Watchmen of Rome

by Watchmen of Rome (retail) (epub)

  Then, when his body started to change, fluffy hair started to appear and his voice started to waver, he was taken to visit a place on the Viminal. He would never forget the rising terror as he was led into a small, dimly lit room, how he was stripped and held down firmly on a table, how an old man had looked down into his face and told him not to struggle. Then rags forced into his mouth, the indescribable pain between his legs, his desperate struggle against strong arms that restrained him, more rags thrust into the void where his testicles had been, then the world swimming around him and fading to black.

  When he had woken from the experience, he had still been in excruciating pain, and it had taken him days simply to be able to walk again. Within a couple of weeks, though, he was resuming his duties, and those duties had changed little, in the same way his body had stopped changing.

  The sex was often painful, although in later years he had taken a certain pride in his ability to pleasure a man, and since, as some eunuchs did, he had retained his ability to achieve erection, some kindly men had even seen to his own pleasure. He knew that Romans saw no shame in penetrating man or woman, but would be completely humiliated to be penetrated themselves. He even understood from his conversations with female slaves and prostitutes that Roman men viewed it as shameful to use their tongue to pleasure a woman, although some who enjoyed it would practise it in secret.

  More recently, having been sold to Publius Sergius, his duties had become more varied, including serving in the bar and menial tasks, and he had realized at that time, with an almost sick resignation, that he had come to view his work as a prostitute as less onerous than mopping floors and cleaning out cooking jars. His ability to have sex without the risk of procreation had led to him developing a small clientele of women, many quite noble born.

  Then, last night, he had been with a freedman. Afterwards, tired, he had lain still, pretending to listen while the man chatted. Slowly, though, he had started to focus on the man’s words, as he spoke of old gods returning, of the plight of the slaves and the poor, of the destruction of the Roman masters. He listened, and started to ask questions, and eventually the man told Philon about a meeting this night.

  After the man had left, Philon had agonized over attending. His fear of the night, of punishment from the master, of the meeting itself, all warred with his desire to know more. Then he found the master had gone out for the night and so he had sneaked away.

  Now he arrived at the destination he had been told about. The sign that had been described to him, something called the sign of Tanit, was painted on the wall, small and discreet but easily found by someone who had been told where to look. He knocked and waited. Down the street, he heard a group of youths, drunk, laughing, fighting among themselves, coming nearer. His stomach twisted at the thought of being caught in the open by the louts, but he was also scared of what he would find inside.

  Just as he was sure the youths would see him, the door opened a crack.

  ‘What’s the password?’ came a man’s voice.

  ‘Tanit reigns,’ said Philon in an unsteady voice.

  The door swung open, revealing a man dressed in a long robe.

  ‘Welcome, Brother,’ he said, ushering Philon inside.

  Philon entered a large atrium, lit by flickering oil lamps. Twenty or so people of both sexes and all ages, from a couple of children to an ancient-looking old lady, were seated on the floor. A small fire in a brazier at the far end also provided heat and light, the smoke disappearing up into the night. Incense burners scented the air. At the front of the room, a man in a white robe was kneeling, hands held upwards in supplication as he chanted.

  A young woman with dark skin, clothed in a simple white dress, smiled at Philon, and shuffled along the floor to create a space for him. He hesitated, then settled himself next to her. She leaned close to him and whispered.

  ‘Is this your first time?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, still unsure what he was doing there.

  ‘It’s my third time. I have so much to learn. I’m Dahia.’

  ‘I’m Philon. What happens here?’

  ‘We have lessons. We pray to the Lord and Lady. Afterwards, we drink wine.’

  ‘It’s like a Bacchanalia?’

  Dahia laughed. ‘No. We drink in moderation, and talk to each other about our lives. About servitude, slavery, poverty, oppression by the Roman masters.’

  ‘It sounds seditious.’

  Dahia shrugged. ‘Maybe the Roman nobility would think so. Do you see any here?’

