Praetorian

Book 97: Eagles of the Empire

by Simon Scarrow

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

PRAETORIAN is the gripping eleventh novel in Simon Scarrow's bestselling Eagles of the Empire series. Essential reading for fans of Bernard Cornwell and Conn Iggulden.

The city of Rome in AD 51 is a dangerous place. Treachery lurks on every corner, and a shadowy Republican movement, 'the Liberators', has spread its tentacles wide. It is feared that the heart of the latest plot lies in the ranks of the Praetorian Guard. Uncertain of whom he can trust, the Imperial Secretary Narcissus summons to Rome two courageous men guaranteed to be loyal to the grave: army veterans Prefect Cato and Centurion Macro.

Tasked with infiltrating the Guard, Cato and Macro face a daunting test to win the trust of their fellow soldiers. No sooner have they begun to unearth the details of the Liberators' devious plan than disaster strikes: an old enemy who could identify them, with deadly consequences, makes an unexpected appearance. Now they face a race against time to save their own lives before they can unmask the mastermind behind the Liberators...

Release date: November 10, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 340

Sample

The Province of Hispania Terraconensis, early summer AD 54

There were cries of anger from the large crowd as the prisoner was dragged, blinking, into the bright sunlight bathing the forum in the heart of Asturica Augusta. He had been held in chains in one of the dank cells beneath the senate house for over a month while he waited for the Roman magistrate to return from his farming estate to pronounce sentence. Now, the magistrate stood on the steps of the senate house, surrounded by the other worthies of the town dressed in their finery of togas and embroidered tunics, ready to deliver his judgement. But there was little doubt in the minds of the crowd, and that of the prisoner, over his fate.

Iskerbeles had struck down and killed the official who had come to his village to demand slaves in lieu of the repayment of the debt owed to a fabulously wealthy senator back in Rome. He had killed the man in front of hundreds of witnesses and the auxiliary soldiers who were escorting the hapless freedman sent to collect the debt. It did not matter that the official had just given orders to seize ten of the village’s children and that the blow had been struck in a moment of anger. Iskerbeles was a powerfully built man with dark, fierce eyes beneath a sturdy brow. He had punched the freedman in the face, causing the man to tumble back and split his skull open on the corner of a stone water trough. It had been a cruel twist of fate, made crueller still when the officer in charge of the auxiliaries ordered his men to take the village chief prisoner, along with the children. But while the children were to be taken away to be sold into slavery, Iskerbeles was fated to be tried for murder and condemned to public execution.

The last he had seen of his wife had been her despair as she embraced their two young daughters, sobbing into the folds of her tunic. A day’s march had brought the captives to Asturica Augusta and here Iskerbeles had been chained into the cell while the children were shackled to a column of those condemned to be sold in the great slave market at the provincial capital of Tarraco. He had been half starved in the time since, and the heavy iron manacles had worn painful sores about his wrists. His hair was matted and he was so smeared with his own filth that the ten guards escorting him kept their distance and prodded him with the tips of their spears to make him stumble through the crowd towards the foot of the steps.

The angry cries of the townspeople, and those who had come from the surrounding countryside, began to fade as they saw his pitiful condition and by the time he was brought to a halt at the foot of the steps there was a grim silence in the forum. Even those at the market stalls on the far side paused to turn and look across towards the senate house, caught up in the tense atmosphere.

‘Stand up straight, you!’ one of the guards hissed, digging the butt of his spear into the small of the prisoner’s back. Iskerbeles stumbled forward half a pace and then drew himself up defiantly and glared up at the magistrate. The centurion in charge of the escort cleared his throat and bellowed in a parade ground voice so that all in the forum might hear him. ‘Most honourable Titus Pelonius Aufidius, magistrate of Asturica Augusta, I present Iskerbeles, the village headman of Guapacina, for your judgement on the charge of murdering Gaius Democles, the agent of Senator Lucius Annaeus in Rome. The murder took place on the Ides of the previous month, witnessed by myself and the men of the escort charged with protecting Democles. He now waits your judgement.’

