Rome's lost son

CHAPTER XIII

Despite all his care to keep the door to the world outside locked, Vespasian now found himself with an unwelcome companion who resisted all attempts at eviction. No longer could Vespasian deny to himself the existence of the outside world and no longer could he not yearn to see it, feel it, exist in it. After all, he had almost escaped back to it after the earthquake; yet then he had said not a word to anyone but now, with the gaolers, he had tried to communicate; now he could no longer keep himself hidden lost in an inner tranquillity.

And so his mind turned to the only two subjects that had any relevance: escape and revenge.

And yet, the second could not happen without the first and escape seemed impossible; there would be no more fortuitous earthquakes. He was never let out of his cell, which had no window, only a door and that was solid apart from the grille. Only the grille was ever opened and although it was big enough for him to squeeze through, the time it would take him to do it would be more than ample for the gaolers to incapacitate him; there could be no surprise rush through the grille. Therefore it had to be the door; the gaolers had opened it when he had had his screaming fit, so could he replicate that and overpower them as they came in to restrain him? His new companion provided the answer to that and showed him his weakened limbs and shrunken belly. But Vespasian refused to be driven down by despair, so, rather than retreat into a corner, cowed by his false friend, he fell to exercise, working his muscles that had been unused for who knew how long and planning the hideous ways in which he would inflict injury on Paelignus and Radamistus. Rather than sit or squat on his blanket he began to pace the cell like a wild beast before release into the arena; he would intersperse his walking with bouts of gymnastics, stretching and working his neck, arms and legs, doing his best to ignore the mockery of the companion who watched his every move.

Gradually his body began to harden but his belly remained shrunken as the rigours of his regime far exceeded the nutrition of his diet and he realised that he would not be able to gain sufficient strength to overpower two so obviously well-fed men. And for a while he fell back into the arms of despair.

For a whole period between two straw deliveries he gave up the fight, lying on the blanket with his friend, until he remembered that he possessed one thing that the gaolers did not: intelligence.

And so he began to study them every time they came down the green-slimed steps. The one who held the torch was bald and bearded with a bull neck and hands the size of a loaf of bread. His mate was slighter with unkempt hair and beard and looked as if he was struggling under the weight of the sack of loaves and the pail of gruel; Vespasian concluded that he must be a slave as otherwise it made no sense that the smaller, weaker man should be doing the hardest work. That gave him his first reason to allow himself a morsel of hope: if the smaller man was a slave, he might hate his master and would perhaps do nothing to defend him if he were to be attacked. But then he remembered how the smaller man had pinioned his arms; the grip had been that of a man enthusiastic about committing violence. The hope died but he carried on studying their routine and it was always the same — until one visit, when everything changed.

It took Vespasian a while to realise that the slave was different as the new man had the same build as the last and similarly unkempt hair and beard. But, as the pair progressed down the corridor, emptying slop buckets and distributing food, Vespasian noticed that the slave was doing something that he did not normally do: he was looking closely through the grille at each inmate; it was then that Vespasian saw that he was new. As they came closer, Vespasian studied the new man for signs that he might be weaker than the previous slave and he looked for clues as to the man’s relationship with his master. But the slave gave nothing away. At each door he would put down his sack and pail of gruel, then, once the gaoler had unbolted the grille and opened it, he would take the slop bucket, empty it into the open sewer and hand it back. It was as he passed the bucket back through the grille that the man bent and looked closely at the occupant. Then he took the jug and walked back to the butt of water at the foot of the steps to fill it. Having passed the jug back he received the wooden bowl, ladled gruel into it, gave it back and passed a loaf through before his master swung back the grille and bolted it.

It was Vespasian’s turn next and he passed out the slop bucket; as he received it back he locked eyes with the slave and after a moment the recognition hit him like a Titan’s punch and he just managed to prevent himself from exclaiming out loud. It was with shaking hands that he went through the remainder of the routine and as he grasped the loaf of bread he felt an addition to it. As the grille closed he glanced down in his hand and saw a scrap of paper. He opened it quickly before the torch moved on too far and read: ‘We’re both here, be ready.’ He screwed it up and breathed a long sigh of relief that turned into a series of sobs that he could barely contain and then gave up trying to. Tears streamed down his face and they were not tears of sadness as his false friend, despair, left the cell forever; they were tears of relief and hope. He cried freely as he wondered just where Magnus was and how Hormus had become the gaoler’s slave.

