The Fall of Veii- Part 1

by Francis Mulhern

  “Step clear” came the voice of the gaoler, his keys jangling as the metal cage came to a halt. Tolero was chained in three places and it took a few moments to release the chains and re-tie them so that he could not escape, the heavy metal falling to the floor as the final clasp bore into his ankles and he winced at the pain, already seeing a thick red welt appear where the manacles were rubbing his leg.

  “Here” said a dark-haired youth, the muscles in the right arm much bulkier than those in his left, suggesting he was a blacksmith. Tolero moved across, shuffling as the heavy chains restricted his movement and slumped onto a wooden bench as the youth glanced to him before moving back to help haul up the cage with the other prisoner in it. Tolero grimaced as he rubbed at his eye, the patch still in place but loose as he had not thought to tighten it in the total darkness of the pit. He clenched his fists, feeling the muscles tense as he did so and releasing them with a deep breath as he looked up to see his friend appearing from the hatch from the Tullianum, his eyes screwed up against the light before they opened and glanced around as if seeking a way to escape. Tolero smiled, he had done just the same as his head had appeared into the light. He felt a sudden dread that there was no escape, a cold fear coming to his body as he shivered suddenly and felt an icy sweat come over his body. He shook away the dark thoughts and set his eyes on Rutilius as he was ushered across to the bench.

  “You two stay there” said the youth as he turned to move away.

  “Where else would we go?” Rutilius replied with a gruff laugh as Tolero grinned back at the jest. The boy ignored them as he helped the older man to remove the wheel that attached to the rope and allowed the metal cage to descend into the prison. After a few minutes the two men were given a small wooden bowl of water to drink and a chunk of bread covered in an olive paste, which Tolero found was actually quite tasty and asked if there was any more. After the guards had stopped laughing they simply dragged the two men to their feet and started the short walk to the Curia, the chains dragging along the floor with a metallic chink at each footstep.

  “Keep your heads low you bastards” the older gaoler said. “The people don’t want you looking cocky in front of their gods” he added as Tolero spat at him and received a thick ear for his actions.

  “I’ll come back and haunt your dreams” Tolero said with a manic laugh as the gaoler grinned back at him. “Had worse curses” he said in reply “and there ain’t one of them come true yet” he added with a shrug and a yank at the chains which caused a surge of pain through Tolero’s legs.

  The sun was low in the sky and the day was beginning to warm up as the two prisoners shuffled into the square of the curia, the crowd had grown to a few thousand men and a few women, their light squeals at the arrival making heads turn towards the two chained men. Two drummers appeared as they entered the square and started to beat a slow pace, the thick sound heavy and melodious as Tolero and Rutilius fell into step without having to think. A few calls came from the crowd, some jeering the prisoners and some calling the names of their legions as a mark of honour. Tolero looked up as he heard his name called and searched the crowd for the owner of the voice, yes there he was, Bassano, large as life. A surge of energy ran through Tolero as his old companion winked and smiled at him.

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  Chapter 29

  “Here they come” said the slightly bored voice of the man Postumius was questioning with regard to the new land for sale outside Ferentium. His eyes flicked up as he stood to see the procession, the drums suddenly starting as a wave of sound came from the crowds of people standing waiting in the square, a small cheer announcing that the crowd too had become bored as they waited for the spectacle to begin.

  Postumius nodded to the two priests, both men rising and waving to the heralds to call the sacrificial animals forwards as they draped their white cloaks over their heads and began to move scented jars of perfume and oil into the correct positions.

  Marcus stood, as did most of the Patricians on the platform, the wooden floorboards groaning slightly at the sudden movement. He stared into the distance to see the two men being hauled across the dust covered space, their hands and feet manacled as they attempted to walk as confidently as they could. His heart went out to them both, two old soldiers who had fallen foul of the schemes of Postumius. He remembered the words Calvus had said to him, that one Patrician could sentence a thousand plebeians to death with a whisper, but one plebeian could scream his lungs hoarse and his voice would not be heard. As the words ran through his mind Postumius climbed onto the rostra, the wooden stage slightly higher than the platform on which all the Patricians sat, their heads turning at the movement and many sitting back in their seats with satisfied nods.

