Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian cupped his purpled hands to his mouth and blew into them as he looked ahead into the teeth of the blizzard; it was almost a total white-out, but he knew that the pass was straight and never more than thirty paces wide so they would not get lost. He made his decision. Tinos was right; it was just a question of keeping going. ‘We go on,’ he ordered. Tinos nodded and moved off.

  Vespasian urged his reluctant horse follow with a couple of sharp kicks. Its ears flattened back in displeasure but after a few more kicks it begrudgingly consented to move forward.

  After a few hundred paces of unremitting freezing torture he became aware of a rider trying to catch up with him. He turned in the saddle; it was Caelus.

  ‘This is madness,’ the snow-covered centurion shouted. ‘We should turn back now.’

  ‘You can if you want to, centurion, but we’re going on.’

  Caelus had managed to draw level. ‘Why? What’s the hurry? We could get back to the camp and try again when the snow stops and the pass is clear.’

  ‘The pass might not reopen again for days, maybe even a month,’ Vespasian bellowed, pushing his horse on through the driving snow. ‘We have to take this chance to get through.’

  ‘The men’s request to Pomponius can wait another month; why are you risking all these lives for such a small thing?’

  Vespasian realised that he had no logical answer that would satisfy Caelus; he could only resort to rank and bluster. ‘You will stop questioning my orders and motives, centurion, or by the gods below I will see you busted, whoever may be protecting you.’

  Caelus glared at him, full of suspicion. ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ His hand went for his sword. ‘Just what are you up to, Vespasian?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Caelus,’ Magnus yelled from behind Caelus, pressing the freezing flat of his sword against the centurion’s thigh. ‘There’s nothing to hold me back if you draw that sword; I ain’t under military discipline.’

  Caelus spun round to face him. ‘Then you keep out of this, civilian, this is a military matter.’

  ‘It may well be, but I’ve still got my sword on your thigh, and if it were to slip and I cut your leg open, you know, just at the place where the blood always squirts out thick and fast, then at this temperature you’d be dead before we could get you to a surgeon.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No, just like you weren’t threatening the tribune.’

  Caelus pushed his half-drawn weapon back into its scabbard and turned back to Vespasian. ‘I shall be making a report about your recklessness to Poppaeus if and when we get to Moesia,’ he spat as he pulled his mount away.

  ‘I’m sure you will, centurion,’ Vespasian called after him, ‘no doubt the first of many, but it’s the legate of our legion, Pomponius, you should report to, unless of course you have other allegiances.’ Whether Caelus heard him or not as he retook his place in the column, Vespasian did not know or care; he cursed himself for making it so obvious to Caelus that he had an ulterior motive.

  ‘When I saw him come up to you I thought I’d better come and keep an eye on him,’ Magnus shouted against the wind, sheathing his sword.

  ‘I had the situation under control,’ Vespasian yelled angrily.

  ‘Well, I won’t bother next time if you think that a centurion drawing a sword on a tribune is a situation in control.’

  Vespasian turned away, furious with himself and regretting taking his frustration out on his friend. Gritting his teeth and squinting his eyes against the biting wind, he concentrated on keeping his horse moving forward. The snow was now well above the fetlocks and approaching the animals’ knees; they were all starting to struggle in the worsening conditions. Vespasian pushed his horse up next to Tinos.

  ‘How far do you reckon we’ve gone?’ he shouted, his voice now barely audible in what had become a gale.

  ‘About a mile I’d guess.’

  ‘With four miles to go and the snow getting deeper all the time I’m beginning to have serious doubts about making it through.’

  ‘One thing’s for certain: if the snow gets too far above the horses’ knees we’ll be forced to dismount and lead them whichever way we go.’ Tinos jerked savagely and then looked down in surprise at the arrow embedded in his chest. Blood began to seep from the corners of his mouth and nostrils; he slid to the ground.

  Vespasian spun his horse around. ‘Get back; ambush!’ he bellowed, sensing rather than seeing or hearing another arrow pass a hand’s breadth to the left of him. Magnus and Sabinus needed no urging to turn, having been close enough to see Tinos fall but behind them the column was in chaos. Caelus, the four legionaries and the first of the Illyrians had obeyed the order to turn but were being prevented from falling back by a press of horsemen pushing forward from the rear out of the cloud of snow.

