False God of Rome (45 page)

‘Surround this area!’ Vespasian ordered.

The square dispersed as the legionaries formed a circle around the frame. The mob made no attempt to interfere and, in fact, shrank back from their erstwhile victims, looking on sullenly, as if
the Romans’ arrival had broken the spell of their hatred and they now felt shame at their actions.

‘I did not think that Nathanial would get through,’ Alexander said, urgently pointing to the least hurt man. ‘Cut him down, quick.’

With one sweep of Vespasian’s blade the man’s bonds were cut and he slumped into Alexander’s arms. ‘Oh my son, my son,’ Alexander wept, ‘what have they done
to you?’ He sank to his knees, taking the man’s head in his lap, and Vespasian saw that it was not a man but a youth: Tiberius, Alexander’s eldest son; he was moaning quietly.

‘He’ll be all right, sir,’ Magnus said, ‘I’ve seen this before in Germania when we rescued some mates from the locals. Them that has just a bit torn off them, like
him, will live.’ He looked at the other two men and the woman, all mostly raw lumps of meat. ‘The others, though, not a hope; we should finish them now and then get the fuck out of
here.’

‘Very well, but I will do it,’ Alexander said. ‘Marcus, help your brother.’ He eased Tiberius’ head into his brother’s lap and stood. ‘Give me your
sword, Vespasian, my friend.’

‘You must be quick,’ Vespasian told him as he handed over the weapon.

Alexander nodded and approached the unconscious woman; the skin from her chest was missing and only one breast remained. He whispered into her unhearing ear before thrusting the blade through
her yielding flesh up into her heart; a soft breath escaped her.

‘Philo,’ he said to an old grey-beard in his sixties, ‘you and I will carry her.’

‘We haven’t got time to take the bodies with us,’ Vespasian said.

Alexander glared at him. ‘She was my wife, I will not leave her here; my brother and I will bear her.’

The two men were despatched with similar swiftness and their bodies taken up by the remaining prisoners.

‘He was here, you know,’ Alexander said as he returned the sword, ‘it was him and his followers who urged the people into such cruelty.’

‘Paulus? I know. But why? He’s a Jew.’

‘Not any more, he’s not. He follows his own religion, remember, which hates us Jews.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He and his followers slipped away as you arrived.’

‘Animals they were,’ Philo spat, ‘they whipped us with lashes like common Egyptian peasants from the fields; they didn’t give us the dignity of the rod as befits our
rank. The men wielding the lashes were the lowest class of Greek; it was a disgrace.’

Vespasian looked at him with a disbelieving frown and then turned to Hortensius. ‘Optio, form a hollow square, two deep, facing forward; we march out of here like Romans, not scuttle out
like this murderous rabble.’

Within moments the legionaries had formed up with Alexander and his compatriots in the middle. Nathanial helped Marcus with his brother who had now regained sufficient consciousness to realise
that he was in great pain.

Vespasian gave the order to advance and they moved forward with swords drawn at a quick march.

‘We’d better be getting a move on,’ Magnus said as they turned right out of the avenue, ‘Felix is going to be in position soon.’

‘He’ll have to wait,’ Vespasian replied, ‘I’ll not be seen running away from an area that is theoretically under Roman law.’

Magnus shrugged and glanced over his shoulder. ‘They don’t seem to be following us, I suppose they’ve gone to find some other poor bastards to undress.’

‘They may have, but some other bastard seems to have different ideas,’ Vespasian muttered as, in the flickering flame-light, four hundred paces ahead, scores of shadowy figures
started to pour out of side streets and form a deep line blocking the road. Judging by the flashes of reflections from their midst they were armed with more than clubs and knives.

‘I’ll venture that you could put a name to that particular bastard,’ Magnus commented as he took in the threat.

Vespasian smiled grimly. ‘I think I can, the odious, bow-legged little cunt.’

Fifty paces away from the opposing force, Vespasian brought the legionaries to a halt. Leaving the safety of the square he walked forward. ‘In the name of the Emperor,
let us through and none of you will be harmed,’ he shouted so that all could hear.

‘We acknowledge no one higher than God and his son our Lord Yeshua, our saviour, the Christus; in his name we demand that you hand over the leaders in this city of the race that put him to
death,’ a recognisable voice shouted back; Paulus stepped forward through a whiff of smoke.

