Rome's Executioner (19 page)

Vespasian slammed his fist into the priest’s face, flattening his nose. He slumped, unconscious, between Magnus and Artebudz.

‘The hard way it is then,’ Vespasian said, walking past Sabinus and out of the cabin.

PART III

T
HE
M
ARE
A
EGEUM
, J
UNE
AD 30

I
T WAS HOT
; very, very hot. There was not even the slightest breeze to bring a modicum of relief from the relentless heat as the quinquereme rowed down the eastern coast of the island of Euboia. The sun burned down on to the ship from its midday high, heating the timber deck so that the barefooted crew were unable to walk upon it and were forced to stay under the large awning that had been rigged at the stern of the ship. Not that there was much for them to do; the sails could not be set as there was no wind; nor had there been since they had left Tomi.

For twelve days now the slaves had driven the ship forward, stroke after stroke to the steady beat of a drum – used by the Thracians in preference to the Roman flute – ten hours a day, in the oven-like conditions of the oar-deck; their only respite being two hours in the blackness of the bilge before being rotated back up again to the misery of their mono-purposed existence. Encased in a wooden prison, chained to the oars that gave the only definition to their lives, shitting and pissing in a bucket brought round to where they sat, they existed in a twilight world were the only different sensation during the mind-numbing day was the lick of the whip across their shoulders should their toil be deemed inadequate.

The stench of their living hell wafted up above them to Vespasian and his comrades who sat under the awning. They sweltered in the heat that had plagued them since the storms and rough seas, which had delayed them for almost twenty days in Tomi, had suddenly ceased overnight, after Rhaskos had sacrificed both Drenis’ and Artebudz’s horses. The following morning the clouds had dissipated, leaving the sun free to burn down on them, intensifying with every mile they travelled further south.

Their routine aboard ship was mind-numbing too, but through boredom rather than repetitive labour; from dawn when they sailed to the tenth hour when they anchored for the night there was absolutely nothing to do other than watch the coastline drift past and make scraps of conversation. Relief from the tedium came in the form of evening hunting expeditions in the game-abundant hills above the coves and inlets that provided their nightly shelter.

Fresh water had become the biggest problem. Although Rhaskos knew the coastline well and always managed to contrive to anchor for the night near a stream, the ship did not carry enough casks to supply the parched slaves with the fuel they needed to maintain their relentless exertions. Despite often stopping during the day to take on new supplies of the precious liquid there was never enough and the slaves had started to weaken. Every day for the last few days two or three, either dead or too frail to be of any further use, had been thrown over the side.

‘There goes another unlucky bastard,’ Magnus commented as the latest filth-encrusted body was thrown overboard; a weak cry showed that he was not quite dead.

‘If we carry on at this rate there’ll be none left to make the crossing to Italia,’ Vespasian observed, calculating that the more slaves that died the more work surviving ones would be forced to do, thus accelerating the death rate. ‘We need a wind.’

‘I have never known it to be so calm for so long,’ Rhaskos moaned from his position next to the steering-oars. ‘I sacrifice every evening to the mother-goddess Bendis but she does not listen to my prayers, even though in the past she has always looked kindly upon me. I’m beginning to worry that this voyage is cursed.’

Magnus raised his eyebrows and looked at Vespasian, who kept his face neutral. None of them had said anything about Rhoteces’ curse to anyone. They had all considered it to be the theatrical gesture of a cornered and desperate man and had dismissed it from their thoughts. However, the strange weather conditions since had started the superstitious parts of their minds thinking, and their worries were not helped by the sound of the priest constantly muttering in his cage in a strange language that neither Sitalces nor Drenis could understand. Only Sabinus had seen the positive side of a potential curse upon the voyage when they had discussed the possibility the previous evening: the flat calm had meant that he had kept the contents of his stomach where they were supposed to be rather than spreading them across the length of the Mare Aegeum.

They sank back into the torpor that they had become accustomed to, their minds dulled by the monotonous beat of the stroke-master’s drum, and stared blankly at the mountains of Euboia as the ship followed the curve of the island and began to head east towards Cape Caphereas.

A shout from one of the slave-masters appearing out of the hatchway at the bow of the ship brought them out of their slow thoughts.

‘Trierarchus, look at this one,’ the man shouted, hauling a limp body out of the oar-deck.

The slave-master dragged the body the length of the ship and then turned it over for his trierarchus’ inspection.

His face was barely visible beneath the matted, long, black hair and beard but his torso was covered in dark red rashes.

‘The gods above,’ Rhaskos cried, ‘slave fever. How many more are there down there with the symptoms?’

‘Three, trierarchus, but they are still able to row.’

‘Get them overboard now.’

The slave-master ran off to do as he was ordered whilst two crewmen heaved the infected slave over the side. Moments later shouts erupted from the hatchway and three struggling creatures were hauled out and dragged kicking and screaming to the bow. As they were still very much alive a heavy chain was attached to each of them before they were thrown overboard to disappear into the sea churning beneath the ship’s hull.

‘That’s the final proof of it,’ Rhaskos announced. ‘We are under a curse and I’ve no doubt it’s because of the priest. We’ve offended the gods by taking him on board.’

Vespasian moved closer to Magnus and Sabinus. ‘I think that we should tell him,’ he whispered.

‘What’s the point?’ Sabinus questioned. ‘You don’t believe all that bollocks, do you?’

Before Vespasian could answer there was a clatter of oars and the ship lurched to the right, knocking the men on each steeringoar to the deck.

