Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

‘That’s right, blame the dog. You’re drunk, that’s the problem. You know, when I came in here last night, all I heard about was Carbo the hero, who had defeated the local gang, and saved a slave child. All I see here is Carbo the drunk.’

  Carbo balled his fists. ‘Get out of my tavern, before I do something I regret.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we are going.’ The three men stood, and headed for the door. As Porcius passed Carbo, he gave him a shove in the chest. Carbo tottered backwards, catching his heel on Myia, who had retreated behind him. With flailing arms, he fell onto his backside. The men laughed and opened the door, just as Marsia arrived, carrying a small basket with a fried canary and two large poached eggs.

  Porcius scowled at her. ‘I don’t know where this Carbo you told me about last night is, but I would like to meet him one day.’

  ‘Oh, sirs,’ said Marsia hastily. ‘Please don’t leave. I’m sure there has been a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Marsia,’ roared Carbo, his authority slightly undermined by the fact that he was sitting in the middle of the floor, legs splayed. ‘Let them go. They aren’t welcome here.’

  Marsia gave Porcius an apologetic look and stepped aside, closing the door gently behind them. She looked down at Carbo, then across at Vatius, who shrugged. Then without another word, she took a plate, and started to prepare Carbo’s late breakfast of fried canary and owl eggs.

  Carbo looked at Cicurinus, who had been sitting quietly throughout this, face ashen.

  ‘And you, whatever your name is. You can get out too. I don’t know what your game is, or what you are after, but one night of drinking does not make you my new best friend. Piss off and don’t come back.’

  Carbo slumped into a chair and put his head in his hands.

  Cicurinus stared at Carbo in shock. He stood, unsteadily, then left, glancing backwards as he went.

  Chapter Four

  Cicurinus sat on the floor of his small room, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, eyes squeezed shut. There was a sour taste in his mouth, and he didn’t think it was last night’s wine. His head throbbed, and it seemed for a brief moment like he was looking down on himself. He was back to his pre-capture body condition, good nourishment helping build up the muscles that had been tempered by the gruelling labour into which he had been forced. He was clean and presentable, but his scars still stood out livid on his skin, and there was a distant look in his eyes. The room spun for an instant, and he put his hands to the floor, feeling as if he would fall.

  Memories came to him, the lash of the whip, the beatings and threats, the humiliation of the chores as he served his captor, his tormentress, his beloved Veleda. He missed her.

  He felt a presence before him. There was a pleasant fragrance of woodland and wild flowers. A soft voice spoke.

  ‘Why are you hiding?’

  He jumped to his feet. A woman robed in white stood in his room, face serene. He looked at the door. She had closed it behind her, so quietly he hadn’t heard.

  ‘Veleda,’ he gasped. ‘Priestess. How did you…’

  ‘Silence!’ she commanded.

  Cicurinus clamped his mouth shut.

  Veleda walked around him, looking down at where he cowered. Her bare feet made no noise on the floorboards, but he felt the breeze from the swish of her robe as she circled him. She came to a stop in front of him, and her brow creased in apparent puzzlement.

  ‘Why aren’t you kneeling, Cicurinus?’ she asked in genuine confusion.

  Cicurinus scrambled into a kneeling position, and remained still with head bowed.

  ‘After all our time together, you forget so quickly. How many times did I have to punish you, until your defiance dissipated, until you learned to give me appropriate deference?’

  Flashes of whips, rods, knives, ropes, gags, blindfolds. Abruptly he was shivering, as if the room had become icy.

  ‘I’m sorry, Priestess,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What else have you forgotten, Cicurinus?’

  ‘Nothing, Priestess. I remember all your lessons.’

  ‘Really? Where were you last night?’

  ‘I…’ His mind grasped for excuses, alibis, but when he looked into her eyes he realised she knew everything. She must have been watching him, maybe since he set foot in Rome. He bowed his head again, falling silent.

  ‘Drinking. Gambling. Whoring.’ Each spat word felt like a whip across his back. His fine shiver coarsened into a tremor afflicting his whole body.

  ‘Oh, Cicurinus. I taught you to be pure, like a true warrior. Like the men of my tribe. Like the Romans once were, in their early years. Before greed and wine and immorality took their souls.’

