The Fall of Veii- Part 1

by Francis Mulhern

  “Get up man” Sergius called as he lashed out with a stick, whacking the man across the shoulders and pushing him backwards. “Re-join your unit” he said as the other three men simply stared at their fellow prisoner, now set free as he stumbled away without looking back at the remaining condemned men.

  The remaining prisoners looked down at the floor, their faces drained of colour as Sergius called the next man forwards. He ran his fingers through his jet-black hair as his eyes stared wildly up to the skies, his lips working through some prayer or other to his chosen god. Postumius watched intently. This man had an unlucky look about him, he thought. His face was a mask of pain and he hadn’t washed the grime from his legs, Postumius shook his head at the state of the man and made a mental note that all prisoners would be scrubbed clean before attending him in future. This time the soldier simply stepped up to the camp prefect, reached into the bag and dragged out the first stone his hand gripped, his eyes closed as he did so and his mouth mumbled indistinct words as he held the stone up high. White again. A small cheer, quickly stifled, came from the ranks behind him as Postumius looked at the location of the noise, seeing a Centurion lashing at a similar looking man to the prisoner with his vine stick, the recipient of the blows smiling despite the lashes he received. Postumius smiled at the small mercies he was granting.

  The man turned and looked to the two remaining men and muttered a few words which Postumius could not hear, but both men nodded glumly as he walked away leaving them to their fate.

  “You” called Sergius as the next man was pushed forwards, his head bowed low as he reached into the bag and closed his eyes, his mouth working but no sound coming out. Postumius glanced at the fourth prisoner, his chin against his chest as if resolved to his fate, as the man standing above him pulled a black stone from the bag and a small murmur went around the crowd of soldiers, the man with the stone instantly dropped the signal of his death to the floor as if it was red hot and shuffled backwards his eyes wide with fear as a small moan came to his lips.

  “Hold him” came the stern reply as the soldier seemed to look about him for an escape route before he fell to his knees and put his head in his hands. The final prisoner had not moved. He remained motionless as the man next to him let out a deep moan and slumped to the floor. Sergius stepped forwards.

  “Release this man, he is free” he said as the fourth prisoner was ushered away, his head shaking and words streaming from his lips which Postumius couldn’t hear.

  Postumius waited for a moment, looking at the faces of the soldiers who had stood almost silently throughout the proceedings before speaking again.

  “The fates have chosen” he said. “Proceed” at which a drum began to beat in the background, its low note heavy in the stifling humidity. Two men stepped forwards, hoods over their heads as they carried two long-bladed daggers into the space. Postumius looked around the soldiers standing in their ranks, his eyes searching for Bassano. Yes, there he was standing away to the right, his face a mask of sorrow. This would teach him, he thought to himself as his lips curled slightly. Nobody would get the better of Publius Postumius, especially not these plebeians with their thoughts of new settlements and new lands to farm.

  The two condemned men were knelt facing the Legions standard and a few words were said to Mars to honour their deaths before each man was handed one of the knives, each blade glinting in the sunlight. A guard stood behind each man with his sword drawn in case the prisoner could not summon the courage to take his own life, ready to do the deed quickly if there were problems.

  Appius Bassano looked to Postumius and smiled before ripping his tunic to bare his chest and placing the point of the knife under his ribcage pointing upwards. His eyes never left Postumius, a look of hatred filling his face as he plunged the blade deep into his chest and thrust the hilt left and right as he fell to the floor, a great red line rushing down his stomach as the man next to him moaned, his eyes staring at the dead body of Appius.

  The guard behind the final prisoner stepped forwards and grabbed the man’s neck before he shouted “no” and raised his own blade stabbing it into his chest with a ferocity that shocked many of the men around him, he punched the blade into his chest three or four times, howling at each thrust before his eyes went to the skies and he fell into the dust, his open mouth letting out a deep gasp as he fell to his death. Soldiers gripped their talismans and mumbled prayers at this sorry event, surely an affront to the gods.

  The sound of the drum beat continued, but no sound came from the ranks of soldiers, other than their mumbled prayers.

  Postumius looked up at Sergius, who was clutching the bag which contained the stones and staring at the bodies, his mouth open. He flicked a glance to Bassano who stood erect, his eyes staring into the space high above the walls of the city, his face betraying no emotion.

  “Sergius” Postumius commanded, his voice loud and strong, “proceed” he added as the camp prefect turned to him before jumping to attention. The two guards waved to a legionary who ran across the ground with a hand cart and the two bodies were lifted slowly and placed within it before the cart was dragged away by both men, the arm of one of the dead falling over the side of the cart and dancing up and down as the cart bumped over the rocky ground.

  Sergius stepped forwards and called “Aulus Manlius. As officer in charge of the prisoners you have been found guilty of allowing their deaths through your inattention to details.” He looked up at Aulus and his eyes flicked to Postumius, a curl coming to his lips at which Postumius frowned.

