by Jack Ludlow
Once they had left the settled part of the province behind there was no road in the Roman sense, just a cart track that was sometimes good and at other times non-existent. It skirted the coast where the landscape permitted, but the sheer cliffs and deep ravines often drove it inland, forcing them to advance gingerly through dense forest, with Flaccus, superstitious as ever, murmuring incantations to Nemestrinus, skirmishers out in front and everyone’s javelins at the ready. They reached Thralaxas just as the sun went down and Flaccus, in line with his orders, detached two of his maniples to hold the narrow defile and make it as safe as they could while he pressed on, using the moonlight to guide him.
They had set out from Salonae briskly enough but having been on the march all day, and though it had clouded over late in the day, they had spent a long time under the blazing sun. Clodius plodded along wearily, just concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, while mentally moaning like the good soldier he was. His tired mind told him he was too old for this sort of thing. Not that the younger men seemed to be faring any better; their steps, too, were punctuated with numerous curses as they slipped and slithered on the treacherous track, especially when the moon slipped behind the clouds. Flaccus was immune to blandishments, refusing to slacken the pace, issuing dire threats of punishment to those whose complaints reached his ears. Clodius was long enough, in both teeth and legions, to know that it was a dangerous course of action, marching along at this pace, in single file, with only the moon and the stars to light your way, for it could not be done in silence, and all Flaccus’s praying to every Roman god he could think of would not change matters. An enemy, if they were close enough to hear, would have ample time to prepare for their arrival. Flaccus might think he was obeying the general’s orders; to Clodius’s mind he was exceeding them. It was hard to keep too many secrets in a legionary camp, and everyone knew that Flaccus had instructions not to risk casualties.
‘Keep moving, you bonehead,’ snapped Clodius, bumping into the man in front of him. The moon had slipped behind a huge cloud, plunging them all into almost total darkness.
‘Quiet there,’ called Flaccus, trying to shout and whisper at the same time and Clodius realised that the column had come to a halt. He heard several curses as legionaries who, like him, had been plodding along head down, crashed into those in front of them until eventually silence fell. Close to the front of the column, Clodius could see Flaccus framed against the clouded sky, which had a faint orange tinge, throwing into sharp relief the pines at the top of the hill they were ascending. The gap, where the cart track cut through, stood out clearly between the trees on either side. Flaccus came back down the line, stopping just behind Clodius, quietly issuing orders to his second-in-command.
‘Deploy your men to one side of the track and stay out of sight. I’m going on ahead to see what’s up. If we come back at a run, kill anyone who’s chasing us.’
‘And then?’ asked the senior legionary, a man half Flaccus’s age and with a tenth of his experience.
The sarcasm in the centurion’s voice was so heavy Clodius could conjure up the hard look that went with it. ‘Then? You must be hungry after a long day’s march, lad. Light a fire and send some men out to hunt down your supper.’ A thick growl followed that. ‘If you’re lucky you might have a few uninvited guests.’ The man mumbled an apology and Flaccus relented enough to explain what should have been obvious. ‘You follow us. We’ll set up another ambush if we can. You keep moving. Don’t stop till you get back to the pass at Thralaxas, even if that means leaving us to our fate.’
Flaccus brushed past Clodius, calling on him, and those in front, to move out. ‘Quietly now.’
As they came near to the top of the hill, the noise, which had been masked by the hill, grew steadily louder. They could hear, clearly, the sound of the laughing, the shouting and most of all the screaming. Flaccus bade them slow down to a crawl as he approached the crest, dropping onto his belly and sliding the last few yards through the trees. The men with him followed suit, spreading out on either side of the cart track. They found themselves looking down into a well-lit glade, full to bursting with enemy soldiers. The fires came from the burning wagons and the heap of possessions that had been built into a bonfire.
