Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  Even though it was less than a hundred heartbeats since the start of the attack the stable yard was now lit by fires burning in the windows of a few of the buildings that looked on to it. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered around. Screams came from the field slaves’ barracks as the shackled slaves inside panicked at the smell of smoke and rising heat in their windowless place of confinement; flames were threatening their door. There was no sign of the attackers; the door to the courtyard garden of the main house swung unsteadily on its buckled hinges.

  Vespasian dashed along the roof and leapt down into the stable yard as, at the far end, a group of men came running out of the freedmen’s lodgings, armed with swords, javelins and bows. Vespasian recognised Pallo, the estate steward, at their head, followed by Baseos the Scythian and the Persian Ataphanes, both bearing their recurved, eastern bows. Unfortunately they did not recognise him; two arrows careered towards him as he hit the ground. He felt a rush of air pass over his head and then a lightning strike of pain in his left shoulder twisted him backwards on to the floor.

  ‘Pallo!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, Vespasian!’

  But too late. Thinking that he was no longer a threat Baseos and Ataphanes had turned their attentions to the crossroads brothers still traversing the roof; two fell into the yard as Ataphanes went down with an arrow from Artebudz in his chest.

  ‘Artebudz, don’t shoot!’ Vespasian roared again in a monumental effort to make himself heard over the clamour from the field slaves’ barracks. ‘Pallo, stop! It’s me, Vespasian.’ He got to his knees and waved his arms; pain from the arrowhead grinding against bone shot through his senses.

  This time Pallo recognised his young master, whom he had not seen in over four years, by his voice.

  ‘Stop shooting,’ Pallo ordered, running across the yard. His men followed, weapons raised warily. ‘Master, is that really you? Why are you attacking your own home?’

  ‘I’m not. There’s no time to explain,’ he said, wincing as he broke off the shaft of the arrow a thumb’s length from the entry point.

  Magnus and Artebudz jumped down from the roof followed by Sextus and Marius.

  ‘Follow me into the main house,’ Vespasian cried, running through the swinging gate, ‘and be careful who you shoot at, Sabinus is coming in through the front.’

  The courtyard garden was deserted apart from the body of the slave whose job it had been to sit by the gate all night. From the house came the sound of hand-to-hand fighting. Vespasian pounded around the colonnaded walkway towards the tablinum; blood oozed from his wound and was now soaking his tunic and his head was feeling light from pain.

  Pushing aside the broken tablinum door he hurtled through and on into the atrium. It was a mass of writhing and struggling bodies all locked in bitter close-quarter conflicts: some standing, fighting with swords and knives; some wrestling, rolling around on the floor. At the far end of the room the open door burned like a beacon; by its light he could see, next to his brother and Clemens, fighting with a dagger in each hand, his father, Titus. Blood poured down the side of his face from where his left ear was missing.

  With a roar, Vespasian jumped over the dead and bloodsoaked body of Varo, the house steward, and flung himself through the chaos and on to the back of his father’s adversary. Grabbing him by the hair he swung his sword in a short, sideways arc into the flesh at the top of his right arm and on through the bone, like wire through cheese. The man howled as his severed limb dropped to the floor; a sharp thrust from Titus curtailed the bestial sound and he fell, dead.

  Behind Vespasian, Magnus, Sextus and Marius descended on the rear of their crossroads brothers’ opponents like furies released from hades. Livilla’s men stood no chance as they were hacked and stabbed at from all angles. Artebudz, Pallo, Baseos and the rest of the freedmen stood back, uncertain of friend or foe; but they were not needed. In a few short moments only two of the attackers were left standing, herded into a corner, surrounded and defeated. Both dropped to one knee in token of surrender.

  ‘You come to my house to kill me in front of the death masks of my ancestors and the altar to my family’s gods and then expect mercy?’ Titus thundered, pushing his way through the surrounding men. In one fluid movement he swiped up a discarded sword and flashed it through the air at neck height, almost taking the first man’s head clean off. The body slumped forward, spraying Magnus and his brothers. The second man raised his head. His eyes showed no fear as they stared at Titus from beneath a mono-brow; he nodded and lowered his head to receive the killing blow in the manner of a Roman citizen.

