Rome's executioner

CHAPTER XII

‘I will not listen to any more of your pitiful whinging.’ Antonia’s raised voice thundered out from her formal reception room and echoed around the cavernous atrium where Vespasian and Sabinus waited restlessly for Pallas to find Clemens.

‘But M-m-m-mother, I demand the recognition and honour due to a m-m-m-member of the imp-imp… imperial family.’ The other voice too was raised but had more than a hint of fear in it, which was magnified by the stutter.

‘You are in no position to demand anything, you runt. With just one act I could ensure that you are at the very least banished. Now give me that list and be off with you.’

‘But, M-m-m-m-m-mother…’

‘Stop “but M-m-m-mothering” me! Just go; and take my advice, Claudius: divorce that liability of a wife of yours immediately and spend more time with your books and less making a fool of yourself trying to play politics.’

‘But…’

‘Go!’

Vespasian winced at Antonia’s screamed dismissal.

A shambling figure appeared in the corridor leading off the atrium and, keeping his head down, lurched, as if his knees were about to give out at any moment, towards the brothers. As Claudius drew close he gave a start and looked up at Vespasian; his eyes were blinking incessantly and a trail of clear mucus ran from his nose and on to his toga.

Vespasian nodded his head; Sabinus followed suit. Claudius stared at them in surprise and managed to get the blinking under control. His grey eyes were calculating and intelligent; they peered at the brothers from a face that would have been handsome and noble had it not been given a sorrowful air by its downturned mouth and bags under the eyes.

‘Bastard families,’ he blurted without changing expression, as if he was unaware that he had said anything. He wiped his nose with a fold of his toga, nodded at the brothers and then shambled out.

Antonia came in as soon as Claudius was out of the door.

‘What are you two doing back here?’ she asked abruptly, her equilibrium having not quite returned after her interview with her son.

‘So Sejanus has linked your family with me,’ she said after the brothers had told her of the attack on Gaius’ house and the men heading towards their parents’ estate, ‘and is using Livilla to do his dirty work so as not to risk the chance of any of his Praetorians being implicated in the murder of a senator. Where’s Gaius now?’

‘We brought him here,’ Vespasian replied. ‘Pallas had one of your house slaves take him to the baths; he’s gone to sweat out his anger.’

‘Good. He’ll have to stay here until I can get him out of Rome. Livilla, that bitch of a daughter of mine, won’t give up until she’s given her lover what he wants. Why am I cursed with children who work against me?’

Vespasian and Sabinus were spared having to answer by the arrival of Pallas with Clemens.

‘Horses are being saddled up in the stable yard for you, masters,’ Pallas said, bowing, ‘I’ll return when they are ready.’

‘How many men are we taking?’ Clemens asked, having already been informed by Pallas where they were going and what was hoped of him.

‘Including us three, fifteen,’ Vespasian replied.

‘I’m not sure that my pass will give us access to that many horses from the relays.’

‘Take this,’ Antonia said, slipping her seal ring off her finger and giving it to Vespasian. ‘No one will dare argue with the holder of my seal; return it with Clemens. Where are you going to send your parents? It will need to be a long way away to be safe from Sejanus.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Vespasian replied, slipping the ring on his little finger. ‘The only person I could trust is Pomponius Labeo; he has estates in Aventicum on the other side of the Alps. He should be there by now.’

Antonia nodded. ‘That should be far enough away. What about you two?’

‘I’m coming straight back to Rome, domina,’ Sabinus said firmly. ‘I’ve got the quaestors’ election to consider.’

‘I don’t think that would be advisable for the moment,’ Antonia contended. ‘You should stay away until I can find out whether Sejanus was just targeting Gaius and your parents because your mother is his sister, or whether the whole family was to be killed, in which case you won’t be safe in Rome. You’ll have to leave the election in the hands of Fortuna.’

Sabinus made to protest but stopped himself as he saw the truth of the statement.

‘You could both go to my estates in Campania; I need you to be close enough to Rome to be able to come quickly should Macro send me a message stating that everything is ready for the other matter to proceed.’

‘Thank you, domina, but I would prefer to go to my estate in Cosa,’ Vespasian said. Sabinus gave him a sour look but grunted his assent. ‘It’s one day’s ride from Rome. We should be safe enough there. Magnus knows where it is if you need to find us.’

‘Very well,’ Antonia agreed as Pallas came hurrying back into the room.

‘All is prepared, masters.’

‘Thank you, Pallas,’ Antonia said looking at the brothers. ‘Ride fast, gentlemen. May the gods bring you there in time.’

Night had fallen and they rode as fast as they could — a slow canter — up the Via Salaria by the light of torches held by each man. Vespasian, Sabinus and Clemens had met Artebudz, Magnus and his brothers just before midday. Vespasian had a very brief reunion with the slow but reliable Sextus and the onehanded Marius before they started, hell for leather whilst daylight held, up the Via Salaria. They had changed horses every ten miles at the imperial relays. Antonia’s seal had proved invaluable as the relay-keepers were all reluctant to give them fresh horses, saying that they had already exchanged ten horses earlier in the day with a group of men bearing a warrant signed by Sejanus. Not having foreseen that Livilla’s men would be using the same form of quick transport as them, they rode on with an increasing sense of desperation. Their only hope lay in flogging their mounts to the limit in the hope that their parents’ would-be murderers were taking the journey more leisurely. This seemed to be confirmed as the relay-keepers’ estimations of how long before the ten men had passed through lessened gradually.