  As befitted the Patrician ranks, the rostra was positioned to face into the men of the seated older families, Postumius’s back to the crowds behind him. At a point some thirty steps from the platform and in view of the seated leaders of Rome, the prisoners stopped at another wooden platform one edge of which was covered in large stones, some the size of a small child, with a thick wooden plank, solid and foreboding leant against them. The plank was three or four feet wide and six feet long, its use was clear for all to see.

  Marcus saw more people arriving in the crowds as the numbers swelled, those at the front jostling for position as a series of guards strained to hold them back from the site of the execution. He glanced to his right to see Calvus shaking his head and talking to one of the plebeian tribunes, both men looking fearful but stoic in their resolve. Regillensis nudged his arm and nodded towards the rostra where Postumius now stood and turned his back on the people behind him as he cleared his throat, beaming at his son who was sitting in the front row five paces in front of his father.

  “Before the Auspices are taken” Postumius began before a call came from the crowd.

  “Leniency” came the shout, taken up by numerous deep voices. Postumius ignored them.

  “Senators and Citizens of Rome” he continued. “The gods give us laws...”

  “Leniency” came the shout again, at which Postumius stalled and took a deep breath before starting again.

  “Laws which must be obeyed if men are to win honour and glory for their families and for Rome. These laws...”

  “Leniency”

  “These laws” Postumius said more loudly as he looked into the faces of the Patrician families, smiling at his son’s dutiful face “have been broken by these men. Their attack on a Quaestor” he pointed his arm to the sky “and a tribune of the people, elected as an official of this great city...”

  “Leniency.”

  This time Postumius could hears lictors shouting into the crowds and men shuffling as people were clearly pushing and shoving to get a better view of the proceedings.

  “The attacks on our officials are against our laws and must be punished. I call on the Flamen Dialis to seek the approval of the gods...”

  “Leniency”

  “For the punishments” Postumius finished, clearly angry at the shouts from the crowd. The Flamen Dialis was the chief priest of Jupiter, his large frame covered in a deep brown garment which flowed to the floor and his apex, the pointed olive wood and wool head cap which was conical in appearance. The priests were never allowed in public without the cap and it was said that should a prisoner meet the Flamen on the road to his punishment then he would be reprieved for that day. As he stepped forwards, Marcus looked to the prisoners. His time as a Camillus had taught him the correct procedures for all sacrifices and auguries and he knew that the prisoners were not allowed to be in chains when the Flamen Dialis was within their sight. As expected he saw the two guards removing the last vestiges of the bonds from Tolero and Rutilius, both men rubbing their wrists as they were freed from the chains but the thick manacles remained in-situ to be used later when the men were chained under the thick board.

  As the Flamen turned to the watching Patricians, a sudden movement c
aught Marcus’s eyes, a surge from three or four rows back in the crowd abruptly swelled into a full-scale charge as several men, cloaks and hoods covering their faces surged forwards, a glint of metal telling Marcus’s trained eyes that treachery was afoot.

  ****

  Tolero had seen the priest step forwards as the youth undid the bonds, the guards behind them pressing their blades to their backs to ensure that they knew they could not escape. He glanced around looking for Bassano but saw nothing. If there was a plan now would be the time; it had to be before the sacrifices were taken. His heart quickened as he heard a movement in the crowd, a sudden gasp and a call were enough for him to whirl on the guard behind him, his head already turned towards the commotion in the crowd, and to thump him across the back of his head with the remaining metal manacle that was attach to his wrist. As the man fell, a gash across his skull telling Tolero that he would not be getting up for a long time, he whirled on the youth who had dragged him across the square, malice in his thoughts, but the youth was holding out a sword to him and grinning, his teeth white in his dark-skinned face. Incredulously he took the sword and turned to see several men rushing forwards as he heard a scream of anger from the Rostra.

