Rise and Fall

by Michael Whitehead

  “Back away from the emperor, on your knees!” a centurion shouted at the two men. Otho stepped back, feeling the effects of the wine, swaying slightly. Without taking his eyes off the centurion he lowered himself to his knees. He watched in fascination as more men entered the room, carrying an injured man, trailing blood behind them. The man they carried was pale and sick looking. A bite victim if Otho was any judge. It took him several seconds to realise that the man they had brought to the chambers was Titus. If Otho was right and Titus had been bitten there was little they could do, besides finish him, bringing the Flavian line to an end.

  Titus was laid onto a large couch in the middle of the room and the men backed away after orders from their centurions. Most left the room and moved into the halls and anti-chambers standing guard over their emperor. The men in front of Otho and Ursus did not take their eyes off their captives. It was an impressive act of discipline, when one considered that one of the most powerful men in the world was dying right behind them. If he had been in their position, Otho was sure he would have been sneaking a look.

  Three medicus moved around Titus, removing his footwear and uncovering the wound. Otho could see a large set of deep teeth marks and a round piece of flesh had been torn from his leg. The man himself was in obvious pain but calm enough, considering what was happening to him. After a short while the wound was dressed and the medicus moved away from their emperor. Otho watched him bring his attention to the two men who were now his prisoner.

  “Bring those two traitors in front of me,” Titus said to the centurion closest to him. Otho allowed himself to be lifted from the couch and dragged before Titus. Ursus was less reluctant to be manhandled. He struggled against the men who pulled him across the floor. He freed one hand and managed to give one of the centurions a punch across the jaw before he himself was knocked to the floor and kicked into submission.

  “Enough,” said Titus, wincing as if the wound in his leg was hurting him. “Bring him over here,” he said again.

  This time Ursus was more compliant. As he was dragged to stand next to Otho they turned and gave each other a weak smile, Otho’s was based less in bravado and more in the knowledge that no matter what Titus did to him, the man would be dead within hours.

  “I want them kneeling before me,” Titus said this not to Otho but to the men who now stood behind him. The backs of his knees were kicked and his shoulders were dragged backward so that his knees hit the marble floor with no small amount of force. He ended up with his face level to that of Titus as he lay back on his couch.

  “This is not how I expected this meeting to go,” Titus said from his recumbent position. He was looking very pale and sickly, either from the bite or the loss of blood. Otho thought he was doing very well to be so lucid.

  “Nor I,” Otho replied and earned himself a jab to the back of his neck with the hilt of a sword. Pain jolted down his back and stars flew in his head. He reached back and rubbed the spot with one hand.

  “I came here to take back my father’s city. I came to extract the revenge I have yearned for since my father’s death. Now, it seems I must forfeit one and reconsider the other.” Titus looked thoughtful as he said these last words, as if he hadn’t known he would say them.

  Otho looked up from rubbing his neck and stared at Titus. It had seemed for a minute that Titus was unsure whether to have Otho killed or not. He looked at the man’s face and tried to read what was happening behind his eyes, pain and fear seemed be the only thing on view, however.

  “I want so much to see you dragged out into those streets and have you torn to pieces by the first Risen that find you. I would love to hear you scream in misery as they tear into your flesh.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “You killed my father and for that I will take something from you. I haven’t decided what that will be, yet, but it won’t be your life.”

  Otho was becoming more and more interested. He had been resigned to dying but now it seemed that Titus had another plan, he dared not hope too much, this could all be a scheme to make him dream and then snatch those dreams away.

  “The Empire needs a strong leader. Somebody who knows how to lead in a time of war.” Titus was starting to suck in his breaths in a panting gasp. “I was to be that man, until this.” He pointed down at his bound leg, black fluid was starting to blossom on the surface of the dressing. “Now it seems it must be you. I wish I could name another man who is still alive that I could trust to do the job, but the only man I would have been happy with died today. Before he went he taught me a lesson I had forgotten and I pass that lesson on to you now, Otho.

