The Peacekeeper Page 13

  Eleyne crumpled, head against her lap.

  With a swift slice, the Briton beheaded Candra. Blood gushed from the stump of this twitching body. The bearded fighter let out a guttural cry. He grabbed the bloody head by its long, black hair and raised it for all to see. A sudden shocked silence, and then a loud groan and screams of rage erupted from the spectators. The Celt hurled Candra’s head into the channel where an open-jawed crocodile lunged and snatched it in its jaws.

  Eleyne continued screaming. “No! No!”

  I wanted to weep but dared not.

  Eleyne leapt from her seat. She fled from the Magistrate’s Box followed by Aurelia and a number of servants through the emperor’s private tunnel exit used by him and his guests. I wanted to follow and console her, but duty prohibited that luxury. Now, I had to brace myself for what I knew was about to follow.

  I looked back at the carnage, not seeing it. Gods, how long could a nation tolerate this kind of barbarism? How could Rome consider itself a civilization and condone genocide in the name of justice and entertainment? An empire like that could not survive. How could I remain loyal to Rome? I couldn’t answer. So ingrained in my soul, I was torn between my sense of justice and loyalty.

  And disgust, because I, too, had cheered the butchery.

  Gallus had his vengeance on Candra, but at what cost? I hated him all the more.

  My attention snapped back to the present. Crispus and the other tribunes looked at me strangely. I nodded to them and they back to me.

  The slaughter on the island continued between the Blues and the skirmishers from the small boats, even as the mood of the crowd turned ugly. Clinched fists shook at the emperor. Candra’s bravery had been adored by them, and they would not forget his wasteful death. Nearby, the mob rained trash and cushions into the aisles and the basin and pulled down posters and decorations. Praetorians stationed about the arena were pelted. Pocked with filth, the nobles in the Imperial Box became alarmed by the screamed obscenities and curses at Claudius.

  “All right, Crispus, let’s get out of here. Time to test the mettle of the Seventh!”

  As we headed for the secret tunnel, a squad of Praetorians charged into the lower rows of nearby hecklers and indiscriminately bashed their skulls with thick, wooden truncheons.

  Instead of silencing the crowds, they incited them to bolder acts. Like drifting embers of fire, fights erupted throughout the stadium, no longer a mere isolated riot. Praetorians rushed to the main trouble spots, but the mob overwhelmed them.

  The crowds headed for the exits and poured their rage into the streets. Crispus and I returned to the Seventh Cohort as rioting quickly spread.

  Where was Eleyne? Had she stayed with Aurelia and the emperor’s entourage, protected by the Praetorians? I prayed she had the sense to stay with them and not endanger herself by fleeing home through a rioting mob bent on revenging Candra’s death.

  Could we protect the emperor from this? The Praetorians would hold their ground, but would the Seventh Cohort?

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 14

  The surging mob tore up the park surrounding the stadium and smashed the hastily shuttered little businesses. Betting booths were ransacked and plundered, while shady Chaldean fortune tellers were reduced to poverty. Looters carried away armloads of sweet melons, fresh bread, and steaming sausages from cook shop stalls. Others hauled long-stemmed wine amphorae, thumping away on the rut-worn, stone streets. Dragged from their tiny cubicles beneath the stadium tiers, prostitutes were viciously raped and beaten on the street amidst the oblivious mob. Young toughs tore bricks and paving stones from adjacent buildings and streets, and then hurled the heavy objects at anything that moved.

  I saw neither Eleyne nor Aurelia and their retinue. I had to give my full attention to the unfolding anarchy.

  Although held in reserve, the chaos unfolding outside the arena required immediate action by the Seventh Cohort. I gave orders to disperse and scatter the rioters down side streets as quickly as possible, to summarily execute anyone caught looting.

  Word arrived that the First and Fourth Cohorts waited in prearranged locations nearby, along with three more from the City Guard, ready to reinforce us upon our signal. By means of strategically placed flagmen, including one on top of the fish market building, we kept in touch with the other units. However, this was the jurisdiction of the Seventh. We were expected to handle the situation, requesting reinforcements only as a last resort. By rights, one well-trained and armed cohort should prove sufficient to deal with an unruly, undisciplined mob.