Clodius could hear the women scream, see the queues of men waiting to take their turn in raping them. They lay, some held face up and others face down, their pale skins stark in the firelight. Trees off to the right were laden with bodies hanging from ropes. Dead, they swung in the faint breeze and judging by the number of wounds, these poor unfortunates had been used for target practice. The cart track ran straight ahead down the hill in front of them. Clodius, lying right beside Flaccus, could see the two files of men lining either side. Roman soldiers, stripped naked but for their leather helmets were being forced to run between the lines. Those at the far end had whips, those in the middle clubs, but the men at the end had swords. They watched as one unfortunate set off at a run, goaded by a spear in the backside. He tried to shy away from the whips, but with little success, then he came under a steady stream of blows when he reached those of his enemies with clubs, which made him stagger from side to side. His arms were raised around his head in a pathetic attempt to protect himself, and he was nearly down on his knees when he reached the swordsmen. They started by giving him gentle stabs, then one fellow, who had just helped himself to a swig from a wine gourd, slashed at the tendons on the back of his leg. The Roman fell forward, emitting a scream of pain and this seemed to excite the others, who joined in, cutting and stabbing, all the while laughing and taunting their victim who rolled on the ground in a futile attempt to avoid his fate. Clodius closed his eyes, not wishing to see the final agony of the fellow, as he was hacked to death.
‘Over there, look!’ said Flaccus.
Clodius raised his head to follow the pointing finger of his centurion. Flaccus had spotted a solitary wagon, clearly Roman by its design, off to one side of the clearing, well away from those burning in the centre, faintly visible because it still had its white canopy intact. The clouds obscured the moon, so it was far from easy to make out anything else until one of the burning wagons in the centre of the clearing collapsed, sending up a great whoosh of sparks, which illuminated the whole area. The sun-bleached canopy of the wagon now stood out clearly, but his attention was drawn to something else. Just in front of that solitary wagon he saw, like a tableau, two naked men simultaneously assaulting a young girl. You could see by her tiny breasts and gamine figure that she was not yet fully grown. One had her hair in his hands, and was pulling her head ferociously into his groin while the other stood behind her thrusting forward with as much vigour as his companion. Their arms and armour gleamed dully in the grass beside them. The sparks died down, plunging the whole thing back into near darkness.
‘I wonder if we could get down there?’ said Flaccus, peering into the gloom.
‘She won’t be much use to no one by the time those two are finished,’ said Clodius sadly.
‘I don’t mean the girl, you idiot. I’m talking about the wagon.’
‘What do we want a wagon for?’ snapped Clodius, putting aside his normal deference, genuinely angered by his commander’s indifference.
‘No wonder you’re poor. If that wagon ain’t burning like the rest, that has to tell you something.’
‘Like what?’
Flaccus leant close making sure that no one else heard. ‘Like it might have something of value in it. If Publius Trebonius got out of Epirus on the double, I doubt he’d leave without taking his gold with him.’
‘Gold!’ Clodius replied breathlessly. It was a word that never failed to excite him.
‘His treasury, you dope. The money he needs to do his job of governing. Look at the base of that wagon.’
‘I can hardly see the damned thing.’
As if on command, a second shower of sparks shot up from the blaze to show another soldier staggering down the line, in much worse shape than the man who
had gone before him. He fell to his knees having only covered half the distance. One of the clubmen stepped forward and felled him with a single huge blow that split open both his leather helmet and his skull. He was dragged out of the way and the twin lines of men looked away from the watching legionaries, waiting for the next victim. Flaccus had not taken his eyes off the wagon. Clodius, having had a quick look at the dying man, turned back and saw the two men who had been raping the girl reach for their armour. She lay face down on the ground now, her body racked with sobs. The one furthest away picked up his sword, raised it high in the air, and with one swift blow, decapitated her.
‘Bastard,’ said Flaccus without emotion. The fire died down again. He was watching to see if the men rejoined the others in the centre of the clearing, but they did not emerge from the gloom. ‘That does it. Those two bastards are set to guard that wagon. It must have something of value in it. Come on.’
