Rome's Sacred Flame Read online

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I reckon it was to make sure that they had enough water. Me and my mates managed to pull a couple of them from their horses and showed them what we thought of their treachery, but it was useless and so we scarpered into the night like everyone else that had the energy.’

  ‘What about the decurions?’ Bolanus asked.

  ‘They must have realised that hanging around was suicide as, after such an act of mutiny, their men would never allow them to live, so they fucked off north as fast as their horses could carry them; well, it wasn’t fast enough, was it? Anyway, once they had massacred as many of us as they could they rode after the decurions.’ He nodded to where the bodies were being buried. ‘And they caught them here.’

  Vespasian frowned, shaking his head in confusion. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why go to the trouble of killing all those people when they could just as easily have killed their two decurions and then ridden off into the night?’

  ‘Ah, well, that became clear the following day. The survivors all decided that the only thing to do was press on north as no one wanted to go back to Garama, naturally. We got here a couple of hours before dawn this morning and there they were, the Numidians now being led by Nepos on one of the horses of the men we’d killed. They had the two decurions kneeling on the ground. Nepos came forward and said that now the weak had been weeded out and there were not too many of us so that we would have plenty of water each, we could come with them – on one condition.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Which was that we each had to carry three amphorae of water, one for ourselves, one for the Numidians and one for their horses, and anyone who didn’t would suffer the same fate as the decurions. With that he indicated the men guarding the prisoners and with two flashes of a blade both their heads were in the sand. Well, most people agreed to this slavery, but me and my mates plus a few others were buggered if we were going to carry water for those fuzzy-haired bastards who had just killed their citizen officers so we had a bit of a scrap, which, obviously, we lost and a couple of the lads got theirs. Me and Lupus here managed to run off into the night and decided that the best thing to do would be to wait here for you in order to fill you in on what happened.’

  ‘You were right to do so, Urbicus. Tell me, how long ago did they leave?’

  ‘Pretty much straight away; a couple of hours before dawn.’

  ‘Did they now? That means they can’t be more than five hours ahead of us and they’ll be travelling at the speed of their weighed-down new slaves. We’re all mounted, we can catch them in half a day; well before they reach the second dump.’

  Urbicus’ face betrayed concern. ‘Are you going to leave me and Lupus here, Governor, because we ain’t got horses?’

  Vespasian smiled and looked over at Decianus, sweating in his carriage. ‘No, you haven’t; but I can get you a mule each.’

  CHAPTER V

  VESPASIAN’S MOUTH HAD long since ceased to be moist; his nostrils, eyes and ears all felt as if they contained a substantial portion of the desert despite the cloth tied over his face and the wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his head. The misery of real thirst assailed him and the threat of a dehydrated death in the broiling sun was growing with every mile they proceeded without catching sight of the dust cloud that would surely be raised by their quarry. Beneath him he could feel his mount weakening; indeed, all the horses and mules were beginning to show signs of distress and their pace had lessened considerably in the past hour. Even Magnus, riding next to him, had lost the will to moan; he slouched in his saddle with his eyes closed, enduring the heat and thirst in uncharacteristic silence.

  Discarded amphorae, lying broken on the sand, attested to the fact that they were on the right trail but also emphasised that the Numidian mutineers had a far better supply of water and would therefore be able to keep going for longer and at a faster pace.

  With the skins hanging across the rumps of each horse now almost empty, Vespasian had ordered that water should be given only to the horses and mules for, whilst they lived so did the humans hold out some hope of survival. All had seen the wisdom of this move except Decianus, whose ability to put up with extreme discomfort was being sorely tested, quite literally, by having to ride astride a mule, with nothing but a cloth bag that he had rescued from his carriage slung across the beast to cushion his behind. It had been the one consolation to Vespasian in his present condition that his requisition of two of the ex-procurator’s mules for Urbicus and Lupus and then a third one to lighten the loads of the other beasts, thereby necessitating the abandonment of the carriage, had caused Decianus so much obvious distress and outrage; almost as much as Vespasian insisting that he hand over the agreed price of his passage immediately, unless he would rather his remaining mule were not a part of the water distribution. But those small victories were starting to seem insignificant compared to the very real danger that was growing with every step forward. They were well past the point of no return, even if they had wished to go back to the Kingdom of the Garamantes, now well into the distance due south of them, swathed in wisps of smoke and a place now, no doubt, of unspeakable horror. There was no alternative other than to catch up with Nepos and his mutinous Numidians or die and become food for the carrion birds that followed them in hope.

