The Fall of Veii- Part 1

by Francis Mulhern

  “No tracks, no sign of anyone or anything being down here for days” he added. “Wish I hadn’t mentioned it to him” he said, half expecting Marcus to chide him, but no reply came. The soldiers sat in silence, all eyes slowly turning to stare into the gloom of the surroundings, a few fir trees, the odd bush and a lot of empty ground with large boulders spread intermittently across the area all that they could see. After a few minutes Marcus turned to Fasculus, “Well, we have another hour of light so let’s get the pickets set up before we are relieved” he said as Fasculus saluted and called three men to him, issuing orders as they listened to his commands.

  ********

  The assassin took a deep breath, his knees placed against the wood of the prisoner’s pen. The knife sliced through the ropes, exactly where he had been told they would be weakest and the first wooden slat fell outwards against his leg. He caught it quietly, looking in both directions and seeing no movement. He smiled. The guards were busy with the fire and the prisoners had been beaten so badly that they remained slouched near the central pole, their hands and feet tied together so that they were almost curled into human balls lying on the floor in their own filth. He lifted his head, smelling the faeces as well as seeing the dark patches on the bodies and faces of the prisoners, their own blood he presumed. He snaked into the gap, crawling along behind the two prisoners, his body inching forwards as he had trained himself to do over the years. He smiled to himself as he heard the guards laughing, their banter telling him that they were paying no attention to the prisoners, just as he had expected. They wouldn’t look in on them until just before changeover, by which time it would be too late. He crept to the first prisoner, clearly totally unconscious and slid the knife deep into the man’s neck releasing a slow trickle of blood as the man’s body moved slightly at the prick of his skin. The warm blood seeped into the ground as the man took a last gasp and his body went limp. Good, thought the assassin, now for the other one.

  As he leant across and caught the head of the prisoner a burst of laughter came from the guards causing the assassin to grip the neck of the man a little tighter than he had planned. The prisoner’s eyes opened, a momentary glint of hope in his eyes before the assassin sliced his neck and placed a hand over his mouth to stop him calling out. He watched as the man, more of a boy, wriggled for a few seconds as the assassin pressed harder onto his mouth before he too went limp. After a few heartbeats, he said a quiet prayer to the god Pluto, careful not to say his name in case the god noticed him and came looking for him too, and slipped the knife into the hands of the prisoner, wrapping the fingers around the blade and spreading a small trail of blood from the other dead prisoner to the knife, smiling as he heard the guards, again, laughing, oblivious to his deed. It was good to say a prayer for the dead, he thought to himself, as he slid back to the fence and replaced the wooden slat, and tied the rope he had left at the foot of the pen onto the fence posts to hide his entrance.

  ********

  Marcus Manlius was angry and when he was angry he shouted a lot. Today he was shouting at his slaves, at his wife and at his children, his voice loud and deep as he chastised everyone who came near him. Maybe it was the wine, but whatever it was it was not good. He gripped the death mask of his father, shaking his head as he looked into the dead eyes of the face captured on his deathbed.

  “Why?” he asked “Why is it that we are so lowly? Why couldn’t our family be higher?” he asked in a low moan, the goblet of wine sloshing a red trail onto the floor before he pulled it up and took another long drink from it, gasping for breath as he drained the contents and looked at the other death masks sat in their tidy niches on the wall. He shook his head again and set off towards his study, shouting for more wine as he stumbled into a door post and yelled again, rubbing his arm as he moved past the doorway.

  “I’ll show them” he said, realising he was still clutching the mask of his father, the same blank expression looking back at him from the dead eyes. “You should have been more ambitious” he said, looking at the face and shaking his head “more ambitious” he continued as he slumped into the wooden chair knocking the cushion to the floor as he almost fell into the seat. “Ambition” he said, opening the wooden shutter and looking out of his small window over the roofs of the houses below his on the Capitoline Hill, their red and grey tiles just about visible in the low light. He smiled as thoughts began to race through his head. These plebeians were surely starting to gain power in Rome, their cause was justifiable and their claims to power should be heard. Javenoli. He almost spat the name. And men like Cicurinus, he thought as he put his hand to his face, feeling the two-day old stubble prickle his fingers. They had power now, but they needed to be taught a lesson. Manlius stood and turned to face the door as a slave came trotting around the corner, his hand holding the jug of wine.

