Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian pushed his way through to Rhaskos. The old trierarchus was grinning broadly. ‘How about that?’ he shouted. ‘I out-steered him without a single prayer; may the gods forgive me.’

  ‘Why did you pass him?’ Vespasian asked. ‘I thought that we were going to try and take him.’

  ‘Because, my young friend, when he came about and headed straight for us I realised that you were wrong. He had lost his reason; he was prepared to lose his ship just to destroy us, out of spite. It was madness and I never like to fight a madman; who knows what they will do next?’

  Vespasian looked over Rhaskos’ shoulder to the chasing pirate. ‘What do we do next? He’s gaining on us.’

  ‘We keep running, we can keep at ramming-speed for longer than he can,’ Rhaskos replied with a wink. ‘Gaidres, send the spare rowers down in batches of twelve to relieve the others, two sets of oars at a time starting from the bow.’

  Gaidres acknowledged the trierarchus and started to round up the rowers without bows.

  Vespasian joined Sabinus, who was now at the stern rail. The pirate was less than twenty paces behind them and gaining slowly as the slaves on its oar-deck were whipped mercilessly to squeeze every last drop of energy from them. The swell made accurate shooting between the ships almost impossible and the pirate trierarchus still stood at the steering-oars, shouting for all he was worth, despite Sabinus’ repeated attempts to shoot him down.

  ‘That man’s got a charmed life,’ he muttered, notching another arrow and taking careful aim. Again the shot went wide. ‘He’s got balls just standing there, I’ll give him that.’

  Gradually the relieving of the blown rowers began to reap benefits as fresh limbs pulled on straining oars. Even the Roman citizens had volunteered for duty, realising that the privileges of citizenship did not extend to the dead. The Thracian ship was beginning to pull away when the first few oars on the pirate fouled as the exhausted slaves collapsed and it started to lose way. The pirate trierarchus pulled his ship off to the south, towards Cythera, and roared his defiance until a volley of arrows sent him ducking under the rail.

  ‘Cruise speed,’ Rhaskos shouted.

  The drumbeat slowed gradually as did the ship.

  ‘My thanks to Amphiaraos for showing me the way,’ Rhaskos called to the sky. ‘I will sacrifice another ram when we reach Ostia.’

  ‘If we get there,’ Vespasian said. ‘How are we going to feed all these people?’

  ‘The gods will provide. I have no doubt of it as they showed us how to escape the pirates.’

  ‘They didn’t show us how to defeat the pirates,’ Sabinus scoffed. ‘Wasn’t your dream about how to preserve the crew and get rid of the slave fever?’

  Rhaskos looked pleased with himself. ‘Yes, but you can’t deny that releasing the slaves did preserve the crew against the pirate attack. As to stopping the sickness spreading through the slaves, I gave orders that only the ones without the fever should be released; the ill ones down in the bilge all drowned on the ship. We are free of the fever now and should be able to complete our voyage.’

  Vespasian could see the truth of it: the oracle had indeed shown Rhaskos the answer to his question. He walked to the rail and, whilst enjoying the calming effects of a cool breeze and a warm sun on his skin, contemplated everything he had seen and heard at the sanctuary of Amphiaraos.

  ‘It seems that the sanctuary was quite a powerful place, Sabinus,’ he said quietly to his brother a short while later as they watched the pirate and the captured trader disappear to the south, past Cythera. ‘What do you make of the prophecy now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ his brother replied. ‘But one thing’s for sure, I will never forget it.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ Vespasian agreed as their ship left the strait of Cythera and entered the Ionian Sea, heading on towards Ostia.

