‘I can see them,’ Pallo called. ‘They’re about half a mile away. They’ve got burning torches.’
‘OK. Steady, lads, keep low,’ Sabinus growled.
‘They’ve seen Baseos and Ataphanes; here they come.’
The sound of horses was getting louder and they could now hear the shouts of their riders. Vespasian thought that if they were trying to surprise them, they were going the wrong way about it. This thought was banished from his mind as Baseos and Ataphanes came thundering through the gates, one swerving to the left and one to the right, towards the last two ladders that had been left for them. They leapt from their mounts and quickly clambered on to the roof, pulling the ladders up behind them, just as the lead riders burst into the yard, brandishing flaming torches, followed closely by the main body of the runaways. The lead riders passed over the rope and threw their torches, wildly, at open windows.
‘Now!’ Sabinus shouted.
A hail of missiles rained down on the attackers, striking rider and mount alike. Four fell immediately. Such was the speed of the others following behind that they were unable to stop. They raced through the gates and on into the yard, trampling the bodies of their fallen comrades. As the last raiders charged through the gates Simeon and Ludovicus leapt from their hiding places and pulled them shut. Incensed by this attack on his home, Vespasian felt the heat of blood-lust rise in him for the second time. This time he would kill. Screams echoed around the courtyard as arrows and javelins found their mark. He hurled a javelin directly at the nearest raider, an older man with a thick beard, a pock-marked face and his dark hair tied in a topknot, German style. The shaft hit him full in the centre of his chest, crunching through the sternum, its point coming to rest in the backbone, severing the spinal cord. Paralysis of the lower body was immediate and the man’s legs went limp. He slithered from his horse, hit the ground and lay there unable to move, blood rising in his throat, in the hideous realisation that he was breathing his last.
Sabinus pulled with all his strength on the rope. It sprang up from the ground catching two horses by their throats, sending them up on to their hind legs and throwing their riders under the hooves of the horses behind, who in their turn went careering into the rope. The impact pulled the rope savagely from Sabinus’ hands and sent him toppling off the roof. He managed to land on all fours and instantly stood up, drawing his sword as he did so. Two unhorsed raiders sprang at him, armed with spears and vicious-looking curved daggers. They were too close to Sabinus for the defenders to risk a shot. Vespasian and Titus, who both had one javelin left, ran along the roof, closer to Sabinus, to try and get a better angle.
The first man lunged overarm with his spear at Sabinus’ face. Ducking to his left, Sabinus brought his sword in a crosswise slash across the man’s belly; it burst open, like an overripe fig, spilling its contents on the ground. The man howled, dropping his spear as he tried to halt with his hands the tide of guts that flowed from his gaping abdomen.
The next man, a stocky, muscular Iberian, realising that he was up against a canny fighter, approached Sabinus with more caution. As he did so, two of the few remaining mounted raiders charged towards Sabinus, flinging their javelins. Catching their movement out of the corner of his eye, he managed to duck the first, but the second, aimed much lower, seared straight through his right calf. The Iberian saw his chance and leapt forward, thrusting his spear towards Sabinus’ unprotected chest, only to come to a sudden stop, looking down in surprise at Titus’ last javelin, which protruded from his ribcage.
The two horsemen came bearing down on the crippled Sabinus, swords drawn, yelling wildly. Without thinking Vespasian flung himself off the roof and, picking up the gutted man’s spear as he landed, stood, terrified but determined, at his brother’s side. One horseman, seeing a new target, made straight for him, leaning down to his right, his sword pointing at Vespasian’s chest, his wild eyes fixed upon his target. The adrenalin pumping through his veins seemed to slow time for Vespasian as he gauged the speed of the charge. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and, despite his fear, he felt a sense of calm flood over him; he had killed and he would now kill again. At the last moment he jumped to his right, jammed the butt of the spear into the ground, and held it at forty-five degrees. Half a ton of horse drove itself straight on to the spear head, burying it far into its heart, which exploded in a spray of deep-red blood over Vespasian and his brother. The creature dropped dead, catapulting its rider over its head and straight on to Vespasian. The second rider slashed at Sabinus as he sped past. Sabinus, with the javelin still piercing his calf, wasn’t nimble enough to dodge the blow; he caught the tip in his right shoulder and went down. Vespasian recovered quickly; throwing off the body of the winded rider, he drew his sword, pulled back the prone man’s head by his hair and slit his throat. He then stood over the body of his brother as the second rider wheeled his horse round and urged it back towards him. He’d gone no further than five paces when two arrows simultaneously thumped into his back; he fell from his horse with a shriek and rolled along the ground, breaking off the arrow shafts, and came to a stop just short of Vespasian, his dead eyes staring unblinking at the sun.
