Rome's Executioner E-Book

Robert Fabbri

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Vespasian
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 634

Beschreibung

THE EXPLOSIVELY GRIPPING, 300,000 COPY BESTSELLING ROMAN EPIC SERIES, PERFECT FOR FANS OF GLADIATOR Thracia, AD30: Even after four years military service at the edge of the Roman world, Vespasian can't escape the tumultuous politics of an Empire on the brink of disintegration. His patrons in Rome have charged him with the clandestine extraction of an old enemy from a fortress on the banks of the Danube before it falls to the Roman legion besieging it. Vespasian's mission is the key move in a deadly struggle for the right to rule the Roman Empire. The man he has been ordered to seize could be the witness that will destroy Sejanus, commander of the Praetorian Guard and ruler of the Empire in all but name. Before he completes his mission, Vespasian will face ambush in snowbound mountains, pirates on the high seas, and Sejanus's spies all around him. But by far the greatest danger lies at the rotten heart of the Empire, at the nightmarish court of Tiberius, Emperor of Rome and debauched, paranoid madman. THE SECOND BOOK IN THE BESTSELLING VESPASIAN SERIES

Leseprobe

VESPASIAN

ROME’S EXECUTIONER

Robert Fabbri read Drama and Theatre at London University and has worked in film and TV for twenty-five years. As an assistant director he has worked on productions such as Hornblower, Hellraiser, Patriot Games and Billy Elliot. His lifelong passion for ancient history – especially the Roman Empire – inspired the birth of the Vespasian series. He lives in London and Berlin.

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Robert Fabbri 2012.

The moral right of Robert Fabbri to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-84887-912-6 (Hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-84887-913-3 (Trade paperback)

ISBN: 978-0-85789-676-6 (eBook)

Printed in Great Britain.

Corvus An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd Ormond House 26-27 Boswell Street London WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

For my aunt Elisabeth Woodthorpe who has always been there for me.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IIII

PART II

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

PART III

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER VIIII

PART IIII

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

PART V

CHAPTER XIIII

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

PART VI

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XVIIII

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

ROME NOVEMBER, AD 29

ASTACCATO CLATTER – hobnailed sandals striking wet stone – echoed off the grimy brick walls of an unlit alley on the Viminal Hill up which two cloaked and hooded figures made their way at a brisk walk. The deep, moonless night had been made yet more oppressive by the first fog of winter, which had descended upon the city earlier that evening; condensed by smoke that oozed up from the countless cooking fires of the densely populated Subura below, it clung to the men’s damp, woollen cloaks and swirled in their wake as they passed. Guttering, pitch-soaked torches held by each man provided the only light by which they could navigate their way through an otherwise all-enveloping gloom.

Both men were aware that they were being followed but neither looked back, it would only have slowed them down, and besides, they were not in any imminent danger; judging by the stealth and even pace with which their pursuers were trailing them, they were being tracked by spies, not thieves.

They hurried on as fast as was possible, picking their way past heaps of rubbish, a dead dog, piles of excrement and an unfortunate victim of a street robbery lying, groaning faintly, in a pool of his own blood. Not wishing to share the dying man’s fate they passed by without a glance and pressed on up towards the summit of the Viminal. Here the wider residential streets benefited from the occasional patrols of the club-wielding Vigiles, the Night Watch. However, the two men knew they would have to avoid the attentions of that branch of Rome’s law enforcement; they could not afford be stopped and questioned and had purposely chosen a direct route from their starting point on the Palatine Hill through the lawless alleys of the Subura to the Viminal so as to avoid, for as long as possible, the wider and more patrolled thoroughfares. In travelling so late at night and so conspicuously unguarded they would immediately arouse suspicion and the success of their errand depended, in part, upon arriving at their destination unchallenged and without being followed.

In an attempt to shake off the pursuit they broke into a run and made a few quick turns left and right, but, in the effort to keep up, the following footsteps gained on them; they were now plainly audible above the smog-dampened cries and the ceaseless night-time rattle of wagon wheels and horses’ hooves that emanated from the stew of human desperation and misery simmering below in the Subura.

As they turned another corner one of the men looked at his companion. ‘I think we should take them before we go any further,’ he hissed, pulling him into a doorway.

‘If you say so, sir,’ the other man replied evenly. He was older than his companion, with a full black beard just discernible beneath his hood in the torchlight. ‘And how would you suggest we go about it? From the sound of their footsteps I would say that there are four of them.’

A look of irritation passed over what was visible of the younger man’s round face, but having known his companion for nearly four years he was used to his impeccable manners and deference; he was, after all, still a slave.

‘No real plan, just up and at them as they pass,’ he replied, quietly unsheathing his gladius beneath his cloak. The carrying of swords in the city was the privilege of only the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohort; it was the main reason why they wished to remain unchallenged by authority.

The elder man smiled at the impetuousness of his young friend as he too unsheathed his gladius. ‘The simple plans are often the best sir, but may I suggest one slight refinement?’

‘What?’

‘I’ll stay here with both the torches and you hide yourself on the other side of the alley and then take them from behind as they come for me; that will give us a good chance of evening the odds.’

Bridling somewhat at not having thought of such a simple ruse the young man did as his companion suggested. He pulled out a short dagger from his belt and waited, with a weapon in each hand, invisible in the treacle-dark smog, wondering how his companion had managed to shield the glare of the torches.

