Rome's Sacred Flame

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘As you wish, dear boy; just remember what I said.’

  ‘Of course, Uncle.’ Vespasian turned his attention back to his brother’s letter for a few moments before passing it across the desk to Gaius. ‘This wedding might happen sooner than you think. I don’t believe we can avoid it for much longer, Uncle; Sabinus writes to say the Senate House is to be inaugurated during the festival of Ceres this month and the Circus Maximus will be reopened the following day for the traditional races on the last day of the festival. We need to contemplate going back to Rome.’

  Gaius glanced at the letter. ‘A pity; I was so enjoying being out of Nero’s gaze. It’s the first long period of time that I have had since the very early days of Claudius’ reign when I haven’t felt the weight of fear heavy upon me all the time.’

  ‘I know. And, what is more, we’ll be going back to an emperor who is, no doubt, in dire need of cash.’

  ‘The provinces have borne the brunt of the financing.’

  ‘And Rome has only just started to rise like the Phoenix from the ashes. Don’t delude yourself, Uncle; it’ll be the turn of our class again next.’

  Gaius threw down the letter in disgust. ‘All I’ve ever asked for in life is to be inconspicuous and to be left alone with my boys and all I ever get is ...’ He cocked an ear. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’

  Gaius held up a hand. ‘Listen.’

  And then Vespasian heard it. ‘That’s a scream; a long way away.’

  ‘That, dear boy, is a man in a great deal of pain.’

  Vespasian rushed from the tablinum through the open doors into the garden to almost crash into Magnus, pelting in the opposite direction. ‘What is it, Magnus?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir; but it seems to be coming from the direction in which we found the mule yesterday.’

  Vespasian ran through the garden and on, out into the farmyard. ‘Philon! Philon!’ He found the steward coming out of the estate office in the freedmen’s accommodation block. ‘Philon, get as many freedmen as you can armed and mounted.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And then get everyone else inside. Call in all the work parties, understood?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And the mistress? Did you find her to deliver my message?’

  ‘I sent a boy out after her.’

  ‘After her?’

  ‘Yes, she had decided to go for a walk.’

  Vespasian could have cursed the stubbornness of his wife. ‘Now? After all this time she chooses to go for a walk?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, I made sure that Drustan and one other went with her.’

  That news calmed Vespasian. ‘Well, get her in as soon as possible whilst we go and investigate who is making such a noise.’

  *

  The sun was swallowed by grey clouds blown in on a strong wind gusting from the east; Vespasian felt the first drops of moisture brush his face and forearms as he, Magnus and eight available freedmen galloped through the gates without waiting for them to fully open.

  The scream had become more of a wail and was now sporadic, as no one, no matter how much agony was being inflicted upon them, would be able to keep up such a noise incessantly.

  Vespasian urged his horse on, eastwards, in the direction of the macabre sound, shouting to anyone within hearing in the fields to retire to the safety of the farm complex. Chained gangs of field slaves shuffled as fast as possible back along tracks, brutally encouraged by the lashes of their overseers in their anxiety to see themselves to safety.

  On Vespasian and his companions raced across rolling grazing-pasture interspersed with fields of vines and olive groves; the droplets in the air thickened into a drizzle and the wind, blowing directly into their faces, flapped their cloaks behind them. Impervious to the worsening weather, herds of mares grazed as their mule offspring, bandy-legged and with oversized heads, edged closer to their mothers to escape the worsening conditions. And still the wail rose and fell, carried on the wind, and the closer they came the more certain Vespasian became as to the cause of such agony; so it was with the grim look of a man who has just had his fears confirmed that, as they crested a small hillock, he beheld the cross, some few hundred paces away.

  On that cross a figure writhed. A quarter of a mile beyond it two horsemen sat and watched their approach.

  ‘Bastards!’ Vespasian spat, kicking his mount forward, despite knowing that there was no chance of catching the two men; sure enough, as he approached the cross the men turned and galloped off to disappear over the next hill. ‘Let them go, we won’t catch them.’ Vespasian hauled up his horse and walked it round the cross.

