Watchmen of Rome

by Watchmen of Rome (retail) (epub)

  Sullen stares met his challenging gaze, but there was no reply. Vespillo pointed to a stocky, middle-aged man. ‘You. Why didn’t you help?’

  The man shrugged. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  Carbo stood slowly, unpeeling Rufa’s arms from him. He stepped towards the man, who stood hastily, backing away a step.

  ‘Look, Sentius was a bad one,’ he babbled. ‘Stand up to him and he might knife you in your sleep. There was nothing we could do.’

  Carbo’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the throat and thrusting him against the wall of the tomb. The heavy man impacted the brickwork hard enough to dislodge plaster. Carbo started to squeeze the man’s neck, looking into his eyes as they started to bulge.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  Carbo looked round at Vespillo, ignoring the choking and kicking from the man he held.

  ‘Let him go,’ said Vespillo sternly. Carbo held his gaze. ‘Rufa needs you.’

  Carbo looked over to Rufa, and the anger evaporated. He released the man, let him fall to the floor gasping for breath, and stepped over to where Rufa sat against the wall, holding Fabilla to her. He knelt down beside her and stroked the hair tenderly away from her face, seeing the red mark from the slap, the tear-streaks showing cleaner skin beneath the dirt. He leant forward and kissed the top of her head, then put an arm around her. He tried to pull her torn tunic back together, but it was too badly damaged. Casting around, he saw an elderly man wrapped in a scruffy blanket. He grabbed it off him, the protests quickly cut off by a warning glance from Carbo. Gently he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.

  ‘How did you find me?’ she asked.

  ‘Out of the frying pan, into the oven? It was Vespillo, he guessed you meant the baker’s tomb. He knows Rome much better than me. Why didn’t you just tell Marsia where you were going?’

  ‘I was about to, then I hesitated. I know what happens to slaves when they are interrogated. I couldn’t expect Marsia to keep me a secret under torture. Then the soldiers were there and it was too late.’

  Carbo nodded. ‘Come on, let’s get you both out of here.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Rufa, annoyed with the self-pitying tone of her voice but unable to help it. ‘Where is there to run?’

  ‘Let me worry about that.’ He helped her to her feet. Vespillo moved beside them, and together the four of them walked out of the tomb.

  * * *

  Dolabella leaned against a wall, just round the corner from the baker’s tomb. A little while had passed since Vespillo and Carbo had entered the unusual building. He presumed that meant there was something of interest inside. He was a patient man. Waiting was part of his job.

  Four figures emerged from the tomb. Carbo and Vespillo, with a woman and a child. The child had a cloak that covered her hair. But the woman was clothed only in a torn tunic and a blanket. Her bright red hair was on show. There could be no doubt that he had found his targets.

  He considered his options for a moment, all the while watching to see what Carbo and the others did. They hesitated, Carbo and Vespillo in deep conversation, before nodding, and heading together down the street in the direction of the Esquiline. Dolabella followed at a short distance.

  Carbo was walking on one side of the woman, his arm around her. The child was on the other side, holding her hand tight. Vespillo walked a little behind, looking left and right for possible threats. Dolabella moved a little faster. From the folds of his tunic he brought out one of his favourite weapons, a leather pouch filled with lead weights. He hefted it in his hand, a tight smile coming to his face.

  Carbo and the two fugitive slaves rounded a corner. Vespillo was a few paces behind. Dolabella swiftly closed the gap between them. He raised his arm, and with all the force of his tough, wiry frame, he brought the weapon down on the back of Vespillo’s head. Vespillo crumpled to the ground soundlessly.

  Dolabella turned the corner swiftly. Only a few paces ahead of him, Carbo and the two slaves were oblivious to the fate that had just befallen their friend. Dolabella moved closer and prepared to strike.

  Chapter XX

  Elissa stood on a small dais before her worshippers, arms outstretched, dressed in a simple white robe. She was flanked by Shafat and Glaukos. In the front row, she saw Scrofa and Metella. They knelt before her, heads pressed to the ground as she chanted. The words were Punic, learnt by rote from her mother, and even she only partly understood their meaning. But her followers listened to the exotic and mystical-sounding words intently, awed by her presence.