  ‘Turn around, spread out and go back,’ Vespasian cried as he tried to force his horse through the confusion. An arrow hammered into a legionary propelling him forward off his horse, which reared up on its hind legs, terrified by the escalating panic; its forelegs thrashed in front of it knocking an auxiliary trooper senseless. Vespasian could see that they were getting nowhere; the rear of the column was still pushing forward. He pulled out his hunting bow, notched an arrow and looked desperately around above him for the source of the attack; he could see nothing but driving snow. Sitalces appeared through the chaos, bow in hand.

  ‘Why the fuck aren’t you turning around?’ Vespasian shouted.

  ‘We’re being attacked from the rear, sir, I can’t see from where; I’ve lost one of my men already.’

  It then became horribly clear to him: they were trapped in a defile by just two unseen archers, and were unable to move quickly enough in either direction to avoid losing a lot of men.

  ‘Dismount and get to the sides of the pass,’ he ordered at the top of his voice, leaping to the ground. The command filtered through the disordered column and men jumped from their horses and ran towards the relative shelter of the steep walls of the pass.

  Vespasian’s back slammed against the bank next to Caelus and the three surviving legionaries in a flurry of snow, his breath steamed from him after the exertion of running through knee-deep drifts.

  ‘I hope you think this is worth it,’ the centurion spat, ‘we’re losing a lot of men because of your impatience.’

  ‘Now is not the time for recriminations, centurion; we need to work together if we’re going to get out of this mess.’

  ‘And a right fucking mess it is too.’

  Vespasian could not argue, he had led them into this thinking that the Getae would be just as hampered by the conditions as they were; well, they were not and now it was down to him to save as many of the column as possible.

  Sabinus, Magnus and a couple of auxiliary troopers joined them as another trooper fell to the ground just short of safety; blood from his skewered neck seeped into the powdery snow turning it bright red. Judging by the direction of the shot Vespasian could tell that it came from almost directly above him.

  ‘They have to be fucking close to be able to pick targets through this blizzard, so if they can see us why can’t we see them?’ Magnus puffed trying to regain his breath.

  ‘I saw these conditions sometimes when I was serving in Pannonia,’ Sabinus replied, as Sitalces, Artebudz and the surviving Thracians came running in, using their terrified horses as cover. ‘It’s a lot easier seeing down into a snowstorm than up or through it, there’s less glare and the snow doesn’t get in your eyes as much.’

  ‘Then we have to somehow get above them,’ Vespasian reasoned. ‘Sitalces, you and your men get your bows. From which side did the shots that hit the rear of the column come?’

  ‘From the other side, sir,’ Sitalces replied, attaching his quiver to his belt as his men did the same and removed their sleek recurved bows from the cases on their saddles.

  ‘Bugger it, the bastards have thought this through. We’ll have to split up. Sabinus, I’l
l take Artebudz, Sitalces and Magnus and deal with the man on the other side, you take the other three Thracians and get the bastard above us.’

  Caelus looked at Vespasian quizzically; he started to say something but thought better of it.

  Sabinus grinned. ‘All right, little brother, it’s going to be a race, is it?’

  ‘Think of it in whatever terms you like, Sabinus, but we need to do it quickly before we’re snowed in; we’ll meet back here and I can assure you that there’ll be no prizes for being last.’ Vespasian allowed himself a grim smile at his brother before turning to Caelus. ‘You take the legionaries and go forward; find those bastards’ horses and bring them back here. They must be further up the pass somewhere as we didn’t pass them and they can’t have taken them up above with them, it’s too steep.’

  Caelus did not argue and started to lead his men forward, hugging the bank. The two auxiliary troopers looked at Vespasian expectantly waiting for their orders.

  ‘You two, find as many of your comrades as you can, then send out parties to round up our horses.’ Vespasian gestured to the group of horses that was milling aimlessly around what had been the killing ground. ‘Don’t worry about those, you’ll get shot. They’re not going anywhere, just the ones that have run off forward or back, understand?’

  The two Illyrians saluted and started to make their way forward.

  Vespasian turned in the opposite direction. ‘Come on, let’s get this done.’

