False God of Rome by Robert Fabbri

to the Marmaridae.’
    Ahmose shot Vespasian a nervous glance.
    ‘Translate, priest,’ he ordered.
    After the priest had spoken Vespasian turned to the auxiliary who shook his head. ‘He didn’t translate the second sentence; he just made something up about the glory of
Amun.’
    ‘What a surprise. Do it for him, then.’
    As the auxiliary translated the real version a look of surprise turning to panic washed over Ahmose’s face as he realised that he was losing any control that he had over the situation.
    ‘To buy them back he used thirty-two of your compatriots; free men now forced into slavery by your priest.’
    ‘I did it for Amun,’ Ahmose shouted at Vespasian.
    ‘No, you do nothing for Amun, everything you do is for your-self, like so many of your kind. Now, are you going to translate or is he?’
    With a howl Ahmose leapt at Vespasian only to find himself pinioned by the firm grips of Magnus and Ziri. Vespasian nodded at the auxiliary as the priest struggled helplessly to escape his
captors.
    Roars of indignation emanated from the crowd as the auxiliary translated; they began to surge forward only to be held back by Corvinus’ men.
    Vespasian held his arms aloft, appealing for calm. ‘This priest of yours, who lives in luxury off the money you give him, has no concern for your wellbeing, only his.’
    The crowd shouted their agreement as they heard the translation.
    ‘He delivered Roman soldiers and your own people to the slavers and in doing so has brought the wrath of Rome and Amun down on you all. To redress his actions I will lead you tonight to
the Marmaridae’s camp and we shall destroy them together and free your people.’
    A huge cheer greeted these words once they were translated.
    ‘But first, I, who am favoured by your god, demand vengeance on this priest for his treatment of my men; his life is forfeit.’ Ahmose’s legs buckled; Magnus and Ziri held him
upright. ‘I could execute him now or, if you wish it, I will give you your priest, who thinks nothing of selling thirty-two of your number into a life of servitude, to punish as you see fit;
you are free of him.’
    As the auxiliary finished the translation the crowd’s reaction was clear; Vespasian gestured to Magnus and Ziri. They forced the screaming Ahmose down the steps, through the cordon of
auxiliaries, and threw him to the people who kept him in luxury yet whom he valued so little.
    With animal ferocity they drew him into their midst, feet, fists and nails lashing at him, their cries of hatred drowning his shrieks as they battered and pummelled him mercilessly. Vespasian
and his companions watched with grim satisfaction as the bloodied priest was hurled, wailing, into the air to be caught by many pairs of hands. Gripping his ankles and wrists strong men pulled
Ahmose, eyes bulging with fear and agony, in opposing directions; others cut at his body with knives, concentrating on his joints. His shoulders and hips dislocated under the pressure, which grew
until, to a savage roar from the crowd, his left arm, its sinews severed by multiple slashes, ripped from his shoulder, followed, a moment later, by his right. Ahmose’s head crashed down onto
the ground as the macabre trophies were waved in the air. The men holding his ankles then pulled his legs apart, heaving on them with all their might, rending the ligaments and muscles until the
right leg parted at the knee in a welter of blood. Unable to tear any more off him the crowd then took it in turns to batter out of Ahmose what little remaining life was left in him with his own
dismembered limbs.
    ‘I think that’s got their blood up,’ Magnus said, nodding with approval at the manner of the priest’s demise.
    ‘Let’s hope so,’ Vespasian replied. ‘We’d better get them to the Marmaridae’s camp while they’re still in the mood.’
    It was past midnight and the moon had set. Vespasian crept through the gloom of a palm grove guided only by the light of the