by C. R. May
‘Well, friend,’ one-ear snarled, ‘as you and your kind decided to run away this morning rather than fight it looks like we are all in for a touch of bother!’ A rumble of laughter came from the motley collection who had gathered behind their leader, and although the thug smiled his eyes were those of a drink-fuelled killer. ‘Come and have a drink with your new friends.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm onto the flank of Numerius’ horse before looking up, his lip curled into a sneer. ‘My treat.’
The moment to strike had arrived, and Numerius waited until the man’s gaze had risen level with his waist before the sword stabbed forward. As the bull-man’s head continued to rise the point of the blade slipped effortlessly into his eye socket and on into the brain. Taken unawares his mouth fell open in surprise and shock, and Numerius withdrew the blade and swung it an arc to take off his victim’s forearm. Freed from his grip Numerius kicked in, driving his horse across the forum and into the shadows cast by the temples opposite. A great cry of indignation arose in his wake, but casting a glance behind him as he slowed again Numerius could see that the chase had been half-hearted, as he had suspected it would be. Even lowlife could see that there would be little profit in assaulting a well-armed man and, their erstwhile leader lying lifeless at their feet, they turned away as the siren call of Bacchus proved to be too powerful for them once again.
Numerius snatched a small banner down as he passed a shopfront and wiped his blade clean before sliding it back into its scabbard. He was entering the sacred grove that led up to the Domus Publica and its neighbour, the Atrium Vestae, and he gave a snort of irony as he thought on the gesture. Surely the gods could not punish the city any more, even if he did carry a bloodied blade into the Regia, the sacred heart of Rome. The grove had once covered the foothills of the Palatinus, but the growing city had nibbled away at it over the centuries until the remnant had been incorporated into the environs of the Vestals.
Ahead of him the red brick archways of the pontiff’s home rose to a height of three stories, with the elegant stone portico of the circular Temple of Vesta nestled in its shadow. Mirroring this, the facade of the home of the priestesses, the Atrium Vestae, stood off to the right. Numerius checked the shadows as his horse made its way towards his father’s residence, but any threat seemed to have been left behind in the forum. Even the most unimaginative thief or robber would know that his chances of profiting from his swag would be slight with the army of the Gauls in the outskirts of the city.
Arriving before the temple Numerius paused and cast a look into the dark interior. The great bronze doors were ajar and light filtered down from the opening overhead, but otherwise all was in shadow, and he felt compelled to visit the sacred hearth. Swinging himself down from his horse he mounted the steps and made his way through the vestibulum and into the atrium. An impluvium burbled at the centre of the room in the Roman style, and the tribune skirted the shallow pool as he made his way further into the building. The temple was modelled on a typical Roman domus to reflect the goddess’ position as sacred deity of the hearth and home, and Numerius made his way to the rear of the room and gazed sadly upon the cold remains of the sacred hearth.
Despite its proximity to his father’s residence it was the first time that he had entered the temple. Like most citizens he would make an offering of food in the hearth of his own home to give thanks for every meal. It had always seemed to be the appropriate way to honour the goddess, but to see the Temple of the Vestals abandoned, the sacred hearth cold and empty, felt like the heart and soul had been ripped from the city.
A voice that echoed in the great chamber caused him to start and his hand went instinctively to his sword, but panic flared within as he grasped at the empty scabbard. Despite the danger of the hour he had followed custom and deposited his blade at the entrance to the temple, and he sagged a little with relief as he recognised the owner of the voice.
‘I taught you well. Even as they move to smite us for my arrogance you still treat the gods with respect.’
* * *
Numerius absent-mindedly held out his cup for a refill as he watched the first pale splash of the false dawn tint into the sky to the east. It was unusual for him to break his fast with several cups of the finest falernian but then this was to be a very unusual day, he reminded himself – the day that Rome would fall to the barbarian Gauls. He allowed himself a small smile as he remembered that his father had dismissed the staff and slaves the previous day. He would have to recharge the cup himself, just as they had had to prepare their meal the previous evening.
