Corbulo?’
‘Yes, and Corbulo and his father told us, not knowing that we already knew because Tryphaena and Rhoemetalces had written to Antonia.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t be so obtuse, little brother; they want revenge on Poppaeus and, because your life had also been threatened by his schemes, assumed, correctly, that we would also be looking for revenge. They were offering an alliance of families; so we took them to see Antonia, and Corbulo agreed to come with us when we take the priest to Tiberius. He’ll testify before him that Poppaeus wanted the discovery of the Thracian’s chest of denarii kept secret when he should have reported it to the Emperor and the Senate.’
Vespasian looked aghast at his brother. ‘What? We’re to take Rhoteces to Capreae? You never said anything about that to me.’
‘Well, someone’s got to do it, the Emperor’s only going to believe the priest if he’s submitted to torture in front of him; and you will have to give your evidence along with Corbulo. Anyway, what difference would it have made if you had known, you’d still be here, wouldn’t you?’
Vespasian nodded slowly. He had not guessed that the priest would have to go before the most powerful man in the world, but his brother was right, it would not have changed his mind even if he had; he would still do it.
The rain had become a steady downpour, obscuring the mountain ranges to the left and right. A solitary scout appeared out of the torrent from the west. Vespasian pushed his horse forward to come level with Tinos so that he could hear the man’s report, which was again happily negative. As the scout headed off again Vespasian turned his eyes to the north; there was no sign of the other scout. They travelled on another half-mile and still no one had come to report from the north. A sense of foreboding fell over Vespasian. He glanced over to Tinos, who shrugged, sharing his unease. A guttural shout came from up ahead. Tinos raised his hand and halted the column. The shapes of four approaching horses, just visible two hundred paces away through the rain, caused them both to relax momentarily. They kicked their mounts forward towards the returning scouts, but upon drawing closer it became apparent that only one of the horses’ riders was upright in the saddle; the other three lay across their mounts, the arrows protruding from them told, only too vividly, of what had happened. Vespasian looked at the surviving scout; watered-down blood dripped off his face and covered his tunic, the broken stub of an arrow shaft jutted out of his right shoulder; he stared back at Vespasian with a terror bordering on madness in his eyes.
‘Where did this happen?’ Vespasian asked urgently.
The man rolled his maddened eyes and pushed his head forward making a hideous gurgling sound, a parody of speech. A welter of blood spewed from his mouth; his tongue had been cut out.
CHAPTER IIII
The rain had not let up for two days and nights and had now turned into a thick, slushy sleet. The column had started to ascend the winding road that led up to the Succi Pass over a thousand feet above them. The men’s morale was not good; apart from being soaked and chilled to the bone the spectre of unseen killers lurking close by unsettled them as much as had the mutilation of their comrade. The scout had been able to tell them very little as he could not write; however, he could nod and was able to confirm, before he died from blood loss, that there had been only two attackers, they had both been mounted and that they had indeed been wearing trousers. Vespasian had recalled the other scouts, deciding that it was pointless risking any more men to locate an enemy that could so easily kill twice their number from a distance. He had thought about sending out his Thracians but their lives were more valuable to him than those of the Illyrian auxiliaries — whom he wished were horse-archers to match these ethereal hunters, even though to his way of thinking that method of fighting seemed dishonourable. He reasoned, however, that if the Getae were still tracking the column they would no doubt show themselves sooner or later and then safety would lie in speed of reaction and in numbers; but it was nonetheless a humiliation that just two men could strike such fear into a column of over forty.
As they climbed higher the sleet thickened into snow and the column was forced to slow to a walk to protect their horses from laming themselves on unseen rocks beneath the rapidly thickening white carpet. Vespasian brushed away the snow that had settled uncomfortably in his lap and turned to Magnus, who rode, head bowed, next to him and asked: ‘How have you been getting on with our four legionaries?’
‘They’re a good bunch of lads. It turns out that Lucius — the one who drew the long straw and is fucking lucky to be here and knows it’s down to you that he is — well, he used to be a stable lad for the Greens back in Rome before he signed up. He still has a lot of contacts with them and has promised me some introductions when he gets back to Rome, could be very useful for tips and suchlike before the race days, then I can get advance bets down at better odds than you get at the track.’
Vespasian smiled despite the pain it caused his cracked and chapped lips. ‘He sounds like a useful friend to have,’ he replied with more than a hint of sarcasm, ‘if you’re intent on wasting your money gambling.’
‘Yeah, well, you wouldn’t understand, would you? I don’t think that I’ve ever seen the inside of your purse. Anyway, suffice it to say that he knows that he owes you, as do Varinus and the two other lads, Arruns and Mettius. None of them bear any love for Caelus, so if it comes to a confrontation they’ll be with you.’
‘That’s good to know, although our friend seems to be keeping himself to himself.’
Magnus looked back to Caelus, who was shrouded in his cloak and hunched over his horse. ‘Perhaps the weather has taken the fight out of the centurion.’
‘I doubt it, but for the moment it’s certainly taken the centurion out of the fight.’
By the time they had reached the entrance to the pass the snow was falling thick and fast. Their misery was compounded by a howling northwesterly gale that was funnelled down its length creating blizzard conditions. Vespasian paused the column and leant across to Tinos beside him. ‘What do you think, decurion?’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the roaring wind. ‘Do we pull back and find some shelter in the lee of the mountains and wait for it to die down, or should we press on?’
‘This could carry on for a couple of hours or a couple of days,’ Tinos shouted back. His eyelashes and nostrils were covered with small icicles. ‘If we wait we could get snowed in and in all likelihood be frozen to death; we either go all the way back down or we have to press on. The pass is only five miles long; with luck we could make it through in less than two hours.’
Vespasian cupped his purpled hands to his mouth and blew into them as he looked ahead into the teeth of the blizzard; it was almost a total white-out, but he knew that the pass was straight and never more than thirty paces wide so they would not get lost. He made his decision. Tinos was right; it was just a question of keeping going. ‘We go on,’ he ordered. Tinos nodded and moved off.
Vespasian urged his reluctant horse follow with a couple of sharp kicks. Its ears flattened back in displeasure but after a few more kicks it begrudgingly consented to move forward.
After a few hundred paces of unremitting freezing torture he became aware of a rider trying to catch up with him. He turned in the saddle; it was Caelus.
‘This is madness,’ the snow-covered centurion shouted. ‘We should turn back now.’
‘You can if you want to, centurion, but we’re going on.’
Caelus had managed to draw level. ‘Why? What’s the hurry? We could get back to the camp and try again when the snow stops and the pass is clear.’
‘The pass might not reopen again for days, maybe even a month,’ Vespasian bellowed, pushing his horse on through the driving snow. ‘We have to take this chance to get through.’
‘The men’s request to Pomponius can wait another month; why are you risking all these lives for such a small thing?’
Vespasian realised that he had no logical answer that would satisfy Caelus; he could only resort to rank and bluster. ‘You will stop questioning my orders and motives, centurion, or by the gods below I will see you busted, whoever may be protecting you.’
Caelus glared at him, full of suspicion. ‘Don’t give me that shit.’ His hand went for his sword. ‘Just what are you up to, Vespasian?’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Caelus,’ Magnus yelled from behind Caelus, pressing the freezing flat of his sword against the centurion’s thigh. ‘There’s nothing to hold me back if you draw that sword; I ain’t under military
