Rome's Executioner (10 page)

‘I can see that you’ll be best of friends by the time we’re finished,’ Vespasian observed, getting up stiffly. ‘Now let’s get going before our balls freeze off.’

With a monumental effort he followed Artebudz up another fifteen feet and then they started to make their way stealthily towards the ambush point. Artebudz held his bow ready drawn, continually pointing it in different directions as he traversed the sharp incline; his natural agility and obvious familiarity with hunting in mountainous terrain enabled him to keep his footing without the use of his hands; Vespasian, who was not so sure-footed, used his right hand to steady himself whilst holding his undrawn bow with a ready notched arrow in his left. He looked down behind him and could see that Magnus and Sitalces were having just as much difficulty negotiating the traverse.

After they had gone about fifty stumbling paces the wind suddenly started to drop and the snow became less horizontal; visibility began to clear so that the opposite slope and the dead bodies down in the pass soon became discernible. After a few more paces Artebudz stopped abruptly, squatted down on to his haunches and pointed to his nose.

‘I can smell him,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘He must be directly upwind.’

Vespasian signalled Magnus and Sitalces to halt and get down, and then sniffed the calmer air; he suddenly caught an unmistakable whiff of the same heady stench that had emanated from the dead Geta in the forest. ‘How far away?’

Artebudz pointed directly ahead. ‘What’s that there, about thirty paces away?’

Vespasian followed the line of Artebudz’s finger; at first he could see nothing through the now gently falling snowflakes, then he noticed a small movement as if the settled snow itself had twitched. After a few more moments he could make out, next to a large boulder five paces across embedded in the hillside, a smaller hump, about the size of a man, comprised of two different shades and textures of white, one of snow and the other, slightly darker, of white dyed wool.

Vespasian nodded at Artebudz; they took aim and released. The arrows flew directly at the centre of the hump and disappeared right through, dislodging most of the snow that had collected on it and exposing it as a makeshift shelter made of a white woollen blanket draped over an upright pole.

‘Shit!’ Vespasian spat; then, in a moment of clarity, he realised that they had just announced their presence to the unseen danger that must be lurking behind the boulder. ‘Down!’ he roared hitting the ground as the Getic archer, in a blur of motion, appeared over the boulder and released an arrow that disappeared into the snow just where Vespasian had stood an instant earlier.

Caught on the open slope with no cover Vespasian knew there was only one course of action. ‘Keep your bow aimed at where he appeared and cover me,’ he whispered to Artebudz. ‘I’m going forward.’ Leaving his bow on the ground, he eased his gladius from its scabbard and, signalling to Magnus and Sitalces to skirt around below the boulder, started to make his way, at a crawl, towards it.

By the time he was halfway his clothes were soaked with freezing slush and his bronze breastplate felt like a huge lump of ice sucking what little warmth remained in him out through his chest. Vespasian was close enough now not to be seen by the archer unless the man stood up, exposing himself to Artebudz’s bow and certain death; so he risked a slouched run for the last fifteen paces. He reached the boulder as a double twang of bowstrings told of another exchange of fire between Artebudz and their quarry. Magnus and Sitalces were ten paces below and almost level with him, they drew their bows and slowly crept forward to try for a clear shot behind the boulder. The wind had now completely stopped and the hillside had descended into the eerie silence that accompanies gently falling snow. The stench of the Geta was overpowering. Vespasian held his breath and started to inch his way silently downhill around the huge rock. At the point of rounding the boulder he paused, mentally preparing himself for close combat. He tightened his grip around his sword hilt and nodded to Magnus and Sitalces; they leapt forward, releasing two quickly aimed shots before throwing themselves down into the snow. An instant later the Getic archer’s bowstring thrummed in reply; Vespasian hurtled around the corner and pounced on the man just as he was pulling another arrow from his quiver. With no time to go for his dagger the Geta thrust the barbed tip of the arrow at Vespasian’s chest. It connected with his breastplate and, as Vespasian pushed himself forward so that his weight forced his sword up under the archer’s ribs, the arrow slid off the metal and embedded itself in his left shoulder. A violent shiver of pain rushed through Vespasian’s body as the razor-sharp arrowhead struck bone but he pressed home his attack, driving his sword on up and into his opponent’s heart, which exploded with a rush of hot blood over his sword arm. The archer let off a gurgling scream, his rank breath clouding Vespasian’s senses as they fell, coupled by iron, to the ground.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Magnus puffed as he and Sitalces pulled Vespasian off the dead Getic warrior.

