The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “I have never sought any position, sir,” I answered. Had I not made a promise to Mother, I would have spoken the truth.

  “The younger Gallus should consider himself fortunate,” Sabinus interjected in a menacing voice. “I should have cashiered him as he rightfully deserved.”

  Gallus turned scarlet as he slowly faced Sabinus. Obviously, he knew about the terrible camp conditions that Sabinus had uncovered. “What are you implying?”

  “You know what I mean,” Sabinus answered. “My inspection of his command in February, need I say more?”

  Crispus and I looked at one another, knowing exactly what Sabinus meant.

  “Then it’s in your report to Caesar?”

  “Everything, Anicius Gallus. He received the preliminary document months ago. You know my eye for detail. I never overlook anything.”

  The elderly senator narrowed cold, blue eyes. “Caesar will not be pleased, Flavius Sabinus, and I am not pleased. You know it’s necessary for a tribune to perform well if he is to advance through the offices to become senator, I don’t appreciate your candor!”

  “I won’t lie for my friends, let alone my enemies, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Indeed, I do!”

  “You must excuse me, Senator Gallus. I’m weary and eager to see my family.” Sabinus turned his back on the elder Gallus, leaving him standing agape among his cronies. The old senator started to speak, but apparently decided to bide his time, and he stormed from the hall.

  Crispus and I departed the Palatine with Sabinus, amid a group of his well-wishers. Although he had not received the position of city prefect, Sabinus had returned to Rome with honor, and was still considered, Friend of Caesar. This entitled him to an escort of twenty lantern-carrying Praetorians on his first night home. Ten marched on each side of us as we stepped from the main entrance past crimson and white ceremonial guards. Sabinus called me to his side as the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the top of Vatican Hill across the Tiber in the west.

  “Beware of Gallus,” Sabinus warned in a low voice as he waved to some officials passing close by. “It’s unfortunate that he had to drag you into an old dispute with your father.”

  “His son pulled me into the feud the day I arrived in Iping, sir.”

  Sabinus shook his head. “Now I understand the intensity of his anger. He’s a hateful old man who can’t let go of grudges. The real issue is he wanted someone in the office of city prefect he could manipulate. An understanding indeed.”

  “Because of the tremendous power the post wields?”

  Sabinus nodded. He turned his head back and forth surveying the escorting Praetorians. “It’s rumored,” he whispered, “although never proved, that Gallus has dealings within Rome’s criminal element. The city prefect is the ideal position from which to unleash them on the city, and Secundus is weak.”

  I tightly gripped the hilt of my weapon, which had been returned to me upon leaving the palace. “Then Rome will be at his mercy.” Should that danger arise, I wondered what plans, if any, Sabinus had to deal with such a potentially dangerous situation. More importantly, did he wield the power required to stop old Gallus and his nefarious intentions?

  Chapter 24

  Leaving the palace for Sabinus’s home on Quirinal Hill, Crispus, Sabinus, and I trekked down the Sacred Way, escorted by lamp-carrying Praetorians and turned onto Pullius Street. Sabinus preferred walking to riding the litter offered by Emperor Claudius. “I have no intention of getting fat and lazy like my colleagues,” he said. “My chest and neck are naturally thick enough as it is. I don’t need the extra weight.” As dusk covered the city like a stifling blanket, everyone scurried for shelter. Shopkeepers slammed shutters tight and locked their businesses for the night. “Why is everyone in such a rush?” I asked.

  Sabinus grimaced. Three lines frowned his smooth forehead. “Unfortunately, after sunset, Rome is a land of robbers, footpads, housebreakers, and roving gangs. The people fear for their lives, and rightly so.”

  “What’s the Watch doing about it, sir?” Crispus asked.

  “It’s impossible for the Vigiles to patrol the city adequately and scour every hiding place,” Sabinus answered. “The city is enshrouded in darkness after sunset. There are no street lights except the torches carried by the populace, or those hanging outside of taverns and brothels.”

  “Given the circumstances, can the Watch be counted upon to perform their job?” I questioned.

  In the light of a swinging lantern toted by one of the Praetorians, I noticed the guardsman’s mouth turn into a derisive smirk. I glared at the soldier who stared straight ahead.

