Rome's executioner v-2

by Robert Fabbri

  They sank back into the torpor that they had become accustomed to, their minds dulled by the monotonous beat of the stroke-master’s drum, and stared blankly at the mountains of Euboia as the ship followed the curve of the island and began to head east towards Cape Caphereas.

  A shout from one of the slave-masters appearing out of the hatchway at the bow of the ship brought them out of their slow thoughts.

  ‘Trierarchus, look at this one,’ the man shouted, hauling a limp body out of the oar-deck.

  The slave-master dragged the body the length of the ship and then turned it over for his trierarchus’ inspection.

  His face was barely visible beneath the matted, long, black hair and beard but his torso was covered in dark red rashes.

  ‘The gods above,’ Rhaskos cried, ‘slave fever. How many more are there down there with the symptoms?’

  ‘Three, trierarchus, but they are still able to row.’

  ‘Get them overboard now.’

  The slave-master ran off to do as he was ordered whilst two crewmen heaved the infected slave over the side. Moments later shouts erupted from the hatchway and three struggling creatures were hauled out and dragged kicking and screaming to the bow. As they were still very much alive a heavy chain was attached to each of them before they were thrown overboard to disappear into the sea churning beneath the ship’s hull.

  ‘That’s the final proof of it,’ Rhaskos announced. ‘We are under a curse and I’ve no doubt it’s because of the priest. We’ve offended the gods by taking him on board.’

  Vespasian moved closer to Magnus and Sabinus. ‘I think that we should tell him,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Sabinus questioned. ‘You don’t believe all that bollocks, do you?’

  Before Vespasian could answer there was a clatter of oars and the ship lurched to the right, knocking the men on each steeringoar to the deck.

  ‘On your feet, steersmen, pull her round,’ Rhaskos barked, hauling the men back up to their feet.

  Beneath them, on the oar-deck, shouting broke out accompanied by the crack of whips and the rattle of chains.

  The slave-master came pelting out of the hatchway and ran the length of the deck to Rhaskos.

  ‘Trierarchus, the slaves have fouled the oars and are refusing to row,’ he puffed.

  ‘Well, whip them until they do,’ Rhaskos shouted, his voice rising in pitch.

  ‘We are, but it’s not doing any good.’

  ‘Then throw a couple of them overboard as a lesson to the rest.’

  ‘That’s just the point, sir, they’re saying that now that the slave fever has broken out they’re all going to get thrown over anyway so what’s the point of rowing any more?’

  ‘For the love of the earth mother Bendis, they can’t hold us to ransom like that,’ Rhaskos roared. ‘Get three of the ringleaders and secure one of them in the bilge and take the eyes of the other two out in front of the rest; they’ll soon realise that they don’t need to see to row.’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s a good idea,’ the slave-master said, turning to go.

  ‘And tell them that no one else with slave fever will be thrown overboard, unless they’re already dead,’ Rhaskos called after him.

  ‘Is that wise?’ Sabinus asked. ‘Won’t it just spread through them all until there’s no one left to row?’

  ‘Not in two days it won’t,’ Rhaskos snapped, ‘and that’s what we need to get to the oracle of Amphiaraos, at Oropos on the coast of Attica.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘It’s a sanctuary dedicated to healing and foretelling,’ Rhaskos replied with awe in his voice. ‘I’ve been there before for healing and to ask about the outcome of a voyage. There I will get guidance on how to counter the curse on this ship and how stop the slave fever, I’m sure of it.’

  A series of loud shrieks from below halted the conversation. The stroke-master’s drum restarted and the ship got under way.

  ‘Who’s this Amphiaraos then?’ Magnus asked Rhaskos as they walked up a steep track from their anchorage in the glittering cove below. ‘If he’s a god I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s not a god; he’s a demi-god, one of the Heroes,’ Rhaskos replied, removing his floppy straw hat and rubbing the sweat from his freshly shaven head. ‘He was the king of Argos and greatly favoured by the Greek god Zeus, who some say is our Zbelthurdos; he gave him oracular powers. He was persuaded to take part in a raid against Thebes led by Polynices, one of the sons of Oedipus, in an attempt to wrest the kingdom from his brother, Eteocles, who had gone back on his word and refused to share the crown with him after their father had killed himself. Amphiaraos went despite the fact that he foresaw his own death. During the battle, when Periclymenus, the son of Poseidon, tried to kill him, Zeus threw his thunderbolt and the earth opened up, swallowing Amphiaraos and his chariot, saving him from a mortal death so that he would be forever able to use the power that Zeus had given him.’

