False God of Rome

CHAPTER IIII

‘Hail to you, who brought Himself forth as one who created millions in their abundance. The one whose body is millions. Amun.’

Vespasian knelt before the surprisingly small statue of the god set upon an altar in a chamber, lit by two flaming sconces, at the heart of the temple; the three priests surrounded him chanting their hymn. The statue represented Amun seated; in his right hand he held a sceptre, in his left, an ankh; his face was that of a man, the mouth was open and hollow. Across his legs was laid a sword in a richly decorated scabbard of great antiquity. The smoke of pungent incense wafted through the room making Vespasian feel very light-headed and euphoric.

‘No god came into being prior to Him. No other god was with Him who could say what He looked like. He had no mother who created His name. He had no father to beget Him or to say: “This belongs to me.” Amun.’

Vespasian felt himself being lifted to his feet; oil was poured on his forehead and left to trickle down his face. He felt at ease and smiled.

‘You who protect all travellers, when I call to You in my distress You come to rescue me. Give breath to him who is wretched and rescue me from bondage. For You are He who is merciful when one appeals to You; You are He who comes from afar. Come now at Your children’s calling and speak. Amun.’

‘Amun,’ Vespasian found himself repeating.

The word echoed around the room.

Then silence.

Vespasian stood staring at the god; around him the priests were motionless.

The room became chill. The smoke hung, still, in the air. The flames in the sconces died down.

Vespasian felt his heartbeat slow.

He heard a soft breath emanate from the statue’s mouth and in the dim light he could see the smoke begin to swirl around the god’s face.

Another breath, more rasping this time, moved the smoke faster; the low flames flickered.

‘You come too soon,’ a voice whispered, billowing the smoke around the statue’s mouth.

Vespasian’s eyes widened in surprise; he leant forward slightly to assure himself that the voice came from the mouth.

‘Too soon for what?’ he asked, wondering if some elaborate trick was being played on him.

‘Too soon to know your question.’

If the smoke had not moved again Vespasian would have sworn that the voice was in his head.

‘When will I know?’

‘When you can match this gift.’

‘That gift?’ He looked down at the sword placed across the statue’s knees.

‘Equal it.’

‘With what?’

‘A brother will understand.’

‘When?’

‘When you need him to.’

‘How will I…’ he began.

A whistling drawing of breath sucked the smoke into the statue’s mouth in one continuous funnelling gulp; the flames sprang back to full strength.

The spell was broken.

Vespasian looked around; the three priests suddenly convulsed as if coming out of a trance. As one they recommenced their incantation.

‘Everything that comes from His mouth the gods are bound by, according to what has been decreed. When a message is sent it is for the giving or taking of life; for life and death depend on Him for everyone. Nothing exists which He is not. Everything is Him. Amun.’

‘Amun,’ Vespasian repeated as the priests turned and walked away from the altar; with a brief, quizzical look at the statue, he followed.

‘What did that mean?’ Vespasian asked as they re-entered the forest of columns.

‘We cannot tell you,’ the first priest replied, ‘we heard nothing. What He said was for you alone. All we know is that you were spoken to by the God and that you are blessed by Him. No one can harm you now in His sacred land of Siwa; you and those who travel with you are under His protection.’

‘It’s too late for that; this man has sold my travelling companions into slavery.’

‘Then to atone he will have to buy them back,’ the younger priest stated.

‘Good, and while you’re about it, Ahmose, you can buy back the man we came to rescue, a Roman by the name of Capella.’

‘I will,’ Ahmose said with a touch of nervousness. ‘You should thank me for bringing you here.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Vespasian snapped, finding himself hating the man almost as much as his now dead enemy, the Thracian chief-priest Rhoteces, ‘you said it was your duty.’

‘And so it was,’ the older priest confirmed, ‘he would have been cursed by the God if he’d failed to bring one touched by the Bennu before Him.’

‘He will take you back safely, Roman, and reunite you with your friends; he will also return your sword.’

‘Who gave the god that sword?’

‘That was a gift from the great Alexander, he left his sword in thanks for the counsel that he received here.’

Vespasian walked out of the temple wondering how he could ever match such a gift and, even if he could, what question would possibly make him want to make the arduous journey across so much sand to Siwa again to deliver it. Sand? He recalled the prophecy of Amphiaraos:

Two tyrants fall quickly, close trailed by another,

In the East the King hears the truth from a brother.

