Robert Fabbri - Tribune of Rome

‘Cocksucker! Necrophiliac! Goat-tosser!’ Faustus had kept up an almost constant stream of abuse under his breath since Vespasian had informed him of Poppaeus’ treachery. He had been only too pleased to help deal with the priest.

A few moments later Rhoteces stepped out of the praetorium surrounded by his new bodyguard. They walked at speed along the Via Principalis towards Vespasian and his comrades, who crouched in the shadows as the priest and his retinue passed.

‘We’ll stay parallel with them,’ Vespasian whispered, heading to the narrow path between the first and second line of tents.

After a hundred or so paces the Thracians turned left off the road; Vespasian halted and nipped into a gap between two tents; the others followed. They watched from the shadows as Rhoteces turned on to the path in front of them and stopped outside an opulent-looking tent guarded by two Thracians. A brief conversation ensued with the guards who then escorted Rhoteces and his men inside.

‘That’s King Rhoemetalces’ tent,’ Faustus whispered in Vespasian’s ear.

Vespasian led his men quickly to the entrance and paused to listen. From within came Rhoteces’ unmistakable high-pitched voice. Whatever he was saying sounded threatening. Another voice, Rhoemetalces’ he assumed, replied in more measured terms. Suddenly the harsh grate of drawing swords rang out, followed almost immediately by muffled cries and the thuds of two bodies hitting the ground.

‘With me,’ Vespasian shouted, drawing his sword and leaping through the flaps.

Rhoteces had the King by his hair and a dagger pressed under his chin. He yelped, his bodyguards spun round and Vespasian forced his sword between the ribs of the nearest, grinding his wrist as it cracked through bone, sinew and muscle to pierce his lung. The man exhaled a loud groan that was curtailed by a stream of blood flooding from his mouth, and then crumpled to the floor drowning in his own blood. The three others had no time to defend themselves. They were soon lying sprawled on the floor next to their comrade and the murdered royal guards.

‘If you come any closer I’ll slit his throat,’ Rhoteces warned. ‘Move aside.’

Vespasian put his hand up, stopping his comrades in their tracks. He looked at the weasel-faced priest, who snarled, baring filed, yellow front teeth, as he pushed the terrified Rhoemetalces forward.

‘If you kill him you’ll die,’ Vespasian said. ‘But if you let him go you may live.’

‘You can’t touch me, I’m a priest,’ Rhoteces shrieked.

Vespasian looked around at Magnus and Faustus and his lads and they simultaneously bellowed with laughter.

‘You think we give a fuck about your filthy gods?’ Faustus spat, enjoying the look of uncertainty that passed over Rhoteces’ face. ‘I’d happily slit your throat in front of all their altars and sleep easy in my bed afterwards, you hideous pile of vomit.’

Rhoteces pulled the King’s head back and pressed the blade harder against his throat, cutting the skin. The young man looked at Vespasian with pleading eyes.

‘Go ahead,’ Vespasian said calmly. ‘He’s nothing to us, but he means the possibility of life to you.’

The priest’s bloodshot black eyes flicked nervously around the room; five swords waited to take his life. He howled and pushed Rhoemetalces away, and fell cringing to the floor. Faustus kicked the knife from his hand and then crunched another kick into Rhoteces’ solar plexus, stopping the man’s whimpering as he struggled for breath.

‘That’s for the boys you murdered at the river, you cunt, and there’ll be plenty more of that when we’ve finished with you.’

‘Would you really have let him kill me?’ Rhoemetalces asked breathlessly.

‘I wouldn’t have had any choice in the matter,’ Vespasian replied truthfully. ‘He had a knife to your throat; if he didn’t kill you here then he would have done as soon as he got outside, seeing as that’s what he came here to do, I assume.’

‘Yes. He accused me of usurping the priests’ power and defying the gods.’

‘Fucking Thracians,’ Magnus grunted. ‘That seems to be their favourite charge. The death sentence and no defence against it, I suppose.’

‘In our law there can be no defence against that charge.’

‘Don’t we know it?’

‘Check him for any concealed weapons, then let’s get this sack of shit to Asinius,’ Vespasian said, aiming another kick at the still gasping priest, cracking a couple of ribs. ‘You’d better come with us,’ he added, nodding at Rhoemetalces.

Asinius had washed away the dust of travel, and was having his purple-bordered toga arranged by his body slave by the time Vespasian and his companions arrived in his tent. They threw the now terrified Rhoteces at his feet. The priest lay there moaning, holding his fractured ribcage.

‘Well done, gentlemen,’ Asinius said, dismissing the slave, who withdrew into the private sleeping area to the rear of the tent. ‘I trust that none of you were hurt?’

‘No, but we got him just in time,’ Vespasian replied. ‘He was about to assassinate his King.’

‘Rhoemetalces, thank the gods that you’re safe. I wouldn’t have recognised you.’ Asinius offered his arm to the young Thracian. ‘I have not seen you since you were a boy, in the Lady Antonia’s house. How is your mother?’

‘She is well, senator, thank you.’

‘I am pleased to hear it. I intend to pay my respects to her on my return journey; I was in too much of a hurry to do so on my way here.’

A loud moan from the floor drew his attention back to the priest.

‘Centurion, have your men stretch this creature out on his back.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Faustus snapped a salute and issued the orders.

Asinius drew his dagger and forced it into Rhoteces’ mouth. The priest struggled fiercely, but was no match for Faustus’ two lads who had him securely by his ankles and wrists.

‘You have two choices, priest, either use your tongue to answer my questions or lose it.’

Rhoteces’ eyes filled with terror; he had never been on the receiving end of administered pain. He nodded his head gingerly in acquiescence.

Asinius withdrew the dagger. ‘Who supplied the money that you used to encourage the tribes into rebellion against your King and Rome?’

The priest answered immediately, speaking slowly. His fractured ribs were clearly making breathing difficult. ‘A Roman of high standing, I don’t know his name. It was done last year through intermediaries.’

‘Not good enough.’ Asinius forced the dagger back into the priest’s mouth and slit the corner of it a thumb’s width. Blood flowed freely from the wound down Rhoteces cheek. ‘Try again.’

‘The intermediaries said they were acting for the Consul, Marcus Asinius Agrippa.’

Asinius hesitated, unable to believe what he’d heard.

‘That’s-’ Vespasian started, but Asinius cut him off.

‘Who were these intermediaries?’ Asinius continued, regaining his composure.

‘Three were Praetorian Guardsmen, but their leader was a civilian, a big man with dark skin and long hair.’ Tears were now flowing down Rhoteces’ cheeks, intermingling with the blood.

‘Did they tell you why Asinius wanted a rebellion here?’

‘They said something about destabilising the Emperor. There were going to be rebellions all over the Empire, and while the legions were busy dealing with them the Republic would be restored.’ Rhoteces’ words were slurred; the wound to his mouth made control of his lips erratic.

‘And they assured you that your rebellion would be successful?’

‘Yes, they said that there would be an uprising in Moesia, and that the two legions there would be pinned down and unable to come to Rhoemetalces’ aid. We would have a free hand.’