  “You are sentenced to ten lashes” he called as two guards walked forwards with Aulus and the Legions standard was brought to the centre of the open ground in front of the troops, a heavy cart rumbling along beside it. A low murmur went around the men, some shaking their heads as the patrician, his jaw set firm and his step heavy, came to a standstill in front of the tall standard. Sergius looked to Postumius, who nodded. Three men began to fix the standard to the cart and tied two ropes on either side in which to fit Aulus’s outstretched hands.

  “Men of Rome” Postumius said looking around at the soldiers faces. “This officer is also guilty and will be punished as agreed by your representatives” he added with a glance at Marcus.

  “Proceed” he finished, waving to a slave who rushed forwards with a large beaker of water. Postumius placed his hands out in front of him as Marcus watched the water poured onto them, the ritual cleansing of his hands for the decisions he made now complete. Marcus fumed. Postumius had been clever and had made it clear that he was punishing Marcus as much as he was punishing Aulus. Knowing the Manlius brothers as he did, Marcus was sure that this was not the last Postumius would be hearing from them and he shook his head quickly before stepping forwards and moving to the position from which he would have to administer the lashes, his face stony and cold as he did so.

  Postumius had made it clear that Marcus had to administer the lash and that if he shirked in his duty then he too would receive ten lashes. Marcus had argued against the punishment, but his argument had been a waste of time, Postumius had already made up his mind and, as Tribune, his word was law in the camp.

  Aulus Manlius was tied to the standard, his bare back, pale and white against the brown wood of the cart and the dusty ground. He was placed in a kneeling position and a box was placed beside him holding the whip. Marcus stepped forwards, at which a low grumble came from the soldiers, Postumius smiling at their discomfort. Marcus had determined to make it quick, ten quick lashes and then to return to his position, no emotion and no show of anger at the decision. He sucked in a slow breath as he stepped to the box and opened it, his eyes wide as he saw the whip within, momentarily stopping as he flicked his eyes to Postumius a measure of anger coming to his face before he closed his eyes, took another deep breath and stood, the three tails of the Flagrum, the slave’s whip, hanging from the wooden handle in his hand. A gasp went around the soldiers as they saw the whip, its symbol clear to them all. The Flagru
m was reserved for whipping slaves in Rome, its three leather ‘tails’ fitted with metal hooks which would rip the flesh but not break the bones so that the slave would not be rendered useless. To whip a patrician was bad enough; to use a slave’s whip would be seen as an affront to the patrician’s family. Postumius frowned at Marcus as he stood still and glared across at him. Postumius was almost laughing as he waved a hand at Marcus, telling him to proceed. The soldiers in their ranks went silent as Marcus stepped forwards, his muscles tensing as he tried to gauge the weight of the whip so he could use it quickly and efficiently. With a look to the sky he said, strong and clear so all could hear “Mars and Juno guide my hand as I administer the punishment”, the age-old invocation used by Romans when dealing out the lash.

  As the first slap of leather and metal hit Aulus’s back it tore three red lines into his flesh, the pale skin turning to an angry red as Marcus drew his hand back and started his second swing, his mind cursing Postumius and his teeth clenched as he drew a deep breath.

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  Chapter 13

  ‘Watch your back’ Gatto had whispered to Manlius in the forum as he had passed him with a slight nudge on his shoulder, almost as if he hadn’t known the man but with a direct look in his eyes, a look of alarm on his face as he scratched at the angry red scar on his chin.

  Manlius had whirled around to speak to him but Gatto had disappeared into the crowd quickly. His mind was suddenly alert as he felt his heart break into a new beat, his blood starting to course through his veins as he suddenly saw enemies in every face in the busy crowd. He took a deep breath, easing his hand to his small dagger under his long brown tunic, his wide leather belt holding the folds above it and allowing his legs freedom to walk comfortably in the heat. The day had started warm and the sky was clearing. The five dead bodies in the forum had been removed earlier, their remains smouldering on a pyre outside the city wall. What had Gatto meant? Had someone put a price on his head? A voice in his head told him that the Senate were not happy with him, but he sneered at them as he narrowed his eyes and looked for a path through the crowd which could see him back to his house on the Capitoline. The pestilence still remained, people were dying each day, but there were fewer now that they had taken the bodies and burned them, surely the Senate saw this as a good thing, he pondered, realising he hadn’t moved for a few moments.

  With a grunt, which startled a well-to-do lady who was stood near him, he set his head low and started across the forum, his eyes scanning the crowd for any untoward movement. His old soldier’s instincts took over and he said to himself that the best place to attack him would be on the hill near to his house where the trees narrowed into a dark corridor and the walls of the houses were high. He clenched his jaw, his lips tight, as he walked and gripped the dagger tightly thinking of options.

  It would be best if he could circle around the road to make sure he wasn’t being followed, he thought, taking the road to his right and walking away towards the Clivus Orbis which led to the Esquiline Hill. In his head, he planned to start up the hill before doubling back on himself and heading across to the Capitoline. It was a long walk, but it would make it difficult for anyone who was following him.

