enemy, felt the centurion squeeze alongside him. He was holding his hand out in front and the light from the fire caught the gold coins right away. It also caught the look of naked greed in Flaccus’s eye. ‘Just when we’ve got a chance to be rich, Sors be damned, we’re stuck with more gold than we can carry.’
‘We could get the others down here.’
‘No!’ Flaccus used his free hand to grasp Clodius’s arm in a painful grip. He explained quickly about the various prophecies, especially the last one he had had from the old soothsayer in Salonae, his voice rasping and eager, rising when necessary to make himself heard over the sounds from the clearing. ‘There’s enough gold to cover me twice over and that sounds near enough like cheering to me. But this is Roman gold, mate, and you know as well as I do, by rights it should be handed in. If we let all the lads in on the secret, one of them’s bound to croak, even if it’s only through drink. Let’s take what we can carry, scatter the rest, then set this wagon alight.’
‘Seems like a good way to die,’ whispered Clodius
‘No. We’ve got to keep them occupied, even if it’s just pickin’ up money. Otherwise it might be that none of us get out of here. Come on.’
Flaccus was halfway up the hill with the two heavy leather bags round his shoulders when the thought came to him. ‘We’ll never manage this lot. If we need to run we’ll have to throw it away.’
‘So?’ asked Clodius with a painful gasp. He liked gold, but he loved life more.
Flaccus was speaking quickly. ‘We’ll bury it on the other side of the hill, and still set fire to the wagon.’
Another great cheer rent the air. Another Roman soldier died.
‘They’re goin’ to run out of victims soon, Flaccus. I say we should get out of here.’
The centurion dropped all pretence at being nice. His lined face, faintly illuminated by the firelight was screwed up in a passion, his eyes were like flints and his voice carried a snarl that made him sound more animal than human. ‘Lily-livered son of a whore, do the gods ever do what I ask? I could have picked any one of thirty men and I got you. You just do as I say, or I’ll personally add another Roman body to the casualty list.’
There was no doubt that he meant it, just as Clodius knew he could do it and, listing him as missing, never have to explain the casualty. They worked steadily, Flaccus digging a hole with his sword between the base of a tree and a thick thorn bush. Clodius, fetching the heavy bags from the wagon, heard him cursing as the thorns cut his flesh, that quickly followed by an apology to one of the three Goddesses of the Fates, or maybe it was all three, given the depth of Flaccian superstition. For all that piety, it was Flaccus who realised that the yelling and screaming had stopped and he shot back up to the crest and looked down, Clodius beside him.
‘Something’s up. Time to get out of here. You go down and fire the wagon while I fill in the hole, and be quick about it, for as soon as they’re done over there, one of ’em’s bound to come over and have a look at their booty. Don’t forget to scatter some money about in the grass. Make it look as though we’ve headed south. It will slow them down, especially if they think one of their own has thieved it.’
Clodius slithered down the hill to the wagon. There were just two leather bags left in the chest, joined at the top by a strap. He took them out and slung them round his neck. A sword thrust into the base of each one was enough to ensure a steady stream of gold as he ran to the trees south of the clearing. As soon as the bags were empty he ran back to the wagon, reaching into his tunic for the two hardwood sticks. No legionary ever went anywhere without the means to start a fire, and long practice made them all adept. Clodius scrabbled around, found some dry wood and used his sword to make shavings. Having collected kindling and some dried ferns, he crouched at the back of the wagon, furiously rubbing his sticks together.
He blew gently as soon as he saw a spark and his heart leapt at the first light on the edge of a piece of the shavings. He picked it up and blew on it till it glowed, then laid it down, ferns on top. Blowing again, still gently, he fed more dried fern into the glowing area until they took, flaring slightly, enough to allow him to heap small pieces of kindling on top. Once that had shown the first signs of burning he added the more substantial twigs, pushing the whole lot against the side of the wagon and laid the tarred ropes that held the canvas canopy across the fire. Once a flame got going it would set light to the tar and soon reach the canvas of the roof. That would burn for sure, and if the timber of the wagon itself was dry, as he thought it must be, then the whole thing would be ablaze in no time.
