With that he kicked his mount forward and pulled away. Vespasian raised his eyebrows and then shrugged and followed. Behind him the rest of the party felt obliged to do the same, although all thought it madness to ride so fast at night, even on a straight, well-paved road.
The torches had been extinguished and they walked their horses as quickly as possible up the rutted track that led to the Flavian estate. There were no lights burning in the complex and the toenail moon provided only a dim shimmer that vaguely outlined the buildings, now only one hundred paces away.
At Sabinus’ reckless pace they had covered the last twenty miles in a little under two hours. The fact that none of the horses had stumbled or thrown their riders was, to Vespasian’s mind, nothing short of miraculous, but he hesitated to say as much to Sabinus for fear of another homily on the power of the Lord Mithras.
The absence of light sharpened his other senses and the familiar smells of his childhood greeted him like old friends, one after the other. Sweet warm resin oozing from pine trees; musty earth cooling after a day of baking in the summer sun; freshly cut hay; meadow flowers; faint wood smoke: each one brought back images from the past that he feared was now about to be brutally intruded upon by the present.
‘It’s quiet,’ he whispered to Sabinus and Clemens, who rode either side of him. ‘Perhaps it was just a coincidence and they weren’t coming here after all?’
‘Or we’re too late,’ his brother replied grimly. They dismounted and tied their exhausted horses to a fig tree; a soft breeze rustled its leaves. In the distance a fox called; another, slightly closer, answered.
Artebudz, Magnus and his crossroads brothers joined them, drawing their short swords. They were fifty paces away from the fifteen-foot-high wall of the stable yard. In the moon’s dim light they could just see the gates; they were closed.
‘There’s no sign of a break-in. Looks like we may be in time,’ Sabinus whispered. ‘We’ll alert the household quietly and stand to to surprise those bastards if they do turn up. Vespasian, take Magnus, Artebudz and five of the brothers and try to wake the gatekeeper. I’ll take Clemens and the rest of the brothers around to the front of the main house and wake the doorkeeper. If we’re-’
A series of loud shouts split the night; over the roofs along the far end of the stable yard flaming torches cartwheeled through the night air. They were quickly followed by more torches but this time held aloft by silhouetted figures clambering on to the roof. Some jumped down into the yard, others ran at speed along its length and then up on to the roof of the main house. A fire, now burning on its far side, gave an orange definition to its shape.
‘Shit!’ Sabinus cried. ‘Get over the wall with your lads, Vespasian; I’ll take mine around the front. No plan, just up and at them.’
Sabinus’ group sped away around the side of the house.
‘Bring your horses,’ Vespasian shouted, unhitching his and leaping on. He galloped the fifty paces to the wall and pulled his mount up sharply next to it. Cries, shouts and the clash of weapons came from within the yard. Vespasian stood up on his horse’s back and stretched up; the top of the wall was still two feet from his outstretched hands.
‘Magnus, get up here and give me a leg-up.’
‘Coming over, sir.’ Magnus climbed from his mount on to Vespasian’s horse’s hindquarters. The horse started to shy.
‘Sextus,’ Vespasian shouted, ‘hold the horse’s head whilst Magnus pushes me up.’
‘Hold the head whilst Magnus pushes; right you are,’ Sextus said, as always slowly digesting his orders.
The horse steadied; Magnus cupped his hands for Vespasian’s foot and heaved him up. With a frantic scramble that grazed his knees, Vespasian managed to pull himself on to the roof. He reached back down and grabbed Magnus’ proffered arm and with a huge effort hauled him up. Artebudz and the other crossroads brothers followed their leader’s example.
Even though it was less than a hundred heartbeats since the start of the attack the stable yard was now lit by fires burning in the windows of a few of the buildings that looked on to it. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered around. Screams came from the field slaves’ barracks as the shackled slaves inside panicked at the smell of smoke and rising heat in their windowless place of confinement; flames were threatening their door. There was no sign of the attackers; the door to the courtyard garden of the main house swung unsteadily on its buckled hinges.
Vespasian dashed along the roof and leapt down into the stable yard as, at the far end, a group of men came running out of the freedmen’s lodgings, armed with swords, javelins and bows. Vespasian recognised Pallo, the estate steward, at their head, followed by Baseos the Scythian and the Persian Ataphanes, both bearing their recurved, eastern bows. Unfortunately they did not recognise him; two arrows careered towards him as he hit the ground. He felt a rush of air pass over his head and then a lightning strike of pain in his left shoulder twisted him backwards on to the floor.
‘Pallo!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, Vespasian!’
But too late. Thinking that he was no longer a threat Baseos and Ataphanes had turned their attentions to the crossroads brothers still traversing the roof; two fell into the yard as Ataphanes went down with an arrow from Artebudz in his chest.
‘Artebudz, don’t shoot!’ Vespasian roared again in a monumental effort to make himself heard over the clamour from the field slaves’ barracks. ‘Pallo, stop! It’s me, Vespasian.’ He got to his knees and waved his arms; pain from the arrowhead grinding against bone shot through his senses.
This time Pallo recognised his young master, whom he had not seen in over four years, by his voice.
‘Stop shooting,’ Pallo ordered, running across the yard. His men followed, weapons raised warily. ‘Master, is that really you? Why are you attacking your own home?’
‘I’m not. There’s no time to explain,’ he said, wincing as he broke off the shaft of the arrow a thumb’s length from the entry point.
Magnus and Artebudz jumped down from the roof followed by Sextus and Marius.
‘Follow me into the main house,’ Vespasian cried, running through the swinging gate, ‘and be careful who you shoot at, Sabinus is coming in through the front.’
The courtyard garden was deserted apart from the body of the slave whose job it had been to sit by the gate all night. From the house came the sound of hand-to-hand fighting. Vespasian pounded around the colonnaded walkway towards the tablinum; blood oozed from his wound and was now soaking his tunic and his head was feeling light from pain.
Pushing aside the broken tablinum door he hurtled through and on into the atrium. It was a mass of writhing and struggling bodies all locked in bitter close-quarter conflicts: some standing, fighting with swords and knives; some wrestling, rolling around on the floor. At the far end of the room the open door burned like a beacon; by its light he could see, next to his brother and Clemens, fighting with a dagger in each hand, his father, Titus. Blood poured down the side of his face from where his left ear was missing.
With a roar, Vespasian jumped over the dead and bloodsoaked body of Varo, the house steward, and flung himself through the chaos and on to the back of his father’s adversary. Grabbing him by the hair he swung his sword in a short, sideways arc into the flesh at the top of his right arm and on through the bone, like wire through cheese. The man howled as his severed limb dropped to the floor; a sharp thrust from Titus curtailed the bestial sound and he fell, dead.
Behind Vespasian, Magnus, Sextus and Marius descended on the rear of their crossroads brothers’ opponents like furies released from hades. Livilla’s men stood no chance as they were hacked and stabbed at from all angles. Artebudz, Pallo, Baseos and the rest of the freedmen stood back, uncertain of friend or foe; but they were not needed. In a few short moments only two of the attackers were left standing, herded into a corner, surrounded and defeated. Both dropped to one knee in token of surrender.