Vespasian now doubled his efforts to toughen up his body, pushing it hard, forcing it through tiredness. When he was too exhausted to carry on, he slept, deep and peacefully, knowing that each sleep could be the last in this subterranean nightmare. Each time he heard the key clunk in the door at the top of the steps his heart leapt with hope and he put his eyes to the grille to make sure that it was indeed Hormus coming down the steps with the gaoler.

Each time it was and each time nothing happened; no shared look between them nor hand signal to notice, no note, nothing, not even a surreptitious nod until one time, as Hormus put his hand into the sack of loaves, he pulled out a knife. The first the gaoler saw of the weapon was as it plunged into his right eye, and then it was but the briefest of glimpses; his howl drowned the sound of misery in the corridor as Hormus twisted and turned the blade so that it made a mush of his brain. Vespasian looked on, almost panting with desire to wield the blade himself as the gaoler weakened and fell to his knees. Hormus withdrew the knife from the pulped wound and, as the light was dying in the gaoler’s other eye, he thrust it in so that the man died blind. Working his wrist left and right, he howled with hatred and Vespasian realised that Hormus must have been put through an exceeding amount of misery by the gaoler in a comparatively short time for that hatred to manifest itself so strongly.

Hyperventilating with released tension, Hormus let the body slump back, threw the bolt on the door and pulled it open. ‘We must hurry, master.’

Vespasian croaked; his mind had formed a reply but nothing came from his mouth and he realised that he could not remember the last time he had spoken. He stepped forward and took his slave in his arms and for the first time in the whole long dark moment that he had endured he felt the comfort of another human, one who was not trying to harm him. Hormus gently prised his master’s arms from around his shoulders as all around a cacophony arose from the other inmates who had realised just what had happened and were now clamouring for release; but Hormus ignored them and led his filthy, naked master by the hand, up the steps. ‘If we are to get out of here alive, we must do it quietly,’ he said. ‘We cannot afford to release the others because of the noise they’d make.’

Vespasian did not care one way or the other; all he knew was that he was mounting the steps that, apart from his brief foray beyond them, had been for the course of his incarceration the horizon of his world. With each step the weight of his misery seemed to lighten until he came to the door to the world beyond. As Hormus opened that door to a long dim corridor Vespasian saw that the world outside really did still exist and, with a ragged half-sob, he stepped back into it.

*

Hormus began to run and Vespasian, still holding onto his hand, kept pace. At the end of the corridor they came to a narrow, spiral staircase; it was not familiar to Vespasian from the dim memories of his failed escape. Up they ran taking the steps two at a time, but as they approached the top, Hormus slowed, then stopped. With caution he stuck his head around the corner and, after a few moments, signalled with his hand, before leading Vespasian, at a walk, out into another corridor. A light shone from an open door on the right, twenty paces away, and beyond it a silhouetted figure was walking towards them. Vespasian still grasped his slave’s hand, his brain struggling to make the transition from a dark, enclosed world to this place of space and light. The figure walking towards them stopped just before the open door; voices emanated from it.

Vespasian felt Hormus’ hand tense and became aware that the slave was still brandishing his knife in the other. The silhouetted figure had a sword, its blade shone dim in the light, and Vespasian realised that they had to kill the men in the room before they could progress for fear of being spotted as they crossed the doorway. Hormus let go of his hand; Vespasian stopped, feeling as if he had been cast adrift. Hormus and the man with the sword were now either side of the door with their backs against the wall; Hormus held up three fingers to indicate the number of guards in the room and then with a mutual nod of heads they whipped through into the light to surprised shouts that turned into agonised screams. Vespasian ran forward, suddenly clear in his mind as to what he needed to do. He hurtled through the door and into the light, a thing of filth and matted hair, and, with an animal growl that came from the bestial core of his being, he launched himself on the third guard, his lips peeled back, his hands like claws. Releasing the rage that had built up within him in all that time in a dark cell, he sank his teeth into the throat of the man as his hands tore at his victim’s eyes. Feeling blood spurt into his mouth, he clamped his jaw tight and shook his head, ripping the flesh, while he forced thumbs into eye sockets. The guard flailed his arms, trying to fight back, but against such animal fury a mere human was powerless and Vespasian drove him down onto the floor. A red mist covered Vespasian’s eyes as he savaged the guard with teeth and nails; he could see nothing, hear nothing, but he felt everything; he felt life so powerful, coursing through him as he ripped and clawed the body beneath him in a frenzy of death.

