Vespasian: Tribune of Rome (Vespasian 1)

by Robert Fabbri

  The Thracians started to strike camp. It didn’t take long; they had travelled light.

  The four prisoners were roughly manhandled out of the cage and dumped unceremoniously on to the floor of a mule cart.

  ‘Nothing but the best for us, it seems,’ Vespasian said. ‘I was expecting to have to walk; we’ll be the envy of everyone.’

  Corbulo nodded in acknowledgement of the attempt at humour as the four struggled to sit up with their hands and legs still bound.

  ‘Something to eat would be nice,’ Magnus said. ‘I don’t think much of the service. Where’s a nice plump serving wench to take our order?’

  The cart jolted. They were off. The column plodded its way up the hill leaving the three pyres burning and, next to them, still pegged out, the gelded legionary.

  The Romans stopped their singing and began jeering.

  Corbulo smiled. ‘Poppaeus will be pleased when he receives those men. They’ve shown good character; they won’t disgrace the Fourth Scythica or the Fifth Macedonica.’

  ‘Then we shall have to make sure to be there when he does, so we can see his face,’ Faustus said.

  But the idea of escape seemed absurd, bound as they were hand and foot and surrounded by guards. They lapsed into silence.

  The column climbed out of the valley and turned to the southeast. It plodded on for a few miles under the searing midday sun. Conditions in the cart started to deteriorate as the call of nature, so long resisted in the cage, became impossible to ignore. Although they were used to hardship, it was an affront to their dignitas to lie so close together in soiled clothes, like slaves being transported to the mines.

  Vespasian, to avoid the eye of his fellows in these humiliating circumstances, spent his time staring back out of the cart. As he scanned the crest of the last hill they’d descended a lone horseman appeared. He stopped and was soon joined by a few more, and then more, until at least a hundred sat watching the disappearing column from their vantage point, three or so miles away.

  ‘Corbulo!’ Vespasian whispered so as not to attract the guards’ attention. ‘They’re our Gallic auxiliaries, I’m sure of it. Look. Gallus must be coming to rescue us.’

  Corbulo smiled ruefully. ‘If he is, then he’s a fool. He doesn’t even know if we’re alive or not. No, I’m afraid they have just been sent out to make sure that the Thracians are really pulling back, so that Gallus knows that he is safe to move off, free from pursuit.’

  As he spoke the horsemen turned and disappeared back over the crest of the hill.

  ‘I’m afraid that that is the last we’ll see of them.’

  Vespasian turned his eyes back to the hill, willing the cohorts to appear. But he knew it was futile. Corbulo was right: they had seen the last of their comrades whose duty was to the north.

  They were on their own.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  FOR TWO DAYS they bumped along in the cart. Their bonds were checked regularly; any progress that they had made in loosening them was discovered and cruelly repaired. Occasionally the inside of the cart was sluiced out with water, washing away the refuse that they were forced to lie in. They received no proper food, only sheep’s milk, which temporarily sated their hunger, or the odd crust of dry bread unceremoniously stuffed into their mouths. Their joints ached and they grew weaker.

  Unable to sleep for more than short periods at a time Vespasian passed the days and nights by writing letters to Caenis in his head, vowing that he would live to write them for real. He wrote of his love for her and how he first felt that love the moment he saw her outside the Porta Collina. He wrote of his fear for her when he heard that she was Livilla’s captive, and his pride at being a party to her rescue. He promised her that he would win enough money to be able to buy her freedom. But most of all, he promised to love her for ever. When he ran out of things to write he composed her replies; they were full of love for him and pride at his achievements and successes, and always written on wax tablets that he imagined to be somehow imbued with her scent.

  And so he passed the time in his head. The others did likewise, conversation being pointless, as it only ever led to one subject – that of escape – and the hopelessness of their situation would again be reinforced. So with an unspoken common consent they remained silent in order to preserve what morale they had.

