Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘Shit, our boys in the squadron can’t see them, they’re hidden by the bend,’ Vespasian exclaimed as they all slowed to take in the magnificent sight.

  ‘What do you mean, “our boys”?’ Magnus grumbled. ‘The bastards were shooting at us just now.’

  ‘There’s fuck-all that we can do about it,’ Sabinus said. ‘If we try to warn the squadron they’ll just start shooting at us again, so let the navy-boys sort out their own problems.’ Sabinus, like most Romans who had served in the legions, had nothing but contempt for the navy, which they considered a poor relation to the army.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Vespasian agreed. ‘Let’s get out of here whilst we still can.’

  They passed to the south of Axiopolis, heading southeast, and started to climb the ridge of hills that forced the Danuvius north, away from its easterly route. At the summit they paused and looked back, with a bird’s-eye view, on the events unfolding below.

  The Getic war band had arrived at the river’s edge and had opened fire on the surprised Roman squadron. Patches of river were obscured by fast-moving clouds — volleys of Getic arrows — which swarmed on to the decks of the Roman ships, felling artillerymen and marines as well as causing havoc amongst the unprotected rowers in the biremes. Despite their losses they returned fire, still oblivious to the presence of the Getic fleet half a mile from them around the bend in the river. Vespasian watched as scores of horsemen were felled by the lethal ballista shots; but they kept pumping volley after volley of arrows into the three closest ships, which were now unable to manoeuvre owing to severe casualties amongst the rowers. Disembodied shouts and screams floated up on the wind that was gradually gaining in strength. The two triremes and the five remaining biremes turned to face the Getae cavalry on the shore and, firing as they went, rowed to the rescue of the stricken ships, leaving them broadside on to the leading triremes of the Getic fleet as they rounded the bend. On sighting the Romans they accelerated to attack-speed, their whistled beats cutting through the air. The ballistae on the walls of Axiopolis opened fire at them as they passed beneath it; white explosions peppered the water around the fleet but they came on undeterred at the Romans who, caught between manoeuvres, failed to turn to face them.

  The flutes’ whistles accelerated into the almost constant screech of ramming speed and the lead Getic ships surged forward into the Roman squadron. Two caught a trireme broadside, crashing into it fore and aft, whilst another shipped its larboard oars as it skimmed up the side of a bireme, breaking its oars like twigs and catapulting rowers out of their seats, their backs broken and the skulls smashed. The sounds of cracking wood drowned the flutes as the two Getic vessels reversed stroke in order to wrench themselves free of the crippled Roman ship. The second wave of the Getic fleet crunched into the hapless squadron and Vespasian turned his horse.

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough of that to know I wouldn’t want to be involved in a sea battle,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘There’ll be some good lads crossing the Styx today,’ Magnus muttered as he followed, pulling the priest’s horse after him, ‘and all because Poppaeus wants to silence one man.’

  ‘Or, conversely, because we want to keep him alive,’ Sabinus pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it though, the timing of a man’s death is down to the will of Mithras and there’s bugger all to do about it.’

  Not wanting to get into a theological debate with his brother, Vespasian kicked his horse into a canter and started to make his way down the hill to the plain that rolled all the way to the Euxine Sea and the port of Tomi.

  Vespasian and his comrades were chilled to the bone by the time they reached the town gates, two hours after dusk. The wind had strengthened to gale force, dispersing the clouds, and the temperature had plummeted under the clear, starry sky. The sight of a military tribune’s uniform was enough to persuade the surly gatekeepers to open up after curfew and they passed through into a wide thoroughfare, dimly lit by the moon, which led directly to the port, the town’s main reason for its existence. The buildings on either side were mean and shabby and the whole town had an air of neglect about it; it had seen better days.

  ‘What a miserable shit-hole,’ Magnus opined as a few ragged beggars peered at them out of a gloomy side street.

  ‘That’s why it’s used as a place of exile,’ Sabinus said. ‘The poet Publius Ovidius Naso lived out the last years of his life here, the poor bastard.’

  ‘It once was a great Odrysian port,’ Sitalces said mournfully, ‘until you Romans conquered the northern part of Thracia and turned it into the province of Moesia; then it went into decline as you have no need for a port here and we now use the ports in what’s left of our kingdom.’