A few moments later he heard voices at the end of the alley. ‘They turned down there, I’m sure of it,’ the leader growled to the man next to him as they rounded the corner. ‘They know we’re on to them, they’ve speeded up . . . What the—’

Before he had time to finish his expletive a flaming torch flew through the air and hit him on the side of the neck, scraping burning pitch over the oily wool of his cloak and his hair, both of which caught alight instantly. He screamed maniacally, dropping to his knees as his head became engulfed in a fireball, filling the already heavy atmosphere with the sharp acidic smell of burning hair and fibre. His associate had just enough time to take in the fast-moving turn of events before feeling the razor-sharp point of a gladius punch into the base of his chin and out through his left ear, half severing his jaw, filling his senses with unimagined pain and his windpipe with hot blood. He fell to the ground clutching at the wound and sprayed a thick, dark mist from his mouth as he rattled out a long, gurgling scream.

The younger man leapt from his hiding place straight at the two following spies, trapping them. The new threat bearing down from out of the shadows behind them was too much for men used to covert work and taking their victims by surprise in murky alleys; they threw down their daggers and, silhouetted by the flames from their still writhing leader’s burning cloak and tunic, dropped to one knee in token of surrender.

‘You cowardly little maggots,’ the younger man sneered, ‘sneaking around after us. Who sent you?’

‘Please, master, we mean you no harm,’ the nearest man begged.

‘No harm?’ the younger man seethed. ‘Then this is no harm.’ With a straight military thrust he jabbed his gladius into the spy’s throat and through the spinal cord; the man slumped to the ground without a sound, dead. His one remaining colleague looked aghast at the fresh corpse and pleaded with his eyes for his life. He lost control of his bladder and started to sob.

‘There’s a chance of a way out of this for you,’ the young man insisted. ‘Tell us who sent you.’

‘Livilla.’

The young man nodded, his suspicions evidently confirmed.

‘Thank you,’ his bearded companion said, coming up behind the kneeling spy. ‘But obviously we can’t let you go.’ He grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head back and abruptly slit his throat, then threw him, convulsing, to the ground. ‘Now finish him off, sir,’ he said pointing to the smouldering leader whimpering on the ground, ‘and then let’s get on.’

A quarter of a mile later, without further incident, they reached their destination: an iron-studded wooden door in the lamp-makers’ street, close to the Viminal Gate. The bearded man knocked three times, paused and then repeated the signal. After a few moments the shutter in the door slid back and a heavily shadowed face peered through to inspect the new arrivals.

‘Your business?’

The two men pulled back their hoods and brought their torches closer to illuminate their faces.

‘I am Titus Flavius Sabinus and this is Pallas, the Lady Antonia’s steward,’ replied the younger man. ‘We’re here for the arranged meeting with Tribune Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro of the Praetorian Guard on business that concerns only the lady and the tribune.’

The shutter slammed shut and the door creaked open. Leaving their torches in the holders on the wall outside, Sabinus and Pallas entered a small, dimly lit room, which, in comparison to the oppressive gloom they had travelled through, seemed warm and homely. Scattered around the bare wooden floor were a few folding stools and a couple of tables upon which oil lamps flickered. At the far end, in front of a curtained doorway, was a plain wooden desk; two more lamps at either end of the desk provided the only other light in the room.

‘The tribune will see you shortly,’ the door guard said curtly. He was dressed in the uniform of the Praetorian Guard when on duty within the bounds of the city: a white-bordered black tunic, belted at the waist; and a white toga, under which a gladius hung from a baldric slung over his shoulder. ‘Your weapons please.’

Reluctantly they handed their swords and daggers to the guard who placed them, out of reach, upon the desk. Having not been invited to sit, Sabinus and Pallas stood in silence; the Praetorian walked over to the curtained doorway and took up position there, hand on gladius hilt, his blank, pale-blue eyes staring at them steadily from beneath a mono-brow.

From beyond the curtain came the unmistakable sound of a woman being pleasured. The guard showed no emotion as the soft moans gradually escalated, becoming shriller and longer, culminating in a loud cry of ecstasy that was abruptly cut short by a series of sharp, hard slaps; the woman started to sob but was silenced by a crashing blow that evidently knocked her out cold. In the ensuing quiet Sabinus looked nervously at Pallas who remained as impassive as the guard; being a slave he was used to being treated as part of the furniture and knew better than to let his emotions play on his face.

The curtain was abruptly swept aside; the guard sprang to attention. Out of the doorway stepped Naevius Sutorius Macro, a huge, barrel-chested man, well over six feet in height, in his late forties, dressed only in a Praetorian tunic, belted at the waist. His thick, tightly muscled forearms and legs were covered in short, wiry, black hair, great tufts of which also sprouted from beneath the collar of his tunic. Square-jawed, thin-lipped with dark, calculating eyes and hair cut short, military style, he was a man who exuded authority and the desire for power.

Pallas remained inscrutable but smiled inwardly; he could see that his mistress had chosen the man well for what she had in mind. Sabinus found himself snapping to attention even though he was no longer under military discipline. A flicker of amusement passed over Macro’s face, he was used to having that effect on people and enjoyed the superiority that it made him feel.

‘At ease, civilian,’ he drawled, enjoying the young man’s discomfiture at having made a fool of himself. ‘You know who I am otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Introduce yourself and then tell me why the Lady Antonia has seen fit to send me a young man of no importance and a slave to bear her message.’

