Masters of Rome

CHAPTER XVIIII

Gaius Silius stood before the Father of the House, his toga draped over his head and the most solemn expression etched on his well-carved features. ‘Before you, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, or whatever name by which you wish to be called, I swear, as a consul of Rome, to uphold the laws of the Republic and to give my loyalty to, and protect the life of, the Princeps of Rome, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.’

‘That is the first lie of his consulship,’ Gaius muttered, looking at the Emperor’s empty chair in front of the altar. ‘It’s a shame that he didn’t tell it to Claudius’ face.’

‘He won’t get the chance,’ Vespasian asserted, ‘he’ll be dead in two days.’

‘I hope you’re right, dear boy, it’ll be very awkward for us if he’s not.’

Silius finished off the oath and, as the Father of the House performed the purification rites, Vespasian sent up a silent prayer to his guardian god for success in his endeavours over the next night and day and a further appeal to the gods of his household to hold their hands over his family.

As Silius seated himself in the curule chair next to his senior colleague, the younger Lucius Vitellius, the Father of the House removed the fold of his toga from his head and addressed the Senate. ‘Conscript Fathers, the Emperor has been unfortunately delayed in Ostia by matters that only he has the wisdom to deal with. He has therefore asked that we conclude business for today now that the new Suffect-Consul is sworn in. He will endeavour to return by the seventh hour tomorrow and asks that you reassemble in this House then to hear his report on the progress of the new port — provided, of course, that the day is deemed auspicious for the business of Rome. This House shall rise.’

Vespasian picked up his folding stool and he and Gaius joined Sabinus in the crush to get out. ‘I detect the hand of Pallas behind the House sitting at midday rather than dawn.’

‘I hope that I’ll have had a message from Pallas by then.’

‘You will have and I expect that it’ll be me bringing it. How are you doing with gathering support?’

‘It’s difficult without being able to tell people what they’ll be supporting, but I’ve been spreading Pallas’ money about with vague promises of preferment from the Emperor in return for supporting an upcoming motion and then an amendment to a law. Paetus has been very helpful with some of the younger ones and Uncle has done as much as he’s dared with his contemporaries.’

‘Without exposing my position or giving any views, obviously,’ Gaius put in.

‘Obviously, Uncle; we wouldn’t want it said that you ever had an opinion, would we?’

‘I’ve known people executed for just considering the possibility of having an opinion.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘However, I am working on Servius Sulpicius Galba to support the motion in order to repay the debt that he owes Pallas for getting him the governorship of Africa so soon after coming back from Germania Superior.’

Sabinus looked suitably impressed. ‘A man like that from such an old family and with well-known conservative views would be a great asset. Anyway, brother, I have enough people to be able to speak in favour of whatever it is I’ll be proposing.’

‘Good. I’ll see you later this afternoon at Magnus’ place,’ Vespasian said as they burst out into the warm morning sun.

‘I’ll be there.’ Sabinus clapped his brother on his shoulder and moved off into the crowd.

‘What are you going there for?’ Gaius asked.

‘We’re meeting there before we arrive unannounced at a party.’ Vespasian sighed as he saw Corvinus standing waiting for him at the top of the Senate House steps.

‘Try not to goad him, dear boy,’ Gaius said, watching Corvinus walk towards them.

‘Don’t worry, Uncle, I don’t need to; when this is over he’ll be irrelevant to me.’

Corvinus looked down his nose at Vespasian. ‘Well, bumpkin?’

‘Well what, Corvinus?’

‘Silius is now sworn in, so what news of my sister marrying him and what is Narcissus planning to do?’

‘No news is the answer to the first question and I don’t know is the answer to the second.’

Corvinus’ sneer was made even haughtier by an incredulous frown. ‘Narcissus is doing nothing?’

‘I didn’t say that; he just hasn’t told me what he is doing. If you want news of when your sister is getting married then I suggest that you ask her. But there is one thing I do know and that is that the way things are playing out your life won’t be in Narcissus’ hands.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that Narcissus won’t be able to save you.’