  ‘How’s telling the future going to remove this curse?’ Vespasian asked.

  ‘So you agree that there is a curse?’ Rhaskos replied.

  Vespasian glanced at Sabinus beside him, who shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm telling him now if he wants to believe all that bollocks.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘Rhoteces did pronounce a curse on the voyage when we brought him on board,’ Vespasian admitted.

  ‘Why in the name of all the gods didn’t you tell me?’ Rhaskos exclaimed indignantly. ‘I could have got a priest to come and counter it when we were at Tomi.’

  ‘Because it’s rubbish, that’s why,’ Sabinus replied forcefully.

  ‘Rubbish! Have you not noticed all the misfortune that has happened to us on the voyage? That’s the proof that it’s not rubbish.’

  ‘We weren’t the only ones to be affected,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Every ship in the Euxine was affected by those storms and every ship in the Aegeum is affected by this calm. What makes you think that the weather is directed solely at us?’

  ‘Because we’re carrying a priest; he has great influence with the gods and can call on their help.’

  ‘Well, I have some sway with my god, Mithras, and so far his influence has been the most powerful,’ Sabinus said. ‘Before we left Tomi I prayed to him and he answered; he’s kept the sea calm for me and I haven’t been sick once.’

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Rhaskos said dismissively, ‘but if you heard that priest utter a curse I can promise you that we are cursed, and I intend to put an end to it.’

  ‘Well, it can’t do any harm, can it?’ Magnus said, looking from one to the other, clearly confused by the argument. ‘I mean, if there is a curse we’ll get rid of it and if there isn’t we’ll just have to do some more praying or whatever.’

  ‘If you start praying for wind and I’m sick all the way back to Ostia I shall personally see to it that you are cursed by every god that you hold sacred,’ Sabinus warned as the track entered a resin-scented cedar wood.

  After a couple of miles of steady uphill walking in the pleasant shade of the sweet-smelling trees the wood suddenly ended and they found themselves in a ravine between two steep hills. Before them, on the west bank, was the sanctuary of Amphiaraos. It was a long thin complex overlooked by a theatre cut into the hillside above. There was a soporific quality about the atmosphere; the few people that Vespasian could see were either walking very slowly or lying in the shade of a colonnaded, covered walkway leading away from the temple just ahead of him. The only sounds were the ubiquitous cicadas and the mournful bleating of a dozen rams in a pen just behind the temple. The rich smell of cooking mutton filled the air.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be a lot happening,’ Vespasian said, suppressing a yawn.

  ‘That’s because the Hero speaks to the supplicants in their dreams,’ Rhaskos replied. ‘You make your sacrifice of a ram, ask your questions of the priests and then you go to sleep on the ram’s fleece and wait for the reply.’<
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  ‘You mean to say that the priests do nothing,’ Sabinus scoffed.

  ‘They’re the conduit, they eat a part of the sacrifice and in doing so they transmit the question or request for healing through to the Hero.’

  ‘Oh, so they do do something, they eat mutton all day.’ Sabinus laughed. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  Rhaskos scowled at Sabinus. ‘This is a very old and sacred place; you didn’t have to come but now that you’re here, respect other people’s beliefs. Now I’m going to buy a ram and make the sacrifice; you can join me if you wish.’

  The ram was, of course, hideously over-priced, the shepherd being well aware that he could charge what he wanted to supplicants who had made the mistake of arriving without their own. After much haggling and a few barely veiled threats from Magnus concerning the shepherd’s well-being after dark, they made the purchase and entered the temple.

