Rome's Executioner (39 page)

‘Good; hold the horse,’ Clemens said, pulling his legs up to kneel on the saddle. Steadying himself on the wall he stood up and threw one end of the rope over, then, grabbing the top of the wall, he pulled himself up and disappeared over the other side.

‘It’s secured,’ he called over softly a few moments later.

Apart from a slight delay whilst they hauled Rhoteces up and over, they made it into the moonlight-dappled grounds of the Villa Iovis with ease.

‘It’s a fucking building site,’ Magnus whispered in surprise to Vespasian as Clemens untied the rope from a huge oak beam lying on the ground. All around in the dim light Vespasian could see piles of bricks and cut stone; sections of columns lay on their sides amongst stacks of terracotta roofing tiles and wicker baskets. Magnus dipped his hand into one of the baskets and pulled out a handful of small marble squares.

‘Looks like Tiberius has a few mosaics planned for his pleasure palace,’ he remarked, letting them fall with a light clatter.

‘This way,’ Clemens whispered, leading them off crouching low and weaving through the construction detritus down a slope towards the massive hulk of the unfinished Villa Iovis just four hundred paces away. A few lights in the windows on the far side of the building showed that they were approaching it from the incomplete, uninhabited side.

With a hundred paces to go the building supplies petered out and Clemens halted them by the last heap of bricks. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘There’s normally a guard stationed close by; I’ll draw him out.’

He stood up and walked purposefully towards the villa.

‘Halt!’ a voice shouted as he was halfway across the open ground. ‘Stand and identify yourself.’

Two uniformed Praetorians appeared from the shadows and ran towards Clemens, who stood motionless.

‘Decurion Clemens, first ala Praetorian Guard Cavalry,’ Clemens shouted at the approaching guards.

‘What are you doing out here, sir? You’ve no authority to be here at night, you’ll have to come with us.’

‘I was looking for you; I thought that I saw movement just up the hill,’ Clemens replied, pointing in the direction of Vespasian and his comrades.

‘Shit, he’s giving us away, the bastard,’ Magnus hissed as Clemens started to lead the two guards towards them.

‘I find that highly unlikely,’ Pallas said calmly.

Fulvius and Rufinus drew their swords; Vespasian automatically went for his only to remember that it was back at Misenum.

‘Don’t move,’ Fulvius said, standing and pointing his sword at Corbulo. Rufinus stood over Vespasian and stuck the tip of his sword against his back. ‘Over here, sir,’ he called to Clemens.

Vespasian felt sick; unarmed and against five Praetorians they did not stand a chance and would surely be taken prisoner. He had a brief vision of being hurled off the cliff and swore vengeance on Clemens in this world or the next.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’ Clemens drawled, his pinched face leering over them through the gloom. The two Praetorians stood either side of him and drew their swords. ‘Fish food would be my guess. Tie them up.’

‘You little cunt, Clemens,’ Sabinus spat. ‘How much did Sejanus pay you to widow your own sister?’

Magnus made a jump for Fulvius, aiming his head at the Praetorian’s groin. A sharp crack from the hilt of Fulvius’ sword on the back of Magnus’ head sent him crashing to the floor unconscious. Rufinus kicked Vespasian to the ground, stepped over him and with a lightning thrust planted his sword into the mouth of the Praetorian to Clemens’ left as Clemens wrapped his right forearm around the other’s throat and, with his left hand, grabbed the man’s head and jerked it violently to one side; with a loud crack the neck snapped and the man went limp.

‘You bastard, Clemens,’ Sabinus growled, ‘you had me there.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Clemens grinned. ‘I wasn’t expecting two of them and I couldn’t take them both on. I needed help getting rid of them; they would have taken me to the guardhouse and I would have had some difficult explaining to do in the morning. Let’s get the bodies over the cliff.’ He grabbed a lifeless arm and started to pull it away; Sabinus, shaking his head, made to help him.

With adrenalin still coursing through his veins Vespasian helped Rufinus drag the other body the fifty paces to the cliff-top.

‘How did you know to kill the two Guards?’ he asked.

‘I thought he was double-crossing you too,’ Rufinus replied, ‘until he ordered us to tie you up, then I knew what to do.’

‘How?’

‘Because, since a fisherman scaled the cliff, Tiberius’ standing order is that all intruders should be executed on sight, no exceptions.’

