Rome's Executioner (Vespasian)

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Shit, if they’re firing back it must mean that the towers are getting close,’ Sabinus exclaimed, pulling his axe from his belt. ‘Stop gazing around, little brother, we don’t have much time.’ He leapt out of the latrine and ran towards the keep, twenty paces away to the left, hugging the wall, not because he was worried about stealth any longer, as the defenders were by now far too busy to notice, but in an attempt to keep clear of the now panicking horses. Vespasian and the others followed him as a huge storm of arrows flooded in from the advancing Romans and rained down on to the walls and into the courtyard, felling dozens of men and a score of their already terrified mounts. This was too much for the beasts and they surged towards the crude fencing that corralled them in and broke through with ease to go bucking and rearing around the corpse-strewn courtyard.

  Vespasian, axe in hand, caught up with his brother at the door to the keep. He was burning with shame at Sabinus’ rebuke because it had been the truth, he had hesitated and now Sabinus had taken charge.

  ‘On the count of three, little brother,’ Sabinus said, putting his shoulder to the locked door. ‘Three!’

  They rammed their bodies in unison against the solid oak.

  It held.

  ‘Shit! Sitalces, Ziles,’ Sabinus yelled above the din, ‘where’re those crowbars? Fast as you like, lads, there’ll be another artillery volley pretty soon, those crews were quick.’

  Sitalces and Ziles ran straight up to the door and quickly jammed their bars between it and the frame. But not quickly enough; another series of crashing impacts caused them all to duck involuntarily as the second artillery volley smashed in. Two onager stones hit the keep wall a few feet above the door, shattering on impact in a myriad of sparks. Large fragments of stone ricocheted down over them, striking their crouched backs and the ground around like sharp, heavy rain, leaving them bruised but uninjured.

  Sitalces was the first to recover; he hurled his huge body on to the end of a crowbar; with a splintering crack the door came loose but not open. Ziles rejammed his bar into the widened gap, Sitalces swept his rhomphaia from the sheath on his back, nodded at him and they forced their combined weight on to the two crowbars. This time the door flew back and the huge Thracian went tumbling through, his momentum sending him crashing to the ground. Ziles leapt in after him and jerked immediately back through the air, as if punched by a Titan, with a half-dozen arrows in his chest. Before the dead Thracian had even hit the ground Vespasian hurled himself through the opening, darting to the left as a mighty roar came from within. He arrived in time to see Sitalces, in the torchlight, leaping through the air, sweeping his rhomphaia two-handed from above his right shoulder, towards a line of six Getae who were struggling, under the pressure, to reload quickly. A flaming flash of iron arced into them, severing two heads and half an arm in a welter of blood and speed. As the huge Thracian crashed into the right of the Getic line Vespasian flung himself, bellowing, towards the left-hand Geta, who had dropped his bow and was drawing a long-bladed knife; an arrow from the door felled the man next to him. The knife coursed through the air at chest height towards Vespasian, who had the presence of mind to duck as he noticed the deft flick of his opponent’s hand. It skimmed over his head, which, an instant later, pounded into the solar plexus of the man, thumping the air from his lungs and him to the ground with Vespasian on top of him. With an animal howl Vespasian heaved himself to his knees, raised his axe and swiped it down repeatedly on to the choking Geta’s face, cracking it open in an eruption of bone, blood and teeth, then mashing it to a pulp with his frenzied attack. A strong grip caught his wrist and he swivelled round to see Magnus straining to hold his arm back.

  ‘I think you’ll find he’s dead now, sir,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘In fact they all are.’

  Vespasian blinked a few times and began to relax; the whole room came into focus for the first time since he had charged. The six Getae lay dead, in various states of dismemberment, and Sitalces, Bryzos and Drenis were busy trying to wedge the battered door shut whilst Artebudz and Sabinus were covering the narrow, stone staircase leading to the next floor. He started to breathe deeply to bring himself back from the primeval part of his nature to which, he was now realising, his fear of death had taken him.

  ‘You’ve got to watch that, sir,’ Magnus said in a hushed voice, pulling him to his feet. ‘They only die once and you can easily get killed yourself as you’re trying to kill them a second, third or, in your case, a sixth time.’