‘Who will be able to?’ Corvinus asked.

‘Me, if I should choose to.’

‘You owe me, Vespasian.’

‘I could just ignore that fact, Corvinus, and leave you for dead; which after the way you threatened my family I’d be entitled to do. But I won’t. Now, as far as I’m concerned you are going to be dead in the next few days, so from now on you are dead to me. If I allow you to keep your life, which I will, then do me the courtesy of behaving in my presence as if you are a dead man. Then we’ll be even.’

A thin blue-grey cloud floating far out over the Tyrrhenian Sea bisected, almost perfectly, the sun, blazing deep orange as it fell into the west. With his shadow lost somewhere in the crowds before him, Vespasian made his way along the Alta Semita assailed by the aromas of thousands of evening meals.

Fortified by the knowledge that a successful conclusion to the coming events would see his family safe and considerably wealthier, he walked with a firm step and a straight back. The money he had made from Corvinus, Theron and now Messalina made him wealthy beyond the wine-fuelled imaginings of ninety-nine per cent of the inhabitants of the Empire; it was, however, as nothing compared to many in Rome’s élite. But it was a start and as he passed, dressed in an old travelling cloak and rough tunic, unnoticed through the throngs of citizens whose collective wealth was probably a fragment of his own, he felt an aggressive pleasure in what he had achieved for himself by reacting to the will of others. He thanked Caenis, her face burning bright on his inner eye, for her insight into the accumulation of wealth and the sense of power and enjoyment it gave to be active in its pursuit. So much for the high ideals of selfless service to Rome that he had espoused when he had first entered the city with his father almost twenty-three years before.

‘Are you deep in thought or just trying to pass a reluctant turd?’ a voice asked.

‘What?’ Vespasian saw Magnus standing in front of him.

‘Thinking hard or having a hard shit? Which was it, because it was taking all your concentration and you nearly walked straight past the tavern.’

‘Thinking, obviously!’ Vespasian replied with a little more terseness than he had intended. ‘Where’s Sabinus?’

‘He’s with the rest of the lads just outside the Porta Collina checking the cart and the horses. I was just waiting for you.’

‘Well, I’m here so let’s go.’

‘Perhaps you should have a shit first; it might improve your mood.’

‘I’m sorry, Magnus.’

‘Well, what’s on your mind? It must be pretty weighty.’

Vespasian took a deep breath as they headed towards the Porta Collina, just two hundred paces distant. ‘I’ve finally realised that after all this time of thinking that I’m serving Rome, I’m not; I’ve just been serving one or other of Rome’s masters or mistresses. No one ever does anything out of altruism in order to benefit the public good. On the contrary, everything that I’ve ever been involved in since arriving in the city has been solely for an individual’s personal gain. I very rarely profit from it directly and Rome certainly never does — or at least the idealistic view that I had of Rome because that Rome doesn’t exist, it never really did. All Rome is really is the pole over which the powerful fight to place their own personal Eagle upon, in order to rally support for themselves in the name of the people. So in the end what difference does it make who holds the power? Claudius, Caligula, Tiberius, Narcissus, Pallas, Sejanus, Antonia, Macro, Messalina, whoever, they’re all the same; some just smell nicer than others. But none of them do anything for Rome other than make sure the people are fed and entertained so that they don’t notice the misery in which most of them live whilst the powerful fill their coffers with what should be public money.’

‘There you go, sir; how many times have I tried to point that out to you? You with your high ideals, playing at politics, as if it really mattered, when you know that you can never rise to the top because you come from the wrong family. I remember you saying that your grandmother warned you about it.’

‘Yes, and I thought that meant there was a straight choice between staying on my estates for the rest of my life or accepting Rome how it is and understanding that although I could never hope to rise to the very top I could bring honour to my family by my service. I was so wrong.’

Magnus barged an importunate urchin off the pavement, ignoring his shrill protests. ‘You shouldn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit yourself; however small it may be you should always make a profit or pay off a favour in everything you do.’