‘You are in no position to make demands, Paulus, get out of our way.’

The use of his name shocked the man and he peered forward.

‘I’ll remind you, Paulus: in Cyrene my knife should have slipped, it would have saved many lives.’

‘You! Well, that is convenient; I shall have the pleasure of personal revenge as well as doing the Lord’s work. Hand them over, Vespasian, or we’ll come and get them;
we’ll surround your pitiful little band and tear you apart. Remember that this time you’re not dealing with timid shopkeepers; these men are all armed and prepared to die doing
God’s work in the sure knowledge they will go straight to heaven because they have had their sins taken from them by Yeshua Christus.’

‘I have no idea what you’re ranting about, but if this heaven is a place where fanatics like you go then I want nothing to do with it.’ Vespasian spun on his heel and yelled,
‘Form a wedge!’

Vespasian took his place at the wedge’s tip with Magnus behind his right shoulder and Hortensius on his left. The legionaries fanned out behind with the rescued Jews in their midst.

‘He hasn’t got any more pleasant since we last saw him, has he?’ Magnus observed, testing his helmet strap. ‘It’ll be interesting to see if his men really will die
for this god.’

‘I’ve a nasty feeling that they’ll all be vying to be the first,’ Vespasian replied. Anger burned within him at the thought that Paulus had gulled his followers into
thinking that they could throw away their lives and expect some sort of reward. Alexander had been right: it was a very dangerous and unworldly religion. ‘Hortensius, are the men
ready?’

‘Yes, senator.’

‘Advance!’

Vespasian led off the wedge at a jog heading directly for Paulus; he quickly retreated into the body of his followers, who shifted uneasily at the sight of a solid formation, now only twenty
paces away, bearing down on them.

‘He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to get to his heaven,’ Magnus puffed.

Vespasian’s eyes narrowed behind his shield. He felt the perfect balance of the sword in his hand and desired one thing: to kill Paulus.

With ten paces to go Vespasian accelerated into a run; the legionaries behind him responded, keeping the formation solid. Paulus’ followers stood, but not firmly, wavering as the V-shaped
mass of shields and blades crashed towards them. With a sudden shriek a young man leapt forward and grabbed the top rim of Vespasian’s shield with his left hand. Vespasian slammed the shield
boss into his midriff and butted his helmet down onto the whitened knuckles, lacerating the skin and crunching the bones. A clinical jab from Hortensius sent the man down with a spurt of blood; but
his example was enough and, as the wedge smashed into the faltering line, the sight of their comrade’s blood galvanised Paulus’ followers into reckless action. They hurled themselves
with manic screeches and cries at the fast-moving wedge, cutting their swords haphazardly down onto shield rims and cracking their ribs on shield bosses punched towards them. The flanks of the line
started to move round in an attempt to engulf the Romans.

Vespasian tore through the first and second ranks, holding his shield firm in front of him, the muscles in his left arm bulging with the effort. He worked his blade, as if it were an extension
of his own arm, stabbing it forward into the soft belly of a middle-aged man, then, with a sharp twist, withdrawing it, bringing it back up in an arc of blood to parry, with a spray of sparks, a
cut from his right while slamming his hobnails onto his victim’s kneecap, shattering the joint. Breathing heavily he kicked the screaming man aside, as Magnus severed the arm of the assailant
to his right, and pressed on into the third rank; behind him the ever broadening wedge forced their opponents back in an increasingly tightening scrum. Swords flashed from between the shields into
this press of unprotected human flesh on both sides of the formation, slitting open bellies with a welter of slimy, grey offal and the noisome stench of internal gases and waste.

As the rearmost legionaries hit the disordered and shaken line with a communal, grunting exhalation of breath, Vespasian forced his arms forward then out and exploded through the third rank; his
shield boss slammed into the ribs of a man to his left and his sword pommel cracked into the mouth of the last man between him and the palace. The man’s front teeth splintered, his jaw
dislocated and he crumpled back screaming, his face contorted with pain in the glow of a burning house; the back of his head struck the paved road and a violent shudder ran down through the length
of his body; his cry ceased. With the mechanical reaction of years of drill a legionary forced his sword tip into the stricken man’s throat as he straddled him.

