‘Marmaridae, sir, master, there,’ Ziri said pointing through the palms.
‘How many of them are there?’ Vespasian asked Magnus as they peered through the fading light at the Marmaridae’s camp set by a large pool at the southwestern corner of the oasis.
‘I counted at least a hundred yesterday but there seem to be more now.’
Thirty to forty four-man tents, supported by single, central poles, six feet tall, were clustered in two concentric rings around the pool. Fires were lit and camels were being led down to the water’s edge to drink. It would have been a peaceful sight had it not been for the closely guarded corral, on the southern edge of the camp, in which at least two hundred men, women and children sat, miserably bound to posts hammered into the ground.
Vespasian looked back to Ahmose at the head of the thirty or so men he had brought from his town to escort the miserable lives that were to be the currency in this deal. ‘Well, priest, off you go. We’ll be watching from here.’
‘I won’t be long, this will be straightforward; Amun will watch over me as I’m doing his work.’
‘I do loathe a religious fanatic,’ Magnus commented as the priest led his party towards the Marmaridae’s camp.
Vespasian nodded in agreement. ‘I think that I despise anyone who makes his living by being a professional priest, selling religion to the fearful poor and then enjoying the comfort and the power that their money buys him. We do it much better at home where priesthoods are rewards for service to Rome and not a means to an easy life.’
‘You’ve got a point there, sir; but in general those who have priesthoods conferred upon them are already rich, although I’ve never known that to be a reason for not wanting more.’
Vespasian smiled. ‘Quite the opposite, normally.’
‘Indeed,’ Magnus agreed as they watched the Marmaridae gather around Ahmose and his men.
A brief conversation ensued after which Ahmose was led to a tent larger than the rest.
Vespasian, Magnus and Ziri waited in the twilight. Torches lit around the camp washed it with an orange glow. The temperature started to drop.
Eventually Ahmose reappeared from the tent with a grey-bearded man and gestured for his men to bring forward the goods to be bartered. Grey-beard inspected each one, checking teeth and feeling muscles in arms and legs as if he were looking at chariot horses that he was contemplating buying. Once each man had been checked Grey-beard turned back to Ahmose; it was clear by his demeanour that he was not happy.
‘Looks like we may have to fight our way in somehow to get the lads,’ Magnus observed as hand gestures became more frenetic.
The raised voices of the argument floated over the pool to where they lay hidden.
‘It’s not looking good,’ Vespasian agreed.
Suddenly the Marmaridae drew their swords and surrounded Ahmose’s men, disarming them. Five were then separated from the rest and were dragged struggling to Grey-beard for inspection; seemingly satisfied, he shouted an order and a party of Marmaridae headed off towards the slave corral.
‘Looks like the price just went up,’ Vespasian commented. ‘That’s not going to endear Ahmose to his men.’
Night had now fallen and torches burned all through the camp; in their flickering light Vespasian could see a group of men being led away from the corral. ‘That’s our lads, I can see Corvinus.’
Magnus squinted. ‘I can’t see anyone who could be Capella.’
‘We’ll have to come back for him; at least we now have the men to do that.’
The auxiliaries were brought to Grey-beard and Ahmose who both counted them off; once satisfied they nodded to each other and Ahmose led his men and the auxiliaries away from the camp while their unfortunate replacements were taken off to the corral.
‘Where’s Capella?’ Vespasian asked Ahmose upon his return.
‘They wouldn’t exchange him.’
‘Wouldn’t or was the price too high?’
‘I had to give him an extra five of my own men just to get back the ones I sold him yesterday,’ the priest barked. ‘I can’t afford any more.’
‘An extra five of your own men? You mean to say that none of those men you bartered were slaves?’
‘We don’t have slaves, it’s pointless, the Marmaridae steal them. I had to give them free men from the town. They drew lots and those who lost were willing to go with the blessing of Amun upon their heads.’
Vespasian stared at the priest in disbelief. ‘You sold your own people into slavery?’
‘It was Amun’s will; you heard the priests say so at the Oracle.’
