The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

  “The seventh moved there earlier this morning to cover such an eventuality” said the dictator.

  The flames were now catching hold and the wood seemed to buckle as a cracking and spitting noise came from the left edge of the camp. “Be ready boys” Marcus called, fully expecting the Volscans to charge from their fiery prison at any moment. He heard the winding mechanisms being drawn back on the scorpions and allowed a grin to creep across his face. Another thick plume of smoke appeared further along the wall and a great cheer rose from where Narcius and his men had positioned themselves. More Volscans leapt from the ramparts, almost all of them heading for the water. Marcus looked over to the cavalry Decurion on his right and nodded, the man instantly sending several horses circling away, just out of arrow range, to support the soldiers of the seventh cohort. Another cheer rose into the air, as the wood now started to spit and crackle more loudly under the intensity of the fire. More smoke and flames leapt into the air and Marcus watched as the left hand side of the camp became engulfed in the thick fog of burning wood, the brown and grey cloud thickening as it swirled into the interior of the camp. The smell of burning wood began to reach his nostrils, bringing memories of fires in Rome to his mind.

  “Sir” called a man from one of the scorpions as the gate moved slightly.

  “Fire at will” Marcus shouted as he drew his sword, the officers around him doing the same. Almost as soon as he had torn the sword from its sheath the gates burst open and a line of five men started to trot out towards the Romans, shields ahead of them and spears levelled. The first three bolts from the scorpions tore the wooden shields to shreds as the four feet long wooden shafts ripped through them and the men behind them, launching them backwards into the soldiers who were crowded in deep ranks behind. Barely had the first barrage hit than several more bolts shredded the soldiers behind, screams and curses rising into the air like a flock of startled birds as more soldiers tried to push forwards against the tide of death that was being forced back upon them, unsure what else to do other than to press forward as they’d been ordered.

  Thwack. Thwack. More bolts pounded the Volscans as they tried to avoid the carnage. One bolt thumped into one of the open gates, splintering the wood and vibrating as it stood proud of the entranceway.

  More screams came and more men leapt from the side of the camp, their fear evident by the lack of weapons they carried as they tried to run through the water behind them in their bid to escape. Marcus edged forwards slightly as the smoke from the fires now blew across the camp in a thick grey mist and obscured his view. The scorpion bolts continued to fire into the Volscan army, they didn’t need to sight victims as they had been primed on the only location through which the enemy could escape. More screams from behind the blanket of smoke were mingled with shouts and orders from the officers as they tried to gain control of the situation. Individual men raced from the gate, some choking as they appeared, black-faced, from the smoke. Others turning left and right and staring at the wall of Romans that faced them before they turned and charged towards the water where they held a slim, but better, chance of escaping death.

  Marcus leant forwards and nodded to Ahala, who nodded a reply and started to move his cavalry forwards at a walk. The archers followed behind them and started to launch missiles high into the air and into the camp, the screams of men beyond the walls evidence that the soldiers inside were still massed in their ranks. Narcius appeared on the left, his men marching smartly back towards their positions. This was the sign Marcus had waited for.

  “For Rome” he called as the scorpion wielding soldiers kicked the pegs which held the feet of the weapons in the ground and started to collapse the lethal bolt-throwers.

  “For Rome” came the great cheer from across the field as Marcus swept his sword down at the gate and the first line of soldiers marched forwards, short javelins in hands. The line was three deep and fifty paces across, followed swiftly by another line of men which began to deploy to the right and left to flank the first attack. The bulk of the soldiers moved slowly behind awaiting the call to charge once the gate had been secured.

  Ahala sent several horses forwards, the soldiers swinging iron hooks tied to lengths of rope at the burning walls. The horses were then, quickly, followed by a team of men who grabbed the rope and heaved with all their weight to dislodge the tall poles that were still on fire. The walls began to teeter under the force of the men pulling at the weakened wood.