‘That’ll do you, sir,’ a voice said, intruding on his bliss. ‘If he ain’t dead yet then I doubt that he can be killed and it’d be pointless to keep on trying, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian felt a hand, firm, on his shoulder, pulling him up and prising him away from the tattered corpse beneath him. He loosened his jaw and released his teeth from the gaping throat; blood gushed from his mouth, slopping onto the eyeless face of the guard. He turned and looked to see who was talking to him; after a few moments he managed to focus and Magnus came into view. He tried to greet him and thank him but it came out as a series of grunts.

Magnus lifted him gently to his feet. ‘We’d best get you dressed, sir; we can’t have you walking around like that, you’ll frighten the horses.’

Vespasian looked down at himself; he was smeared in muck and blood. He tried to apologise for the stink but again it came out as inarticulate drivel.

‘Don’t you worry, it’ll come back,’ Magnus reassured him as Hormus stripped the guard nearest to Vespasian’s size.

Within a few moments Vespasian was slipping on the tunic, trousers and boots that Hormus had acquired and then they set off down the corridor. Being clothed again, even though it was in the eastern style, gave Vespasian a feeling of security and he no longer needed to hold Hormus’ hand as all three of them broke into a jog as they veered to the left into a wider passage. Halfway down they made a right turn, Hormus somehow navigating his way through the labyrinthine building, took another right turn, then a left and then mounted a further set of steps. All the while the air was becoming fresher and warmer and for the first time for a very long time Vespasian allowed himself to imagine the sun in a blue sky because he knew that soon he would see it.

And suddenly, as another door opened, there it was and he had to close his eyes because of the brightness of it but he did not mind for he could feel it on his face and that alone was the most beautiful sensation he had ever experienced. Keeping his eyes shaded, he followed Hormus and Magnus out into a street and then, sticking close together, they blended into the crowd and Vespasian finally felt like a free man.

The city was far more crowded than he remembered but then, after so long alone, he assumed that it was just his mind playing tricks on him. They threaded their way through streets both wide and narrow and still filled with rubble from the earthquake, always heading south, moving at a good pace, fast enough to get away quickly but not so fast as to draw attention to themselves. Vespasian managed to frame a question in his head asking how they had found him but then was unable to transfer that into coherent sound.

Magnus, however, seemed to understand what he wanted to know. ‘It was simple, really: when you didn’t come back from Radamistus’ camp as his army started crossing the bridge I assumed that he’d kidnapped you. So me and Hormus followed, attaching ourselves to the baggage train. Anyway, after a few days I managed to get Paelignus by himself for a nice quiet chat.’

Vespasian raised his eyebrows at the sound of the procurator’s name.

‘He’d gone with Radamistus because he felt safer there than with his prefects after they had relieved him of command,’ Magnus explained. ‘Also he seemed to enjoy playing the kingmaker. Anyway, I happened to catch him on his own one night and after not too much persuasion he told me that Radamistus had given you to Babak as surety against him keeping his word. Well, as it was obvious that Radamistus had as much intention of keeping his word as a Vestal has of not opening her legs as soon as her thirty-year vow is up, I asked Paelignus why he, as the Roman procurator of Cappadocia, had allowed such a thing to happen.’ Magnus paused for a grin. ‘Even after his second finger had slopped to the floor he couldn’t come up with a decent explanation and continued to insist that he had tried to prevent it. I let him go eventually. I thought that if he had betrayed you then you would enjoy killing him and I wouldn’t want to intrude on your pleasure; and if he hadn’t, well, two fingers was a fair price for doing nothing to stop Radamistus.’