Flaccus slid back from the crest, tugging at Clodius to follow him at the same time as he called to the others to stay put. Once he was out of sight of those over the hill, he stood up, setting off at a run to a point further along the crest. Clodius followed reluctantly, grumbling under his breath. Flaccus had near thirty men with him, why collar him for the dangerous work? The centurion ran, crouched over, using his left hand to stop himself from sliding. His heart was pounding and his head was filled with the soothsayer’s prophecy. Judging that he had gone far enough, he threw himself flat and slid back to the crest where Clodius joined him. They were now on the far side of the single wagon, which was silhouetted against the bonfire. Another great cheer rent the air as another mangled body was thrown onto the pile at the end of the twin files of death. Flaccus tugged eagerly at Clodius’s tunic and whispered to him.
‘I was right. Look at those two. They’re guarding that bleeding wagon.’
Clodius could hear the excitement in Flaccus’s voice, and he did not like the sound of it one bit. He too saw the men, leaning on spears, watching what was taking place at the centre near the bonfire.
‘Come on.’
‘What!’
Clodius tried to free the arm that Flaccus had grabbed, but he suddenly found the centurion’s face pressed right into his own. He could feel the man’s hot breath on his nose.
‘You’ve always wanted to get hold of some loot, now’s your chance. Maybe you can pay me back what you owe me. All we have to do is kill those two bastards and we can help ourselves to whatever there is in that wagon.’
‘What about the rest of the men. Surely it would be better if there were more of us.’
‘Oh yes. Let’s all charge down there. It’ll only take one of them sods near the fire to turn round and it’ll be you and me trying to make our way down that line.’ Clodius felt fear drain the blood from his face. ‘This has to be done swift and silent.’
‘Why me?’
‘You was the one closest to me, mate, and I can’t do it on my own. I’ll wager there’s enough gold in that wagon to see you into the senate.’
‘But it’s not ours.’
‘Then pray to Furina for help, because if we can I intend to steal it.’
Clodius heard the slight scraping sound as Flaccus pulled out his sword. Then the man was over the crest, bent double to reduce his profile. The word gold reverberated around his head as he swallowed hard, pulled out his own weapon, and followed Flaccus over the top. The moon was out again, but their quarry were too intent on being spectators to see them coming, and the noise from the cheering crowds in the middle of the clearing masked the sound of their approach. They stood behind them, poised on tiptoe, and, at a nod from Flaccus, Clodius reached over his victim’s head, grabbed the front of his helmet and pulled it back. The strangled gasp caused by the tightened strap died as the point of the sword cut through his windpipe, then he hauled hard, dragging the man down till he lay flat on his back. The sword plunged sideways, missing the breastplate, slicing into the man’s heart and as he pushed, Clodius heard the ribs cave in. Flaccus stood over the inert body of his victim, who had suffered a similar fate. He lifted his lower tunic, and, with a swift motion, he sliced off his genitals, then stuffed them in the man’s mouth. Clodius heard him, even if it was only a whisper, as he rubbed his bloody sword on the thick grass.
‘That’s for the girl, you bastard, and may the Goddess of Death show you her arse.’
Flaccus then headed for the wagon, jumping up and tearing back the flap. Clodius followed. It was pitch dark inside.
‘We can’t see a thing.’
The sound of ripping canvas was all he got as a reply as Flaccus stuck his sword through the roof of the wagon, then pulled hard. A faint burst of light from the moon lit the interior.
‘Just as I thought,’ said the centurion, kneeling down. Clodius looked over his shoulder. The white light from the moon caught the brass edges that bound the huge chest. Flaccus was running his hands over it, looking for a way to prise it open.
‘Poke your head out the back,’ he said urgently. ‘Make sure no one’s coming this way.’
Clodius did as he was told. He heard the scraping and cursing at his rear, then the snap that seemed to reverberate round the whole clearing as Flaccus used his sword to break the hasp that locked the chest. He also heard the clinking of coins a few seconds later.
‘Money all right!’ said Flaccus, ‘but I’m buggered if I can see what they are.’ Clodius, keeping his eyes on the enemy, felt the centurion squeeze alongside him. He was holding his hand out in front and the light from the fire caught the gold coins right away. It also caught the look of naked greed in Flaccus’s eye. ‘Just when we’ve got a chance to be rich, Sors be damned, we’re stuck with more gold than we can carry.’