  PART IIII

  ROME, JULY AD 30

  CHAPTER X

  An intense profusion of contrary smells assaulted Vespasian’s olfactory senses as the trireme docked against one of the many wooden jetties in the port of Ostia: the ravenous mouth of the city of Rome. The fresh, salt tang of sea air clashed with the muddy reek of the Tiber as it disgorged the filth of the city, just twenty miles upstream, into the Tyrrhenian Sea. The decay of decomposing animal carcasses bobbing between the ships and wharves conflicted with the mouth-watering aromas of grilling pork, chicken and sausages that wafted across from the smoking charcoal braziers of quayside traders, eager to sell fresh meat to stale-bread-weary sailors. Sacks of pungent spices — cinnamon, cloves, saffron — from India and beyond, were offloaded by Syrian trading ships next to vessels from Africa and Lusitania disgorging their cargoes of high-smelling garum sauce, made from the fermented intestines of fish. Unsubtly perfumed whores solicited unwashed seamen; garlic-breathed dockworkers took orders from lavender-scented merchants; sweat-foamed horses and mules pulled cartloads of sweet, dried apricots, figs, dates and raisins. Rotting fish, baking bread, sweating slaves, resinated wine, stale urine, dried herbs, high meat, hemp rope, ships’ bilges and warm wood: the combinations made Vespasian’s head spin as he watched the Thracian crew secure the ship and lower the gangplank to the constant shouted entreaties of Rhaskos.

  ‘At times I thought that we’d never make back, sir,’ Magnus said, joining him at the rail, ‘but that is definitely Ostia.’

  ‘Having never been here, I’ll just have to take your word for it,’ Vespasian replied, smiling at his friend and sharing his relief at finally getting home.

  It had not been a straightforward journey, purely for the foreseen logistical problems of feeding so many men. The provisions that they found in the hold had only been sufficient for a few days and, although Rhaskos had been able to buy, with the gold in his strongbox, sacks of hardtack, chickpeas and dried pork at ports along the way they had been forced to stop for two or three days at a time to hunt sufficient game to keep the 350 or so men onboard from going too hungry. Their voyage, therefore, had taken almost thirty days from Cythera, much longer than intended but it had, at least, been without incident.

  With the ship finally secured Rhaskos came pushing through the crowded deck. ‘So, my young friend, here’s where we say goodbye,’ the old trierarchus said, sweating profusely from the exertion of so much shouting at his crew. ‘Although how I shall get home I don’t know, as I’ve used up all the gold that the Queen gave me for the return trip.’

  ‘I’m sure that the gods will provide,’ Vespasian replied, instantly regretting his flippancy.

  Thankfully it was lost on Rhaskos, who just nodded his head sagely. ‘Yes, you’re right; I’m sure they will.’

  There was a stirring on the quayside and raucous shouting; a group of twenty armed men were shoving their way towards the bottom of the gangway. Although they were not in uniform they certainly had a military look; each was armed with a gladius. However, more worryingly, because of the fine quality of their tunics and the smartness of their appearance they had more than a whiff of the Praetorian Guard about them.

  Thoughts of betrayal flooded into Vespasian’s mind and he glanced nervously at Magnus and Sabinus, who had joined him having heard the disturbance.

  The soldiers reached the bottom of the gangway and their leader, a tall, wiry, auburn-haired man with a pinched face and pasty skin, motioned them to stop. From within their midst appeared a smartly dressed, bearded Greek.

  ‘Welcome home, masters,’ Pallas said, making his way up the steep ramp.

  ‘Pallas!’ Vespasian was astonished to see Antonia’s steward. ‘How did you know when we would arrive?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Pallas replied, bowing low. ‘I have been waiting here for ten days now, ever since a messenger from Queen Tryphaena arrived, overland, telling the Lady Antonia that you had left Tomi towards the end of May. She sent me here to escort you and our mutual friend back to Rome.’

  ‘And I suppose that is our escort,’ Sabinus observed, looking suspiciously at the phalanx of men on t
he quay.

  ‘Yes, master. I will explain later, when there are fewer people listening.’ Pallas indicated the mass of crew and ex-slaves that had crowded around to see what was going on.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ Sabinus said uneasily.

  ‘Get back to work, all of you,’ Rhaskos suddenly shouted at his milling crew, ‘there’s nothing to see here.’

  ‘Ah, you must be the noble trierarchus,’ Pallas crooned, bowing towards Rhaskos as the crew started to thin out.

  ‘Rhaskos, sir,’ Rhaskos stammered, unused to being addressed in those terms.

  ‘Please, master, do not address me as “sir”, I am but a mere slave.’

  Vespasian and Sabinus both smiled; there was nothing ‘mere’ about Pallas whatsoever.