With his gift the lion’s steps through sand he should follow,

So to gain from the fourth the West on the morrow.

Bearing a gift across sand in the lion’s steps; a gift suggested by a brother to match that of Alexander, Alexander, the lion of Macedon. But if he was to be the bearer of that gift he would be the King of the East; how could that ever be?

Vespasian did not say a word on the journey back to Ahmose’s town; his mind was at first busy with contemplating the prophecy and what he had just heard from the mouth of the god: tyrants, kings, brothers and gifts to gain the West; where did he fit in to all that and why would a question drive him to return to this place?

After rolling these thoughts around his head and getting nowhere he turned his mind to the rescue of his comrades and Capella and whether the duplicitous priest who walked ahead of him would keep his word. Ahmose had indeed given him his sword back with fawning apologies to a favoured one of Amun and had promised to purchase Capella’s freedom as well as buying back his men for what he had been paid for them. Vespasian doubted that the Marmaridae would go for such a deal.

The following afternoon, as they approached Ahmose’s town, a familiar voice shouting cheered Vespasian’s heart.

‘Hold it there, priest, or by Pluto’s dark realm I’ll skewer you and send you down to him.’ Magnus appeared through the palms with Ziri, both with raised spears.

Ahmose’s men drew their swords and turned to face the threat.

‘It’s all right, Magnus,’ Vespasian called back, ‘things have changed; it would seem that I’m blessed by Amun; none of us are in any danger here.’

‘We just watched Corvinus and the lads being sold to the Marmaridae yesterday; I call that fucking dangerous.’

‘And this little shit is going to get them back for us, aren’t you?’ Vespasian glared at Ahmose who nodded unhappily. ‘Good; we’d better get going then.’

‘But first I have to get what’s needed to buy your men back.’

‘You’ll need far more money than they bought them for.’

‘I won’t be buying them with money; it’ll be a straight swap.’

‘Marmaridae, sir, master, there,’ Ziri said pointing through the palms.

‘How many of them are there?’ Vespasian asked Magnus as they peered through the fading light at the Marmaridae’s camp set by a large pool at the southwestern corner of the oasis.

‘I counted at least a hundred yesterday but there seem to be more now.’

Thirty to forty four-man tents, supported by single, central poles, six feet tall, were clustered in two concentric rings around the pool. Fires were lit and camels were being led down to the water’s edge to drink. It would have been a peaceful sight had it not been for the closely guarded corral, on the southern edge of the camp, in which at least two hundred men, women and children sat, miserably bound to posts hammered into the ground.

Vespasian looked back to Ahmose at the head of the thirty or so men he had brought from his town to escort the miserable lives that were to be the currency in this deal. ‘Well, priest, off you go. We’ll be watching from here.’

‘I won’t be long, this will be straightforward; Amun will watch over me as I’m doing his work.’

‘I do loathe a religious fanatic,’ Magnus commented as the priest led his party towards the Marmaridae’s camp.

Vespasian nodded in agreement. ‘I think that I despise anyone who makes his living by being a professional priest, selling religion to the fearful poor and then enjoying the comfort and the power that their money buys him. We do it much better at home where priesthoods are rewards for service to Rome and not a means to an easy life.’

‘You’ve got a point there, sir; but in general those who have priesthoods conferred upon them are already rich, although I’ve never known that to be a reason for not wanting more.’

Vespasian smiled. ‘Quite the opposite, normally.’

‘Indeed,’ Magnus agreed as they watched the Marmaridae gather around Ahmose and his men.

A brief conversation ensued after which Ahmose was led to a tent larger than the rest.

Vespasian, Magnus and Ziri waited in the twilight. Torches lit around the camp washed it with an orange glow. The temperature started to drop.

Eventually Ahmose reappeared from the tent with a grey-bearded man and gestured for his men to bring forward the goods to be bartered. Grey-beard inspected each one, checking teeth and feeling muscles in arms and legs as if he were looking at chariot horses that he was contemplating buying. Once each man had been checked Grey-beard turned back to Ahmose; it was clear by his demeanour that he was not happy.

‘Looks like we may have to fight our way in somehow to get the lads,’ Magnus observed as hand gestures became more frenetic.

The raised voices of the argument floated over the pool to where they lay hidden.

‘It’s not looking good,’ Vespasian agreed.

