Watchmen of Rome

by Watchmen of Rome (retail) (epub)

  The rest of the patrol had now arrived, alerted by their colleagues escorting the arrested muggers away that more help might be required. Vespillo allocated two to carry the victim back to the headquarters, two to carry the mugger that Carbo had knocked out, and four to escort the two conscious thieves back to the holding cells.

  After they departed, the street became quiet again, although the sounds of the night carried to them from further away – the revellers, the rumble of wheeled traffic on the main roads and the sound of the hooves of the horses, mules and oxen. The smell of the night was subtly changed as well, the dusty odour replaced by something a bit damper and more cloying. Dogs barked incessantly, sensitive to any sound that might threaten their master’s home. Calls rang out from those who couldn’t make a living during the day or found it more profitable to work at night. The wine sellers, the snack merchants, the older prostitutes, all tried to outshout each other to advertise their wares to the nocturnal denizens of the city. In this little back alley, though, the doors and windows remained shuttered, the inhabitants not daring to peek out.

  The depleted group carried on their patrol, the watchmen with their commander, and the strange experience of having a guest patrolling with them. Carbo caught the odd muttered comment from the men behind him, speculating, making barbed comments about his limp. He was used to ignoring minor insubordination from the ranks, though. You had to pick your battles. In his time as a leader of men in the legions, he had slapped down anything overtly disrespectful. Anything else was just blowing off steam. Vespillo wasn’t so tolerant, and when he overheard one snide comment, he halted the patrol, took the offender aside and gave him a stern verbal dressing down.

  Carbo was impressed with the controlled way the commander disciplined the man, a thuggish-looking Gaul. The tall, well-built young man with long blonde hair towered over Vespillo, but he bowed his head as he took the reprimand. When the patrol continued, the vigiles were quieter and more respectful.

  Vespillo pounded on the wooden door at the end of a dark street. A hulking bodyguard slave, armed with a club, lounged sullenly against the wall, eyeing them suspiciously. A sign painted on the door outside showed a collection of astrological symbols. Carbo thought he recognized a ram and a crab, and some others more obscure. The door was opened by a beautiful dark-skinned slave with a beatific expression, dressed in a simple white robe. A waft of sweet perfume and incense accompanied her.

  ‘We are here to see Kahotep,’ said Vespillo.

  The slave’s voice was soft, with a strong Numidian accent. ‘He is performing a ceremony at the moment, Master.’

  Vespillo pushed the door open and gently eased the girl out of the way.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t mind us waiting.’

  The watchmen remained outside, and Carbo and Vespillo entered a small atrium. Further inside, in the tablinum, they could see two figures seated on cushions. The nearest, with her back to them, was a middle-aged lady. Her elaborate hairstyle and gold jewellery marked her out as a matron in a well-to-do family. Facing them was a round-faced man with narrow-set eyes, a pointy nose and a completely bald head. His eyes were closed, and he held the woman’s hands, palms upwards, lightly in his own. He was chanting, a language Carbo didn’t recognize, his voice rising and falling theatrically. An incense burner spewed out large quantities of sweet-smelling smoke.

  Vespillo folded his arms and leaned against a wall, a smirk on his face. Carbo looked across at him, then copied him, waiting patiently.

  Eyes still closed, the bald man started talking in Latin with a heavy Egyptian accent, his voice slow and soft. ‘The gods are listening now, Mistress. Speak. Ask them what you want to know, what boon you desire.’

  The matron spoke. ‘O gods, tell me, I humbly beseech you. Answer my question.’

  There was a pause. The silence became prolonged and the woman began to fidget on her cushion. She started to speak again, but was interrupted by the bald man. His voice was high pitched, but powerful now, the words loud and slow.

  ‘I am Isis. Who calls on me?’

  The woman started to shake. Her voice was quiet now, trembling. ‘O Isis. I, Dullia Crispina, ask you this question. Is my husband true to me? Does he honour me? Or does he betray me, with the slaves, the prostitutes, the neighbours?’ She hesitated and her voice became a whisper. ‘My sister?’

  Another pause. Despite himself, Carbo could feel a tension rising inside himself, waiting for the answer.