Sabinus choked back the rage that he felt at the deliberate insult and drew himself up and met Macro’s eye. ‘I am Titus Flavius Sabinus and this is—’

‘I know who the slave is,’ Macro interrupted tersely, easing himself on to the stool behind the desk, ‘it’s you that interests me; where’s your family from?’

‘We are from Reate; my father was the pilus prior centurion of the second cohort of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix and fought under our beloved Emperor in Germania before receiving a medical discharge. My mother’s brother, Gaius Vespasius Pollo, is of senatorial rank and was a praetor seven years ago.’ Sabinus stopped, pitifully aware of just how mediocre his family was.

‘Yes, I know Senator Pollo; I used to be his client but he was too weak and ineffectual for what I want from Rome, so I did him the dishonour of repudiating him. A family insult you might wish to address some day?’

Sabinus shook his head. ‘I’m here solely on the Lady Antonia’s business.’

‘Well, nephew of an ex-praetor, what are you to Antonia?’ Macro’s eyes bored into Sabinus’.

‘My uncle is in her favour,’ he replied simply.

‘So the little fish of an ex-praetor seeks the protection of the great she-whale and in return he does her dirty work and his nephew is promoted to the lofty rank of messenger. Well, messenger, sit and deliver your message.’

Sabinus took the invitation, grateful that he no longer was being made to feel like a naughty schoolboy having to explain himself to his grammaticus. ‘I do not bear the message, Tribune; I am here only to add authority to the voice of a slave. Pallas has the message.’

‘Authority?’ Macro scoffed. ‘I suppose the good lady thought that I would not listen to a slave? Well, she was right, with or without “authority” why should I listen to a slave?’

‘Because if you don’t you might miss an interesting opportunity,’ Pallas said quietly, looking straight ahead.

Macro stared at him in disbelief, a quiver of rage shook his body. ‘How dare you speak to me, slave?’ he said with quiet menace. He turned back to Sabinus. ‘An interesting opportunity you say, go on.’

‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you, Tribune, it was to Pallas that she entrusted the message, you will have to listen to him or we shall leave.’ Sabinus’ heart raced as he felt that he had overstepped the mark by pushing Macro into a corner.

Macro remained silent, torn between wishing to know what the most powerful woman in Rome could want with him and not wishing to compromise his dignitas by listening to the words of someone so beneath him. His curiosity won. ‘Speak then, slave,’ he said finally, ‘and make it brief.’

Pallas looked at Macro and then flicked his eyes towards the guard standing behind him.

‘Satrius Secundus stays, slave,’ Macro said, understanding the gesture. ‘He won’t betray any confidences; he’s my man to the hilt, aren’t you Secundus?’

‘To the hilt sir!’ the Praetorian barked.

‘As you wish sir,’ Pallas agreed, making a mental note of the man’s name to give to his mistress upon his return. ‘The Lady Antonia sends her greetings and apologises for not inviting you to her house and doing you the courtesy of speaking with you in person, but she feels sure that you will understand that there should be no evidence to connect the two of you, for the safety of you both.’

‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ Macro said, disliking the smooth-talking Greek intensely.

‘My mistress’ feud with Sejanus is no secret to you, sir. She now feels that she has the ability to bring this feud to an end, and expose Sejanus to the Emperor as a traitor bent upon usurping the Purple.’

Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘That is quite a claim. What proof does she suppose she has to convince the Emperor of this alleged treachery?’

‘Although she has for some time now been collecting evidence of Sejanus’ disloyalty it does not amount to a full case against him; a few documents corroborated by hearsay and speculation, but nothing solid, no witnesses, until now.’

‘A witness?’ Macro was intrigued. ‘What testimony will he be able to supply?’

‘My mistress naturally hasn’t taken me into her confidence on that matter.’

Macro nodded.

‘However,’ Pallas continued, ‘he is not a citizen; he won’t be testifying under oath, his testimony will be extracted under torture in front of Tiberius himself.’

‘How does she imagine she can get this man to the Emperor when we Praetorians control all access to him?’

‘This is where the Lady Antonia needs your help and she has this proposition for you: help her to bring down Sejanus and in return she will see to it that you become the next prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

Macro’s eyes gleamed momentarily; he brought himself under control and smiled thinly. ‘How can she guarantee that?’

‘If the word of the Emperor’s sister-in-law is not enough then consider this: when Sejanus falls, and fall he will, the new prefect of the Guard will have to step in immediately to control the rank and file and to execute officers who remain loyal to old regime. This will have to be set up in advance and will cost money, a lot of money, which you don’t have. The Lady Antonia will provide you with what you need to buy the loyalty of key officers for when the time comes; meanwhile you work out who you will need to buy and start to cultivate them.’

Macro nodded his head slowly. ‘What about the problem of getting your witness to the Emperor?’

‘With all due respect sir, my mistress considers that to be your problem; she suggests that somehow you get yourself transferred to Capreae.’

‘Oh, does she now?’ Macro sneered. ‘As if it could be easily done just by putting in a transfer request.’ He fixed Pallas with an icy glare and studied him for a few moments; the Greek remained, as always, unreadable. ‘What is to prevent me’, Macro continued slowly, ‘from going to Sejanus now and telling him all that you have said? I wouldn’t give much for your life or the lives of this ex-praetor’s nephew and his family, would you?’