  ****

  Postumius watched serenely as the Flamen stepped forwards and bowed slowly to him, taking a step towards the Rostra. Behind the priest he saw the face of Megellus as he sat tall and proud in his chair, his eyes gleaming with pride. Suddenly two, no three people were standing, Furius was calling something and pointing before Postumius realised a great shout had come from behind him in the crowds. Turning he watched as Tolero raised a sword, his hands free and his face screwed in a scream of victory.

  Guards rushed forwards, lictors pulled their axes into fighting positions as a gang of hooded men surrounded Tolero and Rutilius, dragging at them as a fist fight ensued in the space around the rocks.

  “No!” screamed Postumius, dragging his ornamental sword from its scabbard and launching himself into the crowd, scrabbling at the clothes of men and dragging them out of the way in his anger. People pushed him and jostled him as he shouted to the prisoners and called for justice, but he pushed on through the throng, driven by the anger and desire for justice that coursed through him.

  “There he is” shouted Rutilius “kill the bastard” he spat as his eyes caught those of Postumius, the two men locked in a momentarily stillness which signified their hatred for one another.

  “No” shouted a taller man, pulling at the prisoners arm “you need to leave, to get out of the city” he said, his voice familiar.

  “Bassano?” shouted Postumius as he thumped his sword hilt into the face of a man who was standing in his way, the frightened face bursting into a spray of blood as the man fell to his knees with a whimper.

  Somebody knocked into Postumius as he shouted “You deserve to die, all of you. I will have your bodies half-burned and you will rot in the afterlife, never able to leave this world, your Lares scarred by your fate.”

  At this Tolero stepped across the prone body of a guard and pushed a lictor, who was struggling with a hood-covered assailant, into Postumius, the Tribune tumbling to the floor as the heavier man with his ceremonial fasces fell into his knees.

  Tolero picked up one of the stones as a surge of people started to rush away from the square, the veins on his arms straining as he lifted it above his head and launched it at the prone form of Postumius. “As my gods are my witness Publius Postumius, I do to you what you would have done to me” he called as the stone, as big as a man’s head thumped into Postumius’s shoulder, denting the brass and ripping the leather clasp from the armour, the scream from Postumius sent a wave of energy through Tolero as he saw another stone smash into the body of Postumius, his legs slipping as the stone hit and the man raising his arms and face to stare with loathing at Tolero, his face a mask of pain and anger.

  “You will pay for this, and your families” Postumius growled as he winced at the pain but tried to stand, his legs slipping gain on the smooth floor as his arm buckled under another stone thrown by a hooded assailant, this stone smaller but connecting heavily on his upper arm.

  Tolero looked to Bassano, his eyes visible under the hood and bared his teeth. “Kill him” he said as Bassano picked up a heavy stone and, straining, launched it from no more than three paces into the breast of Postumius who had half-risen and stared at him with his mouth open as if ready to speak.

  As the sickening crunch of stone on metal came Tolero had already lifted another stone and launched it as his old commander, two other of the hooded men also lifting smaller stones and throwing them at their ex-leader.

  Postumius went down with a clatter, his arm breaking as a rock caught the arm he was leaning on and smashed it into a red pulp, the bone gleaming white before it disappeared under the body of the Tribune, his scream dying in his lungs as two more large rocks hit home, each making a dull clang as they bit into the armour on the man’s body.

  “We must go” shouted Bassano as he pulled vigorously at Tolero’s arm. Rutilius stepped forwards and heaved a final rock at Postumius, his limp body not reacting to the heavy object as it smashed into the back of his neck. “Bastard” he shouted as he turned and slipped on the flagstones, seeing the space behind him almost empty of people who had turned and fled.

  Before he could move Rutilius was yanked backwards by an arm and turned to scream into the face of Calvus, his irate features a blur as he punched the man square on the jaw and dragged himself free before grabbing a discarded sword and racing after Bassano and the other fleeing men who were already thirty yards ahead of him.