  ‘Your husband…’ said the bald man in the high voice. The woman was stone still now, her full attention fixed on the man. ‘Your husband…’ His voice trailed off. Then he spoke in his normal voice. ‘I have lost the connection with her,’ he said, sounding deflated.

  The woman let out a little moan. The man laid a hand on her knee reassuringly. ‘Let me get my breath back,’ he said wearily. ‘It is draining on my spirit. I will try again momentarily. We did discuss my fee, didn’t we?’

  The woman nodded. ‘Two aurei, we said.’

  ‘We did, we did,’ agreed the man. ‘I wonder, though, if the goddess feels the sum is a little, ahem, paltry.’

  ‘Paltry?’ said the woman, her voice rising.

  ‘Oh, it is more than adequate for my humble services, Mistress,’ said the man. ‘But the money all goes towards the honouring of the goddess. Maybe she feels dishonoured.’

  The woman seemed doubtful. ‘How much do you suggest?’

  ‘Oh, it is not my place to suggest a donation to the goddess.’

  The woman reached into her purse and counted out four golden coins. The man looked each one over carefully, tucked them into a fold in his tunic, and then took her hands again. Eyes tight closed, he spoke again in the high voice.

  ‘I, the goddess Isis, am here, Dullia Crispina. You ask, is your husband true? Does he betray you, with the slaves, the prostitutes, the neighbours, or your sister? The answer is…’

  Dullia Crispina leaned forward, quivering slightly.

  ‘The answer is, your husband is true.’ The woman’s shoulders slumped in relief. The man moaned and fell to one side, limbs rigid, twitching and thrashing. The woman looked at him in alarm. Carbo started forward as well, but Vespillo laid a retraining hand on his arm. The twitching and thrashing subsided. Slowly the man sat upright again.

  ‘My apologies, Mistress. When the goddess leaves me, I am sometimes taken by a seizure. It is a curse of my calling, but one I bear willingly. Did you get your answer?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dullia Crispina, her voice still a little shaky. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Kahotep, so much. You don’t know how much the reassurance means to me.’

  Kahotep smiled softly. ‘I am but a vessel for the gods and goddesses. Do them honour and that is thanks enough for me.’ He noticed Carbo and Vespillo now, lurking in the shadows of the atrium, and his eyebrows went up. ‘And now, Mistress, would you please excuse me? I see the next seekers of answers and enlightenment are waiting for my humble skills.’

  ‘Of course, Kahotep.’ She stood, and Kahotep stood with her and bowed, then ushered her out, casting Vespillo a filthy glance as, with the help of his slave girl, he showed her to the door.

  ‘A good evening to you, Dullia Crispina. Make sure your slave conveys you straight home. The streets of Rome are such a worry at this time of night.’

  ‘No one scares my slave, Kahotep.’ She laid a proprietary hand on his arm and the look she gave him made Carbo wonder if she was being true to her husband.

  ‘Thank you, Kahotep, for everything.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mistress,’ said Kahotep, bowing again. He closed the door behind her, then turned to Vespillo, the smile that had seemed frozen to his face dropping away instantly.

  ‘Vespillo, you cocksucker,’ he said, his accent suddenly becoming the vulgar Roman of the streets and insulae. ‘What are you doing here, by Juno’s dry cunt?’

  ‘A pleasure to see you too, Kahotep.’

  ‘I was working!’ he spat. ‘How dare you interrupt me?�
��

  ‘Do you have a bucket of water?’ asked Vespillo.

  Kahotep looked nonplussed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It is my right and duty, as a tribune of the vigiles, to make sure that every homeowner has a supply of firefighting equipment. So, do you have a bucket of water?’

  ‘No, I don’t have a donkey-fucking bucket of water.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vespillo. ‘Sand? A soaked blanket?’

  ‘No,’ said Kahotep angrily. ‘I don’t have a bucket of water, a soaked blanket, a siphon, or a hundred drunk Gallic slaves trained to piss on command.’

  ‘Oh dear. Do you know the penalty for failing to protect your house against fire? I could have you beaten. Or maybe I could fine you those four aurei that you took from that poor gullible woman?’

  ‘Gullible?’ blustered Kahotep. ‘She got an answer from the goddess.’

  ‘So she thinks. I must admit the seizure was impressive. You should be in the theatre. I presume you intend to blackmail the husband now you know she suspects him?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ protested Kahotep. ‘I show people the way to the gods. That is all. Now, what do you want, or did you just come here to harass me to get your kicks?’