By the time that the long July day succumbed to night they had covered sixty of the eighty miles to Aquae Cutillae and they reckoned that they were just over an hour behind by the last time they changed horses.

‘We’ll save time by not changing again,’ Vespasian said to Sabinus as he peered ahead into the gloom. ‘At this pace these horses will be able to cover the last twenty miles.’

‘We need to speed up, brother,’ Sabinus replied. ‘The bastards ahead of us will be almost there now; they’ll have had less of the journey in the dark, so we’re falling behind them.’

‘They might decide to stop for the night.’

‘Bollocks they will; as far as they’re concerned they’ve timed it perfectly, arriving just as everyone’s gone to bed.’

‘What do you suggest then?’

‘You’ll laugh at me but I’m going to trust to my Lord Mithras; his light will guide me. You follow on as quickly as you can.’

With that he kicked his mount forward and pulled away. Vespasian raised his eyebrows and then shrugged and followed. Behind him the rest of the party felt obliged to do the same, although all thought it madness to ride so fast at night, even on a straight, well-paved road.

The torches had been extinguished and they walked their horses as quickly as possible up the rutted track that led to the Flavian estate. There were no lights burning in the complex and the toenail moon provided only a dim shimmer that vaguely outlined the buildings, now only one hundred paces away.

At Sabinus’ reckless pace they had covered the last twenty miles in a little under two hours. The fact that none of the horses had stumbled or thrown their riders was, to Vespasian’s mind, nothing short of miraculous, but he hesitated to say as much to Sabinus for fear of another homily on the power of the Lord Mithras.

The absence of light sharpened his other senses and the familiar smells of his childhood greeted him like old friends, one after the other. Sweet warm resin oozing from pine trees; musty earth cooling after a day of baking in the summer sun; freshly cut hay; meadow flowers; faint wood smoke: each one brought back images from the past that he feared was now about to be brutally intruded upon by the present.

‘It’s quiet,’ he whispered to Sabinus and Clemens, who rode either side of him. ‘Perhaps it was just a coincidence and they weren’t coming here after all?’

‘Or we’re too late,’ his brother replied grimly. They dismounted and tied their exhausted horses to a fig tree; a soft breeze rustled its leaves. In the distance a fox called; another, slightly closer, answered.

Artebudz, Magnus and his crossroads brothers joined them, drawing their short swords. They were fifty paces away from the fifteen-foot-high wall of the stable yard. In the moon’s dim light they could just see the gates; they were closed.

‘There’s no sign of a break-in. Looks like we may be in time,’ Sabinus whispered. ‘We’ll alert the household quietly and stand to to surprise those bastards if they do turn up. Vespasian, take Magnus, Artebudz and five of the brothers and try to wake the gatekeeper. I’ll take Clemens and the rest of the brothers around to the front of the main house and wake the doorkeeper. If we’re-’

A series of loud shouts split the night; over the roofs along the far end of the stable yard flaming torches cartwheeled through the night air. They were quickly followed by more torches but this time held aloft by silhouetted figures clambering on to the roof. Some jumped down into the yard, others ran at speed along its length and then up on to the roof of the main house. A fire, now burning on its far side, gave an orange definition to its shape.

‘Shit!’ Sabinus cried. ‘Get over the wall with your lads, Vespasian; I’ll take mine around the front. No plan, just up and at them.’

Sabinus’ group sped away around the side of the house.

‘Bring your horses,’ Vespasian shouted, unhitching his and leaping on. He galloped the fifty paces to the wall and pulled his mount up sharply next to it. Cries, shouts and the clash of weapons came from within the yard. Vespasian stood up on his horse’s back and stretched up; the top of the wall was still two feet from his outstretched hands.

‘Magnus, get up here and give me a leg-up.’

‘Coming over, sir.’ Magnus climbed from his mount on to Vespasian’s horse’s hindquarters. The horse started to shy.

‘Sextus,’ Vespasian shouted, ‘hold the horse’s head whilst Magnus pushes me up.’

‘Hold the head whilst Magnus pushes; right you are,’ Sextus said, as always slowly digesting his orders.

The horse steadied; Magnus cupped his hands for Vespasian’s foot and heaved him up. With a frantic scramble that grazed his knees, Vespasian managed to pull himself on to the roof. He reached back down and grabbed Magnus’ proffered arm and with a huge effort hauled him up. Artebudz and the other crossroads brothers followed their leader’s example.