  Sabinus clasped his hands behind his back. “Absolutely. They’re well-trained, but their task is nearly overwhelming between fighting crime and fires. Unfortunately, like any organization, they have their share of misfits. Some of the rankers have been caught drunk, after being paid by thieves to turn the other way while they break into shops and homes. My friend, Decrius Calpurnianus, the Watch prefect, continually weeds out their kind.”

  “Sounds like a monumental task.”

  “Yes, it is,” Sabinus said. “That reminds me. Since I didn’t receive my appointment to city prefect, I’ll see that you’re transferred on parchment to Legion Second Augusta and detailed back to me on a long-term temporary basis. I have work for you and Sergeant Crispus to perform. You will stay at my home because you will be on call twenty-four hours a day.” He turned to Crispus. “Sergeant, you will be billeted at the barracks of the Marines and auxiliaries, and shall report to my home each morning before we go to the Palatine.”

  “Yes, sir,” Crispus acknowledged.

  As we hiked through the darkened trash-filled lane, the odors of rotten food, offal, and urine filled ours noses. The high walls of shabby tenements along our passageway seemed to hem our group into a claustrophobic void, allowing little space for maneuvering.

  After a few moments of silence, Sabinus explained the Watch consisted of seven cohorts of ex-slaves and freedmen, dressed similarly to the army’s legionaries, and stationed in precincts throughout the city’s fourteen regions. The position of Watch prefect, held by Calpurnianus, belonged to the Equestrian Order.

  “Gallus has profited heavily from Rome’s tragic fires,” Sabinus further explained. “His detail of slaves are expert firefighters. Although the Watch’s first duty is firefighting, Gallus’s slaves invariably beat them to the scene of any major fire.” Sabinus elaborated Gallus’s modus operandi—while a building’s owner stood in shock, watching his six-story apartment burn, Gallus’s agents negotiated to buy the property at a ridiculously low price. The longer the fire burned, the lower the price.

  “Invariably, the poor owner sells at a fraction of the price, just to recoup part of his loss,” Sabinus added. “Even as the ashes smolder, Gallus’s construction gang of slaves moves in and quickly builds another thin-walled firetrap. And his profits keep soaring.”

  I looked about the area. In the shadowy light of the Praetorian lamps, I saw numerous barred doors of the shops lining the floor levels of each building we passed. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing,” I said. “Where I was raised, a man could leave his home and shop unlocked, and not worry about fire or thieves.”

  “In Rome, when shaking hands with a stranger, you’d best count your fingers to see if they are still attached. When I go to the Senate, I count mine at least a dozen times. Strange,” Sabinus mused, “we have brought order to the rest of the world, but can’t adequately protect our own city. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is,” I said.

  Crispus nodded in agreement.

  As we turned onto Pomegranate Lane and approached Quirinal Hill, a woman screamed.

  “Help! Robbers!”

  “It’s coming from the next block.” Crispus pointed.

  “Follow me!” Sabinus ordered, motioning his hand towards us and the guards. We ran about a half block. Our sandaled boots clattered and echoed o
ff the tufa-stone street and slum building walls. We could barely see the street surface ahead of us, in the lurching light coming from the Praetorian’s lamps, as they ran behind us.

  Another scream.

  We raced up an alley, and I heard a muffled voice and the sounds of a struggle. In the fetid-smelling abyss I saw the dim outline of three thugs who had wrestled a woman to the ground. One was pulling up her long tunic. At the sounds of our steps, they turned, spotted us, and ran.

  “Down there!” I yelled. Crispus and I shot past Sabinus. Stumbling more than once, we charged down the dark alley. One tough managed to escape over a brick wall, but we cornered the remaining two.

  Foolishly, they pulled hidden swords from beneath ragged tunics and challenged us. One lunged at Crispus, who easily parried the weapon away with his spatha. Crispus ran him through the throat, and he toppled to the ground dead. Meanwhile, I caught the other’s weapon in mid-swing with my short sword, shoved it to the side, and stabbed him in the chest. He fell backwards to the grimy pathway. I knelt beside the husky youth in the lamplight provided by one of the arriving Praetorians. He still lived. Dark blood oozed from his mouth.