‘Well, I hope that he makes an exception of us tomorrow,’ Vespasian said as they reached the cliff’s edge.

‘I’ve never known him to,’ Rufinus said plainly.

They toppled the Praetorian over the edge. Vespasian peered over and briefly glimpsed the body spinning in the air before disappearing into the darkness; the roar of the waves crashing into the base of cliff swallowed any sound it made as it hit the rocks below. He turned to go with the sensation of falling preying on his mind.

Upon returning to his companions he found that Magnus was still unconscious and was obliged to carry him with Pallas; Sabinus and Corbulo took Rhoteces.

They quickly crossed the open ground in front of the villa and entered its dark corridors through an unfinished doorway.

With surprising speed Clemens navigated his way through the maze of passageways illuminated by faint moonlight seeping through open windows.

Eventually he stopped outside a huge door and pushed it open. They followed him in and found themselves in a cavernous room; their footsteps echoed off the high ceiling. Rhoteces was dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

‘Fulvius and Rufinus will stand guard until Caligula brings the Emperor,’ Clemens said. ‘I will come too to share whatever fate he decides for you.’

‘Thank you, Clemens,’ Sabinus said, taking his brother-in-law’s forearm.

Clemens returned the grip with a grin. ‘There are plenty of workmen’s buckets around to piss in. Good luck.’ He turned and slipped out of the door followed by Fulvius and Rufinus.

As Vespasian and Pallas laid Magnus down he stirred, opened his eyes and then groaned. ‘Shit! Now we’re for it. They’ve got us,’ he said, rubbing the back of his head.

‘They’ve got us in more like,’ Vespasian said, helping his friend up.

‘What? I thought they were arresting us.’

‘Well, you should have stuck around and seen what happened next instead of trying to play the hero and attacking the wrong person.’

‘You mean Clemens was genuine after all and we’re not in some prison?’

‘Look around.’ Vespasian waved his arm at the faintly lit room. ‘If this looks like a prison to you, I think that Tiberius would be very pissed off; we’re in his new bedroom.’

With the rising of the sun the room gradually filled with light that poured in from four windows high above the door and Vespasian could see the scale of it: it was a perfect cube with the high marble ceiling forty feet above him. Along the wall opposite the door was the unfinished frieze that Tiberius was taking so much interest in; after only a cursory glance at it Vespasian could understand why: it depicted every carnal pleasure known to man in a series of vivid scenes, involving adults, children and beasts, and left nothing to the imagination.

‘Making mental notes, are you, brother?’ Sabinus asked, catching Vespasian gawping at a cruelly used mule.

‘You have to admire the workmanship,’ he replied, ignoring yet again his brother’s implication, ‘even if the subject matter is somewhat obscene.’

‘Somewhat? I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Corbulo said, ‘not even in the—’ He stopped abruptly and blushed.

‘In the brothels along the Vicus Patricius back in Rome?’ Magnus questioned, helpfully trying to finish Corbulo’s sentence for him.

Corbulo gave Magnus a foul look and then busied himself pulling his toga from his bag.

‘I’ve got bread, salt pork and wine, masters,’ Pallas said, walking over having gagged Rhoteces who was starting to come out of his drugged state in the corner. ‘We should eat and then change our clothes in readiness for meeting the Emperor.’

Suddenly there was the sound of feet coming quickly down the corridor; the door burst open and in walked an old but still vigorous man. Vespasian recognised him instantly; he was the most powerful and feared man in the Roman world: Tiberius.

They jumped up as one from their buckets and bowed their heads. At the top of his vision Vespasian could see Tiberius’ hairless legs protruding from under his pure purple tunic; they were traced with an extraordinary amount of varicose veins that wove their way around the open sores and dried scabs on the shiny, tight skin on his shin-bones. His feet were shod in a pair of regulation military sandals; his horn-like toenails were yellowing and ridged.

Tiberius strode towards Vespasian and stopped directly in front of him. Vespasian’s heartbeat accelerated and he had to consciously stop himself from shaking; he found himself wondering why Tiberius did not have his toenails pared for him.

‘Is this the one, my sweet?’ Tiberius asked of someone standing at the doorway, out of Vespasian’s field of vision. His voice was low and grated in his throat; it sounded distant, as though he was somewhat detached from the world.

‘Yes, Nuncle,’ Caligula’s voice replied, ‘that’s him; he’s my friend.’ His voice was slightly strained, as if trying to appear light and nonchalant whilst concealing a nervousness born from the knowledge that a very important decision was about to be made.