The centurion smartly snapped his chin down in a swift bow of the head and stepped to one side as the magistrate descended a few steps so that he stood out from the other local senators and town officials, but still stood above the crowd gathered before him. Aufidius fixed his features in a disdainful expression as he surveyed their faces. There was no mistaking the broad spread of hostility there. From the crude attire and unkempt hair of many he deduced that the prisoner’s people were amongst the townsfolk, and they would not welcome what was to come. There might be trouble, the magistrate decided, and he was relieved that he had taken the precaution of having the rest of the auxiliary soldiers standing ready in the street to the side of the town’s senate house. Even though the first emperor, Augustus, had declared the pacification of Hispania nearly a hundred years earlier, that was only after two centuries of conflict. There were still some northern tribes who refused to genuflect to Rome, and many more who were recalcitrant at best, and would like nothing better than to throw off the Roman yoke that had proved such a burden. Indeed, Aufidius reflected, it was surprising that such a proud, warlike people had ever accepted the pax Romana. Peace was simply not in their nature.

Which was why they must be ruled with an iron rod. His brow creased sternly.

‘That you committed the crime is not in doubt. There were ample witnesses to the act. Therefore, I am obliged to pronounce a capital sentence. However, before I do so, in the name of Roman justice I give the condemned man one last chance to beg forgiveness for his actions and make his peace with the world before he passes into the shadows. Iskerbeles, have you any final words?’

The village chief’s jaw jutted out and he took a deep breath before he responded in a loud, clear voice. ‘Roman justice? I spit on Roman justice!’

The centurion raised his fist and made to strike but the magistrate waved him back. ‘No! Let him speak. Let him condemn himself even further in the eyes of the law and before these people!’

The soldier reluctantly resumed his position and Iskerbeles curled his lips in contempt before he continued. ‘The death of that accursed son of a whore freedman was natural justice. He came to our village to take our grain, our oil and everything of any value that we had. When we refused his demands, he threatened to take our children. He laid his hands on a son of our village, and so I slew him. By accident, not design.’

Aufidius shook his head. ‘It is of no consequence. The victim was acting in the course of his lawful duty. Calling in a debt on behalf of his master.’

‘The same master who made a loan to our village when the harvest failed three years ago, and then raised the interest rate on every anniversary of the loan so that we could never repay him.’

The magistrate shrugged. ‘That may be so, but it is legal. You had an agreement with Senator Annaeus, through his agent. You knew the terms before you set your seal on the document on behalf of your people. Therefore the senator is acting within his rights to demand repayment in full.’

‘In full, plus interest. As much as half again of the original loan! How can we repay him? And nor are we alone in being the victims of this vile dog.’ Iskerbeles half-turned to address the crowd. ‘You all know the man I killed. The vile Democles, who cheated not just the people of my village, but almost every village in this region. His men had already seized hundreds of people from our tribe when they could not repay his master. Most are condemned to the mines in the hills. There they will labour until they die from exhaustion, or are buried alive in the deathtrap tunnels dug into the cliffs. No one here needs to be reminded of the horrors of those mines!’

Aufidius smiled. ‘And yet you seek to remind us. The fate of those condemned to the mines is well known, Iskerbeles. But that is the well-deserved punishment of all those who break the law.’

‘Hah! You speak of the law. The law thrust on us by our Roman masters. The law which is little more than a tool to justify the theft of our gold, our silver, our land, our homes and our liberty. Roman law is an affront to nature, a scourge on every last fibre of our dignity.’ He paused to glare at the crowd. ‘Who here is so low a creature that he will endure this shame? Are you all mangy dogs sunk to the depths of begging for scraps and licking the boots of those who whip and starve you into utter submission? Are there none who will stand against the tyranny of Rome . . . ? None?’

‘Down with Rome!’ a voice cried from the heart of the throng. Faces turned and looked round. Another voice took up the cry, and more added to the swelling anger. Then a man close to the front of the crowd shook his fist and shouted, ‘Death to Aufidius!’ He was a powerfully built man with a bald crown. He had a rolled shepherd’s cloak tied around his body and he punched his hand into the air and began to chant and those around him joined in.

The magistrate recoiled half a step at the protest and quickly rounded on the centurion. ‘Carry out the sentence. Get him out of here! Now!’

The centurion nodded and cleared his throat. ‘Escort! Close up around the prisoner!’

Hefting their shields and spears the auxiliaries formed a tight screen around Iskerbeles while the centurion took up the loose end of the chain hanging from the prisoner’s neck and gave it a jerk as he led him away. ‘Let’s go.’

