Vespillo led Carbo out of the barracks by the elbow.
* * *
Carbo wanted Vespillo to tell him everything that had happened straight away, but Vespillo, after saying only that Rufa and Fabilla were alive, insisted that Carbo had something to eat and drink before telling him more. He had wanted Carbo to bathe as well, but knew that that could wait. They sat by a fountain and Carbo used cupped hands to collect water to quench his thirst. Vespillo bought sausages and bread from a nearby stall and Carbo wolfed them down greedily.
He wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve and turned to Vespillo.
‘Thank you, friend, for getting me out of that place.’ He had regained his composure, the terrors of captivity disappearing once he saw the blue September sky. ‘Now I need to know, what happened after I was arrested? Where are Rufa and Fabilla?’
Vespillo sighed and looked down. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
Carbo reached over and grabbed his arm, looking at him intently. ‘What do you mean? Are they safe?’
‘That I don’t know either, but I believe they are. They had fled the tavern by the time I arrived.’
‘So the urban cohorts did go there. How did they know? Cilo and Manius?’
‘There’s more, Carbo. There was a fight. My men Dentatus and Bucco, they died giving Rufa and Fabilla time to escape.’
‘I’m sorry. Marsia? Philon?’
‘Marsia is fine. She killed a cohort legionary, but no one will hear that from me. Philon was out on an errand when it all happened, he returned when it was all over. Vomited his guts up when he saw the mess.’
Carbo looked at his hands, clasped together before him. He was exhausted, not having managed to sleep in his cell, feeling washed out in the aftermath of the panic that had gripped him. Thinking straight was difficult, but he forced himself to focus. Where would Rufa go? Her freedom was so limited as a slave, she couldn’t know the city too well. Besides, she knew she wouldn’t be able to survive on her own, that she still needed him. She would be too scared to return to the tavern, though. She must have given him some indication of where she had run to, then, a clue she could have left quickly when she realized the house was being raided.
‘I want to get back to the tavern.’
‘Of course. Are you happy to make your way there from here? I have some reports to write, and a hundred other distractions of my job.’
‘I will struggle home, I’m sure.’
‘Well, call if you need anything.’ Vespillo put a hand on Carbo’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘Anything.’
‘Thank you, Vespillo, for you all your help. I will see you soon.’
Carbo made his way through the city streets, the early afternoon sun making him sweat. He bought more food and drank from more fountains on the way back. His legs were weak from the lack of food and the general anxiety he felt. He trod the increasingly familiar route back to his tavern wearily, as the sun started to dip in the sky. As he neared the tavern, a young boy who had been lounging against a wall caught sight of him and hared off down the street. Carbo approached the scruffy place that was his home and business, thinking that when this was all over, he should spend some time doing the place up, then cursing himself for the distraction.
He walked in through the front door and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. The face of the figure in front of him, with Marsia seated on his lap, slowly became identifiable. It was Manius.
Carbo froze and looked around him. Cilo lounged against a wall, stroking a terrified-looking Philon’s hair. Around the tavern sat six gang members. These ones looked tough, Carbo thought to himself. They were all well built, with pitiless expressions and gazes that didn’t waver, and all were armed with clubs and coshes.
Carbo’s hand dropped to his side for his sword, cursing as he realized he had not worn one since he left his house to visit Elissa the day before. He was well outnumbered and unarmed. Despair overcame him again. Surely this encounter was not survivable. He looked around again. Where were the vigiles that Vespillo said would replace Dentatus and Bucco?
‘Welcome to my tavern,’ said Manius, a broad smile on his face.
Carbo didn’t reply, but kept his eyes on Manius while his peripheral vision monitored for movement.
‘Philon, go and get my guest a drink. Just some cheap lora, I think, nothing too special for this one.’
Philon moved quickly, legs trembling, to pour a cup of wine for Carbo. Carbo ignored the proffered cup.
‘You decline my hospitality, my wine, from my slave, in my tavern?’ Manius gestured around him.
‘What do you want, Manius?’ asked Carbo in a low voice.