‘We could get the others down here.’
‘No!’ Flaccus used his free hand to grasp Clodius’s arm in a painful grip. He explained quickly about the various prophecies, especially the last one he had had from the old soothsayer in Salonae, his voice rasping and eager, rising when necessary to make himself heard over the sounds from the clearing. ‘There’s enough gold to cover me twice over and that sounds near enough like cheering to me. But this is Roman gold, mate, and you know as well as I do, by rights it should be handed in. If we let all the lads in on the secret, one of them’s bound to croak, even if it’s only through drink. Let’s take what we can carry, scatter the rest, then set this wagon alight.’
‘Seems like a good way to die,’ whispered Clodius
‘No. We’ve got to keep them occupied, even if it’s just pickin’ up money. Otherwise it might be that none of us get out of here. Come on.’
Flaccus was halfway up the hill with the two heavy leather bags round his shoulders when the thought came to him. ‘We’ll never manage this lot. If we need to run we’ll have to throw it away.’
‘So?’ asked Clodius with a painful gasp. He liked gold, but he loved life more.
Flaccus was speaking quickly. ‘We’ll bury it on the other side of the hill, and still set fire to the wagon.’
Another great cheer rent the air. Another Roman soldier died.
‘They’re goin’ to run out of victims soon, Flaccus. I say we should get out of here.’
The centurion dropped all pretence at being nice. His lined face, faintly illuminated by the firelight was screwed up in a passion, his eyes were like flints and his voice carried a snarl that made him sound more animal than human. ‘Lily-livered son of a whore, do the gods ever do what I ask? I could have picked any one of thirty men and I got you. You just do as I say, or I’ll personally add another Roman body to the casualty list.’
There was no doubt that he meant it, just as Clodius knew he could do it and, listing him as missing, never have to explain the casualty. They worked steadily, Flaccus digging a hole with his sword between the base of a tree and a thick thorn bush. Clodius, fetching the heavy bags from the wagon, heard him cursing as the thorns cut his flesh, that quickly followed by an apology to one of the three Goddesses
of the Fates, or maybe it was all three, given the depth of Flaccian superstition. For all that piety, it was Flaccus who realised that the yelling and screaming had stopped and he shot back up to the crest and looked down, Clodius beside him.
‘Something’s up. Time to get out of here. You go down and fire the wagon while I fill in the hole, and be quick about it, for as soon as they’re done over there, one of ’em’s bound to come over and have a look at their booty. Don’t forget to scatter some money about in the grass. Make it look as though we’ve headed south. It will slow them down, especially if they think one of their own has thieved it.’
Clodius slithered down the hill to the wagon. There were just two leather bags left in the chest, joined at the top by a strap. He took them out and slung them round his neck. A sword thrust into the base of each one was enough to ensure a steady stream of gold as he ran to the trees south of the clearing. As soon as the bags were empty he ran back to the wagon, reaching into his tunic for the two hardwood sticks. No legionary ever went anywhere without the means to start a fire, and long practice made them all adept. Clodius scrabbled around, found some dry wood and used his sword to make shavings. Having collected kindling and some dried ferns, he crouched at the back of the wagon, furiously rubbing his sticks together.
He blew gently as soon as he saw a spark and his heart leapt at the first light on the edge of a piece of the shavings. He picked it up and blew on it till it glowed, then laid it down, ferns on top. Blowing again, still gently, he fed more dried fern into the glowing area until they took, flaring slightly, enough to allow him to heap small pieces of kindling on top. Once that had shown the first signs of burning he added the more substantial twigs, pushing the whole lot against the side of the wagon and laid the tarred ropes that held the canvas canopy across the fire. Once a flame got going it would set light to the tar and soon reach the canvas of the roof. That would burn for sure, and if the timber of the wagon itself was dry, as he thought it must be, then the whole thing would be ablaze in no time.