  The young thug was no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Bugger off,” he answered, as he gurgled blood. Air sucked and bubbled the wound in his chest.

  Crispus stooped to my left side while Sabinus stood to the right, a little to the back of me as I questioned the prostrate youth.

  “Look, you’re dying,” I said. “You have nothing to lose by telling us your name. We can notify your family.”

  “Publius Lucullus, from . . . from the Subura,” he answered in a voice little more than a whisper.

  I had heard from Sabinus the Subura was one of Rome’s worst areas. “Who are the others?”

  “Don’t know—met them tonight,” he rasped.

  “This is no time to lie,” I said slowly, trying to be patient. “You don’t have much longer to live. They can’t get revenge where you’re going. Old Charon will protect you. Answer my question.”

  “It’s . . . the truth,” he answered.

  “You want to die with a lie on your breath?” I questioned. “Where did you meet them?”

  The young man closed and opened his eyes, his breathing labored. “Broken Oxcart.”

  “I know the place,” Sabinus interjected. “It’s a wine shop frequented by teamsters—a den of thieves—not far from here.”

  I gestured close to Publius’s face. “Why did you attack the woman?”

  “On our . . . way to steal jewelry.” He coughed some blood and continued, “At a shop on . . . the Sacred Way. One saw her, and . . . and she had a box. He wanted it.”

  “Why did you try to rape her?” Crispus asked.

  “It weren’t me. It was one . . . of them,” the young tough answered, his voice fading. I looked about. The Praetorians stood about in the shadowy light of their lanterns, no doubt waiting orders from Sabinus.

  Crispus leaned close to his ear. “What were you going to do with the jewelry?”

  He stared blankly for a moment. “Sell it.”

  “To whom?” I asked.

  “Sell . . . it . . .” He spat greater amounts of blood and inhaled deeply. A geyser of blood spattered from his chest wound.

  “To whom? To whom?” I questioned. My muscles tightened hoping to get an answer before he died.

  “Ga-Gall . . .” He vomited blood down his front, and a hollow gurgle echoed in his throat. His eyes rolled slightly and glazed. I had seen the lax, expressionless dead stare too often in Britannia and Germania to even listen for his heartbeat.

  “That sounded like—” I said.

  “Gallus,” Sabinus answered. “That’s not good enough, providing he was telling the truth. He could have meant Gaul. The half word of a dead Plebeian criminal isn’t enough to bring charges against a senator. We’ll need better evidence.” He exhaled heavily, as if disgusted by the whole affair.

  “I have come to a decision,” he continued. “Tomorrow, I will visit Calpurnianus’s office and offer my assistance. The organized criminal element of Rome must be rooted out. I will offer to establish a system of reliable informants out of my own pocket to assist the Watch. Marcellus, you will assist in becoming my eyes and ears in Rome.”

  “I’ll see that it’s handled, sir. My first order of business is to learn everything I can about the city.” Personally, I thought Sabinus was being naive. From what I had heard, organized crime in any city, especially one as big as Rome, was impossible to stamp out.

  “I’m sure you will become familiar with every alley and byway in short order,” Sabinus said.

  I didn’t know exactly how to handle the assignment, but I would figure a way.

  Sabinus commanded two Praetorians to proceed to the Watch precinct station belonging to the Second Cohort at nearby Esquilinian Gate with orders to bring back a wagon for the bodies.

  Returning to the woman, we found her leaning against the wall, shaking the dirt from her clothing.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t run when she saw us earlier,” Crispus said as we approached her.

  “Probably too stunned to move,” I said.

  In the pulsating light of a Praetorian’s lamp, I saw the woman’s features. About forty, her narrow, but attractive, face bore fine lines spreading like tiny bird feet from the corners of her dark eyes and the edges of her full lips.

  “Were you injured?” I inquired, as Crispus, Sabinus, and I stopped before her still-crouching form. Her eyes widened.

  “Have no fear, we won’t hurt you,” Sabinus said in a reassuring voice.

