CHAPTER XIIII
‘FLAVIA!’ VESPASIAN SHOUTED as he leapt from his horse. ‘Flavia!’ He ran around the cross and looked up; with one glance he fell to his knees, heaving dry, strangled sobs.
Flavia stared down at him; her eyes frenzied with pain. She too had been gagged so that her shrieks of agony would not draw people to her in time for her to be saved. Nailed she was; nailed to the cross, the wounds deep and washed by rain so that white bone was visible within. Blood stained her stola and her head had been shaved. She writhed up in an attempt to draw breath through mucus-laden nostrils, her throat gurgling with fluid before she coughed and choked through the gag, her chest juddering and her pain made even more unendurable.
‘Get her down!’ Vespasian shrieked at the freedmen who stared at the mistress of the estate in evident revulsion. They jumped to his command as Vespasian rushed to Domitian and eased the gag over his head. The boy spat the wadding from his mouth; to Vespasian’s disgust he saw that it was a ball of Flavia’s hair. As it flew towards him the scream that followed was like nothing that he had ever thought possible for a human; the shrillest of harpies could not have produced a more fearsome sound. It continued as Vespasian loosened the knots that bound Domitian, who could not tear his eyes from his mother as the freedmen lowered her cross. Vespasian gathered his son in his arms and attempted to give him some paternal comfort as tears streamed down his own face. Tight he held him, muttering platitudes in his ear although he knew full well that it was not going to be all right. Finally Domitian began to calm and Vespasian held his face in both hands. His son gazed back at him, eyes still wide with fear. ‘I thought they would do that to me too, Father. I thought they would crucify me too. Me!’
For a moment Vespasian struggled to comprehend the true significance of what Domitian was saying as he screeched on about his near scrape with a hideous death. And then he understood and it was with his full strength that he slapped his son across the face. ‘What about your mother?’ His voice was low and threatened further violence; he pointed to Flavia, writhing with every jolt of the cross as it was lowered. ‘What about her? Not you; you’re fine. What about your mother? She’s the one that’s suffering.’ He backhanded another sharp slap across Domitian’s face, unable to control himself as the boy looked at him with puzzled eyes.
Another slap.
Domitian yelped and jumped up. ‘You’ll pay for that, Father. No one hits me.’
Vespasian lunged at his son, attempting a full-blooded punch, but Domitian was too agile; he slipped under the blow and, without a glance at his crucified mother, ran off in the direction of the house. Vespasian spat after him and then turned back to where his wife was now being laid down.
Kneeling next to Flavia, Vespasian slipped his hands around her head and undid the knot that bound her gag. With care he removed it as each minute movement was amplified a hundred-fold by the nails skewering her joints. Flavia’s eyes never left his as he peeled away the gag and then pulled the wad of her own hair from her mouth.
‘I’m so sorry, husband,’ Flavia whispered, her voice halting and strained. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Vespasian took the water-skin offered by one of the freedmen and poured a few drops into her mouth. ‘It’s my fault, Flavia; I shouldn’t have left the complex.’
‘Nor should I. I did it to annoy you.’
‘It’s no matter.’ Vespasian touched the head of one of the nails transfixing her right wrist. ‘We’ll pull these clear, Flavia.’
‘No, Vespasian; I’m finished.’ She took a ragged breath. ‘I don’t want to suffer any more and I’ve no wish to live like him.’
‘Who?’
‘The Cripple, of course; he showed me his wounds as I lay on this cross, gagged and screaming on the inside as they approached with the mallet and nails. He showed me what you had done and how he could never walk or use his hands properly again.’
‘What I had done?’
‘Yes, Vespasian. You and Sabinus.’
‘When and where?’
‘Here on the estate, forty years ago.’
‘Forty years ag—’ And then the realisation hit him; forty years. ‘That runaway slave boy! The one we crucified the day after Sabinus returned from his time as a military tribune. We crucified him over by the gully on the far eastern border of the estate.’
