Augustus- Son of Rome

by Richard Foreman

  The orders were clear. Once he had given the signal his men, numbering fifty, would attack the party on both sides simultaneously. A compliment of archers and javelin throwers would launch their missiles before joining the rest of the cohort to race down the grass slopes between the trees and road. The priority was to find and assassinate the boy - but no one was to be spared. The mission called for corpses, not prisoners or witnesses. They would bury the bodies in the forest.

  Enobarbus’ agents had confirmed that Lucius Oppius was leading the party. He looked forward to doing battle with the famed centurion, who had made his name off the coast of Britain all those years ago. He would need more than the Legionaries’ Prayer to keep himself safe now, though. Prayers had done little to help the two scouts that Oppius had sent along the Appian Way. They had duly revealed the proximity of the rest of the party, before Gravius slit their throats.

  Gravius first heard the tamp of boots and rumble of wagons on the road, before he spied the party. The menacing centurion gripped the handle of his giant double-bladed axe, a trophy won from a warlord in Long-Haired Gaul. His eyes glinted as brightly as the steel in anticipation of the attack and slaughter.

  “Archers at the ready,” he instructed, grinning.

  “We will soon be in Rome, Lucius.”

  “Where will you head first once there old friend - the baths or brothels? Just make sure that both are clean. You’re itching to get back to Rome it seems. I don’t want you itching from some pox when departing from it.”

  “Fear not, I’ve got more wits and sesterces than when I was last in Rome. And where will you head to?”

  “I can tell you who I won’t be visiting.”

  “Who?”

  “My ex-wife.”

  Roscius tossed his head high and roared with laughter. However Oppius’ attention was fixed firmly on the road. He noted the dark marks splattered across the flagstones. Blood rather than rain. Fresh blood. Something was wrong. The centurion’s keen eyes darted left and then right. The forest had crept even closer towards the road. Something was amiss. They were in the perfect position for an ambush!

  “Defensive positions!”

  The bellowed order was soon accompanied by the sound of a flurry of arrows whooshing from bows. A number of javelins also skewered the air. Thanks to their commander’s constant drilling the reactions were rapid - second nature. Balbus’ men crouched behind their large shields. Without a thought for himself Tiro swiftly moved to cover Caesar with his shield - and thankfully so as an arrow thudded into it.

  Gravius cursed the gods that his initial salvo had been blunted by Oppius’ good, or lucky, judgement. Yet his anger only spurred him on down the slope to his quarry, his giant axe swinging in his hand.

  Oppius ordered his men to close ranks around the baggage carts. If they kept their heads then they may just keep their lives, too.

  Whilst the rest of the escort manoeuvred themselves to defend - Oppius and Roscius attacked. The hulking legionary charged up the slope to meet a brace of the brigands. Their war cries turned into screams however as Roscius turned his shield horizontally and rammed into them both. All three of the combatants were floored but the legionary recovered the quickest to stab one in the chest and the other in the throat.

  Oppius sped to the crucial point of the ambush to help even the odds - whilst shouting orders to his own men. Shields and swords clashed against each other but still his voice could be heard over the melee.

  “Agrippa, get into position on top of the cart. Start shooting the bastards. Cleanthes, to me. Roscius, to Caesar.”

  After delivering his orders, Lucius got in position to outflank the line of attackers outnumbering the defenders. He efficiently unsheathed and unleashed the two daggers he kept upon his belt. Despite his enemies being side-on, both blades bit into the ribs of their targets and felled them.

  Even before the order had been issued, Agrippa raced towards the wagon in front of Octavius’ to retrieve his bow. He launched himself on the vehicle. Fear and exhilaration coursed through his body but Agrippa quickly centred himself. He found a target and released the arrow, shooting over the heads of his comrades to plant the shaft into the chest of an attacker.

  Octavius had drawn his sword but he resisted not when Tiro instructed him to hide himself beneath the cart. The veteran stood by him, gladius and shield at the ready to protect Caesar. And protect Caesar he would have to, for a trio of the attackers made a bee-line for the prize. Tiro flinched not, despite it being three to one. For Casca it was like being on his training ground again as he parried and lunged to fend off the brigands. Yet his opponents were not as ill-trained and fearful as his students back in Apollonia.