  They left the Rhodope Mountains behind and passed down into a wide valley through which ran the slow-flowing Hebrus. Although fertile, much of the valley was uncultivated and covered with forest, the inland Thracian tribes being more interested in banditry than husbandry. The burnt-out settlements that marked the course of the war band’s advance, a few days earlier, attested to the fact.

  Once in the valley their course changed to due east. They plunged into trackless forest. Scouts were sent out ahead through the thick undergrowth to spring any ambushes set by the tribes still loyal to Rome, wanting revenge for land that had been ravaged. But none came.

  On the morning of the third day the trees thinned out and gave way to a narrow area of scrubland, beyond which flowed the Hebrus. Its slow brown water, laden with the sediment that its fast-flowing tributaries had washed down from the mountains in the spring thaw, cut a meandering path through the flat land on either side, ever eating away at the earth on its banks. Groups of small brush-covered islets ranged in gentle sweeps near the shore; the water between them was filled with reeds.

  On the far bank, one hundred paces away, was a fishing village. As the Thracians appeared out of the wood a flotilla was launched. Over fifty small fishing boats and log rafts, crewed by boys, began to paddle across the river; the boys whooped as they raced with each other, all vying to be the first across.

  ‘So that’s how they crossed,’ Corbulo said quietly. ‘When we come back on a punishment raid we’ll destroy every boat we find; not that I plan on leaving anyone alive to use them.’

  Vespasian smiled to himself; he had guessed how Corbulo had spent the time in his head.

  The first boats arrived and the whoops of some of the boys turned into wails of grief as they learnt of fathers or elder brothers who would not be returning.

  The Thracians began to embark. Sacks were pulled over the mules’ heads and the prisoners’ cart was loaded on to what felt like a very unstable raft. The boys crewing it glared at the prisoners. One had tears in his eyes. Vespasian wondered if he had killed the boy’s kinsman, and found himself hoping that he had.

  The raft cast off and Vespasian, knowing that they would not stand a chance in the water, still bound as they were, prayed to Poseidon, who, although Greek, he felt was the most suitable god in the circumstances, to keep them afloat.

  All around them the small boats bobbed in the river, heavily laden with seven or eight men in each. Some of the men were in high spirits, pleased to be going home, but the rest were quiet, mindful of the friends and kinsmen that did not share their luck.

  The blindfolded mules brayed mournfully all the way across.

  The flotilla made three trips before the crossing was complete; there were no accidents. Vespasian couldn’t help but admire the efficiency with which it was carried out. It was a far cry from the ramshackle way in which these people fought.

  Once they were all assembled on the east bank, thirty or so men, who came from the village, bade farewell to their comrades and returned home with the boys. The rest of war band moved off. The grim journey continued across the seemingly endless flat grassland of the eastern bank of the Hebrus.

  At intervals, small groups of warriors split off from the column to make their way home, to the north or south, to the villages and small homesteads that could be seen scattered in the distance. By mid-afternoon there were fewer than four hundred left in the war band.

  ‘This is more like it,’ Magnus said, his spirits raised by the dwindling number of warriors that surrounded them. ‘If it carries on like this it’ll be just us and the guards left, then we’ll see how tough they are.’

  ‘And just how do you plan u
ntie yourself?’ Corbulo asked, coming back to the main problem.

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  They lapsed back into a silence that was disturbed, a few moments later, by the sound of horses galloping. From out of nowhere twenty or so horsemen had materialised. The column halted.

  ‘Where the fuck did they come from?’ Faustus asked, seeing no sign of close habitation.

  The horsemen arrived at the head of the column where they greeted the chief; after exchanging a few words one of them rode back to the cart.

  He stared at the four prisoners with piercing blue eyes. The tip of his nose was missing. A long, ill-kempt, ginger beard that completely hid his mouth covered his lower face; the rest of his head was bald. Huge gold rings hung from his ears. He picked out Corbulo as the most senior and addressed him in good Latin.

  ‘Are you the man who is responsible for the death of my youngest son?’

  Corbulo was taken aback, he had no idea who or how many he had killed in the battle.

  ‘I am responsible for no deaths. It was not I who attacked.’

