Rome 3 the eagle of the twelfth

About the Book They are known as the Legion of the Damned Throughout the Roman Army, the XIIth Legion is notorious for its ill fortune It faces the harshest of postings, the toughest of campaigns, the most vicious of opponents For one young man, Demalion of Macedon, joining it will be a baptism of fire And yet, amid the violence and savagery of his life as a legionary, he realizes he has discovered a vocation – as a soldier and a leader of men He has come to love the XIIth and all the bloody-minded, darkhearted soldiers he calls his brothers But just when he has found a place in the world, all that he cares about is ripped from him During the brutal Judaean campaign, the Hebrew army inflict a catastrophic defeat upon the legion – not only decimating their ranks, but taking away their soul, the eagle There is one final chance to save the legion’s honour – to steal back the eagle To that, Demalion and his legionaries must go undercover into Jerusalem, into the very heart of their enemy – where discovery will mean the worst of deaths – if they are to recover their pride And that, in itself, is a task worthy only of heroes CONTENTS Cover About the Book Title Page Dedication Legionary Organization Maps Foreword Epigraph Prologue I: Hyrcania, on the Caspian Sea, February, AD 57: In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve II: Raphana, Syria, Summer, AD 61: In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two III: Beth Horon, Judaea, November, AD 66: In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One IV: Caesarea, Judaea, Winter, AD 66–67: In the Reign of the Emperor Nero Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Epilogue Author’s Note About the Author Also by M C Scott Copyright ROME THE EAGLE OF THE TWELFTH M C Scott To the memory of Rosemary Sutcliff, Best and Greatest FOREWORD generation for whom Rosemary Sutcliff’s seminal novel The Eagle of the Ninth is the benchmark by which all other historical writing is judged It was our first taste of the ancient world, shaping images that have lasted a lifetime, and for many of us writing today it opened doors we had not known existed and asked questions for which we needed to find answers Certainly, I would not be writing the books I now write had I not been so enthralled by Esca and Cub, had I not so badly wanted to know what happened in the warrior tests and who exactly were the wild, dancing priests with the new-moon horns on their brows The Boudica: Dreaming series was my answer to this last question and the Rome series has brought me to the brink of writing my own ‘Eagle’ narrative Sutcliff based her tale around the mythical disappearance of the IXth legion and the then recent find of a wingless legionary Eagle beneath an altar in southern Britain, but the point is that it was truly mythical – in reality, the IXth never lost their Eagle By contrast, both Josephus and Tacitus provide us with details of a legion that did lose its Eagle without any information on how it was recovered (We can be fairly certain that it was, for the simple reason that the XIIth was not disbanded and went on to serve under Vespasian and later Titus in the siege of Jerusalem.) If ever there was a fiction writer’s dream, this is it But where Sutcliff was able to concentrate solely on the Eagle’s recovery, I wanted us – my readers and myself – to understand what it meant to the men of a legion for the Eagle to be lost And so this novel, first and foremost, is Demalion’s; his are the eyes, the heart, the mind that guide us through the troubles of the XIIth and we need to see and feel his triumphs before we can understand his loss For those of you who have come straight from Rome: The Coming of the King, please be patient – you will meet again in these pages the people you THERE IS A CHAPTER FORTY small outer cave ahead reached us faintly as men argued, and called from where the rope was anchored on the iron ring to others who must have followed Pantera down it to the foot of the cliff We reached the crevasse where we had already hidden twice before, but the thought of crawling in there a third time left me sick Horgias, too, was hesitant ‘They took no light with them,’ I whispered ‘We could go on?’ I felt his nod, and we drew our knives and went on step by wary step through the tunnel that led to the cave at the front The dark held us close Ahead, eight of the Hebrews were caught in the brilliant morning light that bathed the cave’s mouth We could count the hairs on their heads and their faces, the beads of sweat rolling down the backs of their necks as they leaned over the lip of rock and shouted imprecations, advice, curses down to their brethren below Their god did not tell them we were there, nor did any instinct let them feel our gaze on their backs We edged as far as we could away from the mouth of the tunnel, that they might not discover us by accident when they returned to their cavern And then we waited again The making of a legionary is in learning to wait, everyone knows that, but this waiting was as new as had been the others of this day Here we sat, armed, within touching distance of our enemy – and we did nothing This once, our lives mattered more than honour and so we kept still and breathed slowly and ignored the straining ache in our bladders as the sun crawled across the sky and the light at the cave’s mouth became ever more finely angled, until there was no sun spilling over the lip at all, but only the perfect blue sky outside, and the ever more somnolent men whose outlines marred it ‘Nicodemus!’ VOICES FROM THE We all jerked awake One of the men leaned over and shouted the name a second time, loud in the liquid silence Nicodemus’ voice from below shouted up a stutter of angry Aramaic and the men at the cave mouth moved from near-sleep to frenetic animation The rope hanging over the ledge sprang tight and five of the absent eight men were hauled up into the cave We didn’t need to know the language to understand that three of the group were missing and probably dead: one of the twins – Gorias, I think – Manasseh who had been like a brother to Nicodemus, and his cousin Matthias; all had disappeared Both Nicodemus and Levius, the remaining twin, had smears of drying blood on their tunics Levius wept a torrent of grief and would not be consoled He raged around the cavern so that I shut my eyes and set all my thoughts inwards, lest he be drawn to Horgias and me purely by the power of his passion He moved away I breathed again, but did not look up Presently, amidst much swearing of oaths and promises of retribution by heaven – the sounds of a man in anguish are the same in any language, and the vengeance he craves rarely varies – the entire group swung back towards the dark, to the tunnel, on their way to the rug-bedecked cavern Nicodemus led them Two more came after him Three … five … ten out of thirteen passed us safely into the dark and I let my eyes open and began to measure the distance from where I sat to the cave’s mouth I flexed my fingers and slowly rolled my neck that I might rise smoothly when the time came to move, and not alert the enemy to my presence by the crack of joints grown solid with sitting The remaining three ran at last into the tunnel I counted to fifty as Horgias had said, and felt him move as I did We scented the first heady wine of freedom, and raced towards it At the cave’s mouth the rope was still in place, tied to the deep-sunk iron ring and hanging loose over the edge Freedom was truly ours All we had to was slide down it and run I passed the rope to Horgias He shook his head ‘You got here first.’ He clapped my shoulder ‘Go!’ Eight men and then five had safely come up it I told myself that as I grabbed hold and looped my leg over the lip of the cave Thirteen men up Others down Including Pantera Safe Safe You will be safe Both legs over the edge and a moment’s blinding terror as I swung free in space with only my sweating hands on the rope holding me up I found a knot that gave me some purchase, and breathed out, and my questing feet found another My chest was level with the lip I looked up at Horgias ‘There’s a knot for your feet; you—’ A noise behind He spun away from me His knife arm jerked In the dark heart of the cave, a man screamed and fell ‘Horgias!’ I tried to pull up on the rope, to come to his side where he needed me The rope slid on my sweat and I fell back to the knot Luck and panic held me, nothing more ‘Go!’ Horgias could have come over the lip to join me He could have drawn his other knife and thrown it He could have done any one of a dozen things What he did was to wrest the wrapped wings of the Eagle from his belt and thrust them down the neck of my tunic to join the body nestling at my belt ‘Go!’ He shoved my chest ‘I’ll keep them from cutting the rope.’ And, when I didn’t move, he said, desperately, ‘Demalion, please For the Twelfth And for me Please go!’ ‘Horgias—’ But he had turned and this time he did have his blade in his hand, and was slicing with it, fast and sharp and hard, so that the iron was a blur in the part-light above me ‘Remember me!’ I heard a blade meet flesh and did not know whose it was Would you have stayed and lost the Eagle? I wanted to Perhaps I should have done, but it shifted like a living thing against my breast and the fervour in Horgias’ voice ran onward through my ears Please go! For me … His voice and his will pushed me down so that I loosed my hold on the rope until it slipped through my hands and I slid down fast and faster, skidding over the knots set every ten feet, losing skin with every foot until I hit the bottom, with the raw flesh of my palms bleeding But nobody had cut the rope while I was on it and nobody leaned over to hurl spears at me, or rocks or knives or the small lead pellets they used in their slings Looking up all the while, I backed down the great rock stairway that had led to the foot of the cliff ‘Demalion!’ I heard my name You must believe that; I heard Horgias call my name, and I looked up at the cave in time to see the rope snake down towards me, cut clean through at its top end, so that none of the Hebrews could speedily follow me Nor Horgias, who must still be alive Make sure you’re dead Eleazir has ways of keeping a man alive … Pantera’s words burned again in my head so that I prayed for a swift battledeath for Horgias And if I had heard him call me earlier, then he heard me now, for the prayer had only just gone to the gods when I heard his voice again, like the voice of a living god speaking aloud the names of the dead men who were waiting for him: Proclion first, and then Taurus, and then the oath to the Eagle I saw him hook his knee over the cave’s lip and, slashing at the hands clawing him backwards, thrust himself off the edge Like the Eagle he had so loved, Horgias flew down from the heights of the cliff A fierce, burning joy lit his face as he sailed towards me, and at the end a kind of peace I had not seen in any man ‘Demalion, don’t stay with me Get the Eagle to Vespasian.’ He said it in my head, not my ears; there was not time enough to speak aloud before he ended his flight on the hard rock of the Hebrew cliff-foot The crack of his landing spun me backwards I turned to see him lying not five paces away on a flat shelf of rock with his eyes open to the blue, blue sky and peace still etched deep on his face I didn’t need to feel at his neck or his wrist for the hammer of his heartbeat to know he was dead, but my heart ruled my head and I had hope, even then My seeking fingers rested on the great vein at his neck, waiting for a beat that did not come His skin was warm His flesh was whole and solid His smile had not yet faded, but the back of his head had cracked open like a hen’s egg and yellow fluid was leaking out and his life had leaked out with it I wanted Hypatia there, suddenly; she knew how to send a man cleanly to the lands of death But she was long gone, and I was his friend Standing, I took a step back, and sent him to the gods, mine and his, in the only way I knew how ‘Given of the god, Given to the god, Taken by the god in valour, honour and glory May you journey safely to your destination.’ I spoke it aloud, why should I not, here, where the gods were all around? Shouts came from the cave mouth above I ignored them and fumbled in my belt pouch for two of the silver coins that were left from the sale of the mares Speaking the last words, I placed one on each of Horgias’ eyelids, weighing them shut Truly, I don’t know if the ferryman requires payment for his services, but in that moment all that mattered was that Horgias travel whole across the Styx to greet the men who waited for him on the other side I wept as I placed them, slow tears that might have unmanned me then, but that a stone lumbered down past my shoulder and, looking up, I saw Nicodemus lowering another rope down from the heights Even at this distance, the hatred on his face was as pure and undiluted as I have seen on any battlefield It shocked me to sense, and as I stood Horgias’ shade touched me, whispering in my ears Go! The Eagle is all Don’t let them take it a second time I bent and kissed the cooling skin of his brow, tasting his sweat, and then turned and ran for the path that had brought us here, and on, and round and up to where the horses had been tethered Three dead men waited there, feasting-tables for a legion of fat flies The blue roan filly was safe; with Horgias’ burnt-almond gelding and Pantera’s bay, she had moved into the shade of a rock and stood dozing, slack-hipped in the heat I looked around for Pantera and saw nothing but uneven rock, set about with potholes and scoured clean by sun and wind I was set to cut the tethers when I caught sight of a particular mound of grey that was not exactly as it should have been I reached it just as Pantera thrust himself to his feet He began to dust himself down and then stopped, his eyes searching my face I wasn’t weeping by then, but the signs of it must have been clear ‘Horgias?’ he asked ‘Dead.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Would you go back for him if Nicodemus had him alive?’ ‘If necessary.’ He meant it I could read the truth on his face Strange that he was so easy to read now, when I had least need of it The Eagle burned against my chest I busied myself loosing the tethers from the horses ‘There’s no need He heard what you said as well as I did He cut the rope after I climbed down it and then threw himself from the cave mouth He landed at my feet I left him silver for the ferryman.’ ‘And Nicodemus?’ ‘He’s coming for us We need to ride.’ I mounted, and took Horgias’ horse by the reins ‘I have an Eagle to deliver to Vespasian.’ EPILOGUE Antioch, Syria, April, AD 67 blue sky, an eagle, soaring Beneath it, closer to the ground, a gilded Eagle, radiant in the careful sunlight, spills its own light across the two hundred men gathered beneath They are not a legion yet, but the beginnings of one: on each shield, the crossed thunderbolts of the XIIth Fulminata, the Thunderbolt legion; on the helm of the standard-bearer, a wolfskin; on the arms of the men, bands in gold that tell of valour in battle, and on their faces a pride that catches the spilled light of the Eagle and spins it back up to the podium From their throats, two hundred voices, offering anew their oath to the emperor, to their general, to their legion, the XIIth, brought back from the dead And on the podium, Vespasian, governor of Syria, legate of the eastern legions; a ruddy-faced, wind-blown general who knows the value of his men He hears their oath in silence and lets the wind lift the banners and the eagle cry its response from the heavens before he steps forward and raises his battle-honed voice ‘Men of the Twelfth! In blood and battle were you lost, but never bested In courage and care was your heart recovered, here to stand Now we salute those who died in your defence, and honour those who brought your Eagle to safety For ever shall their names be known, and always with honour shall they be spoken.’ A brisk step sideways, a sharp cutting motion with his palm, and a sheet of purple silk billows down from the wall behind him Two hundred men gasp at what they see; they did not expect this But they see and they read and soon two hundred swords batter two hundred shields, for how could they not? IN THE HIGH HORGIAS LUPUS SYRION MACER PROCLION TAURUS HERACLIDES, KNOWN AS TEARS … The names are chiselled indelibly into the wall of Antioch, Syria’s greatest city, the third greatest in all the empire after Rome and Alexandria And above them all, an Eagle flies for ever, and the number of their legion: XII: WITH HONOUR DID WE DIE FOR YOU I meet Pantera later, in the house that they have given us He stands in the doorway, looking in at me ‘Did you see it?’ ‘I heard It was a good speech.’ ‘But you didn’t watch?’ ‘No.’ I have a flask of wine in front of me I have not drunk I have not drunk at all since my return I hold it out to him as he enters He shakes his head ‘You could still join,’ he says ‘He’d make you camp prefect even now, if you asked for it Or primus pilus Legate of the horse Anything you wanted.’ ‘I don’t want anything.’ He comes into the room and sits down opposite me We are on the third floor The view from the window looks out over green and brown hills, but if I close my eyes I could be in a tavern in Hyrcania, watching him fletch an arrow with which to kill an upstart king I have his Parthian bow He has not asked for it back I say, ‘I’ve given to the Twelfth all that I can Vespasian will let me go if I ask it He will sign my manumission himself.’ ‘Do you want that? Truly?’ ‘I don’t know.’ I have water in my beaker I dip my finger in it and draw a picture of a running horse; a thing I have not done since childhood It is a child’s drawing, not at all lively I smear it away with the heel of my hand I say, ‘Hypatia could tell me what I want She sees into men’s souls better than they themselves.’ ‘You can see as well as anyone You just need to accept what you see You were born a horse-trader, but it’s not who you are now.’ ‘No?’ I look up then Pantera is regarding me quizzically, his head on his arm and his arm propped against the wall just inside the door He kicks the door shut with his heel, and it shudders on the door jamb ‘What will you do?’ I ask ‘What I am ordered to As ever.’ And then, because I am still looking at him, ‘I am ordered to Rome.’ ‘By the emperor?’ I cannot keep the disdain from my voice Pantera shakes his head ‘By the spymaster who serves the empire,’ he says, and I am reminded of the sick colour of his face, relaying the news of Corbulo’s death Not Nero The man who should have taken his place And then, at another time, Who does he remind you of? Corbulo Thoughtfully, I draw another picture We both look at it I say, ‘Vespasian has asked me to be part of his personal bodyguard That way, if I don’t want to be part of the new Twelfth, I can still be with the force that takes back Jerusalem.’ ‘He knows the value of a good man when he sees one Like good horses, they are few enough, and to be cherished.’ Pantera stands Neither of us is good at saying goodbye He says, ‘I’m leaving in the morning I’ve left the Berber colt in your care You’ll need a good mount while your roan filly becomes a brood mare.’ I blink at him ‘When will you come back to claim him?’ He is looking down at the Eagle I have drawn in water on the oak table ‘If I come back,’ he says, ‘it won’t be to claim him Or the bow.’ He leaves me, then I sit a while longer, before I smooth out the drawing and stand I drink the water, and a little of the wine, and then I go to tell my general that I will be honoured to serve in his bodyguard for as long as he has need of me AUTHOR’S NOTE I am indebted to Rose Mary Sheldon for her excellent work, Rome’s Wars in Parthia, Blood in the Sand which was published bare months before I began the research for this book Barbara Levick’s Vespasian is a decade older, but still one of the best biographies of one of Rome’s best emperors, and I have drawn on it extensively for details of his early life, with Suetonius as back-up at all times Josephus and Tacitus, as ever, provided the primary detail for the movements of the XIIth and its near destruction, while my bible for military accuracy has been Bishop and Coulston’s Roman Military Equipment, which has done much to shape my beliefs of what was (and wasn’t) standard in the first century I was particularly struck by the assertion that representational evidence for lorica segmentata is ‘virtually nonexistent with a few possible (and debatable) exceptions before the second century AD’ (second edition paperback, page 255) My mid-first-century legionaries, therefore, only rarely wear the armour we have come to associate with later centuries Brigadier Allan Mallinson was kind enough to direct me towards memoirs of modern wars that, to him, best encapsulated the bonding of battle Of the three that he recommended, Quartered Safe Out Here by George MacDonald Fraser was easily the most moving and the most informative The scene in which my characters share out the property of their dead comrade, Proclion, is adapted directly from this book in the belief that such actions must have been common to all armies in all eras I have taken minor liberties with Vespasian’s known movements in the spring of 67, which was necessary for a rounded narrative I am ever in debt to my friends and colleagues of the Historical Writers’ Association for their thoughts, conversations, debates and arguments over accuracy and detail It’s a joy and a wonder to have a community to call on; thank you My agent, Jane Judd, made everything possible, while my editors, Selina Walker and Bill Scott-Kerr, continue to be founts of sanity, support and strength, while my partner, Faith Tilleray, is the light that brightens every day Nancy Webber is my constant, much-lauded copy editor and Vivien Garrett has cleared the way to a smooth production To all of these, my grateful thanks, knowing that, as ever, any mistakes are entirely my own About the Author MC Scott qualified as a veterinary surgeon and taught at the University of Cambridge before turning a lifelong passion for the ancient world into a bestselling writing career As well as undertaking research in the University library for this series of novels, Scott is noted for the depth, accuracy and textured depictions of life in Roman times – and has spent weeks living in a roundhouse, has learned to make Roman swords and driven horses in harness the better to bring the detail to life As Chair of the newly formed Historical Writers’ Association, Scott is active in the promotion of all forms of historical writing For more information on all aspects of the work, visit: www.mcscott.co.uk For the Historical Writers’ Association, see: http://www.TheHWA.co.uk Also by M C Scott HEN’S TEETH NIGHT MARES STRONGER THAN DEATH NO GOOD DEED BOUDICA: DREAMING THE EAGLE BOUDICA: DREAMING THE BULL BOUDICA: DREAMING THE HOUND BOUDICA: DREAMING THE SERPENT SPEAR THE CRYSTAL SKULL ROME: THE EMPEROR’S SPY ROME: THE COMING OF THE KING For more information about The Eagle of the Twelfth and M C Scott’s other books, see www.mcscott.co.uk TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS 61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA A Random House Group Company www.transworldbooks.co.uk First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers Copyright © M C Scott 2012 Maps © Tom Coulson at Encompass Graphics M C Scott has asserted the right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409043188 ISBNs 9780593065440 (cased) 9780593065457 (tpb) This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly Addresses for Random House Group Ltd companies outside the UK can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk The Random House Group Ltd Reg No 954009 10 ... much they knew of the strength of each legion They knew of the Vth, my legion, of their skill in battle, of how they had won Antium for Octavian, and then fought against Parthia for Tiberius; they... down the four thousand cubits to the foot of the pass Enough that when the sun’s first edge cut the horizon and poured light across the tens of thousands of foot and horse who made up the King of. .. ON THE CASPIAN SEA, FEBRUARY, AD 57 IN THE REIGN OF THE EMPEROR NERO CHAPTER ONE February, AD 57 in the hazy sun, the peacock feathers shone out at me from a stall in the heart of the market The