Robert Fabbri - False God of Rome

‘You are in no position to make demands, Paulus, get out of our way.’

The use of his name shocked the man and he peered forward.

‘I’ll remind you, Paulus: in Cyrene my knife should have slipped, it would have saved many lives.’

‘You! Well, that is convenient; I shall have the pleasure of personal revenge as well as doing the Lord’s work. Hand them over, Vespasian, or we’ll come and get them; we’ll surround your pitiful little band and tear you apart. Remember that this time you’re not dealing with timid shopkeepers; these men are all armed and prepared to die doing God’s work in the sure knowledge they will go straight to heaven because they have had their sins taken from them by Yeshua Christus.’

‘I have no idea what you’re ranting about, but if this heaven is a place where fanatics like you go then I want nothing to do with it.’ Vespasian spun on his heel and yelled, ‘Form a wedge!’

Vespasian took his place at the wedge’s tip with Magnus behind his right shoulder and Hortensius on his left. The legionaries fanned out behind with the rescued Jews in their midst.

‘He hasn’t got any more pleasant since we last saw him, has he?’ Magnus observed, testing his helmet strap. ‘It’ll be interesting to see if his men really will die for this god.’

‘I’ve a nasty feeling that they’ll all be vying to be the first,’ Vespasian replied. Anger burned within him at the thought that Paulus had gulled his followers into thinking that they could throw away their lives and expect some sort of reward. Alexander had been right: it was a very dangerous and unworldly religion. ‘Hortensius, are the men ready?’

‘Yes, senator.’

‘Advance!’

Vespasian led off the wedge at a jog heading directly for Paulus; he quickly retreated into the body of his followers, who shifted uneasily at the sight of a solid formation, now only twenty paces away, bearing down on them.

‘He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to get to his heaven,’ Magnus puffed.

Vespasian’s eyes narrowed behind his shield. He felt the perfect balance of the sword in his hand and desired one thing: to kill Paulus.

With ten paces to go Vespasian accelerated into a run; the legionaries behind him responded, keeping the formation solid. Paulus’ followers stood, but not firmly, wavering as the V-shaped mass of shields and blades crashed towards them. With a sudden shriek a young man leapt forward and grabbed the top rim of Vespasian’s shield with his left hand. Vespasian slammed the shield boss into his midriff and butted his helmet down onto the whitened knuckles, lacerating the skin and crunching the bones. A clinical jab from Hortensius sent the man down with a spurt of blood; but his example was enough and, as the wedge smashed into the faltering line, the sight of their comrade’s blood galvanised Paulus’ followers into reckless action. They hurled themselves with manic screeches and cries at the fast-moving wedge, cutting their swords haphazardly down onto shield rims and cracking their ribs on shield bosses punched towards them. The flanks of the line started to move round in an attempt to engulf the Romans.

Vespasian tore through the first and second ranks, holding his shield firm in front of him, the muscles in his left arm bulging with the effort. He worked his blade, as if it were an extension of his own arm, stabbing it forward into the soft belly of a middle-aged man, then, with a sharp twist, withdrawing it, bringing it back up in an arc of blood to parry, with a spray of sparks, a cut from his right while slamming his hobnails onto his victim’s kneecap, shattering the joint. Breathing heavily he kicked the screaming man aside, as Magnus severed the arm of the assailant to his right, and pressed on into the third rank; behind him the ever broadening wedge forced their opponents back in an increasingly tightening scrum. Swords flashed from between the shields into this press of unprotected human flesh on both sides of the formation, slitting open bellies with a welter of slimy, grey offal and the noisome stench of internal gases and waste.

As the rearmost legionaries hit the disordered and shaken line with a communal, grunting exhalation of breath, Vespasian forced his arms forward then out and exploded through the third rank; his shield boss slammed into the ribs of a man to his left and his sword pommel cracked into the mouth of the last man between him and the palace. The man’s front teeth splintered, his jaw dislocated and he crumpled back screaming, his face contorted with pain in the glow of a burning house; the back of his head struck the paved road and a violent shudder ran down through the length of his body; his cry ceased. With the mechanical reaction of years of drill a legionary forced his sword tip into the stricken man’s throat as he straddled him.

They were through.

Vespasian slowed his pace to allow the men behind him to keep in contact as the thickest end of the wedge punched and cut its way through the tangle of bodies, some dead, some alive, with a desperate urgency to avoid being taken in the rear by the two flanks now swirling in towards them. Their task became easier as screams of the maimed and the broken took the fight out of Paulus’ followers closest to the bloodshed and they began to back off, pushing into one another in their desire to keep their bodies whole. The line split and the wedge emerged intact, painted with blood. Vespasian carried on at a jog for another fifty paces before glancing over his shoulder. Seeing that they were not being followed, he brought them to a halt. The legionaries gasped for breath after the intense exertion in what had been less than a hundred or so heartbeats but had felt like ten times that amount.

‘Hortensius, have the men form a column,’ Vespasian ordered. He looked back to see a score or more of bodies littering the ground where the wedge had cut a swathe through the line; the cries of the wounded still rang out and the survivors stood looking forlornly at their stricken fellows. In among the carnage a diminutive bow-legged figure moved about, comforting the injured; he was completely unharmed.

Vespasian spat, then turned and ordered the column forward towards the palace complex just five hundred paces away.

At the gates to the Royal Harbour Vespasian halted the column and turned to Hortensius. ‘Optio, have two contuburnia escort these Jews to my ship in the harbour; they should be safe enough there until morning.’

Hortensius looked unsure. ‘But senator…’

‘Just do it! I’ll be responsible to the prefect.’

Hortensius ran back down the column.

A few moments later Alexander and his compatriots came past with their escort.

‘I owe you my life, Vespasian,’ the Alabarch said, ‘and those of my sons and brother; I will never forget that.’

‘I’m sorry that we came too late for your wife,’ Vespasian replied, looking at the bloody corpse draped between Alexander and Philo. ‘Go quickly now, these men will take you to my ship, I’ll meet you there in the morning.’

‘We need to bury our dead,’ Philo insisted.

‘No, you need to be safe and you need to get Tiberius’ wound seen to.’

‘But our law says-’

‘Come, brother, forget about your precious law,’ Alexander interrupted, ‘if we follow that now then we’ll have more bodies to bury. We’ll see you in the morning, Vespasian.’ He led the Jews off bearing their grisly burdens.

‘We’d better get a move on, sir,’ Magnus reminded Vespasian.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Vespasian sighed, feeling immensely fatigued. He led the remainder of the column through the gates and into the Royal Harbour; its quays were empty except for the occasional scuttling rat in the torchlight.

They had almost reached the far end when the gates to the palace swung open and Flaccus appeared in full uniform surrounded by the legate and tribunes of the XXII Deiotariana.