an hour to demolish the fort and pack up their gear. My report will state that the decision was made with my full support.’
Clodius hesitated. This wasn’t the kind of judgement he expected to have to make. He shot a frightened glance towards Publius’s body.
‘Whatever you decide nothing will happen to you,’ Valerius assured him.
The duplicarius shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stay, and if I stay the men stay. I was accused of cowardice after I discovered my officer had been selling horse feed to the merchants at the river market for his own profit. That’s why I am here. If I stay I have a chance to win back my honour. General Vitellius is not a bad man, just badly advised. Ask him to send a month’s rations and a new commander.’
‘Can you control your men when they hear that the tribune is dead?’
‘I think… yes. He wasn’t their regular officer. They liked him well enough, but most of them had only really known him for a few weeks. If I can assure them that help and food is on its way, they’ll behave. Will you stay the night, sir?’
Valerius shook his head. There was still enough light left to reach the river. ‘No, we’ll leave as soon as we’re ready. Put together what rations you can for us. I’ll speak to the men before we go.’
They felt like deserters as they rode from the fort with the demoralized garrison watching from the walls. For all his fine words about honour and courage and his pledge to send reinforcements, Valerius doubted any of the legionaries he left behind would ever return to Viminacium.
He kept his eyes to the front. Behind him came Marcus and Serpentius, and at the rear Heracles led Publius Sulla’s horse, with its master’s body across its back wrapped in a bedding sheet. Eight of the fort’s cavalry troopers escorted them for the first mile and when they left Valerius felt as vulnerable as when they’d been abandoned by the patrol. The others sensed it too.
‘If I ever see that bastard Festus again, I’ll cut his throat,’ Serpentius spat.
Valerius shook his head. ‘Vitellius will make sure he’s tucked away somewhere safe. I doubt if you’ll ever see him again.’
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
They rode for close to an hour before they found the first body. The Dacians had hung it by the heels from a tree with a leather strap cut through the tendons of both ankles. He had been stripped naked, but the pale torso and walnut brown arms tied behind his back marked him as a Roman soldier. His captors had suspended him head down a few inches above a large fire, and Valerius didn’t like to think about the agonies he had experienced before his skull had exploded.
‘Do we bury him?’ Marcus asked.
Valerius shook his head. ‘It would only tell them where we are and we don’t have the time.’ And where there was one, there would be more.
‘Could have been us. Serves the bastard right,’ Serpentius muttered without conviction.
Festus was recognizable when they found him, if you looked carefully, and alive, if you could call it alive. Strange that the young port prefect in Acruvium had described the Tungrian’s fate so accurately. The words had