They started out along the steps at the foot of the senate house and began to work their way around the edge of the forum to the street leading to the town’s eastern gate. Beyond, there was a low hill with gentle slopes, upon the crest of which the town executed its criminals. Looking up, over the tiled roofs of the town, Iskerbeles could see the tiny figures of the execution party who had been sent ahead to dig the post hole and construct the timber frame on which he was to be crucified. Then, with a painful jerk of the chain, the centurion drew him into the narrow street. Like most established Roman settlements, Asturica Augusta’s main thoroughfares were lined with small shops while above them additional storeys had been constructed to accommodate the town’s burgeoning population.

The centurion barked out a command for those in the street to clear the way and the townspeople did their best to hurry aside, women grabbing their young children and older folk climbing stiffly out of the road onto the pavement. Behind the prisoner and his escort the crowd surged into the street and their angry cries were trapped between the walls rising on either side and filled the stifling air with their din. The centurion glanced back over his shoulder at the prisoner and sneered.

‘Your lot won’t be so mouthy when they see you nailed down and hoisted into place.’

Iskerbeles did not reply to the taunt, but concentrated on staying on his feet as he was dragged along over the cobbled street. Around him the auxiliaries jostled past onlookers crowding the pavement.

‘What’s his story?’ a wizened old man demanded of the centurion.

‘None of your damned business,’ the officer snapped. ‘Clear the way ahead!’

‘That’s Iskerbeles,’ a fat woman responded to the old man.

‘Iskerbeles? Chief Iskerbeles?’

‘Aye, poor soul’s to be executed. For killing a money lender.’

‘Executed?’ The old man spat into the gutter at the feet of the nearest auxiliary. ‘That’s no crime. Or shouldn’t be.’

The woman raised her fists. ‘Let ’im go! You Roman dogs. Set ’im free!’

Those on either side quickly echoed her cry and it spread up and down the length of the street and into the mouths of the mob following the small party of soldiers. Soon the deafening sound of his name rang in the ears of Iskerbeles and his escort and the chieftain could not help a thin smile of satisfaction, even though he was being marched to an agonising death. The people of his tribe, and many of those native people who had come to live in the towns, continued to harbour a spirit of resistance towards the invader that they had fought for so many generations. The peace that the Romans had proclaimed came at the price of being ground under their heel and Iskerbeles prayed to the goddess Ataecina that she would unleash her full fury against Rome and inspire her followers to slaughter and burn the invaders and drive them back into the sea.

A short distance ahead, several young men had emerged from an inn to see what the disturbance was about. As Iskerbeles looked up he noted their neat tunics and clean-shaven cheeks and saw them for what they were: the offspring of the wealthier families of the town who had long since thrown in their lot with the invader and enthusiastically adopted Roman airs and graces. A few of the young men still carried glazed flagons in their hands and the nearest raised his in a toast as he called out loudly.

‘Death to murderers! I say death to Iskerbeles!’

Some of his companions shot him an anxious look, but the rest repeated the toast and jeered the oncoming prisoner. The fat woman turned on them in an instant and, hitching up the hem of her ragged stola, she charged along the pavement and slapped the ringleader hard across the face with a meaty hand. ‘You drunken fool.’

He may have been inebriated, but he rode the blow well and shook his head briefly to clear it before he balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the woman’s face, breaking her nose and causing a bright crimson stream to pour from her nostrils.

‘Keep your mouth shut, you hag. Unless you want to join your friend there, when they crucify him.’

The woman clutched a hand to her nose, then looked down at the blood on her palm, and let out a shrill screech as she hurled herself on the youth, fists flailing.

‘You bastards! Bastards! Sucking us dry!’

Her screams were so loud that the nearest elements of the mob stilled their tongues and turned to look in her direction. They divined the nature of the clash in an instant and there was a surge towards the inn as they rushed to join her attack on the youths who had instantly become symbols for all the causes of their misery. Fists flew, hair was grabbed, insults screamed and feet lashed out in a frenzied outburst of rage. At once the mêlée spilled out into the street ahead of the prisoner and his escort. The centurion drew up and let out an explosive sigh.

‘Fucking great . . . That’s all I need.’ He handed the chain to one of his men and hefted his stout vine cane. ‘Keep closed up as we get through this lot. And I don’t want to see anyone getting stuck in. Clobber them if they get in the way, but no more. They’re pissed off enough as it is, without one of you bastards giving them any further excuse. Clear? Then stay together and let’s move.’

