‘Two more blocks and then we turn left towards the sea,’ Nathanial informed Vespasian through gritted teeth as he struggled for breath in the fume-filled air. ‘The temple is at the end of that street.’
Mutilated corpses, body parts and debris were strewn around in an abundance that made the riot in Cyrene seem like a mere misunderstanding between neighbours: easily patched up and soon forgotten about.
‘I don’t know about you, sir, but I’m starting to think that just four contuburnia ain’t really enough to take on the entire Greek population,’ Magnus observed as another rock crashed into his shield. ‘I’d like to hear a lot more hobnailed boots tramping behind me.’
‘It’s pointless worrying about it because it’s all we have,’ Vespasian replied testily. ‘We just have to hope that Rome’s authority will prevail and we can order their release.’
Magnus scoffed but said nothing.
They quickly reached the end of the second block and turned left into a wide avenue; Vespasian faltered. The street was littered with corpses, some smouldering, illuminated by fires in the houses on either side; the smell of burned flesh hung heavy in the air, which was filled with rasping wails of agony emanating from within the mass of a huge mob fifty paces ahead. Beyond them Vespasian could see a Jewish temple being consumed by fire.
Nathanial groaned. ‘We’re too late, they’re flaying the prisoners alive.’
Vespasian brought his small unit to a halt. ‘Hortensius, have the men form a solid square, facing out on each side.’
‘We’re not going to charge into that lot, are we?’ Magnus asked disbelievingly, taking his place on Vespasian’s right shoulder as the legionaries quickly formed up.
‘Not if they know what’s good for them. Draw gladii; advance at the walk!’
With some men walking backwards and some sideways like crabs, the small square eased forward keeping shields tight together, the razor-sharp blades of their swords protruding between them flashing orange in the fire’s glow.
The screaming from within the mob kept up but gradually awareness of the Romans’ presence filtered through, and by the time the square was twenty paces from them hundreds of faces were turned their way.
‘Halt!’ Vespasian ordered.
The square stopped with a stamp of hobnails on stone.
The clamour of the mob died down, leaving only the anguished cries of the tormented men within it.
‘Who commands here?’ Vespasian shouted.
There was a brief pause before a group of four men pushed their way forward.
‘What do you want, Roman?’ their leader asked, a tall muscular man with short black hair and a full beard; he held a club with a long nail punched through its thick end.
‘I want to avoid having to kill any of you. What’s your name?’
‘Isodorus; but that is no secret, Flaccus already knows me.’
‘And Flaccus has given you permission to kill and burn as you please?’
Isodorus smiled coldly. ‘The prefect has made us no promises, but neither has he moved to stop us trying to rid this city of the canker within it that refuses to acknowledge great Caesar’s divinity and yet wants equal status with us, his law-abiding subjects.’
‘That is quite evident; but I am not Flaccus, nor am I under his authority. I was sent to this province by the Emperor and it’s to the Emperor that I will report when I return to Rome. So you have two choices, Isodorus: come and kill me and see how many of your people we cut down with our swords before you overcome us with your sticks and eating-knives, or hand over the prisoners that you took from that temple before we come and get them.’
‘You’d never make it.’
Vespasian hardened his eyes. ‘Try me, Isodorus; we’ll easily kill ten of your rabble for every legionary, that’s over three hundred and you’ll be the first.’ He looked around the crowd. ‘Which of you brave shopkeepers, tavern owners and thieves are willing to be one of the three hundred to die with Isodorus in order that you can keep your prisoners?’ He pointed his sword at a fat, balding man with blood on his hands and tunic. ‘You, perhaps?’ The man slunk back into the crowd. ‘What about you?’ he shouted, pointing to the fat man’s neighbour who also moved back. ‘It seems like you have a problem, Isodorus, your brave townsfolk are keener to live than they are to hang onto your prisoners so that you can rip the skin off their bodies. Your decision, Isodorus; now!’
The Greek looked around at his ragtag mob of poorly armed townsfolk and, realising that they would not have the stomach to face the well-drilled blades of the legionaries, stepped aside.
‘Very wise,’ Vespasian sneered. ‘Square! Forward at the walk.’
The legionaries moved on again at a slow deliberate pace so that those not walking forwards could keep formation, hunched behind their continuous wall of shields. The mob parted for them, pulling well back, out of reach of the blades bristling between every shield ready to kill or maim.
‘I don’t fancy our chances if they suddenly sprout a communal set of balls,’ Magnus muttered as they neared the middle of the mob.
The cries of anguish from the prisoners within had subsided and there was an unnatural quiet broken only by the steady steps of the soldiers.
Suddenly a scene of disgusting carnage appeared before them: hanging naked from a sturdy wooden frame, suspended by the wrists so that their toes just reached the ground, were three men and a woman. Their heads slumped onto their chests, which heaved with the effort of breathing and the pain of their hideous wounds. They were in various stages of being flayed. The man nearest seemed to be the luckiest; just one strip of skin, a hand’s breadth wide, had been stripped from his back to hang limply from his waist as if it were the end of a blood-soaked belt. The others had not been so fortunate; skin hung from their waists in abundance, flapping gently, like ghastly skirts, as their bodies writhed. In the middle of the frame staring with disbelieving eyes, first at the Romans and then back to the victims, was a group of male prisoners awaiting their turns under the knife; in their midst Vespasian saw Alexander squatting with his arm around his youngest son, Marcus.
‘Surround this area!’ Vespasian ordered.
The square dispersed as the legionaries formed a circle around the frame. The mob made no attempt to interfere and, in fact, shrank back from their erstwhile victims, looking on sullenly, as if the Romans’ arrival had broken the spell of their hatred and they now felt shame at their actions.
‘I did not think that Nathanial would get through,’ Alexander said, urgently pointing to the least hurt man. ‘Cut him down, quick.’
With one sweep of Vespasian’s blade the man’s bonds were cut and he slumped into Alexander’s arms. ‘Oh my son, my son,’ Alexander wept, ‘what have they done to you?’ He sank to his knees, taking the man’s head in his lap, and Vespasian saw that it was not a man but a youth: Tiberius, Alexander’s eldest son; he was moaning quietly.
‘He’ll be all right, sir,’ Magnus said, ‘I’ve seen this before in Germania when we rescued some mates from the locals. Them that has just a bit torn off them, like him, will live.’ He looked at the other two men and the woman, all mostly raw lumps of meat. ‘The others, though, not a hope; we should finish them now and then get the fuck out of here.’
‘Very well, but I will do it,’ Alexander said. ‘Marcus, help your brother.’ He eased Tiberius’ head into his brother’s lap and stood. ‘Give me your sword, Vespasian, my friend.’
‘You must be quick,’ Vespasian told him as he handed over the weapon.
Alexander nodded and approached the unconscious woman; the skin from her chest was missing and only one breast remained. He whispered into her unhearing ear before thrusting the blade through her yielding flesh up into her heart; a soft breath escaped her.