Rome's Lost Son(20)

‘The timing and the source of these reports from the East and then the recent trouble in Armenia have led me to believe that Agrippina has precipitated a crisis that not even Pallas knows of. If my instincts are correct, it is connected to the Parthian embassy that your brother so carelessly lost; but as yet I have no proof. But both of you could help me with that. Now, if this treason comes to light, it will certainly be assumed that Pallas was a party to it and will be executed along with—’ A woman’s shriek from the tavern cut him off and he looked to the door in alarm.

Vespasian jumped to his feet; masculine shouts and bellows erupted, joined by the crashing of wooden furniture. Agarpetus pulled a sword from beneath his cloak, opened the door a fraction, looked out and then quickly stepped back.

Magnus came barrelling in. ‘We’re under attack!’ he yelled as he raced across the room to a wooden chest. ‘The bastards have used the celebrations to slip past our security.’ Throwing open the lid he pulled out a sword and lobbed it over to Vespasian; another two followed for Gaius and Narcissus as Sextus crashed in. ‘Take these into the tavern, brother,’ Magnus said as he scooped out the remainder of the box’s contents and jammed them into Sextus’ arms, keeping one back for himself, ‘and then pull back here with the lads. We’ll stop them in the corridor.’

‘Who’s attacking you?’ Vespasian asked, pulling the sword from its scabbard with a metallic ring.

Magnus rammed the tip of his blade between two floorboards. ‘Fuck knows, but they’re serious.’ With a grunt he pulled back on the weapon and sprang a board up.

Vespasian realised just how serious they were as the first whiff of smoke came through the door.

‘They’re torching the place!’ Narcissus shouted, drawing his sword and looking at the blade in disbelief.

‘That’s why we need to fight our way out of the back door,’ Magnus said, hauling a strongbox out from under the floor.

The clash of iron against iron rang above the yells; then a wail added to the noise, rising in pitch and fearful realisation – someone had been hideously wounded.

‘Uncle, help Magnus with that box.’ Vespasian pushed past Narcissus and Agarpetus and stuck his head around the door to see a couple of whores burst through the leather curtain from the bar; smoke wafted in with them. They turned down the corridor and then caught sight of him, screamed, doubled back and disappeared up the staircase at the other end. Vespasian ran along to the curtain and carefully pulled it back a fraction. Flames raged behind the bar where the cooking fire had been fed some incendiary liquid; a body writhed on the counter, its wails weakening as its flesh charred. Dozens of figures struggled in the blaze’s glow, in pairs or groups, wrestling hand to hand or stabbing at close quarters, screaming, cursing, growling as they fought for their lives. The bodies of the dying squirmed in agony on the floor, entangling the legs of friend and foe alike as men strove to keep their balance and their chances of survival. Over their heads and beneath the thickening pall of smoke Vespasian could see that the door at the narrow end was barred by two hulking shapes with staves – no one was leaving by that exit.

Sextus, bellowing like a goaded, chained bear, hacked and cut downwards onto a smaller opponent’s upturned sword, forcing it ever lower as his brothers slowly gave ground around him, under pressure from weight of numbers and the growing strength of the flames. There was no way forward, only back.

‘Sextus!’ Vespasian yelled into the room. ‘Now, before it’s too late!’

Sextus roared and sliced his blade down again with a force that dislodged his opponent’s from his grip. With a speed that belied his bulk, Sextus changed the stroke from vertical to horizontal, slicing through the exposed throat with an explosion of blood, black in the flicker of the flames, before backhanding the sword into the upraised arm of the intruder next to the dying man, taking the limb off at the elbow and sending it spinning, spiralling gore, over the heads of his comrades, weapon still in hand and glinting with firelight.

Vespasian backed away from the doorway as the South Quirinal Crossroads Brothers took advantage of the moment of extreme violence to retreat a few more steps. As he went back along the corridor the first of them pushed through the leather curtain.

‘Are they coming?’ Magnus asked as Vespasian ran back into the room.

‘As fast as they can,’ Vespasian replied.

Narcissus looked at him. For the first time Vespasian saw a genuine expression on the freedman’s face; it was fear. ‘I’m the imperial secretary; I can’t be trapped here. I must get out!’