He gestured along the street with his vine cane and set off at a slow, steady pace. As the squad approached the fringes of the violent struggle, the centurion raised his cane and barked, ‘Clear the way!’

A one-armed man glanced round nervously and scurried to the side of the street, but the rest continued fighting heedlessly.

‘Fair enough,’ muttered the centurion. He raised his cane and smashed it down across the shoulders of the nearest man. His victim lurched into the crowd with a pained grunt as the officer swung again, this time punching the gnarled head of the cane into the small of a woman’s back. She collapsed onto her knees and he thrust her aside with his spare hand and stepped into the gap. It only took a few more blows before the townsfolk became aware of the danger and made efforts to get out of his way. The soldiers followed on, using their shields to force their way through the fighting, Iskerbeles doing his best to remain on his feet as he was jostled by the men on either side. As they broke free of the mêlée they came to a crossroads and a flash of movement to one side drew the attention of Iskerbeles. Glancing down the intersecting street he saw a small party of men in dark brown cloaks dashing across a parallel junction. Then they were gone.

A sharp yank of the chain brought him back as the auxiliary charged with leading him growled, ‘Shift your arse.’

The soldier spoke the local dialect with only a slight accent and Iskerbeles stared hard at him. ‘You’re no Roman. From the east of the province, am I right?’

The auxiliary shrugged. ‘Barcino.’

‘Then you are one of us. Why serve those Roman dogs? Don’t you want to be free?’

‘Free to be what?’ The soldier laughed harshly. ‘A hairy-arsed peasant scratching a living on some shitty scrap of land? If that’s freedom, then you can bloody keep it.’

Iskerbeles’ eyes narrowed. ‘Have you no heart? No pride? No shame?’

‘The only shame I’m feeling is that it’s a shame I have to listen to your bellyaching.’ The soldier gave the chain a quick wrench. ‘So keep your trap shut, friend, and spare me the lecture.’

Free of the crowd, the centurion increased his pace, and as the street bent to the left around a small temple, the town gate came into view. The sentries on either side stirred into life at the sight of an officer and shuffled to attention as he approached. Unlike the auxiliaries, they were not proper soldiers, just men recruited by the town senate to extract the tolls for entering the city. They were equipped with weapons and whatever armour could be acquired cheaply to make them look the part. The centurion barely acknowledged them as he led his squad through the shadow of the gate and out into the bright sunlight of the open countryside beyond the town’s wall. The road was paved for a few miles before it became a dusty track picking its way through the hills of the region. A line of merchants’ carts, and heavily laden mules led by peasants, waited to enter the town and they barely spared a glance as the prisoner was marched past them. A horse trader and his companions with a long string of mounts passed at the rear of the line and the centurion cast an envious eye over the horseflesh as he compared them to the poor-quality mounts that his cohort had to make best use of.

A short distance from the gate a path stretched from the road up to the crest of the hill used for executions and the centurion and his men climbed towards the waiting work party. A small cluster of townsfolk stood to one side, waiting to witness the spectacle, and those who had been sitting rose to their feet as the condemned man and his escort approached. Iskerbeles felt his stomach tighten into a painful knot as he saw the crossed timber lying beside the small pile of loose soil and stone dug out of the ground for the post hole. He had managed to hide his feelings so far, and now gritted his teeth, determined not to betray himself to his enemies. It would be good to hide the fear and pain and show disdain and contempt for Rome until his last breath. Let the townsfolk witness that and let those who continued the struggle against the invader draw strength from his example.

‘Off your arses!’ the centurion called out and half turned to indicate Iskerbeles. ‘Here’s your customer. Get him nailed up nice and quick and we can be on our way.’

The decurion in charge of the work party waved a hand in acknowledgement and turned to mutter an order to his men, who were squatting around the crossed timbers and tools used to prepare the execution. They sat with their backs to the approaching auxiliaries and did not bother to stir at the sound of nailed boots crunching over the sun-baked ground.

‘On your feet I said!’ bellowed the centurion as he strode forward, cane raised to strike at the nearest of the men who had defied his initial order. Then he caught sight of the dark patch of dried blood beside the shaft of the crucifix. There were more stains on the ground. He abruptly halted, a chilly tingle raising the hairs at the base of his skull. Then he saw the bare foot protruding beyond a nearby outcrop of rock, and instantly switched his cane into his left hand as he wrenched out his sword.