  “We have both forgotten that it is Rome and not the man who sits on the throne that is the most important thing. We have, by our actions, destroyed the very thing that my father and every great man that came before him spent their lives building. One of us will have to atone for that destruction. It will have to be you.”

  Otho nodded to the man who had been his enemy. He felt no shame, there would be no atonement. He had wanted to ask Titus if he would have acted differently, had the roles been reversed. Now he realised there was no need to ask. This wasn’t mercy he was being granted, this wasn’t Titus acting out of benevolence. This was the guilt of a dying man. Had he not sustained the bite that now damned him, Titus would not have hesitated to have Otho put to death. Otho wasn’t going to say this to the man. He knew how precarious his position was.

  “What would you have me do?” Otho asked from his knees.

  “Spain.” Titus replied with a wince. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his hand was shaking, although Otho was sure he hadn’t noticed. It was fascinating to watch the transformation that would kill Titus, happen before his eyes.

  “The Spanish legions?” Otho asked.

  “Find the Spanish Legions and take back Rome. Germania is dead, the legions there are lost. Spain is our only hope.”

  “They were sent for by your father, they could already be close,” Otho admitted. He did not add, “before I killed him.” He also knew that the message may have been lost, the legions destroyed or just not coming at all. He had been as cut off in the city as he would have been in any siege. Information had made its way in and out of the city but news of the Spanish Legions had not arrived.

  “Are your men not capable of taking the city then?” Otho asked but he already knew the answer.

  “Not without a leader they can trust.” It did not need to be said that they would not trust Otho. He had been their enemy, they might agree to fight for him but in the end they would never trust him. If he asked too much of them, or demanded a sacrifice, they would turn on him. Better that he retreat, reinforce and return stronger.

  Titus screwed his eyes and turned his face to the ceiling. “Ah! To be surrounded with such weak men that I must turn to my enemy for salvation!” he almost shouted.

  Otho nodded. He locked eyes with his enemy and waited for what would come next. He knew there would be a price to pay. Men like Titus, men like himself, did not let people take from them without a measure of revenge.

  Titus asked for water, he seemed to take the time it took to drink to compose himself. He was shaking all over with a fever now, he had time before the bite would be fatal but his life was measured in minutes now, not hours.

  Titus swallowed the last of his drink and asked Otho, “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Does it matter? Whatever I do, it won’t change what will happen to you,” Otho replied. He wasn’t goading, it was the kind of honesty that only enemies are capable of.

  “True, but I would like a demonstration of faith, a small proof that you will do as I have asked,” Titus said.

  “What would you like to see, what could I do that will convince you to leave me alive to take the empire?” Otho shrugged, from his position on his knees he could see how close to death Titus had come, it would be a disaster if the talking took so long that he died before giving orders to his men, to declare Otho emperor.

  “Stand up
and take out my father's sword,” Titus said and pointed to the blade that hung from Otho’s belt. The hand with which he pointed shook uncontrollably.

  Otho raised himself to his feet and drew the sword. He looked around the room at the legionaries, they glared back at him hungrily, one move toward Titus would earn him a dozen swords in his flesh. He looked back at Titus and waited for the order he knew was coming.

  Titus didn’t give the order he merely gestured toward Ursus who knelt on the floor, blood drying on his face from the beating he had taken. Ursus looked up and the faintest smile reached his lips, he nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “What will that prove?” Otho asked Titus.

  “That you are willing to do whatever it takes to save Rome. That you want the throne so badly that you will do this.” Titus had a sardonic smile on his lips and it cut Otho deeply. He was not a man who would allow himself to be made sport of. Even with everything he wanted being offered to him, he would bend his knee but would not bow.

  He dropped the sword to the floor and turned to Titus. “Kill us both if you want but the empire needs us. Ursus is every bit the general that I am. I will not destroy such a man to prove anything to you.” He reached out a hand and pulled Ursus to his feet. The two men stood, battered and bloody by each other's hand, and waited to hear their fate.