  The crucified man sagged forward, the weight of his body taken by the nails hammered through each of his wrists, just below the base of the thumb; watered-down blood streamed down his arms and onto his chest, wracking in a futile attempt to draw breath. Lack of oxygen triggered the instinct to breathe and he convulsed up, pressing down on the nail transfixing his feet to the upright and pulling up on his wrists; his face twisted with pain as he sucked in air with shuddering gulps and then exhaled with the wail that by now had become forlorn and almost mournful.

  With prodigious effort he remained in the upright position for another series of jerked breaths; as he emitted the wail he opened his eyes and became aware of Vespasian. ‘Finish me, master; for the sake of all the gods.’

  Vespasian nodded and drew his sword. ‘Who did this?’

  The man grimaced, every muscle in his face seemed to spasm at once. ‘He said to tell you he was The Cripple.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  The man shook his head; diluted blood flecked into Vespasian’s face. With a final burst he managed: ‘He was carried in a chair.’

  Vespasian knew that he could not expect him to go on. ‘You will be given a good burial.’

  The man’s eyes flickered open in time to see a sword flash forward and punch into his heaving chest; rigid, he looked straight at Vespasian as blood bubbled from his mouth. With the faintest of nods the life faded from his eyes and his head lolled forward.

  ‘Who was he?’ Vespasian asked, yanking his blade from the cadaver.

  ‘Manius, master,’ one of the freedmen replied. ‘He was an overseer.’

  ‘And it looks as if his charges are long gone,’ Magnus said, jumping from his mount and picking up a couple of discarded leg-irons.

  ‘They always worked in pairs,’ the freedman pointed out. ‘Where’s Manius’ mate?’

  The question was barely out of the man’s mouth before the answer shrieked in the air.

  Vespasian turned his horse. ‘They must have been waiting for us to get here before they crucified him; we may have a chance to stop them before they raise the cross.’

  And now the chase was on for the nails were being hammered home, each strike producing a howl of rising anguish. Through the now steady rain they beat their mounts in the desperate hope that they could rescue the overseer before the cross was raised and the jolting ripped all the ligaments in the feet and wrists; if that was avoided, there would be a small chance that he would be able to walk and have reasonable use of his hands again, provided that infection did not carry him off.

  Vespasian slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his blade, cursing the outlaw who called himself The Cripple for freeing his slaves and killing his people in retaliation for Vespasian disposing of, as was his prerogative, poachers found on his estate over five years previously. It did not seem right, a massive overreaction on The Cripple’s behalf, and yet it had happened. Now there could be no end to the affair until The Cripple was dead and his men either captured or, likewise, slain.

  They reached the hill over which the two horsemen had disappeared and a new expanse of rain-soaked country was revealed. In the distance, partially obscured by sheets of rain, was a small group of people from whose midst the screaming emanated. With what seemed like reckless casualness they carried on with their grim task as Vespasian
and his comrades thundered towards them. Five hundred paces, four hundred paces, three hundred and fifty, and then, with less than three hundred paces between them, the cross was raised and the victim shrieked to his gods as the nails ripped his joints and the upright thudded down into the ready-dug hole. With no time to stabilise the cross with wedges the outlaws jumped onto their horses and galloped away, leaving the man hanging forward with the upright slanting at an angle.

  ‘See if you can catch them,’ Vespasian shouted to the freedmen, knowing in his heart that it was most unlikely. He pulled up his mount next to the overseer hanging from the nails in catatonic terror, his eyes transfixed by the sight of the nail-head protruding from his feet. Vespasian and Magnus leapt from their horses; stretching up, Vespasian was just able to reach the crossbar as Magnus bent down to take a grip on the upright as close to the ground as he could.

  ‘Ready,’ Magnus shouted.

  Vespasian nodded.

