Robert Fabbri: Rome’s Fallen Eagle

Taking a key from his belt, the centurion unlocked a heavy, oaken door and pulled it open, noiselessly on goose-fatted hinges, to reveal a wide passageway. ‘To the right, sir,’ he said, stepping aside to allow Sabinus past. ‘We’ll stay here to prevent anyone following you down.’

Sabinus nodded and passed through; sunlight washed in from regularly spaced windows on either side. He swept his sword from its scabbard beneath his cloak, pulled a dagger from his belt and strode forward; the hard slapping of his footsteps reverberated around him off the whitewashed plaster walls.

After a few dozen paces he heard voices from around a bend to the left; he quickened his pace. From the theatre below came another burst of laughter followed by applause. Sabinus approached the corner; the voices were close. He raised his sword and readied himself to strike as soon as he made the turn. Swinging sharply left he pounced forward. He felt his heart leap in his chest as a shrill shriek greeted him and he stared into two terrified eyes set in a long, down-turned face; mucus oozed from a pronounced nose. Claudius’ cry died in his throat as he gaped at the sword pointing directly at him and then back at Sabinus. Herod Agrippa stood stock still, his face frozen in fear, next to him.

Sabinus pulled himself back; he had given Clemens his word not to kill Claudius. ‘Get out of here, both of you!’ he shouted.

After a moment’s dumbfounded delay Claudius lumbered off, twitching and muttering, leaving a pool of urine behind him. Herod Agrippa, breathing deeply, stooped and stared up, under the hood, at Sabinus’ concealed face. For a moment their eyes met; Herod’s widened slightly. Sabinus made a threatening gesture with his sword and the Judaean pelted off after Claudius.

Sabinus cursed and prayed to Mithras that it was not recognition that he had seen in the King’s eyes. Voices from further down the corridor drove the worry from his mind; one of them was most definitely that of Caligula. He retreated around the corner and waited as the voices grew closer.

‘If those Aitolian boys are sweet-looking I might take a couple to the baths with me,’ Caligula was saying. ‘Would you like a couple, Clemens?’

‘If they’re sweet-looking, Divine Gaius.’

‘But if they’re not then we can always have Chaerea; I’d love to hear that sweet voice moan with ecstasy.’ Caligula giggled; his companions did not join in.

Sabinus surged around the corner, sword raised.

Caligula’s mirth faltered; his sunken eyes went wide with fright. He leapt backwards; Chaerea’s strong hands clamped onto his upper arms, pinioning him.

Sabinus swept his sword through the air; it sliced into Caligula’s flesh at the base of his neck. Caligula shrieked; a gobbet of blood slopped onto Chaerea’s face. Sabinus’ sword arm jarred and he lost his grip as the blade wedged, abruptly, into the collarbone.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Caligula stared down, eyes gaping, at the sword embedded in him and then suddenly burst into manic laughter. ‘You can’t kill me! I’m still alive; I am a g …’ He juddered violently; his mouth froze open, mid-laugh, and his eyes bulged.

‘This is the last time you’ll ever hear my sweet voice,’ Chaerea whispered into his ear. His left hand was still grasping Caligula but the other was now hidden. Chaerea jerked his body, forcing his right side forward, and the tip of a gladius burst through Caligula’s chest; his head jolted back and he exhaled violently, spraying a fine crimson mist into the air. Sabinus tugged his weapon free and pulled down his neckerchief; the false god would know who ended his life and why.

‘Sabinus!’ Caligula croaked, blood trickling down his chin. ‘You’re my friend!’

‘No, Caligula, I’m your sheep, remember?’ He thrust his weapon, sharply, low into Caligula’s groin as Clemens and Cornelius both drew their swords and plunged them into the stricken Emperor from either side.

With the bitter joy of vengeance, Sabinus smiled as he rolled his wrist, twisting the blade left and right, shredding the lower intestines, and then forcing the point forward until he felt it break through the flesh between the base of the buttocks.

All four assassins wrenched back their swords simultaneously; Caligula stood unsupported for a moment before crumpling, without a sound, to the floor into Claudius’ pool of urine.

Sabinus stared down at his erstwhile friend, hawked and spat a globule of phlegm at his face and then pulled his neckerchief back up. Chaerea aimed a shuddering kick at Caligula’s bloodseeping groin.

‘We must finish it,’ Clemens said quietly, turning to leave. ‘Hurry; the Germans will find the body soon, I told them to wait for a count of five hundred to stop anyone following us up the steps.’

The four assassins walked briskly back up the corridor. The two centurions were waiting by the door.

‘Lupus, bring your century into the palace,’ Clemens ordered as he passed them. ‘Aetius, keep yours outside and don’t let anyone in. And get rid of those caterwauling Aitolians.’

‘Did Claudius and Herod Agrippa see you?’ Sabinus asked.

‘No, sir,’ Lupus answered, ‘we saw them coming and stepped back outside until they’d passed.’

‘Good; get going.’

The two centurions snapped salutes and doubled off through the door towards their men. From back down the corridor came guttural shouting.

‘Shit!’ Clemens hissed. ‘Those bastard Germans can’t count. Run!’

Sabinus burst into a sprint and flicked a look over his shoulder; eight silhouetted figures appeared from around the corner; their swords were drawn. One turned and ran back in the direction of the theatre. The remaining seven began to chase them.

Clemens crashed through a door and led them on up a set of marble steps, through a high-ceilinged room full of lifelike painted statues of Caligula and his sisters and on into the palace. Turning left they reached the atrium as the first of Lupus’ men were coming through the door.

‘Form your lads up, centurion,’ Clemens shouted, ‘they may have to kill some Germans.’

At a sharp order from Lupus a line was formed as the Germans raced into the atrium. ‘Swords!’ Lupus yelled.

With the precision expected of Rome’s élite soldiery the eighty swords of the century were drawn in ringing unison.

Hopelessly outnumbered but maddened by the murder of the Emperor to whom they owed absolute loyalty, the Germans screamed the war cries of their dark-forested homeland and charged. Sabinus, Clemens and the two tribunes slipped behind the Praetorian line as, with a resounding clash of metal on metal that echoed through the columns of the room, the Germans crashed into the Praetorians with their weight fully behind their shields. They slashed with long swords at the heads and torsos of the unshielded defenders. Four went down immediately under the ferocity of the attack but their comrades held the line, punching with their left arms in lieu of shields and stabbing with their shorter swords at the groins and thighs of their assailants, whose numbers quickly dwindled. Soon five of their companions were lying dead or dying on the floor, and the last two Germans disengaged and ran headlong back the way that they had come.

A shrill female voice cut through the clamour. ‘Just what is going on here?’

Sabinus turned to see a tall woman with a long, horse-like face and pronounced aristocratic nose; she held a child of about two years old in her arms. The girl’s young eyes stared greedily at the blood wetting the floor.

‘My husband will hear of this.’

‘Your husband will hear nothing, Milonia Caesonia,’ Clemens informed her coldly, ‘ever again.’