  ‘Don’t!’ a voice shouted as Titus lifted his sword.

  Titus jerked around to see who would prevent him from taking his just vengeance.

  Clemens stepped forward.

  ‘Who are you, young man?’ Titus enquired, breathing heavily.

  ‘Marcus Arrecinus Clemens, sir,’ Clemens replied steadily. ‘Your son is to marry my sister.’

  ‘Well, Clemens, if you think that family ties will force me to grant mercy to this man, you are much mistaken.’

  Sabinus stepped up to Clemens, outraged. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming between coming my father and his rightful justice? Every one of Livilla’s men must die,’ he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at the kneeling man.

  ‘Calm, my friend, Livilla’s men are all dead,’ Clemens said pointing at the captive. ‘He’s not one of them.’

  Sabinus looked carefully at the man whilst slowing his breathing. A memory flashed across his mind and he stared harder at the kneeling man’s face. ‘Clemens is right, father,’ he said, remembering the mono-browed guard in Macro’s room the previous year. ‘This one’s not Livilla’s man, he’s a Praetorian. That’s Satrius Secundus.’

  CHAPTER XIII

  ‘I don’t care how useful you think he might be; I want him dead.’ Vespasia Polla was adamant. Outraged by the murder done in her home and still recovering from the mental exhaustion brought on by accepting that she was going to die, she wanted her revenge. ‘If none of you men have the balls to do it then I’ll do it myself. Titus, give me your dagger.’

  ‘My dear, if Sabinus and Vespasian say that Secundus should live for political reasons then I’m not about to gainsay them,’ Titus said as patiently as he could. Blood still oozed from his wound. ‘I would remind you that the last time you got involved in matters that neither you nor I understood, your impetuousness-’

  ‘Impetuousness!’ Vespasia snorted.

  ‘Yes, impetuousness, woman,’ Titus retorted sharply. ‘Your impetuousness caused us to be smuggled out of Rome like thieves in the night, and made me look like a foolish country bumpkin unable to control a wilful wife; a laughing stock in other words. Now enough of your opinions; go and organise whatever slaves we have left to clear up this mess.’

  Vespasia looked for a moment as if she would explode. She glanced at Vespasian and Sabinus.

  ‘Mother,’ Vespasian said placidly, ‘trust us.’

  Realising that she was not going to get the better of her menfolk in this argument, she acquiesced, but resolved to some day have her revenge for the time she had spent locked in Titus’ study, listening to the savage fighting outside and gazing at the knife that he had given her. One moment she had been peacefully asleep in her bedroom; the next, her husband was dragging her through the atrium. Flames were coming from under the front door and the door to the courtyard garden was being battered down. Titus had hauled her into his study — the only room off the atrium with a lock — and given her his knife with the order to kill herself should the door be broken down. She had been terrified, staring at her reflection in the blade distorted by the strange lettering engraved on it. When Titus and his sons had unlocked the door after the fighting had ended they had found her on her knees holding the knife to her breast ready to fall on it, in the expectation that the defenders were all dead and the attackers had found the key. It was only the quick reactions of her husband in catching her as she fell fo
rward that saved her life.

  The men breathed a sigh of relief as she walked, with as much dignity as she could muster, out of the body-strewn atrium.

  Titus approached his two sons and put a hand round each of their necks. They were alone. Pallo and Clemens had taken Secundus to be locked up and Magnus and his brothers were helping the rest of the household extinguish the fires. The front door still smouldered but the fire was quenched; smoke drifted through the room.

  ‘Thank you, my sons, thank you,’ Titus said, pulling them to him and resting their foreheads on either side of his own.

  Vespasian tried to place his left hand on his father’s shoulder but winced with pain.

  ‘We need to get that thing out, brother,’ Sabinus said surprisingly gently. ‘I’ll send for Chloe.’

  ‘And Father needs to get his ear sewn back on,’ Vespasian replied, trying to make light of Titus’ disfiguring wound.