  In less than two hours, Apollo’s blazing chariot would sink behind the hills beyond the Tiber’s west bank, and we would have more trouble after dark. At the far end of the plaza, opposite the stadium, the Seventh grimly waited. In the hazy late-afternoon sun, the cohort appeared as one dark-armed monster. Long shadows from the ranks crept across the dusty, gray tenement walls bordering the square.

  The throng fanned out into the plaza. To the shouts of Bucketmen, they spotted the Seventh. I passed orders to the centurions to alert the men. Casperius Niger waved the flagman to signal the other cohorts the Seventh was preparing to engage the mob. Grouped one behind the other, tightly formed skirmish lines, one hundred men each, faced the oncoming rioters.

  Earlier, I had placed Casperius Niger, my best centurion, in charge of the advance units. In the rear, Crispus commanded two centuries kept in reserve. To better direct the troops, I managed to commandeer horses for Niger, Crispus, and myself.

  The screaming throng edged its way towards our chain-mailed troops. Mounting my gray dapple, I rode to the second rank from the front line. I took my place to the rear of its center for the best vantage point and gave the signal to advance. Circular cornus sounded a sharp note from the rear, and the cohort standard raised smartly. In one resounding thud, the Watchmen snapped their truncheons and protective oval shields to the front. On command, long-stemmed tubicen trumpets sounded the advance. A blast of three short notes followed. Long, wooden truncheons went parallel to the ground, thrusting from between painted scarlet shields crisscrossed with gold lightning bolts. Twenty drums boomed a slow death cadence.

  For an instant, the mob halted, dead silent. A handful dropped their stones and knives and vanished back into the crowd. The centuries deliberately marched forward, across the plaza at a pulsating half step. The echo of clanking chain-mail armor and hobnailed sandals added to the ominous sound of the drums. The angry horde pressed forward again, to the cries of, kill the Bucketmen, disregarding the threat of bristling clubs and swords carried on each watchman’s baldric.

  The gap between mob and troops closed. A crash exploded as the masses slammed into the Seventh’s shields. The line held while troopers clubbed and shoved back the swarm of people with truncheons. Crushed underfoot by the retreating mob, bloodied victims screamed as they tried to escape the head-bashing troops.

  As the multitudes retreated, a watchman motioned to a group of ragged, young brawlers. “Over there—it’s them!” he shouted. “They killed Tribune Drusus! Get them!”

  “Shut your fucking mouth, Rufus Furius!” Casperius Niger ordered. “Hold your places men—tighten your ranks!”

  For a moment, Furius hesitated, looking in Casperius’s direction.

  “You heard Centurion Niger,” I barked. “Stand fast!”

  Furius glared at me and glanced to the rioters. “Mars be damned!” he barked. He drew his short sword and slashed his way into the desperate mob.

  “Return to the ranks!” Casperius commanded. But it was too late. One by one, men along the same skirmish line heeded his cry, drew weapons, and joined the attack. Soon, entire centuries charged the crowd in a hacking frenzy. Blood spurted everywhere as the fighters ignored all orders given by the commanding centurions and myself to cease and desist.

  With the exception of the reserve centuries, led by Crispus, discipline collapsed. Individual actions resulted in troopers being cut off from help. I watched helples
sly as a woman leapt upon an isolated soldier’s back, but when he desperately whirled to dislodge her, she slit his throat.

  The rest of the Seventh plunged into the frantic crowds, slashing and chopping at will. Casperius bolted his mount into the midst of his men, slaying one in an attempt to restore discipline. Too late. Caught up in the carnage and slaughter, countless innocents sprawled, blood spattered, headless, limbs missing on the plaza’s worn stones.

  I shouted above the noise to restore order to the ranks. But my offers of rewards and threats of certain punishment were ignored as the lines continued to disintegrate. When the formations crumbled, the mob encircled pockets of Watchmen. Although surrounded by a group of thugs, my horse’s sharp hooves kept them from yanking me off. After cutting down a couple who had slipped around Casperius’s blind side, I spurred my mount in the direction of the reserves, praying Crispus’s troops would hold.