  ‘But it was you who commanded the Roman column. It was you that led it on to Thracian soil.’

  ‘Thracia is a client of Rome, and we have every right to be here. You would do well to remember that in your dealings with me.’

  The Thracian laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. ‘The arrogance of you people amazes me; even when prisoners, tied up in your own shit, you still talk down to anyone not of your kind. Well, I will tell you this, Roman, I hold you responsible and you will pay.’

  He spat in Corbulo’s face, turned his horse and sped off; the other horsemen followed. A couple of hundred paces from the column they disappeared down into a depression, invisible in the sea of grass. The column followed. They descended into an almost round basin about two hundred paces across and fifty deep. At the bottom was a large camp of over five hundred tents. It was so well hidden that an army could march within a quarter of a mile of it and not see it.

  Night had fallen. Fires, not allowed in the camp during the day because of their smoke, had now been lit. Sheep were being roasted whole on spits; the smell of cooking mutton wafted over the camp. The drinking had started, and the Thracians’ mood began to change from the sombreness of defeated men to one of intoxicated bravado. Heroic deeds were recounted and embellished, boasts were made and vows of vengeance sworn. Fights broke out, screaming slave girls and boys were brutally tupped and more rough wine drunk. The seriousness of the fights intensified and the drinking became reckless. The noise steadily escalated.

  Vespasian and his companions sat at the centre of this chaos. They still wore their uniforms over their stained and filthy tunics. Their feet remained bound but their hands had been freed so that they could eat from the plate of gristle and semi-gnawed mutton bones that had been placed before them. Four guards, drinking steadily from wineskins, watched over them.

  ‘It’s like a market-day night in the Subura,’ Magnus commented through a mouthful of half-chewed fat.

  ‘Except it doesn’t smell so bad,’ Corbulo pointed out truthfully.

  Vespasian lifted the hem of his soiled tunic. ‘We’d fit in very well there wearing these, I imagine.’

  ‘We wouldn’t smell out of place at all, in fact we’d smell a lot better than most of the whores,’ Faustus put in.

  Magnus grinned and carried on chewing; he was determined to get that lump of fat down.

  A blind-drunk Thracian tripped over one of their guards’ legs and fell towards Vespasian, vomiting.

  ‘Watch yourself, sir.’ Magnus pulled his friend from out of the man’s path. The Thracian crashed to the ground, convulsing as he brought up the contents of his stomach.

  Vespasian recoiled from the stench; then his eyes widened slightly as he noticed the man’s dagger had become unsheathed in the fall; it lay on the ground only a foot away from his thigh. The guards dropped their wineskins and rose unsteadily to their feet, casting shadows over where the dagger lay. They shouted at their comatose comrade, who, naturally, didn’t respond. Magnus, who had also seen the opportunity, waved at the guards and made good-humoured drinking motions with his hands. The guards laughed. Vespasian edged his leg slowly towards the dagger. A guard stepped over him to heave the man away. He trod on the dagger but failed to notice it; as he stepped forward to lift the drunk he pushed the dagger backwards, closer to Vespasian. Magnus started pointing at himself, gesturing to the other guards to give him a drink; one of them shrugged, picked up a wineskin and lobbed it over to him. Vespasian lifted his thigh and flicked the dagger underneath.

  ‘That is rough,’ Magnus grimaced, having taken a slug of wine. He leant over and passed the skin to Corbulo, asking under his breath. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Corbulo took a sip. ‘We’ll wait a while, until they’ve all drunk themselves senseless – which won’t take long if this is what they’re drinking.’ He passed the wine to Faustus who took a mouthful and almost choked.

  When they had finished eating the guards retied their hands. Vespasian managed to keep his leg firmly pressed down on the dagger beneath it, even though it meant his foot rested in the pile of vomit.

  They settled down to wait their chance. For the first time since their capture a sense of optimism prevailed over the group. They feigned sleep, surreptitiously watching their guards steadily drink their way through their wineskins. All around the sound of fighting, arguing and fornicating gradually abated as, one by one, the Thracians drank themselves into a stupor and collapsed next to the dying fires. Eventually the last of the guards rolled on to his back and started to snore, his wineskin resting, almost empty, on his chest.

