tribes being more interested in banditry than husbandry. The burnt-out settlements that marked the course of the war band’s advance, a few days earlier, attested to the fact.
Once in the valley their course changed to due east. They plunged into trackless forest. Scouts were sent out ahead through the thick undergrowth to spring any ambushes set by the tribes still loyal to Rome, wanting revenge for land that had been ravaged. But none came.
On the morning of the third day the trees thinned out and gave way to a narrow area of scrubland, beyond which flowed the Hebrus. Its slow brown water, laden with the sediment that its fast-flowing tributaries had washed down from the mountains in the spring thaw, cut a meandering path through the flat land on either side, ever eating away at the earth on its banks. Groups of small brush-covered islets ranged in gentle sweeps near the shore; the water between them was filled with reeds.
On the far bank, one hundred paces away, was a fishing village. As the Thracians appeared out of the wood a flotilla was launched. Over fifty small fishing boats and log rafts, crewed by boys, began to paddle across the river; the boys whooped as they raced with each other, all vying to be the first across.
‘So that’s how they crossed,’ Corbulo said quietly. ‘When we come back on a punishment raid we’ll destroy every boat we find; not that I plan on leaving anyone alive to use them.’
Vespasian smiled to himself; he had guessed how Corbulo had spent the time in his head.
The first boats arrived and the whoops of some of the boys turned into wails of grief as they learnt of fathers or elder brothers who would not be returning.
The Thracians began to embark. Sacks were pulled over the mules’ heads and the prisoners’ cart was loaded on to what felt like a very unstable raft. The boys crewing it glared at the prisoners. One had tears in his eyes. Vespasian wondered if he had killed the boy’s kinsman, and found himself hoping that he had.
The raft cast off and Vespasian, knowing that they would not stand a chance in the water, still bound as they were, prayed to Poseidon, who, although Greek, he felt was the most suitable god in the circumstances, to keep them afloat.
All around them the small boats bobbed in the river, heavily laden with seven or eight men in each. Some of the men were in high spirits, pleased to be going home, but the rest were quiet, mindful of the friends and kinsmen that did not share their luck.
The blindfolded mules brayed mournfully all the way across.
The flotilla made three trips before the crossing was complete; there were no accidents. Vespasian couldn’t help but admire the efficiency with which it was carried out. It was a far cry from the ramshackle way in which these people fought.
Once they were all assembled on the east bank, thirty or so men, who came from the village, bade farewell to their comrades and returned home with the boys. The rest of war band moved off. The grim journey continued across the seemingly endless flat grassland of the eastern bank of the Hebrus.
At intervals, small groups of warriors split off from the column to make their way home, to the north or south, to the villages and small homesteads that could be seen scattered in the distance. By mid-afternoon there were fewer than four hundred left in the war band.
‘This is more like it,’ Magnus said, his spirits raised by the dwindling number of warriors that surrounded them. ‘If it carries on like this it’ll be just us and the guards left, then we’ll see how tough they are.’
‘And just how do you plan untie yourself?’ Corbulo asked, coming back to the main problem.
‘Ah, yes.’
They lapsed back into a silence that was disturbed, a few moments later, by the sound of horses galloping. From out of nowhere twenty or so horsemen had materialised. The column halted.
‘Where the fuck did they come from?’ Faustus asked, seeing no sign of close habitation.
The horsemen arrived at the head of the column where they greeted the chief; after exchanging a few words one of them rode back to the cart.
He stared at the four prisoners with piercing blue eyes. The tip of his nose was missing. A long, ill-kempt, ginger beard that completely hid his mouth covered his lower face; the rest of his head was bald. Huge gold rings hung from his ears. He picked out Corbulo as the most senior and addressed him in good Latin.
‘Are you the man who is responsible for the death of my youngest son?’
Corbulo was taken aback, he had no idea who or how many he had killed in the battle.
‘I am responsible for no deaths. It was not I who attacked.’
‘But it was you who commanded the Roman column. It was you that led it on to Thracian soil.’
‘Thracia is a client of Rome, and we have every right to be here. You would do well to remember that in your dealings with me.’
The Thracian laughed; it was not a pleasant sound. ‘The arrogance of you people amazes me; even when prisoners, tied up in your own shit, you still talk down to anyone not of your kind. Well, I will tell you this, Roman, I hold you responsible and you will pay.’
He spat in Corbulo’s face, turned his horse and sped off; the other horsemen followed. A couple of hundred paces from the column they disappeared down into a depression, invisible in the sea of grass. The column followed. They descended into an almost round basin about two hundred paces across and fifty deep. At the bottom was a large camp of over five hundred tents. It was so well hidden that an army could march within a quarter of a mile of it and not see it.
Night had fallen. Fires, not allowed in the camp during the day because of their smoke, had now been lit. Sheep were being roasted whole on spits; the smell of cooking mutton wafted over the camp. The drinking had started, and the Thracians’ mood began to change from the sombreness of defeated men to one of intoxicated bravado. Heroic deeds were recounted and embellished, boasts were made and vows of vengeance sworn. Fights broke out, screaming slave girls and boys were brutally tupped and more rough wine drunk. The seriousness of the fights intensified and the drinking became reckless. The noise steadily escalated.
Vespasian and his companions sat at the centre of this chaos. They still wore their uniforms over their stained and filthy tunics. Their feet remained bound but their hands had been freed so that they could eat from the plate of gristle and semi-gnawed mutton bones that had been placed before them. Four guards, drinking steadily from wineskins, watched over them.
‘It’s like a market-day night in the Subura,’ Magnus commented through a mouthful of half-chewed fat.
‘Except it doesn’t smell so bad,’ Corbulo pointed out truthfully.
Vespasian lifted the hem of his soiled tunic. ‘We’d fit in very well there wearing these, I imagine.’
‘We wouldn’t smell out of place at all, in fact we’d smell a lot better than most of the whores,’ Faustus put in.
Magnus grinned and carried on chewing; he was determined to get that lump of fat down.
A blind-drunk Thracian tripped over one of their guards’ legs and fell towards Vespasian, vomiting.
‘Watch yourself, sir.’ Magnus pulled his friend from out of the man’s path. The Thracian crashed to the ground, convulsing as he brought up the contents of his stomach.
Vespasian recoiled from the stench; then his eyes widened slightly as he noticed the man’s dagger had become unsheathed in the fall; it lay on the ground only a foot away from his thigh. The guards dropped their wineskins and rose unsteadily to their feet, casting shadows over where the dagger lay. They shouted at their comatose comrade, who, naturally, didn’t respond. Magnus, who had also seen the opportunity, waved at the guards and made good-humoured drinking motions with his hands. The guards laughed. Vespasian edged his leg slowly towards the dagger. A guard stepped over him to heave the man away. He trod on the dagger but failed to notice it; as he stepped forward to lift the drunk he pushed the dagger backwards, closer to Vespasian. Magnus started pointing at himself, gesturing to the other guards to give him a drink; one of them shrugged, picked up a wineskin and lobbed it over to him. Vespasian lifted his thigh and flicked the dagger underneath.
‘That is rough,’ Magnus grimaced, having taken a slug of wine. He leant over and passed the skin to Corbulo, asking under his breath. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Corbulo took a sip. ‘We’ll wait a while, until they’ve all drunk themselves senseless – which won’t take long if this is what they’re drinking.’ He passed the wine to Faustus who took a mouthful and almost choked.
When they had finished eating the guards retied their hands. Vespasian managed to keep his leg firmly pressed down on the dagger beneath it, even though it meant his foot rested in the pile of vomit.
They settled down to wait their chance. For the first time since their capture a sense of optimism prevailed
