False God of Rome (44 page)

After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably in reality less than half the time that Vespasian had spent in the burial chamber a few days earlier, Flavia reappeared. As she reached the
top of the steps she paused next to the guard, and swayed slightly on her feet; giving out a little moan as if overawed by what she had just seen, she put her hand on the guard’s heavily
muscled forearm to steady herself. He looked down at her, concerned. Vespasian smiled inwardly: she knew how to handle men, the touch had created a small bond between them. She smiled
apologetically at the guard, patted his arm, turned towards Vespasian and began to walk slowly and unsteadily towards him. Vespasian kept his eyes on Magnus. After Flavia had gone four paces
Magnus’ hand came up to his nose. Vespasian looked at Flavia and nodded; with a weak cry she crumpled to the floor. The guard spun round and immediately dropped his pike with a clatter and
leapt to aid the woman who had touched him so gently as the priest appeared at the top of the steps; he looked to see the cause of the commotion and hurried to help his erstwhile charge.

‘Flavia!’ Vespasian cried, running forward as the guard knelt down to lift her head from the cold marble floor.

‘What happened?’ the priest asked, looking anxiously over the guard’s shoulder.

‘I don’t know,’ Vespasian replied, concern written all over his face. He looked up to see Magnus approaching; Ziri had disappeared. ‘Magnus, send Ziri to get the chairs
ready.’

‘He’s already gone, sir.’

‘Good, help me lift her.’

‘It’s all right,’ Flavia whispered, fluttering open her eyes, ‘I’ll be fine in a moment, I was just a bit overcome, that’s all.’ She eased herself up
with the guard’s supportive arm around her shoulders.

‘I’ve seen this happen before,’ the priest said solemnly, ‘people get overawed just looking down through the tunnel at Alexander’s face.’

‘Being so close to him in the chamber was completely overwhelming, especially for a woman,’ Flavia said sweetly, ‘I would advise you not to let women down there into the
presence of such a powerful man.’

The priest nodded sagely. ‘You might be right, lady; I shall form a committee of priests to review our policy on allowing women so close.’

‘You are most kind,’ Flavia said with sincerity, getting to her feet with the guard’s help. ‘I feel much better now; Alexander’s latent vigour has washed right
through me. Vespasian, shall we go? I have an urgent need to feel a man’s arms around me.’

‘We shall, Flavia,’ Vespasian replied, hoping that would be the limit to her melodrama.

Flavia took his arm and looked at the guard with doe-eyes. ‘Thank you, my strong Guard of Alexander.’

The man’s mouth broke into a wide grin beneath his bush of a beard; Vespasian tugged Flavia forward with a fixed smile on his face. ‘Come, my dear.’

‘I shall pray to Alexander for your wellbeing,’ the priest called after them as they passed through the doors.

Felix was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps eyeing the small enclosure filled with geese next to the temple; he had an empty sack over his shoulder. ‘Is he in?’ he asked
once they were out of earshot of the exterior guards.

‘Yes,’ Vespasian replied. ‘It was well done, if somewhat theatrical towards the end. We’ll see you later, Felix.’

‘Good. I’ll be in the boat below your terrace at the fifth hour of the night; the breastplate will be with me. I shall now procure the final two items that we need.’

‘That, my dear, was not theatre,’ Flavia informed him as Felix disappeared off into the fading light towards the geese enclosure. ‘That was done so that when those two men
review the incident in their minds they will only see me. They won’t notice the fact that Ziri could never have been given orders by Magnus and then got out of the doors from where he was
standing in the time between me fainting and Magnus saying that he’d gone, after you had so foolishly drawn attention to his absence.’

‘They would never notice that.’

‘They certainly won’t now, because I’ve made sure of it.’

Vespasian was not going to argue; she had shown spirit and they could not have achieved that part of the break-in without her. ‘And I’m sure that they will treasure the memory. Now,
my dear, when we get back you should get your maids to finish packing and get them on board the ship as, with luck, we will be sailing at first light.’

‘I’ve already done that; I’m so excited about coming back to Rome with you.’

Vespasian looked at her and smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it too, my dear.’

The night sky was aglow with flames as they approached the palace complex; the cries and screams of conflict could be heard rising from the Jewish Quarter beyond.

‘It seems to be getting worse,’ Hortensius called back as a gang of Greeks dragged a screaming Jew towards them. ‘I think that you should get out of the chairs and walk now,
senator.’

