Magnus and the Crossroads Brotherhood

by Robert Fabbri

  Magnus scratched at the stubble on his battered, ex-boxer’s face and looked back at Tacita. ‘So trade is good then?’

  Tacita nodded. ‘Very good; but maybe that’s the root of my problem.’

  Magnus leant forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fists, staring with his one good eye at Tacita as the glass replica in his left socket looked blankly over her head. ‘Go on.’

  A series of rasping, painful-sounding coughs obliged Tacita to pause as Servius’ chest heaved. As his gaunt frame shook, Magnus was forced to hold his shoulders to prevent him from falling off the chair. After a few more convulsions Servius hawked up a large gobbet of phlegm into his hand.

  ‘That’s got blood in it,’ Magnus said, looking at the resulting mess.

  ‘I know, Brother; I can taste it.’

  ‘Here,’ Tacita said, handing over a rag handkerchief that she produced from within her palla.

  Magnus took it and wiped the gunk from Servius’ hand. ‘How long have you been coughing up blood, Brother?’

  ‘The last few months, but it’s been getting worse recently.’ Servius took a large swig of wine and swallowed with evident relief. He gestured in Tacita’s direction. ‘I’ll be all right; carry on.’

  Tacita looked to Magnus, who nodded. ‘Well, since my husband’s business has become successful he’s naturally had quite a bit of spare cash once he’s paid the rent for the premises and our accommodation, as well as making his contribution to the Brotherhood, of course.’

  ‘And a very fine contribution it is,’ Magnus acknowledged, ‘which is why we will be more than happy to help you both out in any way we can.’

  Tacita did not look suitably pleased by this statement. ‘Yes, well, it’s for myself alone that I’m here, not on behalf of my husband, as he’s the reason why I’ve come. You see, with all this spare cash he has, rather than save it so that we could buy a new slave to help with the business, he fritters it away on whoring and wine along the Vicus Patricius on the Viminal.’

  Magnus spread his hands and tutted in sympathy, despite being of the opinion that this was a very sensible and worthwhile expenditure; although, he would have preferred that Tuscus frequented the brothels under his own control, but he refrained from mentioning it.

  Tacita suppressed a sob. ‘We haven’t yet been blessed with children. I haven’t given up hope but he’s paying less and less attention to me, no matter how much effort I make, and when I try to talk to him about it he gets aggressive and shouts at me; and then, last night, when he came home drunk and reeking of stale whore, yet again, he, well, when I complained, he did this.’ She pointed to her black eye and split lip.

  Magnus again tried to demonstrate his sympathy, though with less success this time. ‘Why have you come to us about this? It’s a domestic matter; what goes on between a husband and his wife is for them alone and nothing to do with the Brotherhood. You are legally his property and he has the right to treat you as he will; he can kill you if he so wishes. I’m sorry but I have no reason to interfere.’

  Tacita was unable to keep her sobs in; she held her face in her hands. ‘But you must help me, Magnus; you’re the cause of this.’

  Magnus sat back in his chair, unsure whether or not he had heard her correctly. ‘What? You’re saying that I’m responsible for your husband beating you after he’s been out drinking and whoring?’

  ‘Of course. It was you that persuaded all those important people to patronise his shop; if you hadn’t have done that then—’

  ‘Your trade might have struggled, we wouldn’t have got so much from it and you’d be poor.’

  ‘I’d rather be poor than live in fear of my husband.’

  ‘And not wear those nice clothes and have your hair and make-up done so you look much more than what you are?’

  ‘That’s my right; it’s not my husband’s right to hit me when I complain that he doesn’t give me enough money to dress really well because he spends it all on his cock.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s the real problem, is it? Not enough pretty things.’ Magnus had had enough; he got up, walked around the desk to the door and opened it. ‘Sextus, show the lady out.’

  ‘Show the lady out,’ Sextus repeated, as always digesting his orders slowly, as his huge, lumbering form darkened the doorway. ‘Right you are, Magnus.’

  Tacita sprang to her feet, hissing and spitting and flinging herself, nails clawing, at Sextus as he approached her. ‘I’ll not go! I’ll not go until you’ve promised, Magnus!’