A cheer went up and Vespasian looked around realising that he was the last man standing. All the raiders were either dead or dying in the dust whilst the surviving horses waited patiently in little groups. He looked down at Sabinus who was clutching at his wounded shoulder; blood oozed through his fingers.
‘Well fought, little brother,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘It seems that I have you to thank for saving my life, not that you ever thanked me for saving yours yesterday.’
Vespasian held out his hand. ‘Well, you can consider yourself thanked now,’ he said, pulling Sabinus to his feet.
‘You can thank me properly by pulling this fucking thing out of my leg.’
Vespasian knelt down to examine the wound. All around them cheering men were coming down from the roofs to put out the few fires that had taken hold and to slit the throats of those runaways still breathing.
‘Well done, my boys, that was a fine display,’ Titus called as he clambered down the ladder. ‘I trust that you are not too badly hurt, Sabinus?’
‘I’ll be fine, Father, I need a few stitches from Chloe, and-’ He let out a huge roar; Vespasian had used the distraction of his father to remove the javelin. Sabinus went pale and almost fainted. ‘Gods, that hurt, you little shit. I bet you really enjoyed that. Come on, get me into the house.’
They hobbled towards the door that had been unbolted by their mother, who had heard the cheering. She stood waiting to help her son into the house.
‘Oh, by the way, wool,’ Sabinus mumbled.
‘What?’ Vespasian asked, thinking that his brother was rambling.
‘What we should be selling at the moment, wool. It’s in demand because winter’s approaching.’
‘Oh, yes, that. You’re quite right, well done for working it out,’ Vespasian replied.
‘I didn’t work it out, I just asked Pallo when we got back yesterday.’ Sabinus grinned. ‘Oh, and get that poultice seen to, you look ridiculous.’
Vespasian looked with a half-smile at his brother and, shaking his head, thought that it was unlikely that he’d ever change. He left him in the care of the womenfolk.
He turned and surveyed the scene in the yard. The fires were now out; just a few wisps of smoke marked where they had caught. The manacled field slaves were being let out of the storerooms and taken back to work. Pallo was organising the piling up of the dead runaways on a pyre outside the gates. Vespasian watched as his javelin was extracted from the top-knotted German and the body was hauled away, leaving a thick trail of blood. It had been his first kill and the thought didn’t shock him. He’d slit the throat of the second man without even thinking; he’d done what he’d had to do to survive and to protect his brother. Anyway, these had just been slaves whose lives were worth only what they would fetch at auction.
Pallo saw him watching the removal of the dead, and walked over. ‘You did well today, Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ he said formally, according him the respect of a man. ‘Your father must be proud.’
‘Thank you, Pallo, we all did our share; it was a well-conceived plan of my brother’s. How many of our lads were hurt?’
‘One killed and four wounded, none of them too badly.’
‘Who died?’ Vespasian asked.
‘Brennus, a Gallic house slave; he was hit in the eye by a javelin. His son Drest is one of the wounded,’ Pallo replied.
‘We should free the son, it will send a good message to the other slaves should this happen again. I’ll speak to my father.’
As he turned to go a thought occurred to him. ‘Pallo?’ he asked, lowering his voice. ‘Do you know anything about a prophecy to do with me? Something that happened at my birth; you were there, were you not?’ Vespasian
