Watchmen of Rome

by Watchmen of Rome (retail) (epub)

  Marsia noticed a young man with a severely pox-scarred face sitting alone without a drink. She carried a jug of wine to him and smiled.

  ‘Can I help, sir?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Mend a broken heart?’

  Marsia glanced around her. Philon seemed to be coping, so she pulled over a stool and sat with him.

  ‘I can only offer wine, I’m afraid, and a friendly ear. Do you want to talk about it?’

  She poured him a cup of wine from the jug. He took a deep drink, wiped his mouth, and looked at her steadily. Something in her guileless face seemed to open him up.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a story you have heard a thousand times before. I spend my days keeping the peace on Rome’s streets. In the evenings I return home to the family I support with my meagre wages.’

  ‘You are in the urban cohorts?’ asked Marsia.

  The man nodded. ‘These last five years. It keeps a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and the bailiffs away from the door.’

  Marsia nodded, listening attentively.

  ‘I’ve been married for four years, to the daughter of a freedman. Frankly, she married above her station. But I found her pretty, funny. Ran a good household. Fantastic when the lamps are blown out, if you get my meaning.’

  Marsia smiled knowingly.

  ‘Life was good, I thought. I loved her. We have a baby son. Then today, I injure my ankle on the training ground, so the centurion sends me home early. Fourth floor of the insula, I limp to the top, and walk in on my darling wife on her back, with the son of the fishmonger from the shop below in between her legs. My baby son was there, in his basket, while she fucked a spotty kid who smelled of garum.’ He frowned. ‘At least, I think the baby is mine.’

  Marsia took his hand tenderly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Walked straight back out, before she said anything. Came straight to the nearest tavern. And here I am, trying to get drunk. I’m on my fourth, though, and it doesn’t seem to be working yet.’ He took another swig.

  ‘I’m Marsia.’

  ‘Gaius Ambrosius Barbatus,’ said the urban cohort legionary.

  Marsia gave him a sympathetic look and squeezed his hand. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Tonight? Just carry on getting drunk. Pass out in some back alley.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘Who knows? I’m paterfamilias. I could beat her. I could throw her on the street. I could kill her.’

  ‘Will you?’

  Barbatus shook his head. ‘That’s a decision for tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe you should find some company for tonight then, sir.’

  Barbatus hesitated, then sighed.

  ‘I can’t say I’m not tempted. You are very beautiful. But thank you, no. I think I would find it… painful.’

  Marsia smiled. ‘I didn’t mean me anyway, sir, I don’t serve in that way.’ She patted his face. ‘You have my sympathy, Master.’

  Barbatus smiled and returned to his drink. Marsia walked over to the bar to replenish her serving jug. Philon put a hand on her arm. ‘What’s his story?’

  Marsia shook her head. ‘He’s a legionary in the urban cohorts. Just caught his wife cheating on him. He wants to drown his sorrows.’

  ‘His purse looks full. He doesn’t want a roll on the mattress?’

  ‘I suggested he should find a girl. I think he is just too sad.’

  Philon looked speculative. ‘Maybe he wants something different?’

  Marsia glanced at him. ‘I think he just wants to be left alone. But you are welcome to try.’

  Philon picked up a jug and walked over to Barbatus’ table.

  ‘Would you like a refill, sir?’ asked Philon.

  Barbatus nodded and held up his cup. Philon poured.

  ‘Marsia told me your sad story. May I sit, sir?’

  Barbatus grunted unenthusiastic assent, and Philon sat next to him.

  ‘My girl says she would marry me, Though Jupiter himself came calling, But what a woman says to her passionate lover, Should be written in wind and flowing water.’

  Barbatus looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Catullus, sir.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That quote. It was written by the poet Catullus, when he was rejected by his lover, Lesbia.’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Barbatus.

  ‘He speaks of the faithlessness of women.’

  Barbatus laughed mirthlessly. ‘Well, he has that right.’

  ‘I think the company of other men is far preferable to that of weak, cheating, unreliable women, don’t you?’

  Barbatus eyed him suspiciously. ‘I think the only person anyone can rely on is himself. And even then, only with caution.’