Suddenly the Marmaridae drew their swords and surrounded Ahmose’s men, disarming them. Five were then separated from the rest and were dragged struggling to Grey-beard for inspection; seemingly satisfied, he shouted an order and a party of Marmaridae headed off towards the slave corral.

‘Looks like the price just went up,’ Vespasian commented. ‘That’s not going to endear Ahmose to his men.’

Night had now fallen and torches burned all through the camp; in their flickering light Vespasian could see a group of men being led away from the corral. ‘That’s our lads, I can see Corvinus.’

Magnus squinted. ‘I can’t see anyone who could be Capella.’

‘We’ll have to come back for him; at least we now have the men to do that.’

The auxiliaries were brought to Grey-beard and Ahmose who both counted them off; once satisfied they nodded to each other and Ahmose led his men and the auxiliaries away from the camp while their unfortunate replacements were taken off to the corral.

‘Where’s Capella?’ Vespasian asked Ahmose upon his return.

‘They wouldn’t exchange him.’

‘Wouldn’t or was the price too high?’

‘I had to give him an extra five of my own men just to get back the ones I sold him yesterday,’ the priest barked. ‘I can’t afford any more.’

‘An extra five of your own men? You mean to say that none of those men you bartered were slaves?’

‘We don’t have slaves, it’s pointless, the Marmaridae steal them. I had to give them free men from the town. They drew lots and those who lost were willing to go with the blessing of Amun upon their heads.’

Vespasian stared at the priest in disbelief. ‘You sold your own people into slavery?’

‘It was Amun’s will; you heard the priests say so at the Oracle.’

‘But why didn’t you try and buy my men back with the silver that the Marmaridae paid for them?’

Ahmose frowned as if he could not understand the question. ‘That silver is Amun’s.’

‘And Amun would put more value on it than the lives of those men?’

The priest shrugged.

‘Of course he wouldn’t, but you would; living in comfort while all those around you have to toil in the heat; you disgust me, priest. We’ll go back to your town where you’ll lend me all of your fighting men, because I’m not leaving here without Capella and freeing those poor bastards who you sacrificed to your greed.’

‘You can’t do that; the will of Amun must be obeyed.’

‘His will or yours, priest?’

‘Vespasian, you Sabine country bastard, you left me to the slavers,’ Corvinus shouted storming up to him, ‘I’ll not forget that.’

‘I had no choice, you were dead drunk and slowing us down. And I would remind you, prefect, that I came back for you and your men and you are now free because of me, which wouldn’t have happened if we were all imprisoned in that corral together; so don’t forget that part of it either.’

‘And learn to hold your drink,’ Magnus advised him, ‘then perhaps you won’t find yourself taken prisoner so easily.’

Corvinus lashed out with his right fist at Magnus, who ducked under it and delivered a solid punch into his belly.

‘You picked the wrong man to box with,’ Magnus said as Corvinus crumpled to the floor, ‘I used to do it professionally.’

Vespasian came between them. ‘That’s enough! Get to your feet, Corvinus, and next time we rescue you I suggest that you say thank you rather than picking a fight and insulting me.’

The prefect looked up at Vespasian with hatred in his eyes. ‘You’ll regret this one day, quaestor, I promise you that.’

‘We’ll see; in the meantime we’ve got a citizen to rescue who’s about to suffer the same fate that you’ve just been saved from. Now go and see if any of your lads speak the local language.’

Two hours later they arrived back at the town’s agora. It was deserted; a few lamps burned behind shuttered windows.

‘Rouse your people, Ahmose,’ Vespasian ordered, ‘you and I are going to address them.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now! And you will translate for me. And have my men’s swords retrieved from wherever you’ve hidden them.’

The priest issued a command to his men and they fanned out through the town banging on doors and ordering the people to the agora.

Soon the square, now lit by flickering torches, was full of chattering people curious to know what was occurring. Vespasian, followed by Magnus and Ziri, mounted the temple steps with Ahmose and the auxiliary who Corvinus had found who spoke the local Siwi language.

‘You’re to make sure that he translates everything correctly,’ Vespasian told the auxiliary, as Corvinus’ men, now rearmed with their spathae, took up position at the foot of the steps, ‘and when he refuses to, which he will, you will make the translation.’

‘Yes, quaestor.’

‘Ahmose, bring them to order.’

A horn sounded and the noise in the agora died down.