  “Give it up old man. It’s three against one.”

  “I hope you count as well as you fight,” Roscius exclaimed, slightly breathless from his sprint.

  Whilst the trio were distracted by Roscius, Tiro threw his gladius into one of them, having dropped his shield down to leave his chest exposed. He then swiftly grabbed Octavius’ sword to, along with Roscius, confront the remaining pair. With vicious yet efficient strokes they soon hacked them down.

  Gravius stood with a boot on the dead man’s chest as he worked his axe out of the shattered collar bone. Blood spotted his face. He licked his lips, enjoying the familiar metallic taste. Despite the screams and commotion around him, Gravius calmly located and walked towards his prey, smirking wolfishly as he did so. The enemy were well disciplined and accomplished fighters, but his cohort would out-match and outnumber them in the end. Although outnumbered himself, Gravius was confident of out-matching the two legionaries guarding the Caesar who cowered beneath the cart.

  “You’ll flee if you know what’s good for you. Just leave the boy to me. It took two dozen daggers to kill the last Caesar. But it’ll take just one axe to send this one to the ferryman.”

  Recognising a seasoned soldier and brute when he saw one - it takes one to know one - Tiro approached the powerfully built opponent with caution. Roscius continued to guard Octavius. The two men traded blows and insults. In another man’s hands the axe would have proved too unwieldy to duel with but Gravius handled his weapon as nimbly as Casca did his sword. Such was the force of one of Gravius’ blows that his axe splintered his opponent’s shield, at which point Casca pulled Gravius close to him and butted his nose. Yet Gravius absorbed the blow and butted the veteran back. With his opponent slightly disorientated Gravius cleverly lengthened the reach of his weapon by holding the end of the shaft and swiped low, beneath Tiro’s shield, to slice him deep into his shins. Before Tiro had the chance to recover his opponent buried the axe-head in his chest, cutting through his leather breastplate as if it were papyrus.

  Octavius’ face dropped at witnessing the veteran fall. Even if Roscius could best the ferocious brigand he sensed that they could not survive the attack.

  Eight of Balbus’ men faced close to twenty of the enemy in their ever dwindling shield wall. The ratio was similar on the other side of the road. Such was the attackers’ numerical superiority that they could surround and out-flank the shield wall. And that was their plan, as the bandits were ordered to back off from the shield wall before one last, decisive, offensive.

  But little did the rogue cohort know that one man stood in the way of victory - albeit he stood behind them. During the fight Oppius had ordered Cleanthes to collect up as many stray swords and pilums as he could. The centurion did the same, despatching a couple more of the enemy whilst doing so. The first javelin thudded into an attacker’s back - and its gore-tipped point glistened as it poked out of his sternum. Ere the first man fell Oppius clasped another pilum and, standing twenty metres away, he launched it at the enemy standing next to his first victim. The third turned towards the danger, but still not in time. A sword then twirled through the air and could be seen jutting out of the enemy’s shoulder. Confusion and fear infected the enemy line as Oppius, as if he were completing a training exercise, struck his targets. Balbu
s’ men responded and moved forward as many of the enemy suddenly turned their backs to them. The tide of the battle turned within a minute. Oppius continued to methodically attack the line from behind, as Cleanthes handed him his missiles. Yet not all of Gravius’ men panicked and found themselves sandwiched between the enemies. The man at the far end of the line, possessing a javelin still, peeled away. If he could bring down the centurion then all would not be lost. Oppius was blind-sided to the assassin- but Cleanthes was not. The pilum briefly whistled through the air before spearing into the tutor’s stomach, as he moved himself in front of the centurion. Oppius looked to Cleanthes but the tutor, wincing in pain, gently shook his head to communicate that he was finished, or that Lucius shouldn’t worry about him. Oppius drew his sword, already slick with blood, and fixed his storm-filled eye towards his would-be assassin.

  The axe-head dug into Roscius’ shield. Roscius took his chance to strike at the handle of the weapon. The legionary’s blow was powerful enough to crack the shaft and render the axe useless. Gravius grunted, gifted his opponent a nod of respect, and drew his gladius.

