Vespillo set a chair upright. He gently helped Marisa up and guided her to sit down. He found an unbroken cup and a broken jug that still had some wine in it and pressed it into her hands. He went back to the door and looked out onto the street. He selected a young boy from the crowd and pressed a copper coin into his hands.
‘Go and fetch the vigiles from the fire station on the Esquiline. If you are quick enough there is another copper coin for you when you return.’
The boy raced off and Vespillo went back inside. Marsia was rocking herself back and forth, not touching the wine. Vespillo lifted the cup to her lips and made sure she drank. Then he said, ‘Marsia, I have to go and break this news to Carbo. He has been arrested, but he will be out soon. My men are on the way and they will help tidy up and make everything secure.’
Marsia nodded miserably, then looked up at him. ‘That poor child. She must be so scared. Find them, Vespillo.’
‘I will. Carbo and I will. By Jupiter, I promise.’
Chapter XVII
Hermogenes wobbled a little as he walked home through the Trans Tiberim area of Rome, the crowded region on the far side of the river. The Tiber to his right was full of merchant ships and barges, queuing for mooring space to offload their cargoes from around the Empire into the huge warehouses. Brays and snorts came from lines of donkeys and oxen, harnessed to carts or bearing empty saddlebags, waiting for the produce to reach them for distribution to the markets around the city. Mundane food supplies, jewellery, spices and perfumes that the wealthier Romans could afford scented the air with an exotic mix. It all flowed through here to feed the Roman maw.
A vast population of workers lived and toiled in this region, many slaves, but also the free poor and foreigners, looking for casual labour to buy them meat or wine to last their families a day or two.
It was a perfect place for an escaped slave to hide.
Hermogenes Publii Petronii servus. Hermogenes, the slave of Publius Petronius. Hermogenes rolled his slave name distastefully around in his mind. Being a slave meant giving up everything into your master’s possession. Even the name ‘Hermogenes’ wasn’t his given name, but after his drunkard Greek father had sold him into slavery as a boy, that was the name he had received from his new master. Having had a small amount of education, Hermogenes was eventually noticed by his master. He had risen to the position of steward of a small estate in Campania, overseeing the farm workers and providing accounts for his master. It was a privileged position, no manual labour, good living quarters, use of the best looking of the domestic slaves.
He had got too greedy, though, he knew that. While it was expected that the steward would skim a little off the profits, his taste for fine wine and expensive prostitutes had caused him to take a little too much. When the auditor arrived from Rome, he knew his time was short, and taking his savings and a fast horse, he had fled.
He had easily persuaded a local warehouse owner to give him a labouring job. Realizing how unfit he had become had been a shock to him. As a young man he had been able to work all day and not feel the fatigue, but good living and little exercise had let him run to fat. Two months of hard work, though, had put him well back on the path to being in shape, and soon he had received a promotion to overseer.
Now he had enough income to provide him with a basic food ration, lodgings, and some left over to get drunk from time to time. Occasionally he would sit with fellow workers in the tavern and crow about how life was good. Those below him resented it, those above him mocked it, but he didn’t care, and when he was rolling drunk, he would tell anyone that asked that being a free man was the world’s greatest gift.
He paused in his wanderings. Had he heard a footstep behind him? It was very late, and even in this crowded region there were few around, for fears of the usual muggers and cut-throats. The thought of being robbed rarely bothered him unduly – he was big enough to take care of himself and he carried little with him in the way of coinage at any one time. Still, he felt a little unsettled as he carried on his slightly weaving journey home.
The tall warehouses cast deep shadows, which even the bright gibbous moon could not illuminate. Hermogenes found himself sticking to the light where he could. He started to wish for his bed. The wine was starting to wear off, making him realize that he was cold and tired. He turned a corner.
The punch took him full in the face and knocked him flat on his back.
For a moment he just lay there, dazed, not quite understanding what had happened. Then a dark figure loomed over him. He looked up into emotionless eyes, and fear gripped him.
* * *
Publius Petronius looked down at the man at his feet. He presumed it was a man, although he was barely recognizable as such. The face was a mask of congealed blood. A leg and an arm bent at unnatural angles. Any part of the skin that was exposed or showed through the ripped tunic was bruised black. The stench of faeces suggested the man had soiled himself. Only the noise of bubbly breathing and the occasional groaning sob gave any indication that the man was alive. Petronius looked up at the short, wiry figure who had brought this pathetic bundle in and dumped it at his feet. He was surprised that the slight man had been able to carry the heavy weight with such ease.
‘What is this?’ asked Petronius.
‘This is the fugitive, Hermogenes Publii Petronii servus.’
Petronius regarded the man on the floor again.
‘I asked for him alive.’
The short man tilted his head on one side, his expression confused.
‘You can clearly see he is breathing.’
‘Barely. What use to me is a slave in this condition? It will take him months to recover, if he ever does.’
‘The contract did not specify a condition in which the fugitive was to be returned to you.’
‘Did he really put up such a fight that you had to do this to him?’