  Sextus recoiled at first at the ferocity of the attack, his heavily muscled forearms scratched and bleeding, before clamping his bear-like hands on Tacita’s upper arms and lifting her off the ground so that her legs now became her main weapons. Magnus managed to grab them before they had done too much damage to Sextus’ shins. Struggling with the writhing woman, now shrieking like a lunatic, Magnus and Sextus manhandled her through the door and then right, out into the dim passage at whose end lay a staircase leading upwards, opposite a leather-curtained door on the left, beyond which came the sound of laughter and alcohol-fuelled chatter. Still grappling with the woman’s legs, Magnus pushed his way past the curtain and into the tavern. All eyes turned to him and conversation died as he barged through the crowded bar.

  Magnus looked at a man of Eastern appearance, with a hennaed beard and embroidered trousers. ‘Tigran, clear a path.’

  Tigran ran to the doorway and shoved a couple of freedmen out of the way, who had been lounging against it. Picking up speed with Tigran clearing people before them, Magnus and Sextus hurried along with their thrashing burden screeching like a harpy; through the open door they went and out, under the baking August sun, into the tabled area and then beyond that to where the Alta Semita and the Vicus Longus met at a sharp, acute angle. With little ceremony, Magnus and Sextus dumped Tacita in the road. Her hair awry and her eyes wild she sat, looking up and sobbing. ‘You must help me, Magnus; you must!’ She picked up a handful of filth and hurled it at Magnus, only to miss and splatter, instead, Tigran’s finely embroidered knee-length tunic. Without pausing to think, Tigran drew his knife, carried as much for fighting as for eating, and walked with intent towards the wailing woman.

  Magnus clamped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t!’

  Tigran shook it off and turned to Magnus. ‘She threw shit at me; no one does that and lives.’

  ‘And nobody kills anyone in my territory without my permission, and in this case that is withheld.’

  They locked eyes.

  ‘Do I really need your permission?’

  ‘Be careful, Tigran; don’t forget I’ve made you very rich over the past few years. Don’t spoil it.’ Magnus felt the strength of the easterner’s pride wrestling with the knowledge that if he went against his patronus in public he would not last out the hour. Tigran backed down and jammed his knife back into its sheath. Looking over his shoulder he spat at Tacita and then walked away along the Alta Semita. No one followed him.

  Magnus looked down at Tacita, wiping the saliva off her face. ‘after that display I’m of a mind to completely sympathise with your husband and I can only marvel at his forbearance in giving you just the one black eye and splitting only your lower lip. I’ll do the rest of his work myself should you come back in here, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘Sempronius of the West Viminal wouldn’t let a woman down so, and his territory starts at the bottom of my street.’

  Magnus sneered. ‘Sempronius of the West Viminal would take exactly the same attitude as I have, and what’s more he would have dragged you back to your husband and told him exactly what you have just done because, unlike me, he’s a real bastard. Now piss off!’

  Magnus looked over to a table with four men seated around it playing dice. ‘Cassandros, make sure she stays clear of our property and pisses off in good order.’

  A brother, in his early sixties like Magnus, with a silver-flecked full beard, Greek style, growing ragged on the left cheek due to
a livid scar, stood grinning. ‘My pleasure, Magnus. I always enjoy slapping a bitch about.’

  Magnus glared at him. ‘You will not slap her about; you will just make sure that she doesn’t step on to our property. If you slap her about, I’ll pay the next boy you bugger to bite your bollocks off.’

  Cassandros held his hands up. ‘All right, all right, Magnus, I was just joking.’

  Magnus swallowed a caustic remark as he saw a wealthy-looking couple walking along the Alta Semita ostensibly unguarded. ‘Lupus!’ he growled at a younger brother in his early thirties. ‘Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you offering our services to that man and his good lady? We wouldn’t want anything nasty to happen to them on South Quirinal territory, would we? Get to it, and make sure your South Quirinal Brotherhood amulet is showing so they understand just who they’re dealing with. If you come back with less than five denarii, it’ll be your arse that Cassandros gets his hands on next.’ Feeling thoroughly aggravated, Magnus watched Lupus approach the couple, pulling out the wolf pendant that advertised his allegiance, and then stop them as other brothers gathered around. Satisfied that trade was proceeding as normal, Magnus stomped back into the tavern, glaring at anyone who so much as glanced at him; few did, sensing his mood.

