Robert Fabbri - Tribune of Rome

‘What in Jupiter’s name is he doing here?’

‘Nothing in Jupiter’s name. That’s Rhoteces, one of their priests. You know him?’

‘I’ve watched one of his ceremonies. He enjoys sacrificing Romans.’

‘I’m sure he does. Nasty little bugger. He turned up about seven days ago and since then Poppaeus has been sending him back and forth to the Thracians negotiating their surrender. Looks like he’s been partially successful.’

The old man stopped ten paces away from the two Romans and raised his olive branch above his head.

‘I am Dinas, the chief of the Deii,’ he cried, so that as many of his followers as possible could hear him. ‘I have come with as many of my people who would follow to throw ourselves at the mercy of Rome.’

‘You are welcome, Dinas,’ Paetus replied equally loudly. ‘We shall escort you down to the camp.’

It took a couple of hours for the slow column of warriors, women, children, old and young, fit and infirm, to reach the gate in the fortifications. During that time Poppaeus, alerted to their imminent arrival, had formed up five cohorts each of the IIII Scythica and V Macedonica on the ground between the fortifications and the main camp.

It was an impressive sight, designed to cow the supplicants as much as deter any of their number who had thought to make a break for freedom once they had passed through the gates.

The gates opened and Paetus, with Vespasian at his side, led his cavalry through and halted in front of Poppaeus. The little general sat on a pure white horse in front of the parade. He was dressed in all the finery that befitted his rank – a polished silver muscled cuirass, a long, deep-red woollen cloak spread carefully over his horse’s rump, bronze greaves and a bronze helmet with silver inlays on the cheek-guards topped with a tall plume of red-dyed ostrich feathers. Behind him, dressed in equally ornate armour, sat an effete young man of twenty on another white horse. Around his head he wore a circlet of gold.

Paetus saluted. ‘General, Dinas, the chief of the Deii, has offered his surrender to Rome.’

‘Thank you, prefect. Take your men and form them up on our right wing, out of the way.’

Paetus showed no sign of offence at the curt response, and wheeled off to his position.

The Thracians filed slowly through the gates spreading out left and right. Some, intimidated by the show of Roman force in front of them, fell to their knees and begged for mercy; the more stouthearted stood in grim silence to await their fate. When all were through and the gates shut Dinas, accompanied by Rhoteces, approached Poppaeus on foot and offered him the olive branch. Poppaeus refused it.

‘People of the Deii,’ he called in a loud, shrill voice that carried over the field. Rhoteces translated his words into the language of the Thracians, in a voice just as shrill. ‘Your chief offers me your surrender. I cannot accept it unconditionally. You have rebelled against your King, Rhoemetalces, a client of Rome.’ He gestured to the young man behind him. ‘This act has caused the deaths of many Roman and loyal Thracian soldiers. It cannot go unpunished.’

A low moan came from the massed Thracians.

‘At my order my soldiers could attack and take all your lives. But Rome is merciful. Rome does not even demand the life of any one of you. Rome demands only that you give up two hundred of your number. Half will lose their hands and half will lose their eyes. Once this is done, I will accept the olive branch. You have a half-hour to decide before I give the order to attack.’

A wail of deep anguish rose up from the crowd. Poppaeus turned his back towards them to show that he could not be moved.

Dinas bowed his head and returned to his people. He started to address them in their own language. Meanwhile some legionaries under Aulus’ command brought forward five burning braziers and five wooden blocks, and set them up on the ground in front of the Thracians.

Vespasian watched from his position on the right flank as the late-afternoon light faded. Thirty or so old men and half as many old women had stepped forward voluntarily. Dinas was now walking through the crowd blindfolded, touching people at random with his olive branch. Most of those he touched walked to join the waiting volunteers, but some had to be dragged screaming to their fate. Only children were reprieved. Eventually two groups of victims stood in front of the braziers and blocks.

Dinas came forward to join them. He called to Poppaeus.

‘We have done as you have asked, general. I shall lead my people and be the first. Take my eyes.’

‘As you wish.’ Poppaeus looked to Aulus. ‘Centurion, you may begin.’

Aulus gave the command and two legionaries held Dinas’ arms firmly behind his back whilst a third pulled a red-hot poker from the fire and approached the old chief. It was over in an instant. Dinas’ back arched but he made no sound. He was led away, walking with his head held high, the two blackened empty sockets in his face still smouldering. His people were silent.

Five men were then brought forward and forced to kneel in front of the blocks. Legionaries secured ropes around their wrists and pulled their arms forward so that they lay flat on the smooth surfaces, their hands gripping the edges of the blocks. Other legionaries held their shoulders, pulling them back. All five rebels turned their heads away as five more soldiers brought their swords slicing down through their wrists. Howls of pain erupted from the men as they fell back, blood spurting from their fresh stumps, leaving their hands still gripping the blocks. The women in the crowd started to scream and wail.

Pitch-soaked flaming torches were quickly thrust into the wounds to cauterise them, and then the men were dragged away.

The screaming and wailing escalated as five old men and women were brought forward to the braziers. Vespasian watched in steely silence as the red-hot pokers flashed. Five more victims were being dragged forward to the blocks when, from behind him, Vespasian heard Magnus’ voice shouting over the noise.

‘Sir, sir, you need to come at once.’ Magnus pulled his horse to a sliding halt next to him.

‘What’s going on?’ Vespasian asked, pleased to have his attention diverted from the grisly spectacle.

Magnus drew closer and lowered his voice.

‘Asinius has just arrived in the camp; he wants to see you immediately.’

Vespasian looked at his friend astounded. ‘Asinius, here? How?’

‘The normal way, he rode. Now, are you coming or not?’

‘Yes, of course I am.’

Vespasian turned to Paetus. ‘Prefect, I have some urgent business to attend to, if I may.’

‘Of course, dear fellow, I only wish that I could join you. The mutilations are always my least favourite part of the circus back in Rome. I normally take the opportunity to stretch my legs until something more to my taste comes on, like the wild beast hunt. I love that. Off you go.’ Paetus waved him off.

*

The sun had sunk behind the Rhodope range, leaving the camp in deep shadow while simultaneously causing the gathering low clouds to burn amber and golden with its dwindling light.

Magnus led Vespasian to a large tent close to the praetorium that was always kept free to accommodate visiting dignitaries. It was guarded by two of the eleven lictors that provided Asinius’ official escort as a proconsul on his way to his province. Vespasian and Magnus were admitted immediately.

Asinius was sitting on a couch with his feet immersed in a bowl of warm water and a cup of wine in his hand. A couple of travel-stained slaves hovered in the background with linen towels and jugs of steaming water.

‘Vespasian, we shall talk in private.’ Asinius dismissed the slaves. Magnus, taking the hint, left with them. Asinius motioned Vespasian to sit on a folding stool opposite him. ‘You are no doubt surprised to see me here.’