The man shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, I will not pay you. You may have honoured the letter of the contract, but you certainly have not honoured the spirit. I commend you for your diligence in tracking this slave down. He has wronged me, and deserved punishment, but he was also valuable and I had further use for him. I will pay you a quarter of the agreed fee, purely as a gesture of goodwill.’
The slave hunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘I spent a month tracking this man down. I have considerable expenses.’
‘That is not my concern. You have been told how much I will pay you.’
‘No.’
Petronius looked at the man in shock.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No. You will pay me the full amount you owe.’
Outrage suffused Petronius’ face, his plump cheeks turning ruddy.
‘I am Publius Petronius. I am a senator of Rome,’ he said. ‘I was a consul. I will not be dictated to in my own house!’
‘I am Dolabella, the fugitivarius. I do not fail to fulfil a contact, nor to collect what I am owed.’
Petronius stared at him in shock, then cried out. ‘Steward. Call the porters. Have this man removed from my premises.’
Several bulky slaves appeared at a run in moments. They surrounded Dolabella, waiting for instructions from Petronius. Dolabella held Petronius’ haughty stare for a moment, then turned and left without a word. Petronius realized he had been holding his breath and sighed. He looked down at the man at his feet. ‘Get this slave some medical attention. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this debacle.’
* * *
Petronius lay awake in bed, staring at the decorated ceiling, barely visible in the darkness. There were no external windows, just a slight glow under the cracks of the door from the moonlight and torches that illuminated the peristylium. He couldn’t sleep – he was strangely unsettled by the slave hunter who had been in his house a little earlier. He had sent his wife away and even spurned his favourite slave girl that night. He sighed and turned onto one side, staring at the wall.
Something cold and sharp t
ouched his neck, and he froze.
‘Do not make a sound,’ whispered a familiar voice, causing Petronius’ heart to miss a beat.
‘How did you get in here?’ croaked Petronius. The knife pricked the skin and Petronius felt a small dribble of wetness run down his throat.
‘I said, not a sound. Now, let’s walk to your safe. Get up slowly.’
Petronius did as he was told. He had not been wearing nightclothes, but Dolabella did not allow him to dress, and his nakedness heightened his sense of vulnerability. They walked together, Dolabella at his side, knife still at his throat.
‘You will be crucified for this,’ hissed Petronius. The knife pricked in again, drawing more blood, and Petronius gasped. They reached his office and he stood before the safe. He paused for a moment and looked round at Dolabella.
‘Pay me what you owe me,’ said Dolabella. Petronius hesitated, then unlocked the safe and withdrew a number of aurei. Dolabella tucked the coins into a purse on his belt. ‘Now double it.’
‘What?’
‘This second visit to collect my debt has been inconvenient. This is my fee for the inconvenience.’
The knife had not wavered, and Petronius sighed and counted out the same number of coins again. He rose to his feet.
‘You have what you asked for. Now leave and I will think about asking the urban cohorts to go lightly on you.’
Dolabella made no movement, the knife remaining at Petronius’ throat. Unblinking eyes fixed the senator’s gaze. For the first time now, Petronius started to feel genuine terror. This man had done horrible things to Hermogenes, and now he was in his power while all his staff slept. He wondered where the night porter was, then realized he was probably incapacitated or dead.
‘You can’t kill me,’ whispered Petronius. ‘I’m a senator.’
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ said Dolabella flatly. ‘But I do have a reputation to maintain. It wouldn’t do for my clients to think there were no consequences for reneging on a deal.’
Before Petronius could say another word, Dolabella flicked the dagger up over the senator’s cheek, opening a deep flap of skin, then plunged the point into the man’s eye. Petronius let out a ghastly shriek as he fell to his knees, clutching his face. Slaves were with him in moments, but through his agony he heard their whispered questions, asking who had done this, and he realized that Dolabella was gone.
* * *
Carbo stared at the walls of the holding cell. It was a converted cellar below the barracks of the urban cohorts and a small amount of street-level light filtered through a high, barred window. Graffiti covered the walls, scratched into the soft cement with fingernails or any sharper instrument the guards had been too lazy or incompetent to discover. ‘Centurion Herennius is a cocksucker’, ‘May the gods curse Porcius, whose bad faith put me here’, ‘Will I ever see Ambusta again?’ and ‘Friend, watch out for the guards, they will try to bugger you while you sleep.’
From the window he could hear the sounds of street life continuing, the traffic and merchants and tradesmen contributing to the cacophony. In his little cell nothing changed. There was no bed, no chamber pot or bucket. There was a pool of stale water in one corner which he had used to slake his thirst. The opposite corner he used as a latrine. No one had come to see him yet, not a guard to bring him food, nor a friend. He had no news of what had happened since the urban cohorts had hauled him away, roughly this time the day before, and his stomach was a knot of tension and frustration. He tried not to dwell on the fates that could have befallen Rufa and Fabilla, but with no other mental stimulation it was an impossible task. Had they been killed outright? Returned to Elissa for whatever she intended for them? Imprisoned somewhere, like him, awaiting crucifixion or some other grisly punishment for their escape?