  Titus took an age to gather himself. Otho could not guess what was happening inside his head. If the reaction of his body was anything to judge by, Titus must be trying to think through a burning fog. The men around the room looked eager to be given the order to kill the two men who stood before their emperor.

  “Legionaries,” Titus said. “Bow to your new emperor.” He didn’t look around the room but sat silently. One by one the soldiers lowered themselves to one knee and lowered their heads. Otho looked down at Titus and nodded once.

  “What now?” Otho asked.

  “Now I have one more order for my men and a request for you,” Titus said. Otho nodded once more and waited for Titus to say his final words. “Otho is emperor of Rome, take your emperor to safety and help him find his new legions. Do not allow any harm to befall him. Serve him as you have served me. Now rise and say his name.”

  The men around the room stood and chanted, “Hail Caesar. Hail Otho.” The deed was done.

  “What would you have from me?” Otho asked.

  “Take my father's sword and end my life,” Titus said. “I have no desire to become one of the Risen and I will not ask one of my men to do it.”

  Otho nodded and bent to pick up the sword from where it lay at his feet. He could never have imagined this day ending like this. He shook his head in wonder and turned to Titus.

  “Where?” he asked.

  Titus said nothing but turned his head to one side, exposing the area at the base of his neck. Titus stepped forward and placed the tip of the blade against the skin, ready to drive it down and into the man’s chest. The men in the room turned away, wanting to give Titus dignity in his final moment. It occurred to Otho to apologise for everything that had transpired. It was a brief thought and passed as soon as it entered his head. He owed this man no apology.

  He plunged the blade down into Titus’ chest, the sword disappeared up to the hilt. Gouts of blood welled up from the wound and soaked the front of Titus’ armour in seconds. He shook and threw himself back on the couch violently, but soon he was still and dead. Otho removed the sword and placed it against the back of the corpses head, one drive was enough to end the Flavian line forever.

  Otho looked at the men who slowly turned to meet his gaze. He knew this moment held as much jeopardy as the entire meeting with Titus. If these men decided to ignore Titus’ final order he would be torn apart where he stood. He looked at the nearest centurion.

  “Centurion, lead the men and get us out of the city.” He gave the order in a clear voice that would not be denied. The centurion hesitated for a second before saluting and turning to order his men into formation. Beside him, Ursus let out a breath that Otho had also been holding.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  The crowd outside the gate of the barracks was getting bigger, people seemed to be joining the back in hope that somebody had found an answer to their desperation. They were trapped in the city and any hope that there was salvation to be found was being seized with both hands. All around the city, people were dying through lack of preparation. Vitus watched a woman dragged from the crowd and thrown to the floor by a man. He filled the space she had been standing in and pulled his family behind them.

  Nobody seemed to know why they were trying to break in to the barracks, they were all just following what the man in front was doing. Had they known that their behaviour was a mirror of the way the Risen had acted, would it have changed anything?

  “There is no way we are going to get into the yard by crossing the road,” Vitus said this to Regulus and the boy nodded.

  “How much rope to we have?” asked Regulus.

  “I told everyone to put a length in their packs,” Vitus answered. “Did you?”

  “We both did. How far do you think it is to the barrack's roof?” Regulus asked, his wit always outshining his tender age.

  “Let’s find out how much we have and then we can see if this is worth talking about,” Vitus replied. “Lucia, call everyone up here and we can see what we have.” The young woman ran back down the stairs and quickly came back with everybody except the doctor and Gallus, who remained on watch.

  After a short while they had eight thirty-foot lengths of rope laid out on the roof. More than enough to bridge the gap to the barracks. Vitus set about linking the lengths together using knots he had learned on the farm as a boy.