Vespasian stepped forward to address the crowd. ‘Two nights ago the Bennu was reborn to begin its new five-hundred-year cycle,’ he declaimed. He paused as Ahmose translated his words. After a quick glance at the auxiliary to confirm that the translation was true he continued. ‘I was warmed by its fire and felt the wind of its wings and your priest took me to the temple of Amun where the god spoke to me.’

There were looks of awe on the faces of those listening as Ahmose repeated this line.

‘I am blessed by Amun and I and all who travel with me are under His protection. Yet your priest sold my companions, Roman soldiers, to the Marmaridae.’

Ahmose shot Vespasian a nervous glance.

‘Translate, priest,’ he ordered.

After the priest had spoken Vespasian turned to the auxiliary who shook his head. ‘He didn’t translate the second sentence; he just made something up about the glory of Amun.’

‘What a surprise. Do it for him, then.’

As the auxiliary translated the real version a look of surprise turning to panic washed over Ahmose’s face as he realised that he was losing any control that he had over the situation.

‘To buy them back he used thirty-two of your compatriots; free men now forced into slavery by your priest.’

‘I did it for Amun,’ Ahmose shouted at Vespasian.

‘No, you do nothing for Amun, everything you do is for your-self, like so many of your kind. Now, are you going to translate or is he?’

With a howl Ahmose leapt at Vespasian only to find himself pinioned by the firm grips of Magnus and Ziri. Vespasian nodded at the auxiliary as the priest struggled helplessly to escape his captors.

Roars of indignation emanated from the crowd as the auxiliary translated; they began to surge forward only to be held back by Corvinus’ men.

Vespasian held his arms aloft, appealing for calm. ‘This priest of yours, who lives in luxury off the money you give him, has no concern for your wellbeing, only his.’

The crowd shouted their agreement as they heard the translation.

‘He delivered Roman soldiers and your own people to the slavers and in doing so has brought the wrath of Rome and Amun down on you all. To redress his actions I will lead you tonight to the Marmaridae’s camp and we shall destroy them together and free your people.’

A huge cheer greeted these words once they were translated.

‘But first, I, who am favoured by your god, demand vengeance on this priest for his treatment of my men; his life is forfeit.’ Ahmose’s legs buckled; Magnus and Ziri held him upright. ‘I could execute him now or, if you wish it, I will give you your priest, who thinks nothing of selling thirty-two of your number into a life of servitude, to punish as you see fit; you are free of him.’

As the auxiliary finished the translation the crowd’s reaction was clear; Vespasian gestured to Magnus and Ziri. They forced the screaming Ahmose down the steps, through the cordon of auxiliaries, and threw him to the people who kept him in luxury yet whom he valued so little.

With animal ferocity they drew him into their midst, feet, fists and nails lashing at him, their cries of hatred drowning his shrieks as they battered and pummelled him mercilessly. Vespasian and his companions watched with grim satisfaction as the bloodied priest was hurled, wailing, into the air to be caught by many pairs of hands. Gripping his ankles and wrists strong men pulled Ahmose, eyes bulging with fear and agony, in opposing directions; others cut at his body with knives, concentrating on his joints. His shoulders and hips dislocated under the pressure, which grew until, to a savage roar from the crowd, his left arm, its sinews severed by multiple slashes, ripped from his shoulder, followed, a moment later, by his right. Ahmose’s head crashed down onto the ground as the macabre trophies were waved in the air. The men holding his ankles then pulled his legs apart, heaving on them with all their might, rending the ligaments and muscles until the right leg parted at the knee in a welter of blood. Unable to tear any more off him the crowd then took it in turns to batter out of Ahmose what little remaining life was left in him with his own dismembered limbs.

‘I think that’s got their blood up,’ Magnus said, nodding with approval at the manner of the priest’s demise.

‘Let’s hope so,’ Vespasian replied. ‘We’d better get them to the Marmaridae’s camp while they’re still in the mood.’

It was past midnight and the moon had set. Vespasian crept through the gloom of a palm grove guided only by the light of the few torches and fires that still burned within the Marmaridae’s camp. Behind him just over two hundred men from the town waited in the darkness along with Corvinus and his auxiliaries.

Upon reaching the edge of the grove he dropped to his knees behind a palm and peered around its trunk towards the slavers’ camp; all was quiet. Having satisfied himself that, apart from a few sentries dozing by campfires, there was no one abroad, he slipped back through the dark to his waiting men.

