The Last Hour: Relentless, brutal, brilliant. 24 hours in Ancient Rome

  Praise for

  ‘Makes you feel as though you are there’

  BETTANY HUGHES, THE TIMES

  ‘Harry Sidebottom’s epic tale starts with a chilling assassination and goes on, and up, from there’

  MARY BEARD

  ‘An amazing story of bloodlust, ruthless ambition and revenge’

  KATE SAUNDERS, THE TIMES

  ‘An extraordinarily vivid take on the ancient world. Think of The Killing crossed with Andy McNab crossed with Mary Beard, and you’re there’

  DAVID SEXTON, EVENING STANDARD

  ‘Ancient Rome has long been a favourite destination for writers of historical military fiction. Much the best of them is Harry Sidebottom’

  SUNDAY TIMES

  ‘Swashbuckling as well as bloody, yet curiously plausible . . . a real gift for summoning up a sense of place’

  TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

  ‘The best sort of red-blooded historical fiction – solidly based on a profound understanding of what it meant to be alive in a particular time and place’

  ANDREW TAYLOR

  ‘Absorbing, rich in detail and brilliant’

  THE TIMES

  ‘Sidebottom’s prose blazes with searing scholarship’

  THE TIMES

  ‘Superior fiction, with depth, authenticity and a sense of place’

  TLS

  ‘A storming triumph . . . wonderful fight scenes, deft literary touches and salty dialogue’

  THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘He has the touch of an exceptionally gifted story teller, drawing on prodigious learning’

  TIMOTHY SEVERIN

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Harry Sidebottom Readers’ Club

  Copyright

  To my aunt, Terry Bailey

  PROLOGUE

  The Mausoleum of Hadrian

  The Day before the Kalends of April

  ‘THE LAST HOUR.’

  The dying man lay on the floor, propped against the wall, with both hands pressed to the wound in his stomach.

  Ballista bent over him. ‘The last hour of what?’

  ‘Tomorrow. The last hour of daylight. They are going to kill the emperor when he leaves the Colosseum.’

  A noise came from somewhere below them in the depths of the tomb.

  Ballista went to the door, stepping carefully over the two corpses.

  The sounds of boots, hobnails on stone, the clatter of weapons. Armed men down at the entrance of the Mausoleum. There were a lot of them. They were coming up the stairs.

  Ballista went back into the room.

  ‘Help me,’ the injured man said.

  Ballista slapped him across the face. ‘Who?’

  ‘They never said.’

  Ballista hit him again.

  ‘Please. I do not know.’

  Ballista believed him.

  ‘Don’t leave me here.’

  Ballista had killed the two knifemen when he had burst through the door, but he had been too late to save the informant. Still, he had found out the time and the place.

  ‘Please.’

  The mission had not failed, not if Ballista could get away. He stood up.

  ‘They will kill me.’

  Ballista moved to the door. The sounds were closer.

  ‘You cannot leave me.’

  No way down. He had to go up. Ballista turned left, and started up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘You barbarian bastard!’

  Ballista pounded up the stairs.

  ‘Bastard!’

  The corridor ran in a spiral through the heart of the enormous monument. Ballista had been here once before, many years ago, when he first came to the city. The view of Rome was good from the top. He remembered a roof garden up there, and a statue of the Emperor Hadrian in a chariot. The Allfather willing, there would be another passageway down.

  The meeting had been a trap. Scarpio had sent him to meet the informant. He had insisted Ballista go alone. Had the Prefect of the City Watch known it was a trap? No time to think about that now. Work it out if he survived the next hour.

  Ballista ran, holding his scabbard clear of his legs. Always upwards, always turning to the left. On and on, two steps at a time. As he ran under the light wells set in the ceiling, he flashed through insubstantial columns of bright air, then plunged back into the gloom.

  His chest was beginning to hurt, his thigh and calf muscles complain. How far could it be to the top?

  There were closed doors on the inner wall. He did not stop. If they gave onto chambers like the one that he had left, they would contain nothing but the ashes of long-dead members of imperial dynasties. They would offer no way down.

  Raised voices, then a scream, echoed from below.

  The men rushing up had found their friends, found the informant. The deaths of the former would not please them. It made no difference that the latter would tell them about Ballista. The armed men would want them both dead, and there was nowhere else that Ballista could have gone but up towards the roof.

  Another scream echoed up the long passageway, then ended abruptly.

  Every breath hurt. Sweat was running off Ballista. Would the stairs ever end? It was like some infernal punishment in myth.

  A final corner, and there was the door. All the gods, let it be unlocked.

  The door opened outwards. Ballista closed it behind him, and leant against it as he fought to regain his breath. Forty-three winters on Middle Earth; too long for this exertion.

  The roof garden was gently domed, like a low hill. It rose to where a plinth supported the more than life-sized statue of the Emperor Hadrian in a triumphal chariot drawn by four horses. The terrible storms of the last several days had passed, but the air smelt of rain. The stones underfoot were still wet.

  There had to be another way down. Ballista pushed himself off the door, set off up the path to the top.