  “Take that filth away” yelled Manlius as the slave’s face dropped and he cowered, his arm instinctively coming up to cover his face before Manlius yelled at him to get out of his way and trudged back towards the door to the garden.

  “No more drink” mumbled Manlius, his thoughts a blur. “No more. They won’t get away with it Father” he said, raising the mask to look at the blank eyes. “They won’t” he said as he sat on the low wall running around the perimeter of his ornate garden. “I will see them humbled. They think they have it all, patrician blood, Roman values” he sneered as he spoke. “They won’t have it for long” he smiled “I promise you Father” he said as he slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall as his eyes saw the first star coming into the sky. “I promise you” and with that his head nodded and he fell into a drunken sleep.

  ********

  “Fasculus” called Marcus softly into the darkness, his log torch blazing as he leant it out across the water, silvery red light reflecting off the water, which oozed by relentlessly.

  “Here” came the reply, as a splash made Marcus turn his head to the left and squeeze his eyes to focus on the man stepping slowly across the shallows lest he should slip and fall. A second series of splashes announced the return of one of the men Fasculus had left with and Marcus took a steady breath as he stood tall and stretched his back, realising he had been standing tensed for at least ten minutes whilst Fasculus and the replacement pickets had gone to the furthest point of their watch.

  “All clear?” he asked as Fasculus came into the light of the flames.

  “No problems, there’s nothing out there, sir” replied the man as he stepped free of the shallows, the wet leather of his sandals squelching as he stood on the stones laid across the entrance to the ford.

  “Right, let’s get back to the camp” Marcus said, turning and walking away as the two men followed behind. Marcus placed the torch in the fire as he grabbed his equipment and slumped it over his shoulder looking up at the steep climb ahead of them as he did so. He shook his head at the thought of walking up that steep path in the dark and wondered if he should have set some burning stakes in the ground to light the path earlier, but it was too late now. A low breeze whispered along the path as he turned and called the several men of his watch into a slow march, wishing the new watch a good night as he stepped onto the narrow, steep incline.

  As he neared the top of the path Marcus could hear Fasculus grumbling behind him, his constant moaning was almost as annoying as the fact that they had had to be the first group out on duty, a slur that Marcus was sure was aimed at him alone. He took a deep breath to settle his rapid breathing from the steep climb as he crested the final section, edging round the steep wall and seeing the glow of a hundred firelights away to his front. He smiled at the sight as he stopped and waited for the rest of his contingent to reach the top of the climb. He turned to Fasculus, who was sweating heavily, the glistening water dripping down his face in the light from the fires and was about to speak when a great cry went up from the camp and men started to run to and fro shouting for the guards.

  “What?” said Marcus as Fasculus and he stared at each oth
er for a moment before dropping their bags, drawing their swords and charging across the remaining hundred yards to the main camp, heading directly for Postumius’s tent as they ran, their feet pounding the rocky ground. As they came to the command tent several other officers were already arriving and Postumius had just stepped from his tent, immaculate in his armour and pressed tunic, almost as if he had been standing waiting for the alarm to be raised.

  “What is it?” he called to the man who had rushed up to the tent, saluted and stood waiting for permission to speak.

  “The prisoners, sir” he said, his face looking away to the sky as he spoke. “They have been killed, sir” he added, his voice even and monotone.

  Ambustus had arrived and was stood next to Postumius, his scruffy hair and half laced armour testament to the fact that he had not been sitting waiting in his armour as Postumius appeared to have done. He looked at Postumius, who had a calm air about him as the other senior officers arrived and looked at each other, their mouths open as they asked each other what the commotion was about.

  “Come” pronounced Postumius as he set out towards the edge of the camp where the prisoners were kept, a small smile on his face as he stepped forwards and glanced over his shoulder as the men fell in behind him. As they approached the scene Marcus moved forwards to stand next to Ambustus, his glance telling him that he was concerned about the situation as much as Marcus was.