  ‘I can be better, Priestess.’

  ‘I know this, child. You can restore Rome to the purity it once had. I believe this of you.’

  Cicurinus nodded eagerly.

  ‘Yes, Priestess, I can do it.’

  ‘And maybe in cleansing Rome, you can restore your own honour and purity. You could be great, combining the best of both our peoples.’

  Cicurinus stared up at her with terror and adoration, eyes wet. His mouth hung open, his chest was heaving, and he felt an overwhelming upwelling of emotions – purpose, pride, excitement, ecstasy.

  ‘Most of Germania remains unconquered. The tribes of the lands east of the Rhine remain free and strong. But to keep strong, you need strong and worthy enemies. Your old senator, Corculum, argued against the destruction of Carthage, because he feared that the loss of the powerful enemy would lead to a decline in Roman discipline and morality. Yet they did it anyway, and look what Rome has become. The Cloaca Maxima runs beneath Rome, taking away the physical effluent, and yet the streets of the city and the hearts of the people are putrid. I fear for the spirits of my people if they do not have a strong enemy on which to whet their iron.’

  ‘I understand, Priestess. I will seek out the infirm and immoral. It will be my duty and my goal to cleanse Rome, to make it strong again. I will set a sword to terrorise the evil and unworthy in the city. I will rid Rome of its foreigners and its sexual deviants and the beggars and scum who weaken it.’

  Veleda smiled at him, and her gratification filled him with calm. She reached out a hand towards his head, and he closed his eyes.

  ‘Do your duty, Cicurinus,’ she said, her voice a whisper.

  He felt her hand hovering above him. Then it was gone. After a while he opened his eyes, and found himself alone. Stiffly, he got to his feet, and sat on the edge of his bed. His eyes focused in the middle distance as the resolve hardened in his heart.

  * * *

  Cicurinus walked past the statue of Mercurius Sobrium, along the Clivus Suburanus, a fire burning inside him. It was getting late, and he had watched the Subura change over the last few hours. It felt darker in character as well as level of illumination. Groups of men stopped their conversations to watch him suspiciously as he passed. Very few people appeared to Cicurinus to be what he would think of as honest, upright citizens, and those that were, looked unhappy to be out. Cicurinus sensed an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

  He passed a tavern with a sign of a cockerel on the door. It seemed quieter than most of the others nearby. He paused, tempted to enter, to find some peace. But his work would not be done that way. He looked around him. Who should he choose?

  A portly, bald-headed man dressed in fine robes coloured with expensive-looking dyes caught his eye. His dark skin suggested he was of Eastern origin, maybe Egyptian or Syrian. His ostentatious jewellery looked very out of place in the district, and he obviously knew it, because he was glancing about him anxiously as he hurried along. Cicurinus wasn’t the only one who had noticed him. Two large, thuggish looking men trailed him, ambling along nonchalantly, chatting to each other, but never letting the Eastern man get too far ahead. Cicurinus waited a few moments for all three to pass him, then followed along himself at a short distance.

  The well-off Easterner glanced back, and spotted the two men following him. They looked a
way in an exaggerated, almost comedic attempt to pretend they hadn’t noticed him. The Easterner sped up, and the thugs did likewise. Abruptly the Easterner turned a corner into a narrow lane, and the sound of running feet echoed back to Cicurinus. The thugs obviously heard it too, as they broke into a run themselves and chased off down the side lane. Cicurinus gave them a small head start, then broke into a loping trot, long legs eating up the ground easily.

  He rounded the corner, and saw that it hadn’t taken long for the thugs to catch up with the Easterner. They were a hundred feet down the alley, barely visible from that distance in the darkness. Cicurinus slowed to a walk and quietly approached. One of the thugs held the Easterner against a wall, gripping a fistful of his finery, forearm across his neck. The other, smaller one had a knife held close to the terrified man’s eye.

  ‘Take off your necklace,’ growled the thug with the knife.

  With trembling fingers, the Easterner did as he was told. ‘Take it,’ he whimpered.