  ‘How do the inhabitants survive then?’ Artebudz asked.

  ‘They still do some trade with the Bosporan kingdom in the north and the kingdom of Colchis in the east, but that’s about it; so it’s mainly fishing and piracy, not that they’d admit to the last, of course.’

  ‘I thought that Pompey Magnus cleared the seas of pirates,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Not the Euxine,’ Drenis said, spitting on the ground. ‘He only cared about protecting your precious trade and grain routes in your sea. A lot of the pirate crews just moved north to the Euxine.’

  ‘There’re still some in the Mare Aegeum,’ Sabinus informed them. ‘There’re plenty of places to hide amongst all those islands. On the way here my ship was chased by pirates as we sailed around the southern tip of Achaea; if it hadn’t been for some fine archery they’d have got us, but they lost their enthusiasm after we brought ten or twelve of them down including the captain, a nasty-looking, ginger-haired brute; he could have been one of your lot, Sitalces. Mind you, not all pirates are bad; the Cilician pirates brought the Lord Mithras to the Empire about the time of the Spartacus slave revolt.’

  ‘Who’d have thought it, Mithraic pirates.’ Vespasian laughed. ‘I suppose they make light of heavy weather.’

  ‘Don’t laugh, little brother,’ Sabinus cut in seriously. ‘The Lord Mithras shines his light on all men equally, good or bad, believers or not; he makes no judgement because he died to redeem us and was resurrected after three days to show us that death can be beaten.’

  ‘I didn’t notice Faustus beating it,’ Magnus observed.

  Sabinus glared at Magnus. ‘Death is not just physical.’

  Vespasian stopped short of making a flippant remark as he saw the depth of conviction on his brother’s face.

  ‘That looks to be our ship,’ Sitalces said, defusing the tension. The Thracian royal standard flapped in the wind on the mast of a huge, bulky, moon-lit quinquireme, rocking at its mooring on a swell that was substantial, even within the harbour.

  Relieved that the theological discussion had been curtailed, they hastened along the deserted quay to the quinquireme’s guarded gangway.

  ‘Sitalces, you big old bugger,’ the guard captain called as they approached, ‘we didn’t expect you to be on time; not that we’re going anywhere in this weather.’

  ‘I’d have thought that the trierarchus would be the best judge of that, Gaidres,’ Sitalces replied, dismounting and slapping the guard on the shoulder. ‘What makes a foot-slogger like you think you’re qualified to make such a nautical judgement?’

  ‘I’m not a foot-slogger any more, I’m a marine and well qualified to make nautical judgements; I base them upon the amount of praying the old man’s doing, which is a lot since this wind got up,’ Gaidres said with a grin. ‘Come on board and hear it for yourselves. Tie the horses up, I’ll have someone feed them; we can see to them in the morning.’

  ‘This weather will deteriorate,’ Trierarchus Rhaskos said, looking up past the mast to the night sky that had started to fill with scudding clouds. ‘This wind is forewarning us of Zbelthurdos’ wrath. He is coming; he rides to hurl his lightning-bolts at us and soon we’ll hear the thunder of his great horse’s hooves and the howling of his faithful hound.’

  ‘Do you me
an there’s going to be a storm?’ Vespasian asked testily. How much talk of gods did a man have to endure in one evening?

  ‘Yes, when Zbelthurdos is angry a storm usually follows,’ Rhaskos replied, scratching his woolly grey beard, which, set under his short-cropped, grey hair, gave Vespasian the curious impression that his head was on upside down. ‘We must placate him. I shall prepare a sacrifice; one of your horses should do the trick.’

  ‘You are not sacrificing our horses to your gods,’ Sabinus stated categorically. ‘They-’

  ‘They’re army property,’ Vespasian put in quickly before his brother offended anyone by denouncing the Thracian gods in favour of Mithras.

  ‘Mine is the property of the Queen,’ Sitalces said. ‘I’m sure that she would be pleased to offer it for sacrifice.’