  ‘Three, two, one, now.’ Magnus heaved on the upright, extracting it from the hole as Vespasian took the ever increasing weight on the crossbar. Slowly the cross came out of the ground but each small, jarring movement sent shock waves of agony through the victim’s body and he howled his pain in a manner Vespasian had seldom heard before. As gently as possible they laid the cross down so that he lay on his belly; with the ground supporting his weight the pressure eased and the pain subsided a fraction. Vespasian took his belt and, with care, passed it under the man’s stomach and then fastened it tight around the upright, binding him to it. Now came the difficult part: to turn the cross over so that the overseer lay on his back and the nails could be removed. ‘You turn it, Magnus, and I’ll hold him.’

  Magnus sucked the air through his teeth and took hold of one end of the crossbar as Vespasian held an arm with both hands in an attempt to prevent gravity exerting too much pressure on the wounds. Slowly the cross was lifted; the victim choked back his screams as his body once again was subjected to the agony of the nails. Vespasian held him firm, taking as much of the weight as possible as the crossbar passed the perpendicular and then was eased back down so that finally he lay on his back, his chest heaving erratically. But one look at the wounds told all that was needed to know: the erecting and the lowering of the cross had worked the nails hard and the wrists were now punctured by huge holes three times the size of the originals when first they had been hammered home. The wounds to the feet were no different; the overseer would never walk unaided again and he would be unable to care for himself for the remainder of his life. He looked up at Vespasian and his eyes showed that he too knew; with a glimmer of a smile he accepted his fate: better to die cleanly than live as a useless wreck.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about who did this to you?’ Vespasian asked as he prepared his blade for the killing blow.

  The overseer shook his head. ‘Only that they’re cunts,’ he croaked. ‘Kill them.’

  ‘We will.’ With a punch, Vespasian sent the tip of his sword up, under the ribcage to explode the heart; a soft breath escaped from the already dead man.

  ‘Here come the others, sir,’ Magnus said. ‘And it looks as if they brought someone for a nice cosy chat.’

  ‘Just answer the senator’s question or that could be you very soon,’ Magnus said, pointing down to the dead overseer still nailed to the cross. ‘Except not quite so dead, if you take my meaning?’

  The captured outlaw glanced down at the man he had so recently crucified; his expression showed that he took Magnus’ meaning only too well.

  Magnus pressed his advantage. ‘The only question is: will you make more noise than he did bearing in mind that you had to hurry whilst nailing him up because we were fast approaching, whereas we won’t be under such pressure and will be able to do it nice and leisurely like? No rush, we’ll take our time and try not to break into a sweat.’

  The outlaw looked around the group surrounding him, his eyes flicking back and forth to try to detect any sympathy in one of the ten men; he found none. ‘And if I co-operate?’

  ‘Then,’ Vespasian said, ‘you can be as dead as he is without having to be nailed to the cross.’

  ‘A quick death?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  One more glance at the hideous wounds to the overseer’s wrists was enough for the outlaw to come to a decision; he sank to his knees in preparation for the killing blow. ‘If you go two miles due east, across two valleys,’ he said, pointing to the scrag-strewn hills on the far side of the gully, ‘you’ll come to a stream. Turn south along it and after a mile or so it passes through a small coppice of pine trees. The camp is in there.’

  ‘How many men does he have?’

  ‘It’s always changing but at the moment there are about twenty to twenty-two.’

  ‘Good; you can lead us there tomorrow.’

  The outlaw looked up in surprise. ‘Tomorrow! But I thought you gave your word.’

  ‘For a quick death, yes, but I didn’t specify when. How do I know that you’re telling the truth? If what you said is correct then you can expect a swift death when we find this Cripple.’ Vespasian frowned in confusion as the outlaw looked terrified at the prospect of having an extra day of life.

  ‘But you gave your word!’

  ‘Why are you so anxious to die?’

  The man’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the west.

  Vespasian felt a sense of foreboding creep over him. ‘What do you know?’ He grabbed the outlaw by the hair and yanked him to his feet. ‘What is it that you would rather die now? What?’ He kneed the man in the groin and let him go to double over on the ground, hyperventilating. ‘What have you done?’

  The outlaw clutched his groin, his face screwed up in stomach-piercing agony.