  Volscans were now pouring out of the gate and deploying into lines in front of the walls as they clambered over their own dead, their leaders atop horses barking out orders as a black cloud of Roman arrows hailed down on them. No sooner had two lines of bronze-clad men thumped their shields into the ground than the Roman centurions called for the javelins of the front ranks of Romans to be unleashed. Legionaries stepped forwards from the marching ranks and drew back their arms, the enemy within thirty yards of their deadly spears. “Launch” came the shout as the grunt of men hurling their weapons resonated across the plain, followed by shouts and calls from the Volscans as men raised their shields and knelt to avoid the deadly spear tips. The thudding of iron on wood was followed by a second grunting noise as the Romans launched their second weapons, the Volscans screaming as they died.

  A Roman horn bellowed a tune and Marcus sat forward on his mount and watched as the Roman front line drew swords and charged into the rising Volscans, the first men to their feet providing minimal defence as the Romans crashed through them. The second Roman line was already within twenty paces as the first attackers began to pull back, leaving a mass of dead bodies strewn across the front of the gate. A Volscan chieftain took an arrow in the side of his neck as he called his men to counter attack, his body falling from his horse to disappear behind the shields of the ranks of defenders. Marcus licked his lips as he watched, his new battle tactics only ever used on the training field, and his mind already finding improvements he would use in another similar situation. The second attack was already within five paces as the Romans of the first attack stepped back, the timing perfect as the second attack smashed through the ranks of Volscans and battered their way through the gateway, the yelling and screaming rising to a climax as the men inside the camp faced this new threat. More volleys of arrows rained down into the interior of the fort, the clacking of metal on wood and inevitable screams almost inaudible in the ferocious noise of wood burning and men fighting. Marcus looked to the left and adjusted his vision, the walls were still burning and the few poles which had been pulled down were stubbornly denying the efforts of the Romans to drag them free and allow a passageway for the left-hand cohorts to enter the attack. Movements to the right showed more men fleeing the camp, their shouts and yells as they were hacked down by Roman cavalry could be heard above the din from the gateway, the cavalry screaming death at the fleeing enemy as they thrashed through the water.

  Marcus saw the anxious glances from the soldiers to his right who had advanced for the third wave, several hitching their tunics to urinate as their nervous energy ran through them. A cry from the front caused him to stare back at the gate where the Romans had now moved through with ease, the piles of dead kicked and dragged to the side, and as he tightened his jaw and fingered the wooden eagle which he wore around his neck he considered letting the third wave go at that moment, but hesitated. The walls needed to be down, the men inside the gate would be holding the enemy and he needed to flank them. He made a mental note that he should have had several ladders available to attack the right-hand side of the camp, but suppressed his anger as the men on the left finally dragged three smouldering poles from the wall, the cheers of the soldiers echoing across the front of the battle. A thin line of arrows arched from the camp at the Romans, but none hit their mark as the defenders were firing blindly against a constantly moving enemy.

  He nodded to Ahala who swung his sword down and, instantly, Narcius and his men, followed by two other cohorts, raced forwards, their feet pounding the ground and caus
ing the ground to shake as Marcus lifted his head and looked to the waiting men on his right.

  “Sound the attack” he called as the trumpeter wet his lips and blew the three notes which signalled the charge. Marcus gripped his reins and allowed his horse his head as the animal slowly walked forwards to fall in behind the third wave, its ears flicking left and right as the men screamed their hatred of the Volscans as they ran. Marcus twisted to look behind to see the reserve ranks, a few hundred men, standing ready, eyes scanning the ground ahead of them as they waited. For years Marcus had stood in the front row with the men but now he knew his place was to orchestrate the battle, subtly changing the mechanics as the enemy changed their plans or the gods intervened in ways which he hadn’t considered. Looking back to the front he saw men pushing through the gap in the left of the wall, flames still licking the wood further along and thick white smoke still billowing into the sky. He knew that he must be careful not to commit every man to the camp, though he fully expected his trained soldiers would deal with the farmers of the Volsci easily enough. One wrong decision could, he knew, easily change the outcome of the battle.