  He kicked open the door to the back room. ‘What’s wrong with everyone today? It must be the heat, Brother.’

  Servius’ clouded eyes stared at him but his counsellor declined to comment.

  Magnus grabbed a cup and drained its contents before pouring himself another. ‘That woman – what a fucking handful. Makes you wonder why some men are foolish enough to get married, eh, Brother? Unlike people like us who very sensibly keep romance to a simple cash and bodily fluid transaction.’ He tossed the contents of his cup down his throat and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, feeling calmer. ‘So, Brother, what do you reckon: should we tell her husband that she’s been here complaining about him or do you think that we should just keep out of it?’

  Servius still made no reply.

  Magnus squinted with his one good eye, leaning forward. He reached out a hand and touched Servius on the shoulder, shaking him. ‘Brother?’

  With a suddenness that made Magnus jump back, Servius toppled forward, crashing on to the table, sending the wine jug tumbling to the floor to smash into jagged fragments. ‘Servius? Brother?’ Magnus put his fingers on his counsellor’s neck, closing his eyes and feeling for a pulse. There was none. ‘Oh fuck, Brother, why did you have to go and do that just now?’

  ‘So, brothers, I have come to this decision,’ Magnus announced to a packed tavern the following morning, after Servius’ dawn funeral; his audience of over sixty brethren was spilling outside but all were able to hear him as the bar was open to the elements. ‘I know that there are a couple amongst you who can claim longer service, but I’m sure they will understand.’ He caught Cassandros’ eye and then Sextus’. ‘It’s not a case of length of service but, rather, aptitude for the job that I deem to be the most important, and so I choose Tigran to succeed Servius and be my counsellor and second-in-command of our brotherhood.’

  Magnus got down from the chair and embraced Tigran.

  ‘That was a very wise choice, Brother,’ Tigran whispered.

  Magnus pulled back, holding Tigran by the shoulders; they smiled at one another, cold and stony-eyed. ‘Wise or self-preservatory, my friend?’

  Tigran’s false smile broadened. ‘Both.’

  Magnus slapped his new counsellor’s shoulders. ‘I’ll move aside soon. In the meantime you can have Servius’ old room; I like my second to live on the premises.’

  ‘So you can keep an eye on them.’

  ‘No, Brother – so you can keep an eye on the others and be there when I need your advice.’

  Tigran nodded and then turned to be acclaimed with a series of cheers.

  ‘And why wasn’t it me?’ Cassandros asked in Magnus’ ear. ‘We go all the way back to the Fifth Alaudae together; we’ve fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank against all sorts of savages.’

  ‘I know, Brother, and so has Sextus.’

  ‘Yes, but Sextus would have trouble counselling himself to sponge his own arse after a good shit.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, which is why I didn’t even consider him for the position like I did you.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you give it to me instead of that easterner? He only arrived in Rome, when was it?’

  ‘Twenty-five years ago, Brother, and he’s been a member of the Brotherhood ever since so he can’t be accused of not having the right to be patronus. What’s more, he’s started to challenge my authority, such is his ambition; something you well know because you supported him when he asked if I thought that my judgement had been right when I bought those Germanic slaves just before Claudius flooded the market with Britannic captives soon after his Triumph.’

  Cassandros looked outraged. ‘I didn’t support him.’

  Magnus shook his head. ‘You did, Brother, and don’t try to deny it. I heard a small mutter of agreement from the crowd and so did old Servius. It was him that identified your voice; being blind he had sharper hearing. So what had Tigran offered you, eh? To be his counsellor? Was that your ambition?’

  Cassandros’ face betrayed the fact that Magnus had hit the mark.