‘No, sir, but then I wouldn’t give much for your life either after you told him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that the very fact that you agreed to see us will give him cause to doubt your loyalty; he will assume that this time you were just not offered enough, but next time you may well be. I think that we will all be dead if you go to him.’

Macro stood and slammed his palm down on the desk.‘Secundus, sword!’ he shouted, grabbing a sword from the desk. The guard instantly drew his gladius and rushed at Sabinus and Pallas.

‘Ennia!’ Pallas shouted.

Macro raised his hand to stop his man. ‘Hold,’ he commanded. Secundus obeyed. ‘What has my wife got to do with this?’ Macro growled.

‘Nothing at the moment sir,’ Pallas replied flatly. ‘She is in very good company and no doubt enjoying herself.’

‘What do you mean, slave?’ Macro was becoming visibly agitated.

‘Soon after you left your house this evening the Lady Antonia sent a litter for your wife Ennia with an invitation to come and dine with her and her grandson Gaius; of course she could not refuse such an honour. We left as she arrived, and she will stay there until our safe return, so it may be advisable to have Secundus escort us.’

Macro tensed as if ready to fling himself at Pallas and then flopped back down on to his stool. ‘It seems that you leave me little choice,’ he said softly. He looked up at Pallas with hatred burning in his dark eyes. ‘But believe me, slave, I will have the balls off you for this insolence.’

Pallas knew better than to express an opinion on that subject.

‘Very well,’ Macro said, collecting himself. ‘Secundus will escort you back. Tell your mistress that I will do as she asks, but I do it for myself, not for her.’

‘She did not expect anything else from you, sir; she is well aware that this is an alliance of convenience. Now, with your permission we shall leave.’

‘Yes, go, get out,’ Macro snapped. ‘Oh, one question: when does Antonia want to get the witness before the Emperor?’

‘Not for at least six months.’

‘At least six months? You mean he’s not in Rome?’

‘No, sir, he’s not even in Italia. In fact he hasn’t even been captured yet.’

‘Where is he then?’

‘Moesia.’

‘Moesia? Who’s going to find him there and bring him back to Rome?’

‘Don’t concern yourself about that, sir,’ Pallas replied, turning to go, ‘it’s all in hand.’

PART I

PHILIPPOPOLIS, THRACIA, MARCH, AD 30

CHAPTER I

VESPASIAN EASED HIS weight cautiously on to his left foot, trying not to rustle the dead leaves or crack any of the twigs that carpeted the snow-patched forest floor. He had covered the last few dozen paces with hardly a sound, his breath steaming in front of him as he tried to lower his heartbeat after a long chase. He was alone, having left his companions, two hunting slaves borrowed from the royal stables, a couple of miles back to follow on slowly with the horses as he stalked his wounded prey on foot. His quarry, a young stag, was close now; the trail of blood from the arrow wound to its neck he had inflicted earlier seemed fresher, a sign that he was gaining on the slowing animal, weakened by loss of blood. He pulled back the string of his hunting bow and brought the fletched end of the arrow to his cheek, ready to release. Hardly daring to breathe, he took another couple of steps forward and peered around, looking through gaps between the crowded trees for any sign of dun-coloured fur in amongst the umber and russet hues of a forest in winter.

A slight movement in the corner of his eye, off to the right, caused him to freeze momentarily. He held his breath as he slowly turned his stocky frame to face the source of the distraction. About twenty paces away, half-hidden in the tangled undergrowth, stood the stag, motionless, with blood-matted withers, staring dolefully at him. As Vespasian took aim it collapsed to the ground, making the shot unnecessary. Vespasian cursed, furious at being denied the excitement of the kill after such a long chase. It seemed to him to be a metaphor for the past three and a half years that he had spent in Thracia on garrison duty, since the quashing of the rebellion. Any promise of action would always fizzle out to nothing and he would return to camp, frustrated, with an unbloodied sword and sore feet from chasing a few brigands around the countryside. The harsh truth of the matter was that the Roman client kingdom of Thracia was at peace and he was bored.

He had not always been so; the first year had been reasonably interesting and fulfilling. After mopping up the remnants of the Thracian rebels, Pomponius Labeo had marched the V Macedonica, most of the IIII Scythica, the cavalry alae and the auxiliary cohorts back to their bases on the River Danuvius in Moesia, leaving Publius Junius Caesennius Paetus, the prefect of the one remaining auxiliary Illyrian cavalry ala, in command of the garrison. Vespasian had been left in nominal command of the two remaining legionary cohorts, the second and fifth, of the IIII Scythica; although in practice he deferred to the senior centurion Lucius Caelus, the acting prefect of the camp, who tolerated him but made it plain what he thought of young upstarts placed in positions of command solely because of their social rank.

However, Vespasian had learnt a lot from Caelus and his brother centurions as they kept their men busy with field manoeuvres, road- and bridge-building and maintenance of equipment and the camp; but these were peacetime duties and after a while he had grown weary of them and yearned for the excitement of war that he had experienced, only too briefly, in his first couple of months in Thracia. But war never came, just its pale reflection in the form of endless parades and drills.