‘But why didn’t you try and buy my men back with the silver that the Marmaridae paid for them?’
Ahmose frowned as if he could not understand the question. ‘That silver is Amun’s.’
‘And Amun would put more value on it than the lives of those men?’
The priest shrugged.
‘Of course he wouldn’t, but you would; living in comfort while all those around you have to toil in the heat; you disgust me, priest. We’ll go back to your town where you’ll lend me all of your fighting men, because I’m not leaving here without Capella and freeing those poor bastards who you sacrificed to your greed.’
‘You can’t do that; the will of Amun must be obeyed.’
‘His will or yours, priest?’
‘Vespasian, you Sabine country bastard, you left me to the slavers,’ Corvinus shouted storming up to him, ‘I’ll not forget that.’
‘I had no choice, you were dead drunk and slowing us down. And I would remind you, prefect, that I came back for you and your men and you are now free because of me, which wouldn’t have happened if we were all imprisoned in that corral together; so don’t forget that part of it either.’
‘And learn to hold your drink,’ Magnus advised him, ‘then perhaps you won’t find yourself taken prisoner so easily.’
Corvinus lashed out with his right fist at Magnus, who ducked under it and delivered a solid punch into his belly.
‘You picked the wrong man to box with,’ Magnus said as Corvinus crumpled to the floor, ‘I used to do it professionally.’
Vespasian came between them. ‘That’s enough! Get to your feet, Corvinus, and next time we rescue you I suggest that you say thank you rather than picking a fight and insulting me.’
The prefect looked up at Vespasian with hatred in his eyes. ‘You’ll regret this one day, quaestor, I promise you that.’
‘We’ll see; in the meantime we’ve got a citizen to rescue who’s about to suffer the same fate that you’ve just been saved from. Now go and see if any of your lads speak the local language.’
Two hours later they arrived back at the town’s agora. It was deserted; a few lamps burned behind shuttered windows.
‘Rouse your people, Ahmose,’ Vespasian ordered, ‘you and I are going to address them.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now! And you will translate for me. And have my men’s swords retrieved from wherever you’ve hidden them.’
The priest issued a command to his men and they fanned out through the town banging on doors and ordering the people to the agora.
Soon the square, now lit by flickering torches, was full of chattering people curious to know what was occurring. Vespasian, followed by Magnus and Ziri, mounted the temple steps with Ahmose and the auxiliary who Corvinus had found who spoke the local Siwi language.
‘You’re to make sure that he translates everything correctly,’ Vespasian told the auxiliary, as Corvinus’ men, now rearmed with their spathae, took up position at the foot of the steps, ‘and when he refuses to, which he will, you will make the translation.’
‘Yes, quaestor.’
‘Ahmose, bring them to order.’
A horn sounded and the noise in the agora died down.
Vespasian stepped forward to address the crowd. ‘Two nights ago the Bennu was reborn to begin its new five-hundred-year cycle,’ he declaimed. He paused as Ahmose trans
lated his words. After a quick glance at the auxiliary to confirm that the translation was true he continued. ‘I was warmed by its fire and felt the wind of its wings and your priest took me to the temple of Amun where the god spoke to me.’
There were looks of awe on the faces of those listening as Ahmose repeated this line.
‘I am blessed by Amun and I and all who travel with me are under His protection. Yet your priest sold my companions, Roman soldiers, to the Marmaridae.’
Ahmose shot Vespasian a nervous glance.
‘Translate, priest,’ he ordered.
After the priest had spoken Vespasian turned to the auxiliary who shook his head. ‘He didn’t translate the second sentence; he just made something up about the glory of Amun.’
‘What a surprise. Do it for him, then.’
As the auxiliary translated the real version a look of surprise turning to panic washed over Ahmose’s face as he realised that he was losing any control that he had over the situation.
‘To buy them back he used thirty-two of your compatriots; free men now forced into slavery by your priest.’
‘I did it for Amun,’ Ahmose shouted at Vespasian.
‘No, you do nothing for Amun, everything you do is for your-self, like so many of your kind. Now, are you going to translate or is he?’