‘Ambush! To arms!’

Before his startled men could respond, the decurion shouted an order in the native tongue and the men of the work party leaped to their feet, swords and spears in hand, and charged towards the soldiers of the escort. The onlookers who had been waiting to one side also cast off their cloaks to reveal more weapons. They rushed towards the auxiliaries and their prisoner without uttering a word. Iskerbeles, who had been trying to harden his resolve against the dread prospect of having his wrists and ankles pierced by iron nails, felt a surge of exhilaration at the sudden prospect of salvation. The man who had been masquerading as the decurion in charge of the execution party surged ahead of his men, swinging his sword at the centurion in a savage arc. The latter was a thorough professional and had trained many years for such a moment. He went into a crouch and parried the blow, then used his vine cane to strike his foe a glancing blow to the head, sending the man reeling back. The auxiliary officer glanced round at his men.

‘Close up!’

The shock of the ambush swiftly faded as the soldiers raised their shields and lowered the points of their spears, facing out to meet the charge from two directions. The man who had been tasked with holding the prisoner’s chain hesitated, unsure whether to drop it and join the others, or continue to guard the prisoner. Iskerbeles swung his manacled hands up, snatched the chain from the auxiliary’s grasp and swung the short length against the man’s helmet. Metal clattered on metal and the soldier staggered back with a dazed expression, barging into the back of one of his comrades and nearly sending both men crashing to the ground. A gap opened between two of the auxiliaries and Iskerbeles bunched his raised hands into fists and rushed for the opening as fast as the length of chain between his leg manacles would permit. Leading with his right shoulder, he barged one of his escort aside and then tried to sprint a few paces, but the chain tripped him up and he fell headlong no more than ten feet from the Roman soldiers.

The centurion thrust his cane out. ‘Don’t let the bastard escape!’

One of his men rushed forward and drew his spear arm back, ready to strike. Iskerbeles rolled onto his side, raising his hands in a futile bid to ward off the blow. He squinted as he stared up at the soldier, black against the dazzling backdrop of the blazing sun. Then another shape slammed into the side of the auxiliary and sent him tumbling to one side with a loud clatter as the soldier’s shield struck the stony ground. Out of the corner of his eye Iskerbeles saw a blade rise and strike down three times and then a hand grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet and he saw the grinning face of the man from the crowd who had called for the death of Aufidius.

‘Well met, Callaecus, my friend.’

‘Greetings later,’ the man panted. ‘Kill Romans first.’

He helped Iskerbeles to a safe distance and then sprinted back towards the knot of combatants near the crest of the hillock. Several men were already down in the swirling dust, three of them soldiers. Their comrades now fought back to back, with their centurion. But they were outnumbered and the fearless savagery of their attackers ensured the outcome. One by one they were dragged down and finished with frenzied blows from blades and thrusts of spears, until only the centurion and two of his men still lived, half crouched and eyes flickering at the men around them as they held their weapons out, ready to ward off any attack. As if by some unspoken agreement both sides drew away from each other and the remaining twenty or so ambushers stood two sword lengths back in a ring around the trio of auxiliaries. All were breathing hard as they braced themselves to continue the fight.

‘Throw down your weapons!’ Iskerbeles called out.

The centurion’s lips curled in contempt, but before he could reply one of his men dropped his sword and released the grip of his shield so it fell beside his blade. His comrade glanced at the centurion before he followed suit.

The centurion sniffed. ‘You cowards . . .’

‘Surrender!’ Iskerbeles ordered. ‘Do it now, or die!’

The officer gritted his teeth, slowly turning to cover all angles, as the two survivors of the escort party edged away from him. Then he sighed with frustration as he straightened up and tossed his sword and cane at Iskerbeles’ feet.

‘You may escape now, but we’ll be on your trail soon enough, and you’ll be hunted down like dogs.’

‘Really?’ Iskerbeles smiled. ‘We’ll have to see about that. Callaecus, get these chains off me.’