  The gate to the prisoner’s pen was standing open as they arrived and Postumius strode straight in without a glance at the guards, who saluted with worried looks on their faces. Marcus and several other officers filed into the small space, the smell of urine hitting his nose as he peered at the two dead bodies below him. Postumius used his sword, the same elaborate sword he had offered Marcus a few years before, to move the hands of the dead boy Marcus had last seen slumped across his father.

  “Dead by their own hands” Postumius said without emotion. Ambustus stepped forwards just as Sergius stepped in front of him and bent down next to the body of the dead boy.

  “Look sir” stated Sergius as he stood, the dagger in his hand as he pointed at the two bodies with his other hand. “This one killed that one with this knife. Both men took their own lives rather than face the Rock” he said, his meaning clear. Earlier that evening the prisoners had been thoroughly beaten and brought before the trial, at which Aulus Manlius had found them guilty of banditry and attempted assassination and so they had been sentenced to death by being thrown from the Tarpeian Rock in Rome. The two men had mumbled their innocence through their broken jaws, but Postumius had sanctioned the death penalty and the men were returned to their prison.

  “How did they get this knife” called Postumius, his eyes scanning the assembled men, the officers closest to him but a hundred or more legionaries, armed with swords, stood outside the prisoner’s pen staring silently at the scene inside. Postumius took the blade and showed it to the crowd. “Does anyone recognise this blade?” he called, taking it and walking slowly around the circle of men, all of whom shook their heads, the wet slap of Postumius’s sandal as he walked in the blood of the dead prisoners broke through the deepening silence, many eyes drifting from the blade to the blood on the floor as he did so.

  Then a small voice came from the back of the crowd by the gate “It is mine” it said as all eyes turned to Appius Bassano as the man stepped forwards, a look of utter dread on his face as the collective gasp of a hundred soldiers echoed into the darkness.

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  Chapter 9

  “It’s a damned plague” said Calvus more forcefully than he had intended as he stared at the magistrate, his white toga almost perfectly positioned across his lap as he reclined in the chair in front of him. “There are dead bodies in the street and you are doing nothing about it” he almost shouted, a drop of phlegm coming from his lips as he stood and stared indignantly at the face of the junior official who was listening to the plebeian council’s latest demands for changes to the regulations in the City.

  “My dear Calvus” the man said, his wispy, thin, beard showing his age as he handed a wax tablet to a slave, who bowed and approached Calvus with it, handing it over without looking up at the enraged man standing in front of him. “Your demands have no substance. A few drunks and layabouts who fell upon each other in the streets is all it is” he stated in a bored tone. “The Senate have reviewed the incidents you speak of and there is no evidence of a plague.” As he finished he went to stand, as if his business with the representatives of the plebeian council were at a close, his air of superiority causing the plebeians from the council to raise their voices in angry protests.

  “Gentlemen,” the magistrate said, his eyes almost fearful as he stepped back slightly “your behaviour does you no favour” he said condescendingly as he looked at the men in front of him. “There is no plague” he added, his eyes wide and his effeminate face soft, his white hands held out in front of him. “If you have no further evidence to present?” he asked with a questioning look. “Then I bid you good day” he said as he turned and walked towards the door at the back of the room.

  “Pompous patrician bast...” started Pontius Cominus before Calvus placed a hand on his arm and shook his head.

  “Well Marcus Manlius” said Calvus, looking to the man who had used his influence to get the leaders of the council this meeting. “What do you say to that?” he asked, waving an arm in the direction of the closed door by which the magistrate had left. Manlius grimaced. Yet again another meeting he had arranged had gone badly. The conflict between the plebeians and patricians ran deeper than he had imagined. Spending time with these men and seeing at first hand their problems had certainly opened his eyes and his plans, born from his drink fuelled sleep, had been thwarted at every turn. Maybe now was a time for more drastic action.