‘Exactly. I’ve just come to realise the absolute truth in that and it’s made me feel a lot better. I used to think Rome was great and glorious; well, that was just the naïve idealism of youth. It’s no more than an arena in which wild animals tear each other apart for the right to chew on the bone. I’ve had my first few gnaws on that bone and they tasted good. From now on I’ll be supporting whoever can help me get my teeth back into it again. It makes no difference who they are or what they profess to believe in because all they want is what I want.’

‘More bone?’

Vespasian grinned. ‘A lot more bone. And you? Do you get your bone?’

‘Regularly. But then I’ve never done anything that hasn’t involved the prospect of bone.’

‘Then why are you helping me tonight?’

‘Only a beast can’t wait for its bone, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian slapped Magnus on the back. ‘I do and I can see that I’m going to be very busy doing you favours when I’m consul.’

‘Sabinus spent much of his term making sure that I had adequate bone; I don’t see why you should be any different.’

‘I’m sure I won’t be; I’ll never be free from obligation.’

‘Talking of which, my lads who’ve been keeping an eye on those bearded bastards watching your and Sabinus’ houses say that they never report to anyone; no one comes near them and they don’t go anywhere other than back to a filthy room to eat and sleep.’

‘So if they’re not working for anyone, why are they taking an interest in Sabinus and me?’

‘I’ve got no idea, but they stopped watching your house yesterday and are now just concentrating on Sabinus; perhaps he’s got a bone of theirs.’

‘Then I think that it’s time to bring one in for that little hearth-side chat that you so kindly offered to have with them.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ Magnus gave a cheery wave to the two Urban Cohort guards on the gate as they passed through. ‘Evening, lads.’

‘’Right, Magnus.’

Vespasian walked through the gate to see Sabinus with Marius, Sextus and three more of Magnus’ brethren waiting with a covered cart, with Marius at the reins, pulled by two mules and with four saddled horses attached to it by traces.

‘Ready, brother,’ Sabinus asked.

‘Readier than I’ve ever been.’

‘Good; up and at them.’

*

Points of flickering light from torches and blazing sconces delineated and filled in the shape of the Gardens of Lucullus as if it were a rectangular constellation consisting of countless stars in an otherwise sparsely populated firmament. The noise of revelry drifted down on the light breeze as Vespasian and his party made their way in the dim light of a newly risen quarter moon along a tomb-lined narrow lane, around the base of the Pincian Hill, approaching the gardens from the east. Slow-beating drums supported by lyres and flutes accompanied singing, both tuneful and discordant, which was regularly drowned by bursts of raucous, alcohol-fuelled laughter, squeals of pleasure, jovial yelps of mock indignation, rising and falling wails and shrieks of ecstasy. A soundscape of carnal gratification.

Passing the occasional building, Vespasian led the group to within shouting distance of the open gates at the centre of the two hundred-pace-long whitewashed wall, grey with the night, ranging along the foot of the hill; a couple of guards leant against the gateposts in pools of light cast from the torches burning to either side. He nodded to Marius who pulled the cart out of the lane and into the precinct of the Temple of Flora so it was hidden from view from the gate.

‘I don’t know how long we’ll be, Marius,’ Vespasian said. ‘Just keep your eyes and ears open; you and Sextus must come at the speed of Mercury as we appear through the gates.’

‘Right you are, sir. Do you want us to do anything about the guards?’

‘No, they’re there to stop unwanted people getting in, not out; we’ll manage them all right.’

‘Come at the speed of Mercury,’ Sextus ruminated aloud, as ever slowly digesting his orders, ‘as they appear through the gates.’

Magnus took a sack from the back of the wagon and hefted it at one of the brothers, who sported a ragged scar along the left side of his jaw that cut through his Greek-style beard. ‘You keep the ropes, Cassandros; Caeso and Tigran, get the two ladders out of the wagon.’

