Rome's Sacred Flame

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian went up to the older of the two Getae. ‘You’re clear what you have to do?’

  ‘Yes, master,’ the slave replied in a whisper. ‘Just give the word.’

  Vespasian looked at the other three slaves, each leading three or four horses. ‘Take no unnecessary risks; let the horses do the work.’

  The slaves assured him they would.

  ‘Go then.’

  As the slaves led the horses down the hill Vespasian followed, along with Magnus and the freedmen. Picking up speed as they made their descent, the stealth with which they had first approached now evaporated as the horses’ hoofs struggled on the darkening ground and they vented their growing unease with equine calls. But this was of no concern to Vespasian as he knew it to be unavoidable; he drew his sword and followed as fast as he could in the dimming light, his heart racing as he contemplated potentially outsmarting his opponent.

  On went the horses, gathering even more pace until they reached the eves of the copse and the slaves released them, jabbing their rumps with the tips of their swords, drawing small points of blood and sending the beasts whinnying into the trees as if a unit of cavalry had just charged in.

  And then it came, just as Vespasian had expected: a shrill, bestial screech of agony; and then came another. Vespasian accelerated forward, aiming towards the source of the noise, with his freedmen and Magnus and his dogs surging after him. With his sword low, ready for a belly-thrust, he charged under the first boughs, swerved around a shadowed trunk and glimpsed a figure jumping down from his hiding place above and moving ahead of him in pursuit of the horses. Vespasian threw himself at the man, thrusting his blade forward to feel it strike flesh that resisted for an instant before the stroke carried home into the kidneys. The shriek was piercing as the outlaw was punched forward to fall to the ground with his arms flailing above his head; the element of surprise now gone, the freedmen roared their war cries and hurtled towards the outlaws as they sprung their ambush on the riderless horses. So complete was the surprise that many of the outlaws assumed the scream and the war cries had come from one of the non-existent cavalry and continued in their chase of the decoy horses, as Vespasian and his companions crashed into their rear reaping many a life before the real situation became apparent to them.

  With the hunters becoming the hunted, they turned from the horses to face their real foe but, in many a case, were too late; blades swiped and punched out of the night, slashing open throats and torsos. Vespasian hurdled the man he had downed, kicking a foot out to smash into another man’s kneecap as he turned to face him, catching it at an angle, cracking it sideways. Howling as his leg buckled under him, sinews tearing and ligaments snapping, the outlaw collapsed forward; Vespasian brought his sword slicing up so that his momentum drove the blade deep into the man’s chest to burst out the other side with an obscene gurgle of escaping air bubbling through blood. Dead almost instantaneously, the outlaw flopped to the floor, pulling Vespasian’s wedged-in sword down with him. Letting go of the handle, Vespasian kicked the corpse so that it rolled onto its side; he knelt and pulled at his weapon, twisting it as he did in order to break the suction. With a jerk, it came free and Vespasian raised himself back up, seeking another victim in the gloom as a flash of white light streaked through his head and his ears rang. And then all became dark.

  ‘At last you awake.’

  The voice seemed distant to Vespasian as it cut through the pain in his head. He stirred again, feeling his wrists bound behind his back.

  ‘Freshen him up.’

  A shock of cold water splashed over his face and chest, causing him to splutter and choke as he breathed in more than a few drops. Coughing and shaking his head he opened his eyes; dawn glowed golden through the trees.

  ‘What a pleasure to see you again, Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

  Vespasian turned his head to see a man of similar age to himself, seated on a chair just a few paces away to his left, totally bald with a thin, sunburned face; he recognised him almost immediately despite the many intervening years since he had last seen him.

  ‘And looking so healthy and well, too.’ The man smiled but there was no warmth in his eyes; he held his hands folded on his lap; the fingers were twisted and still. ‘You’re looking at my hands, I see.’ He lifted his right arm; the shape of his hand stayed the same, the fingers locked rigid. ‘If I really put my mind to it I can sometimes move my little finger; although, I will admit, I haven’t tried it for a few years as there’s very little point, don’t you see.’ He held up his hand, palm towards Vespasian, and made a show of deep concentration.