Vespasian nodded, grateful that Magnus had left the cowardly runt alive for him; it would be a sweet day when they met again.

They stopped outside a three-storey house that showed little signs of damage, right next to the south wall; Hormus knocked thrice and then repeated the signal. After a few moments the door was opened by a youth of considerable beauty. Hormus embraced him and then spoke to him in a language that Vespasian did not understand. He shot Magnus a questioning look.

‘That’s Mindos’ replacement, as it were; we disposed of Mindos when he tried to warn Paelignus that we were travelling with Radamistus’ army. Hormus met this one soon after we arrived here a couple of months ago.’

Vespasian shook his head and pointed to his mouth as the youth stepped back and opened the door for them.

‘Oh, I see; the language? It’s Aramaic.’ Magnus informed him, stepping into the house; Vespasian followed. ‘It turns out that it was Hormus’ mother tongue that he had forgotten after his mother’s death. Remember he said he came from somewhere around Armenia? Well, it must have been here or close by. Anyway, it’s very useful because we can get around without anyone noticing us. That’s how we managed to rent this house and that’s how we managed to sell Hormus to the gaoler after his previous slave met with rather an unfortunate end on his way to the market.’

Vespasian looked around the entrance hall; it was well appointed and light. At the far end was a rickety staircase. Magnus headed upstairs. ‘Come on, sir, we need to get you cleaned up; there’s a cistern of rainwater up on the roof. Once you’ve washed all the shit off and tidied up a bit, we’ll think about getting out of this city, if we still can.’

Vespasian wondered why Magnus seemed to think that leaving was so difficult as he followed him up two flights of stairs and then up a ladder to the flat roof. As he eased himself out of the hole and stood up, he looked to the south; the roof was higher than the wall, just five paces away, and Vespasian had a clear view over it. Out on the plain he could see the reason for Magnus’ misgivings: an army was camped before the gates of Arbela.

The city was under siege.

‘Shit!’ Vespasian exclaimed, surprising both himself and Magnus.

‘They arrived a couple of days ago,’ Magnus explained as Hormus scrubbed Vespasian’s skin with a wet cloth. ‘It’s Vologases’ army.’

‘The Great King of Parthia?’ Vespasian’s voice felt raw and it sounded strange to him having not heard it in a long while.

‘The very same.’

‘What’s he doing besieging one of his vassals?’

‘Well, two years ago, after Radamistus went back on his oath to Babak and declared for Rome …’

Vespasian put his hand up to stop him. ‘Say that again.’

‘Which bit? Two years?’

‘Yes, that bit.’

‘It’s been two years, sir. That’s how long you’ve been here; didn’t you know?’

Vespasian stared at his friend, incredulous. ‘Two?’

Magnus nodded.

Vespasian tried to think; he could certainly remember it starting to feel colder and then warm up again, but those were the only changes he could remember. Anything up to a year would not have surprised him; but two? ‘They’re going to think that I’m dead back home.’

‘No, Hormus wrote to your brother when we found out where you were. After we got the information out of Paelignus, we had to go back to Cappadocia because Babak had blocked the pass into Adiabene; and then Vologases arrived with the main Parthian force. He defeated Radamistus, took Artaxata and put his brother Tiridates on the throne. There was no way through so we waited and then winter came and we were stuck in Cappadocia. When spring arrived, Paelignus turned up again so we decided to make ourselves scarce. The passes were still blocked so I reckoned that the best way into Adiabene was through our province of Syria. And that’s what we did, but once we got there we had to wait for winter before we could safely cross the desert to the Euphrates and then get across that to the Tigris and then over that to get here, only to arrive in the chaos of the aftermath of an earthquake. So here we are, two years later.’

‘Two years?’ Vespasian was having difficulty letting the information sink in. He took the wet cloth from Hormus, dipped it in the water and began to rub at his groin. He looked out at the army before the city. ‘So Vologases has put his brother on the Armenian throne?’

‘It would seem that way; but last winter was very harsh and he was forced to withdraw his army from Armenia, so how long Tiridates will stay on is anyone’s guess.’

Vespasian allowed himself a small smile; his first for a long time — two years. ‘That’s excellent news; either Radamistus or a Roman army will have to come in to remove him; the war will rumble on. So what’s Vologases doing camped out there?’