  ‘Many of the greatest warriors of my race would rather be with a man than a woman. Achilles and Patroclus. Alexander with his eunuch, Bagoas.’

  Barbatus studied Philon’s round features, plump figure, smooth skin. ‘You are a eunuch yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am, sir. It makes me the ideal male companion to one seeking comfort and solace.’

  ‘A eunuch. Lucky you. You experience the pain of castration in one go, then it is forever behind you. I envy you. Me, I will have to go on living with this pain.’

  ‘I would like to help you, sir. I am very experienced, I know how to make a man feel pleasure, ease his pain.’

  ‘I told your fellow slave, I’m not interested tonight.’

  ‘I see,’ said Philon, looking crestfallen.

  Barbatus clapped Philon’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry. You are a pretty boy, I’m sure you will find plenty of takers. Even if you don’t, at least you will sleep under a roof tonight, fed and clothed, unlike the homeless and runaways. You know, yesterday we were told to keep our eyes open for a fugitive slave. Us, the urban cohorts! Who do they think we are, fugitivarii or the vigiles?’

  ‘What was special about that slave then, sir?’

  ‘Buggered if I know. Nothing as far as I could tell. Except we are told she has vivid red hair. She is hardly the only one in the city, though. Whole thing is a wild goose chase.’

  Barbatus drained his cup and stood, swaying a little and putting one hand on the table to steady himself.

  ‘I’m going for a walk to clear my head. Then to another bar. And another one. Then I’ll either pass out in a back alley, or throw myself in the Tiber. Haven’t decided which yet.’

  Philon nodded, distracted. ‘Have a good evening, sir.’

  Barbatus staggered out into the street. Philon looked towards the back door to the kitchen, where he knew Rufa was busy cooking and washing up. He sat in quiet thought for a moment, then carried on with his work.

  * * *

  It was early evening, dark not long fallen. Carbo looked around the headquarters of the second cohort of the vigiles urbani. The building looked like it was once the domestic dwelling of a reasonably well-to-do family. Frescoes of tranquil pastoral scenes covered the walls, and some of the original furniture remained. They were in what Carbo presumed was originally the tablinum, which Vespillo had turned into an office. Nearby hovered a slight, youthful member of the cohort that Carbo supposed served as Vespillo’s secretary, judging by the way Vespillo occasionally barked orders at him. Taura, the senior centurion of the cohort who commanded the first century, and was Vespillo’s deputy, was sitting at a desk, laboriously writing a report, with much cursing and scribbling out of mistakes. Taura had given Carbo a grumpy greeting when he had arrived a short while earlier, remembering him from his previous visit, and now shot him filthy looks from time to time. Occasionally, Carbo heard him muttering words he was sure he was supposed to overhear, like ‘cursed civilians’ and ‘hanging around like a bad smell’.

  Carbo was sitting on a stone bench, while opposite him, with his feet up on a stool, Vespillo lounged on a cushioned wooden chair. Carbo asked him what had happened to the former owners of the house.

  ‘Not a clue, this was a
lready requisitioned as the cohort headquarters a long time ago. I was only appointed tribune a few months ago. Plancus, do you know?’

  The secretary spoke up in a thin, slightly nervous voice. ‘The records show that the current headquarters of the second cohort of the vigiles urbani belonged to one Gaius Volumnius Ambustus.’

  Vespillo laughed, and Carbo looked at him curiously. ‘Ambustus? How ironic, that the fire station should once have belonged to someone whose name means burnt.’

  Carbo smiled, and opened his mouth to change the subject, but Plancus continued.

  ‘The house was requisitioned fifteen years ago, as part of the development of the vigiles. The owner was compensated, and moved out. Initially this place was the headquarters for only two hundred men, mainly due to trouble recruiting. After the Lex Visellia was passed three years ago, which decreed that any freedman who had completed six years of service in the vigiles would be granted full citizenship, recruitment became easier, and the cohort grew to its present size of seven centuries, each of around eighty men when at full strength with no illness or injuries.’