  Vespasian was not so sure but knew enough about the consequences of insulting the Thracian gods to keep his doubts to himself. Rhaskos looked pleased. ‘Good, that’s settled then. You have a prisoner, I believe?’ He turned to where Rhoteces lay struggling on the deck between Magnus and Artebudz. ‘The Queen asked me to construct a special cell for him; you’ll find it on the oar-deck. Gaidres will show you down, he’s been assigned with ten of his men to guard the prisoner.’

  ‘Drenis and I will, er… sort out the horse,’ Sitalces said to Vespasian as he turned to follow Gaidres. He nodded his assent; Sabinus snorted.

  They followed Gaidres the fifty paces down the length of the huge ship, Magnus and Artebudz dragging the bound priest between them by his arms. The deck creaked and heaved below their feet and the wind whistled past the vibrating stays supporting the mast. The two brothers were already starting to feel the ill effects of the sea by the time they reached a hatch at the bow of the vessel. A waft of human excrement and urine hit them as they made their way down a ladder on to the oar-deck.

  ‘Smells like we’re in the shit again, sir,’ Magnus remarked from the top of the ladder as he passed the unwilling Rhoteces down to Artebudz and Sabinus.

  Vespasian’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of a few weak oil lamps and his mouth dropped open in shock as he made out the forms of scores of rowers asleep over the oars that they were chained to. The Thracians, unlike the Romans, used slaves to power their ships.

  ‘How do you maintain discipline down here?’ he asked Gaidres, astounded.

  Gaidres shrugged. ‘They’re all chained hand and foot and can’t go anywhere. Besides, they all know that if they make trouble they just go over the side and we replace them with one of the spares we keep down in the bilge.’

  ‘Yes, but if a slave has so little to live for then he has nothing to lose. That’s why we use freemen; you can trust them to all pull together and not try and sabotage the ship, because if they stay alive they get citizenship after twenty-six years’ service.’

  ‘Look, don’t ask me, I’m just a marine; I don’t know the whys and wherefores of it all. And don’t go feeling sorry for the bastards either, a lot of them are captured pirates getting a taste of what they’ve meted out to others.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Vespasian muttered, looking around incredulously. ‘I just worry about my safety on a ship powered by slaves who don’t care if they live or die.’

  ‘It’s no wonder you never became a sea power,’ Sabinus observed. ‘You must have been too busy worrying about what’s going on down with the slaves to be able to concentrate properly on winning a battle.’

  ‘Well, that’s how it’s always been done and I don’t ask questions. Come on, the cell’s this way.’ Gaidres opened a small door, ducked and stepped through.

  Vespasian and Sabinus followed him into a small, danksmelling cabin. By the faint light of the moon, streaming down through a grating in the deck above, Vespasian could see an iron cage, five feet high, wide and deep.

  ‘Bring him in here, Magnus; Artebudz, get one of those oil lamps,’ he said as Gaidres started fumbling with a key.

  With the help of the small amount of light provided by the lamp, Gaidres managed to get the key in the lock and the cage door swung open. Inside were a set of manacles and leg-irons attached to the cage by heavy chains.

  ‘I’m going to take the gag off,’ Vespasian warned Magnus and Artebudz, who both had a firm grip on the priest. ‘Watch out for his teeth, they’re nastily sharp.’

  As the gag came off a gobbet of phlegm flew into Vespasian’s face. He punched Rhoteces in the stomach, causing his head to fall forward; Magnus and Artebudz’s firm grip preventing him from doubling up.

  ‘Now listen, you little shit,’ Vespasian growled, ‘we can do this the easy way and you don’t struggle as we chain you up; or the hard way, which will involve you waking up with another crack in your skull.’

  Gasping for breath Rhoteces lifted his head, his vicious eyes glaring with hatred; he contorted his weasel face into a snarl, baring his filed, yellow front teeth. His mouth was uneven, unhealed from where Asinius had slit it nearly four years previously.

  ‘It doesn’t matter which way we do it, Roman,’ he hissed. ‘This is futile, none of us will get to Rome; you because you will all die on this voyage, and me because my gods will bring me back alive to Thracia without ever setting foot in that accursed city of yours. This I predict by the will of Zbelthurdos whose anger you have incurred by seizing me. I curse this voyage in his name; this ship will never reach Rome. ’

  A shrill whinny pierced the air and then was suddenly cut off, followed almost instantaneously by the sound of a heavy body collapsing to the ground.