  Philon looked around him. Various ethnicities were represented, the dark skin of a Numidian such as Dahia, the long blonde hair of a Gaul, the tan complexion of a Syrian. All held in common a lowness of birth or situation – there was no expensive jewellery on show, no fine clothing. Just the simple, unwashed garb of the lowest levels of Roman society.

  The man at the front finished his chanting and addressed them. Philon listened intently as he talked about the Roman Empire, its desire and ability to crush all opposition, to absorb all cultures into itself, removing individuality, self-rule, freedom. He talked of noble civilizations destroyed or conquered by the Roman war machine – the Greeks, the Egyptians, the Carthaginians, the Gauls. He talked of how the Roman pantheon ruled over all, the elder gods driven from this world. Then he talked about the return of the elder gods. How their Mother, Elissa, the prophetess, had revealed to him that the Lord Ba’al Hammon and his Lady Tanit were to return, to descend on Rome, bringing destruction to the Roman rulers, and freeing the oppressed.

  Philon listened enthralled. Until this moment, his resentment of his position in life had been a dull ache, not specifically directed at any one thing. He thought of being a slave to Rome in the same way he thought of an illness – a thing inflicted on him by the gods. Now, he came to understand that his lot in life had a reason, a cause, and that cause had a name. Rome. Life could be different, he could be free.

  The speech ended and the listeners were silent. The leader offered a prayer to Ba’al Hammon and Tanit, and then went among the group, handing out cups of wine.

  Philon sipped, mind racing. He noticed Dahia was looking at him, a smile on her face. He smiled back. They talked, and talked more. She told him of her background, born into slavery in Rome, moved from master to master, some kind, some abusive, until she ended up with her current master, an initiator. Philon found her easy to talk to, and explained about his past, leaving nothing out. Together, they talked to others in the group, and to the group leader himself. He told them again how Rome was doomed, how justice was at hand.

  The hour grew late and the meeting started to break up. Dahia and Philon left together, their paths taking them in a similar direction through the city, and they talked more. Philon’s fear of the dark had receded, his distracted mind ignoring the sounds that had terrified him on the way to the meeting.

  When their paths diverged, Philon didn’t want to say goodbye. Dahia looked into his eyes, then kissed him briefly on the cheek. She hurried off towards her home, and Philon watched her, trying to come to terms with the emotions that this girl, this night had stirred in him. Slowly he became aware that he was standing alone in the dark, in the Subura. The terrors started to return, and he put his head down and hurried back to the tavern.

  Chapter XIII

  Carbo sat with Vespillo in the tavern that was becoming locally known as ‘Carbo’s place’. It was early evening and the place was packed. Carbo’s reputation for being able to keep order within his establishment had been good for business among those who wanted to be able to drink and talk and gamble without the threat of violence. Carbo made sure that his customers had no doubts about the consequences if they stepped out of line. Already this evening, two drunken members of the urban cohorts had fallen out over a game of tali, one claiming he had thrown the Venus hand, the highest possible, while the other accused him of cheating. When they had started to come to uncoordinated blows, Carbo had cracked their heads together and tossed them both ou
t, sprawling on the streets, to much laughter and applause. Vatius, drinking in his usual seat, had toasted Carbo with a full cup of wine, far from sober himself.

  ‘Not only an old man becomes a child again,’ said Vatius, ‘but also a drunkard.’

  ‘Socrates?’ hazarded Carbo.

  ‘Plato, actually. Good guess, though.’

  A long sleep during the day had relieved Carbo and Vespillo of some of the tiredness that the previous night’s exertions had caused them, although they both still ached and stung from burns, cuts and bruises. Carbo rubbed the lump on the back of his head, where his skull had connected with the ground despite the thickness of the mattress. It throbbed, and he probed it. He was lucky not to have cracked his head open, or to have suffered after-effects from the injury. He had seen more than one man die some hours after obtaining a head wound in battle which appeared from the outside not to be serious.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ asked Carbo.