  Her body visibly relaxed, and then she picked up the small, empty box, stood, and took a couple of deep breaths. Her eyes focused on mine. I sensed terror still lurked in hers. Yet, there seemed to be determination in their dark, brown recesses to regain an earlier feeling of peace. “No, I’m not hurt,” she finally answered, “but I am still a little shaky. Thank God, you arrived. Who knows what they would have done.”

  “What is your name, madam?” Sabinus asked.

  “Pricilla, wife of Aquila.”

  “Where do you live?” Sabinus questioned.

  “On the street of the tent cloth makers, sir.”

  “The Jewish quarter across the river?” Sabinus asked in an incredulous voice.

  “Yes, the Trans-Tiberina,” Pricilla answered.

  Sabinus shook his head. “What are you doing here at this place without an escort?”

  “I was visiting a sick friend.”

  Sabinus pinched his eyebrows together. “Does your husband always allow you out at these hours? Isn’t it the custom of the Jews to shelter their women?”

  She smiled and replied softly as she turned and raised her head to Sabinus. “We are poor people and cannot afford to hire escorts. So we must put our trust in God if we are to continue His work. My husband is understanding.”

  “You have placed enough trust in your god for one night,” Sabinus said. “I’m sending a couple of guards to see you safely home.”

  “You are very generous, sir, but it isn’t necessary.”

  Sabinus held up a hand. “On the contrary, we can’t have anything else happening to you, I insist.” He lowered his hand.

  “As you wish.”

  Before Pricilla and the guards departed, she briefly turned to us. “May the God of Moses and Christus be with you.” She and her escort of Praetorians moved away and disappeared into the blackness of Rome.

  Pricilla’s remark puzzled me. I had heard about the one god of the Jews from my tutor, but he never mentioned Christus, which was Latinized Greek for the Anointed One. No matter, they had many so-called prophets. The Jews were especially troublesome to Rome in their homeland, Judea. Then a thought occurred to me, the witches warning. Was this the god of the East? Rubbish. I was in no mood to allow Eastern superstitions to cloud my weary mind. After the day’s excitement, I looked forward to an uneventful
dinner at Sabinus’s house.

  Chapter 25

  It was the third hour after sunset before we reached Sabinus’s mansion near the summit of Quirinal Hill. Only pale moonlight and dancing stars illuminated the narrow street leading to his home. In the shadowy, silver glow, the silhouette of a large plaster-covered, brick house grew nearer. Peepholes, in the form of foreboding shadows, intermittently dotted the building’s lower story, painted red in the fashion of one belonging to the senatorial class. After rescuing Pricilla, I appreciated their significance.

  Black, iron gates covered the large windows of the white-washed second story. The crimson flames of the torches cast ghostly images along the marble-column entrance. Two slaves armed with clubs stood sentry duty at the gate. Flares illuminated the courtyard, pooling a pleasant amber on the brick tiles, and casting flickering shadows of the guards upon the estate’s inner wall. They might have been apparitions engaged in wavering combat. Melodious tones drifted from an unseen lyre.

  Beneath the marble facade stood Alexias, Sabinus’s tall but aging freedman and chief steward. Distorted by the wavering light, his deep-set dark eyes appeared to have in one instant a cupid’s twinkling glow and in the next moment a demon’s eyes. “Greetings, noble Sabinus. Welcome home.”

  Sabinus and Alexias clasped one another’s forearm in Roman fashion and grinned like old reunited friends. “It’s good to be home, Alexias. How is the Lady Aurelia?”

  “Very well,” he answered, motioning to the doorway. “The mistress awaits in the atrium.”

  “Let’s not keep my wife waiting,” Sabinus answered with a grin.

  After dismissing the Praetorian escort, Crispus and I entered with Sabinus and his servant. Passing through the vestibule, we crossed the multicolored mosaic floor worked in the image of a chained snarling dog. Beneath the animal were inscribed the words, Cave Canum—beware of the dog.

  A court of exquisite beauty, the atrium contained mosaics more elaborate than those in the vestibule. Carved from green Spartan marble, four elegant columns upheld the roof around the wide compluvium. Bronze dolphins and ornamented sea horses shot great jets of water into the moon-colored marble fountain beneath the light-well. Elaborate frescoes, broken by the heavy olivine and saffron drapes, framed the bedchamber-cubicle entries covering the walls.