Ironically, he had just spent some of the happiest hours of his life with his father. Shorn of the responsibilities to family and state he had become the man Numerius had always wished him to be as a child. Warm, humorous and relaxed, he had even joked with him as they had explored the mysteries of the culina, and after much opening of storerooms and storage bins they had managed to prepare a simple meal of bread, eggs and cold meats. He rolled across and poured more wine as his father reappeared. Numerius nodded in approval. ‘You look magnificent, father.’
Marcus beamed. ‘Yes, I was rather pleased with it myself.’ His mouth curled into a warm smile. ‘And rather relieved too. It’s been a good many years since I last wore it!’
The pontifex had explained the previous evening that those who had gained curule responsibilities over the course of their lifetime of service to the city had decided that they would wear the distinctive robes to greet the arrival of the invaders. Resplendent in the insignia and distinctions of their former rank, they would seat themselves before their homes on the ivory chairs of office and show the barbarians how a Roman patrician should die after the shame at the Allia.
Numerius glanced out into the peristylium. The skyline beyond the colonnaded garden was growing lighter by the moment, and they would need to prepare for the day. ‘Let us move your curule chair to the front of the house, father. I don’t think that the Gauls will be here just yet,’ he quipped, ‘but it would be a shame to miss them after going to so much effort!’
Numerius rose from his seat and made his way across. As Marcus led the way, he glanced back for what he was sure would be the final time on the triclinia that they had always called the ‘family room’. It had been the idea of his late mother to convert the room and her touch was evident in every detail. The story of his gens, from its inception when Hercules himself had visited the marshy valley and Rome had been little more than a collection of hills, ringed the walls. The god himself dominated the ceiling, watching over his ancestors as they relaxed and entertained after another day’s service to the city. Numerius wondered who would next dine under his terrible gaze – perhaps Brennus himself.
* * *
Father and son clasped forearms, and in a moment of spontaneity that surprised them both Numerius moved forward to hug the old man. After a moment’s hesitation he felt Marcus’ rigid posture relax, and they shared a loving embrace for the first and last time. Paterfamilias, especially those as important as the Pontifex Maximus, were not known for outward displays of emotion towards their children, but the old man smiled warmly as they drew apart. ‘I am proud of all my sons, Numerius, but I am glad that you will inherit the position of paterfamilias from me.’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps a more expressive style would add a touch of spice to the old family!’
Numerius made to reply but thought better of it as the moment threatened to overwhelm him, so he pulled a thin smile and dipped his head. As his father took his seat at the entrance to the domus and arranged his robes about him, Numerius mounted and skirted the Temple of Vesta without a backward glance.
* * *
The sun had broken free of the Apeninnus, painting the fine houses and temples that capped the hills of the city a fiery red as Numerius took up the small lares statue and placed it carefully in the bag. That was the last of them, and he was finally free to make his way to the meeting place in the hills to the south. Quintus’ lararium was a tasteful room, and he made a
note to commend him on the design when they met, despite the gravity of the hour. Perhaps, he mused, he could borrow the plans when they returned and rebuilt the city after the coming storm had blown itself out. Rome may be about to fall, and their homes ransacked, but he had ensured that the most valuable objects had been buried safely in earthenware pots for retrieval when they returned. To his surprise the lazy Germanic slave had remained when all others had seized the opportunity to flee, and the man had been invaluable in helping him hide the precious items. He had considered rewarding him with his manumission. But as the only other person to know the whereabouts of the hoards, he still felt a tinge of regret that that had not been possible, even after cutting the slave’s throat.
The household deities of the three Fabii brothers now in his safekeeping, Numerius recrossed the atrium. Hopping across the body of the Germanic he emerged back into the street outside. Quintus’ neighbour Marcus Papirus was still sat opposite, and Numerius walked his horse across to bid farewell to the old man. Papirus nodded a greeting as he came up, and Numerius shook his head sadly. ‘To live to see such a day.’
