Rome's Executioner (15 page)

‘Imagine how we’ll smell when we get out the other end,’ Sabinus said, trying not to retch.

‘Sitalces, Ziles, bring the crowbars over here and get this thing off,’ Vespasian ordered, realising that there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

Seemingly impervious to the reek, Sitalces and Ziles placed their crowbars under the lip of the grill. With a couple of powerful wrenches it came loose from the wall and Drenis and Bryzos pulled it free.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ Vespasian muttered, drawing a deep breath and forcing himself inside the pitch-black tunnel.

There was only enough space to crawl and for the first time since he had put on the oddly unfamiliar and constricting trousers he felt thankful for them; they protected his knees from the centuries of shit that coated the tunnel floor. But his hands had no such protection and squelched through the slimy effluence clinging to the rim as he eased his way up the dark, narrow passage.

After what seemed like an age of breathing in the noxious gas produced by decomposing faeces, but was in fact only the time it took to cover fifteen gruelling feet, Vespasian heard harsh voices ahead and could make out a faint flicker of orange light at the end of the tunnel. Torn between his desire to get out into the open air quickly and his fear that the exit was guarded, he kept going at the same pace: as fast as was possible. Upon drawing closer to the end, he realised that the light was not coming directly into the tunnel but was in fact reflecting off a wall a few feet from its opening. He forced himself to slow down and came to a halt three feet from the exit; he felt Sabinus bump into his hindquarters, then the added pressure of the man behind pushing him forward and so on down the line, as they all came to an unexpected, concertinaed halt in the bowels of the sewer.

Vespasian craned his neck forward in an attempt to see out of the tunnel and over the wall beyond; he was rewarded by the sight of two very hairy Getic arses in action, their owners talking vigorously as they perched on top of the wall, which was one of three that surrounded the sewer’s exit, forming an open and well-used latrine. Another arse appeared over one of the side walls as the first two came to their noisy finale and were withdrawn, to be replaced, almost instantaneously, by two more.

‘What the fuck’s going on? Why have we stopped?’ Sabinus hissed from behind.

‘Not surprisingly we’ve come out in their latrine and a few of them are taking the opportunity to have a last shit.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, how long are they going to be?’

‘How should I know?’ Vespasian whispered, craning his neck again. ‘There’re now five of them up there at the moment; two of them seem to be quite scared,’ he added with a grin.

A few moments later the unmistakable sound of a bollocking being administered along with a couple of cuffs around the ears caused the arses, two of which were still in full flow, to hasten away. Vespasian counted to one hundred and, when no more appeared, deemed it safe to move forward and out of the sewer. Despite squatting calf-deep in fresh turds he felt like a new man as he sucked in the comparatively fresh air above the open latrine and wiped the shit from his hands on to his trousers. It had fallen unnaturally quiet. He edged closer to the front wall, peeked over and found, to his surprise, that he was surrounded by horses; they had been corralled in the northeast corner of the courtyard to keep them as far away as possible from the gate and out of the way of the main fighting. They were all displaying an understandable reluctance to get too close to the latrine. Looking beyond the horses, as the others started to emerge from the sewer, he could see that the south and west walls were crammed with Getae, two or three deep, almost shoulder to shoulder, bows at the ready, staring out towards the Roman lines with the still silence of men watching their fate coming inexorably towards them.

Sabinus joined him. ‘That’s a bit of luck,’ he whispered as he took in the situation.

‘I’ve never heard someone standing knee-deep in shit consider themselves lucky,’ Vespasian observed, ‘but yes, it is. Let’s go.’ He looked around at the others to make sure that they were all present and then started to creep over the wall.

A deep cornu signal rumbled through the air.

‘Shit,’ Sabinus hissed pulling him back, ‘that’s “artillery open fire”. Get down.’

All eight of them squatted behind the wall. The distant hiss of many approaching fast-moving projectiles suddenly filled the air; it quickly intensified before exploding into a series of shattering impacts as rock and iron missiles crashed into the fortress; some punching men, sometimes whole but more often in pieces, back off the walls, others striking stone, in a shower of sparks, and sending a deluge of sharp chippings cascading down to hit the ground, kicking up puffs of dust. Above the screaming, the Getic chieftains roared a series of orders. The defenders raised their bows and began to release volley after volley into the night sky at a speed that astounded Vespasian.

