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Robert Fabbri: Rome's executioner

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Robert Fabbri Rome's executioner

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‘It appears to be me that they’re interested in,’ Vespasian whispered. ‘All the shots were aimed at me until I got behind cover; then they went for the slaves.’ He looked at his two companions, pulled out his knife and began sawing on the leather straps that secured his stag to his dead mount. ‘There only seems to be two of them, I suggest that I make a run for it in one direction and you two go the other way; with luck they’ll go for me and you’ll be able to get round behind them. What’s your name?’ he asked the hunting slave, a middle-aged man with curly jet-black hair and a Greek sigma branded on his forehead.

‘Artebudz, master,’ the slave replied.

‘Well, Artebudz, have you ever killed a man?’ The straps parted and the stag slithered to the ground. Another two arrows thumped into the horse.

‘In my youth, master; before I was enslaved.’

‘Kill one of the bastards out there today and you’ll be a slave no more, I’ll see to that.’

The slave nodded; a look of hope and determination crossed his face as he eased his hunting bow from its holder hanging from his belt. Vespasian patted him on the arm and then, grabbing the stag’s forelegs, slid the creature over his back.

‘On the count of three I’ll lift the stag; as soon as they hit it run whilst they reload, all right?’ His companions agreed. Vespasian tucked his right knee under his stomach ready to push off. ‘Let’s do it then — one, two, three!’

He raised the stag so that it emerged over the withers of the dead horse, immediately he felt the violent impact of two arrows striking the carcass almost simultaneously; he pushed down on his right leg heaving himself and the dead weight of the stag up and forward and, with a monumental effort, accelerated into a sprint towards a thick-trunked oak tree twenty paces away. Two fierce blows from behind made him stumble, but he kept his footing and felt no pain; the arrows had hit the stag that shielded his back. With cold air rasping at his throat from the intense exertion he reached the tree and dodged behind it to the vibrating report of two more shots burying themselves in its trunk.

Vespasian leaned his head back against the soft moss growing on the bark and sucked in lungfuls of winter air; the stag’s head lolled on his shoulder like a new-found, drunken acquaintance expressing eternal friendship. He cautiously peered round towards the dead horse and the trees beyond; there was no sign of Magnus or Artebudz. He held his breath and listened; nothing moved. Realising that he had to keep the attackers occupied as his two comrades worked their way around into a favourable position, he eased the stag down, unslung his bow and notched an arrow. He dropped to his knees whilst working out, from the trajectory of the previous shots, the direction in which to aim. Satisfied with his estimation he took a deep breath and swung his bow around the trunk releasing his shot a moment before a single arrow passed a hand’s breadth above his head. Vespasian smiled; they had split up, that would make matters a lot easier. Ten paces to his left was a fallen hulk of an oak, high enough to provide adequate cover. He notched another arrow; then, holding it securely across the bow grip with his left hand and lifting the stag with the right, he rose slowly to his feet keeping his back pressed against the tree.

A sharply curtailed cry came from the direction in which he had been aiming; then a shout.

‘One left!’

It was Magnus. He knew that he could not now risk another wild shot for fear of hitting his friend. As their positions were known he had nothing to lose by shouting. ‘Are they Romans or Thracians?’

‘Neither, I’ve never seen one of these savages before; he’s wearing fucking trousers,’ Magnus replied.

‘Let’s hope they don’t speak Latin then. Can you see the dead horse?’

‘Just, it’s about fifty paces ahead of me; you sound like you’re to the left of it.’

‘Careful then, you must be close to the other one. I’ll make a move, he might show himself; keep down, I’ll shoot at head height. Artebudz, watch out for any movement.’

Vespasian steeled himself for another quick burst of energy. He pushed the stag to his right, heard the sharp hiss and thud of another hit to the carcass, then leapt left towards the fallen tree, drawing and releasing his shot in one swift movement. He rolled head over heels through the undergrowth and made cover as an arrow embedded itself, juddering, in the trunk. An instant later came the faint but unmistakable sound of sudden and violent exhalation; someone had been hit.

‘I got him, masters,’ Artebudz shouted, his voice raised an octave in his excitement.

‘Is he dead?’ Magnus called.

There was a slight pause.

‘He is now.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

Vespasian found Magnus and Artebudz standing over one of the bowmen’s corpses.

Magnus wrinkled his nose as he approached. ‘I can’t believe we didn’t smell them before they saw us, I’ve never smelt a savage as strong; they must have kept downwind of us.’

It was indeed a pungent aroma: a heady cocktail of all the major human male excretions, secretions and discharges that had been allowed to fester for years within clothes of semi-cured animal hide, which had probably never been removed since they were first donned; it was crowned with the acid stench of very old and ingrained horse sweat.

‘What is he?’ Vespasian asked recoiling, unable to believe his nose.

‘No idea. Artebudz, have you ever seen one of these?’

‘No master; but his beard’s ginger and his cap seems to be Thracian in style.’

Vespasian studied the man’s clothing; his cap was definitely Thracian in appearance, a leather skull-cap with long cheek flaps and neck protection, similar to those of the northern tribes in Moesia, as opposed the fox-fur hats of the southern tribes in Thracia itself. But this had crude depictions of horses embroidered in it with dyed twine and the cheek straps were tied under the chin. Apart from knee-length boots, the rest of his attire was definitely not Thracian: hide trousers, well worn on the inside thighs, suggesting a long time spent in the saddle, and a thigh-length leather top-coat worn over an undyed woollen tunic.

‘Scythian perhaps,’ Magnus ventured, picking up and examining the dead man’s composite horn and wood bow.

‘No, we’ve got one of them at home, they’re darker and they’ve got strange eyes; this man looks normal. Well, we can’t worry about it now, I need to get back to see my brother; we’ll send Artebudz back with some slaves to pick them and our dead hunting slave up tomorrow.’

Artebudz grinned, enjoying the implication that he would soon be free.

Vespasian turned away. ‘Let’s find the horses.’

It was dark by the time they reached the permanent garrison camp just outside the gates of Philippopolis. Vespasian dismissed Artebudz back to the royal stables with a warning to say nothing of the day’s events until he had spoken to the Queen, whose property he was. Returning the centurion of the watch’s salute at the Praetorian Gate, he and Magnus rode as quickly as possible, without causing alarm, down the Via Praetoria, between the low brick-built barrack huts towards his more comfortable residence on the junction with Via Principalis. Such was his anxiety that he barely noticed the ill feeling and restlessness with which over a thousand soldiers were taking their evening meal washed down with the generous garrison wine ration that was supplemented with stronger stuff that they had bought locally. His thoughts were alternating between the reason for his brother’s journey, how he would react to seeing him again after four years and why two outlandish-looking men had tried to kill him that afternoon.

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