‘She said no, then,’ said Carbo. It was a statement.
Vespillo nodded. ‘She spun me a story that Rufa was her lover, and she wanted her back because she was emotionally involved with her.’
Carbo studied his face. ‘You believed her, didn’t you?’
Vespillo shrugged, semi-apologetically. ‘I don’t know Rufa. I still haven’t actually met her. You haven’t seen her since she was a child. Maybe she was good and honest and true as a free little girl, but people change. Slavery changes people. Now she could be willing to tell you anything for your help. You must admit, her story does seem a little far-fetched. Elissa’s tale of a slave spurning a lover does seem more believable.’
‘And yet here you are,’ said Carbo. ‘Alone, without the urban cohorts to return the slaves to their rightful owner.’
Vespillo grimaced. ‘Don’t talk to me about the urban cohorts.’ He sighed. ‘Unfortunately, Carbo, I believe Rufa.’
Carbo looked at him, surprised. Vespillo drew out a dark, crumbly, carbonized object from beneath the folds of his tunic, and gave it to Carbo. ‘I found the doll. The child’s doll that Rufa says she saw burnt. I don’t know what’s going on in that house. Maybe nothing. Maybe Rufa misinterpreted what she saw. But I believe her fear is genuine. I also believe Elissa could be a dangerous adversary. She is certainly well connected.’
Carbo let out a deep breath. ‘So what now?’
Vespillo took a swig of his wine. ‘Now, I go to bed. I have maybe a few hours before my next night shift starts, and I intend to get as much sleep as I can. We can talk more soon. For the time being, keep her out of sight. Elissa has summoned the urban cohorts to help in the search.’
‘The urban cohorts? Is that their job?’
‘No, they are more for crowd control. You haven’t been in Rome for a long time, so maybe you don’t remember how the law works here. It is not a military rule, though. Basically, the Praetorians protect the Emperor, the urban cohorts keep the peace, and the vigiles fight fires and small-scale crimes. But a tribune from the urban cohorts turned up at Elissa’s house while I was there. Elissa obviously has some pull where she needs it, to get them involved in something like this.’
Carbo looked troubled. Vespillo stood and clapped him on the shoulder. He drained his wine glass. ‘Don’t worry. It will all work out. One way or another.’ Vespillo gave a loud yawn, then left. Carbo didn’t feel reassured.
Chapter IX
Fabilla sat in the corner of the kitchen, sullen-faced. Marsia tried to interest her in a game of dolls, but Fabilla turned away in disgust, facing the corner. Marsia looked at Rufa helplessly. Rufa sighed.
‘Thanks for trying, Marsia,’ said Rufa. ‘I don’t think anyone will get through to her when she is in this sort of mood.’
Marsia stroked Fabilla’s hair affectionately, then left her to her sulk. She approached where Rufa sat, cleaning a large saucepan that contained stubbornly congealed garum. ‘I can see her frustration. The poor girl has been cooped up for three days now. She must be bored out of her mind.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ snapped Rufa. ‘Well, she is a slave. She had better get used to doing things she doesn’t want.’
Marsia looked taken aback by the sudden flash of anger. ‘I’m sorry, Rufa. If my attempts to help are distressing you, I will refrain in future.’
Rufa looked like she was about to retort. Then she bit her lip, which had started to tremble. She put the saucepan down.
‘No, Marsia, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It’s just… so difficult. We are here in hiding, not able to risk showing our faces in case an informer recognizes us, or the urban cohorts drag us back to Elissa. I don’t know what the future holds. Might we end up back with Elissa, to die at her hands? Or captured and punished as fugitives, whipped, branded, even crucified?’ Her voice shook and she dropped her face into her hands. Sobs racked her body. Marsia put her arm around her shoulder and held her, unsure what else to do.
A small body interposed itself between the two women. Rufa took her hands away from her face to find Fabilla’s arms around her, the child wearing a confused and concerned expression.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ said Fabilla. ‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ She looked at Marsia seriously. ‘I’m sorry too, Marsia, for my rudeness.’