For entertainment he had been subjected to more dinners than was good for his waistline at the palace with Queen Tryphaena and various local or visiting Roman dignitaries. His attempts to elicit news of Rome from either the Queen or her guests had yielded only vague and unopinionated information – even this far from Rome, people were reluctant to speak their minds, suggesting that the atmosphere in the city was tense. Sejanus was still Praetorian Prefect and very much in favour with Tiberius, who remained isolated on Capreae. How Antonia, his patron, was faring in her political struggle with Sejanus to preserve the legitimate government in Rome remained a mystery. Marooned for so long in this backwater, only nominally a part of the empire, Vespasian was feeling like a forgotten piece on the edge of the gaming board. He longed to return to Rome where perhaps he could once again be of service to Antonia and further his career through her patronage. He could do nothing here but stagnate.

His long sojourn in Thracia did have one inevitable consequence: his Greek, the lingua franca of the East, was now fluent. He had also mastered the local Thracian tongue well enough, but that had been a necessity rather than a pleasure. Hunting had been the only activity that had provided any satisfaction, exercise or excitement; but this morning that too had been an anti-climax.

Vespasian shot at the prone form of the stag in irritation; the arrow passed through its neck and skewered it to the forest floor. He immediately chided himself for acting out of pique and failing to show due respect for the creature that had so bravely tried to evade him for the last hour. He pushed his way through the undergrowth and, after muttering a perfunctory prayer of thanks to Diana, goddess of hunting, over the dead animal he took out his knife and began to eviscerate the still warm body. He consoled himself with the thought that his four years in the army were over; March was coming to an end and the sea lanes were reopening after winter, his replacement would arrive soon. Soon he would be going back to Rome with the prospect of advancement, a junior magistrate’s post, one of the Vigintiviri and also, as importantly, the prospect of seeing Caenis, Antonia’s secretary. She flickered before his eyes as he worked his blade in and out of the stag’s belly; her delicate, moist lips, her sparkling blue eyes so full of love and grief as she had said goodbye to him; her lithe body, naked before him in the dim light of a single oil lamp on the one and only night that they had slept together. He wanted to hold her again, to smell and taste her, to have her for his own; but how could that be? She was still a slave and, according to the law, could not be manumitted until she was at least thirty. He worked his blade harder and faster as he contemplated the futility of the situation. Even if she were freed he could never marry her as he had dreamed of doing with the naivety of a sixteen-year-old; someone of his position, with his ambition, could never take a freedwoman as a wife. He could, however, keep her as his mistress, but then how would that be for the woman whom he would take as his wife? She would just have to live with it, he decided as he pulled the last scrapings of offal from the carcass.

‘I could have put a dozen arrows in you in the time that I’ve been sitting here.’

Vespasian started and spun round, cutting his thumb on the knife in the process. Magnus sat on a horse, twenty paces away, grinning as he levelled his hunting bow at him.

‘Hades, you gave me a fright,’ Vespasian exclaimed, shaking his injured hand.

‘You’d have had more of a fright if I’d been a Thracian rebel and shot this arrow up your arse, sir.’

‘Yes, well, you’re not and you didn’t,’ Vespasian said, calming down slightly and sucking the mixture of his and the stag’s blood from his thumb. ‘Why were you creeping up on me anyway?’

‘I weren’t creeping sir, I rode and I was making as much noise as a century of new recruits saying goodbye to their mothers.’ Magnus lowered the bow. ‘You were just too lost in your own world to notice, and, if I may point out the obvious, sir, that’s how you get to be dead.’

‘Yes, I know, it was stupid of me, but I’ve got a lot on my mind, Magnus,’ Vespasian admitted, rising to his feet.

‘Well, you’re going to have a lot more on your mind very soon.’

‘How so?’

‘You’ve got a visitor: your brother arrived at the garrison late this morning.’

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

‘What’s Sabinus doing here?’

‘Now how would I know that? But I would hazard a guess that he ain’t come all this way just for a nice brotherly chat. He told me to come and find you as quickly as possible so let’s get going. Where’s your horse?’

By the time they had found Vespasian’s hunting slaves and strapped his kill on to his horse it was well into the afternoon. The thickly overcast sky had brought an early dusk to the forest floor and they were forced to lead their horses for fear of them stumbling in the fading light. Vespasian walked next to Magnus, contemplating what could have brought his brother hundreds of miles to talk to him, and started to assume the worst. His father had written to him two years earlier with the expected news of his beloved grandmother Tertulla’s death, and he still felt a pang of grief every time he thought of her drinking from her cherished silver cup.

‘One of our parents must have died,’ he mused, trying not to hope that it was not his father. ‘Did he seem upset to you, Magnus?’

‘Quite the opposite, sir, he was anxious to see you as soon as possible; if he had bad news he wouldn’t have been in such a rush to talk to you, in fact he seemed very disappointed when I told him that you weren’t there.’

‘Well, that’s a first.’ Vespasian smiled wryly; he and Sabinus had never got on as children and he had been subjected to years of brutality by his brother that had only stopped when Vespasian was eleven years old and Sabinus had joined the legions. Although the tension between them had eased since Sabinus’ return from the army, Vespasian could never imagine his brother being disappointed not to see him.

‘I’ll know what it is soon enough, I suppose,’ Vespasian said, looking around and adjusting the hunting bow slung over his shoulder to ease the chafing of the string. ‘Come on, let’s ride, the trees have thinned out.’ He moved to mount up. ‘There’s enough light for—’ A brief hiss and a heavy thwack cut him off; two arrows appeared simultaneously in his horse’s jaw, just where his head had been an instant earlier. The animal reared up, whinnying piercingly, knocking Vespasian to the ground; another shaft slammed into its shoulder quickly followed by one into its exposed chest, felling it.