  On his wrist, just below the base of the thumb, was a large, puckered scar, livid in the growing light. The wound made by a nail pounded through skin and bone as he was transfixed to a cross as a youth, all those years before. Vespasian recalled the image of his face staring in catatonic horror at the sky only too well, even though it was forty years since it had been etched into his mind.

  ‘There, you see; I can still do it.’ The little finger twitched a couple of times and then became still again. ‘I’m not nearly so mobile in my feet, however.’ He extended a foot towards Vespasian; it too was scarred horrifically where the nail worked a huge hole as he had pushed down on it in the effort to free his chest to take a breath. ‘Or foot, I should say.’ He extended the other leg; it finished just above where the ankle would have been. ‘They had to take it off because it was becoming infected. Do you know how it was done?’

  Vespasian did not answer.

  ‘My father hacked it off with his sharpest sword. It wasn’t very sharp. It took four blows, although I only remember two of them; passed out, don’t you see. He was determined to keep me alive even though he knew that I would spend the rest of my life depending on others. I even have to have someone sponge my arse for me, although I have got over the indignity of that now; I can take a good sponging and barely feel any shame. You can see now why they call me The Cripple.’

  Vespasian cast his eyes around to see that he was surrounded by over a dozen men and about the same number of women, some of whom held babes.

  ‘Are you looking for your friends?’

  Again, Vespasian did not answer.

  ‘They’re quite safe; those that survived, that is; your slaves rode off as soon as the second ambush was sprung; your dogs ran as well, but that’s slaves and dogs for you and we should know because most of us were slaves once. The freedmen tried to resist but women raining rocks down from above are quite hard to fight.’

  Vespasian could not control his expression.

  ‘Of course there was a second ambush; does it really surprise you? I know you’re clever and I assumed that you might try some sort of a ruse so I thought that if I hid the women up in the trees with a bag of rocks each, that would cover that eventuality. And it did so splendidly; we captured twelve of you alive. Just think of the noise you’ll all make when we crucify you all together. I say “we” but I mean my men as, unfortunately, I won’t be able to join in the fun. But I’ll enjoy watching; oh yes, I’ll enjoy that. It’s what my father kept me alive for: revenge. He was the overall leader of the many gangs of outlaws and runaways throughout the Apennines; he was a proud man, a citizen, who had been dispossessed by Augustus when he came to power so that he could pay off and settle his veterans. He was not going to let me die without revenge and although my life has not been easy, I thank him for that now that I have you. I’ll have your brother someday too and then I can go to join my father’s shade.’

  Vespasian shivered at the thought that such a righteous act of justice meted out so long ago could have such repercussions decades later.

  ‘All these years I’ve been waiting for you to spend a prolonged period on your estate so that I could have the time to get down here and then set a trap for you. Having you killed with an arrow from a distance, or stabbed in the forum in Rome, wouldn’t do, don’t you see; the only way you can possibly understand what I went through is by going through it yo
urself. How did your wife enjoy it, by the way? How rude of me not to ask earlier. She didn’t seem to be liking it all that much when we left her. Still, no one was asking her to enjoy it, only suffer it.’ The Cripple gave another cold smile. ‘But that’s enough talking about it; I think we should think about doing it. The crosses are very nearly ready.’

  ‘So they’ve got you too, sir,’ Magnus said as Vespasian was pushed by an outlaw into the little circle of prisoners squatting, their hands tied behind their backs, on stony ground not far from the stream; four outlaws watched over them. ‘I was beginning to hope that you had got away and were attempting to organise a rescue.’

  The outlaw cracked a javelin haft onto the top of Magnus’ head. ‘No talking!’

  As the outlaw moved away, Vespasian squatted down next to his friend, close so that they would not be heard if they whispered. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you; only the slaves got clear and I doubt very much if they’ll be coming back to help.’ He looked over to the edge of the copse where twelve rough crosses were being constructed and holes dug to sink them in. ‘I think we have to get out of this by ourselves.’

