The Burning Road Read online

  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 storyteller, drawing on prodigious learning’

  TIMOTHY SEVERIN

  To Lisa, with love

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Letter from Author

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  A man has as many enemies as he has slaves.

  Roman proverb

  (Seneca, Letters, 47.4)

  Slavery is an institution of the common law of peoples by which a person is put into the ownership of someone else, contrary to the natural order.

  The Digest of Justinian, 1.5

  Men desire above all things to be free and say that freedom is the greatest of blessings, while slavery is the most shameful and wretched of states; and yet they have no knowledge of the essential nature of this slavery and this freedom of which they speak.

  Dio Chrysostom, Oration, 14.1

  PROLOGUE

  AD 265 5 November

  R

  EVENGE WAS SWEET. NOT COLD, but hot and red. The first taste had been good, but he wanted more – so very much more. Above all, he wanted freedom. And, now he had a sword in his hand, there was no numbering of those he would kill to win freedom.

  Waiting in the warm darkness of the Sicilian night, Crocus thought of five long years of slavery. Five years since the Alamanni had been defeated at the battle outside Milan: five bitter years since he had been enslaved by the Romans. They had brought him to this island, chained with the other tribesmen in the stinking hold of a ship. At the docks, one by one, they had been forced to stand naked on the block. At first his owner, a man called Bicon, set him to labour in the fields. Endless days under a sun hotter than anything imagined in his homelands north of the Rhine. When he had tried to run, they had branded him, like a beast. F for Fugitivus, the Latin for ‘runaway’. His forehead was still raw, reeking of burnt flesh, when they shaved his long hair – the pride of any northern warrior – and threw him into the mill.

  Three years with the other slaves in the mill. Feet shackled, the scars of old beatings showing through their rags, round and round they trudged, turning the terrible weight of the millstone, doing the drudgery of a mule or donkey. The dust ingrained in their skin, complexions sallow from confinement, their eyes were so inflamed they could barely see. Not all had survived those three years. Those who had died had been replaced. Four of the newcomers had been Alamanni shepherds accused of theft. Not one – Alamanni or otherwise – had been released.

  Earlier that evening, retribution had come to the mill. In the confusion Crocus had strangled the first overseer with his chains. Taking the man’s sword, he had cut down two more. Their bright red blood splattered across the white flour. The memory brought nothing but pleasure.

  ‘Soter is waiting,’ a voice said in the darkness. ‘It is time to go.’

  They went quietly up the steep path to the town of Eryx. There were forty of them: the dozen from the mill, some herdsmen from the surrounding hills, the rest freed from a nearby villa. Half were fellow Alamanni, the others downtrodden and broken slaves from the empire. The latter were nithing, men of no account. Yet all had some form of weapon, if only a rustic scythe or pitchfork.

  Of course it would not have been possible without Soter, the Saviour. Crocus had not recognised him at first when Soter had been condemned to the mill. There were many men with long white hair who had lost an eye. It was when he talked in the darkness, in their brief hours of rest, that realisation had begun to dawn. Soter spoke in tongues, in all languages. He talked to each chained man in the language of his birth – in Latin and Greek, the incomprehensible jabber of the distant East, and to Crocus in the language of the forests of Germania. His pronunciation was strange to Crocus, like that of one who had long moved among foreigners. But the meaning of what he said was clear. He spoke dangerous and wonderful words of insurrection and courage, of dignity and honour. He painted a picture of a new dawn, of a golden age born in savagery and carnage, of the painful rebirth of freedom.

  In the dead of night, shadowy figures came and whispered to Soter through the bars of the window: the herdsmen were coming; the slaves at the villa were ready; the time was close at hand. Soon those in the mill were ready to risk anything.

  And then, in that squalid prison, Soter had worked wonders. He stood and, at the click of his fingers, his chains fell to the ground. He picked them up, and again they snapped closed round his wrists and ankles. When he prophesied, his breathing became hoarse, his voice seemed to come from far away, and in the darkness flames seemed to flicker from his mouth.

  At those moments the slaves from the empire believed that the goddess of love came down from her temple in Eryx and possessed him. They thought he was a Syrian, and they called him Epaphroditus, the beloved of Aphrodite. But Crocus knew better. It had long pleased the Lord of the Gallows to wander disguised among mortal men. The Hooded One could take any shape or condition, no matter how lowly. One summer he had done the work of nine thralls to gain the mead of poetry. Crocus knew he was in the presence of Woden the Allfather, the king of the gods of the North.

  At the top of the hill the gates of the town stood open. Soter was standing in their shadow. He led them through the empty streets. Behind shuttered windows the inhabitants slept, unsuspecting. The tall roof of the temple of Aphrodite loomed over their progress. Not one guard dog barked.

