by Alex Gough
He walked them both backwards the short distance across the room until they were thrust up against the wall. He lifted, so they were suspended from his strong arms, legs flailing. Their eyes were wide with terror and incomprehension. He looked from one to the other, and a half-smile played across his lips. He remembered once skewering a rat on his dagger, and holding it in front of his face while it bled out, watching its death throes, and he felt the same fascination now that he had felt then.
Their struggles became weaker. Their hands dropped away, their legs stopped kicking. The terror left their eyes, which became unfocused; pupils dilated. For a while longer, their chests continued to spasm, the body refusing to give up even after the spirit had gone. Then they were still. He opened his fingers and let them fall in heaps to the floor, like discarded rag dolls.
He opened and closed his fists, working out the cramps that had started to appear. He looked down, and noticed that his erection had not subsided. If anything it had strengthened. He felt his anger grow, peak inside him. It was these whores’ fault, making him feel like this. Their immorality was corrupting virtuous Roman men like himself. He let out an incoherent roar, grabbed the straw mattress – the only movable object in the room – and hurled it against the wall. It thudded softly, then toppled over with a muffled flop, doing nothing to quench the thirst of his rage.
He stared at the two bodies, still, pallid, limbs askew. The first one – what was her name? Incerta – had fallen with her dress around her waist, her sex on view in the moonlight, and his fury amplified. He kicked the corpse in the ribs, then again, harder, over and over. The body jerked with each blow, then flopped back into position, just like a sack of corn would. He turned to the other, Veneria, and started to kick her too. He heard cries of anger, and realised they were coming out if his mouth, in between the deep breaths his exertions required him to draw.
Eventually the fury burnt itself out. He put his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, regarding the corpses, which were now misshapen and oozing sticky blood, with contempt. He reached down and dipped his hand in the dark fluid. Using the sanguineous ink, he wrote on the wall. ‘Destroy the immoral.’
He turned to leave, and started, his breath catching in his chest.
‘Veleda. I didn’t hear you come in.’
The priestess’s face was stern. ‘I’m not surprised, with all that noise you were making. It’s as well that the tenants downstairs are used to noisy events in this room. Otherwise they may have come to investigate, or gone to look for the vigiles.’
Cicurinus bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry, Priestess.’ Then he looked up in confusion. ‘How did you know I was here?’
Veleda shook her head, disappointed. ‘You still doubt me, after all these years? I am always nearby, Cicurinus. I know your movements, your thoughts, your desires, your hopes and your fears. And all of those things belong to me.’
‘Yes, Priestess.’
‘Now close your eyes.’
He did as he was told. An age seemed to pass, and the room was silent, the only sounds coming through the little window from the streets way below. After a while, he thought he heard little noises from behind him, where the dead girls lay. Noises like little moans. Like fingernails running along the floorboards. Like the shuffling of legs. He pictured the bodies reviving, standing, drawing new breaths.
He spun, opened his eyes wide, heart racing.
The dead girls lay where he had left them. He turned back. Veleda was gone.
Quietly, he opened the door, the creak as loud as a scream in his ears, now he was trying to be stealthy. He walked slowly down the staircase, paused at the bottom, looking left and right. The street was quiet, the nearest people too far away to be more than shapes in the gloom. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding, and began to walk away from the Eagle.
The door flew open behind him, and he heard a man’s voice, laughing and a little drunk, thanking a giggling girl for a wonderful evening.
‘Hope you’ve had fun, too,’ the man called to Cicurinus’ back. Cicurinus lifted a hand in acknowledgement, then hunched his shoulders, and without turning, limped down the street.
Chapter Six
The sun was still well below the rooftops when Carbo pounded on Sitkamose’s door. There was no sound of response from within, and he cursed and spat, thumping the wooden door hard enough to loosen a screw at the hinge.
‘Sitkamose. Open up!’ he called.
Now he heard sounds of life from within the small third floor apartment. He tapped his foot, anxiety and impatience warring inside him.