  ‘Governor!’

  Bolanus’ shout brought Vespasian out of his morbid reverie; he raised his head. ‘What is it, decurion?’

  Bolanus pointed to a collection of rocks about half a mile distant. ‘Straight ahead.’ He signalled for the column to halt.

  Vespasian squinted, his eyes burning in the glare. There were shapes in the shimmer that cloaked the horizon and some of them could not be rocks as there were signs of movement. And yet there was no dust cloud above them. Straining hard to make out the detail he gradually made sense of what he saw. ‘They’ve stopped; they must be resting. Those are awnings flapping that we can see; your men must have rigged their cloaks up against the sun.’

  ‘They’re not my men any more. Nor will they be men for much longer if I get them in my grasp.’

  ‘I think that you may have that opportunity. They must have gambled that we would stop and try to keep out of the sun to preserve our water. That was very foolish.’

  ‘They’ve got no officers leading them to make decent decisions.’

  ‘We’ll approach slowly; with luck the Numidians are asleep and the slaves will realise that we’re here to help them, not kill them, and refrain from raising the alarm.’

  Bolanus evidently did not share Vespasian’s optimism; indeed, Vespasian himself did not believe for one moment that they would be able to get much closer without their presence being noticed and the mutinous cavalry fleeing north to get ever closer to the second water dump. But that did not concern him so much as there was a bigger prize at stake now and, as the camp sprang to life when their approach was finally noted, Vespasian did not feel the same disappointment as Bolanus’ series of curses suggested he did. He kicked his exhausted mount onwards as Nepos and his mutineers hurriedly jumped into their saddles and galloped away.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Vespasian shouted at the confused and frightened citizen-slaves who knew not whether they had cause to attempt to defend themselves. ‘We won’t harm you.’ He reined in his mount as he entered the encampment and to his great relief he saw what he had hoped he would: amphorae, scores of them. He finally believed that they had a chance, albeit a small one, of making it back to the province of Africa alive.

  And then there would be an accounting.

  ‘We will not leave you behind!’ The words rasped in Vespasian’s dry throat as he repeated them for at least the fourth time. ‘But if we don’t go now and take enough water to ensure that we can overhaul the mutineers before they get to the next water dump and destroy it then whether we’re leaving you behind or not will be irrelevant. Once we’ve secured the dump we’ll wait for you there.’

  ‘Yes, but how can we trust you?’ Again, it was the s
ame man asking the question, shouting above the hubbub; clutching two amphorae to his leathery-skinned torso, with a rotten-toothed leer and desperation in his eyes, he showed absolutely no concern for anyone but himself.

  ‘Because, as I have said, I was the one that had you freed. Why would I do that only to leave you to die on the way home?’

  ‘To make quite sure that you get home.’

  Vespasian took a deep breath. ‘That may be how you would think in my situation but I promise you that I have a vested interest in getting as many of you back to Africa as possible. In order to do that I need you to give my men some of your water, otherwise I will have them seize it; you can keep one amphora each for the journey.’

  The crowd of citizens, over two hundred of them, were surrounding Vespasian’s horse and, already vocal, began arguing amongst themselves; his patience finally snapped. ‘Bolanus! Do what you have to; we can’t lose any more time in this futile debate.’ Drawing his sword he drove his horse through the crowd, forcing a passage, slapping some with the flat of his blade and kicking others to the ground.