‘I know, he told me everything before he ordered the nails to be struck home. How he had been nailed up without mercy and left to die.’
‘But I pleaded with Sabinus for his life.’
Flavia shook her head and grimaced in agony. ‘I don’t think he remembers that. He remembers only the nails being hammered home and the jolting as the cross was raised upright and then he remembers his father cutting him down and keeping him alive so that one day he could have his vengeance. Finish me, Vespasian; I cannot live any longer.’
Vespasian touched his wife’s cheek; tears trickled down his. ‘If that is your wish, Flavia.’
‘Give my love to our children; especially to Domitian because I think of all three he’s the one who’s going to need it most. I heard you just now.’
Vespasian stopped himself from saying anything derogatory about his youngest son.
‘The Cripple said that he didn’t crucify Domitian because he’s about the same age as he had been when he suffered that fate. He wanted to show you that he was better than you. He also said that he thought he could do a good deal of harm to him by just tying him up so that he had to watch me struggle on the cross.’
Vespasian doubted it but did not say as much. All he could do was stroke his wife’s cheek. ‘I could have been a better husband to you, Flavia.’
‘No, you couldn’t; I had all that I wanted and you provided the money for me to do so. Caenis will fill the gap that I leave; give her my blessing and tell her to act like a mother to our children. Now do it, husband; there’s no more to say.’
Vespasian bent and kissed Flavia on the lips; she responded and closed her eyes. He understood that she did not wish to see his face as he dealt the final stroke. He pulled his sword free and for the third time that day poised it by the heart, holding the back of her head with the other hand. ‘I’ll avenge you, Flavia, and I’ll mourn you, wife.’
‘Do so, Vespasian.’
Likewise closing his eyes, he tensed and then sent his wife to the Ferryman; she made no sound to mark her passing, or if she did it was masked by Vespasian’s raw howl of misery and rage as he exploded the heart of the woman who had borne his children. When it was done he collapsed forward onto Flavia’s corpse and lay there shaking with grief for he knew not how long.
‘We’d better get her home, sir,’ Magnus said, putting his hand on Vespasian’s shoulder. ‘And you need to get out of the rain.’
Vespasian opened his eyes and found himself lying on Flavia’s unmoving breast. He lifted his head and realised that he was very cold and wet; he had forgotten about the rain from the moment that he had realised that it was Flavia on the cross. He raised himself up and saw that in his anguish he had left his sword embedded in his wife’s chest.
‘I’ll do that, sir,’ Magnus offered, grasping the handle.
‘No, Magnus; thank you.’ He moved Magnus’ hand away and gripped his sword. ‘It’s my job.’ He gritted his teeth and then twisted his wrist so that the suction lessened and he could ease the blade loose. Flavia’s blood coated it; he wiped it clean on the grass. Still in a daze he got to his feet, with Magnus’ help, and looked around. ‘Take her body off that and bear her home.’ The freedmen were afraid to meet his eye having witnessed his grief over the death of his wife. His gaze alighted on the captured outlaw; he pointed his sword at the man. ‘And then nail him up in her place.’
The outlaw fell to his knees. ‘But you promised; you promised me a quick death.’
‘You knew that this is what The Cripple was going to do when you acted as a diversion for him, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t; I swear I didn’t know what he was
going to do. I swear it!’
Magnus pushed down Vespasian’s sword arm. ‘We need him alive, sir. More than ever now seeing as only he can lead us to The Cripple; and I assume that is what you want above anything else at the moment.’
Vespasian nodded; his eyes were dull. He sheathed his sword. ‘You’re right, Magnus; finding that bastard and finishing him is the most important thing right now.’ He looked back to the prisoner. ‘My word still stands: you will get the quick death I promised if you lead us to The Cripple.’
The morn dawned bright; the rain clouds of the previous day had dispersed in the night and the fresh smell of drying land filled the air as the sun gained in warmth, cresting the tips of the Apennine Mountains.