  Magnus grunted and indicated with his head to the four guards surrounding them; each had four or five javelins stuck in the ground next to them. ‘I imagine they’ve got other ideas.’

  Vespasian could but agree. The guards were too far away to be able to rush at, even if they did manage to untie their wrists. ‘Still, I’d rather get brought down by one of their javelins than wait around to get nailed to a cross.’

  ‘There’s a lot of merit in that argument, sir.’ He leant closer to Philon on his other side. ‘We’re thinking of rushing them; pass it on.’

  Vespasian did the same to the freedman on his other side.

  Within a few moments there were surreptitious nods of agreement. Vespasian prepared himself for a desperate course of action that would more than likely result in the deaths of many of them including himself – but they were all dead anyway if they did nothing.

  With very little to lose he gave the nod and leapt to his feet, his eleven companions a moment behind him each making for the guard nearest them. The first javelin whistled between his legs, scraping the inside of his left knee but doing no real damage. It was Philon who stopped the next with a direct hit on his right thigh sending him tumbling back and Vespasian realised that the guards were aiming low, having had orders to incapacitate, not kill; it was futile. Cursing, he lowered his head and sprinted, his bound wrists chafing, as Magnus roared and tumbled over with a javelin in his calf. Praying for a misaimed shot to give him a fatal wound, he pounded on, straight at the guard who now only had him to deal with and one javelin with which to do it. But the outlaw was no mere inexperienced youth prone to panic; he side-stepped Vespasian as he attempted to head-butt him and brought the haft of his javelin cracking down across his back, flooring him so that his face scraped against loose stones, tearing skin from his chin.

  Vespasian cried out as the point of the javelin was rammed into his right buttock.

  ‘Try running with a javelin in your arse, senator,’ the guard sneered, grinding the tip so that pain shot through all parts of Vespasian’s body and he had to force himself not to howl and lose what little remaining dignity there was left to him.

  Rough hands hauled him up by his wrists, almost dislocating his shoulders; the javelin remained embedded, causing excruciating pain with every slightest movement. Magnus and Philon were still down, along with five of the freedmen; only three stood, unwounded. Vespasian could not see the missing one.

  ‘I was so looking forward to you all trying that,’ The Cripple said, behind him. ‘Although I didn’t expect one of you to get clean away; he was lucky.’

  Pleased to hear that one of his men had escaped, Vespasian turned. The Cripple sat in his chair, carried on two poles by four of his men.

  ‘Not that I really needed an excuse to hurt you more; it’s just much more satisfying when I take away any last hope of avoiding such an unpleasant death, don’t you see? Much more satisfying.’ Again the smile was cold, the eyes remaining dead. ‘Still, enough of fooling around; it’s time to watch your friends get nailed up and when they’re all comfortable it will be your turn.’ He nodded to one of the guards. ‘Bring them all over.’

  The first mallet blow caused Philon to scream as if his innards were being cut out. Vespasian closed his eyes but could not block out the sound. Other blows began to rain down and two more of the freedmen began their piercing cacophony, much to the amusement of the outlaws who mocked their cries as they hammered away.

  ‘Open your eyes and watch,’ The Cripple said, ‘or I’ll have you crucified upside down.’

  Vespasian did as he had been told just as Magnus was being hauled, struggling, towards a cross by two outlaws. As he was pushed down to his knees one of the outlaws manhandling him suddenly let go of an arm. It took Vespasian a few moments to realise that the shaft freshly protruding from the man’s neck was an arrow. His mate stared at it, confused; it was the last thing he saw as his head was punched back with an arrow’s bloody tip bursting out the back of his skull.

  Vespasian whipped around to see the four slaves and one more rider charging towards them, their horses in full flight with Castor and Pollux bounding along before them; the two Getic slaves sent shaft after well-aimed shaft into the outlaws at prodigious speed. Down the outlaws went, either from hits or to take cover. Vespasian threw himself to the ground as the shots hissed in; the skill of the former horse-warriors showed in their accuracy from a galloping steed. Within twenty heartbeats the riders and dogs were amongst them, the archers picking off easy targets whilst the two other slaves jumped from their mounts and slashed and hacked with soon-bloodied swords at fleeing outlaws, releasing the freedmen whilst the dogs savaged the wounded.