With a howl Ahmose leapt at Vespasian only to find himself pinioned by the firm grips of Magnus and Ziri. Vespasian nodded at the auxiliary as the priest struggled helplessly to escape his captors.
Roars of indignation emanated from the crowd as the auxiliary translated; they began to surge forward only to be held back by Corvinus’ men.
Vespasian held his arms aloft, appealing for calm. ‘This priest of yours, who lives in luxury off the money you give him, has no concern for your wellbeing, only his.’
The crowd shouted their agreement as they heard the translation.
‘He delivered Roman soldiers and your own people to the slavers and in doing so has brought the wrath of Rome and Amun down on you all. To redress his actions I will lead you tonight to the Marmaridae’s camp and we shall destroy them together and free your people.’
A huge cheer greeted these words once they were translated.
‘But first, I, who am favoured by your god, demand vengeance on this priest for his treatment of my men; his life is forfeit.’ Ahmose’s legs buckled; Magnus and Ziri held him upright. ‘I could execute him now or, if you wish it, I will give you your priest, who thinks nothing of selling thirty-two of your number into a life of servitude, to punish as you see fit; you are free of him.’
As the auxiliary finished the translation the crowd’s reaction was clear; Vespasian gestured to Magnus and Ziri. They forced the screaming Ahmose down the steps, through the cordon of auxiliaries, and threw him to the people who kept him in luxury yet whom he valued so little.
With animal ferocity they drew him into their midst, feet, fists and nails lashing at him, their cries of hatred drowning his shrieks as they battered and pummelled him mercilessly. Vespasian and his companions watched with grim satisfaction as the bloodied priest was hurled, wailing, into the air to be caught by many pairs of hands. Gripping his ankles and wrists strong men pulled Ahmose, eyes bulging with fear and agony, in opposing directions; others cut at his body with knives, concentrating on his joints. His shoulders and hips dislocated under the pressure, which grew until, to a savage roar from the crowd, his left arm, its sinews severed by multiple slashes, ripped from his shoulder, followed, a moment later, by his right. Ahmose’s head crashed down onto the ground as the macabre trophies were waved in the air. The men holding his ankles then pulled his legs apart, heaving on them with all their might, rending the ligaments and muscles until the right leg parted at the knee in a welter of blood. Unable to tear any more off him the crowd then took it in turns to batter out of Ahmose what little remaining life was left in him with his own dismembered limbs.
‘I think that’s got their blood up,’ Magnus said, nodding with approval at the manner of the priest’s demise.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Vespasian replied. ‘We’d better get them to the Marmaridae’s camp while they’re still in the mood.’
It was past midnight and the moon had set. Vespasian crept through the gloom of a palm grove guided only by the light of the few torches and fires that still burned within the Marmaridae’s camp. Behind him just over two hundred men from the town waited in the darkness along with Corvinus and his auxiliaries.
Upon reaching the edge of the grove he dropped to his knees behind a palm and peered around its trunk towards the slavers’ camp; all was quiet. Having satisfied himself that, apart from a few sentries dozing by campfires, there was no one abroad, he slipped back through the dark to his waiting men.
‘They’re not expecting any company,’ he whispered, crouching down next to Magnus and Corvinus. ‘I could see about half a dozen guards, most of whom seem to be asleep, none of them were patrolling; everyone else is in their tents.’
‘How can you be sure?’ Corvinus asked, dubious about the wisdom of the attack.
‘Because I couldn’t see them anywhere else; but you’re right, it is an assumption. However, that’s no reason not to do this thing; we outnumber them by a good fifty men.’
‘But most of ours are townspeople with improvised weapons; they’ll be up against trained fighters.’
‘Which makes the need for speed and surprise all the more essential, Corvinus, so let’s stop talking about it and do it; unless you’d prefer that I cancel the whole thing and tell the Governor that I was obliged to let a Roman citizen be carried off into slavery because my cavalry prefect shied away from a fight?’
‘You bastard.’