  ‘Well, maybe we could forego the fun of having you beaten if you could give us a few moments of your time?’

  Kahotep grudgingly beckoned them in and showed them to seats.

  ‘I’m thirsty, aren’t you, Carbo?’

  Carbo nodded agreement.

  Kahotep tutted, then called out.

  ‘Dahia, get something cheap for these two intruders. I mean guests.’ The dark-skinned slave nodded and fetched them watered wine. When they had full cups, and had taken long draughts of the drink, Vespillo leaned back.

  ‘Why don’t you tell Carbo what it is you actually do, Kahotep?’

  Kahotep rolled his eyes, his Egyptian accent returning. ‘Who can explain the wind, dear Vespillo, the sun, the mysteries of birth and life? I have spent my life trying to understand the world, our relationship to the gods, and our humble place in the grand scheme. That small level of understanding that I have achieved, it is my duty to pass on to those who are in need. Those who need comfort, or reassurance, or want to know how best to do honour to the gods.’

  Carbo looked at Vespillo. ‘He fleeces idiots for cash, then?’

  Kahotep opened his mouth to protest, but Vespillo just laughed. ‘Of course. But in order to be convincing, he has had to learn a lot about religion and the cults and mysteries. That’s why we are here. You didn’t think we were going to have our fortunes told?’

  Carbo shook his head and looked at Kahotep, who was sitting with arms folded, mouth drawn into a tight line.

  ‘Forgive us, Kahotep. We are mocking, and yet I have come to you for help. I need to know more about a particular religion or cult, but don’t know where to start. Vespillo suggested you.’

  ‘I see,’ said Kahotep. ‘Of course, my time isn’t free. Not that I need money for myself, you understand, but I got to have the resources to appease the gods, with offerings, libations, sacrifices, don’t I? Even incense don’t come cheap…’

  ‘How about we see how many widows you can cheat from a cell at headquarters?’ said Vespillo.

  Kahotep started to bluster about threats and injustice, but Carbo held up a hand. ‘No, Vespillo, he is right, he should be compensated for his time.’ Carbo proffered a denarius, which Kahotep took with suspicion. He inspected it, pocketed it and then sighed. His voice became soft and low.

  ‘Ask then, knowledge seeker, and this humble servant of the gods will answer to the best of his poor ability.’

  ‘What do you know about Ba’al Hammon and Tanit?’

  Kahotep’s eyes widened and his eyes flickered around the room, as if worried that someone would overhear.

  ‘Why do you ask about them?’

  ‘I have paid to ask the questions,’ said Carbo.

  Kahotep looked thoughtful. His words, when they came, seemed guarded. ‘Ba’al Hammon was the chief god of the Carthaginians. Tanit, the patron goddess of Carthage, was his bride.’

  ‘So they are just like Jupiter and Juno?’

  ‘Not exactly. Ba’al Hammon has been compared to Saturn. Tanit is still worshipped openly in North Africa, where she is now called Juno Caelestis. Her symbol is still found frequently there.’

  ‘What is her symbol?’ asked Vespillo. Kahotep took a wax tablet and drew an abstract figure, a trapezium, topped by a horizontal line and a circle, which looked like a child’s drawing of a woman in a dress.

  ‘So worshipping Saturn and Juno seems pretty harmless. Are their worshippers generous with their gifts, as we are during our Saturnalia festival?’

  ‘If only it was that benign. The sacrifices these gods demand from their followers…’ Kahotep shook his head. Vespillo and Carbo looked at him steadily, and he swallowed and continued.

  ‘If a Carthaginian wanted a favour of the gods, they would sacrifice to them. For simple things, everyday requests, they would sacrifice flour, sheep, calves, doves, just like we do. But if it was something very important, then Ba’al Hammon and Tanit would demand a child.’

  Carbo felt a chill run down his spine and he looked at Vespillo, who returned his gaze, face set.

  Kahotep continued. ‘There would be a statue of Ba’al Hammon or maybe the Lady Tanit, in a place known as a tophet, or roasting-place. The statue was made with arms stretched out and up, and they led down to a hole and a hollow centre. A fire was built at the base of the statue, and when it was hot enough, the baby would be placed on the arms. When the time was right, it was released, and it would roll down into the fire. Loud music would be played on flutes and drums, so the relatives, who were not allowed to weep, would not hear the baby’s screams, or the noises that were made as it was consumed.’