‘Shit, if they’re firing back it must mean that the towers are getting close,’ Sabinus exclaimed, pulling his axe from his belt. ‘Stop gazing around, little brother, we don’t have much time.’ He leapt out of the latrine and ran towards the keep, twenty paces away to the left, hugging the wall, not because he was worried about stealth any longer, as the defenders were by now far too busy to notice, but in an attempt to keep clear of the now panicking horses. Vespasian and the others followed him as a huge storm of arrows flooded in from the advancing Romans and rained down on to the walls and into the courtyard, felling dozens of men and a score of their already terrified mounts. This was too much for the beasts and they surged towards the crude fencing that corralled them in and broke through with ease to go bucking and rearing around the corpse-strewn courtyard.

Vespasian, axe in hand, caught up with his brother at the door to the keep. He was burning with shame at Sabinus’ rebuke because it had been the truth, he had hesitated and now Sabinus had taken charge.

‘On the count of three, little brother,’ Sabinus said, putting his shoulder to the locked door. ‘Three!’

They rammed their bodies in unison against the solid oak.

It held.

‘Shit! Sitalces, Ziles,’ Sabinus yelled above the din, ‘where’re those crowbars? Fast as you like, lads, there’ll be another artillery volley pretty soon, those crews were quick.’

Sitalces and Ziles ran straight up to the door and quickly jammed their bars between it and the frame. But not quickly enough; another series of crashing impacts caused them all to duck involuntarily as the second artillery volley smashed in. Two onager stones hit the keep wall a few feet above the door, shattering on impact in a myriad of sparks. Large fragments of stone ricocheted down over them, striking their crouched backs and the ground around like sharp, heavy rain, leaving them bruised but uninjured.

Sitalces was the first to recover; he hurled his huge body on to the end of a crowbar; with a splintering crack the door came loose but not open. Ziles rejammed his bar into the widened gap, Sitalces swept his rhomphaia from the sheath on his back, nodded at him and they forced their combined weight on to the two crowbars. This time the door flew back and the huge Thracian went tumbling through, his momentum sending him crashing to the ground. Ziles leapt in after him and jerked immediately back through the air, as if punched by a Titan, with a half-dozen arrows in his chest. Before the dead Thracian had even hit the ground Vespasian hurled himself through the opening, darting to the left as a mighty roar came from within. He arrived in time to see Sitalces, in the torchlight, leaping through the air, sweeping his rhomphaia two-handed from above his right shoulder, towards a line of six Getae who were struggling, under the pressure, to reload quickly. A flaming flash of iron arced into them, severing two heads and half an arm in a welter of blood and speed. As the huge Thracian crashed into the right of the Getic line Vespasian flung himself, bellowing, towards the left-hand Geta, who had dropped his bow and was drawing a long-bladed knife; an arrow from the door felled the man next to him. The knife coursed through the air at chest height towards Vespasian, who had the presence of mind to duck as he noticed the deft flick of his opponent’s hand. It skimmed over his head, which, an instant later, pounded into the solar plexus of the man, thumping the air from his lungs and him to the ground with Vespasian on top of him. With an animal howl Vespasian heaved himself to his knees, raised his axe and swiped it down repeatedly on to the choking Geta’s face, cracking it open in an eruption of bone, blood and teeth, then mashing it to a pulp with his frenzied attack. A strong grip caught his wrist and he swivelled round to see Magnus straining to hold his arm back.

‘I think you’ll find he’s dead now, sir,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘In fact they all are.’

Vespasian blinked a few times and began to relax; the whole room came into focus for the first time since he had charged. The six Getae lay dead, in various states of dismemberment, and Sitalces, Bryzos and Drenis were busy trying to wedge the battered door shut whilst Artebudz and Sabinus were covering the narrow, stone staircase leading to the next floor. He started to breathe deeply to bring himself back from the primeval part of his nature to which, he was now realising, his fear of death had taken him.

‘You’ve got to watch that, sir,’ Magnus said in a hushed voice, pulling him to his feet. ‘They only die once and you can easily get killed yourself as you’re trying to kill them a second, third or, in your case, a sixth time.’

‘Thank you, Magnus, I’ll try to remember that,’ Vespasian replied, slightly more curtly than he intended. ‘Sorry, I was shit scared,’ he added by way of an apology. He noticed a bloodstained rhomphaia in his friend’s hand.