  ‘Thank you, Magnus, I’ll try to remember that,’ Vespasian replied, slightly more curtly than he intended. ‘Sorry, I was shit scared,’ he added by way of an apology. He noticed a bloodstained rhomphaia in his friend’s hand.

  Magnus caught his look. ‘I borrowed it from Ziles, he won’t be needing it no more. It’s a lovely weapon, much nicer to fight with than against, especially if it’s wielded by the likes of Sitalces, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian certainly did.

  Another crashing volley of artillery projectiles battering the keep’s wall brought him back to the matter in hand. He joined Sabinus at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Any noise from up there?’ he whispered, just audible above the shrieks and shouts of the Getae on the walls.

  ‘Nothing,’ his brother replied.

  Sitalces rushed over from the door. ‘That’s the best that we can do, but it won’t last long.’

  ‘Best get going, then,’ Sabinus said, taking one of the brightly burning torches from the wall. ‘Bring the other torches; we’ll leave it dark down here. Artebudz, with me.’ He began to swiftly climb the stairs with Artebudz, bow drawn, next to him. The noise from outside remained at a steady level and easily masked their light footsteps.

  Vespasian grabbed a torch and, with Magnus at his side, followed. His heart was beating fast; he was still afraid but his fear of death had been overshadowed by another, stronger, more positive emotion: the will and desire to survive. He felt much calmer now and also grateful to his brother for taking the lead when his own actions, as he was well aware, had been found wanting.

  A creak of a wooden floorboard told Vespasian that his brother had reached the first floor. Sabinus and Artebuduz moved cautiously ahead; Vespasian followed. They were in a storeroom that extended the full length and breadth of the keep. It was windowless as it was still below the height of the fortress’ walls. In the middle of the room was a sturdy-looking wooden staircase leading up to the next level. Dotted around in the gloom were piles of grain sacks, stacks of amphorae and water barrels. Hanging on the walls were what Vespasian first took to be dead bodies but on closer inspection turned out to be deer and sheep carcasses.

  ‘Looks like we’ve found the Getae’s dinner,’ Sabinus observed. ‘Quick, lads, pile a load of those sacks around the stair-case and see what’s in those amphorae. Let’s hope it’s oil, fire will be our friend.’

  It was the work of moments. As they finished by pouring the contents of the amphorae, which had indeed proved to be oil, over the pile of sacks, the level of noise from outside suddenly changed; the shouting grew louder and mixed in with it now was the unmistakable clash of weapons.

  ‘That’s our boys on the wall, we’ve really got to hurry,’ Sabinus said, giving his torch to Drenis and grabbing an unopened amphora. ‘Take an amphora if you can, lads, we may need fire upstairs. Drenis, wait until we’re all on the next floor and then set light to the sacks.’ He dashed up the stairs with Vespasian pursuing, hot on his heels.

  They burst on to the second floor; again it was a single large room, but with a staircase at the far end, and with windows that looked out only over the river, not the courtyard. Piles of bedding scattered around the floor indicated that it had been used as a dormitory for those of the Getae important enough not to sleep outside. Sabinus and Vespasian ran towards the next staircase; four arrows smacked into the floorboards just before them, bringing them to a sudden, almost overbalancing, halt. They pulled back immediately as Magnus, carry
ing two amphorae, and the rest of their comrades cleared the second staircase.

  ‘There’s a reception committee on the next floor. Artebudz, Sitalces and Bryzos: pump some arrows up those stairs,’ Sabinus ordered. ‘Vespasian, we’ll follow.’

  As Artebudz, Sitalces and Bryzos slowly moved forward, shooting alternately so there was always an arrow fizzing up the stairs, Sabinus followed with his amphora of oil and Vespasian with his torch. Drenis came crashing up the stairs behind, the smell of burning travelling in his wake.

  Ten feet from the stairs, Sabinus sprang forward and hurled his amphora up them; it disappeared with a crash on to the next floor. Vespasian paused as a few more arrows were pumped up the stairs, then he ran forward and hurled his torch after them. The intense heat of the torch caused the oil to ignite almost instantaneously; the fire soon engulfed the third-floor landing and drips of burning oil flowed, like flaming tears, down between the gaps in the stairs.