‘Juno’s crack, what the . . .’ Magnus flung himself in top of Vespasian as his own mount bolted. ‘Quick, the other side of your horse, jump.’

They leapt over the prostrate animal and crouched behind its back as two more arrows thumped into its belly; it raised its head and screeched, its hooves thrashing at the air as it tried but failed to get up. The two hunting slaves sprinted to join them behind the nearest available cover; with a sharp cry one spun like a top, his billowing cloak wrapping itself around his body as he twisted to the ground with an arrow protruding from a blood-spurting eye socket. His companion flung himself through the air and landed next to Vespasian and Magnus as another shot punched into the still writhing horse, causing it to spasm violently and then lie still.

‘What the fuck do we do now?’ Magnus hissed as two more shafts fizzed just over their cover to land quivering in the ground five paces behind them. No more came.

‘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.

‘The lads seem tense this evening.’ Magnus broke into his train of thought.

‘What?’

‘I’ve seen it before, sir, it can happen quite quickly; after a long time farting about doing a lot of bugger all on regular basis with nothing to show for it, the lads start to get edgy, and wonder what the fuck they’re doing here and how much longer they’re going to be stuck in this arsehole of a place. They’re legionaries and they haven’t had a decent fight for over three years, whereas the boys that went back to Moesia are getting plenty of action if half the rumours are true.’

Vespasian glanced around at the men sitting around braziers and saw more than a few of them glaring at him with resentful, sullen eyes over the top of their wine-filled cups. One or two of them even held his look, a minor act of insubordination that he would normally have dealt with then and there had he not been so preoccupied.

‘I’ll speak to Centurion Caelus in the morning and find out what’s going on,’ he said wearily, knowing full well that it was Caelus’ duty to come to him and report any bad feeling amongst the two cohorts that he commanded. It was just another example of how Caelus sought to subtly undermine his authority.

Vespasian dismounted outside his quarters; it was the same construction as that of the men’s but slightly larger and he was not obliged to share the two rooms inside with seven others.

‘I’ll get the horses stabled,’ Magnus offered, taking the reins from him.

‘Thank you, I’ll see you later.’ Vespasian took a deep breath and walked through the door.

‘So, little brother, you’re back from skulking about in the woods,’ drawled the familiar voice with no trace of affection or even friendship. Sabinus was sprawled out on the dining couch; he had evidently made use of the officers’ bath house as there was no sign of the dust and grime of travel about his appearance, and he was wearing a crisp, white, Equestrian toga over a clean tunic.

‘I may be your younger brother but I ceased to be little when I joined the Eagles,’ Vespasian snapped. ‘And, furthermore, I do not, and never did, skulk.’

Sabinus raised himself to his feet; his dark eyes glinted in the dim light of a couple of oil lamps as they glared mockingly at his brother. ‘Playing the big soldier are we? Next you’ll be telling me that you don’t fuck mules any more.’

‘Look Sabinus, if you’ve come all this way to have a fight let’s have it right now and then you can piss off back home again, otherwise try to remain civil and tell me what you’ve got to say.’ Vespasian squared up to his brother, his fists clenched by his side. Sabinus smiled thinly at him. Vespasian noticed that he had put on a bit of weight – four years out of the army and living the good life in Rome had left its mark.

‘Fair enough, little brother,’ Sabinus said, sitting down on a camp stool, ‘but old habits die hard. I’m not here to fight; I’m here on the Lady Antonia’s business. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

‘If you’ve finished insulting me, then yes.’ Vespasian crossed to the far end of the room and took a pitcher from a cheaply constructed wooden chest standing next to the door leading through to the bedroom. He mixed a couple of cups of the rough, local wine with water and handed one to his brother. ‘How are our parents?’

‘They’re both well, I have letters for you from them.’

‘Letters?’ Vespasian’s eyes lit up.

‘Yes. I’ve got one from Caenis too, you can read it later; but first you should clean up and get changed, we have to deliver a letter from Antonia to Queen Tryphaena. We’ve got a job to do and we need her help.’

‘What sort of job?’

‘One that will make rescuing Caenis seem like a pleasant stroll through the Gardens of Lucullus. Do you know a Thracian tribe called the Getae?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Well, I don’t know much about them either except that they live outside the Empire across the Danuvius. They generally keep themselves busy fighting the tribes to their north but recently they’ve taken to crossing the river and raiding Moesia. The raids have been getting larger and more frequent in the last year or so and the Fifth Macedonica and the Fourth Scythica have been struggling to repel them; the Emperor has become concerned enough about the situation to reinstate Poppaeus Sabinus as Governor.’

‘What are we supposed to do about it?’ Vespasian asked, not liking the idea of going anywhere near Poppaeus again, knowing, as he did, that he was an ally of Sejanus.

‘Antonia doesn’t want us to do anything about the raids, they’re no concern of hers; but what does interest her is a piece of intelligence that one of her agents in Moesia sent a few months back.’

‘She’s got agents in Moesia?’

‘She’s got agents everywhere. Anyway, this one reported the presence in the last three or four of the raids of someone with whom the good lady is keen to have a nice little chat with back in Rome.’

‘And we’ve been asked to go and fetch him for her.’