  “Garic,” he said while he was working, “we need a way of contacting your friend, he will still be there, won’t he?” The centurion looked at the butcher with a mixture of pleading and ultimatum.

  “Gods, I hope so,” was all Garic could say in return. He turned to Regulus, the sky was almost completely black now and the light in the city was all fire.

  “Any ideas how we get Hakor’s attention?” he asked.

  “Cut me a bit of rope off one end,” Regulus said and started to rummage in his pack. While Garic worked with his blade, removing a foot of rope, Regulus pulled out a package wrapped in oiled cloth.

  “Start fraying the end of that, loosen it for about a hand's width,” Regulus instructed Garic. The butcher could see what the plan was now. He was constantly impressed by the young soldier and wondered at the military life, that it produced such men.

  Down below on the street the crowd was becoming a riot, Vitus wasn’t sure how long the gate could hold. It was well built, designed to withstand attack but the numbers below were huge and the gate was undefended. The darkness on the roof was broken by the spark of a flint and the glow of the burning rope as Regulus’ homemade torch took light.

  Regulus passed the burning rope to Vitus who began to wave it above his head, causing a shower of sparks to flourish in the night air. After a few seconds he stopped and every eye was on the barrack block inside the yard. Nothing happened and Vitus tried a second time. Again there was no response.

  “Wait,” Regulus said as Vitus looked set to try a third time. “Garic, over here,” he called to the butcher.

  Regulus took the burning rope and held it in front of Garic’s face so that the butcher could be seen from the building over the road. There was an almost immediate response, a light shone in a window, once, twice and then a third time. The group on the roof let out a low cheer and began to hug each other in relief.

  Vitus passed Garic the coil of rope and the butcher held it up so that Hakor could see it and guess their plan. At the same time that he did this, the sound of the crowd below changed dramatically. The shouts and jeers became screams.

  Vitus snatched the burning rope from Regulus and threw it to the floor, so that it couldn’t be seen from the street. In the light of the fire that lit the city, they could see the crowd
was being set upon by a large number of Risen. All the noise the crowd had been making had attracted the inevitable attention of the undead. The group peered over the edge, trying not to be seen, Vitus pulled back, too late to see a child dragged from his mother's arms and torn limb from limb. His mother was screaming as she was clawed to the floor and her insides were opened in turn.

  “We need to move quickly,” Garic said to those around him. “If they find us up here we are as good as dead.”

  “I can’t climb over those things,” Atia, Garic's wife, said to him as she clung to his arm. On her hip, their infant son slept despite the turmoil and screams from below.

  “You will have to, Atia,” Garic said to her. He took her by the upper arms and made her look at him. “Tulius will die if you don’t. Do you want those things to get him?”

  Vitus winced at Garic’s manner with his wife, but the butcher seemed to know the best way to deal with her. He watched her face and her resolve seemed to harden.

  The massacre in the street continued, people were being slaughtered with no sign of let up. Vitus saw the most welcome of sights in the yard beyond. A large man was climbing out onto the roof of the barracks. He must have come out of a door or window that was not visible from the front. He waved his arms until Vitus acknowledged he had seen him, then he climbed back down. Obviously he had no intention of being seen by the people or Risen on the street. Vitus was sure the whole attention of both was on the fight that was taking place between them.

  “Coil the rope up for me,” he said to Tatius. The legionary began winding the cord around his arm, from thumb to elbow. Before long he had a heavy loop of rope, perfect for throwing. He passed the whole thing to Vitus.

  “Take the loose end,” Vitus said to Tatius. “Whatever you do, don’t let it go,” he said with a sardonic grin.

  Vitus took the rope and hefted it in his right hand. His arm was strong from hours of bow practice but this throw had the lives of all of them depending on it. He took two steps backward and then stepped forward and launched the coil out over the street. It was a side-arm throw and the coil twisted out over the street like a discus. Everybody on the roof seemed to hold their breath, except the infant in Atia’s arms who snored quietly to himself.