  ‘Is he always like this?’ asked Carbo.

  ‘He used to be secretary to an equestrian who fancied himself a historian. It seems to have rubbed off on him. His master died without ever publishing anything memorable, but he freed Plancus in his will. How far are you through your six years of service? Before you become a citizen?’

  ‘Just a year, so far, sir.’

  ‘How old are you, Soldier?’ asked Carbo.

  Plancus drew himself up a little taller at being addressed like a legionary. Carbo realized that the vigiles, drawn from the ranks of freedmen, considered the lowest of all the men under arms within the Empire, must have some serious issues with self-esteem.

  ‘Seventeen, sir.’

  ‘You look like a fine member of the cohort, Soldier.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the boy, beaming.

  Vespillo shook his head at Plancus’ enthusiasm.

  ‘May we talk privately?’ asked Carbo.

  Vespillo nodded. ‘Plancus, Taura. Would you mind?’

  Plancus gave an enthusiastic salute and hurried from the room. Taura appeared to glare at the writing on his desk for a moment, then slowly stood and left.

  ‘Grumpy bastard that one, isn’t he?’ said Carbo.

  Vespillo laughed. ‘He does his job. Keeps the men in line too. Discipline is a constant problem in the vigiles. Despite how you addressed Plancus, these men aren’t soldiers. They are a motley crew of clueless ex-domestic slaves like Plancus, cut-throats who would probably be rotting on a cross if they weren’t serving in the cohort, homeless down-and-outs who would starve if they didn’t serve here, and wannabe legionaries who like to boss the civilians around, pretending to be Praetorians or members of the urban cohorts or something.’

  ‘How did you come to be tribune of this lot, then? Surely someone with your military experience would be better serving in a regular unit like the urban cohorts. Or just retiring with your pension?’

  Vespillo grimaced. ‘That’s a long story. You want to talk about your problem, I take it?’

  Carbo noted the abrupt subject change and decided not to pursue it.

  ‘Yes, I wanted some more of your advice. Maybe your help too.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My options are limited. I don’t think helping her escape from the city, nor hiding her within the city are solutions. With her hair, although she isn’t unique, she is quite distinctive. The city is full of informers looking to make a quick denarius. And finding her somewhere to live in the countryside, well, that leaves her open to the slave hunters and the bandits.’

  ‘You have thought of finding her a husband?’

  ‘I have,’ Carbo said. ‘She has a brand. He would have to be complicit, and who could I trust that wouldn’t rather take the reward for her return than keep her?’

  ‘So manumission is the only solution?’

  ‘The only one that I can think of. But her mistress seems unmoved by financial incentives. What are the other options to persuade this woman to free her?’

  ‘Physical threats. Intimidation. Blackmail. Murder?’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Carbo frowned. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be upholding the law?’

  Vespillo shrugged. ‘Just stating the facts. Doesn’t mean I condone any of those, but you asked for the options.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to go in there and kill her. I don’t want to have my head cut off or be thrown in the Tiber. Physical threats and intimidation, maybe. I’m not one to shrink from a fight, but would she be intimidated by one man, when she has a house full of slaves to protect her?’

  ‘Blackmail, then?’ suggested Vespillo. ‘We do keep coming back to this odd cult that seems to be at the centre of her strange behaviour.’

  ‘I need to find out more about it, don’t I? But where do I start? I know nothing about cults.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Vespillo. ‘But I know a man who does.’

  Carbo raised his eyebrows, curious.

  ‘I am going out on patrol soon. I’m not the type of commander to sit behind a desk all night.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said Carbo with a smile, remembering their first meeting.

  ‘We can take the patrol past the house of Kahotep, and pay him a little visit.’

  Chapter XI

  Carbo and Vespillo walked through the Fifth Esquiliae district, one of the fourteen administrative regions into which Augustus had divided the city, over thirty years before. The sky was clear and starry, but the moon was hiding behind the buildings, and the tall insulae lining the streets allowed almost no light to filter down to ground level. The doors to the houses and shops were boarded up as tight as the Mamertine prison, the windows shuttered or secured by iron railings. Within the larger dwellings, a porter would be awake, sometimes chained in the atrium to make sure he did not desert his post. ‘Beware of the Dog’ signs were common.