  Rhaskos looked confused. ‘I’m sorry, er…’

  ‘Please do not apologise to me. My name is Pallas, master.’

  ‘Pallas,’ Rhaskos spluttered, ‘indeed. Thank-’

  Pallas raised an eyebrow; Rhaskos halted mid-flow. ‘The Lady Antonia wishes me to inform you, Trierachus Rhaskos, that you are to revictual your ship totally at her expense; I have delivered her promissory note to the port aedile guaranteeing full payment for anything that you require.’

  ‘May the gods be praised.’ Rhaskos raised his palms and faced to the sky. ‘Please give my thanks to the Lady, sir… er… Pallas. I am in her debt.’ He bowed, then, realising his mistake, quickly stopped himself and beat a hasty retreat, calling out his thanks for his good fortune to every god that he could think of, which were many.

  Vespasian was sure that Pallas had been amused by the conversation but was unable to confirm it as the steward’s face remained, as always, absolutely neutral.

  ‘We should go, masters,’ Pallas said with just the faintest trace of urgency in his voice. ‘We will need to ride fast if we are to get to Rome before dusk.’

  In less than an hour they were on the move. Having said their goodbyes to Rhaskos, Drenis and Gaidres, they transferred Rhoteces, hissing and hooded, to a covered wagon that waited for them, along with their horses, a short distance from the crowded harbour. Artebudz, who was on his way north to his mountainous home in the province of Noricum, had come with them and he and Magnus rode in the wagon, guarding the priest.

  ‘They are Praetorians, as you suspected, masters,’ Pallas informed Vespasian and Sabinus as they rode through the gates of Ostia at a quick trot. ‘However, they’re Praetorian Cavalry; their decurion, Marcus Arrecinus Clemens-’

  ‘Clemens?’ Vespasian interrupted. ‘I’ve heard that name before; he was with Macro and Hasdro when they were following me up the Via Aurelia. Macro sent Clemens north with half of his cavalry to block the road, whilst he took the rest to look for me in Cosa.’

  ‘Yes, he is loyal to our new friend, Macro,’ Pallas confirmed. ‘He also happens to be a client of my mistress’s son Claudius.’

  ‘How did that come about?’ Vespasian was intrigued.

  ‘I believe he is a man who enjoys gambling at the circus on the team with the longest odds.’

  ‘There’s a difference between betting on an outsider as compared with a no-hoper,’ Sabinus pointed out.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that Claudius is a no-hoper,’ Pallus replied with a slight rise of his eyebrows. ‘His mother would, as would the Emperor and Sejanus, but that’s why he is still in the race. He may seem stupid because he stutters, drools and limps, because he has a tendency to say the most inappropriate things in public and makes pathetic jokes under the misapprehension that he’s one of the finest wits of our age; but underneath he’s an ambitious, power-hungry viper and not to be trusted. He’s also very intelligent, if somewhat chaotic, and has written extensively on a wide variety of subjects. Some of his work is, I’m told, quite edifying.’

  Vespasian was intrigued. ‘Would you bet on him, Pallas?’

  Pallas looked at Vespasian shrewdly. ‘The disadvantage about gambling at the circus is that you can only place a bet before the race starts; to my mind that is the worst time to put your money down. I prefer to lay a bet after the final turn when you have a much clearer idea as to who will be the eventual winner. That system has two advantages: you are more likely to win and you’ll have been parted from your money for a shorter time.’

  ‘So Clemens has got a long wait before he sees any return to his outlay, then?’ Sabinus chuckled.

  ‘Perhaps, but like any sensible long-odds gambler he has hedged his bet with a little flutter on Caligula; he escorts him when he goes out at night incognito, gets him out of any embarrassing scrapes that he may fall into and clears up his mess — which is sometimes considerable.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Vespasian agreed, thinking of his friend’s voracious sexual appetite. ‘So Clemens is one to watch, is he?’

  ‘Oh yes, and I’m sure that he will make himself very useful to you both.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘Because you are in the Lady Antonia’s favour and he is a kinsman of yours. A very distant one, but nevertheless the link is there. Your father’s mother and Clemens’ grandmother shared the same grandfather and I’m sure that he will make much of it.’