Once the brothers, a young lad and a bearded, trouser-wearing easterner, had done as they had been told, Vespasian and Sabinus pulled up their hoods, flitted across the lane and began to make their way, over rough ground, up the hill at an angle heading for the three hundred and fifty-pace-long ascending wall. Magnus and his brethren followed.

Coming to the approximate middle of it he halted. ‘Up you go, Tigran, and keep low.’

The ladder fell a couple of feet short of the wall’s full height, but Tigran managed to get astride of its terracotta-tiled summit, lying along its length, and within a few moments had placed the second ladder on the other side and disappeared from view. Vespasian went next and quickly found himself in an aquatic area of the gardens scattered with ponds. Gravel paths wound between them upon which slept scores of wildfowl with their heads tucked under their wings to shield their eyes from the torchlight. Fewer people within the gardens were singing now; the music played on but could barely be heard over the growing cacophony of pleasure.

Within a hundred heartbeats they were all over the wall with Magnus bringing up the rear and pulling up the outside ladder after him.

‘Have the lads bring the ladders with us,’ Vespasian whispered in reply to Magnus’ questioning look, ‘just in case the gate is not an option after all.’ With that he turned and began to make his way up towards the villa, keeping as far as possible to the shadows, and following the intensifying sound of hedonists at play.

Passing through a bed planted with shrubs trained together into the shape of the sphinx, Vespasian came to a ten-foot-high miniature pyramid and halted suddenly at the sound of a loud, grating exhalation of breath. Raising his hand to stop his companions he crept forward along the pyramid as the breath was drawn in with a long rumbling snore. Vespasian eased his head around the far corner of the pyramid to see a small figure lying on his back, dressed in a Thracian cap and a very short tunic from under which protruded, vertically, an artificial phallus almost as tall as the wearer; a spilled cup lay by his side.

Magnus moved up next to him. ‘What is it?’

‘Judging by the size of the false penis it’s a dwarf dressed as Priapus.’

‘He seems to have overindulged somewhat in the juice of Bacchus as any self-respecting Priapus ought to.’ Magnus pulled a knife from his belt. ‘Let’s find out if it’s affected his memory.’ He eased around the corner of the pyramid and, bending over, clamped his hand over the sleeping dwarf’s mouth whilst holding the blade in front of his eyes, which snapped open in alarm; very quickly they registered terror.

Vespasian knelt down, grasping the over-sized phallus and leaning on it so that its base pushed into the flesh and blood original. ‘Yes or no: has there been a wedding here this evening?’

The dwarf’s eyes now registered pain as he looked from Magnus’ blade to Vespasian and back; he nodded.

‘Messalina and Silius?’

The dwarf looked confused.

Vespasian eased the pressure on the phallus and then jammed it back into the dwarf’s genitals. ‘Do you know who was married?’

The dwarf exhaled in pain through his nose, shooting a globule of mucus over Magnus’ hand, and shook his head with his eyes squeezed shut.

‘Nice!’ Magnus hissed.

‘Send him back to sleep, Magnus; he’s no good to us. He’s just a slave who’s got no idea what’s going on.’

Magnus pulled the dwarf’s head up and cracked it back down onto the pyramid, knocking him out cold, and then wiped the mucus from his hand on the miniature Priapus’ hair.

Vespasian moved on across another pathway to an area of lawn bordering the apricot orchard, strewn with statues of Gauls in defeat. Creeping by a wounded warrior, naked save for a neck torc, pierced in the chest and sitting on the ground clutching his bleeding thigh, Vespasian darted across the lawn and took cover behind a substantial pedestal. He looked up to see a statue of a Gaul standing proud, and looking over his shoulder whilst supporting the slumped body of his dying wife and plunging his sword vertically down past his collarbone and on into his heart. Vespasian could not help but contrast the honour of the Celtic warrior with the debauchery of the power that had defeated him. What would Caratacus make of Messalina’s behaviour? The answer was obvious.

The orgiastic uproar was close now; he edged his head around the pedestal and peered through the apricots towards the villa at the heart of the gardens.

Vespasian drew breath.