‘Sitkamose!’ he called again. His eyelids felt leaden, and his eyes felt like he had been staring into the wind unblinking. He had a nagging pain emanating from the centre of his forehead, and there was an uncomfortable sensation in the middle of his abdomen. He had drunk relatively lightly the previous night, at least by his current standards. Three or four cups of wine had been enough to take away the anxiety, and he had decided to take an early night, so he could return to Sitkamose as soon as possible, to find out what message the seer had for him.
Things hadn’t worked out as planned. Although he had elected to go to bed at a sensible time, the customers in the bar had other ideas. His bedroom was above the main tavern, and as he lay awake, flat on his back, staring at the dark ceiling, lit only by the three-quarter moon, loud noises of revelry disturbed him, coming in through the window and with a bassier tone, up through the floorboards. Scraping chairs, slamming doors, singing, shouting, laughing, arguing, even the odd scream, kept him fully awake. His mind drifted to Rufa involuntarily, and the abrupt pain when he thought about her was like a physical blow. He tried instead to distract himself with other thoughts. He tried to think about sex, but that brought him back to Rufa, and besides, his libido was at such a low, the very concept bored him. He thought about his time in the legions, and this seemed to show some promise. As his mind recalled good times with comrades during leave in German and Gallic towns, replayed bar room brawls and drunken nights out, he felt himself start to drift, the scenes slowing, his mind becoming emptier as sleep approached.
And then a roar from downstairs, maybe in anger or jest, had jolted his thoughts even further back to that battle, the forest, the capture, the priestesses, the torture, and he was wide awake again and gasping for breath. He rose, throwing on his tunic, and stormed down into the bar.
‘We’re closed,’ he had yelled at the customers. ‘Get out, all of you!’
The customers knew better than to get on the wrong side of Carbo and left, though with poor grace. Marsia simply shook her head in despair, but Carbo ignored her and went back to bed.
Though it was quiet now, the anger was still coursing through him, and he stayed fully awake. When Marsia had finished tidying and locking up, she had come to his room. Wordlessly, she had undressed and settled down to sleep under a blanket on a mattress on the floor. She rarely attempted to share his bed any more, not even to hold him. Soon she was asleep, and Carbo listened to her light breaths, gritting his teeth at how even that light sound was enough to disturb him. Although the noise from his own bar had ceased, the sounds of carts, drunks, dogs and thieves still reverberated down the lanes of the Subura and through his window.
The night had gone on forever, the slow progress of the moon Carbo’s only indication of time, and he had remained awake for almost all of it, sweating, gritting his teeth, fighting off waves of panic and resisting the urge with a titanic strength of will to go back to the bar and drink himself into oblivion. Some time before dawn, he had finally slipped into sleep, only to be woken what seemed like moments later by the sound of birds singing the dawn chorus, and the first merchants hitting the streets to set up their stalls. He had crawled out of his bed, dressed hastily, stepped over the stirring Marsia, and set off for the seer’s house.
The door cracked open an inch.
‘Who is it?’ came a hoarse female voice.
‘Carbo. You told
me to return today.’
‘Not at this time I didn’t. Go away. We will make contact this afternoon.’
Carbo pushed the door open, not hard, but with enough force that an old lady would not be able to resist.
‘No,’ he said, voice firm. ‘Now.’
Sitkamose looked even older without the benefit of her make up, and her hair looked like a bird’s nest. She glared at him, and he glared back. Her eyes were steely, and Carbo wondered if he had the strength to win this battle of wills. He hoped she couldn’t see how his legs were trembling.
Sitkamose dropped her gaze first.
‘Very well. Now. But I told you already, there are no guarantees. Your friend, Rufa, she may not come when I call. If I am tired, or under stress, it may be harder for me to reach her.’
‘If so, we try again another time.’
Sitkamose nodded wearily and beckoned him through. He sat, and she spent some time pottering around the room, lighting incense tapers and the single oil lamp, making sure the shutters were tightly closed against the light, and finally spending a few moments forcing a comb through her hair and applying the day’s make up.