Sabinus grinned. ‘How did you guess?’

Vespasian had a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly. ‘Who?’ he asked, already suspecting the answer.

‘Sejanus’ go-between; the Thracian chief priest, Rhoteces.’

CHAPTER II

QUEEN TRYPHAENA PLACED Antonia’s letter down on the polished oak table and looked at the two brothers; Vespasian, like Sabinus, wore a toga as it was a private meeting. They were sitting in her sumptuous, warmly lit study, part of her suite of private rooms deep within the palace complex and far away from the flapping ears of the numerous palace functionaries and slaves that infested the formal areas. Here only her secretary and body slave could come and go as they pleased; even her son, King Rhoemetalces, had to wait outside whilst one of the four sentries that constantly guarded the suite’s only access sought permission granting him an audience. Because of his close ties with Antonia, Vespasian always found himself quickly welcomed into Tryphaena’s presence.

‘So my kinswoman has located the priest that would kill my son and me and rule Thracia in the gods’ name,’ she said, flicking her sharp, blue eyes between the brothers. ‘And she requests that I help you capture him by providing men; which I am happy to do, but of how much use they will be against the Getae I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean, domina?’ Vespasian asked, leaning forward on his lavishly cushioned chair in an attempt to get out of the way of the wafts of pungent incense emanating from a brazier close behind him.

‘My people are mainly foot soldiers; only the moderately wealthy can afford horses so we have relatively few cavalry. The Getae however live on the grasslands to the north of the Danuvius where horses are plentiful; they fight almost exclusively on horseback; our cavalry would be no match for them and our infantry would never catch them. I could even, as the highest-ranking Roman citizen in Thracia and Rome’s puppet ruler, order you to take the two cohorts stationed here but they would also be ineffective against such a mobile force; remember Carrhae, gentlemen?’

‘Then we have to wait for them to come to us,’ Sabinus said, recalling the strategy that had been employed to defeat the Numidian rebels when he had served with the VIIII Hispana in Africa. ‘We go north and speak to Pomponius Labeo and find out where they’ve been raiding, then work out a likely target and wait for them to attack it; with luck the priest will be with them as he has been for the last few raids.’

Vespasian cast a scathing, sidelong glance at his brother. ‘That seems a bit hit or miss.’

‘You got any better ideas, little brother?’ Sabinus retorted. ‘Send them an invitation to the games and then back to yours for dinner after, I suppose?’

‘Your brother is right Vespasian,’ the Queen cut in before the argument got out of hand. ‘It may take time but eventually you will get close to them, and then you will have to see what opportunities Fortuna presents you with.’

‘I’m sorry, domina.’ Vespasian felt chastened; his brother was right no matter how much it irked him. He quickly put his feelings to one side and expanded on Sabinus’ idea. ‘We will need men but not many; this would be better done with a half-dozen picked fighters. Stealth is the key if we can’t match them in open battle.’

‘Well done, little brother, you’re catching on.’

‘If stealth is the key, gentlemen, then may I suggest that harmony should be the watchword?’

The brothers looked at each other and with a slight nod of their heads called a silent truce.

‘Good,’ Tryphaena continued, ‘that’s agreed then. I shall get the captain of my guard to provide you with six of my best men, skilled in all weaponry, especially the bow as you will be up against the best archers that you have ever encountered.’

‘But you said they were mainly cavalry,’ Vespasian pointed out. ‘Thracians don’t use horse-archers.’

‘This tribe does; they’ve taken on quite a few of the customs of their northern neighbours, the Sarmatians and the Scythians; they even wear trousers.’

Vespasian’s eyes widened at the implication. ‘Trousers? I think that I may have met a couple of them today.’

Tryphaena looked amused. ‘Impossible, we’ve had no contact with the Getae since Rome took Moesia as a province over fifty years ago.’

Vespasian quickly related the events of the afternoon, taking care to emphasise Artebudz’s role and the promise that he had made to him. When he had finished the Queen sat in silence for a while thinking.

‘From your description of them they certainly seem to be Getic,’ she affirmed. ‘You’re convinced that they were targeting you?’

‘Without a doubt.’

‘Then it would seem that our friend Rhoteces has not forgiven you for preventing him from killing my son and has sent some assassins after you as revenge.’

‘Why’s he waited nearly four years?’

‘Once he fled to the Getae it would have taken him time to ingratiate himself with the tribal leaders; they don’t have the same customs as we do and they’d have viewed him with deep suspicion.’

‘So, assuming that he eventually persuaded the tribal leaders to send assassins, how did they know what my brother looks like?’ Sabinus asked.

‘I don’t have the answer to that; but what I do know is that Rhoteces is a fanatic and he sees people who thwart his plans as corpses that have to be stepped over; so it won’t end until one of you is dead, which will make your trip back to Rome with him very interesting indeed. But first you must capture him. You should leave tomorrow; the snow in the Haemus Mountains is receding and the Succi pass into Moesia has reopened. I will have your men outside the Roman camp at noon and I’ll send a message to your commanding officer Prefect Paetus telling him that you will not be coming back.’

‘We have every intention of coming back, domina,’ Vespasian insisted.

‘Yes I’m sure you have, but not through here. I cannot risk having that man in my kingdom again; many of my subjects see him as a hero who could save them from growing Roman encroachment into our affairs. If his presence in Thracia became known and I was seen to be helping you get him to Rome then we would have a very combustive situation which would have only one outcome: Rome would annex us after a lot of killing.’