To his surprise the elder laughed as he ran his fingers through his long white beard. ‘This is a great day!’ He tapped the ground with his ivory cane and smiled. ‘We met with the pontifex yesterday and decided on this course of action together. Your father told us of his meeting with Nemesis. The scales of justice will be balanced by our sacrifice and Rome will rise again, even greater than before.’ He cast a glance across to the neighbouring hill of the Capitoline, now sealed and ready for war. ‘The finest of our young people are safe under Jupiter’s protection. They will remain once this dark tide has receded.’ He leaned forward and clasped Numerius’ outstretched arm, throwing him a wink as he did so. ‘And we old has-beens get the chance to die a hero’s death, instead of wasting away like some cackling old maid!’
Numerius shared a laugh that was cut short as a familiar roar rose in the north. Papirus indicated the opposite direction with a jerk of his head. ‘It is time for you to take your leave, general. May Jupiter, Optimus Maximus, hold his hands over you.’
* * *
They were already waiting as his horse laboured up the rise and walked forward into the shade of the tree line. The morning was already hot, the sultry air drawing the moisture from their bodies, the fabric of their tunics clinging to them uncomfortably. The smell of pine infused the air as Numerius exchanged greetings with Quintus and Caeso and turned the head of his mount back the way they had come.
The track switched back and forth as it climbed away from the plain, and Numerius raised his eyes to gaze upon the distant city. As the sun rose higher Rome shivered under a heat haze as if attempting to draw a veil across its shame. Despite the conditions the dark stain that marked the army of the Gauls was clearly visible on the northern horizon, the roars and chants mixed with the braying of their war horns seeming to shake the very earth beneath them. Like the flow of water as it tumbled through the clepsydra that graced the forum, light winked and glittered on barbarian arms as they funnelled into the city through the broken portal of the Colline Gate, and Numerius wondered idly what the barbarians would make of the water clock.
The first lines of smoke were appearing above the city, arrow straight in the still air, each column marking the advance of the barbarian horde as it fanned out through the viae and alleyways searching out fresh victims and plunder.
Numerius dismounted and crossed to the sow. The dedication to Ceres made, the knife flashed – Marcus Fabius Ambustus, Pontifex Maximus, would journey safely to Elysium.
The last duty for their father performed, the Fabii exchanged a look and hauled themselves back into the saddle. The first vultures were beginning to circle over the city, riding the waves of heat on their serrated wings as they gathered for the feast. Wordlessly, they turned away. Passing through the shadows they emerged on the far side of the ridge and cantered south.
Nineteen
Berikos tore the shield from the dead Roman’s grip, backing against the doorpost as the last of the men edged their way back into the passageway. Attis was the last one through, and Galba moved across to overlap shields with a clatter as the pair faced down the mob. A surge pushed one of the Romans within his reach and the Aeduan’s spear flicked forward to take the man in the groin. It was the perfect place to strike, and Berikos watched with satisfaction as the agonised man thrashed on the ground among the detritus of battle. It would hamper those who crowded behind him, desperate for any chance to strike at the retreating barbarians.
Shouts and cries came from the rear as their fellow clansmen cleared the taberna of the last of the drinkers and, their rear protected, the pair edged back into the passageway itself. Many of the big circular Roman shields were too wide for the constricted space, and Galba tossed his to the ground where it would prove a hazard to any pursuers and moved shoulder-to-shoulder with Berikos. The shield which Berikos had taken up was smaller but the rim still scraped against both walls, and the pair hefted their spears above their heads and prepared to stab down at any Roman foolish enough to follow them into the tight, dark passageway. Moments later the gloomy interior was bathed in light as several of the Horsetails emerged from the main room with flaming brands and disappeared up the steep staircase. Drawing level with the doorway the pair saw that the room was already well ablaze. Flames were licking hungrily from the broken tables; chairs and barrels stacked in its centre, and they exchanged a glance that confirmed that they were of a like mind. They would need to move quickly if they were to cross the room above and escape before either the mob or the flames overtook them.