  Another cheer came from the beleaguered camp as some important act had been committed; maybe Garodius was dead, he thought. Kicking the horse into further motion he moved forwards and angled to the right to try and get a better view of the battlefield, his vision restricted to only the main gate and the rows of men still moving like snails through the gateway. The sound of splintering wood came to his ears and he instinctively glanced left, but the sound didn’t tally with what he saw. His men still stumbled through the gap, avoiding the singeing, blackened, wood. A thunderous noise, and increased screams and yells, caught his ear as he saw the men of the seventh and the cavalry he had deployed to the right charge forwards. Within moments he understood why. The Volscans had pulled down their own walls in an attempt to escape the carnage and death that the Romans were forcing upon them.

  Turning quickly he called to the trumpeter. “Get the reserves after them.” With that the air rang with the shrill blasts which presaged the full advance, the reserves racing away to the right as Marcus watched and waved them after the fleeing enemy. Fortuna was with them. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to his personal gods. He had won the quick victory he needed.

  ************

  Chapter 7

  The central square of Rome bustled with the noise of shopkeepers calling their wares from behind their stalls, the hard packed earth kicking up a small dust cloud as people moved about between the various stalls and shops. The smell of meaty stews mixed with that of the dung from a host of animals that had been tethered in the Forum overnight filled the air as the population went about its daily business. Several Lictors beat a noisy path through the crowd, which lazily moved out of their way.

  Javenoli held a wooden tablet, the wax inscribed with small letters which he read whilst walking. A shout made him look up momentarily as one Lictor thrashed a cane at a young boy who had been too slow to move out of the Pontifex’s way. Javenoli grimaced as the young pup cried in pain at the red mark the cane had left across his arm. The temple of the vestals, which was ahead and to his right, was his destination, the old fence around the olive grove now repaired after the Gaul’s had completely destroyed it during their occupation. The Virgo Maxima, the female head of the order, appeared from the circular building with several small, white-clad, girls at her side. Javenoli handed the tablet to the slave who was struggling under the weight of several other tablets and looked up to see Capitolinus approaching from the left, his three bodyguards growling menacingly at the crowds and several hangers-on trailing in his wake. Capitolinus waved a hand and Javenoli tried not to frown, his eyes glancing to the Virgo Maxima with whom he was to discuss the festival duties which were required for the next holiday in two weeks’ time.

  The two groups met and came to a standstill as several beggars appeared with bowls in their hands and called for alms. Capitolinus pulled a purse from his toga and handed out small bronze coins to each man, their thanks ringing loud amongst the crowd. Javenoli grimaced again. Capitolinus would bankrupt him at this rate, the man was giving away his wealth as if it was limitless.

  “Gaius” Capitolinus said jovially as the crowds began to slow to watch these two important men of Rome as they met, no doubt several political spies in the nearby crowd.

  “Good afternoon Capitolinus” he replied coolly, aware of the openness of their surroundings.

  “A glorious day for the people of Rome, and may Jupiter bring fortune to our soldiers” he called as he put away his purse. “Any news of them?” he asked, knowing that there wasn’t.

  “None, my friend” Javenoli answered with a cool smile. “What brings you out to the Forum today?” he asked looking beyond Capitolinus towards the temple of Vesta. “I have an appointment with the Virgo Maxima and I must not be delayed” he nodded as the throng began to close the pathway his bodyguards had created moments earlier.

  Capitolinus looked over his shoulder at the lady and her girls who were standing at the gate of the half-rebuilt circular temple, noting that Alurrica stood at the fence watching dolefully with the other vestals. “A message from my wife” he winked. “She says that she will visit your home this evening with the lady Pompeia” he said as he watched the twitch in Javenoli’s face at the mention of the name. “They have some new colour schemes that they think will suit that empty palace you live in” he joked.