‘Apart from this thing in my shoulder, yes, I think so,’ Vespasian replied as Artebudz joined them. He examined the arrow and then gave it a sharp tug. It came out easily, but not without pain; the bone in his shoulder had prevented it from burying itself deep enough for the barb to have become entangled in flesh.

Blood seeped gently from the wound. Artebudz took a handful of snow. ‘Hold that there until we get back down and I can dress it properly,’ he said, pressing it on the opening. Vespasian did as he was told and for the first time that day felt comforted by the snow as it took the heat out of the wound and gradually numbed the area, easing the pain. He looked down at the stinking, dead man at his feet. His sea-grey eyes stared sightlessly up at the falling snow; snowflakes settled on his eyelashes; his lips, just visible through a long and bushy black beard, had already started to turn blue. Over his clothes he wore a white blanket, now stained with blood, with a hole cut in the middle for his head; the circular waste material had been stitched on to his cap, camouflaging him almost completely.

‘Very clever,’ Vespasian said admiringly. ‘No wonder we couldn’t see them. Let’s get back and see how Sabinus has done.’ With his toe he lifted the blanket and flicked it back over the man’s face. As he turned to leave, something poking out from beneath the blanket caught Vespasian’s eye. He knelt down and pushed the blanket further back. Beneath was a cylindrical red-leather case about a foot long.

‘What the fuck’s he doing with this?’ Vespasian exclaimed, picking the tube up.

‘That’s a military despatches case, isn’t it?’ Magnus said, equally surprised. ‘What good would it be to these savages? They can’t read.’

‘Neither can you.’

‘Fair point.’

‘It must be from the couriers that were intercepted; Paetus told me about them, poor buggers. We’ll look at it later. Let’s go.’ He slipped the case under his belt and started to make the steep, snow-ridden descent.

The snow had completely stopped and the clouds were breaking up by the time they got back to the rendezvous point. The surviving Illyrian troopers had finished rounding up the horses and Caelus and the three legionaries were already back with the Getae’s mounts: squat, hardy-looking beasts with thick, rough coats.

Artebudz set about cleaning and dressing Vespasian’s wound. He had just finished binding it with a bandage when Sabinus and the other Thracians came in.

‘All done?’ Vespasian asked his brother through chattering teeth; the adrenalin-fuelled heat of close combat had worn off and they were all now freezing again, despite the sun breaking through.

‘Yes, just; but as I always say, just is good enough. Tricky bastard though, he very nearly had Bryzos here,’ Sabinus replied, pointing to Sitalces’ ginger-bearded mate, who grinned viciously.

‘Drenis and Ziles need a bit of target practice,’ Bryzos said. His two dark-haired compatriots looked suitably sheepish. ‘Only one of them managed to hit the bastard before I took him from behind; he was barely wounded and he fought like a lion. I got the stinking heathen, though.’ He lifted a bloody scalp that hung from his belt.

‘Heathen?’ Vespasian looked at Bryzos quizzically. ‘I thought all the Thracian tribes had the same gods.’

‘Not the Getae,’ Bryzos replied, spitting on the ground. ‘They rejected all our gods except one, Zalmoxis. The fools, how can there be just one god?’

‘What’s your chief priest doing with them, then?’

‘We don’t know or care,’ Sitalces said, also spitting on the ground, ‘but the fact that he is makes him an apostate in our eyes and so we no longer fear him.’