  Magnus put his hand on Cassandros’ arm and steered him towards the door. ‘Well, Brother, that’s what I thought and that’s why I couldn’t make you my second for your own safety. Had I done so, then for Tigran to get to be patronus of the South Quirinal he would not only have to kill me, but you too.’

  Cassandros looked at Magnus in alarm. ‘He’s going to kill you?’

  Magnus nodded as they paused outside by the shrine of the Crossroads’ lares, whose upkeep was the Brotherhood’s official reason for existence; a flame constantly burned on the altar, tended by a brother whom Magnus now gestured to move away. ‘Of course he is. Now that Servius is dead he knew that I would have no choice but to make him my counsellor as it was obvious from his ambition that he would kill anyone else I nominated. He’s just one step away from his goal. I’ve just told him that I’ll move aside soon and allow a smooth succession, but he’s too greedy to wait for that.’

  ‘Then kill him first.’

  ‘And lose a ruthless patronus who will keep the South Quirinal sharp and hungry for more territory? No, my friend, he’s going to have the job but I just want him to serve some time as my second as he’ll be better for it.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Magnus?’

  ‘Do? Why, stay alive, of course, Brother.’

  Shouts and whistles cut in over the cheering for Tigran. Magnus pushed his way to the street to see a contubernium of eight Vigiles running down along the Vicus Longus; his curiosity was aroused as they did not seem to be chasing anyone, nor were they pushing one of their hand-pumps as if they were racing to a fire.

  He signalled to Cassandros and Sextus to follow him and strode down the hill, at a leisurely pace, after Rome’s firefighters and city watch. It was into Red Horse Street, just before the border with the West Viminal, that the Vigiles had turned; they had stopped outside a shop that Magnus knew well and his concern began to grow. ‘He’s gone and disobeyed me, the eastern cunt!’ He ran forward and barged his way through the crowd standing around the shop entrance. ‘What’s going on here?’

  The Vigiles optio turned to him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Magnus. We’ve got a body and the aedile seems to be taking it very seriously for some reason.’

  ‘Where is she, Cordus?’

  ‘She? What do you mean she?’

  ‘Tacita. This is Tuscus’ shop, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve got Tacita at our depot; she reported the murder just now. She said it happened sometime last night.’ Cordus pointed to a body slumped on the floor, lying on its back, half hidden behind the counter. The legs were definitely male. ‘It’s Tuscus.’

  Magnus looked over the coun
ter and into the dead eyes of Tuscus. Blood was everywhere: puddled and sticky on the floor, soaked into his tunic and splattered over his face. His head lay at an unnatural angle and his throat gaped where it had been slit, good and deep from ear to ear.

  ‘Did Tacita do this?’

  Cordus shrugged. ‘As I said, she reported it and swears that she didn’t, although that could just be a bluff ; but the whole neighbourhood heard them fighting last night and then he turns up dead.’

  Magnus walked around to the other side of the counter and squatted down by the body. There were no other wounds that he could see.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ Cordus cautioned. ‘The aedile’s orders. When he questioned Tacita he got very agitated and doesn’t want the body moved until he’s had a look himself. Although I can’t see why. What’s Tuscus to him?’

  ‘Perhaps he liked his candles.’

  Cordus took the suggestion seriously. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Magnus looked around: the door of the cupboard beneath the counter caught his eye as it was ajar, the lock evidently forced. He pulled it open and peered inside; it was empty.

  ‘What have you found?’ Cordus asked, coming to stand at the counter with Cassandros and Sextus.

  ‘Whatever was kept in here has been removed.’

  ‘Tacita could have done that to put us off the scent.’

  ‘She could well have.’ But Magnus’ attention was drawn to a small hole, the width of a finger, in the floor of the cupboard. He probed it and pulled. A piece of wood detached to reveal a hiding place; inside was a scroll. He unrolled it and perused the circles within circles, divided up into twelve equal sections filled with symbols that he could not decipher, even if he had been able to read and write. But he did not need to read to recognise it for what it was. ‘So Tuscus still practised on the side, did he?’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘What have you got there?’ Cordus asked, leaning over the counter to get a better view.