He punched a fist into the wall. Some loose cement came away, but the wall barely yielded and his knuckles came away grazed, small spots of blood welling up. The pain felt good, felt justified. He had promised to protect them and he had failed. Failed in his oath to them and to their father. Dark despair threatened to overwhelm him. He looked around the cell for the hundredth time, wondering if there was something he had missed, some way out. The high window was out of his reach. Despite the unlikelihood of success, he had tried jumping and climbing. The door was solid oak, with a small, cross-barred window. It didn’t yield to kicks or punches, nor did anyone come to investigate the noise when he yelled. He paced the cell like a caged lion waiting for its turn in the arena, but eventually he gave up and slumped on the floor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He had had time to ponder things while he was locked up. He thought about Elissa and the story that Rufa had told him. Having met the woman, he now had no doubts as to the truth of the tale, and he could also see how people fell under her spell. She was intelligent, persuasive, calm. But it was her eyes, the piercing gaze, that made it so hard to ignore her, so tempting to give her what she wanted. What could a woman like that achieve, what harm could she cause, with an evil will and a band of fanatic followers?
He shuddered. Unbidden, as always, images of priestesses in white came to his mind. The dark cell disappeared, and he was in Germany. Naked, bound, terrified, as the priestess leaned over him, curved knife in hand. He pulled his knees up to his chest and started to tremble.
* * *
Upstairs, Vespillo took a deep breath and counted to ten slowly. He let it out and tried again.
‘I must insist that you release this man.’
‘With the greatest respect, Tribune,’ Lucius Mocius Poppillius said, pronouncing the title with a sneer, ‘you have no authority over me. I am not in your chain of command. I am a member of the urban cohorts, part of the army, not a semi-professional band of firemen and vigilantes.’
‘You are aware, Centurion,’ Vespillo also laid emphasis on the title, attempting to reiterate his seniority, ‘that two of my men were murdered, along with several civilians, at the premises of the man you hold downstairs. We are investigating the matter, and witnesses say that members of the urban cohorts were involved. Not only do you hold no evidence against the man you have imprisoned, but he is material to our ongoing investigation. The co-operation of the urban cohorts would be noted and appreciated. It may influence our conclusions on whether criminal activities in the cohorts are due to rogue elements, or something more systemic, going up the chain of command.’
Vespillo held Poppillius’ stare. Poppillius looked to one side, calculation appearing in his expression. Vespillo could tell he was wavering, but the centurion still held out.
‘We believe he is involved in the illegal harbouring of fugitive slaves.’
‘For which you have no evidence.’
‘When we recapture the slaves and torture them we will have evidence enough.’
‘Then at that time you can re-arrest him.’
Still Poppillius looked uncertain. Vespillo sighed.
‘Very well, I will report your intransigence to Macro.’ Vespillo looked at Poppillius. ‘Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro, that is, Prefect of the vigiles. Quite the up-and-coming man, I hear, someone who is going places in Rome. Not someone in whose bad books you want to be.’
‘Look,’ said Poppillius, and Vespillo could tell from the centurion’s expression that he was beaten and was looking for a way out with pride. ‘We are certainly sorry for your losses and will help with your investigation any way we can. My information is that the incident was already over when my men arrived at the tavern. They found your men and the civilians dead, and presumed it was a local gang. I understand there was some history between the man downstairs and a local gang leader. Some of my men were even killed by these gang members before they escaped.’
Vespillo considered letting Poppillius know he had eyewitness accounts of the cohorts’ raid from Marsia, but now was not the time, and besides, the word of an untortured slave was worthless anyway.
‘Thank you, that will be very helpful in our enquiry. But
having your prisoner released to my custody will also be most useful.’
‘If I am releasing him to your custody, then I can see no harm,’ said Poppillius. ‘As long as we can have him back when we recapture the fugitives.’
‘Of course, if you recapture them, and they implicate him.’ Vespillo smiled. ‘Would you like me to fetch him, or do you have a man who can do that?’
Poppillius snapped an order to a nearby legionary, who hurried off.
‘Would you like some wine?’ asked Poppillius. ‘Just to show there are no hard feelings, just two soldiers doing their jobs.’
Vespillo smiled but shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I have a busy day ahead of me. Water would be acceptable, though.’
Poppillius frowned slightly, but commanded a slave to fetch him wine, and his guest, water. Vespillo sipped from the cup, waiting quietly now. Poppillius looked like he wanted to fill the silence, but could think of nothing to say.
The legionary returned, leading Carbo before him.
‘Found him quivering,’ he said to Poppillius, laughing. ‘Dirty bastard has shat and pissed in one corner. Shall I make him clean it up?’
‘Perhaps if you had provided him with access to a latrine, or even a bucket, that wouldn’t have happened,’ said Vespillo angrily. ‘You try holding it in for a whole day. Carbo, have they fed you?’
Carbo shook his head, a little numb at the sight of his friend.
‘Poppillius, is this how you treat everyone before they are found guilty? It’s a disgrace. I will have to consider whether to include this in my report to the Prefect. Come on, Carbo, you are released to my custody. Let’s go.’
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