  A huge, marble statue of Amphiaraos, reaching almost to the ceiling, dominated the cool interior. Seven flaming sconces were set in a line along its base; beneath each one sat a well-fed priest. In front of the statue stood a hearth filled with red-hot charcoal covered by a grill; next to it was a blood-stained altar upon which lay a knife. Hanging on all the walls were innumerable fleeces from past sacrifices.

  ‘Come forward, supplicants,’ the oldest priest said, rising from the central chair as they entered. ‘My name is Antenor, chief priest of Amphiaraos. What is yours?’

  Rhaskos led the ram to the altar and bowed his head. ‘Rhaskos.’

  ‘Tell us, Rhaskos, what you wish to know of Amphiaraos and what healing you require of him.’

  ‘I have had a curse put upon my ship in the name of Zbelthurdos. I wish to know how to preserve my crew so that we may complete our voyage and I look for healing for my galley slaves who suffer from fever.’

  ‘We will make these requests. Make your sacrifice, Rhaskos.’

  Rhaskos turned to Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus and indicated that they should help him lift the ram on to the altar. As they came forward Vespasian noticed Antenor staring intently, first at him and then at Sabinus.

  ‘Who are these men, Rhaskos?’

  ‘They’re passengers aboard my ship; they are here to witness the power of the Hero, not to make sacrifices themselves.’

  ‘You two are brothers?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Sabinus replied dismissively, unimpressed by the old priest’s perception; even the most cursory glance at them would discern a sibling likeness.

  ‘From where did you sail?’

  ‘From Tomi in the Euxine Sea,’ Vespasian replied, gripping the ram’s horns as it was lifted, unwillingly, on to the altar.

  ‘And you are sailing west?’ Antenor asked, stepping forward to the altar staring all the time at the two brothers.

  ‘To Ostia, yes,’ Vespasian confirmed as he and Sabinus fought against the growing urgency of the ram’s struggling.

  The priest nodded, as if satisfied by what he had heard, and then turned his attention back to Rhaskos. ‘In the name of truth and healing accept this ram, mighty Amphiaraos.’

  Rhaskos picked up the sacrificial knife and flashed it across the ram’s throat. Blood splattered on to the altar. The ram’s eyes rolled in their sockets and its back legs kicked violently as it tried to resist death. Gradually the kicking died down and it sank to its knees; then it collapsed into the pool of its own blood, which soaked up into its fleece.

  The other six priests came forward, each brandishing knives, and began to skin the victim.

  After a while of hacking and sawing the blood-matted fleece came off intact. Antenor nodded his approval and turned the red-raw carcass on to its back. He took the sacrificial knife from Rhaskos and slit open the skinned ram’s belly. With a couple of sharp cuts he removed the liver and placed it on the altar’s edge. Again he nodded his approval — the auspices evidently were good — before something caught his eye and he turned the liver over, picked it up, looked closely at it and then glanced at Vespasian and Sabinus.

  ‘Stay a while,’ he said to the brothers, putting the liver back down. He turned to Rhaskos. ‘Now sleep, Rhaskos, whilst we eat a part of your sacrifice. Amphiaraos’ reply will come in your dream; take care to mark it well.’

  Rhaskos bowed and, taking the fleece, turned to leave as the six priests set about the carcass with their knives, jointing it and throwing pieces of meat on to the grill. Fat sizzled and spat as it dripped on to the charcoal.

  ‘What I have to say is for you two alone,’ Antenor said once Rhaskos had left.

  Vespasian looked at Magnus, who smiled. ‘I can take a hint, sir; I’ll see you outside.’

  As Magnus’ footsteps echoed down the temple the old priest walked around the altar and took the brothers by the chin, one in each hand, and closed his eyes. Vespasian glanced sideways at Sabinus, who looked as nonplussed as he himself was feeling.

  Eventually the priest let them go and opened his eyes. ‘It is as I thought when I first saw you,’ he asserted, ‘and the liver confirmed it.’

  ‘Confirmed what?’ Sabinus asked rubbing his chin.