  ‘He should count them not rub them,’ Magnus observed as they waited for the outlaw to be able to reply.

  ‘Now tell me what you’ve done,’ Vespasian repeated as the man’s breathing grew less laboured, ‘or you’ll have nothing to count.’

  The outlaw looked up at Vespasian, saliva trickling from the corner of his mouth. ‘We were a diversion.’

  Vespasian’s foreboding turned into a bitter chill. ‘For what?’

  ‘For The Cripple’s revenge.’

  ‘Revenge? Revenge for killing a few poachers five years ago?’

  ‘Poachers? Not poachers. Revenge upon you.’

  ‘Me? What have I done to him?’

  ‘You made him the way he is. We were supposed to lure you away, which we did, so I can only assume that when you get back he would have had his revenge.’

  Vespasian looked at Magnus and indicated to the outlaw. ‘Bring him with you; I’m going back fast.’

  Through the driving rain, Vespasian rode with six of the freedmen, flogging their mounts so that their rumps bled, so anxious was he to get home; and yet a part of him did not want to make haste as it feared what he might find. What had The Cripple done and what had he, Vespasian, done to deserve it? How had he made The Cripple as he is? Was he some legionary he had punished? An enemy warrior that he had severely wounded? A criminal whom he had sent for justice?’ It could be any one of those or something else that he had overlooked or forgotten. All he knew was that he had felt unease in the back of his mind ever since they had found the crucified mule. He had warned Flavia against going outside by herself because of that unease, not because ... Flavia! Flavia had gone out that morning just to prove how stubborn she could be. Vespasian swallowed and beat his horse some more but failed to get any extra speed out of it; it was already at the limit of its endurance and he cursed himself for the fit of pique that had caused him to make the beast suffer even further. But his remorse was short-lived as the image of Flavia in the hands of The Cripple or one of his minions burned in his head; he sent up a prayer to Mars that the boy Philon had sent after Flavia and Domitian that morning had found them and they had returned swiftly.

  Realising that his son had been with his wife and he had not felt any conc
ern for his safety came as a jolt to Vespasian; surely he should have more concern for his son’s wellbeing? Perhaps he was still finding it hard to forgive the boy for his betrayal of the whereabouts of the pearls, something he had still not yet confronted Domitian with. He was coming to the conclusion that it would probably be best if his son were unaware that his parents knew of his treachery on the basis that if he were to do something similar again he would be a lot more secretive if he knew that he was under suspicion, whereas if he felt safe he might be less careful. The boy would need careful watching; if he was still alive, that was.

  Fear gnawed at Vespasian’s vitals as his horse hurtled through the rain; fear alternating with guilt: why had he not seen that what had happened this morning was but a diversion? The mule’s head had made him suspect that they were going to be attacked but then, when he had heard the first crucified overseer’s cries, he had been drawn out to investigate with all the available freedmen, leaving the farm complex defended by old men and women and children. What had he been thinking? He had been outmanoeuvred very simply and then he had compounded it when he had chased after the sound of the howls of the second overseer; the outlaws had obviously waited to crucify him until Vespasian and his companions had found the first man and given him the mercy stroke. Chasing after the second man had gained The Cripple at least another half an hour for whatever he had planned. An hour and a half in all, Vespasian reckoned he would have been away by the time he got home. An hour and a half; much destruction and death could be meted out in an hour and a half.

  Fear and guilt played with him as the soaked miles went past and he was in such a deep introspection that, with over a mile still to go to the house, he hardly recognised the cross, at first, for what it was: the third he had seen that day.

  The third.

  And as he focused on it he felt his stomach heave and vomit spewed up his gullet and then sprayed over the horse’s mane. He tried to avert his eyes but he could not; for the cross was occupied and although he was approaching it from behind it was obvious who was on it for they wore a stola and, also, standing before the cross was an upright rack to which had been strapped a youth. Unharmed in any other way, he had been tied to the rack and his mouth gagged so that he could make no sound. But his eyes showed the horror as Domitian stared up at the crucified body of his mother, Flavia.