‘They’re not expecting any company,’ he whispered, crouching down next to Magnus and Corvinus. ‘I could see about half a dozen guards, most of whom seem to be asleep, none of them were patrolling; everyone else is in their tents.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Corvinus asked, dubious about the wisdom of the attack.

‘Because I couldn’t see them anywhere else; but you’re right, it is an assumption. However, that’s no reason not to do this thing; we outnumber them by a good fifty men.’

‘But most of ours are townspeople with improvised weapons; they’ll be up against trained fighters.’

‘Which makes the need for speed and surprise all the more essential, Corvinus, so let’s stop talking about it and do it; unless you’d prefer that I cancel the whole thing and tell the Governor that I was obliged to let a Roman citizen be carried off into slavery because my cavalry prefect shied away from a fight?’

‘You bastard.’

‘That’s better; now leave me the translator and take your men around to the south of the camp; Magnus and I will take the townspeople and cover this side and the east and west. Deal with the guards around the corral as quietly as possible; once they’re dead secure the corral and signal to me here by waving one of the torches. We’ll then move in on all sides setting fire to the tents and killing as many as we can before they wake up; after that it’ll be a hard fight. If we hear any screams before your signal we’ll charge in immediately.’

Corvinus grunted his assent.

‘And try not to kill the camels,’ Vespasian added.

‘Why not?’

‘Because we’ll need them to get home.’

Corvinus got to his feet, brushed the sand from his knees and moved off to muster his men.

‘What do you think?’ Magnus asked.

‘I think that he’ll do as he’s been ordered; he’s a good officer, he just doesn’t like me.’

‘Let’s hope that won’t cloud his judgement.’

‘Come on; let’s get our rabble army in position.’

After Vespasian had briefed the townspeople, through the translator, with orders to do nothing until they saw him go forward, they had moved into position in silence over the loose sand. Vespasian and Magnus waited, with swords drawn, in the darkness looking out over the Marmaridae’s camp that was now surrounded by a man at every five paces. Ziri lay next to Magnus clutching a spear. Apart from the occasional snort from one of the many hobbled camels scattered among the tents it was quiet. The sentries dozed peacefully by their dying fires.

Vespasian felt the tension of coming conflict rise within him, knotting his insides. He offered a silent prayer to Fortuna that she would preserve him from the desert’s warriors as she had done from the desert’s elements and felt confident that it would be so. However, others would not be so fortunate and, in the dark, in the privacy of his thoughts, he could not but help compare his actions and Ahmose’s. They had both sacrificed men for their own desires; the priest for luxury and he, Vespasian, for lust. It had cost Ahmose his life and it had made Vespasian an enemy in Corvinus, a man whose high birth would ensure that he would one day be able to keep his promise of vengeance. Capella had better pay his dues and Flavia had better be worth the risk and effort.

As time dragged on the tension of the wait started to play on the men’s nerves and Vespasian began to hear the odd rustle of clothing or the clink of a dagger as men changed their positions and fidgeted in the dark.

‘Come on, Corvinus, what’s keeping you?’ he murmured.

‘Perhaps he’s just fucked off along with his men and left us to it,’ Magnus whispered back.

Vespasian was just beginning to fear the worst when a muffled cry floated through the air from the direction of the corral.

‘Shit!’ he hissed, looking around at the sentries. A couple of them stirred and looked about but then, after a few snorts from a camel, wrote the cry off as an animal sound and settled back down to their snoozing.

Vespasian relaxed a fraction, knowing that Corvinus and his men were playing their part.

After a few more tense heartbeats a torch near the corral was raised from its holder and waved in the air.

‘Let’s go,’ Vespasian said quietly, getting to his feet at a crouch.

The townsmen on either side followed his lead, sparking off a ripple effect around the perimeter of the camp as each man felt his neighbour rise in the darkness; soon, more than two hundred crouching men were converging from all angles in grim silence upon the unsuspecting Marmaridae.