  ‘And the rings.’ He pulled desperately at the gold rings on his fingers, but either fear had robbed him of his strength, or his podgy fingers had too good a hold on the rings, because they wouldn’t loosen.

  ‘Make sure he stays quiet,’ said the thug with the knife. The other thrust his palm over the Easterner’s mouth, who looked out with wide, flickering eyes. The knife-wielder gripped a ring-bearing index finger and clumsily hacked it off, while the Easterner struggled and screamed against the hand. The thug slipped the ring from the finger, cast the finger aside and looked at the piece of jewellery appraisingly.

  ‘Not bad workmanship. Heavy too. Let’s get the rest, kill him and get out of here.’

  The Easterner shook his head and struggled desperately, but he was held tight. The smaller criminal took hold of the Easterner’s hand again and gripped his knife, preparing to cut.

  Cicurinus stepped behind the thug and took hold of the arm holding the knife, both his hands gripping his wrist. With one firm twist and thrust, he forced the knife into the assailant’s stomach.

  There was a moment’s silence. The thug looked down at the knife protruding from his guts – blood welling around it rapidly – in disbelief. The larger thug didn’t even notice immediately, so silent and quick had Cicurinus been. Then when he realised nothing was happening, he looked around, and saw the wound just as the man slumped to his knees.

  The large thug threw the Easterner aside with a roar, and turned on Cicurinus. Powerful arms reached out to grapple him, but Cicurinus slipped underneath them. He reached down, taking hold of the knife, twisting it then pulling it out of the dying criminal. The blade was dark red, blood dripping off the tip, and he stared at it, mesmerised. The big thug swung a roundhouse punch at his head, but Cicurinus blocked it contemptuously with his forearm and thrust the knife into the man’s heart. He fell without a sound.

  Cicurinus stood for a moment, looking down at the two muggers, one dead, one gasping in pain as he slowly died.

  ‘Thank the gods,’ said the Easterner, in a strong accent. ‘You saved me. How can I ever thank you?’

  Cicurinus squatted on his haunches and withdrew the knife from the dead man’s chest.

  ‘You are Egyptian?’ he asked the man as he turned the blade over in his hand.

  ‘Yes, originally, but now I live near the Esquiline,’ said the Egyptian, his words coming in a rush. He was holding the stump of his finger, but for now the pain didn’t seem to have set in, maybe because of the shock and the emotion of his attack and rescue.

  ‘You are well-dressed to be out on your own in the Subura at this time of night,’ said Cicurinus, rising steadily to his feet.

  ‘I know, it was so stupid. There was a woman I wanted to see, I trade with her husband, a potter, nice chap for a Roman, but he was away and… well, I’m sure you understand. It wouldn’t have been discreet to have taken a bodyguard. But I stayed too long, got carried away, and it was dark before I realised. I don’t suppose… you would escort me home? I would pay you well for the service, and of course reward you for saving my life.’

  The knife slashed across the Egyptian’s throat. He reached up to grip the gaping wound in his neck from which blood spouted, attempting vainly to staunch the flow. His wide, uncomprehending eyes fixed on Cicurinus. In just a few heart beats, he was lying dead on the floor with the others.

  Cicurinus smiled. Two criminals, and a rich foreign merchant who was committing adultery with the wife of a hard-working Roman tradesman. That was a good start. He was sure Veleda would be pleased.

  There was copious blood on the floor, and Cicurinus dipped his hand into the red liquid, scooping some up even as it started to congeal. He examined a nearby wall, then used the blood to paint letters on it.

  ‘Hey!’

  Cicurinus turned to see a figure at the end of the alley. A woman was standing there, clearly afraid to approach, but brave enough to try to warn him off. He studied the knife for a moment, running his finger along the blood-soaked edge. No, he had no reason to think this woman was one of his targets, and he wouldn’t kill her simply because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He turned to walk away, and on the spur of the moment, and with a small smile, he affected a pronounced limp.

  Chapter Five

  Vespillo stood over the three bodies, shaking his head. Death was hardly unusual in the Subura at night, but three violent deaths in one place was not an everyday occurrence. The murders of two Suburan low-lifes and a rich merchant, who oddly still had some of his jewellery on him, was distinctly unusual. And to find daubed in large letters of blood on the wall of the street the words, ‘ROME WILL BE CLEANSED’ was completely outside his experience.