They were through.

Vespasian slowed his pace to allow the men behind him to keep in contact as the thickest end of the wedge punched and cut its way through the tangle of bodies, some dead, some alive, with a
desperate urgency to avoid being taken in the rear by the two flanks now swirling in towards them. Their task became easier as screams of the maimed and the broken took the fight out of
Paulus’ followers closest to the bloodshed and they began to back off, pushing into one another in their desire to keep their bodies whole. The line split and the wedge emerged intact,
painted with blood. Vespasian carried on at a jog for another fifty paces before glancing over his shoulder. Seeing that they were not being followed, he brought them to a halt. The legionaries
gasped for breath after the intense exertion in what had been less than a hundred or so heartbeats but had felt like ten times that amount.

‘Hortensius, have the men form a column,’ Vespasian ordered. He looked back to see a score or more of bodies littering the ground where the wedge had cut a swathe through the line;
the cries of the wounded still rang out and the survivors stood looking forlornly at their stricken fellows. In among the carnage a diminutive bow-legged figure moved about, comforting the injured;
he was completely unharmed.

Vespasian spat, then turned and ordered the column forward towards the palace complex just five hundred paces away.

At the gates to the Royal Harbour Vespasian halted the column and turned to Hortensius. ‘Optio, have two contuburnia escort these Jews to my ship in the harbour; they should be safe enough
there until morning.’

Hortensius looked unsure. ‘But senator…’

‘Just do it! I’ll be responsible to the prefect.’

Hortensius ran back down the column.

A few moments later Alexander and his compatriots came past with their escort.

‘I owe you my life, Vespasian,’ the Alabarch said, ‘and those of my sons and brother; I will never forget that.’

‘I’m sorry that we came too late for your wife,’ Vespasian replied, looking at the bloody corpse draped between Alexander and Philo. ‘Go quickly now, these men will take
you to my ship, I’ll meet you there in the morning.’

‘We need to bury our dead,’ Philo insisted.

‘No, you need to be safe and you need to get Tiberius’ wound seen to.’

‘But our law says—’

‘Come, brother, forget about your precious law,’ Alexander interrupted, ‘if we follow that now then we’ll have more bodies to bury. We’ll see you in the morning,
Vespasian.’ He led the Jews off bearing their grisly burdens.

‘We’d better get a move on, sir,’ Magnus reminded Vespasian.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Vespasian sighed, feeling immensely fatigued. He led the remainder of the column through the gates and into the Royal Harbour; its quays were empty except
for the occasional scuttling rat in the torchlight.

They had almost reached the far end when the gates to the palace swung open and Flaccus appeared in full uniform surrounded by the legate and tribunes of the XXII Deiotariana.

‘Just what the fuck have you been up to, senator?’ he bellowed, his face almost purple with rage.

‘What you should have been doing yourself instead of conspiring with religious maniacs: saving the lives of decent people.’

‘And how many Roman lives did that cost?’

‘None; now get out of my way.’ He pushed past the prefect, almost throwing him off-balance.

‘You’re confined to your suite, senator, until I decide what to do about you,’ Flaccus shouted after him. ‘All the guards will have orders not to let you out.’

‘Shit!’ Magnus spat. ‘Where does that leave us trying to get to the ship in the morning?’

‘We’ll have to take our bags with us tonight and go straight from the mausoleum.’

‘What about Flavia?’

‘Flavia’s in for a shock.’

‘J
UST ANOTHER TEN
feet,’ Vespasian called softly up to the struggling figure of Flavia suspended on the end of
a rope. Forty feet above her Magnus could be seen in silhouette on the terrace slowly lowering her down. Vespasian checked his balance as he fought to remain upright while the boat bobbed on the
mild swell of the Great Harbour; Felix laboured with a single oar to keep it in a fixed position hard up against the palace’s sea wall.

After another few anxious moments Vespasian grabbed her ankles. ‘Got you; now stop kicking or we’ll all be in the sea.’

Flavia went limp as she was lowered the last few feet. ‘That, Vespasian, was the most undignified way to leave the Palace of the Ptolemies,’ she informed him as he undid the knot
around her waist, ‘and painful.’

‘But necessary,’ he reminded her, giving the freed rope a tug. ‘Now sit down and stop complaining.’