Vespasian nodded and gave orders to strap the dead, seven in all, on to the spare mounts; they would cremate them when they got down from the pass. As he mounted his horse he felt relieved of one of his concerns: he had been secretly worried that when it came to the final reckoning Rhoteces would put the fear of the gods into the Thracians and they would prevent him from being captured. From what Vespasian knew of the Thracian gods they were a pretty grisly lot and not to be crossed.

The column moved out and, with the ever-brightening conditions, began to make good headway along the pass as it cut straight through the snow-covered mountains, which were now bathing majestically in dazzling, clear sunlight under an azure sky.

As they approached the far end Vespasian, riding between Magnus and Sabinus, remembered the despatch case and pulled it from his belt.

‘What’s that?’ Sabinus asked.

‘I don’t know, we found it on the archer,’ Vespasian replied, slipping off the lid and shaking it upside down; a scroll fell into his lap. He picked it up and looked at the seal.‘Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus,’ he read out loud. ‘Shit, that’s Antonia’s son.’

‘And an idiot from all accounts, or at least he pretends to be,’ Sabinus informed him, ‘but the consensus of opinion is that you have to be an idiot in the first place to be able to play the idiot; at least that’s what Antonia says.’

‘Who’s he writing to?’ Magnus asked, leaning over to look at the seal.

Sabinus looked at Vespasian. ‘There’s only one way to find out, are you up to opening private letters from a member of the imperial family, little brother?’

Vespasian contemplated that for a moment. ‘If we don’t open it we won’t know who to deliver it to.’ He broke the seal, then scanned the scroll and whistled softly.

‘Well?’ Magnus asked.

‘It’s to Poppaeus, and it’s not signed by Claudius but by someone called Boter, and apart from the greeting and the signature it seems to be all in a code of some sort.’

‘Now that is interesting,’ Sabinus mused. ‘Boter is one of Claudius’ freedmen; I’ve not met him, but Pallas knows him. A few years back he got Claudius’ first wife pregnant. Surprisingly, Claudius didn’t do anything to Boter at the time, but now I think I can see why: with that sort of hold over the man Claudius can use him to do his dirty work, then if it goes wrong he can distance himself from it by saying that he’s been set up by a resentful member of his household. Boter goes down and Claudius has his revenge and is in the clear at the same time. Very crafty.’

‘Do you think that he could be going behind Claudius’ back?’ Magnus asked.

‘He could be; Pallas says that he’s very ambitious.’ Sabinus stopped and thought for a few moments. ‘No, he wouldn’t have used Claudius’ seal if he was; this letter must have been written with Claudius’ knowledge. However, as it isn’t signed by Claudius but bears his seal it’s at the same time both authentic and deniable. Perhaps he really isn’t the idiot that everyone takes him for. I think we had better hang on to this and show it to Antonia when we get back; Pallas will probably be able to break the code.’

‘Why he should be writing to Poppaeus in code unless he’s working in league with him and Sejanus?’ Vespasian asked, replacing the scroll in its case. They had reached the end of the pass and started their descent; far into the distance, below them and the snow-line, stretched the heavily wooded, rolling hills of Moesia.

‘That is a real possibility; as the nephew of the Emperor and the brother of Germanicus, Tiberius’ original heir according to the terms of the deal that he did with Augustus, Claudius is technically very well placed to inherit the Purple, especially if Sejanus helps him.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he probably thinks that Claudius is a weak fool whom he can control, which he already seems to be doing.’

‘How?’

‘Well, after she bore him Boter’s daughter Claudius divorced his first wife, Plautia Urgulanilla, for adultery. Then two years ago Tiberius insisted, no doubt on Sejanus’ advice, that he get married again, this time to a woman called Aelia Paetina.’

Vespasian frowned; he didn’t know the name. ‘So?’

‘So nobody thought much of it at the time because Claudius is considered such a booby. But Aelia’s parents had died when she was very young and she was brought up by her maternal uncle, Lucius Seius Strabo.’

Vespasian’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Shit, not Sejanus’ father?’

‘Yes, little brother, Sejanus’ father, which makes Aelia Sejanus’ adoptive sister and Sejanus Claudius’ brother-in-law and therefore, should Claudius become Emperor, a legitimate heir.’

PART II