‘Your friend, you say?’

‘Yes, Nuncle, my friend.’

‘His name is Vespasian, is that right, my sweet?’

‘Yes, that’s right, Nuncle: Vespasian.’

‘Look at me, Vespasian.’

Vespasian raised his eyes; large, rheumy, grey eyes peered back at him questioningly, as if trying but failing to focus on what was in front of them. Tiberius’ face would once have been considered handsome but was now ravaged by the effects of heavy drinking: puffy-skinned and florid. His white hair was cut short at the fringe and above the ears but hung down in greasy strands over his neck. Flakes of dried skin peeled off his earlobes; there was a virulent pimple on the tip of his nose.

Tiberius placed his left hand on the crown of Vespasian’s head and exerted a monumental pressure so that Vespasian felt that his thumb and forefinger would burst through his skull.

‘He is still young enough for me to push my fingers into his brain, my sweet,’ Tiberius observed, still staring into Vespasian’s eyes with that questioning, almost puzzled look. His breath held the unmistakable reek of fresh human faeces.

‘Yes, Nuncle, he is; but then I wouldn’t have my friend any more.’ Caligula’s voice had risen slightly.

The pressure on Vespasian’s head suddenly increased.

‘But I’m your friend,’ Tiberius abruptly shouted.

‘Yes, Nuncle, you are; but you’re my friend here. Vespasian is my friend in Rome; you don’t go to Rome so I need a friend when I’m there.’

Tiberius released his grip. Vespasian had to stop himself from rubbing his throbbing head.

‘But what happens if I come back to Rome?’ Tiberius asked, still staring at Vespasian.

‘If you do I won’t need another friend in Rome, Nuncle, and you can push your fingers into his brain then.’

‘In Rome then,’ Tiberius said, suddenly cheerily as if a difficult matter had been finally settled by the simplest and most obvious of solutions.

Vespasian breathed a sigh of relief as Tiberius turned his attention to the other members of his party; he felt that he at least was safe for the time being. Caligula nodded towards him surreptitiously from the doorway, confirming his belief. Next to Caligula stood a very pretty youth in his mid teens; his hair had been decorated with flowers and his white tunic was embroidered with gold thread around the hem and sleeve. Behind him, between Fulvius and Rufinus, Clemens stood stock-still with his hand on his sword hilt, looking even more pallid than usual.

‘What about these, my sweet? What are they?’ Tiberius cast his eyes slowly over Sabinus, Corbulo, Magnus and then Pallas. ‘Not more fishermen?’

‘Of course not, Nuncle, you don’t allow fishermen here any more,’ Caligula replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘These men have come with my friend with that important news that Thrasyllus predicted would arrive. One has a letter from Antonia to you.’

‘They’re not intruders then, come to destroy my peace of mind?’

‘It’s to help your peace of mind that they have come, Nuncle.’

Tiberius stared at Pallas for a while; nobody moved. ‘I know you,’ he said eventually, pointing his finger at the Greek. ‘You’re Antonia’s steward. Your name is Pallas, isn’t it?’

‘I am honoured that you should even recognise me let alone know my name, Princeps,’ Pallas replied, bowing. Even with the life-or-death tension in the air he still remained outwardly calm and composed; Vespasian was sweating freely despite the coolness of the morning.

‘She would have given you the letter; give it to me.’

Pallas reached down into his bag; Tiberius jumped back. Realising his mistake, Pallas quickly removed his hand from the bag and tipped it upside down so that the contents fell to the floor with a clatter. It was the first time that Vespasian had seen the smooth Greek flustered and he found himself enjoying the sight.

Pallas picked up the scroll and offered it to Tiberius; the Emperor looked at it closely and then, evidently satisfied that it would do him no harm, took it.

‘My mistress has sent her seal ring, Princeps,’ Pallas said, holding up his hand, which was visibly shaking, ‘to show you that the letter is genuine.’

Tiberius dismissed it with a wave. ‘You’re proof enough of that,’ he said plainly, looking at the scroll and feeling its weight in the palm of his hand. His voice had become less detached as though the presence of a letter from his sister-in-law had helped to draw him out of the dark world in his head into which he had evidently deeply sunk. He looked at Sabinus as if seeing him for the first time. ‘And you are?’ he asked with almost genuine interest.