‘Want? Nothing, Carbo. I have already taken what I wanted. Look around you. The little bucket boys your friend Vespillo left here fled as soon as they saw us. This tavern is now mine. And I must say I like it. I think I will enjoy spending time here. I like my new slaves too.’ Manius slid his hand inside Marsia’s tunic and squeezed her breast hard. She stiffened, remaining silent, but Carbo saw the fury in her eyes.
‘This will not stand, Manius. I will not allow it, nor will Vespillo.’
‘Vespillo is not here, Carbo, nor his lackeys. You are on your own. And when you are dead, the matter will be a moot point. Vespillo can protest all he likes then, but you will no longer be the boil on my arse that you have been. No one around here will bear witness against me either, nor will anyone try to take over this tavern. Certainly not when they have seen what we do to you.’
Carbo kept his face expressionless, but Manius laughed.
‘So brave, the old veteran. But I am sorry, your death will not be an easy one. You have undermined my authority around here. Before you arrived people would clear the way before me. Now they jostle me in the street, whisper as I walk past. I have even heard laughter. Today, the laughter will end for you, and everyone in this gods-cursed neighbourhood.’
Manius nodded to Cilo, and Cilo gestured to the thugs. ‘Take him.’
The men advanced on Carbo from all sides and his heart sank as he found himself hopelessly outnumbered in a fight for the second time in two days. This time, though, the outcome wouldn’t be a short stay in a cell.
Carbo dropped into a wrestler’s couch, legs spread, weight low to reduce his chance of being knocked over. Big as his assailants were, Carbo was bigger. He knew it wasn’t enough and decided he had to take the initiative.
Without warning, Carbo exploded forward, his head down, charging into the nearest thug, his shoulder striking into the man’s midriff. The man was thrown backwards onto the hard floor, the wind knocked out of him, and as Carbo’s weight followed through, he heard ribs crack. The man’s club, a long stick with a nail hammered into the end, fell loose on the ground. Carbo dived for it, grabbed it, and rolled to his feet. He was backed against a wall now, and there was room for only three men to approach.
Carbo swung his club wildly at them, keeping them at bay, and they held back out of his reach.
‘Get him, you cowards!’ yelled Cilo. ‘Get him now, or you will not be paid.’
The men exchanged glances, nodded to each other, then rushed Carbo all at once. Carbo stopped one swinging cosh with his club, and ducked another blow which smashed into the wall behind him with a crack. Plaster and dust flew into the air. The third man’s club caught him a glancing blow across the shoulder, which staggered him and made his arm grow weak, but he gripped his own club tightly and swung it hard at head height. The wicked nail struck the third man’s temple and penetrated his skull to its full length. The man stiffened and toppled over, a pool of blood spreading from the fatal head wound. The nail snagged in the bone, however, and the club was torn from his hands.
One of the thugs had got behind him and he shoved Carbo hard in the back, sending him sprawling forwards to the floor. Now there was room for the four thugs still standing to get round him and they started raining kicks and club strikes. He managed to grab one foot and twist, feeling the knee pop and
hearing a satisfying scream, but the others redoubled their efforts, and then he could do nothing but curl up and wait for his fate. Repeated blows to his back and legs and head were agony and he tried to keep from crying out. A firm kick connected with the back of his head, and even though his hands cupped around it protected his skull a little, he felt darkness looming in from his peripheral vision. His head was struck again, and the darkness became complete.
Chapter XVIII
Carbo heard the sound of voices before he could open his eyes. Far off, the hubbub of Roman street life was audible, but nearby those noises were strangely muted. He opened his eyes and found his face was flat on the ground, staring horizontally out over the detritus of the street – the broken pots and jars, the food remains, the human and animal faeces. He saw feet, hairy and gnarled, clustered in small groups nearby. He tried to sit up, but found simultaneously that his hands were bound behind him, and that his whole body screamed in agony when he tried to move any part of it. An odd, acrid smell stung his nostrils.
‘He’s awake,’ came a deep voice.