  This was the biggest temple she had dedicated to the Lord and Lady. It was situated in an extensive cellar beneath a fullery. The main room was large, dark and damp. Multiple side rooms, alcoves and corridors radiated away from this area.

  The strong ammoniacal odour of urine drifted down, mixing with the sweet smell of incense and the smoke from the oil lamps that cast a dim light around. The fuller was an adherent to her cause, a freedman originally from Parthia, who despite his relatively privileged place in society, still hated the Romans and all they stood for. She saw him at the back, bowed in supplication with all the rest, and she felt a momentary pride. All these disenchanted, oppressed citizens. Slaves, freedmen, foreigners, the bulk of the population of Rome. Ignored, looked down upon, abused by the elite in charge. All ready to rise up. And not in some remote part of the country, like Spartacus had, where they could be isolated, trapped, defeated by the legions. No, here, in Rome, the throbbing centre. She was going to rip the heart out of the Empire.

  She knew that, numerous as they were, her people were not enough. Nor would they, even with the others, the ones she was sure would flock to her rallying cry, have the morale, the backbone to defeat the Romans. But if the Romans were already half-defeated, if some disaster were to befall them…

  She laughed to herself at the naivety of those who ran the Empire. They worried about the barbarians at their borders and ignored the huge number of enemies that slept on the streets outside their luxury mansions. They thought that banning slaves from wearing a uniform so that they didn’t realize how numerous they were was sufficient to prevent an uprising. Slaves lacked freedom, not intelligence. The enslaved and poor of Rome outnumbered the elite and their soldiers many times, and they knew it. All it needed was a spark, a catalyst, to bring the whole shaky edifice tumbling down, like the regular collapse of one of the shoddily built insulae that the heartless landlords charged rent for to those who could not complain.

  And then? When Rome had fallen, when anarchy reigned, what next? She could barely restrain her excitement. Then Rome would belong to the Lord Ba’al Hammon and the Lady Tanit. She would be queen, a new Dido, beloved by her followers, feared by the Romans. The sole ruler of a new Carthage, arisen in the centre of the old Roman Empire.

  Then the old ways could return. The Romans would pay for their injustices. They would become the slaves, the slaves their masters. Their men would toil in mines, their women in domestic servitude or in brothels, their children… ah, their children. The tophets would be filled with the screams of sacrifice, the cries of bereaved parents, the air rich with the stench of cooking flesh as the sacrifices fed the flames.

  She stopped chanting and held her hands high in the air. Her heart was pounding, her breathing deep. An excitement coursed through her whole body, a feeling more intense than sex, as she felt her ambitions coming close to fruition. She let the silence stretch, savouring the moment. Then she let her hands drop.

  ‘Rise, faithful servants,’ she said. The prostrate crowd straightened, kneeling or sitting up, eyes fixed on her.

  ‘The day is at hand,’ she said. ‘The time of liberation approaches. The Lord and Lady will come. Be ready for the day. Be ready to take your freedom!’

  The worshippers cried out their joy and obedience. She bathed in their adulation. Then she slowly stepped down from the dais and walked among them, bestowing blessings as she went. At the back of her mind, a nagging doubt surfaced. Cou
ld she do it without the sacrifice? The Lord and Lady had been clear to her – she needed the girl. What if Dolabella did not recapture the fugitives? She would have to delay everything, or the Lord and Lady would ensure failure. And if she delayed, would her followers lose faith? Would all those faithful, putting her plans into place, conclude that she was words and nothing more? Would they drift away, find other causes, other cults? Isis, Serapis, Cybele, this newcomer Mithras? Could she hold her followers to her, to the Lord and Lady, by her force of will alone?

  She shook her head. It would not happen. Dolabella would succeed. She would have her sacrifice and the gods would bless her endeavours. And Rome would fall.

  * * *

  Metella smiled, at peace with herself. The certainties of the faith, the calming rituals, the communion with her fellow worshippers and with the gods, made her feel almost whole again, for the first time since her husband had died.

  She had donated large funds to Elissa’s cult. It had pleased her to do it. What use was money to her anyway, without her beloved Decimus to share it with? Elissa and her group, who had given her comfort when she needed them, more than her money-grubbing family, more than her husband’s aloof relatives, were more deserving than anyone else she knew.