  Vespasian lay on his side and carefully worked his tied hands down to the dagger. His fingers soon found the hilt and closed around it. Rolling over on to his other side he wormed his way closer to Magnus, holding the dagger firmly in both hands.

  ‘You’ll have to help me here; bring the binding to the blade.’

  Magnus pulled his arms up until he felt the cool blade just above his wrist, then eased himself forward until it rested on the leather binding.

  ‘There you go, sir, can you feel it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes. Now stay still and don’t shout if I cut you.’

  Magnus made a face to himself: as if.

  They lay back to back while Vespasian sawed away with the dagger. Corbulo and Faustus kept a wary watch, but no one was moving in the camp. It didn’t take long. As soon as his hands were freed Magnus took the dagger and cut the bonds of his comrades. Within moments they were all free.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  Corbulo rubbed his wrists. ‘Kill the guards, take their swords and cloaks then get the fuck out of here. Any better suggestions?’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  One of the guards stirred in his sleep. They froze. He rolled over on to his side, lifted his tunic and pissed where he lay. He fell back to sleep without bothering to adjust his dress.

  ‘Let’s get on.’ Corbulo reached out his hand to Magnus. ‘Give me the dagger.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but this is my sort of work – if you want it done quietly, that is.’

  Corbulo nodded; just by looking at Magnus anyone could tell that he was no stranger to administering swift and silent death.

  Magnus crawled quietly to the exposed guard. Within an instant his eyes were bulging, his throat torn open and his mouth firmly clamped shut by Magnus’ strong left hand. He struggled momentarily and then fell limp.

  Soon the other three had gone the way of their colleague.

  Wrapped in their newly acquired cloaks, and with swords at the ready, Corbulo led them stealthily through the camp. Staying low they weaved between the fires, keeping, as much as possible, to the shadows. They despatched any Thracians that they came across who had been too drunk to make it to a fire or a tent, slitting their throats where they lay. Gradually the fires thinned out and they reached the edge of the camp.


  ‘We need horses if we’re to make it back to the river before our absence is noticed,’ Corbulo whispered. ‘We’ll skirt around the perimeter. There must be some close by.’

  Outside the camp they were able to move far quicker: the moon had set and their cloaks blended in with the inky slopes of the basin. They jogged sure-footed across the even grass, keeping a wary eye out for any pickets posted in the darkness. There were none.

  A quarter of the way round Vespasian stopped. ‘Sir,’ he hissed, ‘over there.’

  Twenty paces away on the fringe of the camp, silhouetted against the dim glow of the fires, were the horse-lines. The dark shapes of four or five tents could be made out just beyond. Nothing moved around them; the guards, if there were any, were sleeping.

  ‘We don’t have time to saddle them up but we do need to find some bridles,’ Corbulo whispered. He peered at Vespasian through the darkness. ‘Tribune, you come with me, they must be in one of those tents. Faustus and Magnus, get us four horses, we’ll meet back here.’

  They crept down to the horse-lines.

  Leaving Magnus and Faustus untying the nervous creatures, Vespasian followed Corbulo in search of the livery tent. The snorting and stamping of the jumpy horses behind him made him very uneasy.

  ‘How the fuck do we know which tent they’re in?’ he murmured.

  ‘We’ll just have to look in each one,’ Corbulo replied, creeping up to the nearest tent. He took the right-hand flap and indicated to Vespasian to take the other. Very gently and with swords poised they parted them.

  ‘Good evening.’

  Two spear points pressed against their throats. They froze. Nausea flooded Vespasian’s throat.

  ‘I’d drop those swords if I were you.’

  They slowly lowered their blades and let them drop. Behind them Vespasian felt the arrival of more men.

  ‘Now step back.’

  They eased backwards, the spear points biting into skin, drawing blood. The warriors holding them stepped out of the tent and behind them emerged the bearded, bald horsemen from the day before.