Rufa smiled at the formal apology, and hugged her daughter to her, tight. The tears continued to flow, the anxiety and depression remained, but the feeling of the warm little girl who was the centre of her world, clutched against her, gave her some sensation of relief.
‘Carbo is a good man,’ said Marsia. ‘Also brave and strong. Trust him.’
Rufa nodded uncertainly. Carbo had told her that Elissa had refused to allow him to buy her, although he didn’t go into any detail of how the conversation had gone. She got the impression that it wasn’t actually him that had visited Elissa. Since then, Carbo had gone about life as normal, helping out in the bar when Marsia and Philon were too busy, going to the baths and the markets, and sleeping in the room with Rufa, Fabilla, Marsia and Myia. Carbo’s sleep remained badly disturbed, and his nightmares woke them all. He refused all comfort, however, from Marsia or Rufa. Rufa had noticed, though, that when Fabilla saw him upset and gave him a hug, he did not push the young girl away.
‘I do trust him. I just wish I knew what he had in mind.’
Philon burst in from the direction of the stairs, Myia nipping excitedly at his heels, yapping and running in small circles. Philon kicked the little dog away.
‘Why do I have to sleep on the top floor?’ asked Philon in a loud, whiny voice.
Marsia’s glare pierced Philon. ‘Because we have guests that need the space. And because the master wills it.’
‘But Marsia, the stairs are so tiring. I have to carry the chamber pot down four flights every time I want to empty it, just because you won’t let me tip it out of the window. And everyone knows that if there is a fire, the ones on the top floor are less likely to make it out alive. Why does it have to be me anyway? Why not the newcomers that have caused us all this inconvenience? Not to mention danger.’
‘Danger?’ asked Marsia, her voice low. ‘In what way are they dangerous?’
‘It’s obvious they are fugitives from something. Escaped slaves or criminals. Appearing unannounced one night, then hidden away by the master, never going outside. If they bring prosecution to this household, then you know the slaves will be tortured first before any trial even starts.’
Marsia’s voice was calm, but her flashing eyes gave Philon pause.
‘I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself, Philon, or you will have the master to answer to. And worse, me.’
Philon looked down, the temper draining from him quickly. Rufa was staring at the floor, her face pale. Fabilla was regarding him curiously. Myia was still wagging her tail.
‘Now go and get the tavern ready to open, then get yourself presentable for any clients who want your services.’
Philon slouched back up the stairs, scuffing his feet on the steps in a disgruntled manner as he went.
‘Are we a danger to you?’ asked Rufa softly. ‘Is that how you feel?’
Marsia shook her head firmly. ‘Listen, girl. My loyalty is to the master. If he wants to show you kindness, then I will extend the same to you. So will Philon, or there will be trouble.’
Rufa smiled, her vision still misted by tears. She squeezed Marsia’s hand tightly.
‘Thank you, Marsia. I mean that.’
Marsia nodded curtly, then extricated her hand from Rufa’s grip. ‘Just remember, the master knows what to do. Now, those saucepans won’t clean themselves.’
Rufa picked up the garum pan, and with one last grateful glance at Marsia, went back to cleaning it.
* * *
Carbo lay back in the hot pool in the caldarium of the baths, letting the stinging heat that penetrated his flesh ease the stiffness of his joints and the tightness in his scars. He wondered what to do. Vespillo’s advi
ce to remain in the city was sound for the short term, he knew. Rome was a city of a million people, but packed into a small space. It would be unlucky to bump into someone who knew Rufa. It was possible, however, especially in some of the more public places – the temples, the forum, the theatre, the market. What sort of life would it be for her, constantly looking over her shoulder, in fear of recapture, torture, death, for her and her daughter?
In one corner, two men grunted, lifting heavy weights. Their muscles were well developed, showing they were probably regulars. He watched them for a moment, speculating idly whether their physical closeness was a result of friendship or love. If the latter, which was the giver and which the taker? He wrinkled his nose at the concept – unlike many of his army colleagues, neither role appealed to him.