Magnus shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know or care; perhaps King Izates has been a naughty boy. The point is that he is there and isn’t allowing anyone in or out except emissaries.’

Vespasian looked over the Parthian lines. ‘He doesn’t seem to be doing much.’

‘They’re negotiating and I think it would be best for us to slip away before they fall out with each other. There’s a river about ten miles to the south; it’s a tributary of the Tigris. Once we’re on that river we can head south.’

‘South?’

‘Yes, sir, south. There’s no way that we can cross the desert in summer by ourselves so I thought we’d head south and get some help.’

‘Help?’

‘Yes, sir, help.’

‘From whom? We’re in the Parthian Empire; who’s going to help us?’

‘That’s what I wondered and then I remembered that business in Alexandria fifteen years ago and realised that actually there is a Parthian family that could be in your debt.’

Vespasian puzzled for a few moments before that door in his memory reopened. ‘Ataphanes’ family?’

‘Exactly. You sent all his gold back to his family in Ctesiphon.’

Vespasian remembered the effort he had gone to to send his father’s freedman’s life savings back to his family. He had Alexander, the Alabarch of the Alexandrian Jews, send the gold in one of his cousin’s caravans. ‘I don’t even know if it got there.’

‘Well, there’s only one way to find out.’

‘His family might not be that well disposed towards me; after all, my family did own their son as a slave for fifteen years before giving him his freedom.’

‘Should make for an interesting meeting then.’

Vespasian was doubtful.

Magnus sighed and then pointed to the huge army. ‘If they attack, this city will fall and each one of those bastards is going to want to kill us. If they don’t attack, Izates is going to be combing the city for you so that he can tuck you up all nice and comfy back in your cell. So we’ve got to get out of here and, unless we all fancy a parched death under the desert sun to the west, then the one sensible thing to do is ask the only people we know in this whole fucking empire to help us. I don’t know if they got the gold and I don’t know if they would like to see you enslaved in revenge for what happened to their son; I don’t know any of that. What I do know is that the only way back to Rome is across the desert and this family are traders and, therefore, they have caravans; I would reckon that it’s worth asking them very nicely if they would mind us hitching a ride on one of them.’

Vespasian laughed; a strange sound in his head but a welcome one. ‘You’re right, of course, Magnus; it’s the only sensible thing to do. I don’t suppose Ataphanes’ father is still alive but I remember him saying that he was the youngest of five brothers, so there’s a fair chance of one of them still living. The question is: will they help us?’

‘No, the question is: how do we find them?’

‘His family are spice merchants so I suppose we could see if there’s a guild or some such thing in Ctesiphon and then ask if any of them know of a family that does business with the Jews of Alexandria whose fifth son became a slave in the Roman Empire.’

‘That’s not the sort of thing you publicise.’

‘Well then, how about looking for a family whose youngest son died in the service of the Great King forty years ago?’

‘Hmm, it’s a start, I suppose; but we’ve got to get there first. Hormus, trim your master’s beard and cut his hair so that it’s just off his shoulders; we’re all going to look like eastern merchants so that we have no problems walking right through that army.’

The moon set shortly after the sixth hour of the night and Magnus led them back up onto the roof. They were dressed eastern style with long tunics over trousers, leather boots, headdresses, cloaks and a sword and dagger hanging from their belts; they were the image, Hormus’ young chum had assured him, of mercantile respectability. The fires and torches in the surrounding host burned brighter and in more profusion than the stars as if the heavens had fallen to earth to encircle Arbela.

‘Down,’ Magnus hissed.

They lay low as a patrol passed along the wall.

‘There’re five an hour during the night,’ Magnus whispered to Vespasian as the patrol disappeared towards the south gate. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to get out.’ Magnus and Hormus pulled up the ladder from below and then, having checked that there were no unscheduled patrols in sight, fed it out towards the wall, bridging the gap.

Vespasian and Magnus admired the beautiful sight surrounding them, pointedly not looking back to where Hormus was saying goodbye to his lover; the youth was in tears.

‘He’s not coming with us, I take it?’ Vespasian asked.