  Vespillo drank deeply from a cup and wiped his grey beard with the back of his hand. He belched.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Run into a burning building.’

  ‘It was my job.’

  ‘It was the job of every man there. You were the only one to do it.’

  ‘Not the only one. Some idiot civilian followed me in. Why was that?’

  Carbo shrugged. He wasn’t sure himself. He knew that he liked this man, and thought that he probably needed him too. Certainly he was the only friend he had in Rome right now.

  ‘I think it must be the military training. You follow your commander into battle, wherever he leads.’

  ‘I’m not your commander.’

  ‘I got caught up in the moment. I felt like one of your men. Why did you go in first? I wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘I wonder. I think you might. Especially if it was to rescue someone you cared about.’

  ‘That’s just it, though. The deaths of that family would have been a tragedy, but they meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t have risked my life for them. I risked it for you. So why did you go in? What were you trying to prove?’

  Vespillo swirled the contents of his cup around, looking down into them, as if they would provide him with a simple answer. Then he looked up at Carbo.

  ‘Do you want to know my story? How I ended up a ranker in the vigiles?’

  Carbo regarded him steadily. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  Vespillo paused, then said, ‘Yes, I think I do.’ He sighed. ‘Pannonia was bad. Do you remember it?’

  ‘I was in Germany at the time. I recall that old Biberius Caldius Mero had withdrawn a lot of troops from Dalmatia and Pannonia for a campaign on the Danube.’ Carbo used Tiberius Claudius Nero’s old army nickname, meaning ‘drinker of strong hot wine’.

  ‘That’s right. It was a mistake. Pannonia had never accepted Roman rule and there had already been several rebellions in the past few years. As soon as our troop numbers reduced they rebelled in strength. They killed citizens, traders, wiped out a detachment of auxiliaries. I was at Raetinum.’

  Carbo’s eyebrows went up. ‘You were there at the fire? What happened?’

  Vespillo’s face clouded. ‘We made a breach in the town wall. We thought it was all over, just mopping up to do once we were inside the defences. But the rebels fired their own homes. We had already started to let our guard down. Many of the boys were in the houses, looting, pillaging, raping no doubt. You know the score. Hundreds of us were trapped in the flames. You never get used to the stench of cooking flesh, the screams of people burning to death. But that first time was the worst.’

  Carbo suppressed a shudder, his own memories bubbling up.

  ‘So that’s why you joined the vigiles?’

  Vespillo shook his head. ‘I wish it was so noble. Truth is, the vigiles were the only ones that would have me. Even the urban cohorts wouldn’t touch me with a pilum.’

  Carbo was quiet, letting Vespillo collect himself.

  ‘When the war was over, we thought we would get our rewards. Land, discharge for those who had served their time. All our back pay. Then we heard about the Teutoberg disaster, and everything changed.’ Vespillo noticed that Carbo had gone very still. ‘Were you there?’ he asked.

  Carbo nodded. When he remained quiet, Vespillo continued.

  ‘I had been promoted to centurion by the time Percennius stirred things up. Protesting against the usual things, pay, conditions, length of service. The local civilians took a hammering. Robbery, rape, murder.’

  ‘Were you part of the revolt?’

  Vespillo shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Mutineering cunni,’ spat Carbo.

  Vespillo raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m sorry, friend,’ said Carbo, ‘but really, you guys did not have it bad. None of you went through what we, what I…’

  Carbo broke off. Vespillo waited to see if he would say more, then continued.

  ‘Well, I was beaten by my comrades as a result of my loyalty. Although later, after Drusus had talked the mutineers down, my steadfastness was noted and I was promoted to leading centurion of the second cohort. I was posted to a border fort in Thrace. Life became simpler, and more comfortable. I met a local woman, Orphea, who lived in one of the villages near the fort. She became as near to my wife as it is possible for a soldier to have. I made her comfortable, made sure the locals knew she was under my protection and was to be left alone. She was resented, even ostracized, for her fraternizing with the occupiers, but she bore it well, and she loved me. Eventually we had a son together.’