  As he picked up his knees and drove his arms into a sprint he felt a sudden jolt at his side and felt himself fall, the sword in his arm clattering to the floor ahead of him as his legs scrambled to return him to his feet.

  “Hold” said a voice he knew as he turned to see Camillus standing behind him, his red face a mask of anger. “What have you done?” he said, his voice low but strong and his eyes boring into Rutilius’ soul.

  ****

  Megellus jumped from the platform, tears streaming down his face as he called to his father. A man pulled his arm and told him to get behind him as he battered a hooded figure to the floor, his sword short and wide unlike any he had seen before. The man was in front of him and pushing through the crowd who were rushing in every direction in a panic as they yelled and screamed at the sudden violent actions surrounding them. The man with the sword gripped Megellus’ hand and pulled him forwards, turning his sword flat and smashing it into the face of a plebeian who was pulling at his cloak and shouting, the man’s head whipped to the left as the sword hilt hit and he was gone.

  Within a few seconds the screaming voice of his father had stopped and a great cheer came from ahead of him as Megellus suddenly felt his hand come free from whoever had pulled him forwards, the figure of the blue cloaked man rushing into a knot of men and slicing through them as if the gods were parting the crowd for him. Megellus blinked his tears from his eyes as he ran forwards to see the man kneeling at his father’s side, his head turning to him with sorrow in his eyes and anger in his face as he twisted and leapt forwards to chase the hooded figures and prisoners who were charging across the square.

  Megellus rushed to his father, the brass armour that had shone so brightly now dented and scratched, red spots on the floor and a thick pool of blood under the contorted shoulders of the man he had grown so close to over the past month since his illness. The head moved, the eyes blinked and Megellus fell to his knees.

  “Father” he said his voice a whisper.

  “Meg...” came a rasping sound as the body of the man shuddered and a look of total pain came across his face, the mouth drooping and the eyes squinting as he tried to speak. “Meg...” he said again, the noise hoarser.

  “Father” was all that Megellus could say as his father’s head fell backwards and his vacant eyes stared into the sky as a low moan of air escaped from his dead father l
ips.

  ****

  “I have no fight with you Camillus” roared Rutilius as he grabbed the sword and turned to run again before Marcus scythed his legs with a kick and he slumped to the floor.

  “You have attacked a Tribune of Rome for the second time and so you have a fight with all Romans” Marcus growled as he stood tall, his frame a head taller than Rutilius and stepped forwards. “Yield” he commanded as Rutilius shook his head, his eyes scanning the moving crowd around them for a chance to escape.

  “You of all men know what he was like” he yelled at Marcus as he edged backwards. “You deserved your phalera, you led the men well and you deserve credit. He was a dog, born of a bitch...”

  Before he could finish Marcus stepped forwards and sliced his sword across the gap between them. “Yield or I will kill you” he said with a measure of cold brutality.

  “So be it, I will not yield to be crushed under the stones again. I will die fighting as my father did” muttered Rutilius in a low voice as his shoulders sagged slightly before he took a deep breath and launched himself at Marcus with the fury of a man fighting for his life.

  As the first attack smashed into his sword, Marcus wheeled left and aimed a kick at Rutilius’ knee. Neither man had a shield so he had to be careful not to leave his left side open. Rutilius ran at him again, his arm swinging wildly and his eyes betraying the fear he felt as he sliced his blow across Marcus’s right side, the blade whipping up and back across him as he dodged left and left again. With a thud, Marcus swung his sword up and out in an attempt to get under the arc of Rutilius as the man gained his balance and chopped downwards and across his body. Rutilius’s long blade scraped along Marcus’s shorter sword with a long rasp as Marcus used the sound to tell him when to step into the blades slowing arc, edging his sword upwards to take away the power of the stroke. Rutilius knew was what coming and threw his body backwards to avoid the short punching movement that Marcus then sent at him, the blade slicing into his leather body armour but doing no damage. Rutilius saw the futility of his attack and turned to run, swinging his sword wildly at Marcus as he did so, the arm extending over his shoulder as his head turned to find a clear path.