Magnus caught his look. ‘I borrowed it from Ziles, he won’t be needing it no more. It’s a lovely weapon, much nicer to fight with than against, especially if it’s wielded by the likes of Sitalces, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian certainly did.

Another crashing volley of artillery projectiles battering the keep’s wall brought him back to the matter in hand. He joined Sabinus at the bottom of the steps.

‘Any noise from up there?’ he whispered, just audible above the shrieks and shouts of the Getae on the walls.

‘Nothing,’ his brother replied.

Sitalces rushed over from the door. ‘That’s the best that we can do, but it won’t last long.’

‘Best get going, then,’ Sabinus said, taking one of the brightly burning torches from the wall. ‘Bring the other torches; we’ll leave it dark down here. Artebudz, with me.’ He began to swiftly climb the stairs with Artebudz, bow drawn, next to him. The noise from outside remained at a steady level and easily masked their light footsteps.

Vespasian grabbed a torch and, with Magnus at his side, followed. His heart was beating fast; he was still afraid but his fear of death had been overshadowed by another, stronger, more positive emotion: the will and desire to survive. He felt much calmer now and also grateful to his brother for taking the lead when his own actions, as he was well aware, had been found wanting.

A creak of a wooden floorboard told Vespasian that his brother had reached the first floor. Sabinus and Artebuduz moved cautiously ahead; Vespasian followed. They were in a storeroom that extended the full length and breadth of the keep. It was windowless as it was still below the height of the fortress’ walls. In the middle of the room was a sturdy-looking wooden staircase leading up to the next level. Dotted around in the gloom were piles of grain sacks, stacks of amphorae and water barrels. Hanging on the walls were what Vespasian first took to be dead bodies but on closer inspection turned out to be deer and sheep carcasses.

‘Looks like we’ve found the Getae’s dinner,’ Sabinus observed. ‘Quick, lads, pile a load of those sacks around the stair-case and see what’s in those amphorae. Let’s hope it’s oil, fire will be our friend.’

It was the work of moments. As they finished by pouring the contents of the amphorae, which had indeed proved to be oil, over the pile of sacks, the level of noise from outside suddenly changed; the shouting grew louder and mixed in with it now was the unmistakable clash of weapons.

‘That’s our boys on the wall, we’ve really got to hurry,’ Sabinus said, giving his torch to Drenis and grabbing an unopened amphora. ‘Take an amphora if you can, lads, we may need fire upstairs. Drenis, wait until we’re all on the next floor and then set light to the sacks.’ He dashed up the stairs with Vespasian pursuing, hot on his heels.

They burst on to the second floor; again it was a single large room, but with a staircase at the far end, and with windows that looked out only over the river, not the courtyard. Piles of bedding scattered around the floor indicated that it had been used as a dormitory for those of the Getae important enough not to sleep outside. Sabinus and Vespasian ran towards the next staircase; four arrows smacked into the floorboards just before them, bringing them to a sudden, almost overbalancing, halt. They pulled back immediately as Magnus, carrying two amphorae, and the rest of their comrades cleared the second staircase.

‘There’s a reception committee on the next floor. Artebudz, Sitalces and Bryzos: pump some arrows up those stairs,’ Sabinus ordered. ‘Vespasian, we’ll follow.’

As Artebudz, Sitalces and Bryzos slowly moved forward, shooting alternately so there was always an arrow fizzing up the stairs, Sabinus followed with his amphora of oil and Vespasian with his torch. Drenis came crashing up the stairs behind, the smell of burning travelling in his wake.

Ten feet from the stairs, Sabinus sprang forward and hurled his amphora up them; it disappeared with a crash on to the next floor. Vespasian paused as a few more arrows were pumped up the stairs, then he ran forward and hurled his torch after them. The intense heat of the torch caused the oil to ignite almost instantaneously; the fire soon engulfed the third-floor landing and drips of burning oil flowed, like flaming tears, down between the gaps in the stairs.

‘Artebudz, Bryzos, bows first; Magnus, Sitalces and Drenis after us,’ Sabinus shouted, drawing his axe; they all nodded. Sabinus turned to Vespasian and grinned. ‘This is more fun than arse-licking back in Rome but it’s going to hurt, little brother. Go!’