Vespasian approached the outer ring of tents on the northern side of the pool; behind them was the first of the sentries’ fires. Indicating to Ziri to retrieve a nearby torch and then for Magnus and the townsmen to stay covering the tents’ entrances, Vespasian edged forward. The sentry was sitting, facing him, cross-legged on the ground with his head on his chest and drawn sword in his lap. Holding his breath, Vespasian gently approached the sleeping man, his spatha at the ready. An instant before he could strike, the sentry, sensing a presence close by, opened his eyes to see a pair of sandalled feet before him in the dim firelight. He jerked his head up, wide-eyed in alarm, to witness Vespasian’s sword slamming towards him; it was the last thing that he ever saw. The tip of the spatha punched through his neck just beneath his bearded chin and crunched on up into the base of his skull; any cry that he attempted was drowned by the explosion of blood in his gorge, swamping the vocal cords and clogging his windpipe. He fell into the fire, face down, dead. Almost instantaneously his oily woollen robe and cloak caught alight, illuminating Vespasian.

‘Now,’ he hissed at Magnus.

Grabbing the torch from Ziri, Magnus thrust it at the bottom of the tent flaps. The flames caught immediately, eating their way up the dry, coarse linen until the opening of the tent was a rage of fire. Ziri stood at the entrance, spear in hand; the first Marmarides, dressed only in a loincloth, hurled himself through the blaze, straight onto its razor point. With a thrust and a twist Ziri gutted him, then kicked him back into the fire, his spilled, moist intestines hissing and steaming in the heat.

Screams rang out as Magnus and those townsmen who had managed to retrieve a torch moved around the ring, fire-raising as they went. The bolder townsmen, shouting encouragement to each other, as the attack was no longer a secret, surged forward to deal with the other sentries, battering them down under a hail of blows and jabs.

All around the outer ring tents were ablaze as the townsmen used the Marmaridae’s torches against them. Urging his men forward, Vespasian moved into the inner ring; but here fewer tents were burning and the tribesmen, now fully alerted to the danger, had roused from their sleep and were now dashing to defend themselves. The terrified bellows of the hobbled camels unable to move away from the fires merged with the shrieks and howls of the wounded and the dying into a raucous dissonance.

Standing to the side of a burning tent’s entrance, Vespasian brought his spatha slicing down as the flaps burst open, but he mistimed the blow and severed the escaping man’s outstretched hands. Leaving him to roll away in blood-spurting agony, Vespasian swiped his sword back at the tent’s opening, slashing it across the chest of the next man out as a Marmarides, burning like a beacon, hurtled past him to plunge with a scream and a hiss of steam into the pool at the camp’s centre.

Vespasian despatched the last man to emerge from the tent and then swiftly looked about; Magnus and Ziri were meting out the same treatment to the occupants of a tent nearby. All around the camp similar scenes were being played out as the enraged townsmen, brandishing clubs, farming implements and daggers, fell on the unprepared slavers who had been so long a cause of fear to them and a threat to their peaceful way of life; now with thirty-two of their compatriots to save from a living death they took to their task with ferocity. Smoke billowed all around as the torched tents turned into fierce infernos; blazing men flung themselves from them to be impaled on pitchforks or mown down by scythes. The tang of their crisping skin blended with the acrid smell of burning natural fibre.

Through the chaos of the thickening fumes and flames Vespasian could see that a few knots of Marmaridae had managed to group together and were now mounting a vigorous defence; the ill-armed and inexperienced townsmen facing them were beginning to fall beneath the vicious slashes of their long swords and their taste for the fight against more organised defenders was leaving them.

‘Magnus, with me,’ he bellowed, leaping over the pile of corpses at his feet. Pulling his pugio from its sheath with his left hand, he sprinted towards a group of three Marmaridae advancing steadily, with swords flashing, upon a thin line of wavering townsmen. Crashing through a gap in the unsteady line, Vespasian ducked under a wild sword swipe, headbutting its perpetrator in the belly while plunging his spatha deep into the groin of the tribesman next to him. The three of them went down in a flurry of sand as the townsmen took advantage of the remaining slaver’s momentary surprise at Vespasian’s sudden arrival and set upon him with a renewed confidence. Rolling off his opponent as they landed, Vespasian thrust his dagger down into the man’s ribcage, puncturing his lung.

‘I thought you were calling for assistance,’ Magnus said, hauling Vespasian to his feet by his sword arm as Ziri thrust his spear into the throats of the two stricken men.

‘I was,’ Vespasian panted; his heart was racing. ‘Some of them are starting to form up; let’s keep working our way round until we link up with Corvinus’ lads.’