‘That’s better; now leave me the translator and take your men around to the south of the camp; Magnus and I will take the townspeople and cover this side and the east and west. Deal with the guards around the corral as quietly as possible; once they’re dead secure the corral and signal to me here by waving one of the torches. We’ll then move in on all sides setting fire to the tents and killing as many as we can before they wake up; after that it’ll be a hard fight. If we hear any screams before your signal we’ll charge in immediately.’
Corvinus grunted his assent.
‘And try not to kill the camels,’ Vespasian added.
‘Why not?’
‘Because we’ll need them to get home.’
Corvinus got to his feet, brushed the sand from his knees and moved off to muster his men.
‘What do you think?’ Magnus asked.
‘I think that he’ll do as he’s been ordered; he’s a good officer, he just doesn’t like me.’
‘Let’s hope that won’t cloud his judgement.’
‘Come on; let’s get our rabble army in position.’
After Vespasian had briefed the townspeople, through the translator, with orders to do nothing until they saw him go forward, they had moved into position in silence over the loose sand. Vespasian and Magnus waited, with swords drawn, in the darkness looking out over the Marmaridae’s camp that was now surrounded by a man at every five paces. Ziri lay next to Magnus clutching a spear. Apart from the occasional snort from one of the many hobbled camels scattered among the tents it was quiet. The sentries dozed peacefully by their dying fires.
Vespasian felt the tension of coming conflict rise within him, knotting his insides. He offered a silent prayer to Fortuna that she would preserve him from the desert’s warriors as she had done from the desert’s elements and felt confident that it would be so. However, others would not be so fortunate and, in the dark, in the privacy of his thoughts, he could not but help compare his actions and Ahmose’s. They had both sacrificed men for their own desires; the priest for luxury and he, Vespasian, for lust. It had cost Ahmose his life and it had made Vespasian an enemy in Corvinus, a man whose high birth would ensure that he would one day be able to keep his promise of vengeance. Capella had better pay his dues and Flavia had better be wo
rth the risk and effort.
As time dragged on the tension of the wait started to play on the men’s nerves and Vespasian began to hear the odd rustle of clothing or the clink of a dagger as men changed their positions and fidgeted in the dark.
‘Come on, Corvinus, what’s keeping you?’ he murmured.
‘Perhaps he’s just fucked off along with his men and left us to it,’ Magnus whispered back.
Vespasian was just beginning to fear the worst when a muffled cry floated through the air from the direction of the corral.
‘Shit!’ he hissed, looking around at the sentries. A couple of them stirred and looked about but then, after a few snorts from a camel, wrote the cry off as an animal sound and settled back down to their snoozing.
Vespasian relaxed a fraction, knowing that Corvinus and his men were playing their part.
After a few more tense heartbeats a torch near the corral was raised from its holder and waved in the air.
‘Let’s go,’ Vespasian said quietly, getting to his feet at a crouch.
The townsmen on either side followed his lead, sparking off a ripple effect around the perimeter of the camp as each man felt his neighbour rise in the darkness; soon, more than two hundred crouching men were converging from all angles in grim silence upon the unsuspecting Marmaridae.
Vespasian approached the outer ring of tents on the northern side of the pool; behind them was the first of the sentries’ fires. Indicating to Ziri to retrieve a nearby torch and then for Magnus and the townsmen to stay covering the tents’ entrances, Vespasian edged forward. The sentry was sitting, facing him, cross-legged on the ground with his head on his chest and drawn sword in his lap. Holding his breath, Vespasian gently approached the sleeping man, his spatha at the ready. An instant before he could strike, the sentry, sensing a presence close by, opened his eyes to see a pair of sandalled feet before him in the dim firelight. He jerked his head up, wide-eyed in alarm, to witness Vespasian’s sword slamming towards him; it was the last thing that he ever saw. The tip of the spatha punched through his neck just beneath his bearded chin and crunched on up into the base of his skull; any cry that he attempted was drowned by the explosion of blood in his gorge, swamping the vocal cords and clogging his windpipe. He fell into the fire, face down, dead. Almost instantaneously his oily woollen robe and cloak caught alight, illuminating Vespasian.
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