‘Hormus wanted to bring him but he felt, to quote him directly, that you wouldn’t want your slave’s bum-boy cluttering up the boat.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes, he’s quite perceptive.’

‘I wouldn’t have minded.’

‘Well, it’s done now; mind you, I think Hormus had his more selfish reasons. As everyone knows, the best bum-boys come from Mesopotamia; they’re renowned for being very accommodating, in more ways than one, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian did, only too well, especially having witnessed Caligula’s public usage of one such youth. ‘So you think he’s planning on testing the truth of that assertion?’

‘I’d have thought so; definitely. I’ve been with him almost all the time these last couple of years and I have to say that I really like the lad. However, he’s got one weakness: he does love a boy or two; mad for them he is. It’ll get him into trouble one day.’

Hormus disentangled himself from his latest passion and joined Vespasian and Magnus by the temporary bridge. The youth, with tears glinting in his eyes from the speckled light of the thousands of fires out on the plain, held the ladder firm as Hormus crossed first, with care, balancing a sack on his shoulders. Magnus followed and then Vespasian, trying his hardest not to look down into the dark void of the street below. Once they were all over, the youth withdrew the ladder and watched his lover disappear along the wall. Vespasian noticed that Hormus did not look back once.

They scuttled along, keeping low for about twenty paces before Hormus stopped next to an iron ring set in the wall and rummaged in the bag. Bringing out a long length of rope, he quickly knotted it around the ring and threw the end over the wall. Vespasian was finding it hard to believe that this was the same timid man who was rarely able to look anyone in the eye. With a testing pull on the knot he stepped back and indicated to Vespasian to go first.

As he heaved himself over the parapet, clinging onto the rope, voices came from further along the wall, near the south gate.

‘Fast as you like, sir,’ Magnus hissed, ‘that’s the next patrol on the way; they’re early.’

With a muttered profanity, Vespasian braced his feet against the outside of the wall and pushed, throwing his body out while letting the rope slip through his hands so that he descended the fifty feet in a series of jumps with his cloak flapping up and down behind him like a bird’s broken wing. Hormus was already on the rope when Vespasian landed at the base of the wall, jolting his knees, but thankful that he had built his body up to reasonable fitness during the last stretch of his incarceration. He was standing on a narrow ridge looking down the exceedingly steep slope of the hill that the city sat upon, one hundred feet down to the plain.

Shouts from above rang out and, looking up, Vespasian saw Magnus fling himself over the wall while Hormus was still only halfway down. The rope swung alarmingly from the extra weight on it and Hormus was having difficulty clinging on as Magnus came tearing down; but suddenly clinging on was academic: the rope was no longer attached. Hormus fell the last ten feet, managing to land upright and then roll with the impact; but Magnus had further to fall, much further.

Vespasian positioned himself directly underneath him; as Magnus hurtled to the ground he stretched out his arms, not in an attempt to catch him but to break his fall. The impact sent him crunching down onto his buttocks as Magnus bounced off him, hitting the ground with a lung-emptying thump before disappearing over the edge. Down he rolled, sending up clouds of dust and obscenities. With a quick check to see if Hormus was in one piece, Vespasian leapt after him as the first javelin quivered in the ground, just to his right.

The slope was loose scree and Vespasian found himself once again grateful for the trousers as his legs were spared much of the grazing and tearing from the sharp stones; his momentum increased. He could hear Hormus just behind him but could see very little, enveloped as he was in a cloud of dust on a moonless night. The slope gradually levelled out towards its base and his speed decreased until he stopped, jolting as he thudded into an object that groaned in pain as he hit it. Hormus then tumbled on top of him in a flurry of gravel.

‘Jupiter’s cock,’ Magnus grumbled, his teeth clenched as he gingerly touched his left arm, ‘you’ve got the whole fucking hillside to break your fall with and you both choose to do it on me instead.’

An arrow slamming into the ground next to them caused Magnus to cut short his complaint and in an instant they were on their feet sprinting towards the Parthian lines, two hundred paces away. Arrows whipped about them and shouts followed them. Vespasian glanced over his left shoulder and saw that the south gate remained shut; perhaps there would be no pursuit.