Even though it was less than a hundred heartbeats since the start of the attack the stable yard was now lit by fires burning in the windows of a few of the buildings that looked on to it. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered around. Screams came from the field slaves’ barracks as the shackled slaves inside panicked at the smell of smoke and rising heat in their windowless place of confinement; flames were threatening their door. There was no sign of the attackers; the door to the courtyard garden of the main house swung unsteadily on its buckled hinges.

Vespasian dashed along the roof and leapt down into the stable yard as, at the far end, a group of men came running out of the freedmen’s lodgings, armed with swords, javelins and bows. Vespasian recognised Pallo, the estate steward, at their head, followed by Baseos the Scythian and the Persian Ataphanes, both bearing their recurved, eastern bows. Unfortunately they did not recognise him; two arrows careered towards him as he hit the ground. He felt a rush of air pass over his head and then a lightning strike of pain in his left shoulder twisted him backwards on to the floor.

‘Pallo!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, Vespasian!’

But too late. Thinking that he was no longer a threat Baseos and Ataphanes had turned their attentions to the crossroads brothers still traversing the roof; two fell into the yard as Ataphanes went down with an arrow from Artebudz in his chest.

‘Artebudz, don’t shoot!’ Vespasian roared again in a monumental effort to make himself heard over the clamour from the field slaves’ barracks. ‘Pallo, stop! It’s me, Vespasian.’ He got to his knees and waved his arms; pain from the arrowhead grinding against bone shot through his senses.

This time Pallo recognised his young master, whom he had not seen in over four years, by his voice.

‘Stop shooting,’ Pallo ordered, running across the yard. His men followed, weapons raised warily. ‘Master, is that really you? Why are you attacking your own home?’

‘I’m not. There’s no time to explain,’ he said, wincing as he broke off the shaft of the arrow a thumb’s length from the entry point.

Magnus and Artebudz jumped down from the roof followed by Sextus and Marius.

‘Follow me into the main house,’ Vespasian cried, running through the swinging gate, ‘and be careful who you shoot at, Sabinus is coming in through the front.’

The courtyard garden was deserted apart from the body of the slave whose job it had been to sit by the gate all night. From the house came the sound of hand-to-hand fighting. Vespasian pounded around the colonnaded walkway towards the tablinum; blood oozed from his wound and was now soaking his tunic and his head was feeling light from pain.

Pushing aside the broken tablinum door he hurtled through and on into the atrium. It was a mass of writhing and struggling bodies all locked in bitter close-quarter conflicts: some standing, fighting with swords and knives; some wrestling, rolling around on the floor. At the far end of the room the open door burned like a beacon; by its light he could see, next to his brother and Clemens, fighting with a dagger in each hand, his father, Titus. Blood poured down the side of his face from where his left ear was missing.

With a roar, Vespasian jumped over the dead and bloodsoaked body of Varo, the house steward, and flung himself through the chaos and on to the back of his father’s adversary. Grabbing him by the hair he swung his sword in a short, sideways arc into the flesh at the top of his right arm and on through the bone, like wire through cheese. The man howled as his severed limb dropped to the floor; a sharp thrust from Titus curtailed the bestial sound and he fell, dead.

Behind Vespasian, Magnus, Sextus and Marius descended on the rear of their crossroads brothers’ opponents like furies released from hades. Livilla’s men stood no chance as they were hacked and stabbed at from all angles. Artebudz, Pallo, Baseos and the rest of the freedmen stood back, uncertain of friend or foe; but they were not needed. In a few short moments only two of the attackers were left standing, herded into a corner, surrounded and defeated. Both dropped to one knee in token of surrender.

‘You come to my house to kill me in front of the death masks of my ancestors and the altar to my family’s gods and then expect mercy?’ Titus thundered, pushing his way through the surrounding men. In one fluid movement he swiped up a discarded sword and flashed it through the air at neck height, almost taking the first man’s head clean off. The body slumped forward, spraying Magnus and his brothers. The second man raised his head. His eyes showed no fear as they stared at Titus from beneath a mono-brow; he nodded and lowered his head to receive the killing blow in the manner of a Roman citizen.

‘Don’t!’ a voice shouted as Titus lifted his sword.

Titus jerked around to see who would prevent him from taking his just vengeance.

Clemens stepped forward.

‘Who are you, young man?’ Titus enquired, breathing heavily.

‘Marcus Arrecinus Clemens, sir,’ Clemens replied steadily. ‘Your son is to marry my sister.’

‘Well, Clemens, if you think that family ties will force me to grant mercy to this man, you are much mistaken.’

Sabinus stepped up to Clemens, outraged. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming between coming my father and his rightful justice? Every one of Livilla’s men must die,’ he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at the kneeling man.

‘Calm, my friend, Livilla’s men are all dead,’ Clemens said pointing at the captive. ‘He’s not one of them.’

Sabinus looked carefully at the man whilst slowing his breathing. A memory flashed across his mind and he stared harder at the kneeling man’s face. ‘Clemens is right, father,’ he said, remembering the mono-browed guard in Macro’s room the previous year. ‘This one’s not Livilla’s man, he’s a Praetorian. That’s Satrius Secundus.’