  Carbo saw Vespillo staring at the floor, looking sick. He looked back to Kahotep, uncertain what to say.

  Kahotep sighed. ‘In the most ancient times of the city, the nobles would sacrifice their own children for the safety of Carthage. Diodorus Siculus’ Bibliotecha historica tells us that in later years the Carthaginian nobility bought and reared children to sacrifice, the way the rearers and sellers of doves in the marketplace do nowadays. When Carthage was defeated by Agathocles of Syracuse, the nobles feared they had displeased the gods with this practice and sacrificed three hundred high-born children who had escaped the flames because of this practice of substitution, and a further two hundred to make amends. The gods alone know how many were sacrificed during the Punic wars, when the Carthaginians rightly feared their city would be destroyed.’

  ‘But Carthage was destroyed over two hundred years ago,’ said Carbo. ‘This worship, these… practices, surely they were stamped out at the time?’

  ‘Who can truly ever kill a belief? For certain, there are still pockets of worship of the Lord Ba’al Hammon and the Lady Tanit in North Africa.’

  ‘And in Rome?’

  Kahotep hesitated. ‘I have no direct knowledge of such a cult in Rome.’

  Vespillo looked menacing. ‘If you have any information, Kahotep, of such a vile thing happening here…’

  ‘No, no,’ said Kahotep hastily. ‘I really know nothing. But… I hear things.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Carbo.

  ‘I hear mention of a tophet, a sacrifice. I hear whispers of a return of the Lord and Lady. I hear that when they come, Rome will be destroyed.’

  Vespillo laughed without humour. ‘The fantasy of every ground-down minority with a grudge in Rome, and there are plenty of them.’

  Carbo looked into Kahotep’s eyes and saw fear there. He felt the same feeling in the pit of his stomach and shook his head, feeling foolish that these stories to scare children would be affecting him in such a way.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Kahotep.’ Carbo stood and handed him another coin. Vespillo drained his drink and stood too.

  ‘Get a bucket of water and a soaked blank
et,’ said Vespillo. ‘I will be back to check. And if you hear anything else on this subject, make sure you come to me.’

  Kahotep nodded grudgingly.

  ‘We will see ourselves out.’

  Vespillo and Carbo left, and Kahotep looked thoughtful.

  ‘Dahia,’ he said. ‘This worries me. You have your ear to the ground. Have you heard anything of this new cult?’

  Dahia looked him in the eyes and said sincerely, ‘No, Master, nothing.’

  Outside, away from the thick scent of incense, Carbo took a few deep breaths.

  ‘More evidence that your slave has been speaking the truth.’

  ‘She isn’t my slave,’ snapped Carbo, still feeling nettled by the horrific words he had heard.

  ‘Whatever she is then. Maybe soon we should pay Elissa another visit. It sounds like there might be more to interest me here than just an escaped slave.’

  Chapter XII

  Vespillo and Carbo met up with the watchmen and resumed their patrol, a thoughtful quiet having descended on the pair. They hadn’t gone far when Vespillo held up a hand for the party to halt. He sniffed the air, turning his head left to right and cocking his head on one side. Carbo took a deep breath through his nose, but could only smell the usual fetid stench of a Roman street, the mingled smell of human and animal faeces, the ammoniacal smell of urine from the same sources, as well as from the fullers’ shops, rotting corpses both human and animal, and the waste products of the households that lined the street.

  Vespillo, however, had noticed something else. He indicated a direction for the party to take, and they followed him. Shortly, Carbo started to pick out a different smell in the still air. Smoke.

  Not long after, he could see a glow that flickered over the rooftops, and could hear distant shouts and screams. Vespillo and his men broke into a run and Carbo sighed as he followed, wincing with each step at the pain in his leg.

  When he caught up with them, he found that Vespillo had taken charge. Another patrol had converged on the same spot and they were all waiting for Vespillo’s orders. The fire had started in the first floor of an insula, in a typically packed part of the city. A fat woman was loudly berating her husband for failing to extinguish their brazier before they slept.