  Fists flew and tempers rose as Bolanus’ men waded into the mass, snatching and pulling at the earthenware jars that had now become the price of all their lives. Men and women, wretched from servitude and desert travel, struggled to resist the Numidians, whose strength far out-measured theirs and whose sympathy to their plight – if there ever had been any – had now disappeared, having witnessed their foolish intransigence.

  ‘Try not to hurt them,’ Vespasian shouted, more for his own conscience than in a serious effort to stop any violence that was now unavoidable. A goodly number had decided to be sensible and voluntarily brought their spare water over to where the lictors stood guard over the stockpile; but at least three-quarters of the crowd could not bring themselves to trust once again, having lived for so long without that ability. Vespasian watched, impotent, cursing under his breath, as the first wound was carved and the first amphora shattered; blood and water soaked into the parched ground, the former liquid now being far less precious than the latter.

  ‘They don’t realise that the water is more important than their lives, master,’ Hormus said, walking up beside him. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I know; but the fewer I bring back the more it will look like I’ve failed and therefore the bigger target I make myself for Poppaea’s spite.’

  ‘As long as you bring some back.’

  Vespasian thought for a moment, his expression hardened. ‘To guarantee that, I’m going to have to demonstrate who’s in charge. Go around to the far side of the crowd.’

  Hormus obeyed as two more men went down, screaming, their amphorae dropped so that they could hold in the grey-blue cords of intestines bulging from vicious gashes in their bellies. This was enough for the others to realise that if it was a choice between life with one container of water or death, the first was the better option, and the disturbance dwindled into bad-natured muttering and the groans of the seriously wounded. With barely concealed ill-grace water was handed over and the stockpile grew until it was a surly-looking mob that faced Vespasian, each clutching a single amphora.

  ‘Have your men and the lictors recharge their skins quickly, Bolanus,’ Vespasian ordered. ‘And they should drink their fill and water the horses as fast as possible; we’ve wasted enough time already.’ He turned to the citizens. ‘If that confrontation has meant that we don’t manage to catch the mutineers in time, we’ll have no option but to carry on after them to prevent them fouling the well that will be our next water stop on the way back.’

  ‘And what about us?’ It was the same man asking the question, his manner no less aggressive.

  ‘Come here!’ Vespasian dismounted, his sword still in his hand, and strode towards the agitator. The crowd parted for him, not wishing to be on the receiving end of any more violence.

  Sensing his support fast disappearing, the man edged back further into the crowd; Vespasian followed, his passage unimpeded. With a yelp, the man turned and ran, bursting from the rear of the crowd, straight into the fist of Hormus. Back his head jerked and up his arms flew, flinging his amphora into the air for Hormus to catch as he crashed to the ground.

  Vespasian pulled him up by his hair, blood pouring from a split and swelling lip, and dragged him back to his knees. ‘Hold his arms behind him, Hormus.’

  Hormus placed the amphora on the ground and pulled the semi-conscious man’s arms behind him; his head lolled forward.

  ‘This man has caused us to lose precious time and has threatened the chances of survival for the whole group. I will not tolerate it; if we are to survive, you will all do as I say without any argument. There will be no dissent; do you understand?’

  Vespasian waited; there were a few mutters, some of which could be mistaken for agreement but most just sounded resentful to his ears.

  It was the work of a moment; the flash of a sword; the hiss of the blade; the brief, surprised cry of the victim; the wet thud of contact; and the gasp of the crowd as the head hit the ground and rolled, coming to a stop next to the amphora. All eyes were on the blood spurting from the carved-open neck and forming a spume-covered puddle on barren ground.

  ‘I will execute anyone, man or woman, who questions me again; and as the Governor of Africa, I have the legal power to do so.’ He pointed to his lictors, who represented that power, as he searched the eyes of the crowd. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  This time there was a far more positive answer to his question as Hormus let go of the arms and the corpse slumped down.

  ‘Good.’ Vespasian wiped his sword on the dead man’s loincloth and walked back through the crowd, looking around and defying anyone to meet his eye; none did. ‘Just follow our tracks and you will all be all right.’