  I motioned for Crispus and his men to join me, then called the flagman to signal the other Watch cohorts and the City Guard for reinforcements. Bruised and cut, I led Crispus and his troops forward. The outnumbered reserves valiantly held together, but eventually were overwhelmed, engulfed by civilians rushing between their ranks.

  In the space of a heartbeat, I saw Crispus, attempting to rescue a young woman and her baby. He reached down to his right side, grabbed the child from its mother, and placed it in front of him. He then reached down for the mother and pulled her up behind him. Suddenly, the surging mob broadsided his horse. Crispus lost control of his chestnut mare. Like an overturned wagon, the horse lost its balance and fell on its side, throwing Crispus, the woman, and child to the pavement. The mindless mob trampled their bodies like pieces of rags. I hurried to Crispus’s rescue, followed by a squad of slashing Watchmen. As I approached Crispus, the troops cleared the area of stragglers and ringed us. Dismounting, I kneeled over his crumpled body.

  His bloodied face quivered, and his breathing grew shallower. He choked on the blood pouring from his mouth and nose, and his eyelids rapidly swelled. I held him in my blood-stained arms. Somehow, his body didn’t seem as heavy as I expected. He groaned in an attempt to speak.

  “Don’t say anything, we’ll get a medicus here. You’ll be all right.” We both knew it was a lie. In the distance an overpowering drum beat signaled the arrival of the First and Fourth Cohorts and the City Guard in force. Their disciplined ranks wheeled into action.

  “The woman and boy . . . ?” Crispus struggled to ask in a choking voice.

  I quickly scanned the area. Two limp, blood-stained bodies swirling with flies lay behind him. The horse, recovering from its fall, stood nearby munching on a discarded loaf of bread. “They’re safe,” I lied.

  “L . . . looks like the . . . joke’s on me,” he rasped, coughing blood.

  “Don’t say any more—you’ll be all right.”

  “Horseshit . . . to the end . . . I have to . . . keep you honest.”

  “That’s enough, friend.” My eyes clouded with tears, and I turned away.

  “B . . . best friend . . . you’ve got.”

  “The very best,” I said.

  “W . . . what are you . . . going to do . . . without me?” Crispus tried to grin, his voice fading rapidly.

  “I’ll manage. You’re going to survive,” I insisted, refusing to believe he was dying.

  “You’ll be alone . . . Marcellus. One . . . grave robber to . . . another, p . . . promise me . . . something.”

  “Anything,” I answered, puzzled by his request.

  “T . . . trust no one—including . . . Sabinus—he’s still a Roman.”

  I looked about before answering. The troops had pushed the crowd far back, allowing them to escape down several side streets. “I promise, I won’t.” Crispus was wiser than I in many ways. Until now, I still retained too much of my idealism about the goodness of people and the world.

  “O . . . otherwise,” he gasped, “Rome will destroy you. Don’t let it . . .” He coughed more blood. A sickening gurgle echoed in his throat. His eyes stared vacantly at me, the spark of life fading into dullness. He went limp. Gone.

  I would have wept if I hadn’t been approached by about ten Watchmen.

  “Sir, we need your help,” one of them said.

  I glared up at their haggard faces and recognized Rufus Furius, the first to break ranks. A sense of rage and revulsion shot through every pore in my body. I peered deep into his pathetic eyes—right to his miserable soul and reviled by what I saw.

  “Not now!” I barked. “I will deal with you later, Furius!” I waved the group away. I wanted to scream: He died because you refused to hold ranks! Your heads will roll! Instead, I turned my back to them.

  No longer could I control my emotions. In a burst of tears, I broke down and wept, not caring who watched. Pure, unadulterated rage for the world swelled my insides. I wanted to destroy Rome with my bare hands. Soldier or not, I had lost my dearest and closest friend. I had persuaded Crispus to transfer to Rome, and now pangs of regret wreaked havoc with my conscience. Had he stayed in Britannia, he would still be alive. Never would I have another friend like Crispus. May the gods watch over him wherever he might be.