  The sun was dipping towards the horizon. It cast long shadows from the cypress trees, dappled where they were festooned with vines or ivy. Less than an hour until darkness.

  Ballista circled the base of the statuary. No door, no trapdoor. Nothing. There had to be another way down. A passageway for gardeners, plants, servants. He looked around wildly.

  Under the cypresses the garden was thickly planted with fruit trees and flower beds. Paths radiated out. There were hedges, potted plants, heavy garden furniture, small fountains, more statues. The service access would be carefully hidden. The elite did not want to see slaves when they were enjoying the views. There was no time to search.

  Ballista thought of the light wells. No. Even if he could find one of them, it would be too narrow, offer no handholds. Another thought came to him. He took the
path down to the east.

  There was a thin wooden rail above a delicate and ornamental screen along the edge of the garden, with yet more statues at intervals. Ballista did not look at the city spread out beyond the river, barely glanced at the swollen waters of the Tiber at the foot of the monument. He gripped the sculpted marble leg of Antinous, the doomed boy, loved by Hadrian. A Roman might have been troubled by the association. As heir to the different world view of the north, such omens did not bother Ballista. He had a head for heights, and leant out as far as he dared over the rail.

  The cladding of the Mausoleum was white marble. The blocks were so artfully fitted together that there was barely a discernible line where they joined. No hope of a finger hold. Seventy foot or more of smooth, sheer wall down to the base, after that ledge perhaps another forty foot down to the narrow embankment and the river. No way to climb down.

  Ballista ran back to the head of the stairs, opened the door. The men were nearing the top. Their laboured ascent was loud. There was nothing else for it. Without any conscious thought, Ballista went through his own silent pre-battle ritual: right hand to the dagger on his right hip, pulled it an inch or so out of its sheath then snapped it back; left hand on the scabbard of his sword, right hand pulling the blade a couple of inches free before pushing it back; finally he touched the healing stone tied to the scabbard.

  Allfather Woden, watch over your descendant. Do not let me disgrace my forefathers. If I am to die, let me die as one worthy of my ancestors.

  Ballista took off his cloak and wound the thick material around his left forearm as a makeshift shield, arranging the folds so that about a foot was hanging down to catch and entangle the weapon of an opponent.

  He did not want to die. There was too much to live for: his wife Julia, their sons Isangrim and Dernhelm, his closest friend Maximus. He pushed the thoughts away. There were no choices. Either fight his way through, or fall sword in hand. If he were to die, let it not be as a coward.

  Ballista drew his sword with a flourish, like some martial vision imagined by a priest.

  Do not think, just act.

  He went back through the door, pulled it shut, and took his station behind the last corner of the stairs.

  The men were near the top.

  It was a pity the stairway was wide enough for two men to attack at once, three if they risked encumbering each other.

  Heavy footfalls, grunts of effort, the rattle of weapons. They were almost upon him.

  Sword down across his body, his back to the steps, Ballista stilled his breathing. Setting his boots close together, he balanced on the balls of his feet. Just wait. Not long now. Wait.

  The noise of their approach thundered back off the walls, nearer and nearer, building to a crescendo.

  Now!

  He stepped out and swung the blade backhanded in one fluid motion.

  The edge of the steel caught the first man full in the face. A spray of blood, hot and stinging Ballista’s eyes. The others stopped, stunned by the attack as unexpected as an apparition.

  Infernal gods, there are so many of them.

  Ballista recovered his blade from the ruined face, and shoved the man down the stairs. The mortally injured man clawed at those on either side, collided with those behind. Densely packed, they all staggered back, clutching at each other, struggling not to fall.

  ‘Kill him!’ Further down the stairs someone was yelling.

  Ballista advanced, thrust at a figure to his right. The man blocked with military precision, but gave ground anyway.

  Ten, twelve, or more – Ballista could not see them all. The throng stretched around the curve, out of view.

  ‘He is alone. Kill him!’ The voice from below was high with emotion, but vaguely familiar.

  Two men readied themselves. The others waited a few steps below. This was bad. They knew their business, and did not intend to get in each other’s way. They were dressed in civilian clothes, but were equipped for the task. Each held a gladius. The short sword had gone out of fashion with the legions, but in a confined space was a nimbler weapon than the long blade Ballista carried.

  The two glanced at one another, then rushed up. The one on the left aimed a cut at Ballista’s legs. Ballista caught the blow with the hanging folds of his cloak, turned it across his front, dragged the man between him and the other assailant. Thrust, always thrust. The steel only needed to go in an inch or two to be fatal. The man tried to jerk back, but his momentum was against him. It was not a clean thrust. The tip of Ballista’s blade scrapped up across the breastbone before plunging into the soft flesh of the throat.

  Ballista withdrew his sword. More blood, spraying everywhere. The man collapsed against his colleague. Ballista dropped to one knee, and swung around the dying man at the uninjured one’s thigh. Sometimes you could not thrust. It was like a butcher’s cleaver chopping into a side of meat. The man howled, and went down. His sword clattered on the marble steps. He would not die, unless he bled to death, but he was out of the fight.