  They arrived at the barracks. Inside slumbered the only soldiers on the whole island. A ceremonial troop selected from the noblest youths of Sicily to guard the temple of Aphrodite – the goddess who had betrayed them.

  Crocus felt the old tension that cramped his muscles, and clutched at his chest, before battle. At Milan he had stepped forward from the ranks, and danced himself into a frenzy, had drawn down from the gods the ferocity of a wolf. Tonight there was no need. The Allfather himself was here with them.

  The outer door was unlocked. In their complacency, the well-born youths had no thought of danger. The gatekeeper snored in his lodge. With a deft motion, as if offering sacrifice, Soter severed his throat.

  Crocus followed Soter across the moon-washed courtyard. Outside the barracks, Soter paused, and spoke to his disciples.

  ‘They are asleep and unarmed. Show no mercy. They have none for you.’

  A low grumble of hatred showed the exhortation was unnecessary.

  Crocus was first through the door. A long dormitory, at least fifty beds. Figures under blankets stirring at the noise of the intrusion. A door at the far end that led to the other dormitories. Crocus ran the length of the room. The first screams rang out behind him.

  At the far end of the next chamber a couple of youths, alarmed by the outcry in the other room, were out of bed. They did not move when they saw Crocus coming. The surprise was too great. It was beyond comprehension. They were stock-still, not believing their senses, when Crocus cut them both down.

  A staircase: the other two dormitories were on the floor above. Here the sleepers had been roused by the commotion. Half a dozen youths were snatching weapons from where they were piled in the centre of the chamber.

  They turned to face Crocus and the warriors at his back. The corridor between the bunks was wide enough for two men should
er to shoulder. Crocus feinted at the one to his right. As that youth leapt back, Crocus dropped to one knee, and cut open the left thigh of the other.

  Rising, Crocus aimed a backhanded slash at the one recovering his balance. It missed. The blade Crocus had taken was not the long sword with which he had always fought, but some short Roman weapon. Another Alamann chopped the youth down.

  Turning, Crocus batted away a feeble thrust, stepped inside his new opponent’s guard, and punched the tip of the sword into his stomach. As the memory in his muscles took over, part of Crocus’ mind noted this old-fashioned Roman sword was good for thrusting.

  After that, it was just a massacre.

  Back outside Crocus felt no fatigue, just pure elation.

  Soter raised his bloodstained hands to the night sky.

  ‘Tonight you struck the first blow for freedom. By dawn the city will be ours. In days the island will be in flames. In every town and village, in every farm and villa, the oppressed long to cast off their chains. We are not alone. The hour has come – vengeance and freedom!’

  Vengeance and freedom!

  CHAPTER ONE

  AD 265, 8 November

  A

  DARK LINE LOW ON THE HORIZON.

  The merchantman was one day out of Ostia, the port of Rome, and bound for Sicily. Heeling slightly, with the light westerly wind steady on her beam, the vessel sailed sweetly, cresting the gentle swell in sunshine and spray.

  The voyage had started well, but Ballista was worried by the strip of darkness behind the wind. It was five days before the Ides of November, only two days before the seas were closed for the winter. The Fortuna Redux had been the last ship leaving for Tauromenium. Now he was far from sure that her name would prove an omen of a fortunate return home.

  Despite the lateness in the sailing season, the other passengers lounging around the deck appeared unconcerned. They were a disparate collection: a troupe of mime actors, looking to make a living in the towns of the island over the winter; an equestrian returning to his landed estates, accompanied by a few slaves; and a couple of more suspicious-looking characters, who had not volunteered their reasons for travelling. Moralists often condemned the bad company found on ships.

  Ballista looked over at his son. The boy was near the prow, talking politely to the equestrian landowner. No, he was not a boy anymore. This was his fourteenth winter. Next year he would take the toga of manhood. Isangrim was already tall, broad shouldered, his frame filling out. He was fair haired, favouring his northern father, not the dark Italian good looks of his mother. There was more than a hint of moustache on his upper lip, golden down on his cheeks. Nodding attentively, Isangrim did not give the horizon a glance. It might well be that he knew nothing of the sea.

  It struck Ballista, with a pang of conscience, that he knew very little about his eldest son. The Roman elite held that a good life balanced negotium, service to the state, with otium, cultured leisure. No doubt they were right. But a friend of the emperor, a trusted military commander, did not have the luxury of choice. For the last ten years Ballista had served abroad, on the frontiers and often beyond. At times, between campaigns, he had been with his family in the East. But, apart from a brief reunion in Rome this spring, he had not seen them for the last three years. Isangrim had been ten; now he was thirteen. That was a long three years. So much about him had changed.