When, after a seemingly interminable length of time, she was finally ready, she joined Carbo and sat opposite him at the table. She looked at him expectantly, and Carbo frowned.
‘The payment?’
‘Oh of course.’ He handed over the precious coins from the previous night’s takings. She dropped them into her purse with a jingle. Then she took his hands and inhaled, then let her breath out slowly, five, six times.
‘Is she there?’ asked Carbo, eager, desperate.
A flicker of annoyance registered on Sitkamose’s face, quickly replaced by a mask of serenity. Then she frowned, and gasped.
‘What is it?’ asked Carbo, alarmed.
‘I see… violence. I see her kneeling, crying to you for help. But you can do nothing. Restrained, somehow. She needs you so much and despite your strength, you are impotent. Then there is a blade. And blood. So much blood.’
Carbo couldn’t breathe. It felt like he was being strangled. He could draw no air through his constricted throat, as he was confronted by the image of the death of the only woman he had ever loved.
‘Rufa. I’m sorry,’ he gasped, tears flowing freely down his face.
‘And now it is over. And although you can’t see her, she is standing beside you. Even now, she has her hand on your shoulder. She is smiling.’
‘S… smiling?’
‘Yes, Carbo.’ Sitkamose’s face was beatific now. ‘She is smiling. And she wants to tell you two things. She wants to tell you that it wasn’t your fault. And she wants to tell you that she loves you, forever.’
Carbo let out a gasping sob, then another, then the dam broke and he collapsed forward onto the table, crying helplessly. Sitkamose put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed sympathetically.
When he finally regained some measure of control, he looked up at Sitkamose. She reached out with a cloth and gently dabbed his eyes dry.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t… it’s just…’
She patted his hand sympathetically.
‘Did she say any more?’
Sitkamose shook her head. ‘She said everything she needed to.’
‘So, if I come back, she won’t have anything else to tell me?’
‘Oh no, no,’ said Sitkamose hastily. ‘She would wish you to visit me regularly. I’m only sorry that I have to charge you each time. These sessions cost money – incense, offerings to the gods. And they take their toll on me, too…’
‘The money isn’t a problem. I’ll return tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ said Sitkamose. ‘But maybe a little later tomorrow. The spirits of the departed aren’t always so responsive in the early hours.’
* * *
‘Last chance,’ said the dentist, holding up the large cup of unwatered wine.
Cicurinus shook his head and gave a low growl.
‘Suit yourself,’ said the dentist. He was olive-skinned and spoke Greek with an oriental accent. Cicurinus was undecided whether he was an example of the foreigners who were polluting Rome. But Greeks weren’t barbarians. They brought culture and learning and skills in medicine and arts. He hadn’t seen Veleda since he had murdered the two prostitutes, which he was rather disappointed about, so he couldn’t ask her advice. But the pain from his teeth was distracting him from his work.
The raw, broken stumps that he had been left with after all the years of abuse had become a feature of his life. It was not that you could ever get used to that sort of pain, but you could learn to accept it, even embrace it. Veleda had taught him that the pain was purifying, holy. And so he felt guilty that he was trying to do something about it.
But the pain had been intensifying, keeping him awake. When he tried to think, to plan, the incessant agony dragged his thoughts away. Besides, getting dental treatment would allow him to eat better, to become even stronger. He would need his strength for his mission.
‘Open up then, let’s have a look.’ Cicurinus was lying on his back on a bench, in the open air, in front of the dentist’s office. Two elderly ladies sat on stools on the opposite side of the road, watching and occasionally muttering comments to each other. Most people walked past with barely a glance in his direction.
He opened his mouth, and the dentist peered in. His eyes widened at the sight.
‘Divine Apollo! What happened to you?’
‘That is none of your business, dentist.’
‘But… almost every tooth is broken. You have abscesses in the cavities. Your gums are rotten. What do you expect me to do?’
‘Do whatever you have to. I was told you are the best.’