‘So what should we do with him?’ Vespasian asked.

‘Head for Tomi on the Euxine Sea; I will have my personal quinquireme waiting for you in the port from the beginning of May; its crew are completely loyal to me. They will have orders to stay there until you arrive and will take you directly to Ostia. I think that a month at sea with the priest chained in the hold will be far preferable to two months travelling overland having to watch him day and night, don’t you, gentlemen?’

‘You are very generous, domina,’ Sabinus said, starting to feel a little easier about the mission now that the return trip would involve no more than a month of vomiting.

‘I am generous, but am I generous enough to free my most expensive hunting slave, I wonder?’ She smiled at Vespasian who reddened, realising that he had been free with someone else’s property without knowing its value.

‘I’ll pay you for your loss, domina.’

‘I doubt that you could afford Artebudz; he is worth a small fortune. Not only is he a most talented tracker but he‘s also the finest shot with a bow that I have ever seen, and it is because of that I will free him; but on the condition that he comes with you. Now, before I start to give away the rest of my kingdom tell me, Sabinus, how is Antonia’s campaign against Sejanus proceeding? She only makes oblique references to it in her letters for fear of them being intercepted.’

Sabinus grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Not well, domina. Sejanus has strengthened his position with the Emperor; he is now almost the only person with any access to him on Capreae. He has managed to convince Tiberius that it’s his family that are plotting against him and not Sejanus himself. Just before I left Antonia’s eldest grandson Nero Germanicus and his mother Agrippina were arrested and tried for treason on Sejanus’ orders; she’s been imprisoned on the island of Pandateria and he’s been sent to the island of Pontiae. Antonia is now worried that her other two grandsons and prospective heirs to the Purple, Drusus and Caligula, will soon follow their mother and older brother. Sejanus is being very careful, just picking off his targets slowly and methodically.’

The Queen nodded her head whilst digesting the news. ‘That’s logical; for Sejanus to succeed he’ll have to eliminate all of Tiberius’ potential heirs who would be too old to warrant a regent; that surely is his route to power: to be made regent of a young emperor who would then tragically die leaving the Senate little alternative but to proclaim him Emperor or risk another period of civil war.’

Vespasian felt unease at the thought of his friend Caligula being the subject of Sejanus’ machinations. ‘What about Sejanus’ letters to Poppaeus proving that they were in league? Even though they were destroyed, has she been able to use the threat that she might be in possession of them to coerce Poppaeus into changing his allegiances?’

Sabinus looked downcast. ‘I’m afraid not. Poppaeus was worried for a while and I think he would have come around, but he called her bluff and asked her to produce them, which of course she couldn’t. Then Asinius’ surviving lictors disappeared and the truth about his death must have been tortured out of them because Poppaeus wrote to her saying that he knew for certain that she didn’t have anything on him.’

Tryphaena thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘So Asinius died for nothing then; well, we must be sure that his death doesn’t go unavenged.’ She rose to her feet to indicate that the audience was at an end. ‘Go now, my prayers will go with you.’

The brothers stood. ‘Thank you, domina,’ they said in unison.

‘And I thank you, because if you succeed you will rid me of my greatest enemy as well as helping my kinswoman safeguard our family’s position in Rome.’ She embraced them in turn. ‘Good luck, gentlemen. Get that priest to Antonia so that she can use him to bring down Sejanus.’

Vespasian’s mind was racing as he walked with Sabinus through the dim, high-ceilinged corridors of the palace; their footsteps echoed off the marble walls. The prospect of action and relief from the ennui that plagued him was indeed welcome. He also relished the chance to avenge the death of Asinius, to whom he owed his position as a military tribune, by bringing to Rome the one man who could link the silver used to finance the Thracian rebellion to Sejanus’ freedman Hasdro. Whether it would be enough to damn Sejanus in the Emperor’s eyes he did not know, but if Antonia had requested it he felt sure that it would be worth the effort and risk. But how long would it take? He had been living in anticipation of going back to Rome and Caenis next month, but now he had to go in completely the opposite direction to find and capture a man whose whereabouts were, to say the least, obscure.

‘Bugger it, I thought I’d be going home soon,’ he muttered.

‘You’re going home tomorrow little brother,’ Sabinus laughed. ‘It’s just that we’re taking the long way.’

Vespasian did not share the joke. ‘Yes, but this could take us half a year.’

‘It had better not, I need to be in Rome for the elections; Antonia’s managed to secure the Emperor’s permission for me to be included on the list of prospective quaestors. With her backing I have a very good chance of being elected, especially as now the electorate is only the senate and not the tribal assembly.’

‘Well, good for you,’ Vespasian said gruffly; he found it hard to enthuse about his brothers successes.

‘Thank you for that warm, fraternal speech of congratulations, little brother.’

‘Stop calling me that.’

‘Bollocks to you.’

‘Sir, sir!’ It was Magnus waiting at the palace entrance; two well-built, armoured palace guards blocked his path with spears.

‘Magnus, what is it?’

‘Bastards wouldn’t let me in,’ he replied, eyeing the two ginger-bearded guards.

‘Careful Roman,’ the larger of the two growled, he was at least a head taller than Magnus. ‘Rome does not rule here.’

‘Go piss in your mother’s mouth, fox-fucker.’