  As the ceremony finished and the worshippers drifted away, she approached Elissa, who was in a corner talking to her steward Shafat and the scarred bodyguard, Glaukos.

  ‘Mother Elissa,’ said Metella. She was taken aback to see Elissa turn to her with a flicker of annoyance on her face. It was only a moment before Elissa smiled benignly at her, but Metella had noticed.

  ‘Yes, Metella dear. What is it?’

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for the service. I wondered maybe if we could spend some time together privately, so we could talk more about the Lord and Lady, and pray together.’

  ‘Metella, I’m very busy,’ said Elissa, a note of exasperation in her voice. ‘I don’t think that will be possible.’

  ‘But Mother, I thought I… was blessed. Foremost in the sight of the Lord and Lady, you said. A special one.’

  ‘We all have our parts to play, Metella,’ snapped Elissa. ‘Now, please, I have matters to discuss.’

  Elissa turned her back on Metella and ushered Glaukos and Shafat out of a back door. Glaukos looked back at her, a lascivious leer on his face. Metella stood staring at the door in shock. She felt completely alone. The place she thought she belonged, the woman she had come to rely on, had just rejected her. She was overwhelmed with a sudden conviction that they were talking about her, laughing about her. The door was ajar, and she gently nudged it open. She could hear their voices coming from a small private chamber at the end of a long corridor and she tiptoed down it. Standing outside, back flattened to the wall, heart racing from her clandestine actions, she could hear their words clearly.

  ‘What will happen if Dolabella fails?’ That was the voice of Shafat, she knew.

  ‘You should have sent me to do the job, Mother,’ said Glaukos.

  Elissa’s tone was lightly mocking. ‘You? What skills do you have to track down an escaped slave?’

  ‘Who needs those sort of skills? I would just go round and kill that dumb veteran who has been sheltering her.’

  ‘What would that solve?’ said Shafat. ‘Killing isn’t always the solution.’

  ‘Sometimes it is,’ said Glaukos. ‘If I hadn’t gutted that upper-class twit Decimus for the mother, then we wouldn’t have that silly bitch his widow’s cash to fund the Lord and Lady’s plans.’

  Metella’s heart seemed to stop. Her world began to crumble around her. All the certainties she had started to build up vanished in an instant.

  ‘Metella has served us well, it is true,’ said Elissa. ‘She is becoming something of an annoyance now, though, with her neediness and her cries for justice. Maybe we will need to do something about her in time.’

  Metella held her breath as she walked quietly away. As soon as she felt she was out of earshot, she ran, tears streaming down her face.

  * * *

  Scared and traumatized as she was, Fabilla could still be drawn by pretty jewellery. The woman walking towards her had long, dangly gold earrings, and the young girl’s eyes followed as she walked past, head turning behind her. She saw the man behind them, saw him step forward briskly, something heavy in his hand, saw him bring the hand up. She screamed.

  Carbo whirled, pushing Fabilla and Rufa aside. The cosh was already descending. Carbo threw an arm up and took the attack on his forearm, feeling the weight of the blow jar his bones. He thrust the weapon to one side with a lateral movement of his arm and stepped forward, a roundhouse punch arcing through the air with sufficient force to put his assailant on the ground.

  The punch connected only with empty air, as Dolabella ducked and stepped to one side. Carbo threw a left hook, but again Dolabella had moved and Carbo had to pull himself back to avoid overbalancing. Dolabella stood just out of his reach, feet slightly apart, slightly raised onto his toes. Carbo recognized the stance of someone who knew how to fight and realized he was in a real contest.

  ‘Give me the fugitives,’ said Dolabella.

  Carbo could sense Fabilla and Rufa a short way behind him. He half-turned and said to them out of the corner of his mouth, ‘Run!’

  Fabilla grabbed Rufa’s hand and pulled her away, disappearing off into the crowds. Dolabella’s eyes narrowed, watching them go, then he turned his gaze back to the large man before him.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ said Dolabella, his voice low and dangerous.