He had witnessed some of the worst of Caligula’s sexual excesses as the libidinous young Emperor had publicly displayed his sister, Drusilla, in obscene acts with multiple partners, but what he beheld now took wild abandonment a stage further. Knot after knot of entwined bodies in various states of undress, some in couples but most in groups, heaved and rubbed against each other; on couches and tables, balanced on or over the balustrade surrounding the terrace and spread up and down the steps to it as well as in large tubs filled with freshly harvested grapes that turned skin red. Men on women, boys or other men; women, draped in animal skins, with phalluses strapped to them using other women, men or youths; all both gave and took as fancy would have it as the sexual free-for-all raged. In amongst the writhing mass, drinkers tottered, raising their cups with wine sloshing over the rims, toasting Bacchus, Priapus, Venus or just the act of copulation itself as musicians strummed, blew and beat their instruments in an improvisation that pulsed with the rhythm of sex. A couple of dwarves dressed as satyrs sporting goat-like phalluses cavorted and danced to the sound, adding to it with shrill sequences from pan pipes.

Silent around the edge of the terrace, naked slaves, both male and female, stood holding torches to illuminate the carnality. With blank expressions they watched their masters, the élite of Rome, pay homage to the gods of excess; uncomplaining if bent over and taken against their will or forced to kneel and languish before one of their betters, they endured the decadence of the race that had conquered their peoples.

Naked at the centre of it all, astride a seated man, with her back towards him as she rode his lap as if galloping a stallion, Messalina howled with a pleasure so intense as to be just a fraction away from agony. Her hair had fallen loose and swung in great sweeps as she tossed her head back and forth, back and forth; then it arced back, spraying droplets of sweat glowing golden in the torchlight. Her spine arched and her face turned to the sky and she released a cry to the heavens so piercing that those around her paused in their exertions and turned to see Messalina juddering, her whole body in spasm; and then the cry broke and the muscles in her back released, sending her falling forward to slump exhausted on her partner’s knees and revealing Silius’ exultant face and the ivy crown set on his head.

‘Well, that would seem to make their intentions clear,’ Sabinus observed, as he and Magnus joined Vespasian behind the pedestal.

Magnus stared at the scene, his eye agog. ‘They certainly know how to enjoy themselves.’

The revellers burst into cheering as Silius rose to his feet with Messalina still hanging off him, her chest heaving as she sucked in huge gulps of air. Wearing only his ivy garland and a pair of high boots, he capered with one arm waving free whilst the other held Messalina in place, her fingers trailing the ground, as she swayed to and fro with his movements, like a rag doll.

Vespasian studied the faces that he could see and recognised many of them: senators, equestrians, actors and Praetorian Guardsmen along with rich matrons — mostly unaccompanied by their husbands — courtesans and, most scandalously, unmarried daughters of the élite. ‘Somehow we’ve got to get a couple of them away from here without anyone noticing.’

‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem,’ Magnus said, shaking his head in awe. ‘If I was in the middle of all that I reckon that you could slit my partner’s throat and I’d carry on tupping her without a care until she was cold, and probably after that too.’

‘Thank you for that image.’ Vespasian pressed closer to the pedestal as a young man staggered down the steps supported by a couple of equally tipsy women, all singing a paean to Bacchus and covered in the juice of red grapes. Behind them, Messalina eased herself off Silius and picked up a thyrsus, a staff of giant fennel, wound in ivy and topped with a bulbous pine cone. Brandishing this symbol of fertility in one hand and grasping Silius’ still erect penis with the other she looked about in triumph. ‘I am Gaia to his Gaius; with the gods’ help, tonight I have conceived and will bear the child of my new husband.’

Silius rolled his head, bellowing incoherently, and her guests roared their approval of this piece of news as the young man reached the first of the apricot trees and began to climb it, leaving his companions leaning against its trunk, giggling and rubbing the sticky juice of Bacchus’ fruit into each other’s bodies.

‘What do you see, Vettius?’ one of the women called, glancing up in the direction of the man’s buttocks.