  “If the patricians have no interest in the plague then maybe it is because they see it as a suburban problem” he stated as he smiled at the other men. “Maybe if the dead were to die on the Oppian Hill or the Capitoline quarter they might take more interest” he smiled. Calvus cocked his head, his thoughts running as he looked at Manlius.

  “Not on my doorstep?” Calvus said in a slow voice, a curl coming to his lips as he grasped what Manlius was considering.

  “Precisely” replied Manlius as he turned and stepped towards the door. “We will need some men to transport the bodies” he said as he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Oh, I am sure that can be arranged” came the reply.

  ********

  Despite the early hour, the whole camp was in uproar. Soldiers were set out around the central command tent in full armour with swords drawn, their Centurions doing their best to get them to stand down, but to no avail. Hundreds of men were calling for order, others were calling for blood and some just stood watching. After the knife had been found to be owned by Appius Bassano, the five men detailed to guard the troops had been placed under arrest by Postumius, his personal bodyguards carrying out the orders. Aulus Manlius had approached his commanding officer and asked for leniency whilst he looked into the case, calling for a proper trial for the guards, at which Postumius had raged at Aulus, telling him that as he was the officer in command he, too, was culpable and would stand trial with the guards. At this he too had been arrested. Aulus was a popular officer and many of the men had pleaded with Postumius and the other officers for a review, but Postumius would hear nothing of it. Ambustus, Marcus and Rufus had managed to quell a total riot amongst the men, their bitterness at Postumius’s treatment of them boiling over into a handful of scuffles which they managed to hide from their commanding officer as he retreated to his tent and had the prisoners chained to a post outside it, guarded by several burly bodyguards. Centurion Bassano, Appius’s father, had been restrained in his tent by Rufus to stop him from tearing Postumius limb from limb. But then at dawn the men of the Legion had surrounded the command tent and demanded an audience w
ith their commander.

  Marcus stood next to the prisoners and looked to Aulus and shook his head as the man stood, proud, facing the tent of his accuser. Inside the tent he could hear Ambustus shouting at Postumius, who was shouting back at him, their voices clearly audible across the ground to the men standing around the tent. A sudden silence came from the tent, making everyone stop and look at the tent entrance. After a moments silence Postumius appeared, to heckling from the men standing around, his dark look at Marcus showing spite and hatred as he placed his helmet on his head and paced to the centre of the space outside his tent. He waved a hand at his tent as a slave ran forwards with a small wooden mounting block, upon which Postumius stood.

  He surveyed the faces around him, a look of loathing coming to his eyes as he took a few moments to look into the faces of the leaders of the troops.

  “You men” he said, his voice strong as Ambustus appeared from the tent and moved next to Marcus, a quick glance showing that he had not achieved the peaceful settlement as he had intended. “You are men of Rome and the Latin League” he stated as he continued to look around the men standing silently listening to him. “You know the law, you understand the rules” he said. “This” he looked down at the floor “insurrection. This cessation of your duties” he added as he shook his head, his face showing wonder at the men around him. “Gives me great cause for concern”. A loud murmur went up from the crowd as his head jerked to where a call for leniency went up, followed by an agreeing cheer. “How, soldiers, how can I give clemency to this act? The law is clear” he said, his arm waving to a slave who appeared at the tent flap and trotted across to where he stood with a small wooden chest. “This” he continued “is the law” he opened the chest and took out a rolled vellum scroll, the yellow hide covered in black writing. “You know the punishment. Should any prisoner condemned to death be found dead whilst under guard.” He had picked up the scroll as if reading from it and turned to stare at the prisoners tied to the post near him. “Then they shall die in the same manner in which the prisoners died” he added as a cacophony of noise arose from the men, the bodyguards coming closer to Postumius as some of the men stepped forwards in protest. Without knowing it Marcus had stepped forwards too, not in protest but as a precaution in case any of the soldiers made a run at their commanding officer. Despite himself Marcus knew that what Postumius was saying had a grain of truth. The law of the legion was sanctified by the gods each year and each soldier had to swear an oath to it as the campaigning season started. He shook his head slowly at the thought.