The tribesman came over and pulled the pin from the neck ring and then the manacles on each hand before bending to remove those around his chief’s ankles. Iskerbeles tenderly rubbed the red welts that had formed on his skin as he regarded the other men from his village. ‘You’re fools, the lot of you. The Romans would have been satisfied with my blood alone for the murder of the money lender. Now they’ll kill us all.’

‘Only if they get the chance!’ Callaecus chuckled. He jabbed a thumb at the three auxiliaries. ‘And if they fight like these milk-livered cowards, then we’ve nothing to worry about.’

Iskerbeles frowned. ‘They have far better men than these to send against us. Make no mistake about that. If we start a fight against Rome now, then it will be a fight to the finish. We can only win if we survive long enough to inspire the other tribes and unite them behind us.’ He paused to let his next words have their full effect. ‘The odds are against us. Us, and all our people. The Romans will not content themselves with pursuing us alone. They will come after all of us. Our women and children too. Are you prepared to risk that, my friends? Think carefully on it.’

Callaecus threw back his head and laughed before he responded. ‘Do you think that we have not talked this through? Every one of us. We have sworn an oath to rescue you, Chief Iskerbeles. You will lead us to victory, or death.’

Iskerbeles sucked in a breath as he regarded the expectant faces watching for his reaction. Then he shook his head. ‘You fools . . . So be it. Until victory, or death.’

Callaecus punched his sword arm into the air and a cheer ripped from his lips. The others followed suit as Iskerbeles rolled his head and flexed his muscles. Then he stooped to pick up the centurion’s sword and examined the weapon. It was finely balanced and the ivory handle was worn smooth with use. The blade was well looked after and had a keen edge and he nodded approvingly at the centurion. ‘You know your business.’

‘I do. And I know that I’ll be having that back before long. I swear it, by Mithras.’

‘He won’t come to your aid, Roman. Not if our Gods can help it. And failing that, not if my friends and I can help it.’

The centurion snorted with derision. ‘You? You’re nothing but a bunch of peasants who stink of goat shit and sweat. You surprised us this time, I’ll admit. But next time, we’ll be ready, and then you’ll see what Roman soldiers can really do.’

‘Perhaps.’ Iskerbeles looked towards the town gate and saw the sentries there shading their eyes as they looked towards the crest of the hill. Already one of them had turned to rush through the gate and raise the alarm.

‘We had better leave. Get into the hills before they send someone after us.’

‘I’ve already thought of that.’ Callaecus turned towards the road and waved his hand from side to side. At once the men who had been posing as horse-traders vaulted onto their saddles and led strings of mounts up the slope. ‘We’ll be miles away before they get off their fat Roman arses and start any pursuit.’

‘Good man.’ Iskerbeles grinned with approval. Then his expression hardened. ‘But then what becomes of us? They will be sure to burn our village to the ground. We’ll have to take the women and children and hide in the mountains.’

His comrade shrugged. ‘It won’t be easy, but we know the ground. We’ll survive.’

‘Survive?’ Iskerbeles’ brow creased in thought. ‘No. Survival is not enough. I’ll not let our people live to be hunted down like starving dogs. That is not worthy of them. We must give them a cause to fight for, my friend. We must raise the standard of our tribe and call on all our people to rise up and fight Rome. Unless we can drive them out of our land then we will only ever be their slaves.’

‘You think we can fight Rome?’ Callaecus’ eyebrows rose in surprise at the hubris of his chief. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by the other men. ‘Have you lost your mind? We cannot defeat Rome.’

‘Why not? We would not be the first people in Hispania to try. Nor the last should we fail, I’ll warrant. Viriathus and Sertorius came very close to victory. They only failed because they were betrayed. I’ll not make the same mistake.’ The chieftain’s eyes blazed. ‘Besides, the province is ripe for revolt. Our people are not alone in being ground under the enemy’s boots. There’s a hunger for rebellion, and we will feed that appetite, my friend. Our example will give heart to all those who hate Rome . . . But now is not the time to talk about this. Later, when we have led our people to safety.’

Callaecus nodded and was about to turn towards the approaching horses when he paused and gestured towards the three survivors of the prisoner escort. ‘What about them?’

Iskerbeles considered the centurion and his comrades for an instant before he decided. ‘Kill the soldiers. As for the centurion, it would be a shame not to make use of the crucifix and these nails . . .’



The Port of Ostia, a day’s march from Rome

‘What’s all the fuss about, friend?’ Macro asked the inn-keeper a