‘At last, sit him up.’ The voice sounded like Manius. Rough hands grabbed him and jerked him to an upright sitting position. He cried out involuntarily, then clamped his mouth shut. He found himself propped against solid stone. He recognized that he was at the crossroads of the street on which his tavern intersected the Clivus Suburanus. That meant that behind him was the statue of Mercurius Sobrium, the statue that Augustus himself had gifted to the district. The crossroads were a focal point in the community and consisted of an open, paved plaza where the two roads met, with a raised platform of marble-veneered limestone. Carbo realized that he was propped against the altar to the statue on this raised platform. At a respectful distance a small group of locals from the neighbourhood had gathered, quietly watching the scene with curiosity. Nearer were a group of Manius’ men, and in front of him were Manius and Cilo. Manius had his back to Carbo, and was looking out over the crowd.
‘All of you, residents of the Subura, men, women and children,’ said Manius in a loud voice that dripped with the lower-class accent the rich and powerful mocked. ‘Look at this pathetic, beaten man.’ He turned to Carbo and spat on him, a phlegmy gob that hit him on the side of the face. Carbo didn’t flinch, but inside his heart was in despair.
‘Some of you were starting to think this man was a hero, weren’t you?’ Manius continued. ‘A champion of the people? Standing up to the bullies?’ He turned again and gave Carbo a kick in the side. Carbo groaned, but remained upright.
‘I saw you all,’ he continued. ‘The way you started to look at me in the street. The way you muttered as me and my son walked past. Some of you even thought you could stop paying me my rightful taxes, the protection money that keeps you safe. You thought that you didn’t need me, now you had your hero Carbo, and those losers playing at soldiers in between putting out fires.
‘Well, I am going to show you what happens to those who defy me. I am going to show you who is in charge here. Not Carbo. Not the little bucket boys. Not the old men in the Crossroads Brotherhood or the urban cohorts or the Praetorians or even fucking Tiberius himself!’ His voice crescendoed, and the crowd shrunk back a little at the anger and the blasphemy against the divine Emperor.
‘And when I have finished with this pathetic turd, we will be visiting each and every one of your taverns and cobblers and butchers and whatever else you do to scratch a living, and you will pay every as you owe me, and you will pay as much again for your disrespect. I will not be mocked.’ Each word of the last sentence came out as a roar. He gestured to his men, who had been standing around grinning. Two of them went to fetch a large jar and between them they heaved it over to him. Unceremoniously, they upended the jar, covering Carbo in sticky oil. He looked up uncomprehending, as the viscous liquid streamed down his hair and face. Then Cilo came into his field of view. He was holding a flaming torch.
Carbo looked down at himself and realization came with a sickening feeling in his guts. The acrid smell was because his clothing, which he had thought sticky with blood, was coated in pitch. The oil was lamp oil. And Cilo stood before him with a flame.
Cilo’s face leered in front of his, the damaged nose just inches from his own. ‘Have you got any last words, hero?’ sneered Cilo.
Carbo tried to speak, swallowed, tried again. ‘I’m not a hero,’ he croaked.
‘What was that?’ said Cilo, plainly enjoying this moment of victory, wanting to savour it as long as possible. ‘Speak up, hero.’
Carbo had to spit some sickly-tasting oil out of his mouth. He spoke in a louder voice this time.
‘I’m not a hero.’ He looked out at the surrounding crowd. ‘I’m just a retired soldier, trying to make a home. I just wanted to be left alone.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have made trouble for us,’ said Cilo.
‘You made trouble for yourselves.’
‘Well, we are ending it now.’ Cilo waved the torch near Carbo’s face, and he could feel the heat. Terror started to rise within him, the unbidden memories of a clearing in Germany, white-robed priestesses cackling at him.
Carbo slumped, his head falling onto his chest. Utter despair overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes. He had failed Rufa, failed Fabilla. Now he was going to die, and die horribly, bound, in the manner of his recurring nightmares.
‘He is a hero,’ came a loud female voice with a German accent. Carbo thought it must be in his head, the Germanic priestesses mocking him. But the voice came again, and he realized the source was in the crowd.
‘He is a hero to me.’