Passing two collapsed, flaming tents, whose trapped and screaming occupants were being mercilessly battered to death, they were faced with a mob of fleeing townsmen who brushed them aside, almost toppling them into a burning tent in their anxiety to escape the terror behind them: Grey-beard.

‘Fuck!’ Magnus swore as all three of them came to an abrupt halt; the heat of the burning tent singed the hair on their arms and legs.

Swinging an enormous two-handed sword, the Marmaridae chief, flanked by four of his followers, strode towards them, vengeance in his eyes. At the sight of the Romans Grey-beard snarled and ran forward with his sword raised above his head, bearing down upon Vespasian; his men followed, the two to his left spotted Ziri and hurled themselves screaming at him.

With a deft flick of his spear, Ziri heaved the burning tent into the air to land over the two men as Vespasian parried Grey-beard’s crushing downward blow, which slid along his blade in a grating spray of sparks to come to a jarring halt on the oval guard. He was just aware of Magnus, next to him, throwing himself to the ground at the feet of the men to Grey-beard’s right, tumbling them over, as the Marmaridae chief put ever more downward pressure on his spatha, forcing him to one knee; screams from the men struggling beneath the burning tent rang in his ears. In a swift double movement Grey-beard slammed his foot into Vespasian’s chest, sending him crashing onto his back, and raised his sword, growling, his teeth bared, with the effort; as it reached its zenith the motion suddenly stopped and blood spewed from his mouth. Grey-beard stood immobile for a few moments, as if frozen in time, then his sword fell behind him and he turned his head to look at Ziri whose spear was embedded in the side of his chest. With a slow nod to his killer, which seemed to Vespasian to be a look of understanding, the Marmaridae chief collapsed to the ground.

The sound of fighting next to him forced Vespasian to take his eyes off the dying Grey-beard and look round. Magnus was astride a tribesman, each had their hands around the other’s throat. Just beyond them a second tribesman, with blood gushing from an empty eye socket, raised his knife and aimed at Magnus’ exposed back. Vespasian whipped his sword arm round, letting go of the spatha’s hilt and sending the weapon spinning through the air to crack side-on into the man’s midriff, winding him. He leapt to his feet and, hurdling Magnus, jumped on the one-eyed Marmarides, pummelling his face with his fists as the two of them fell to the blood-stained sand. Blow after blow he dealt in a frenzied attack that carried on after the man’s nose was flattened and his jaw shattered, until a hand grabbed his hair and he felt a blade at his throat.

‘Relax, quaestor,’ Corvinus’ voice shouted in his ear; Vespasian froze. ‘Someone should warn you about losing control in combat.’

‘I already have,’ Magnus said, getting up off his freshly dead, bulging-eyed opponent. ‘It seems that he’s forgotten that that’s how you end up dead.’

‘Let go of me, prefect,’ Vespasian ordered, coming back to his senses and shaking Corvinus off.

‘I could have slit your throat, which I was very tempted to do,’ Corvinus snarled as he dropped his sword, ‘had it not been for him.’

Vespasian turned round to see Ziri holding his blood-drenched spear to Corvinus’ neck. ‘It’s all right, Ziri,’ he said, gesturing slowly for him to lower his weapon.

Ziri nodded and pulled away.

Vespasian got to his feet and looked around; tents still blazed, up-lighting the surrounding palms that stood motionless in the windless night with a soft amber hue, but the sound of fighting had died down. Groups of townsmen and auxiliaries walked through the carnage; every now and then one would raise a weapon and bring it down to despatch a wounded tribesman.

‘Did any escape?’ he asked no one in particular as he picked up his spatha.

‘I don’t know but I doubt it,’ Corvinus replied. ‘The slave corral is secured; some of my men are guarding it.’

‘Good, let’s go and have a look at them.’

‘Time to see if Capella will give you his woman in grateful thanks for all your effort,’ Magnus commented. He did not see Corvinus frown at his remark.

As Vespasian and Magnus turned to go they noticed Ziri looking down at the still burning bodies; he speared them both in the heart.

‘Come on, Ziri,’ Magnus said, tugging at his sleeve.

Ziri shook his head. ‘They Ziri brothers,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Vespasian looked aghast at the young Marmarides and, with a sense of foreboding, pointed down at Grey-beard. ‘And him, the man you killed to save my life,’ he asked, recalling Aghilas’ words: especially against the Marmaridae.

Ziri looked at him with no emotion in his eyes. ‘He Ziri father.’