Magnus groaned with effort and pain as he ran, cradling his left arm and limping badly on the same foot. Vespasian slowed and put his arm around Magnus’ shoulders, taking some of the weight as they ploughed on through the darkness. The arrows trailed off as the gloom swallowed them and soon they felt safe enough to stop and assess the damage. Magnus slumped down on the ground and Hormus examined his arm.

Vespasian did not need to be told that it was broken; the angle of the wrist attested to the fact.

‘We need to get that set properly,’ Hormus said as Magnus shoved him away and nursed his injury protectively.

‘Oh yes? And where are we going to do that?’ he hissed.

‘He’s right, Magnus,’ Vespasian said. ‘If we don’t, you might never be able to use that hand again. We’re just about to walk through an army and if there is one profession that clings to armies almost as much as whores do, it’s doctors.’

Vespasian peered forward; the three men seated around the fire seemed to be dozing with their chins on their chests. It was the fourth such fire that they had checked but the first where the sentries seemed to be less fastidious about their duties.

Magnus tutted, in spite of his pain. ‘Asleep on duty; they’d be beaten to death by their mates in our army.’

‘Yes, well, let’s be thankful that the Parthians seem to have a more lax view of discipline,’ Vespasian said. ‘Hormus, you go first; if you’re challenged, give them your best Aramaic.’ He looked at Magnus in the gloom. ‘Just remember if you’re going to moan, groan, mutter or mumble to do it in Greek; there’re plenty of Greek speakers in the Great King’s army but precious few Latin ones.’

Magnus grumbled something in Greek as Hormus stood and walked forward, skirting the fire.

None of the guards stirred as Hormus approached. Vespasian and Magnus followed close behind, hardly daring to breathe, keeping as much in the shadows as possible. The noise from the camp, even at this time of night, was enough to drown their footsteps. Just as they were level with the fire, one of the guards snorted in his sleep, causing him to splutter and shocking him awake. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Magnus. Hormus shouted in Aramaic and the guard turned to see where the noise had come from. Again Hormus shouted a sentence and then the guard started to laugh; he nudged his fellows awake and said something to them which made them smile, bleary eyed. The guard shouted something back at Hormus and waved them on and then added, with a grin, what sounded to be a quip; Vespasian and Magnus did not need a second invitation and, grinning back at the guard, they moved on.

‘What did you tell them?’ Vespasian asked once they were well within the camp perimeter and feeling less conspicuous.

Hormus looked shyly at his master. ‘I said that my friend had broken his arm getting too close to the rear of a mule and we were looking for a doctor. They got the inference immediately and said that some doctors could be found towards the rear of the camp if we headed straight through. Then he asked if the mule needed a doctor too.’

Vespasian suppressed a laugh; Magnus mumbled something about jokes at his expense while he was in agony.

They walked slowly and with confidence through the camp as if they had every right to be there. After so long by himself in a sealed tomb, Vespasian found the variety of new sights, sounds and smells overwhelming and he had to fight the urge to take his slave’s hand again, telling himself that it would soon pass as he readjusted to being part of the world.

In the short time that it took them to traverse the Parthian camp Vespasian heard more than a dozen different languages, saw as many, if not more, styles of dress and smelt so many different and new spices and herbs on the steam and smoke wafting from the cooking fires that his head would have spun even if he had not just been released from a solitary cell earlier that day.

Having asked for directions a couple of times, Hormus eventually guided them to an area of the camp, near the horse-lines at the very back, that was populated with larger, plusher tents.

‘This looks to be the right sort of place,’ Vespasian said, noticing the ostentatious displays of wealth in the form of silver lamps and elegantly carved camp furniture laid out around each tent, guarded by expensive-looking slaves, bulked with muscle. ‘Giving false hope to the dying seems to be just as profitable here as it is at home. Go and make some enquiries, Hormus.’

The slave approached one of the huge guards and after a short discussion returned. ‘For two drachmae, he’ll allow us through; the best man for what we need is in the tent with the red and blue facings.’

‘Drachmae?’ Vespasian questioned.

‘Yes, I was surprised too,’ Magnus said, grimacing as he cradled his arm. ‘Apparently they’ve used the drachma ever since Alexander’s conquest.’