  “Why do you protect this whelp? Because of his name?”

  Gravius pointed his sword towards Octavius. Octavius, desiring revenge for Tiro Casca, had grabbed a nearby gladius and shield - but Roscius beckoned him back. The brigand was too fierce an opponent.

  “No, because he’s my friend,” the legionary calmly replied.

  Witnessing that the tide had turned upon one front, Agrippa focused on the other. Although the two rows of combatants were hazardously close together, Agrippa bided his time and sent another wretch to the underworld, shooting him in the face. The scream momentarily curdled the air before the clang and curses of battle drowned out the sound again.

  Gravius’ lieutenant lunged at Oppius but the centurion deftly avoided the thrust and quickly jabbed his sword up into his enemy’s neck, tearing his gladius out sideways rather than backwards. The centurion then ordered for the remainder of Balbus’ forces to converge on the remaining enemy.

  A cheer soon went up as the bolstered shield wall overcame the remnants of the enemy, routing them.

  Gravius was dextrous with his axe against Roscius - but deadly with his sword. Too swift. Too savage. Blood poured from cuts upon the legionary’s arm, thigh and hip. Drool fell from his mouth as Gravius stood over his enemy and slit Roscius’ throat, the curve of the fatal wound mirroring the grin on the rogue centurion’s face.

  Tears streamed from Octavius’ face - and he gripped his sword as if he would attempt to avenge his friend’s death - but a firm hand upon his shoulder stayed any rush of blood.

  “Gaius, attend to Cleanthes. I’ll attend to this,” Oppius said.

  At witnessing his tutor behind him, dying, Octavius raced to his side.

  “Unfortunately for you, I’ve killed your two best men,” Gravius goadingly remarked.

  “Unfortunately for you, I’m better. Marcus, if this bastard tries to run away then stick an arrow so far through the back of his head that it comes out the other side.”

  Agrippa nodded grimly, as he stood in a horseshoe around the two combatants with his other comrades.

  As when two wild stags, with their nostrils flared and haunches up, will butt and shatter the silence of the forest - so too did the centurions clash, their swords and shields striking each other like antlers. Balbus’ men cheered their commander on. Agrippa nocked an arrow, deciding that he would unleash the bolt if the enemy looked like he was winning, rather than running.

  Cleanthes lay upon the grass on his side, his knees tucked up, his eyes half closed as if he were about to drift off to sleep. His body twitched in pain with each breath he took. Petals of blood bloomed ever outwards upon his tunic. Octavius kneeled before him, clasping his limp hand.

  “Stay with us,” the youth, partly ordering him, partly pleading, exclaimed. Tears soaked his cheeks.

  “It’s time to cross over. There’s someone waiting for me on the other side I hope,” the tutor quietly replied, a contented smile suddenly enlivening his ashen features. With what little strength remaining, Cleanthes squeezed his student’s hand.

  “When you cross over I’ll be waiting for you. I just want to be as proud of you then as I am now.”

  Octavius thought he heard his friend whisper a woman’s name. His grip on his hand - and on life itself - then ebbed away. His serene expression remained however, as the words of Socrates came to him: Death maybe the greatest of all human blessings.

  Gravius attacked more than his opponent. His blows were forceful, the angles of his strokes diverse. Both men tried to foot swipe, head butt and push each other to the ground but both men were experienced and equal to the tactics. Oppius realised that he would need to come up with something different to penetrate his opponent’s defences, else the duel would be one of attrition – and his body was already tiring. He decided he would risk it all - not on the throw of a dice, but rather on the throw of something else.

  Although Gravius was adroit and experienced enough to look for Oppius throwing his gladius, he wasn’t expecting his opponent to throw his shield at him. The large scutum crashed against Gravius’ body and momentarily blinded him. Oppius was quick to take advantage of his opponent’s disorientation. He grabbed Gravius’ wrist on his sword arm with his now free hand and - with a gap opening up between his round shield and body - the centurion swiftly stabbed his enemy in the stomach. The gladius protruded out of Gravius’ back. Oppius made sure to look his opponent in the eye as he slowly twisted his sword, feeling the intestines wrap around the blade.