Vespasian stood with Gaius next to Flavia’s corpse, lying in state in the atrium with her feet pointing towards the front door. He took her hand and looked down at her; her face was calm, now, in death. The women had washed her and bound her wounds and then dressed her in her finest clothes. A wig had been arranged on her head and make-up applied so that she looked to have colour in her cheeks and lips and seemed to be but sleeping. There was much he felt he should have said to her but now that chance was gone. He regretted the way he had treated her: she had always come second to Caenis but she had accepted that from the outset; he had been honest with her about his mistress but that still did not stop him from wishing he had been more loving towards his wife. Once the initial desire for her had worn off with the arrival of the third of their children he had concentrated his passions on Caenis and had rarely ventured into Flavia’s bedroom. He apologised to her shade and felt as if he was being told that there was no need to do so.
It was with a wan smile that he squeezed her cold hand and let go as Philon came into the atrium. ‘Are the men ready, Philon?’
‘They are, master; every able-bodied freedman on the estate and four trusted slaves. Seventeen in total, including Magnus and me; all of us have provisions for three days.’
‘Good; we shall need each and every one.’ With a final glance down to Flavia he strode from the atrium, heading towards the stable yard, leaving Gaius to watch over Flavia.
‘It’s a nice day for it,’ Magnus said in an attempt to be cheerful, sitting astride his horse, with Castor and Pollux waiting by his side, as the rest of the freedmen and the four slaves mounted up behind him; the prisoner was secured between two of the riders.
‘It’ll be even nicer when that bastard’s dead,’ Vespasian replied, taking his mount’s reins from a stable-lad. ‘Or, better still, when he’s nailed up for the second time.’
‘He should be getting the hang of it by now, if you take my meaning?’
Vespasian could not help a smile as he vaulted up into the saddle. ‘I do indeed, Magnus; and believe me, once he’s up I intend to keep him hanging around for a good long time.’ With that he kicked his horse forward and trotted out of the gates with revenge in his heart and seventeen men, and the prisoner who would lead them to The Cripple, at his back.
Vespasian watched as two of the slaves made their way up the rocky slope on the further side of the gully. The slaves, both Getic and therefore natural horsemen, had been promised their freedom whatever the outcome of the expedition and so could be trusted not to make a run for it or to side with the enemy against their master.
With the natural ease of men born to the saddle, the two Getae rode their horses up the steep incline with about four hundred paces dividing them; each held a bow in his right hand, with an arrow nocked ready should they spring an ambush. But none came and as they reached the summit and were able to look over into the next valley; they both raised their weapons in the air to signal that all was clear and the main body could follow them up the hill.
And so they passed out of Flavian territory and into the wild upper Apennines, peopled by runaway slaves and outlaws of all kinds. Up they climbed, their horses struggling on the loose scree as none of the riders had the natural touch of the two Getae.
As he rode, Vespasian’s mind filled with images of his dead wife in happy times and those less so: the first time he had met her when in Cyrenaica she had come to solicit his help as the quaestor in the province in rescuing her then man, Statilius Capella; she had caused a stirring in his loins at first sight. However, she was no longer in the province by the time Vespasian had returned from his mission, which had left Capella dead, killed by a lion. They had met again by chance, four years later in Alexandria, where he had been sent by Caligula to obtain the breastplate of Alexander the Great from his mausoleum so that the brash young Emperor could wear it as he crossed the pontoon bridge that he had had constructed across the Bay of Neapolis. She had been the sometime mistress of the then prefect of Egypt, Flaccus; that arrangement had been discarded the very same evening when Flavia had joined him in his bed. He had married her soon after returning to Rome with the stolen breastplate; she had been in the full knowledge that Caenis could never supplant her position as wife because of the Augustan law that prohibited senators from marrying freedwomen. It was not until they had been married that Vespasian had discovered the extravagant nature of Flavia’s financial outlook, which had been in direct divergence from his own attitude to money. This had been the main source of conflict between them and his regular annoyance at her profligate ways had slowly quelled the stirring in his loins each time he looked at her. But, for all that, she had given him three children and had remained a loyal, if not entirely faithful, wife. But those bad memories of her he tried to cast right to the back of his mind and he focused on the happier times: the births of their children; their young desire in the early days of their relationship; and, of course, their real friendship – when they were not arguing about money, that was.
