‘What now?’ he asked.
Corbulo rubbed his wrists. ‘Kill the guards, take their swords and cloaks then get the fuck out of here. Any better suggestions?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
One of the guards stirred in his sleep. They froze. He rolled over on to his side, lifted his tunic and pissed where he lay. He fell back to sleep without bothering to adjust his dress.
‘Let’s get on.’ Corbulo reached out his hand to Magnus. ‘Give me the dagger.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but this is my sort of work – if you want it done quietly, that is.’
Corbulo nodded; just by looking at Magnus anyone could tell that he was no stranger to administering swift and silent death.
Magnus crawled quietly to the exposed guard. Within an instant his eyes were bulging, his throat torn open and his mouth firmly clamped shut by Magnus’ strong left hand. He struggled momentarily and then fell limp.
Soon the other three had gone the way of their colleague.
Wrapped in their newly acquired cloaks, and with swords at the ready, Corbulo led them stealthily through the camp. Staying low they weaved between the fires, keeping, as much as possible, to the shadows. They despatched any Thracians that they came across who had been too drunk to make it to a fire or a tent, slitting their throats where they lay. Gradually the fires thinned out and they reached the edge of the camp.
‘We need horses if we’re to make it back to the river before our absence is noticed,’ Corbulo whispered. ‘We’ll skirt around the perimeter. There must be some close by.’
Outside the camp they were able to move far quicker: the moon had set and their cloaks blended in with the inky slopes of the basin. They jogged sure-footed across the even grass, keeping a wary eye out for any pickets posted in the darkness. There were none.
A quarter of the way round Vespasian stopped. ‘Sir,’ he hissed, ‘over there.’
Twenty paces away on the fringe of the camp, silhouetted against the dim glow of the fires, were the horse-lines. The dark shapes of four or five tents could be made out just beyond. Nothing moved around them; the guards, if there were any, were sleeping.
‘We don’t have time to saddle them up but we do need to find some bridles,’ Corbulo whispered. He peered at Vespasian through the darkness. ‘Tribune, you come with me, they must be in one of those tents. Faustus and Magnus, get us four horses, we’ll meet back here.’
They crept down to the horse-lines.
Leaving Magnus and Faustus untying the nervous creatures, Vespasian followed Corbulo in search of the livery tent. The snorting and stamping of the jumpy horses behind him made him very uneasy.
‘How the fuck do we know which tent they’re in?’ he murmured.
‘We’ll just have to look in each one,’ Corbulo replied, creeping up to the nearest tent. He took the right-hand flap and indicated to Vespasian to take the other. Very gently and with swords poised they parted them.
‘Good evening.’
Two spear points pressed against their throats. They froze. Nausea flooded Vespasian’s throat.
‘I’d drop those swords if I were you.’
They slowly lowered their blades and let them drop. Behind them Vespasian felt the arrival of more men.
‘Now step back.’
They eased backwards, the spear points biting into skin, drawing blood. The warriors holding them stepped out of the tent and behind them emerged the bearded, bald horsemen from the day before.
‘Do you really think I am that stupid?’ he growled, his eyes two slits of hate. ‘That I, Coronus, don’t know how my people behave, and don’t make arrangements accordingly? Of course they were going to get drunk, of course you would try and escape, and of course you would need horses. It amused me to watch you try. So ten sober, trusted men waiting for you here, away from the temptations of the main camp, were all I needed to ensure that you would still be here tomorrow, when I have plans for you. Tie them up.’
Vespasian felt rough hands pull his wrists behind him; leather twine was wrapped tightly round them. He didn’t resist; it would have been futile. Magnus and Faustus were hauled in from the horses; blood streaming from a cut on Faustus’ left arm told of a less clean arrest.
‘Until tomorrow, then,’ Coronus crowed, ‘when you will learn that the blood-money for my sons is very high indeed.’
They spent the rest of the night tied to the horse-lines. Vespasian did not sleep. Rage burned within him, rage at being toyed with. To be allowed to escape, and then to be recaptured by being second-guessed by a savage was humiliation enough; to be gloated over by him was intolerable. They would have done better staying put, but that would have been a humiliation of another sort. Coronus would have known they had not attempted to escape, and would have sneered at them for cowardice. These thoughts whirled around his head and by morning he was exhausted, but he had resolved in the future, if he had one, never to do the obvious, because if it was obvious to him it would be obvious to all.
Soon after dawn they were cut loose and hauled to their feet. Looking around he could see that the others all looked as tired as he felt; none of them had had any sleep.
They were dragged towards the centre of the camp, where a circle had been cleared of tents and fires; around it stood hundreds of cheering warriors.
Their guards pushed a way through the crowd, who aimed kicks and punches at the prisoners as they passed. The residual smell of stale alcohol, vomit and sweat from a night of debauchery hung over the Thracians, who were all eager for some diversion to help them forget their terrible hangovers.
‘Looks like we’re to be the entertainment,’ Magnus muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m not sure that I’m in the mood,’ Vespasian replied, dodging a blow from a sword hilt aimed at his temple.
They passed out into the centre of the arena where Coronus waited for them. The young warrior who had led the war band stood next to him. Vespasian could see a family resemblance and realised that he must be Coronus’ elder son, and therefore brother to the man killed at the river a few days before.
Coronus raised his arms and the noise around the arena stopped immediately. He began to speak; his words were unintelligible but, from the harsh tone of his voice and the aggressive gesturing, Vespasian guessed that they were being condemned for all sorts of crimes. The speech ended with a huge roar from the crowd, and then a guttural shout that didn’t need any translation. It meant death.
Coronus turned and addressed them in his fluent Latin. ‘You have been condemned to death by the tribal assembly-’
‘On what charge?’ Corbulo shouted. ‘And who defended us?’
‘The charge was defiling our gods and there is no defence against that.’
Corbulo was about to argue but realised that it was pointless and held his peace.
Coronus continued. ‘As their chief it is my task to choose the manner of your deaths.’ He smiled a cheerless smile, and then turned back to the assembly and shouted. Their response indicated approval of his choice. Coronus switched back to Latin. ‘A sword and shield each, the last man standing gets a horse and a half-hour head start before we come after him. If he is caught he will be impaled, if not then he is lucky.’
Four swords and shields were placed at even intervals around the edge of the arena. The Romans were herded into the centre, where their bonds were cut.
‘Should any of you decide not to fight then you will all be impaled. My advice is to put on a good show worthy of Rome, and one of you may get to see her again.’
Coronus took his place in the crowd. The four Romans were left standing back to back in the middle of the arena.
‘What do we do?’ Faustus asked.
‘We fight,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And we fight well, so one of us has a chance of surviving.’ He bent down to wipe earth on to the palms of his hands. ‘The others get clean deaths. It could be worse.’