  They were accompanied by fourteen men from one of the centuries of the vigiles. Each man carried an axe, a pick, or a hook on a rope, to help pull down burning buildings, and a couple carried torches to light the gloom. Carbo noticed that his companions were alert but relaxed. The terror that the night streets of Rome held for ordinary citizens was laughed at by these men, who spent half their waking lives patrolling after sundown.

  Vespillo intermittently tutted and grimaced as he looked at the closely packed, flammable buildings.

  ‘You know, a fire in the wrong place, on a windy, dry day, and all this could go up. One of these days, the whole of Rome will burn, you mark my words.’

  Carbo looked at him sidelong. ‘You’re cheery.’

  Vespillo shook his head. ‘It feels like being in a fight against barbarians, outnumbered, waiting for the inevitable. Recruitment is hard. It’s not a glamorous job, it’s dangerous and poorly paid. Even with the Lex Visellia, we are far from full capacity. Then we keep getting pulled away from our duties to help out with crowd control, as we are at the moment with the Ludi Romani in full swing. We will be really stretched on the last day of the games, when the whole city will be out. The gods protect Rome from fire that night.’

  A cry for help came from a tiny side street. Vespillo nodded to two of his men, and they set off at a run. Carbo followed a little slower, cursing at the stiffness in his leg, courtesy of his old wound. Turning the corner into the little dead-end street, they came across a man lying on the ground, toga in disarray, curled up in a foetal position as two men laid into him with feet and sticks. Standing on the far side of them, a smaller man carrying a knife watched the assault with a grin on his face. He hefted a purse in one hand, presumably belonging to the prostrate victim.

  ‘Halt,’ yelled Vespillo. The man with the knife and purse looked up and rushed at the watchmen, brushing them aside as he headed for the exit to the alley. He reached what he presumed would be safety just as Carbo turned the corner. Carbo stuck out a straight, stiff arm,
and the fleeing man ran full into it, head snapping back, feet continuing running, so he slammed into the ground with the full weight of his limp body. Carbo kicked him in the head to make sure that he wasn’t getting up again, then retrieved the knife and purse.

  The two muggers still in the alley were slower to react. Vespillo drew his sword, and his two men hefted their axes menacingly. One of the muggers charged them with a roar, wielding a thick club at the tribune’s head. He ducked the clumsy blow and slashed his sword backhand across the back of the man’s legs, hamstringing him in a single stroke. The man’s legs stopped functioning and he tumbled to the ground. The other mugger dropped his club and fell to his knees in supplication. Vespillo’s men led the two muggers away, one walking, one unable to walk and being dragged by the collar of his tunic, crying in pain and pleading for mercy.

  Vespillo knelt by the injured victim, who was hugging himself and moaning softly. Carbo appeared by his side, the mugger he had dealt with slung over his shoulder. Vespillo looked up at Carbo.

  ‘How are your healing skills?’

  ‘I’m no medicus, but my skills are probably as good as yours. You pick up a few things when you have been in battle a lot.’

  Carbo dumped his unconscious load and crouched down by Vespillo.

  ‘Can you tell us your name, Citizen?’ asked Carbo in a loud voice. The man made some indistinct noises. Carbo ran his hands over the man deftly, provoking more groans when his fingers probed injuries.

  ‘Head injuries, but I can’t feel a skull fracture. Bleeding from his nose and mouth, but not from his ears. Some broken ribs, but I don’t think his lungs are punctured, his breathing seems OK. Limbs bruised but not broken. Might be bleeding internally, might not. I guess that will decide whether he lives or dies.’

  Vespillo nodded agreement. ‘We have four medici stationed permanently at the station house. They can do their best for him.’

  ‘Four?’ Carbo raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a lot more than in the legions.’

  ‘No offence, Carbo, but battles aren’t that common in the legions. The medici there mainly stitch up wounds from barroom brawls. The fires and the criminals keep our medici pretty busy every night.’