  *

  The road was littered with corpses, or wounded who would soon be so. Blood browned the yellow grass. Night descended. The wind howled and caused the rain to slant into mournful faces. Prisoners were tortured - and the enemy confessed to being Roman soldiers - but the secret of who was their paymaster had died with their leader. Neither Oppius nor Octavius regretted his death however. The prisoners were then executed. The young Caesar took the time to thank and praise every soldier individually - and he helped them bury their comrades. The only bodies they took with them were Casca, Roscius and Cleanthes.

  31.

  When the party reached the town of Praeneste, Oppius recruited more men and purchased horses, provisions and equipment. They would now travel in safety - and luxury. Balbus’ men were granted a short leave of absence for the evening and following day. Oppius gifted each man a bonus and recommended a couple of establishments at which to spend their bounty.

  A joint funeral service was arranged for Roscius, Casca and Cleanthes. They hoped that their three comrades would enter Elysium together - and to jolly them on their way Oppius poured an amphora of Falernian over their bodies. Their companions, after the service, also worked their own way through a measure of the vintage, celebrating and mourning their friends. Oppius spoke for Roscius, Agrippa for Casca, and Caesar for Cleanthes for the funeral orations.

  “… Rome has lost a legionary, I have lost a friend. I never had to check to know you were by my side. And even now I would take your ghost and memory over any other soldier to fight alongside me. In death you kept your oath - and therefore your honour - to defend Caesar. As such you fought for Rome till the end…”

  “… My cup will be raised as high as my esteem. Actions always spoke louder than words for you but I hope that you can hear me now, Tiro. In treating me like a man I became a man. In disappointing you I believed I was disappointing myself - for somehow you imparted in your teaching a piece of your Roman soul, as well as your military knowledge. I will abide by your lessons in honour of your memory - and to keep me safe. Oppius gave me your letter. I hope to inherit your courage, as well as your sword. I will sharpen the edge at night - and by day sheathe the blade into the enemies of Rome …”

  “… I feel like I have lost another father - and from your will it seems I have inherited another estate. Part of me wishes to venture back to Apollonia and tend to your garden. Yet
- and you would be all too conscious of the irony - the seeds of virtue that you helped sow into me means that I must abandon your estate for another. I must tend to Caesar’s gardens - and ensure that they are gifted to the public … Yet far more important is what is unseen that I inherited from you - to recognise man’s follies but to not always condemn them. To question, yet not always negate. That goodness should be valued over knowledge - and that philosophy cannot and should not bring faith … Death will not snuff out your flame. Your teachings will not vanish with the closure of your academy … I pray my tears do not water down the Falernian. After this night there will be no more tears spilled - just the blood of our enemies.”

  *

  Evening. Puteoli.

  Cicero, Tiro and Caecilia Attica sat around the dinner table. Braziers heated the chamber. The pungent aroma of oysters still filled the air. Marble busts of Thales and Democritus sat upon the centre of the table. The servants had departed to leave Tiro and Caecilia to their venison - and Cicero to his sweetened porridge.

  “It was a shame that you did not get to meet our guest last week, Attica.”

  “I hear he is honourable,” Attica replied with a hint of a question, as much as an assertion, lining her tone.

  “Who told you that, my dear?” Cicero’s smiling eyes briefly narrowed in curiosity, or suspicion.

  “Oh, no one,” the woman remarked, shaking her head and dismissing the hearsay - and the “no one” in question.

  “What did you think of him, Tiro?” Cicero asked. Having already questioned the secretary about the young Caesar, the conversation was more for their dinner guest’s benefit.

  “He has a modicum of Caesar’s wit - but thankfully only a modicum of Caesar’s ambition. But these traits may ripen - or rot - with age. In some ways he seemed to me more studious than ambitious. For instance he would perhaps wish to know about our friend Thales here - and question the sculptor about his methods - rather than just blindly covet the bust because of its rarity and value. Cleanthes said that he wanted Octavius to return to his studies and complete his education. But the tutor owned doubts, as well as hopes, that this would happen.”