  ‘What about me?’

  Vespasian rounded on the questioner to come face-to-face with Decianus. ‘What do you mean: what about you?’

  Decianus seemed almost apologetic. ‘Well, what about me? Who do I go with? Surely I must come with you?’

  ‘You can if you want but we’ll have left you behind before we’ve gone a mile.’

  ‘Then I’ll commandeer one of the Numidians’ or lictors’ horses and they can have my mule; that’ll be much more satisfactory all round.’

  ‘You can try, Decianus, but I wouldn’t give much for your chances of survival. In fact, give it a go; I’ll enjoy watching.’

  Decianus glanced over to the Numidians and lictors who were busy watering their horses, and then back to his forlorn-looking mule and then spared Vespasian a look of deep loathing.

  Vespasian smiled in genuine amusement and walked away.

  *

  It was an hour before any evidence of the mutineers was seen; an hour of scorching sun in which they had covered a fair distance refreshed, both man and beast having drunk deeply.

  The horse was lying on the track, its eyes closed, its chest heaving irregularly; of its rider, much to Bolanus’ disappointment, there was no sign.

  ‘They’re weakening,’ Vespasian said, looking down at the dying animal. ‘How much further to the dump, decurion?’

  Bolanus looked ahead, shading his eyes. ‘There.’ He pointed slightly east of north to the jagged outline of a hill on the horizon. ‘It’s about level with that; so, twenty miles or so. Three hours if the horses hold out.’

  Vespasian gauged the height of the sun. ‘It should start getting cooler soon; we have to press on as fast as we can. If anyone’s horse drops out then so be it; they can follow on foot with the others.’

  The second horse they came across was already dead.

  Next to the carcass, two Numidian troopers knelt, their arms outstretched in supplication, beseeching Bolanus in a mixture of their own language and bad Latin. He dismounted and walked towards them, drawing his sword; he ordered his men to water their horses but indicated to two of them to follow him.

  ‘Tell me why I should spare treacherous lives?’ Bolanus placed the tip of his
sword under the chin of one of the mutineers and forced his head up as his men took positions behind them both to prevent an escape. ‘What’s your name, trooper?’

  ‘Mezian, sir.’ He looked with wide-eyed terror at the blade.

  ‘Look at me, Mezian, not my sword. Why did you allow yourselves to be talked into mutiny?’

  Mezian swallowed before letting fly a stream of his own language. Although completely unintelligible to Vespasian it was obvious from the tone that it was everybody else’s fault other than Mezian’s and, judging from the outraged looks of his comrade and his cries of protest, it was his fault in particular.

  Bolanus looked at the other man. ‘Is it true that you persuaded them to mutiny, Lahcen?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Lahcen replied in heavily accented Latin. ‘Nepos, he say not enough water for many hundreds of people. He speak our language after time in Garama. We better off going now with few people. Better we live than all die. We all say yes; all of us. Mezian lie, he no honour as I share my horse when his fall.’

  Mezian shrieked his denial.

  Bolanus withdrew his sword from Mezian’s throat and, with a snake-quick lunge, skewered his comrade’s chest; Lahcen stared at the blade for a few moments in surprise, spewed a gobbet of blood onto it and then collapsed back, dead on the sand.

  Mezian fell forward, grabbed Bolanus’ ankle and kissed his foot.

  Bolanus looked down at the cringing form in disgust. ‘How long have you been here?’

  Mezian answered in his own tongue.

  ‘Hold him flat on his back,’ Bolanus ordered the two dismounted troopers.

  Mezian screamed and squirmed as his erstwhile comrades grappled with his legs and wrists, twisting him over.

  ‘Lahcen was here because he tried to help you,’ Bolanus said, once Mezian had been restrained, ‘and you repaid him by putting the blame for your actions onto his shoulders. His reward for his honesty was a quick death.’ Again, snake-quick, his sword flashed but this time it did not pierce, this time it came to rest between Mezian’s legs. ‘Your double treachery gets you the opposite.’