Clodius leapt down as soon as he decently could. There was always a chance that he had left too early, a chance that the fire would go out, but he had no intention of leaving too late. He ran up the hill to where Flaccus was waiting for him and the centurion dragged him to the spot where he had buried their loot.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s a bloody great pine, with a wild rose bush at the base, fourteen paces from the crest. We’ll pace the distance back to the cart track together and compare at the end. Come on.’
Clodius counted silently. He could hear Flaccus talking softly to himself, tallying off the steps, and he fought to block the sound out. In less than a minute they were back amongst the others, still lying flat, still transfixed by the scene before them. A voice spoke out of the darkness.
‘Quick, Flaccus, come and look at this.’
Both Clodius and Flaccus scurried back into their previous positions to see that the whole mass of men in the clearing had now gathered in the middle by the track. It was no longer two lines, more like two heaving crowds with the sandy soil of the roadway running down the centre. At the head of the crowd they saw him, a noble Roman, standing erect, dressed in his senatorial robes, looking neither left nor right. No one made a sound.
‘Publius Trebonius,’ whispered Flaccus. ‘It has to be.’
Without prodding, the man set off down the lane formed by the two files of his enemies. No one touched him, the whips stayed loose at the sides of their owners, as though the sheer presence of this Roman noble awed them too much to strike. He passed on to those who held the clubs, as a few raised their weapons, but none dared use them. Clodius could see the smile on Trebonius’s face, a smile that mocked these men who threatened him. The senator made it to the swordsmen and for a moment it looked as though he was going to get to the end unscathed, until a richly dressed individual jumped out at the very end, blocking Trebonius’s exit. The old man walked right up to him and looked him straight in the eye. Trebonius spoke, his words rising up the hillside, clear to those hidden over the crest.
‘You must stand aside. I represent the Imperium of the Senate of Rome. No man may block my progress.’
The whole place was silent as Trebonius raised his fasces, the bundle of sticks with the small axe inside, the symbol of his authority. In no way did it threaten harm; it was merely being used to gently poke the man’s chest, but it was enough. His sword shot out from his side in an underarm blow that carried it into the senator’s guts, right up to the hilt and Trebonius doubled over. A great cry went up and the crowd on either side surged forward to strike at him. Swords flashed and blood spurted as his enemies literally hacked him to pieces. They could see some of the blood-spattered tribesmen leaving the crowd, their teeth tearing at great chunks of Publius Trebonius’s flesh.
‘Time to get out of here lads,’ said Flaccus softly. ‘They’ve left old Trebonius till last.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Didius Flaccus and his men straggled back, at dawn, into the temporary camp at the pass, filthy, tired and hungry, to find their general had arrived with several wagons and was busy supervising the construction of some defences. Cholon, his servant, had tethered both their horses and was trying to arrange a space where, if he so desired, his master could take his ease. This involved the surreptitious use of some of the troops Aulus was directing. The wagons were being broken up to provide a fighting platform, trees were being felled and dragged into position to form a palisade across the track at the point where the pass narrowed. A few were diverted by the fastidious Greek for use as a bench on which Aulus could sit, the smaller branches going to feed the fire he had started. The servant looked at what he had laid out with something less than satisfaction, for no amount of pleading had ever allowed Cholon to travel on campaign with the things he insisted he required. Aulus was content to eat a soldier’s rations, if nothing finer was available, a deprivation much resented by his attendant, forced to live off the same food as his master. Now all he had was the contents of two saddlebags, plus the leftovers from the meal they had eaten in the main camp the night before.
Flaccus, giving a crisp salute, noticed that, as the general broke off from his task, he first counted the number of men who had returned. Sure that all were present and showing no signs of combat, he nodded and ordered the centurion to breakfast his men, then get them into the small tents which had been set up, at the temporary camp,