  ‘Artebudz, Bryzos, bows first; Magnus, Sitalces and Drenis after us,’ Sabinus shouted, drawing his axe; they all nodded. Sabinus turned to Vespasian and grinned. ‘This is more fun than arse-licking back in Rome but it’s going to hurt, little brother. Go!’

  Artebudz and Bryzos hurtled up the stairs and disappeared into the inferno, with Vespasian and Sabinus speeding after them as gushes of liquid splattered down on to the burning oil, evaporating immediately into a thick, foul-smelling steam. This, along with the flames, blinded Vespasian for a few steps but his vision returned as he emerged through the fire and on to the landing at the far end of a long corridor running back along the width of the keep to another set of stairs. It was punctuated with four, evenly spaced doors on either side. He spun round to his left, Sabinus to his right, both taking care not to slip on the burning oil, as an arrow bisected them and slammed into the wall beyond. Feeling grateful to his trousers for protecting his legs from burns, Vespasian looked up to see, by the light of the flames, Bryzos and Artebudz both releasing arrows at two Getae, one about to shoot, one reloading, halfway down the corridor; two more lay dead at his feet, slop-buckets at their sides. Both arrows punched into the shooting man, hurling him to the ground as his shot thwacked harmlessly into the wooden ceiling. Vespasian and Sabinus charged forward as the second Geta fired; Artebudz recoiled on to his back with an arrow in his chest as they surged past him. With no time to reload the Geta turned, pelted down the corridor and leapt up the staircase, disappearing with a sharp cry and a well-aimed arrow from Bryzos through his calf.

  The corridor was clear but was now starting to fill with smoke as the oil burned off, leaving the wooden floor and stairs aflame through which Magnus, Sitalces and Drenis appeared, smouldering and singed. From outside the sound of fighting had grown closer.

  ‘Sounds like our boys are pushing them off the walls,’ Sabinus shouted. ‘Bryzos, cover that far staircase with oil. If anyone tries to come down torch it.’

  Magnus handed Bryzos his amphorae and Drenis gave him his torch and he hurried off to obey his instructions.

  ‘Right, let’s get searching these rooms,’ Sabinus continued, ‘and Sitalces, get that rope from Artebudz.’

  ‘It’s all right, I can carry it,’ Artebudz said, raising himself painfully to a sitting position. ‘I don’t seem to be dead, just a bit bruised.’ He pulled at the arrow, which was embedded in the coil of rope; that and the thickness of the Getic topcoat had saved his life.

  ‘Well, you’re a lucky bugger,’ Sabinus said. ‘You and Sitalces come with me: we’ll do the right-hand rooms. Vespasian, you take Magnus and Drenis down the courtyard side. We’ll do it alternately so we don’t get caught in any crossfire. Get moving.’

  The heat from the fire was intensifying as Vespasian kicked the door nearest to it open and pulled himself back quickly behind the wall, out of shot. No arrows hissed out, but a huge draught of air from an open window was sucked in to feed the oxygen-craving fire, which started to burn with renewed vigour. Drenis twisted into the room, bow at the ready.

  ‘Clear!’ he shouted a beat later. They moved on to the next door. Behind them Sabinus’ group crashed open their first door.

  By the time both groups had got to their last doors the smoke, gradually filling the corridor, was forcing them to stoop in order to breathe with relative ease. Heat from the fire on the floors below was rising through the floorboards.

  ‘Rhoteces had better be in one of these,’ Vespasian said to Magnus as he braced himself to kick it open, ‘I don’t fancy going up another level.’

  A cry from Bryzos stopped him mid-kick. Vespasian spun round to see the ginger-haired Thracian, feathered with arrows, drop his torch and fall at the foot of the stairs, from the top of which appeared the feet and legs of a charging posse of Getae. Sitalces, Drenis and Artebudz immediately started pumping arrows into the attackers, sending the foremost tumbling and slithering down the oil-slick stairs. With a desperate last burst of energy the dying Thracian reached for the torch and with the tips of his fingers flicked it towards him. Vespasian and his comrades watched it roll with a slow inevitablity, into the pool of oil; the burning pitch caused it to fizzle and smoke, then, reaching its flashpoint, it burst into flames, engulfing Bryzos and the dead Getae piled around him; his screams grew with the intensity on the fire. Unable to get through the conflagration the surviving Getae withdrew, trapped on the floor above.