Vespasian nodded to Hormus to pay the man.

They followed Hormus to the appropriate tent and waited outside while the slave entered and tried to gain admittance for them.

‘Twenty-five drachmae,’ he said upon his eventual return. ‘Plus an extra ten due to the lateness of the hour.’

Despite the exorbitant fee, far more even that the most avaricious doctor would have charged back in Rome, Vespasian led Magnus and Hormus into the tent. A waiting slave bowed to them as he took the purse that Hormus proffered; having satisfied himself that it contained the correct coinage, he said something in Aramaic to which Hormus replied, causing the slave to switch languages to Greek. ‘Follow me; my master Lindos is waiting.’

Like so many doctors, Lindos was a Greek and, like so many Greeks, he treated those not of Attic blood and speaking serviceable but accented Greek with contempt. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked after Magnus had told him some rubbish about how he had broken his arm. ‘Your Greek is ghastly.’

‘We’re from …’ Magnus stopped and groaned with pain to cover his inability to answer the question truthfully.

‘Colchis,’ Vespasian answered after a couple of nervous heartbeats thinking.

Lindos’ expression made it quite clear what he thought of the morals and sexual proclivities of those who hailed from that far-flung kingdom on the eastern coast of the Euxine. Having made his displeasure clear at having to come into physical contact with lowlife hardly better than barbarians, Lindos went to work at setting the bone and splinting the arm with remarkable professionalism. Biting down on a strip of wood, Magnus fought the pain, which, judging by the way Lindos pulled on the broken limb and also by the variety of Magnus’s facial expressions, must have been considerable.

Within a quarter of an hour Lindos was finished and Magnus, with his arm set straight and protected by two splints, was covered in sweat, his eyes screwed shut. ‘Jupiter’s cock, that hurt,’ he blurted as the slave removed the wooden bit from his mouth. He opened his eyes to see Vespasian staring at him aghast and dawning suspicion on Lindos’ face.

He had spoken in Latin and had invoked Rome’s best and greatest god.

Hormus was the first to react, grabbing the slave, and with both hands clamped to his head, twisted it, violent and sudden, breaking the neck with a snap.

Vespasian’s shock at his previously timid slave’s new murderous abilities was the instant that Lindos needed to flee and scream for help and quickly and loudly he did so, retreating back into the depths of the tent.

‘This way,’ Vespasian said, gathering his mind and drawing his sword. He ran to the side of the tent and slashed a long rend in it as burly bodies bundled through the entrance. He pushed the loose material aside and ran out into the night with Magnus and Hormus following. At speed they sprinted away, dodging a couple of guards whose agility was not helped by their bulk. Behind them cries of warning rang out. After they had covered fifty paces or so Vespasian slowed down so as not to draw attention to themselves; as he did so he caught the sweet animal scent of the horse-lines and, following his nose, walked swiftly towards them.

The horses were tethered in long lines and tended by slaves who groomed, fed and exercised them; hundreds of horses meant scores of slaves and Vespasian knew that any pursuit would soon think to look at the horse-lines. ‘There’s no time for niceties,’ he said, striding forward with purpose towards the horses nearest them, his sword still naked in his hand. With a swift, military jab he rammed the point into the throat of an enquiring slave and within a few moments had unhitched the first three horses in the line. ‘It’ll have to be bareback,’ he said, hauling himself up onto the unsaddled beast.

Hormus gave Magnus a leg up before mounting his horse as slaves came running towards them, their shouts alerting the guards, coming from the opposite direction in pursuit, as to the whereabouts of their quarry.

Pulling his mount round, Vespasian kicked it into action, followed by Magnus gamely hanging on with one hand, as Hormus slashed down at a slave attempting to grab his leg, opening up his face with a spurt of blood; the iron tang caused his horse’s nostrils to flare and with flattened ears it sped away after his master.

Vespasian did not slow his mount as it clattered through the arriving guards, sending them diving to either side and leaving the escape into the empty south clear. They thundered their horses out into the night, leaving uproar behind them, and headed, with as much haste as possible in the black night, for the tributary of the Tigris that would take them down to the great river itself. Then they would follow it south, drawn by its current, into the beating heart of the Parthian Empire.