  Now was the moment to attack. Break the resolve of the others, send them rushing back down the stairs.

  Ballista descended, fast but careful. The steps were slick with blood. Sword out in front. Use the longer reach. He yelled a barbaric war cry of his youth. The sound roared from the stones of the arched passage, primeval and terrifying.

  The men did not lose their nerve and flee pell-mell down the stairs. They barely flinched. Squat and purposeful, they had closed three across, no intervals now between the ranks. Crouching, swords to the fore, cloaks wrapped around their left arms, they had formed an impromptu warhedge. No novices, they knew what they were about.

  Ballista feinted at the one to his left, then jabbed at the swordsman in the centre. The man parried. The one to the left closed the distance, thrust. The impact jarred up Ballista’s arm. He felt the steel slice through the wadded material of his cloak, but not deep enough to reach his forearm. Quick as a snake, Ballista jabbed at his face. The man ducked under the blow, then retreated, two steps, then three. The other two in the front fell back with him. The rear ranks let them give ground. Ominously disciplined, the formation kept its defensive line.

  This would not work. Quickly, while he had a moment of time, a little space, Ballista needed to come up with another plan.

  ‘Finish him!’ The same disembodied voice from below.

  The hired killers looked at each other, but did not move.

  Backwards, face to the enemy, Ballista went back up above the fallen men. He grabbed the wounded man by the scruff of his tunic, pulled him half up, got the blade across his neck.

  ‘One step and your tent-mate dies.’

  In the gloom, the eyes of the men below shifted from Ballista to each other, searching for who would take the initiative.

  ‘I am going to the roof. If you follow, when the first man comes around the corner, I will cut your friend’s throat.’

  The men were silent, unmoving.

  ‘I will take others with me. You were paid to kill, not to die.’

  Ballista retreated, dragging the wounded man with him.

  Those below did not move.

  Out of sight, Ballista hauled his captive through the door. He left it open, to hear.

  No sound of pursuit yet. It would not be long.

  ‘Let me live.’ The man spoke softly.

  Ballista was looking around, thinking. He was almost out of options.

  ‘I have a wife, children. I needed the money.’

  Ballista pulled his head back. ‘You chose the wrong employment.’

  ‘I do not want to die.’

  ‘Do not be afraid,’ Ballista said. ‘Death is nothing. A return to sleep.’

  With a practised hand, Ballista cut his throat. He fell like a sacrificial animal.

  Automatically, Ballista wiped his blade on the dead man’s tunic. He had not believed his own words.

  The half-remembered voice from below. ‘Cowards! Get up there and kill the barbarian.’


  Ballista had seen what he wanted. He sheathed his sword. As he nudged the door shut with his boot, he heard the sounds of a cautious approach.

  A few paces away was a garden bench. It was a bulky, elaborate piece of ironwork, its acanthus leaves and lotus flowers designed to complement the foliage of the garden for those sitting at their ease. Straining every muscle, groaning with the effort, Ballista dragged it to the door, wedged it against the boards. It would not hold long, just buy him a short time.

  Panting like a dog after his effort, Ballista set off through the garden towards the side facing the river. There was only one option left. It was not good.

  The fragile rail by the statue of Antinous snapped with one hefty kick. A couple more and it was gone. Shattering the fine latticework of the screen it had supported caused no delay.

  Ballista stood on the edge of the void. The river was far below him. On the far side the city was spread out, like the backdrop of a theatre. Off to his left stood the great bulk of the Mausoleum of Augustus, its circular drum echoing the tomb on which he stood. Next to it were flat and green open parks, dotted here and there with isolated monuments. The northern Campus Martius was laid out by the emperors to give their subjects somewhere to stroll, to give the urban plebs a taste of life in the luxurious country villas of the elite. Only a haze of smoke from the cooking fires of the homeless spoilt the image of the leisured countryside transposed to the city: rus in urbe invaded by vagrants.

  Directly ahead were the ordered monuments of the southern Campus Martius. Ballista’s gaze followed the curve of the Stadium of Domitian to the Baths of Nero. Beyond them and to the right rose the Capitoline, crowned with the Temple of Jupiter, its gilded roof still glittering in the late sunshine. Behind the Capitoline, also catching the light, were the roofs of the Palatine, under which the emperor might be about to pass his last night on earth, unless Ballista could warn him.

  Ballista brought his thoughts back to the matter in hand. The river, so very far below, was already in shadow. The waters of the Tiber were tawny. The spring melt in the Apennines and the recent days of rain had made it run high. Off to his right the final grain barge of the day was being towed to the warehouses. With the river in flood, it would have been a long, hard pull upriver; four days from the port, not the usual two or three. Just to his left the Pons Aelius was a thin, white line crossing the stream. Beyond the bridge, the last couple of rafts were being warped to the far bank. The nearer was laden with marble. On the further stood cattle, raised on the water meadows upriver. At this distance the cows looked as small as children’s toys fashioned from lumps of clay and daubed with tan paint.