  ‘That ear’s long gone, my boy.’ Titus gingerly felt the side of his face. ‘It was nearly the death of me; I slipped on it during the fight and almost lost my balance. Still, there’s one good thing to come out of it: I won’t be able to hear your mother’s sharp remarks nearly as well!’

  The three of them burst out laughing — more in hysteria than amusement. The relief of still being alive, the relief at finding his parents still alive, the relief from the anxiety he had felt all the way up the Via Salaria flooded over Vespasian and he released the tension with a laugh so strong that his chest heaved uncontrollably, pushing at the arrowhead embedded in his shoulder; the pain and loss of blood suddenly overwhelmed him and he collapsed on to the floor in a faint.

  Vespasian opened his eyes and recognised the ceiling of his old room. It was day.

  ‘And about time too!’

  Vespasian turned his head to see Magnus sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, polishing his sword.

  ‘What time is it?’ Vespasian asked weakly.

  ‘Almost midday, I should think.’

  Vespasian put his hand to his shoulder and felt a well-padded dressing tightly bandaged on.

  ‘You didn’t make a sound as that old Chloe was cutting it out, sir. Stayed unconscious all the way through you did, even when she cauterised the wound. Remarkable woman. I’ve never seen an arrow removed so quickly. I’ll bet she was quite a looker in her younger days.’

  ‘I’m sure that if you asked her nicely she’d be only too glad to revisit her youth for you. I know how partial you are to the older female form.’

  ‘I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I? Gods below, you fuck one goat and you’re branded a goat-fucker for life.’

  ‘At least you earned your reputation justly; I’ve never touched a mule but Sabinus still mocks me about them. Anyway, how are your lads?’

  ‘Lucio didn’t make it, but Chloe reckons that Cassandros may well pull through. The arrow went through the roof of his mouth and out through his cheek, just knocked a few teeth out; that’s the luck of the Greeks for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that particularly lucky, given that he was shot by someone that he was trying to defend.’

  Magnus grunted. ‘Well, if you look at it that way I suppose you’re right. And it’ll be some time before he can chew on a decent Roman sausage again; being Greek, he’s partial to sausage, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian grinned. ‘I’m afraid I do. Help me up, Magnus.’

  ‘Is that wise, sir?’

  ‘Are you so enamoured now of Chloe that you think your medical opinion is worth something?’

  ‘No, it’s just that I know how weak I feel after every time I get spitted.’

  Vespasian raised himself off the bed with an effort; his wound throbbed but stayed closed. ‘Well, I’ve got no choice in the matter; we’ve got to see to our dead and then leave.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Magnus asked, helping his friend to his feet.

  ‘Livilla will be expecting her men back today,’ Vespasian replied as he walked unsteadily over to a basin of water placed on the chest. ‘When they don’t show by nightfall she’ll want to know why; she’ll probably send some more up here tomorrow to find out, a lot more. They’ll more than likely arrive tomorrow night — I’d say it would be best if we weren’t here, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If they find the place deserted they’ll burn it to the ground.’

  Vespasian splashed handfuls of water over his face. ‘Then we’ll rebuild it.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You and your lads are going to help Clemens take Secundus back to Rome,’ Vespasian replied, drying his face. ‘I want you to stay there until Antonia sends for you to bring me a message at Cosa.’

  Magnus didn’t look too pleased. ‘If she knows that I’m in Rome she’ll be sending for me all the time.’

  ‘Well, that’s the perks of the job. I wouldn’t mind borrowing a couple of your boys to come to Cosa with Sabinus and me, just for a bit of extra security.’

  ‘Sure, have Sextus and Marius; they know the place. What about your parents, where are they going?’

  ‘They’re going north and Artebudz will go with them, it’s nearly on his way home and he seems anxious to get back to Noricum as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, I know, he’s was going on about it for the whole voyage home. He’s worried that his father, Brogduos, may already be dead.’

  ‘How long has he been away?’

  ‘Nearly twenty years.’

  Titus came in without knocking. The side of his face was heavily padded; a linen bandage around his head held the dressing in place.