  ‘You will have to come through me,’ said Carbo.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you the hero, soldier boy?’ sneered Dolabella. ‘All tough from your battles against unarmoured barbarians. Let’s see how you do in a fair fight.’

  Carbo suspected Dolabella knew all there was to know about fighting dirty, but he let the remark go. The truth was he knew a bit about street fighting himself. Very little time spent in the legions actually involved fighting an enemy. Most of the time it was training, drills, camp maintenance, and brawls with comrades and civilians in streets and taverns. A centurion had to be able to hold his own, more than hold his own, in these situations or lose the respect of his legionaries completely. Carbo had never had problems before. His size had been enough when he was young and as he got older experience had compensated for the slowness and stiffness that ageing and scars had caused. He had never had cause to be anything other than self-confident in a fight.

  The man in front of him made him doubt himself. The odds had been against him many times before, but in a one-on-one situation, he couldn’t remember the last time he had been concerned. This man, though, the way he held himself, showed no fear, unlike most people who Carbo threatened. Carbo watched him carefully, looking for any betrayal of intentions in his eyes.

  There was no warning when Dolabella moved. In an instant he went from still and relaxed to swinging a punch towards Carbo’s throat. Carbo blocked it and gasped when he felt a sharp pain in his forearm. He stepped back to find blood running down to his elbow and realized that Dolabella had managed to produce a knife with such dexterity Carbo had not even noticed. Carbo cast around him for a weapon to even things up. He noticed an old piece of lead piping hanging down from a wall, bent and buckled from some old collision. He grabbed it, pulled and twisted and it came away in his hand to give him a foot-long club.

  Dolabella waved his knife in small circles, a half smile on his face. Carbo took a step forward and swung the pipe towards Dolabella’s midriff. Dolabella skipped back and Carbo reversed the swing, lower again, so Dolabella had to jump over its trajectory to avoid having his shins broken. He didn’t pause, though, making a straight arm thrust towards Carbo’s chest even before he landed. Carbo twisted sideways awkwardly, unbalanced by his swing, and the knife grazed his ribs, drawing more blood. Carbo was a big man and though he was losing blood, the amount was not enough to affect him yet. He knew what could happen, though, given sufficient small inj
uries to drain him of his strength. He stepped back, holding the pipe in one hand, his left hand free.

  ‘They are gone,’ said Carbo. ‘I don’t know where. There is no point us still fighting.’

  Dolabella laughed. ‘I think my job would be easier with you out of the way.’

  ‘What is your job, exactly?’ asked Carbo.

  ‘I am Dolabella, the fugitivarius. I’m sure you have heard of me.’

  ‘No,’ said Carbo.

  Dolabella frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then lunged again. This time the knife nicked Carbo’s midriff, but even as the knife was moving past him, Carbo clamped down with his free hand, trapping the knife hand against his body. He dropped the pipe and wrapped his other arm around Dolabella’s neck. The smaller man wriggled like a feral cat and Carbo struggled to keep his grip, but one hand locked around Dolabella’s knife hand, squeezing hard and forcing him to drop it. Dolabella twisted sharply, breaking Carbo’s hold, and stepped back. Both men eyed each other with increased respect.

  Carbo kicked the knife out of reach and slowly bent to pick up the lead pipe again. Dolabella watched and as Carbo straightened he threw himself forward, shoulder punching into his abdomen, arms wrapping round him. Carbo flew backwards, the breath rushing out of him as Dolabella landed on top of him. Dolabella started raining blows to Carbo’s head and face and Carbo brought his hands up to try to protect himself. He was winded and he was struggling to get his breath, with Dolabella’s weight crushing his chest. His ears started to ring and the world began to spin, as incessant punches rattled him. He pulled his arms underneath Dolabella and with a huge, explosive effort, he used all his strength to thrust the small man off him.

  Dolabella flew three feet backwards, but rolled deftly and regained his feet. A little slower, Carbo also stood. Both men were panting hard now. Carbo was bleeding from three wounds. Dolabella was unmarked, but clearly rattled, and not moving as freely as when they started. Carbo took a slow step forward and Dolabella circled around him. Carbo noted how he kept his weight on the balls of his feet, moving lightly, ready to spring at any moment.