Under Vesuvius(50)
She bowed her head. “I stand chastened. My apologies, Praetor.”
It was raining the next morning when we mounted and made a bedraggled little procession as we rode up the bluff and onto the road that led toward Baiae. The stretch of road leading to Baiae was lined with fine tombs and shaded by large trees. The heavy mist that accompanied the drizzly rain lent the beautiful road a dreamlike aspect, but there was nothing dreamlike about the ambush.
They came from behind the tombs and trees: men on horseback, others on foot. They attacked with quiet ferocity, but the quiet didn’t last long. The Numidian guard raised a wild war cry and began to pelt the attackers with javelins while forming a barrier around Gelon.
Hermes already had his sword out, as did my other young men. All except Marcus had fought in Gaul or Macedonia or Syria. Being a serving magistrate I couldn’t go about wearing a sword, but I was no fool, either. My sword hung sheathed from the near-front horn of my saddle and I had it out just in time. My attacker took a swipe at my head, but I ducked low and extended my arm, thrusting beneath his jaw. He went off his horse backward with a spray of blood and a gargling cry. My horse collided with his, and its shod feet went out from under it, scrabbling on the wet pavement.
As it fell I managed to jump clear and keep hold of my sword, a circumstance of which I was absurdly proud. I looked around to see the battle well joined, the quarters so close that I could smell the stench of the attackers’ bodies and the garlic on their breath. I saw a Nubian go down with a spear through his chest, and then Hermes lopped the sword arm off a mounted man. The arm chanced to fall at my feet and I took the opportunity to appropriate its weapon—a good legionary gladius.
I was unarmored and had no shield, so I felt the need of a spare weapon. Besides, I wanted to try out some moves I’d seen that two-sword gladiator use in the Pompeii amphitheater. In Rome, I’d usually waded into street brawls with a caestus on one hand and a dagger in the other. In the legions, I’d fought with the customary sword and shield. I was intrigued by the possibilities of two swords, and I had my opportunity to try them out almost immediately.
A burly fellow wearing a rag of tunic and wool leggings charged me on foot, thrusting a sword at my chest. With my left-hand sword I banged it aside as I stepped in and slashed him across the belly with the other from left to right. He doubled over and I brought the left-hand blade down on the back of his neck, almost beheading him.
Two more closed in on me. The nearer held a club in both hands, presenting an interesting problem even if he’d been alone. As he raised the club for a blow, I sidestepped and brought my left-hand blade across in a backhand cut against his left wrist, severing it even as I brought the right-hand sword down on his skull, splitting it. The other man was on me even as the first fell, but Hermes rode up behind him and spitted him from back to front.
I spun around, looking for more men to fight. The only action was from a half-dozen horsemen who were pounding away into the mist, having had enough. The dead and wounded lay all over, bleeding, gurgling, cursing. The surviving Numidians were ruthlessly impaling anything that twitched.
“Stop them!” I shouted. “I need some who can talk!” But it was no use. The tribesmen were beyond control, furious to avenge their slain comrades.
“Casualties?” I demanded in disgust.
“Four of our party wounded,” Hermes said, wiping blood from his sword. “Two Numidians killed.”
Marcus walked up, having lost his horse somewhere. He was wrapping a cloth around his bloodied upper arm, but he was grinning. “For such a dignified magistrate,” he said, “you seemed to be enjoying yourself, Praetor. Wait until I tell Julia.”
“Wait until tonight, when that wound begins to hurt,” I told him. “I want to see your face then.”
“But the ladies will be fussing over me,” he said. “I’m a hero, bloodied in defense of my patron. I’ll—”
“Hermes!” I said, cutting him off. “Take the lictors and go into Baiae. Get all those officials out here and tell them the last to arrive gets a flogging.” Of course I had no authority to do this to Roman citizens, but anger was getting the best of me. Besides, one of my uncles had once had a Roman senator flogged in public, and everybody knew it.
While we waited I examined the dead attackers. The rain stopped and the mist began to clear, making the task easier. They looked like army deserters, runaway slaves, ruined peasants—the sort of bandits who are never quite eradicated from Italy. Their filth and rags proclaimed that they had been living in the hills for a long time.