‘I see all things, Cleopatra; but most clearly, to the southwest, I see a great storm coming to hit Ostia. The Emperor is in its path.’

‘Pray that it doesn’t pass over Ostia and come to strike us.’

‘We’ll have plenty of warning if-’ With a loud crack followed by the rustle of leaves accompanied by a brief yell, Vettius plummeted to the ground, landing on his shoulders and cracking his head on a tree root; he made a weak effort to rise before slumping back to lie motionless.

Cleopatra giggled at the sight before turning her attention back to her companion and, with feline intensity, began licking the sticky juice from her skin.

‘Come on.’ Vespasian moved forward. ‘These two will be perfect. Walk towards them as if we’ve an absolute right to be here.’ He ambled into the orchard, with a roll to his gait, as if he had been in lengthy commune with Bacchus; Magnus and Sabinus followed, imitating his manner.

Beyond the orchard on the terrace the revellers had returned their concentration to the pursuit of blind ecstasy, as Messalina took to a tub of pounded grapes accompanied by two youths whilst Silius strutted back and forth penetrating, briefly, any orifice pointing in his direction.

Passing the unconscious body of Vettius, Vespasian paused, swaying slightly, and focused on Cleopatra and her very good friend just ten paces away; both were entirely in the thrall of one another’s juice-stained breasts. Looking back at Magnus and Sabinus, he nodded and walked forward at a slow pace so as not to attract undue attention. With just three paces to his quarry he pounced forward and, throwing his arms around both of the women, hauled them to the ground as they squealed with a mixture of fright and delight.

‘Shut them up and drag them away,’ Vespasian hissed.

Magnus showed the women his knife; they went limp, sealed their lips and allowed themselves to be manhandled back to the lawn where Magnus’ brethren waited. It took just a few moments for Cassandros and Tigran to secure their wrists behind their backs whilst Caeso gagged them.

‘Don’t struggle, don’t slow us down and you won’t be hurt,’ Vespasian promised, trying to ignore the well-shaped female forms sheened with a glaze of drying nectar.

‘Cleopatra! Calpurnia!’ a voice called from behind them.

Vespasian turned to see the silhouetted figure of Vettius stumbling to his feet. ‘Quick! Go, Magnus. Sabinus, take that one.’ He grabbed Cleopatra by the arm and led her off at a jog following Magnus and his lads.

‘Cleopatra! Calpurnia!’

Keeping low and moving as fast as he dared with the bound women, Vespasian passed behind the pedestal of the warrior committing suicide and then on to the dying Gaul.

‘Cleopatra! Calpurnia? Calpurnia? Hey!’

Vespasian glanced back to see Vettius at the edge of the apricot grove waving his arms; for a moment their eyes met and then the dying Gaul temporarily obscured him from view.

‘Hey! Come back!’

Vespasian sped on with Cleopatra by his side, struggling to keep her feet; in front of him Sabinus was having the same trouble with Calpurnia. With a second quick glance back, as they reached the pyramid, he saw Vettius emerge from the orchard and shout before turning and racing away back towards the festivities. ‘Shit! He’ll raise the alarm. Magnus, we need to carry them.’

‘My pleasure. Tigran, take the other one,’ Magnus said as he turned, lowered his shoulder and levered Cleopatra onto it. He took a firm grip of a buttock and then sped off past the sphinx-like shrubbery.

Vespasian raced ahead, using his memory from the previous visits to navigate the quickest route down to the gates without using the serpentine path. Leaping over low, ornamental hedges, skirting pools and fountains, scattering deer and fowl, crunching across gravel paths and crashing through carefully laid out flowerbeds, they hurtled downhill through the different themed sections with a complete disregard for the beauty of the gardens. Behind them, the revelry had broken up and the sounds of pleasure and music had been replaced by the clamour of pursuit; calls and shouts rang through the night adding urgency to their flight.