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  The two men watched Manlius leave the forum, wondering why he was heading towards the road past the Vestals house rather than towards his house up on the Capitoline. They shrugged in unison and nodded to each other as each one set off in different directions, but both following their prey. The price on the man’s head was enough to get them to work together rather than alone on this particular job. The first man was thin and wiry, his thin features criss-crossed with multiple scars, one which ran across his head from the front of his forehead to a point above his ear, its bare white line visible on the man’s shaven head. He set off to the right, heading for the road to the Palatine, but keeping Manlius in his sights. The other man was much bigger than the first. His arm muscles bulged under a thick brown tunic, a thick green leather belt wrapped tight around his waist with a heavy pouch attached which bounced against his hip as he walked. His face was brown from standing in the sun and his hair was long and tied back in a knot behind his head. His right forearm was a map of thin, pale, scars and his wrists were bound with wristbands which held the face of a gorgon stamped into the leather.

  After five minutes, the two men looked to each other and stopped following Manlius, meeting together at a well on the cross roads beyond the house of the Vestals.

  “I say we head to his house and wait for him there. I don’t fancy climbing around the hills for an hour just so we know where he is going. Better to wait for him to come home” said the burlier man, rubbing his wrist as he spoke.

  “Right” replied the other. “You go ahead, and I’ll follow in a minute, better to look like we are alone” he said with a nod, at which his partner nodded in reply and set off at a stroll. As he smiled he set off after Manlius, better to claim the reward for himself than to share it, he thought.

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  Manlius stepped up from behind the pillar in front of the Vestals and watched the first man move away. So, it was just two of them. With a turn of speed which showed his fitness he ran across the road and descended the steps to arrive at the corner by the temple of Castor and Pollux, his angry mind telling him that it was ironic that this was a site often used for Senate meetings as he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. The thin man with the deep scar on his head was coming into view. The temple had a narrow alleyway along the side and he quickly glanced at it to check it was empty before crouching behind a tall grey pillar.

  Two slaves wandered past, their foreign words drifting into the air, laughing as they walked, oblivious to Manlius crouched to their left. The scarred man was ten paces behind the slaves and didn’t notice the figure behind the thick stone pillar as he walked along looking at the sky, where a few dark clouds were forming in the predominantly blue sky.

  Manlius stepped out behind the man and gripped his tunic at the back of his shoulder, thrusting him to his left as he pushed his hand behind onto the side of his head and stepped across and thumped the man’s head into the pillar in one swift movement, the deep ridges exploding into a red hue as his skull connected with them. Instantly Manlius dragged the body into the alleyway and knelt his knee across the man’s chest looking back over his shoulder to check that nobody had seen the action and followed him into the dark, narrow, alley.

  The man’s eyes were glazed, his head raised in a thick welt, with two lines of almost black blood oozing from his broken skull.

  “Who are you working for?” Manlius asked in a deep growl with his teeth clenched, gripping his hand on the man’s windpipe as his eyes rolled in his head. No answer came so Manlius used his free hand to grip the man’s face and move his head from side to side, a low groan coming from his chest as he did so. “Damn” spat Manlius realising he had been too violent, again checking over his shoulder and realising that his tunic was covered in blood, the red mixed into a dark stain along with the brown folds of the material. A spot of white showed in the indentation of the man’s skull where the dark red blood was congealing already and Manlius shook his head. He would have to finish the man off, he would be no use to him now and he would have to tackle the brute of man with the wristbands if he was to find who had put a price on his head. Slipping his dagger from its hiding place he sliced it across the man’s gullet, opening a gap from which a warm draught of air escaped before a gurgle of blood rushed into the space and the man choked for a second before his life disappeared from his body. Manlius jumped up and wrapped the folds of his tunic into his belt to hide the worst of the stains before disappearing back out into the street, which remained quiet, as he headed towards the Capitoline Hill.

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  Mella sat on the large grey boulder rubbing his feet and shaking his head. He glanced at Marcus who was frowning into the distance at the long dust trail left by
the marching army, its men and pack animals loaded with the treasures and booty from Bolae.

  “I hate the rear guard” he grumbled, shaking another small stone out of his sandal as he spoke. Marcus ignored him, he had heard the same complaint for the past three hours.

  “All the dust, all the dung and all the drop-outs” he moaned, wiping something brown from his foot onto the rock he sat on before slipping his sandal back on and grunting as he tied it tightly.

  Marcus had called his small detachment to a halt as they had quickly caught up with the rear of the marching column. As soon as the flogging of Aulus Manlius had been completed Postumius had ordered the men to march, no doubt believing that keeping the men busy on the road would stop them having time to grumble. Marcus had been ordered to bring up the rear of the column, marching in a thick cloud of dust and open to any attack from whichever enemies might be lurking behind the Romans.

  It had been two days of slow movement, covering no more than twenty miles at most in that time due to the heavy wagons and slow pack horses. As they had left Bolae a force of a few hundred Capenate horsemen had been seen riding into the City, many of the legionaries grumbling that they had lost any chance to claim the town now that the enemy had retaken it without a fight. Potitus and Marcus had discussed the issue at length, both agreeing that Bolae was a strong position which should have been manned, but neither having the strength of their conviction to bring this thought to Postumius as they knew his feelings on the subject.

  Marcus watched two birds circling high above them, unsure what type they were. Mella, seeing his eyes staring upwards, came across. “Eagles?” he asked.