  I recovered my wits a moment later, once again the soldier within took command and carried me to the troops. The First and Fourth Cohorts and the City Guard restored order, but too late to save the countless innocent lives lost and the enormous property damage.

  *

  By early evening, a detail of state slaves had been dispatched to the riot area to remove unclaimed bodies and wash away blood from the streets. Carted to the river’s edge outside the city gates, corpses were cremated on mass funeral pyres. Cautiously, shopkeepers surfaced to clean and salvage what remained of their destroyed businesses.

  During this time, my duties had kept me so busy, I had little time to think about Eleyne’s safety. I prayed she was with the emperor’s party and that she had stayed with them until the worst of the rioting had passed before returning home. I was certain Aurelia would make her see the wisdom in such a decision.

  Exhausted, and still reeling from Crispus’s death, I rounded up the remnants of the Seventh Cohort. After receiving the centurions’ casualty reports at my office, I ordered the cohort confined to barracks pending full investigation of their conduct. About the same time, I received a message from Sabinus to report to him at once.

  Ignoring the wreckage scattered about the streets, I trudged to the Office of the Watch Prefect on the Via Lata Road. As Commander of the Seventh, I was accountable for the actions of the men, and no excuse would suffice. Despite my weariness and the searing pain of headache, which I felt not only inside my skull but in my eyes, ears, and teeth, I attempted in vain to contain my anger. I failed. Heat rushed to my face, and my lips curled into a murderous frown as I glared at the approaching Watchmen. The ten men took one glance and shunned me. Never had I made a lonelier trek in my life.

  Claudius cared little for the rabble as he called them, but I knew the afternoon slaughter railed his sense of justice. His demand for what the Jews called a scapegoat was inevitable. Political reality dictated that Sabinus give him one. The emperor could not afford rebellion. Sabinus had to take steps to stabilize his own position, placed in jeopardy by the riot. I knew his decision the moment we came face to face.

  Except for the flickering glow of a single oil lamp, his office remained dark. For some reason I thought of Eleyne and the nights we spent together by candlelight. Young love was as fragile and fleeting as the ebb and flow of the candle flame before me.

  “You won’t find an answer in the flame,” Sabinus said, bringing me back to reality. “At least, I didn’t.”

  I jolted. Did he read my mind?

  Sitting at his hardwood desk, Sabinus momentarily studied the scowling, black marble bust of Cicero, nearly invisible in the room’s obscured light. I stood before the prefect, examining his haggard face. The night had taken its toll, his shadowed eyes full of anger and sorrow, and
his hair grayer and thinner than I remembered.

  A sense of shame enveloped me. I had failed when he had depended on me the most. A sickening sensation settled in my stomach as I waited for Sabinus to speak.

  “What happened?” he inquired simply.

  “They broke,” I offered in a woodened voice. “I failed to maintain discipline, and they got out of control.” I explained the circumstances leading to the carnage.

  Sabinus clasped his hands together on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not an unreasonable man, and I know the problems you’ve encountered with the Seventh. If any man could have restored their discipline, it was you.”

  “Had I the time,” I said, knowing my answer was a poor excuse.

  “Unfortunately, no explanation is acceptable to the emperor.”

  I nodded. “I accept full responsibility for their actions.”

  “Do you have the names of the men who instigated this disaster?” Sabinus asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They will be severely punished, but . . .” He took a deep breath. “You know in the end you’ll be held responsible for their conduct.”

  “I know. I’ve given orders for their court martials. Executions are a foregone conclusion, and only await the signatures of you and the emperor.”

  “And so it must be done,” he said. “I have received reports that an estimated five hundred or more were needlessly killed—Watchmen and civilians alike.”

  My eyes drifted back to the candle’s flame. “Roman . . .”

  Sabinus seemed puzzled by my look. “Go on—no one can hear but me.”

  “Roman justice,” I said as our eyes locked, “Roman sense of right and wrong. How can we agree on the disaster of five hundred innocent lives outside the Naval Arena, and not care a god’s curse for the thousands of bodies still stinking less than a half mile from here?”