  Carbo looked up sharply. He had thought Vespillo was childless. Vespillo didn’t meet his gaze, but continued to stare down at the table. For a moment he didn’t speak and Carbo wondered if he had decided he had said enough. Then he went on and this time his voice cracked as he spoke.

  ‘Two years ago the Thracians revolted. The recruiting officers had been through their towns and villages, enthusiastically press-ganging anyone of military age into the auxiliaries. The Thracians probably had the right of it. They were certainly suffering, and at first they made peaceful representations. The governor played for time until reinforcements arrived. A legion from Moesia and some loyal Thracian auxiliaries answered his call, and he took the fight to the rebels. After his first victories he moved his headquarters closer to the enemy camp and he left the loyal Thracian auxiliaries behind to guard his previous headquarters.

  ‘I was stationed with the governor, fortifying his camp. The Thracians were fortified in the hills, and it became something of a stand-off. Then word got back to the camp of how the loyal Thracians were behaving. Apparently, with the blessing of their superiors, they were allowed to plunder the local countryside, provided they were back at night to guard the camp. That included my Orphea’s village.’

  Vespillo shook his head. ‘Remember, I had seen it before in the mutiny. I had seen what happened to civilians when soldiers drunk on wine and rage and battle lust were let loose on them.

  ‘I petitioned the governor to command them to restraint, or to send a detachment to enforce discipline. He ignored me, told me that the locals were in revolt and they were getting what they deserved. I cursed him and he had me removed from his presence. I was broken to the ranks and put on sentry duty. Out of my mind with worry, I deserted.’

  Vespillo looked into Carbo’s eyes now, searching for a reaction. Carbo stared back at him, shock written on his face.

  ‘You did what?’ he whispered. ‘And you have the nerve to sit here and drink with me?’ His voice rose. ‘A deserter. A coward!’

  Vespillo’s expression looked drawn. He nodded.

  ‘I deserve that, I know. But I was torn. Loyalty to the legions, or to my family.’

  ‘The legion first, Vespillo. Always.’

  ‘Really, Carbo. Are you so perfect? Do you always do the right thing, without hesitation? Besides, how would you know what it is like to have your family threatened? You, who have no one.’

  Car
bo opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, chastened.

  Vespillo sighed and continued. ‘I ran through the countryside, avoiding Roman patrols, Thracian rebels and rioting Thracian loyalists. I ran past burning villages and crops, past trees with bodies nailed to them, many still alive. I skirted around groups of soldiers who had cornered civilians, an old man they were stoning, a woman they were taking it in turns to rape. When I came to Orphea’s village it was already alight. Soldiers went from house to house, as they drank and laughed among the destruction. Orphea’s house wasn’t burning and I felt a surge of hope as I rushed inside.

  ‘Orphea was on her back on her table. A Thracian soldier was between her legs, while another jeered and laughed. I killed the spectator first with a thrust in his back, then when the other stood, I stabbed him in the heart. Then I turned to help Orphea. She was already dead, her throat cut. In the corner, his head caved in, was my four-year-old son.’

  Carbo looked down at the table. ‘I’m sorry.’ The words seemed completely inadequate.

  Vespillo swallowed. ‘There were ten Thracian auxiliaries in the village. They were drunk and slow. I killed them all. Then I returned to the governor and threw myself on his mercy. When he heard my story he put me in the front line, aiming to carry out my full punishment after the battle. I think he hoped I would die in the assault. I think I hoped I would too.

  ‘The Thracians were desperate when they came, starving and out of water. We fought all day, and then night fell and we fought all night. In the dark, no one could tell friend from enemy. We broke. A few of us stayed and fought. Those of us left pushed the Thracians back to their hill fortress at dawn, and they surrendered.