‘I am, but… I will need to extract almost every tooth. It will take all day. And the pain, especially without wine, will be unbearable.’
Good, he thought. Purifying.
‘You will be surprised at what I can bear. Begin.’
The dentist fingered his tools, scalpels of various shapes and sizes to slice the gums down to the roots, chunky iron forceps to wiggle and loosen the tooth before yanking it loose, picks for removing decayed flesh. He sighed, and picked up a sharp scalpel.
‘Very well. Let’s begin.’
* * *
Vespillo entered Carbo’s tavern sheepishly, clearly not sure of his welcome. When Carbo leapt from his stool and grasped the older man’s hand, then ushered him to a table, Vespillo’s expression changed to surprise.
‘Sit, sit, my friend. Marsia. Marsia! Food and wine.’
Vespillo regarded Carbo suspiciously.
‘Are you well?’
‘Really well,’ said Carbo enthusiastically. ‘Marsia, where’s that wine?’
Marsia hurried over with a jug of wine and two cups, and poured a generous serving into both. Vespillo looked at her with raised eyebrows, but she simply shrugged and went back to the bar.
‘You seem… bright, today,’ said Vespillo.
‘I feel it,’ said Carbo. He took a small sip of his wine, savoured it before he swallowed. ‘This is my first drink today.’
Vespillo nodded, clearly not as impressed as Carbo had hoped. The drink had been calling to him since he woke, but he had found the siren somehow easier to resist that day.
‘What brings you here?’ asked Carbo.
‘Firstly, I wanted to apologise. I was harsh with you last time I was here.’
Carbo was waving away the apology before Vespillo had finished speaking.
‘It doesn’t matter. You were right. I wasn’t myself. And it’s not what Rufa would have wanted.’
Vespillo looked at his drink, but didn’t touch it. ‘Has something changed? Did you suddenly find a new religion? One of those eastern cults.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Carbo looked around, then leaned in closer, conspiratorially. ‘I spoke to Rufa.’
Vespillo’s eyes narrowed, and he looked suspiciously at the cup that Carbo was cradling.
&
nbsp; ‘Carbo, my old friend…’ he began.
‘I know what you must be thinking. I’m not hearing voices in my head. I went to see someone. She can talk to people who are on the other side of the Styx.’
Vespillo sighed. ‘Carbo, you aren’t gullible, and you aren’t naive. How much money did she take off you?’
‘The money doesn’t matter. She knew things. She told me about Rufa. And she told me Rufa’s words. It was her, for sure. Rufa said it wasn’t my fault.’ He grasped Vespillo’s hands in his own. ‘Vespillo, do you understand? She doesn’t blame me!’
Vespillo looked into his friends’ eyes. ‘If it makes you feel better…’ He stopped himself.
Carbo laughed. ‘You don’t believe me, I know. But if you had been there, you would feel differently.’
Vespillo sat back. ‘Fine, fine. So Rufa has told you everything is good. So you are going to change your ways now?’
‘I know I have been behaving badly. But if I can talk to her regularly, I know she will keep me straight.’
‘Regularly? You are going to keep seeing this woman?’
‘Of course,’ said Carbo earnestly. ‘Vespillo, I have Rufa back.’
‘And how much does this woman charge you?’
Carbo hesitated, then told him. Vespillo whistled. He looked across the room to Marsia, who was gently shaking her head. ‘Carbo, you can’t afford to keep paying her that!’
A frown of irritation crossed Carbo’s face, the first negative emotion he had displayed to Vespillo that day. ‘The money isn’t important. I’ll find it.’
Vespillo sighed. ‘There were two more murders last night.’
Carbo raised his eyebrows but expressed no more interest than that.
‘Couple of whores. Strangled and beaten. Not necessarily in that order. And the words, “destroy the immoral” daubed on the wall in their blood.’
‘Strange,’ said Carbo, tone flat. Then, with an effort at joining his friend’s conversation, he said, ‘Any witnesses?’
‘Someone saw a big, well-built man with dark hair walking away from the brothel. Or, limping away, I should say.’