  Rhoteces’ snarl turned into a lopsided leer. ‘Zbelthurdos has heard the curse. But it’ll take a lot more than a horse to expiate the insult to my gods; Roman blood is what will be needed.’

  Vespasian slammed his fist into the priest’s face, flattening his nose. He slumped, unconscious, between Magnus and Artebudz.

  ‘The hard way it is then,’ Vespasian said, walking past Sabinus and out of the cabin.

  PART III

  THE MARE AEGEUM, JUNE AD 30

  CHAPTER VIII

  It was hot; very, very hot. There was not even the slightest breeze to bring a modicum of relief from the relentless heat as the quinquereme rowed down the eastern coast of the island of Euboia. The sun burned down on to the ship from its midday high, heating the timber deck so that the barefooted crew were unable to walk upon it and were forced to stay under the large awning that had been rigged at the stern of the ship. Not that there was much for them to do; the sails could not be set as there was no wind; nor had there been since they had left Tomi.

  For twelve days now the slaves had driven the ship forward, stroke after stroke to the steady beat of a drum — used by the Thracians in preference to the Roman flute — ten hours a day, in the oven-like conditions of the oar-deck; their only respite being two hours in the blackness of the bilge before being rotated back up again to the misery of their mono-purposed existence. Encased in a wooden prison, chained to the oars that gave the only definition to their lives, shitting and pissing in a bucket brought round to where they sat, they existed in a twilight world were the only different sensation during the mind-numbing day was the lick of the whip across their shoulders should their toil be deemed inadequate.

  The stench of their living hell wafted up above them to Vespasian and his comrades who sat under the awning. They sweltered in the heat that had plagued them since the storms and rough seas, which had delayed them for almost twenty days in Tomi, had suddenly ceased overnight, after Rhaskos had sacrificed both Drenis’ and Artebudz’s horses. The following morning the clouds had dissipated, leaving the sun free to burn down on them, intensifying with every mile they travelled further south.

  Their routine aboard ship was mind-numbing too, but through boredom rather than repetitive labour; from dawn when they sailed to the tenth hour when they anchored for the night there was absolutely nothing to do other than watch the coastline drift past and make scraps of conversation. Relief from the tedium came in the form of evening hunting expedi
tions in the game-abundant hills above the coves and inlets that provided their nightly shelter.

  Fresh water had become the biggest problem. Although Rhaskos knew the coastline well and always managed to contrive to anchor for the night near a stream, the ship did not carry enough casks to supply the parched slaves with the fuel they needed to maintain their relentless exertions. Despite often stopping during the day to take on new supplies of the precious liquid there was never enough and the slaves had started to weaken. Every day for the last few days two or three, either dead or too frail to be of any further use, had been thrown over the side.

  ‘There goes another unlucky bastard,’ Magnus commented as the latest filth-encrusted body was thrown overboard; a weak cry showed that he was not quite dead.

  ‘If we carry on at this rate there’ll be none left to make the crossing to Italia,’ Vespasian observed, calculating that the more slaves that died the more work surviving ones would be forced to do, thus accelerating the death rate. ‘We need a wind.’

  ‘I have never known it to be so calm for so long,’ Rhaskos moaned from his position next to the steering-oars. ‘I sacrifice every evening to the mother-goddess Bendis but she does not listen to my prayers, even though in the past she has always looked kindly upon me. I’m beginning to worry that this voyage is cursed.’

  Magnus raised his eyebrows and looked at Vespasian, who kept his face neutral. None of them had said anything about Rhoteces’ curse to anyone. They had all considered it to be the theatrical gesture of a cornered and desperate man and had dismissed it from their thoughts. However, the strange weather conditions since had started the superstitious parts of their minds thinking, and their worries were not helped by the sound of the priest constantly muttering in his cage in a strange language that neither Sitalces nor Drenis could understand. Only Sabinus had seen the positive side of a potential curse upon the voyage when they had discussed the possibility the previous evening: the flat calm had meant that he had kept the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be rather than spreading them across the length of the Mare Aegeum.