  Magnus diplomatically slipped out of the room.

  ‘You’re awake, good,’ Titus said, smiling. ‘How are you feeling, my son?’

  ‘Fine, Father, how about you?’

  Titus cocked his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Fine, Father, how about… Oh, very funny!’

  ‘Your mother didn’t think so when I played the joke on her earlier; and she’s in a worse mood now that Sabinus has told us that we need to get out of Italia and go and hide in some forsaken place — what’s it called again?’

  ‘Aventicum. It’s for the best; until things change in Rome, that is.’

  ‘I know, I understand but your mother doesn’t. She thinks that because we beat them last night that should be the end of it.’

  ‘Well, she’s wrong,’ Vespasian asserted, slipping on his tunic.

  ‘I know, but you try telling her that. Sabinus and I have both tried and given up. It was only when I ordered the valuables to be packed on to wagons that she realised she had a choice: stay alone and undefended in an empty house that’s liable to another attack, or come with me.’

  ‘What did she choose?’

  ‘I don’t know, she’s still thinking about it. I gave her my knife back though.’

  Vespasian chuckled as he fastened his belt. ‘What are you going to do with the livestock?’

  ‘The mules and the sheep are all up on the summer pastures on the north of the estate. Pallo and some of the freedmen are going stay up there with the herdsmen for a while. They’ll be safe enough; no one’s looking for them. As to the slaves, we’ll take the household ones with us.’

  ‘What about the field slaves?’

  ‘They’re all dead; burnt last night.’

  ‘Shit, no? All forty of them?’ Vespasian looked up incredulously from tying on his sandals.

  ‘Sixty now. We’ve been expanding whilst you were away. Yes, I’m afraid so. Still, it’s solved the problem of what to do with them.’

  ‘That’s a very expensive way of solving a problem. They were worth a lot of money.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that, I paid for them. But that loss to the family will be more than made up by the dowry that Clemens’ sister will bring; I made the arrangements with him this morning. He’s going to bring her to Cosa for the marriage within a month; I assume that you’re going straight there.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll take a
couple of Magnus’ lads to-’

  Sabinus popped his head around the door. ‘Father, Vespasian, Ataphanes is dying, he’s asking for us.’

  The freedmen’s lodgings were at the far end of the stable yard where, along with the estate office and the estate steward’s quarters, they ran along the whole wall; they had escaped the worse ravages of the fires.

  Titus led his sons through the chaos of three wagons being loaded with the family’s possessions and on into the freedmen’s common mess room, where meals were served and the men drank and played dice in the evenings. At the far end was a long windowless corridor with the doors to the men’s individual rooms down the side facing on to the stable yard. Titus made to enter one and then paused; although as the master of the household he had the right to go anywhere he pleased without asking he thought to honour a man who had served him for six years as his slave and a further ten as his freedman: he knocked.

  The door opened and Chloe peered out. Surprise that the master should have knocked showed on her wrinkled, sunburnt face, which always reminded Vespasian of a walnut shell.

  ‘Masters, come in,’ she wheezed, bowing her head. ‘Master Vespasian, it’s good to see you conscious. How is the shoulder?’

  ‘It’s stiff and it aches but it’ll be fine. Thank you for what you did for me last night, Chloe,’ Vespasian replied, taking her hand in genuine affection. She had sewn up many cuts and dosed him with all sorts of potions a child, and he had come to think of her as a part of the immediate family.

  ‘You were lucky that it hit nothing vital,’ she said, beaming at him. The few teeth that remained to her were yellow or black. ‘I was able to clean and cauterise the wound. Not, alas, like poor Ataphanes; the arrow pierced his liver and he bleeds inside. He doesn’t have long.’

  Vespasian nodded and stepped into the small whitewashed room. To his surprise, Artebudz was standing by the only window; behind him, in the stable yard, the business of loading the wagons continued apace.

  Ataphanes lay on a low bed. His once-proud, sculpted Persian features seemed flaccid and grey. His breathing was laborious. He opened his eyes — they had a yellow tinge to them — and he gave a weak smile.