  ‘Why did he write that, sir?’ asked Plancus.

  ‘Maybe he was embarrassed about the mess he has left,’ muttered Taura. Vespillo shot his deputy a sideways glance. Taura had the good grace to look momentarily abashed. At the end of the alleyway, a small crowd of curious onlookers had gathered, held back by a couple of hefty watchmen.

  Vespillo walked around the scene. He turned the merchant over with his foot. The body flopped onto its back, gloopy congealed blood slurping around the neck wound. Sightless eyes, wide open, stared up at Vespillo. He bent down, and picked up the merchant’s hand, turning it over and frowning. One finger was missing, but there were chunky rings on two other fingers on that hand.

  ‘Sir,’ called Plancus. He was holding up the missing finger, bloodied, but with a clear indentation where a ring had been worn for a long period of time. He cast around him, then with a small cry of satisfaction, he retrieved the ring from a shallow puddle.

  Vespillo looked from the dead thugs to the merchant, puzzled.

  ‘It’s obvious, sir,’ said Taura. ‘These two scumbags mugged the merchant. Then some other scumbags caught them in the act, and decided to take the spoils for themselves.’

  ‘Except they didn’t,’ said Plancus. Taura shot him a filthy look. ‘Sir, I mean, they left his jewellery behind.’

  ‘Then maybe it was the merchant’s bodyguards who managed to defeat the thugs, but were too late to save their master.’

  ‘And then leave their master’s body behind?’

  ‘Maybe they were scared they would be punished for their failure. Maybe they ran.’

  Vespillo looked doubtful. ‘If they were slaves that would make them fugitives. If they were freedmen, suspicion would fall on them for the murder if they fled. Could these two men actually be the merchant’s bodyguards? No.’ He answered his own question. ‘Look at their clothes, their condition. Bodyguards are stronger, fitter, better paid.’

  ‘You may be right, sir,’ said Taura. ‘But what are the chances of ever finding out the truth?’

  Vespillo sighed. ‘Nevertheless, I should take this to the Urban Cohorts. Something isn’t right here.’

  ‘Do you think they will care, sir?’

  ‘I doubt it, but I should try. Taura, get the men to work. Make this alley like this never happened.�
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  * * *

  ‘Why should I care?’ asked Pavo in surprise. Vespillo suppressed his irritation. They stood in the office of the Tribune of the second cohort of the Urban Cohorts. Vespillo noted the decor was a lot nicer than his office in the barracks of the IInd Firestation on the Esquiline.

  ‘Because three men are dead?’

  ‘Men die all the time. Were they important?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on your perspective. To their families, I imagine they were, yes.’

  Pavo made a sour face. ‘And two of them were thieves, accosting this merchant?’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘So, their mothers might be upset, but no one else will be. The merchant, what do you know about him?’

  ‘Egyptian, spice trader. Lived in a nice house in the Trans Tiberim district. Handy for business I suppose.’

  ‘Do we know what he was doing in the Subura?’ asked Pavo.

  ‘The part of Rome with the highest concentration of whorehouses, gambling dens and taverns? Not a clue.’ Vespillo kept his face neutral. Pavo studied him with suspicion.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you have brought this to me.’

  ‘Tribune Pavo, you must see that this is unusual. There must have been other people present, who need to be brought to justice. And the graffiti in blood? Tell me when you last saw that! If we joined our resources, asked around for witnesses, maybe we could find out what happened, find out if there is something going on here that we should be worrying about.’

  ‘Listen, Tribune Vespillo. You and I are nominally of the same rank, although we both know that in practice, being a commander in the Urban Cohorts is more prestigious than the same position in the vigiles.’

  Vespillo stiffened at this but said nothing. Pavo continued with his patronising tone. ‘But we have different jobs. My job is to worry about the security of Rome. Make sure that the peace is kept, the slaves stay in their places, riots are put down and rioters punished. Your job is to put out fires, look tough, and bop bad people on the head that you catch in the act of doing their bad things. It isn’t your job to worry about investigating and prosecuting crime, and it certainly isn’t mine.’