  ‘For centuries we have been waiting to deliver a prophecy to two brothers who sail north to west on a cursed ship and come before the Hero as witnesses, not supplicants. I am satisfied that you are those brothers.’ He turned to the priests gathered around the cooking mutton. ‘Leto, fetch the scroll.’

  A younger priest scurried off to the temple’s recesses and returned momentarily with a box. Antenor lifted the lid and brought out a parchment scroll of great antiquity.

  ‘This is a record of the prophecies of Amphiaraos,’ he said, unrolling the scroll. ‘Each one has a description of the person or persons to whom it must be delivered. Only the chief priest may read the scroll so that its contents will not be revealed by the loose tongues of the young.’

  Behind him his colleagues had started to return to their seats, each chewing on a hunk of mutton.

  ‘Through the ages all but seven of the prophecies have been read,’ Antenor continued. ‘If you both choose to hear it I will read the one pertaining to you.’

  Ever since overhearing, at the age of fifteen, his parents discussing the omens that surrounded his birth and the favourable prophecy attached to them Vespasian had been intrigued to know its exact content. He looked at Sabinus, whom he knew had, aged almost five, been present when that prophecy had been made but had been bound by an oath never to reveal it. Their father, Titus, had made the two brothers swear a further oath, a greater oath, before all the gods, including Mithras — the only god that Sabinus truly revered — that would enable him to tell Vespasian the contents of the prophecy at some time in the future; perhaps that time was now.

  ‘I’m willing to hear it,’ he said. ‘What about you, Sabinus?’

  Sabinus looked reluctant. ‘It can be dangerous to know too much of the future.’

  ‘I didn’t think you gave much credence to the mysteries of the old gods now that you’re happily bathing in Mithras’ light,’ Vespasian said — unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice — ‘so how can you fear something that you no longer believe in?’

  ‘I don’t deny the existence of the old gods, little brother; I just deny their supremacy over my lord, Mithras. Prophecies made before his coming may well have substance and should be treated with caution; I prefer not to hear it.’

  Vespasian snorted in exasperation. ‘All right, if you don’t want to hear it then that’s fine. Just read to me, Antenor.’

  ‘I can only read it to both of you together or not at all,’ the old priest replied.

  ‘Then it’s not at all,’ Sabinus said, turning to leave.

  ‘Sabinus!’ Vespasian shouted, his voice so commanding that it stopped his brother in his tracks. ‘I need to hear it. You will do this for me.’

  ‘Why should I, little brother?’ Sabinus shouted back, spinning around to face Vespasian.

  ‘Because I have as much right to hear it as you have t
o refuse, but if it is not read out we will never know which one of us was right. So if you walk away now I swear to you, Sabinus, that all the wrongs you have done to me throughout our lives will seem as nothing to the wrong that you do me today, and I will hold a grudge in my heart against you until my grave.’

  The fire in Vespasian’s eyes caused Sabinus to pause and think for a moment. Vespasian could see that he was wrestling with an inner turmoil. He was not just resisting out of pigheadedness; he was genuinely afraid.

  ‘What are you scared of, Sabinus?’ Vespasian demanded.

  Sabinus glared at his brother. ‘Of being left behind.’

  ‘By whom? Me?’

  ‘I’m the elder brother.’

  ‘Age has nothing to do with this, Sabinus, nor does our individual ambition. It’s our duty to raise our family’s dignitas within Rome and in that we’re both equal. Whatever is in this prophesy is for both of us and we should listen to it for the sake of the house of Flavius.’

  ‘As you wish, Vespasian,’ Sabinus said eventually. ‘Let’s hope that I’m wrong and it’s just a load of meaningless twaddle.’

  ‘Thank you, brother.’

  ‘If you have decided then I will read it out to both of you,’ Antenor said placidly. Behind him the other priests sat expectantly on their chairs, gnawing on bones.

  ‘Yes, Antenor,’ Vespasian said.

  Sabinus grunted his assent.

  Antenor lifted the scroll and read out loud:

  ‘Two tyrants fall quickly, close trailed by another,

  In the East the King hears the truth from a brother.

  With his gift the lion’s steps through sand he should follow,

  So to gain from the fourth the West on the morrow.’