His thoughts drifted back to Rufa. She had undoubtedly grown into a beautiful woman in the many years since he had last seen her. Maybe that made it easier to care about her fate, and that of her endearing daughter, who in many ways reminded Carbo of Rufa herself at the same age. His oath would have stood fast, though, he realized, whether she was a beautiful slave, a foul-mouthed market trader’s wife, or the lowest street whore.
She was finding her way into his thoughts often, and he knew that he was becoming attached to her in her own right, not just because of some abstract concept of honour and duty. It surprised him. He had never paid much attention to slaves before. Growing up, his family had been too poor to own any. In the legions, the only slaves belonging to legionaries and centurions were those captured in war, who were usually sold on at the first opportunity.
Generally, though, his attitude to slaves was that of the general populace. They were the lowest of the low. The poorest free citizen, or even the former slaves known as freedmen and freedwomen, liked to have someone else to look down on, and the slaves fulfilled this valuable role. Of course, everyone heard of the poor fools whose heads were turned by a pretty male or female slave, and who freed them in order to take them as wife, lover, concubine or catamite. Carbo had always viewed that sort as weak and easily manipulated. Now, was he being the same? No, it was different, he told himself. He had known Rufa when she was free. Besides, there was always his obligation to her.
He was overanalysing, he realized, and it was giving him no help with the decision he had to make. A plump youth, from a rich family to judge by the size of his attending retinue of slaves, jumped high, tucking his legs under him, and landed in the pool with a large splash that covered Carbo and a number of other bathers. When the boy surfaced, he got some filthy looks, but no one dared to say anything to him. Carbo considered whether it was worth the effort of making a scene, but his relaxed muscles begged him not to move, so he closed his eyes and continued to think.
He considered the consequences of ignoring Vespillo’s advice against moving Rufa and Fabilla out of Rome. Practically speaking, although there were some risks in getting them out of the city gates, they would not be large. With the volume of wheeled traffic entering and leaving the city after nightfall, it would be a simple matter to conceal the female slaves in an empty cart for the transit through the gates and beyond the walls. After that, it was just a matter of deciding where they would go. The first place would be Carbo’s farm in Campania. After that, Rufa could decide her own fate. She would need some help, though. A single mother and daughter would not last long in the countryside without a family to protect them. They would quickly end up at the mercy of bandits – robbed, raped, enslaved, murdered.
So just relocating her would not end his obligation. He would have to find her a husband, a task he had no idea how to go about. Alternatively, he could set her up with a small property, some money and some slaves of her own, for protection and income. That would eat significantly into his own wealth, however. Not that that course of action was out of the question. Carbo just didn’t want to start working for a living at his age, his body worn out by twenty-five years of active service.
Briefly, it occurred to him that he could take her for a wife himself. She was beautiful and obviously fertile. Was there much more that any man needed? Then, as his thoughts drifted to a life of matrimony with Rufa, and to the marriage bed, decades-old images flashed into his mind. He could see, so clearly, the priestess standing in front of him, brandishing the small knife. He felt his hands bound behind him, wrapped around a tree in a glade. The screams of the victims of the depilator in the baths sounded to him like the screams of his comrades as they bled out through unstaunched castration wounds. The laughter of the athletes practising sounded like the mocking laughter of the German warriors as they watched the fear in his eyes, pointed at his naked body, the way his manhood shrivelled in fear, then leaked urine uncontrollably.
Carbo’s heart started to pound, loud and fast, the blood rushing in his ears. He felt dizzy, his stomach tensed, his chest started to get tight, and he couldn’t seem to take a deep enough breath. His fingers started to tingle as panic rose inside him. He started to look around him wildly, searching for a way to escape.
A huge splash into the pool drenched him again, and broke the attack he had been seized by. He took some deep breaths, feeling his heart slow, his muscles relax. The rich youth swam back to the side, a self-satisfied grin on his face. Carbo reached out with one hand and pushed the boy’s head under the water. Fist clenched in the boy’s hair, Carbo held him under for a count of ten, before pulling him up to the surface.