‘Very well,’ Vespasian agreed, signalling his and Flavia’s bearers to stop.

‘Why must we walk?’ Flavia asked Magnus as he helped her down.

‘Because it will be easier to defend you if we’re attacked. We can’t have you getting hurt, can we?’ His estimation of her had greatly increased after her performance
earlier that evening.

As they pressed on for the last few hundred paces to the palace, passing anarchic groups running to and from the fighting, Vespasian was unsurprised to see the streets bare of legionaries;
Flaccus was evidently playing brinkmanship with the lives of the Jews and he was determined to win and bring them to heel.

Finally approaching the gates the street became quieter, the mob being wary of the heavy guard of legionaries in full battle order posted outside.

Hortensius saluted their centurion. ‘Optio Hortensius escorting Senator Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’

‘Ah, senator,’ the centurion said, ‘there’s a man here been waiting to see you this last half-hour, says his name is Nathanial – he swam along the coast from the
Jewish Quarter.’ He pulled a bruised and bleeding man forward. ‘We didn’t believe that he knew you at first,’ he added by way of explanation for the man’s looks.

‘Senator, you must help,’ the man said, stepping forward into the torchlight.

Vespasian peered at him and recognised the man whose brother had been murdered on the Canopic Way a few days before. ‘What do you want, Nathanial?’

‘You said that you would bring my brother’s killers to justice because you owed a favour to the Alabarch. As you know, they were spared so you still need to repay that
favour.’

‘What of it?’

‘The Alabarch and his sons are besieged in a temple not far from here; they have a few men with them but they can’t last much longer. That preacher has allied his followers with the
Greeks. The Alabarch sent me here, just before the building was completely surrounded, to ask for your help; will you come?’

Magnus raised his eyebrows and looked at Vespasian. ‘Well?’

‘Well, I owe him and I’d hate the thought of Paulus making his sport with him and his sons; we’ll go. And besides, we may get the chance to finish off that odious little
fanatic.’

‘If we’re going, you ain’t going like that; a toga never kept Caesar alive in Pompey’s Theatre.’

‘You’re right, we should get properly armed. Hortensius, wait here with this man and have your men sharpen their blades, we won’t be long.’

Hortensius snapped a salute.

‘You can’t take legionaries into the Jewish Quarter, senator,’ the centurion protested.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be going against orders; the prefect has forbidden it.’

‘I’m sure he has, but has he forbidden senators from going in?’

The centurion looked nonplussed.

‘I’m going, centurion, and if Hortensius and his men don’t come with me then he will be breaking the prefect’s direct order to him to accompany me everywhere I go in
Alexandria.’

The sound of fighting grew nearer as Vespasian, now shielded and wearing his bronze cuirass, led Hortensius and his men at a quick jog through wafting smoke into the Jewish
Quarter with Magnus and Nathanial at his side. Heat from the fires all around had already caused him to break out into a sweat and his scalp prickled beneath the felt liner under his plain
legionary helmet. Marcus Antonius’ sword slapped against his right thigh and tension flooded through his body as he contemplated using it in anger for the first time in the city where it had
taken the life of its first master.

The presence of a unit of armed legionaries probing into what had hitherto been an authority-free zone caused the groups of pillaging Greeks in their path to drop the larger items of their
spoils, looted from houses before they were torched, and run for the safety of side alleys. The occasional rock hurled at the soldiers as they passed clattered harmlessly off their shields but told
of hostile intent.

‘Two more blocks and then we turn left towards the sea,’ Nathanial informed Vespasian through gritted teeth as he struggled for breath in the fume-filled air. ‘The temple is at
the end of that street.’

Mutilated corpses, body parts and debris were strewn around in an abundance that made the riot in Cyrene seem like a mere misunderstanding between neighbours: easily patched up and soon
forgotten about.

‘I don’t know about you, sir, but I’m starting to think that just four
contuburnia
ain’t really enough to take on the entire Greek population,’ Magnus
observed as another rock crashed into his shield. ‘I’d like to hear a lot more hobnailed boots tramping behind me.’

‘It’s pointless worrying about it because it’s all we have,’ Vespasian replied testily. ‘We just have to hope that Rome’s authority will prevail and we can
order their release.’

Magnus scoffed but said nothing.

They quickly reached the end of the second block and turned left into a wide avenue; Vespasian faltered. The street was littered with corpses, some smouldering, illuminated by fires in the
houses on either side; the smell of burned flesh hung heavy in the air, which was filled with rasping wails of agony emanating from within the mass of a huge mob fifty paces ahead. Beyond them
Vespasian could see a Jewish temple being consumed by fire.

