Robert Fabbri - Tribune of Rome

He quickly dismissed Faustus and his two men, and then summoned the rest of his lictors. They were not long in arriving.

‘However, this attack is an extraordinary piece of luck,’ Asinius said, beaming at Vespasian. ‘Get Magnus in here.’

Magnus appeared from the sleeping area, having been relieved of his guard duty by two burly lictors.

‘Are we off now, sir? It sounds like we’ve got a bit of a fight on our hands.’

‘You’re staying with me, Magnus,’ Asinius ordered. ‘I have an errand that will suit your skills admirably.’

Vespasian cut off Magnus’ protest. ‘I’ll be fine, my friend; I don’t need you to always nursemaid me around the battlefield. Do as he asks.’

‘If you say so,’ Magnus replied gruffly.

‘I do.’

‘What do you want done, sir?’ Magnus asked grudgingly.

‘I want any letters that link Poppaeus to Sejanus. With the camp almost empty, apart from the slaves, now is the perfect time to break into the praetorium.’

Vespasian and Magnus stepped out into the night. It had started to rain. The bellowed orders of the centurions and optiones forming up their men echoed around the camp. The Via Principalis and Via Praetoria were full of legionaries, standing in centuries, buckling on armour and securing helmets, some still chewing on the last mouthfuls of their interrupted dinner. Most of the men knew their places, having been through the drill many times before; it was only the new arrivals who suffered the beatings from the centurions’ vine sticks as they struggled to find their stations in the torch-washed shadows of the camp.

‘Break into the fucking praetorium,’ Magnus grumbled. ‘It’s easy for him to say, but how the fuck am I meant to do that?’

‘His personal correspondence will be locked in a chest in his sleeping area at the back, so cut a hole in the rear of the tent and you should be right there,’ Vespasian suggested.

‘Then I’ve got to break open the chest.’

‘Take a crowbar.’

‘You’re as bad as Asinius, but there’s one problem that neither of you have thought about: how will I know which letters are from Sejanus? I can’t read.’

Vespasian stopped still. ‘You’re joking?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I told you ages ago. Anyway it didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem until just now.’

The senior officers had started to file out of the praetorium. Vespasian shook his head. ‘I’ve got to go and report to Pomponius. Just take anything that has the imperial seal on it or is signed with a name beginning with the letter “S”. That’s the squiggly one that looks a bit like a snake.’

‘That’s a great help, that is. This is going to be a fuck-up.’

On the opposite side of the Via Principalis a tent flap flew open. Four figures emerged into the torchlight; three wore the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. The fourth was in civilian clothes; his hair fell to his shoulders.

‘Hasdro,’ Vespasian muttered under his breath.

The four men crossed to the praetorium and entered without even acknowledging the sentries.

‘Fucking great, now the place is crawling with Praetorians. What do I do now?’

‘I don’t know, just do your best. I’ll see you later. Good luck.’

‘Yeah, and you.’ Magnus slapped Vespasian on the shoulder.

Vespasian crossed the road, weaving through the centuries that were by now formed up ready to move out. He pushed through the IIII Scythica’s public horses, waiting outside the legion’s command tent to be issued to those officers requiring them, and slipped into the briefing just before Pomponius returned from the praetorium.

The assembled officers snapped to attention as their legate entered the tent.

‘At ease, gentlemen,’ Pomponius said, passing through the group. At the far end of the tent he turned to address them, resting his ample behind on the edge of his desk. ‘The bastards have finally plucked up the courage to fight.’ His red, jowly face broke into an excited, piggy-eyed grin. ‘We are to hold the wall to the right-hand side of the gate; the Fifth Macedonica will be on the left. The auxiliary cohorts will cover our flanks. No special orders; just react to circumstances and kill the lot of them. We need to move fast, so return to your units. Dismissed! Tribune Vespasian, get a horse and stay with me, you will act as my runner.’

Vespasian sat waiting on his public horse as Pomponius was helped up on to his mount. The rain had increased to a steady downpour, inveigling its way under armour, soaking tunics next to warm skin; steam from thousands of wet, sweating men replaced the smoke in the air from the cooking fires that the rain had doused. A steady series of grating screeches, twangs and thumps indicated that, despite the wet conditions, the artillery in the towers facing the attack had opened up. They fired iron bolts and rounded rocks blindly over the fortifications in the general direction of the enemy, knowing that only in the morning light would they be able to gauge just how successful they had been.

Poppaeus and Corbulo appeared out of the praetorium and swiftly mounted their waiting horses. Poppaeus raised his arm dramatically and threw it forward. A cornu blasted out the six deep, sonorous notes of ‘Advance’. Around the camp the call was repeated by each cohort’s cornicen. The gates on three sides of the camp swung open, the signiferi dipped their standards twice and the lead cohorts began to move forward at the double.

‘Pomponius, follow me,’ Poppaeus ordered, kicking his horse forward and accelerating past the columns of waiting legionaries. Vespasian raced after the command group, out of the camp and towards the defensive wall.

The Thracian attack was concentrated on a mile-wide front, centred on the gates. Despite the rain the wooden ramparts were on fire in several places, silhouetting tiny figures in life-and-death struggles in the sputtering light. In two places, to the right of the gate, there were bulges in the line where the Thracians had breached the wall and the two hard-pressed defending cohorts had been forced to use a couple of precious centuries to contain the breakthrough.

Poppaeus galloped up to the gate, dismounted and clambered up the steps up to the parapet. The wooden walls resounded with the thwack, thwack, thwack of repeated slingshot and arrow hits. The centurion commanding met him with a salute. Behind him his over-stretched men were running to and fro desperately pushing ladders away from the wall, hacking at ropes slung over the breastwork and hefting pila into the massed ranks below.

‘Report, centurion,’ Poppaeus ordered brusquely, shouting to make himself heard over the combined din of battle and rain.

‘Sir! They came out of nowhere about a half-hour ago. They must have ambushed our forward patrols as we received no warning.’ He flinched slightly as a slingshot fizzed past his ear. ‘They’ve filled in the trench with brushwood and corpses in six places and managed to get to the wall. They’ve torn down a couple of sections of it with grappling irons, and set a few more on fire with oil. We’ve been too thinly stretched to be able to do much more than contain them.’

Sheet lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating for an instant the damage done to the defences.

‘Well done,’ Poppaeus shouted, realising that they had mobilised just in time. ‘Get back to it; relief is on its way.’ He called down to Pomponius, who waited below him at the foot of the steps: ‘Legate, order four of your cohorts to reinforce the two on the wall to the right of the gate; then form two up here behind the gate, ready for a sortie under my command…’

A double crack of thunder burst above them, forcing him to pause as it reverberated around the mountains, its many echoes returning with diminishing vigour until he was able to continue.