  Still, everything could be put right. At long last the emperor had granted Ballista’s request to retire into private life. After all those years of service, Gallienus owed him that, yet with an emperor such things were never certain. When they were safe in the villa at Tauromenium, Ballista could get to know not just Isangrim, but his younger son, Dernhelm, as well. In the peaceful island – the house of the sun, as it was known to its inhabitants – he could rebuild his life with their mother. His marriage with Julia had been better than many. Once it had been very good. But they had been apart too long. Now everything could be made right.

  Looking back out to the east at the distant storm clouds, Ballista was glad that he had sent word, before he had reached Rome, for the rest of his familia to travel ahead. They would have arrived in Tauromenium a month past. Isangrim would have gone with them, had it not been necessary to negotiate his removal from the imperial school on the Palatine. It had taken all the influence Ballista possessed, and a certain amount of bluster, to secure the release of the boy. In his time, Ballista had attended the school himself. No one was more aware of its unspoken function. The emperor hoped to secure the never certain loyalty of important men: his own generals and governors within the empire, and client rulers beyond the frontier. Educating their sons in the palace helped cement that hope. There the boys could be watched, and were in his power. Afterwards, if their families remained free of suspicion, they might be promoted to high offices. The word hostage never needed to be uttered.

  The storm was getting closer. The other passengers might be unaware, but Ballista was not the only one who had noticed. He had seen one of the deckhands put his thumb between his first two fingers, making the sign to avert evil. Not wanting the passengers alarmed, the captain had put an end to such behaviour with a quiet, sharp word. Ballista straightened up from leaning on the windward rail, and moved towards the stern. The pitch of the deck was easy, and he walked without trouble.

  The captain was standing on the deck above the aft cabin, where the helmsman gripped the two steering oars. As Ballista climbed the steps, the captain, a short, powerful figure, greeted him with the deference due to a man who wore the gold ring of an equestrian – just one rung below a senator. Furthermore, Ballista was known to be a friend of the emperor. Yet the captain’s eyes rested on the newcomer for just a moment before resuming their scanning of the ship and the sea and the sky. Only occasionally did he glance at the eastern horizon. Ballista admired his restraint in not drawing the attention of his passenger to the potential threat. For all his tact, it was evident that the captain did not welcome the intrusion of this barbarian-born imperial favourite.

  ‘A storm coming?’ Ballista spoke quietly, so his voice did not carry back down to the main deck. Out of politeness, he phrased his words as a question.

  ‘Nothing of concern, domine.’

  ‘I commanded warships in the East.’

  Now the captain looked Ballista full in the face. He nodded, as one seaman to another.

  ‘It will come on to blow in an hour or so. But the Fortuna Redux is a weatherly craft, my crew know their business, and we have plenty of sea room, all the way to Sardinia. As long as the wind does not shift into the north, we are well set.’

  ‘She is heavily laden,’ Ballista said.

  The hold was full of amphorae of wine, carefully stowed and lashed down.

  ‘Holds the sea better. She bounces around like a cork with no cargo, just her ballast.’

  Ballista smiled to acknowledge the other’s expertise.

  ‘If you need an extra hand, I am at your command.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Ballista turned to go.

  ‘Domine?’

  Ballista stopped.

  ‘It might be best if you did not mention it to the rest of the passengers.’

  ‘They are in good hands,’ Ballista said. ‘I would not dream of it.’

  There was truth in the captain’s words. The Fortuna Redux was a medium-sized vessel, about twenty-five feet across her beam, and less than a hundred from her prow to the rounded stern under her graceful sternpost, which was carved to resemble the head and neck of a goose. She was clinker-built, well founded, with a tall mainmast set centrally and a bowsprit jutting ahead. Her standing and running rigging was neat and cared for, and her crew had the almost languid efficiency of old hands. In rough weather, such a merchant round-ship was infinitely more seaworthy than a war galley. Given sea room, and well handled, she should swim in all but the worst of storms.

  Ballista walked to the prow, and spoke a few words to the other equestrian. The landowner was civil, but reserved. His dignity was still offended by finding that he had to share the main cabin with Ballista and his son. No doubt, when he returned to his villa he would complain at length. What had the world come to that an emperor would award the gold ring of an equestrian to some petty chieftain born in the northern wilderness, would elevate him to the second rank in Roman society? It was a pretty pass when a barbarian considered himself too good to make his berth below the main deck with mime artists and other humble folk. Better if he bedded down with the baggage, or in the bilges.