  With the smell of burning human flesh assaulting his nostrils and Bryzos’ dying screams reverberating around his head, Vespasian kicked open his final door. Again Drenis wheeled in and again the room was clear. Vespasian rushed over to the window and risked a quick look out. Files of legionaries were spewing on to the south and west walls from the left- and righthand siege towers. The central one, nearest the gate, was on fire; men, some burning, some not, were hurling themselves out of the inferno. Something had gone badly wrong. However, down in the courtyard the Getae were being split up and becoming encircled in small groups, as fresh legionaries poured down the steps from the wall to bolster their comrades already embroiled in savage, hand-to-hand combat. Directly underneath him a couple of contubernia broke down the keep’s door; flames gushed out and they immediately withdrew towards the fortress gate, led by the easily distinguishable figure of Caelus.

  Knowing in his gut that Caelus was coming for them, Vespasian ran back towards the corridor as Sabinus kicked open the final door; two arrows whistled out, narrowly missing Vespasian as he cleared the doorway. Artebudz and Sitalces jumped from their places either side of the door and returned fire, bringing down the two Getae inside.

  Sabinus rushed in. ‘Fuck!’ he shouted. ‘He’s gone.’

  Vespasian ran in and joined his brother by the window. A taut, vibrating rope, attached to a ceiling beam, led out of it. The brothers stuck their heads out of the window; ten feet below them was a Getic warrior and beneath him, twenty feet from the ground and just visible in the orange ambient light cast by the burning siege tower, was the recognisable figure of Rhoteces.

  ‘Quick, pull,’ Vespasian shouted, grabbing the rope. Magnus and Sitalces joined the brothers heaving on the rope. After a couple of sharp tugs the Getic warrior appeared, wide-eyed with fear, at the window. Artebudz sent an arrow into his open mouth and he fell with a shriek. The rope went suddenly slack and they all fell back into the room.

  ‘The bastard’s jumped,’ Vespasian bellowed as he picked himself up and darted to the window. He grabbed the rope and without pausing leapt through the opening and started to slide down.

  Vespasian descended quickly; the rope burned his hands, but the thick trousers protected his legs. As he passed the second-floor window he caught a blast of heat from the fire now raging within. From below came the sound of whinnying and neighing; the fire and noise had spooked the Getae’s horses and they were surging, like an undulating black cloud, east, along the flat ground between the river bank and the slope leading up to the fortress walls.

  Vespasian hit the ground; Sabinus arrived an instant later.
The horses continued to thunder past just below them.

  ‘Rhoteces couldn’t have got through this lot,’ Sabinus shouted to his brother as Magnus and then Sitalces joined them. ‘He must have gone along the walls, but which way?’

  ‘Away from the horses,’ Vespasian replied. ‘Once they’ve passed he’ll cross behind them and head for the river; it’s his only chance of escape.’ He darted along the wall, against the tide of the horses, as Artebudz and Drenis made it to the ground. Above them flames burst out of the keep’s windows.

  The din of the battle raging in the courtyard, on the other side of the wall, intensified as they left the lee of the keep. They crossed the path of the sewer outlet as the rear of the stampede passed them by. To their right they could see the dark shapes of scores of dead horses who had floundered in the foul-smelling sewage marsh to be trampled over by their fellows.

  There was no sign of the priest.

  ‘We’ll skirt around the marsh to the riverbank and then work our way upstream,’ Vespasian shouted as he raced right, down the slope.

  They were halfway across the flat ground to the riverbank when a shout caused Vespasian to pause.

  ‘There they are, lads; up and at ’em.’ Caelus and the sixteen men that he had used to try and break into the keep had rounded the west wall, a hundred paces away, and were sprinting down the slope towards them, silhouetted by the siege tower burning like a huge beacon.

  ‘Shoot on the run,’ Vespasian ordered, unslinging his bow and notching an arrow. They each had time to release three or four shots apiece before they came to the steep bank leading down to the river. The resulting fire brought down none of Caelus’ men but forced them to raise their shields and slow down to a trot so as to keep them level and firm. Vespasian and his comrades turned and pumped volley after volley at them but they came on, flamelight flickering off their helmets and shield rims, impervious, behind their shield wall, to the arrows loosed at them, until they were almost within pilum range.