‘On your feet, steersmen, pull her round,’ Rhaskos barked, hauling the men back up to their feet.

Beneath them, on the oar-deck, shouting broke out accompanied by the crack of whips and the rattle of chains.

The slave-master came pelting out of the hatchway and ran the length of the deck to Rhaskos.

‘Trierarchus, the slaves have fouled the oars and are refusing to row,’ he puffed.

‘Well, whip them until they do,’ Rhaskos shouted, his voice rising in pitch.

‘We are, but it’s not doing any good.’

‘Then throw a couple of them overboard as a lesson to the rest.’

‘That’s just the point, sir, they’re saying that now that the slave fever has broken out they’re all going to get thrown over anyway so what’s the point of rowing any more?’

‘For the love of the earth mother Bendis, they can’t hold us to ransom like that,’ Rhaskos roared. ‘Get three of the ringleaders and secure one of them in the bilge and take the eyes of the other two out in front of the rest; they’ll soon realise that they don’t need to see to row.’

‘Yes, sir, that’s a good idea,’ the slave-master said, turning to go.

‘And tell them that no one else with slave fever will be thrown overboard, unless they’re already dead,’ Rhaskos called after him.

‘Is that wise?’ Sabinus asked. ‘Won’t it just spread through them all until there’s no one left to row?’

‘Not in two days it won’t,’ Rhaskos snapped, ‘and that’s what we need to get to the oracle of Amphiaraos, at Oropos on the coast of Attica.’

‘What’s that?’ Vespasian asked.

‘It’s a sanctuary dedicated to healing and foretelling,’ Rhaskos replied with awe in his voice. ‘I’ve been there before for healing and to ask about the outcome of a voyage. There I will get guidance on how to counter the curse on this ship and how stop the slave fever, I’m sure of it.’

A series of loud shrieks from below halted the conversation. The stroke-master’s drum restarted and the ship got under way.

‘Who’s this Amphiaraos then?’ Magnus asked Rhaskos as they walked up a steep track from their anchorage in the glittering cove below. ‘If he’s a god I’ve never heard of him.’

‘He’s not a god; he’s a demi-god, one of the Heroes,’ Rhaskos replied, removing his floppy straw hat and rubbing the sweat from his freshly shaven head. ‘He was the king of Argos and greatly favoured by the Greek god Zeus, who some say is our Zbelthurdos; he gave him oracular powers. He was persuaded to take part in a raid against Thebes led by Polynices, one of the sons of Oedipus, in an attempt to wrest the kingdom from his brother, Eteocles, who had gone back on his word and refused to share the crown with him after their father had killed himself. Amphiaraos went despite the fact that he foresaw his own death. During the battle, when Periclymenus, the son of Poseidon, tried to kill him, Zeus threw his thunderbolt and the earth opened up, swallowing Amphiaraos and his chariot, saving him from a mortal death so that he would be forever able to use the power that Zeus had given him.’

‘How’s telling the future going to remove this curse?’ Vespasian asked.

‘So you agree that there is a curse?’ Rhaskos replied.

Vespasian glanced at Sabinus beside him, who shrugged. ‘It can’t do any harm telling him now if he wants to believe all that bollocks.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Rhoteces did pronounce a curse on the voyage when we brought him on board,’ Vespasian admitted.

‘Why in the name of all the gods didn’t you tell me?’ Rhaskos exclaimed indignantly. ‘I could have got a priest to come and counter it when we were at Tomi.’

‘Because it’s rubbish, that’s why,’ Sabinus replied forcefully.

‘Rubbish! Have you not noticed all the misfortune that has happened to us on the voyage? That’s the proof that it’s not rubbish.’

‘We weren’t the only ones to be affected,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Every ship in the Euxine was affected by those storms and every ship in the Aegeum is affected by this calm. What makes you think that the weather is directed solely at us?’

‘Because we’re carrying a priest; he has great influence with the gods and can call on their help.’

‘Well, I have some sway with my god, Mithras, and so far his influence has been the most powerful,’ Sabinus said. ‘Before we left Tomi I prayed to him and he answered; he’s kept the sea calm for me and I haven’t been sick once.’

‘Believe what you like,’ Rhaskos said dismissively, ‘but if you heard that priest utter a curse I can promise you that we are cursed, and I intend to put an end to it.’

‘Well, it can’t do any harm, can it?’ Magnus said, looking from one to the other, clearly confused by the argument. ‘I mean, if there is a curse we’ll get rid of it and if there isn’t we’ll just have to do some more praying or whatever.’

‘If you start praying for wind and I’m sick all the way back to Ostia I shall personally see to it that you are cursed by every god that you hold sacred,’ Sabinus warned as the track entered a resin-scented cedar wood.

After a couple of miles of steady uphill walking in the pleasant shade of the sweet-smelling trees the wood suddenly ended and they found themselves in a ravine between two steep hills. Before them, on the west bank, was the sanctuary of Amphiaraos. It was a long thin complex overlooked by a theatre cut into the hillside above. There was a soporific quality about the atmosphere; the few people that Vespasian could see were either walking very slowly or lying in the shade of a colonnaded, covered walkway leading away from the temple just ahead of him. The only sounds were the ubiquitous cicadas and the mournful bleating of a dozen rams in a pen just behind the temple. The rich smell of cooking mutton filled the air.

‘There doesn’t seem to be a lot happening,’ Vespasian said, suppressing a yawn.