  It was easier making their way back down the pass with the wind and snow howling in from behind them but their lower limbs were starting to suffer; although they were all wearing woollen socks with their sandals and had smeared a liberal amount of pork grease over their legs that morning before making the ascent to the pass, their feet were achingly cold. After a couple of hundred trudging paces, accompanied by the fear of an arrow thudding in from the opposite bank, they passed the last dead horse, just visible as a dark form through the snow; Vespasian judged that they had gone far enough to outflank the rear man. They left the semi-protection of the bank and made the crossing to the far side in an undignified manner: taking long strides and pulling their feet up as high as possible in order to move as quickly as they could over the deep powder-snow; now fearful all the time of an arrow from either direction. After a short search they found an area of the bank less steep than the rest and climbable.

  ‘I’ll go up first,’ Vespasian said.

  Artebudz stepped forward. ‘Sir, I come from the mountains in the province of Noricum. I know about climbing and hunting in mountains, I should lead.’

  Mightily relieved, Vespasian acquiesced. ‘Good man; we need to get up high enough so we can’t see the pass, then we’ll know that we’re above him and we’ll start to work our way back at different levels in pairs.’

  Vespasian followed Artebudz up the treacherous incline. His teeth were chattering and his fingers numb; he was finding it very difficult to keep up with the nimble ex-slave as he expertly negotiated his way from one foothold to the next. As they climbed the wind grew stronger and buffeted him, tugging at his cloak, which billowed out like a loose sail, pulling him to his right and threatening to unbalance him. He gritted his teeth and forced the stiff muscles in his arms and legs to keep working as they pulled and pushed his body ever higher. Occasionally he risked a downward glance, past Magnus and Sitalces, but although the opposite bank was soon obscured the track down the middle of the pass stayed visible for what felt like an age; Sabinus had been right, it was easier to look down through a snowstorm. As he climbed, he marvelled at the skill of the Getic archers being able to hit targets below them with such a strong crosswind. Then he realised that it had been the crosswind that had saved him; the first arrow had been meant for him, not Tinos. He muttered a prayer of thanks to Fortuna for her continued protection.

  After they had ascended a hundred feet or so the pass eventually disappeared into the white-out and Vespasian called a halt. ‘Right, that’s enough,’ he wheezed as he sucked in the razor-sharp, frozen air that his body craved after so much effort. ‘Artebudz and I will go up a little further and then start working our way back. Magnus, you and Sitalces stay on this level and keep slightly behind us.’

  Magnus looked less than pleased to be left alone with the huge Thracian on a slippery steep slope. Sitalces picked up on it and grinned maliciously at him. ‘Don’t worry, Roman, you’re safe until this is over; besides, I might need you to grab on to if I fall.’

  ‘I won’t be able to help you if you do.’ Magnus smiled back innocently. ‘I’ve seen how quickly and heavily you go down.’

  Sitalces grunted, trying not to enjoy the banter.

  ‘I can see that you’ll be best of friends by the time we’re finished,’ Vespasian observed, getting up stiffly. ‘Now let’s get going before our balls freeze off.’

  With a monumental effort he followed Artebudz up another fifteen feet and then they started to make their way stealthily towards the ambush point. Artebudz held his bow ready drawn, continually pointing it in different directions as he traversed the sharp incline; his natural agility and obvious familiarity with hunting in mountainous terrain enabled him to keep his footing without the use of his hands; Vespasian, who was not so sure-footed, used his right hand to steady himself whilst holding his undrawn bow with a ready notched arrow in his left. He looked down behind him and could see that Magnus and Sitalces were having just as much difficulty negotiating the traverse.

  After they had gone about fifty stumbling paces the wind suddenly started to drop and the snow became less horizontal; visibility began to clear so that the opposite slope and the dead bodies down in the pass soon became discernible. After a few more paces Artebudz stopped abruptly, squatted down on to his haunches and pointed to his nose.

  ‘I can smell him,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘He must be directly upwind.’

  Vespasian signalled Magnus and Sitalces to halt and get down, and then sniffed the calmer air; he suddenly caught an unmistakable whiff of the same heady stench that had emanated from the dead Geta in the forest. ‘How far away?’