Thus Vespasian crested the hill and followed in the path of the two scouts across the valley floor and then up the other side, rising even higher as the foothills of the Apennines neared the main body of the mountain range. Again the scouts indicated that the further side was free from danger and again they led the group down into the valley at whose base, just as the prisoner had said, ran a swift-flowing stream.
‘Let him go forward, Philon,’ Vespasian said, referring to the prisoner. ‘If he tries to make a run for it bring down his horse; we wouldn’t want him thinking that he can avoid taking us to his master and escape a lingering death at the same time. Would we?’
Philon grinned and turned to the prisoner. ‘We would not, master. You heard that, you piece of shit?’
The prisoner nodded and was led away without protest.
‘What do you plan to do once he’s led us to their camp?’ Magnus asked.
Vespasian looked up at the sun that was now well into its eighth hour. ‘Wait until nightfall and then take them as they sleep; that should lessen the odds against us.’
The sun had long since slipped behind the western slope, casting the valley into shadow, which deepened gently as Vespasian looked down at the copse, straddling the stream, in which the prisoner had assured him The Cripple had his camp on this, the eastern bank.
They had approached on foot having left their horses tethered further back up the valley with one of the freedmen attending to them as well as to the prisoner, who had also been well secured and gagged. With no fear of an equine cry to alert the prey of their approach they had worked their way up the slope overlooking the copse and now lay hidden amongst the rocks, waiting for night. It was hard to tell in the failing light but it seemed that the camp was still inhabited, in that there was a very faint smell of wood smoke in the air; however, there had been no sign of it wafting up through the trees so it could have been the result of fires left to burn low. Vespasian could see no movement around the copse nor came there any sound of voices from within it.
‘Do you really think that they would have left so quickly?’ Magnus asked, keeping his voice low as he squinted with his one good eye down the hill; he stroked the flanks of his dogs, calming them into silence.
‘I was afraid that th
ey might; after all, they would have expected me to come after them for revenge. I’m hoping our prisoner will have some idea where The Cripple might have headed if he proves not to be here.’
Magnus gave up trying to see something helpful and sat down with his back to the boulder. ‘So we go in anyway?’
‘If there’s someone there then hopefully we’ll catch them napping. If it’s deserted then we’ll just have to encourage our friend to suggest some other hiding places.’
‘I imagine that if someone who seems to have as much power as this Cripple does wants to get lost, they can do so very easily.’
‘We’ll see, Magnus. The thing is that something tells me that this is not over yet. He may have crucified Flavia but do you think that has satisfied him? I don’t.’
A slow smile of understanding crept over Magnus’ face. ‘You mean that he’s expecting you to come after him.’
Vespasian nodded, not taking his eyes off the copse. ‘I think so. I’ve kept on asking myself, why Flavia? And the only answer I can come up with is because he knows that a man will always avenge his wife.’
‘A fair point. So if he’s expecting us then what do you think he has waiting for us?’
‘A trap, naturally.’
‘And we’re just going to walk into it?’
‘No, we’re going to spring it and then turn it in on itself.’
‘We are?’
Vespasian grinned. ‘Yes, we are.’ He turned to Philon. ‘How long?’
‘They should be here any moment, master. I sent them back half an hour ago and told them to arrive as the light finally went so there would be no chance of them being seen.’
‘Just heard.’
‘Let us pray not.’
Night fell quickly in the valley and that event heralded the arrival of the slaves with the horses tethered in four trains.
Rome's Sacred Flame Page 26