Nathanial groaned. ‘We’re too late, they’re flaying the prisoners alive.’

Vespasian brought his small unit to a halt. ‘Hortensius, have the men form a solid square, facing out on each side.’

‘We’re not going to charge into that lot, are we?’ Magnus asked disbelievingly, taking his place on Vespasian’s right shoulder as the legionaries quickly formed up.

‘Not if they know what’s good for them. Draw gladii; advance at the walk!’

With some men walking backwards and some sideways like crabs, the small square eased forward keeping shields tight together, the razor-sharp blades of their swords protruding between them
flashing orange in the fire’s glow.

The screaming from within the mob kept up but gradually awareness of the Romans’ presence filtered through, and by the time the square was twenty paces from them hundreds of faces were
turned their way.

‘Halt!’ Vespasian ordered.

The square stopped with a stamp of hobnails on stone.

The clamour of the mob died down, leaving only the anguished cries of the tormented men within it.

‘Who commands here?’ Vespasian shouted.

There was a brief pause before a group of four men pushed their way forward.

‘What do you want, Roman?’ their leader asked, a tall muscular man with short black hair and a full beard; he held a club with a long nail punched through its thick end.

‘I want to avoid having to kill any of you. What’s your name?’

‘Isodorus; but that is no secret, Flaccus already knows me.’

‘And Flaccus has given you permission to kill and burn as you please?’

Isodorus smiled coldly. ‘The prefect has made us no promises, but neither has he moved to stop us trying to rid this city of the canker within it that refuses to acknowledge great
Caesar’s divinity and yet wants equal status with us, his law-abiding subjects.’

‘That is quite evident; but I am not Flaccus, nor am I under his authority. I was sent to this province by the Emperor and it’s to the Emperor that I will report when I return to
Rome. So you have two choices, Isodorus: come and kill me and see how many of your people we cut down with our swords before you overcome us with your sticks and eating-knives, or hand over the
prisoners that you took from that temple before we come and get them.’

‘You’d never make it.’

Vespasian hardened his eyes. ‘Try me, Isodorus; we’ll easily kill ten of your rabble for every legionary, that’s over three hundred and you’ll be the first.’ He
looked around the crowd. ‘Which of you brave shopkeepers, tavern owners and thieves are willing to be one of the three hundred to die with Isodorus in order that you can keep your
prisoners?’ He pointed his sword at a fat, balding man with blood on his hands and tunic. ‘You, perhaps?’ The man slunk back into the crowd. ‘What about you?’ he
shouted, pointing to the fat man’s neighbour who also moved back. ‘It seems like you have a problem, Isodorus, your brave townsfolk are keener to live than they are to hang onto your
prisoners so that you can rip the skin off their bodies. Your decision, Isodorus; now!’

The Greek looked around at his ragtag mob of poorly armed townsfolk and, realising that they would not have the stomach to face the well-drilled blades of the legionaries, stepped aside.

‘Very wise,’ Vespasian sneered. ‘Square! Forward at the walk.’

The legionaries moved on again at a slow deliberate pace so that those not walking forwards could keep formation, hunched behind their continuous wall of shields. The mob parted for them,
pulling well back, out of reach of the blades bristling between every shield ready to kill or maim.

‘I don’t fancy our chances if they suddenly sprout a communal set of balls,’ Magnus muttered as they neared the middle of the mob.

The cries of anguish from the prisoners within had subsided and there was an unnatural quiet broken only by the steady steps of the soldiers.

Suddenly a scene of disgusting carnage appeared before them: hanging naked from a sturdy wooden frame, suspended by the wrists so that their toes just reached the ground, were three men and a
woman. Their heads slumped onto their chests, which heaved with the effort of breathing and the pain of their hideous wounds. They were in various stages of being flayed. The man nearest seemed to
be the luckiest; just one strip of skin, a hand’s breadth wide, had been stripped from his back to hang limply from his waist as if it were the end of a blood-soaked belt. The others had not
been so fortunate; skin hung from their waists in abundance, flapping gently, like ghastly skirts, as their bodies writhed. In the middle of the frame staring with disbelieving eyes, first at the
Romans and then back to the victims, was a group of male prisoners awaiting their turns under the knife; in their midst Vespasian saw Alexander squatting with his arm around his youngest son,
Marcus.