  Vespasian felt his bonds being cut.

  ‘There you go, Father.’

  He turned around to look into the grim eyes of his eldest son, Titus.

  Titus held out a hand to help his father up. ‘I’d say we got here just in time.’

  Vespasian hauled himself to his feet. ‘A little too late for Philon and a couple of the lads. By the gods above and below, I’m pleased to see you.’ He embraced Titus whilst all about the freedmen wreaked vengeance on their erstwhile tormentors. The Cripple could do nought but sit and watch.

  ‘Is that the man who killed Mother?’ Titus asked.

  ‘It is.’

  Titus walked up to The Cripple whose eyes were no longer dead but showed, instead, fear. ‘One of us is going to enjoy this and one of us won’t.’

  It was an hour past midday when they had finished; the babes and young children they had spared and kept for slaves; but the rest who had survived the rescue attack, even the women in return for their part in the ambush, they made suffer.

  Philon and the other two freedmen who had received nail wounds had been taken back to the farm complex, by the newly freed slaves, for treatment but the rest of the freedmen had stayed and worked with enthusiasm and the air was filled with the sound of wretched misery.

  Seventeen crosses in all were lined up on the rolling pasture in the same place that Vespasian and Sabinus had first crucified The Cripple and now they were about to erect the eighteenth and last.

  ‘There’ll be no one to cut you down this time,’ Vespasian said as he hauled the terrified man from his chair. ‘A few of the lads will stay here and see to that. And when you are dead they’ll take your body down and leave it for wild animals to consume; there’ll be no peace for your shade.’

  Vespasian, Titus and Magnus stretched Flavia’s murderer out on the cross; his pleas and screams attracted no pity, just grim satisfaction. And it was with the same satisfaction that Vespasian transfixed the first wrist, through the original scar, before handing the mallet over to Titus for him to have the pleasure of the second; Magnus did the foot, slowly.

  And so the man was crucified for the second time, his shrieks and howls no le
ss penetrating than when Vespasian had first heard them forty years previously. But this time, as he rode unhurriedly away, Vespasian knew that he would die on the cross and wished that he had done so the first time. It was with this wish going around his head that the tears began to fall as he mourned the wife who had not deserved to die the way she did. Tomorrow he would bury Flavia and then soon he would return to Rome to forget.

  PART IIII

  ROME, APRIL AD 65

  CHAPTER XV

  ROME WAS AGAIN obscured; hardly any detail beyond the city walls could be made out as Vespasian and his family stared down at her from where he had last seen her as but a shrivelled carcass writhing on her seven hills covered by a funeral shroud of thick fumes. This time, however, it was dust and not smoke that rose in the air and shrouded her features; the dust of a thousand building sites.

  ‘You can almost hear the money pouring in,’ Vespasian said to Titus, sitting on his horse next to him.

  Titus rubbed the back of his neck, which had thickened remarkably in the eighteen months that he had been away serving on the Governor of Asia’s staff. ‘In my final few months in Asia we practically tripled our tax revenues to send cash back to Rome. Temples were stripped and local businesses were made to pay far more than they could afford. It was the same all over the eastern provinces and if it carries on then the consequences could be very severe indeed, Father; there’s a lot of resentment already in Syria and Judaea especially.’

  Vespasian looked at his eldest son, proud of how he was progressing up the Cursus Honorum and reflecting that when he had been his son’s age he had first met Flavia; he shifted his position on his horse so that the wound in his buttock was rested. ‘That, I expect, is of little concern to Nero, provided as much coin as possible has already been extracted.’

  ‘Well, all I can say,’ Magnus said, sitting to Vespasian’s other side, ‘is that I’m very glad that I’m far too small a person to be noticed and therefore have a reasonable chance of hanging on to the little wealth that I might have set aside for my old age.’