Carbo raised his head and saw Marsia. She was standing at the front of the onlookers. There was matted blood on her hair, a ruddy bruise on one side of her face. But she stood with hands on hips, staring down Cilo and Manius defiantly.
‘Shut your mouth, you slave whore,’ said Manius. ‘Watch your master die.’
‘He fought for the Empire,’ came another female voice, tremulous, but loud. ‘Like my sons.’
‘He stood up to those thugs who oppress us every day, while the urban cohorts stand by and do nothing,’ shouted someone else from the back of the crowd.
‘His mother was Atella,’ came a woman’s voice. Carbo saw it was Gnaea, standing beside Lucius and clutching his arm. ‘He’s one of us.’
A low muttering went around the onlookers, whose number was starting to swell. They no longer looked so cowed. Manius and Cilo exchanged looks, uncertain. Marsia turned to address the onlookers.
‘Are we going to go back to how it was? Paying money we can’t afford so these men won’t hurt us? Bowing to these scum in the street, though they aren’t worthy of us shitting on them?’
Sporadic shouts from the crowd broke out, ‘No, never.’ But no one moved.
‘Is Carbo the only hero today?’ Marsia yelled at them. ‘My ancestors would not allow this to one of their own. Won’t you all be heroes as well?’
Vatius, head bandaged, called out in a croaky voice. ‘Plato said, courage is knowing what not to fear. Friends, don’t think just of helping Carbo. Think of yourselves, your families, living under the tyranny of these murderers, every day scared for your lives and your livelihoods. All we have to fear is that today we do nothing.’
‘Shut the old fool and that slave up,’ said Manius to Cilo. Cilo passed Manius the torch, stepped forward and grabbed her by the arm. A boy in the front of the crowd, no more than nine or ten, threw a stone, little more than a pebble, but it hit Cilo in the head and made him yelp. One of the thugs stepped forward and clubbed the boy in the head, and the boy crumpled to the floor, head caved in. There was a momentary pause as the crowd took in what they had just seen. His mother, a stout, dark-haired woman, let out a wail. Then there was a roar of anger and the onlookers surged forward.
Manius’ men held their ground for a short while, swinging clubs and wielding knives, but the press of an angry mob quickly overwhelmed them. Some of the thugs dropped their weapons and ra
n, others went down under the feet of the mob, where kicks and stamps made sure few of them would ever rise again. Cilo and Manius exchanged terrified looks, then Cilo broke and ran. Manius turned to Carbo, face twisting in anger. Then he threw the burning torch at Carbo and fled.
The torch landed in Carbo’s lap. He twisted and bucked his hips, and he managed to throw the torch off his body, but the pitch and oil ignited, and started to burn. He felt the heat against his chest grow, a warmth that went quickly from uncomfortable to unbearable. He closed his eyes and screamed.
Someone grabbed his hands and cut his bonds, then thrust him onto his back. The same person then leapt onto him, smothering the flames on his body with their own, hugging him tight, starving the fire of air. The fire went out. He opened his eyes to find himself looking into the concerned eyes of Marsia, her face an inch away from his own.
‘Master,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’
He tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs protested and he found it hard to get enough air in. Still, he managed a small smile.
‘There seems to be some sort of weight on my chest. Otherwise, I’m fine.’
Marsia smiled back and gingerly got off him, inspecting him carefully to make sure there were no sparks or hot embers on him that could reignite. Around them, the riot had stopped as quickly as it had started. Down the Clivus Suburanus, Carbo could see a group of men marching. At their head was Vespillo. The crowd, seeing the group of vigiles with grim expressions on their faces, melted quickly away, taking their wounded and one or two dead with them, and leaving the bodies, mostly unmoving, of the street gang behind.
Vespillo marched up to Carbo.
‘I leave you alone for a couple of hours…’ He shook his head. ‘Someone reported what was going on. I didn’t think the urban cohorts would rouse themselves for a minor disturbance like this, and it sounded like you needed help.’ He looked around him. ‘Looks like I was wrong.’
Carbo counted around twenty casualties.
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