Bursting through a wall of rhododendron bushes, Vespasian finally saw the exit, just thirty paces away, at the same time as the guards saw the cause of the commotion up the hill; with a quick glance to one another they heaved the grille-gates closed and turned the key in the lock as Vespasian came to a skidding halt on the gravel path. ‘Caeso! Get a ladder up the wall.’

Caeso ran on to a section of wall a little distance to the left of the gates; leaning the ladder against it, he climbed swiftly, peered over the top and then hastily ducked back down as a fist-sized stone flew over his head.

Looking through the gate, Vespasian could see only one of the guards, now armed with a sword. ‘Cassandros, take the other ladder to the right.’

As Cassandros moved off, the guard tracked him, leaving the gate unattended but locked firm. Sabinus crashed a foot against it but it barely shook.

‘They could keep us pinned here for a while,’ Magnus puffed, laying down his burden without any ceremony, ‘and I don’t reckon that we’ve got anywhere near that amount of time.’ He pointed up the hill; the fluorescence of massed torches moved through the gardens at speed but at an angle.

‘They’re using the path; that gives us a bit of time,’ Vespasian said as Cassandros ascended his ladder. With a cry the Greek fell back, clutching the left side of his face as a stone cracked off him. A shout of triumph came from the other side of the wall. Sabinus gave the ironwork another resounding blow with the sole of his sandal with Tigran adding his weight to it.

‘This won’t move,’ Sabinus shouted, retreating as the first guard returned and grinned mirthlessly whilst pointing up the hill.

‘Now, Caeso!’ Vespasian called, looking back to see the torchlight less than a hundred paces away.

The crossroads brother leapt up the ladder and with a fluid rolling motion hitched his legs over the summit of the wall and jumped down the other side. The guard reacted to the sound and raced back. Hollow impacts — fists on flesh — and then iron striking brick accompanied by the strained grunts and snorts of combat ensued as Cassandros picked himself up and Sabinus, Vespasian, Magnus and Tigran all lent every ounce of their strength to the gate; still it did not move. A cry of pain followed by the rattle of breath escaping a dying body added urgency to their endeavours; behind, the cries of pursuit were growing with every corner of the snaking path rounded.

Cassandros attempted a second ascent and again was forced back by another well-aimed stone as the first guard reappeared, blood smearing his sword arm, vicious pleasure on his face and menace in his eyes; he thrust his gore-slick blade through the gate forcing Vespasian and his companions to back off. ‘Reckon you’re trapped,’ he gloated, withdrawing his sword. ‘Should be interesting.’ His eyes opened wide, his back arched and his body shuddered as he exhaled violently; his left hand reached out for the gate but never made it as his hair was pulled back and a knife exploded out of his mouth like a pointed iron tongue spitting blood. Sextus looked over the dying guard’s shoulder; beyond, Marius drew up in the wagon with the horses attached.

‘The key’s on his belt; unlock the gate, fast, Sextus,’ Vespasian urged as Magnus and Cassandros ran back to retrieve the two women. Sextus grinned and then with surprising speed spun his huge frame, side-stepping a thrusting blade, and lashed out with a massive fist, planting it squarely in the second guard’s face; the nose disintegrated into a pulped mush as the man arced back, his legs flying up, and he dropped to the earth as if felled by a ballista shot.

Sextus retrieved the key hanging from the first guard’s belt and inserted it in the lock; it held fast.

‘Turn it the other way,’ Vespasian bellowed in exasperation, looking over his shoulder. Up the hill a posse of naked men came around the last corner of the path, less than fifty paces away. With a roar they burst into a sprint as Magnus and Cassandros made it back to the gate.

The lock clicked and the gates swung open. Vespasian and his companions piled through, the women rocking like sacks on Magnus’ and Cassandros’ shoulders; the wagon was open and they were thrown inside as Vespasian, Sabinus and Tigran unhitched the horses and swung themselves up, urging them forward. Magnus and Cassandros followed their erstwhile burdens into the wagon and Sextus jumped up next to Marius.

The wagon accelerated away leaving a score of naked men standing in the torchlight under the gates of the Gardens of Lucullus.