  Artebudz pointed directly ahead. ‘What’s that there, about thirty paces away?’

  Vespasian followed the line of Artebudz’s finger; at first he could see nothing through the now gently falling snowflakes, then he noticed a small movement as if the settled snow itself had twitched. After a few more moments he could make out, next to a large boulder five paces across embedded in the hillside, a smaller hump, about the size of a man, comprised of two different shades and textures of white, one of snow and the other, slightly darker, of white dyed wool.

  Vespasian nodded at Artebudz; they took aim and released. The arrows flew directly at the centre of the hump and disappeared right through, dislodging most of the snow that had collected on it and exposing it as a makeshift shelter made of a white woollen blanket draped over an upright pole.

  ‘Shit!’ Vespasian spat; then, in a moment of clarity, he realised that they had just announced their presence to the unseen danger that must be lurking behind the boulder. ‘Down!’ he roared hitting the ground as the Getic archer, in a blur of motion, appeared over the boulder and released an arrow that disappeared into the snow just where Vespasian had stood an instant earlier.

  Caught on the open slope with no cover Vespasian knew there was only one course of action. ‘Keep your bow aimed at where he appeared and cover me,’ he whispered to Artebudz. ‘I’m going forward.’ Leaving his bow on the ground, he eased his gladius from its scabbard and, signalling to Magnus and Sitalces to skirt around below the boulder, started to make his way, at a crawl, towards it.

  By the time he was halfway his clothes were soaked with freezing slush and his bronze breastplate felt like a huge lump of ice sucking what little warmth remained in him out through his chest. Vespasian was close enough now not to be seen by the archer unless the man stood up, exposing himself to Artebudz’s bow and certain death; so he risked a slouched run for the last fifteen
paces. He reached the boulder as a double twang of bowstrings told of another exchange of fire between Artebudz and their quarry. Magnus and Sitalces were ten paces below and almost level with him, they drew their bows and slowly crept forward to try for a clear shot behind the boulder. The wind had now completely stopped and the hillside had descended into the eerie silence that accompanies gently falling snow. The stench of the Geta was overpowering. Vespasian held his breath and started to inch his way silently downhill around the huge rock. At the point of rounding the boulder he paused, mentally preparing himself for close combat. He tightened his grip around his sword hilt and nodded to Magnus and Sitalces; they leapt forward, releasing two quickly aimed shots before throwing themselves down into the snow. An instant later the Getic archer’s bowstring thrummed in reply; Vespasian hurtled around the corner and pounced on the man just as he was pulling another arrow from his quiver. With no time to go for his dagger the Geta thrust the barbed tip of the arrow at Vespasian’s chest. It connected with his breastplate and, as Vespasian pushed himself forward so that his weight forced his sword up under the archer’s ribs, the arrow slid off the metal and embedded itself in his left shoulder. A violent shiver of pain rushed through Vespasian’s body as the razor-sharp arrowhead struck bone but he pressed home his attack, driving his sword on up and into his opponent’s heart, which exploded with a rush of hot blood over his sword arm. The archer let off a gurgling scream, his rank breath clouding Vespasian’s senses as they fell, coupled by iron, to the ground.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Magnus puffed as he and Sitalces pulled Vespasian off the dead Getic warrior.

  ‘Apart from this thing in my shoulder, yes, I think so,’ Vespasian replied as Artebudz joined them. He examined the arrow and then gave it a sharp tug. It came out easily, but not without pain; the bone in his shoulder had prevented it from burying itself deep enough for the barb to have become entangled in flesh.

  Blood seeped gently from the wound. Artebudz took a handful of snow. ‘Hold that there until we get back down and I can dress it properly,’ he said, pressing it on the opening. Vespasian did as he was told and for the first time that day felt comforted by the snow as it took the heat out of the wound and gradually numbed the area, easing the pain. He looked down at the stinking, dead man at his feet. His sea-grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the falling snow; snowflakes settled on his eyelashes; his lips, just visible through a long and bushy black beard, had already started to turn blue. Over his clothes he wore a white blanket, now stained with blood, with a hole cut in the middle for his head; the circular waste material had been stitched on to his cap, camouflaging him almost completely.