  ‘He doesn’t look much like a kinsman of ours,’ Sabinus observed, eyeing with suspicion the thin-faced decurion riding just ahead of them. ‘He’s an ugly bugger, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I tend to find it best not to judge people on their looks, master,’ Pallas said, bringing the subject to a close.

  Vespasian rode on in silence. The tingle of anticipation that had been growing in his stomach since they had sighted the Italian coast was now a churning and he was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than Caenis. After more than four years he would see her again tonight; at least he hoped that he would. Surely she would be with Antonia? But would he get to talk with her, a chance to be alone with her, to touch and hold her? None of these questions could he answer; he would just have to wait and see — and the knowledge that he was not in control of the situation was driving him to distraction. He tried to put his mind to other matters — his parents, the estates, his uncle Gaius, the island of Capreae whose rocky coastline they had sailed past the previous day — but it would not settle. It just kept on coming back to the most urgent subject: Caenis. He felt blood rushing to his groin as the image of her stepping out of her tunic in the lamplight flitted across his inner eye and he was forced to make an adjustment to his dress.

  ‘Thinking about your romantic reunion with the mules at home, brother?’ Sabinus drawled, noticing his unfortunate predicament.

  ‘Piss off, Sabinus,’ Vespasian snapped, hugely embarrassed in more ways than one.

  ‘I asked Clemens to send a rider ahead to warn my mistress that we would arrive this evening,’ Pallas said, picking up on the problem and guessing its cause. ‘I’m sure there will be a dinner awaiting you and I will make sure that every member of the household fulfils their normal roles.’

  Happy in the knowledge that he would at least see Caenis that evening, Vespasian smiled awkwardly at Pallas, whose expression, as ever, remained neutral, as if he had said nothing at all of import. Sabinus gave a wry chuckle.

  It was almost dusk as the column clattered up the Palatine Hill. The culture shock that Vespasian had felt at being back in a city so packed with people was wearing off as the crowds thinned out and the houses grew, quite literally, more palatial.

  Antonia’s seal had been sufficient to get them and the wagon through the Porta Ostiensis without any questions from the Urban Cohort soldiers on guard — wheeled vehicles not normally being allowed in the city during the day. It had then taken them almost a half-hour to fight their way through the crowds of the Aventine, around the Circus Maximus and finally to the foot of the Palatine. But now their journey was over.

  Clemens thumped on the gate to the stable yard at the rear of Antonia’s villa; it opened after a short delay.

  ‘We’re being observed,’ Pallas
remarked as they rode into the yard.

  Vespasian glanced back up the street to see a couple of figures lurking in the shadows of a cypress tree overhanging a wall, fifty paces away. ‘Sejanus’ men?’ he asked.

  ‘More than likely,’ Pallas said, dismounting, ‘but they won’t be able to tell him any more than that a group of men arrived escorting a carriage.’

  ‘Welcome, gentleman,’ came a strong, familiar, female voice. Antonia descended the steps from the main house and walked elegantly towards Vespasian and Sabinus. Although in her midsixties she was still beautiful in a way that could not just be ascribed to expensive beauty treatments and the best coiffure and gowns that money could buy. She smiled radiantly at the brothers. ‘I cannot begin to express my gratitude at what you have achieved for our cause.’ She took Sabinus’ hand and pressed it warmly. He bowed his head and muttered something inaudible.

  Antonia turned to Vespasian and took his hand in both of hers. ‘I see that four years in the army has been the making of you, Vespasian,’ she said, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. ‘You look to be a man in perfect physical condition; I hope that your mind has grown in conjunction with your body because in the next few months it will be politics that’ll be our main concern, not fighting.’

  Vespasian reddened slightly. That so powerful a woman should come out to greet them rather than awaiting them in the cool of her study was humbling, and a great honour. ‘I hope that I’ll be up to the tasks ahead, domina,’ he managed to say, bracing himself to once again be swept into the sea of political intrigue in which he knew the highest strata of Roman society wallowed.

  He was saved from any more searching questions by the arrival of Magnus and Artebudz dragging the cringing Rhoteces from the carriage. They threw him to the ground in front of Antonia.