The boy sputtered and coughed for a moment, then screamed at Carbo. ‘How dare you assault me!’
Carbo let him go. ‘Be more considerate of other users of this place in future.’
‘I will do as I please. I am the son of an equestrian!’
Carbo ducked him again. The boy’s attendants now stepped forward in alarm, but Carbo held up a threatening hand. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ he told them, ‘or the boy drowns.’
They hesitated, while Carbo counted to fifteen, then let the boy surface. This time the boy took longer to get his breath back. He turned to his slaves and yelled, ‘Don’t just stand there. Beat this man!’
The slaves did not look like they were used for any physical labour. The most senior of them was an elderly man who probably served as a scribe or bookkeeper for the boy’s father. He sized up Carbo’s muscular, scarred torso, which was visible above the water, then reached a hand down to the boy and pulled him from the pool.
‘I think,’ said the slave, ‘it is time to get you home to your father. I think it best we don’t tell him about the scene you made here. You know how he feels about being publicly embarrassed.’
The youth blanched at these words. He looked at Carbo from the side of the pool, his pride and fear at war. Fear won, although Carbo could not say whether it was fear of Carbo himself, or the boy’s father. The slaves dried the boy off with a woollen towel, rather roughly, then helped him dress in tunic and jewellery, before ushering him out of the building.
After the youth had gone, a couple of the other bathers laughed, and clapped Carbo on the shoulder in a congratulatory manner. Carbo was pleased the distraction had dispersed most of his panic. He was left with a feeling of unease in the bottom of his stomach, though, and sighed at the loss of the relaxed state he had achieved. He pulled himself out of the pool, dried himself, dressed, and walked out into the street.
He stopped at the stall of a food seller and bought a hot sausage, topped with cheese and garum, with some bread. He ate pickily, his appetite a little reduced by the anxious feeling that lingered, but the spicy sauce just maintained his interest in the meal. The attack reminded him why he was single, why he wasn’t looking for a woman. Marrying Rufa was clearly out of the question, if the mere thought of it made him feel like that. Finding her a husband would be difficult given his tiny social circle. Finding one who didn’t ask questions about her past would be impossible, especially with her brand. Setting her up somewhere on her own was a possibility, although he feared for the safety of any young woman without a male protector,
be it father, brother or husband, in city, town or countryside.
The only answer seemed to be to resolve her slave status. Have her lawfully free, and he could then protect her as long as it was needed for her to get on her own feet, find herself a husband, and start the life most Roman women aspired to, matron of her own family. Yet if Rufa’s mistress, Elissa, had rejected a financial offer, what other recourse did he have to persuade the woman to free her? He wondered about the strange ritual that Rufa had observed, the strange threats she had overheard. Rufa was sure she had heard the phrases ‘Rome’s punishment’ and ‘the day of retribution’. They sounded like the ravings of a cultist, praying to their gods to rain vengeance down on their enemies. Still, the authorities tended to frown on that sort of behaviour. Keeping the peace among the masses of Rome was paramount. The carrots they offered were the corn dole and the free entertainments such as the theatre and the games. The stick was often literally a stick, usually wielded by a member of the urban cohorts who enjoyed his job too much.
Maybe if Carbo found out more about Elissa’s cult and her plans, he could find some leverage to persuade her to give Rufa up. He finished off the last of his sausage and stood. The knowledge that he had decided to take action eased the remainder of his anxiety, and he even smiled a little. He took a slow walk back to the tavern, his mind working out a plan.
Chapter X
The tavern was full, business was brisk. Carbo sat on a stool outside, enjoying the cool early evening air, lost in his thoughts, only vaguely aware of the noisy throng of people crowding the streets, some trying to finish their chores before the dangers of being out at night caught up with them, the braver and burlier ones just starting the night’s revelry. Marsia was serving a hot trade of drinks, sausages, soup, and lashings of garum. Philon waited on the customers, clearing up, topping up empty cups and glasses, and taking them into the cubicle and attending to their other needs, as required.
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