  Javenoli nodded, a slight flush on his cheeks. Capitolinus smiled. “And I have a little business we must discuss” he added quietly. “So I will join you as well, for a short time.”

  Javenoli nodded and realised he was rubbing his hands together slowly. “Good, good” he said, not relishing the meeting with Capitolinus but his heart starting to beat faster at the thought of seeing Pompeia again. Following the appointment of Camillus as dictator the two men had met briefly and Capitolinus had raged at the decision of the Senate, and Javenoli had held his tongue as he considered his position, allied to one faction in a much larger game. As Capitolinus turned and walked across the Forum, entourage in tow, he turned towards the slave and held out a hand, which the slave filled with a fresh wax tablet and stylus. Javenoli quickly scribbled some words and handed it back to the slave, who looked at the tablet and nodded, adding it to a sack which was strung across his shoulder. Javenoli watched the back of his ally as a multi-coloured snake of followers walked busily behind him. His face tightened into a quizzical frown before he shrugged off his thoughts and turned back towards the temple of the vestals.

  ***********

  “There, Thracian” said the voice, its whisper a hoarse growling sound as the unkempt man nudged the assassin. The dark eyes of the killer narrowed as they watched the older man stride across the street, his bodyguards close to him with thick cudgels visible under their tunics. With a slight nod the assassin moved from his half-reclining position and stretched his back, eliciting a bunch of clicking sounds as the tight muscles tensed after such a long time sitting on the steps of a small, unnamed, temple, awaiting the appearance of his target. A purse of bronze was handed across before he stepped into the crowd and moved surreptitiously across the hard flag-stoned floor, his eyes watching every movement as he sauntered across at an angle towards his target. Not here his thoughts said. Too public and no easy escape route. He watched from the corner of a building as the man discussed some mundane activity to do with stone from one of the various quarries which skirted the city before he set off again, laughing loudly with one of the bodyguards, a man with a thick chest and equally rotund stomach, clearly an old friend of the target as well as his personal bodyguard. The small group headed for the lower roads towards the Forum Boarium and so the assassin decided to get ahead of them. With the luck of the gods he could get this done without having to even get close to the target, because his guards were too busy chattering to each other to notice anything untoward ahead of them in the streets. Taking a moment to run
past a foul-smelling tannery he ducked behind a wall where he had left a bag of arrows and a bow, and placed them under his cloak as he stalked quickly along a back alley, the smell of urine strong as his face grimaced as he walked.

  The Forum Boarium was busy, as it always was. People haggled over half-fed goats and stinking pigs as a long line of heavy cattle moved slowly through the centre of the open central ground flanked by rows of small buildings. The assassin grinned, perfect he thought. He needed height, and had seen several half-erected buildings which would afford just the cover he needed as he wandered slowly along the left hand edge of the open space, taking a few seconds to stop and check nobody was watching, he ducked into an open doorway into what had once been a respectable plebeian house. The entranceway was open to the sky, the walls along each side were high enough to create an ideal space from which to hide from the surrounding crowd, with a wall of some six feet in height standing at the back of the entrance and enough cover to avoid any prying eyes from the rear. He scaled it in three steps, using rubble that had been placed there the previous day as he had scouted the city and set several such locations in his mind as he has set out his planning. He sat on the top of the thick wall, his eyes roving the scene to check that nobody had seen him as he placed a dagger on the wall next to his hip and took a few slow breaths.

  As he watched the animals moving around the forum he saw his target step around the corner, his three bodyguards alongside him as he waved to a farmer selling goats, each animal tethered with a long rope to a central pole driven into the ground. The assassin pulled out his bow. From this distance it would be an easy kill, but he would need to be quick or the guards might see him before he dropped to the floor and exited out of the back of the building. He strung his bow, stretching the gut to pull it over the horned edge before he looked up and drew an arrow from the quiver, checking the feathers before he notched it into place. One shot was all he’d get.