around. Screams came from the field slaves’ barracks as the shackled slaves inside panicked at the smell of smoke and rising heat in their windowless place of confinement; flames were threatening their door. There was no sign of the attackers; the door to the courtyard garden of the main house swung unsteadily on its buckled hinges.
Vespasian dashed along the roof and leapt down into the stable yard as, at the far end, a group of men came running out of the freedmen’s lodgings, armed with swords, javelins and bows. Vespasian recognised Pallo, the estate steward, at their head, followed by Baseos the Scythian and the Persian Ataphanes, both bearing their recurved, eastern bows. Unfortunately they did not recognise him; two arrows careered towards him as he hit the ground. He felt a rush of air pass over his head and then a lightning strike of pain in his left shoulder twisted him backwards on to the floor.
‘Pallo!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, Vespasian!’
But too late. Thinking that he was no longer a threat Baseos and Ataphanes had turned their attentions to the crossroads brothers still traversing the roof; two fell into the yard as Ataphanes went down with an arrow from Artebudz in his chest.
‘Artebudz, don’t shoot!’ Vespasian roared again in a monumental effort to make himself heard over the clamour from the field slaves’ barracks. ‘Pallo, stop! It’s me, Vespasian.’ He got to his knees and waved his arms; pain from the arrowhead grinding against bone shot through his senses.
This time Pallo recognised his young master, whom he had not seen in over four years, by his voice.
‘Stop shooting,’ Pallo ordered, running across the yard. His men followed, weapons raised warily. ‘Master, is that really you? Why are you attacking your own home?’
‘I’m not. There’s no time to explain,’ he said, wincing as he broke off the shaft of the arrow a thumb’s length from the entry point.
Magnus and Artebudz jumped down from the roof followed by Sextus and Marius.
‘Follow me into the main house,’ Vespasian cried, running through the swinging gate, ‘and be careful who you shoot at, Sabinus is coming in through the front.’
The courtyard garden was deserted apart from the body of the slave whose job it had been to sit by the gate all night. From the house came the sound of hand-to-hand fighting. Vespasian pounded around the colonnaded walkway towards the tablinum; blood oozed from his wound and was now soaking his tunic and his head was feeling light from pain.
Pushing aside the broken tablinum door he hurtled through and on into the atrium. It was a mass of writhing and struggling bodies all locked in bitter close-quarter conflicts: some standing, fighting with swords and knives; some wrestling, rolling around on the floor. At the far end of the room the open door burned like a beacon; by its light he could see, next to his brother and Clemens, fighting with a dagger in each hand, his father, Titus. Blood poured down the side of his face from where his left ear was missing.
With a roar, Vespasian jumped over the dead and bloodsoaked body of Varo, the house steward, and flung himself through the chaos and on to the back of his father’s adversary. Grabbing him by the hair he swung his sword in a short, sideways arc into the flesh at the top of his right arm and on through the bone, like wire through cheese. The man howled as his severed limb dropped to the floor; a sharp thrust from Titus curtailed the bestial sound and he fell, dead.
Behind Vespasian, Magnus, Sextus and Marius descended on the rear of their crossroads brothers’ opponents like furies released from hades. Livilla’s men stood no chance as they were hacked and stabbed at from all angles. Artebudz, Pallo, Baseos and the rest of the freedmen stood back, uncertain of friend or foe; but they were not needed. In a few short moments only two of the attackers were left standing, herded into a corner, surrounded and defeated. Both dropped to one knee in token of surrender.
‘You come to my house to kill me in front of the death masks of my ancestors and the altar to my family’s gods and then expect mercy?’ Titus thundered, pushing his way through the surrounding men. In one fluid movement he swiped up a discarded sword and flashed it through the air at neck height, almost taking the first man’s head clean off. The body slumped forward, spraying Magnus and his brothers. The second man raised his head. His eyes showed no fear as they stared at Titus from beneath a mono-brow; he nodded and lowered his head to receive the killing blow in the manner of a Roman citizen.
‘Don’t!’ a voice shouted as Titus lifted his sword.
Titus jerked around to see who would prevent him from taking his just vengeance.
Clemens stepped forward.
‘Who are you, young man?’ Titus enquired, breathing heavily.
‘Marcus Arrecinus Clemens, sir,’ Clemens replied steadily. ‘Your son is to marry my sister.’
‘Well, Clemens, if you think that family ties will force me to grant mercy to this man, you are much mistaken.’
Sabinus stepped up to Clemens, outraged. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, coming between coming my father and his rightful justice? Every one of Livilla’s men must die,’ he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at the kneeling man.
‘Calm, my friend, Livilla’s men are all dead,’ Clemens said pointing at the captive. ‘He’s not one of them.’
Sabinus looked carefully at the man whilst slowing his breathing. A memory flashed across his mind and he stared harder at the kneeling man’s face. ‘Clemens is right, father,’ he said, remembering the mono-browed guard in Macro’s room the previous year. ‘This one’s not Livilla’s man, he’s a Praetorian. That’s Satrius Secundus.’
CHAPTER XIII
‘I don’t care how useful you think he might be; I want him dead.’ Vespasia Polla was adamant. Outraged by the murder done in her home and still recovering from the mental exhaustion brought on by accepting that she was going to die, she wanted her revenge. ‘If none of you men have the balls to do it then I’ll do it myself. Titus, give me your dagger.’
‘My dear, if Sabinus and Vespasian say that Secundus should live for political reasons then I’m not about to gainsay them,’ Titus said as patiently as he could. Blood still oozed from his wound. ‘I would remind you that the last time you got involved in matters that neither you nor I understood, your impetuousness-’
‘Impetuousness!’ Vespasia snorted.
‘Yes, impetuousness, woman,’ Titus retorted sharply. ‘Your impetuousness caused us to be smuggled out of Rome like thieves in the night, and made me look like a foolish country bumpkin unable to control a wilful wife; a laughing stock in other words. Now enough of your opinions; go and organise whatever slaves we have left to clear up this mess.’
Vespasia looked for a moment as if she would explode. She glanced at Vespasian and Sabinus.
‘Mother,’ Vespasian said placidly, ‘trust us.’
Realising that she was not going to get the better of her menfolk in this argument, she acquiesced, but resolved to some day have her revenge for the time she had spent locked in Titus’ study, listening to the savage fighting outside and gazing at the knife that he had given her. One moment she had been peacefully asleep in her bedroom; the next, her husband was dragging her through the atrium. Flames were coming from under the front door and the door to the courtyard garden was being battered down. Titus had hauled her into his study — the only room off the atrium with a lock — and given her his knife with the order to kill herself should the door be broken down. She had been terrified, staring at her reflection in the blade distorted by the strange lettering engraved on it. When Titus and his sons had unlocked the door after the fighting had ended they had found her on her knees holding the knife to her breast ready to fall on it, in the expectation that the defenders were all dead and the attackers had found the key. It was only the quick reactions of her husband in catching her as she fell forward that saved her life.
The men breathed a sigh of relief as she walked, with as much dignity as she could muster, out of the body- strewn atrium.
Titus approached his two sons and put a hand round each of their necks. They were alone. Pallo and Clemens had taken Secundus to be locked up and Magnus and his brothers were helping the rest of the household extinguish the fires. The front door still smouldered but the fire was quenched; smoke drifted through the room.
‘Thank you, my sons, thank you,’ Titus said, pulling them to him and resting their foreheads on either side of