Looking back along the passageway Berikos’ heart leapt as he saw that the knot of men there were hesitating. Flames were already casting an orange glow on the wall opposite the doorway to the main room and the pungent smell of woodsmoke filled the air. A deep whumph came from the interior, and it was clear to all that the building had little time left as thick black smoke curled out to snake its way along the ceiling.
Berikos and Galba paused as they felt the riser of the bottom stair nudge the heel of their feet as a series of frenzied yells carried down to them from outside. Looking back they saw the men there being lifted and thrown bodily to one side as a group of well-armed Romans forced their way through. Their expressions were hard and determined, and the Horsetails knew that the time to break and run was upon them. Galba raced ahead, vaulting the stairs two and three at a time as the shouts and curses from the passageway rose to drown out the roar of the flames. Berikos prepared to drop the shield; it would help him to run and cause a further obstruction for his pursuers to negotiate on the steep staircase, but he firmed his grip as a better idea came to him. The stairs took a sharp dogleg to the left as they reached the doorway to the room above, and Berikos turned back as he reached the turn. Fixing his stare at the final few feet of passageway before they reached the foot of the staircase he forced himself to remain calm as he tilted the shield and drew it across his body. Galba called on him to hurry from the interior of the room, but he put his friend’s pleas out of his mind and concentrated on the spot below him.
The tips of a man’s boots flashed into view and Berikos grunted with effort as he unwound his body and sent the disc spinning down the stairwell. The throw was perfectly timed, and as the upturned face of the man appeared in the stairwell the hard bronze edge of the shield smashed into it with bone crushing force. Knocked senseless by the blow, the Roman crashed to the floor with a grunt and Berikos spun away and darted into the room. Safe for the moment he ducked down and threw himself through the hole and into the adjoining building in the terrace.
Galba was waiting and he threw his friend a crazy grin at the unlikely escape. Men were moving around the room, breaking up beds and piling them against the hole through which he had just come, while others thrust brands into the roof thatch overhead. The dry stalks caught immediately and the men moved across to fire the bedding now that they were all safely through.
Berikos glanced around the room, counting heads. ‘Vortrix?’
Galba shook his head sadly. ‘He fell.’
Berikos pursed his lips. ‘He died well?’
Galba nodded as cries started to carry to them from the room next door. The Romans were still in pursuit despite the flames – they would need to move on. ‘It took a dozen of them, but he went down in the end. Many of us saw it; the bards will sing of it around the hearth this winter.’
Berikos gave a curt nod of satisfaction and ordered the men through to the next room. The jagged hole there was far smaller and easier to defend, and they needed to regain their bulwark outside before the Romans there moved on it. He smiled grimly; burning buildings were unhealthy places to gather for last stands.
The men pushed their weapons and brands before them and filed through as the burning bedding began to bow inwards behind them. Spear tips followed and Berikos drew his sword and raised it, waiting for a hand to show itself. The first appeared as the bedding was finally pushed away and the blade flashed down. A cry of agony and the hand lay at their feet, darkening blood oozing out to sizzle in the flames. Berikos exchanged a grim smile with Galba. ‘That should slow them down!’
Replacing his sword in its scabbard Berikos saw to his surprise that he seemed to have picked up his chieftain’s lancea from among those which littered the ground outside, and he wondered that he had not noticed that he had the distinctive spear before. His last view of Solemis had been as they melted into the passageway, and he had seemed to be surrounded by a wolf pack of enemies. Albiomaros was moving to his side and Berikos hoped that they had made it through. The chieftain had rescued him from slavery and restored his honour; no longer would he feel shame now that the time had come to take his place at the council fire of his ancestors, as it will to all men.
