by Alex Gough
‘Sica, Carbo is probably my closest friend. We have been through a lot together. I know his character better than you. He is an honourable man, and a heroic one. He has the blood of men like Horatius Cocles running in his veins.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who single-handedly held the Pons Sublicius against the invading Etruscans five hundred years ago. When all else had fled, he defied the Etruscan army, enabling the Romans to destroy the bridge behind him and save the city. That’s the sort of thing Carbo would do.
‘But he also has a temper. I’ve seen him lose control and beat men to the point of death in his fury. And he is a wreck of a man. Damaged by his time in the legions, and broken by the loss of Rufa.’
Sica was shaking her head, trying to deny the truth in his words, but Vespillo continued.
‘I love him like a brother. But I think the gods have taken his wits. He has become a danger to the people of Rome. People I have a duty to protect. I must find him, and I must stop him. Even if it means his death.’
‘You no friend to him,’ said Sica bitterly. ‘Friends stick by each other, always.’
‘Not always,’ said Vespillo, his voice laden with regret. ‘Some things come before friendship. Like duty and honour.’
‘Nothing comes before friendship,’ said Sica, the words spat into Vespillo’s face.
‘Sica,’ said Vespillo, his voice low, coaxing. ‘Do you know where he is?’
The flash of guilt across her face told Vespillo the answer, even as she denied it.
‘I know nothing. I just know he in trouble. And he my friend.’
‘Sica, you must tell me where he is. If you don’t more people will die.’
Sica put her hands on Vespillo’s desk and leaned forward, so her face was close to his.
‘Thought better of you,’ she said. Then she strode out of his office.
Vespillo sighed, rubbed his hand over his beard, then called out, ‘Plancus.’
The slight secretary hurried in, drew himself erect and saluted. Though he still showed signs of his previous timidity, his brave actions in the fight alongside his fellow vigiles against the thugs trying to rule the district had given him a newfound confidence.
‘Yes, sir, how can I help, sir?’
‘Fetch me Taura.’
Plancus looked deflated that he wasn’t being given a more dangerous task, but he slipped out with good grace, and moments later returned with Vespillo’s deputy. True to his name, Taura was built like a bull, barrel-chested, and carried a constant air of barely repressed anger.
Taura gave a firm salute, though his expression suggested resentment at being disturbed. ‘Sir?’
‘Do you know of the fullers owned by Sica, by the docks?’
‘No, sir, but I can find it.’
‘Go there, keep a watch. I think that’s where we might find Carbo.’
‘Ummm, on my own, sir?’
Vespillo smiled inwardly. Few things scared Taura, but the thought of handling Carbo alone was clearly one of them.
‘No, take a couple of the lads.’
‘Sir,’ said Plancus. ‘That region is not in our jurisdiction.’
‘I realise that. I want you to take a message to the station commander there. I know him; good man. He’ll understand, and probably be relieved we aren’t asking him to sort it out for us.’
‘And what am I to do if I find him?’ asked Taura hesitantly.
‘Bring him to me.’
‘Right,’ said Taura. ‘I see. Very well. Anything else you want me to do? Has Jupiter broken the law? Or Mars? I could fetch them for you too.’
Vespillo sighed. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Taura, and you aren’t very good at it. Carbo isn’t the man he was. You should have no trouble.’
Taura’s eyes betrayed his disbelief.
* * *
‘Carbo!’
Abandoning her usual reserve, Marsia ran to him the moment he set foot in the tavern and threw her arms around him. She hugged him so tight that for a moment he couldn’t breathe, despite their marked differences in size. He squeezed her gently back, then prised her arms from him, and held her at arm’s length, looking into her eyes.
‘Marsia. How are you?’
She opened her mouth to speak, then burst into tears and buried her face in his shoulder as she cried. When she had recovered, Carbo took her hand and led her to the back room.
He looked around. It was odd. There were still things that had belonged to him, a vase taken instead of payment from a needy customer, a statuette given by a grateful shop owner whose business he had saved from thugs. Yet now it was all owned by Olorix. Including his former slave.
He sat on a three-legged stool, and gestured to Marsia to sit too. She did so, slowly, shifting her weight to try to find a comfortable position, pursing her lips as she tried to cover the pain.
Carbo’s eyes narrowed. ‘He did that?’
She bit her lip, then nodded once. Carbo clenched his fists.
‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, yet.’
Carbo looked at her quizzically.
She hesitated, and he could see she had more to tell. ‘Go on.’
‘He… He wants to make me a whore.’
Carbo took a deep breath and let it out slowly so it whistled through his teeth.
‘He already has, in a way,’ she continued. ‘But Vatius has purchased my services exclusively. For now.’
‘Vatius! How could he!’
Marsia leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. ‘It’s not like that. Vatius has only done it to spare me. He sits with me and we read. But it can’t last. It amuses Olorix, but he will get bored, if Vatius’ money doesn’t run out first.’
‘I’ll make it right,’ said Carbo, and knew as the words came out of his mouth that he had no idea how to do that.
‘Please don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ said Marsia. ‘Spare me that, at least.’
Carbo’s eyes misted suddenly. Marsia was his slave yes, but she was so much more. Friend, companion, sister and mother, all contained in one tough Germanic body. Tough, but not invulnerable. And he had abandoned her, allowing her cruel new master to exploit her vulnerability.
When he didn’t reply, Marsia said, ‘Sica is looking after you?’
‘She is. She found me and took me in. I don’t know what she thinks she can achieve. But she obviously sees some hope in me yet.’
‘She isn’t the only one.’
Carbo tilted his head to one side. ‘You, too? After everything?’
‘You’re Carbo,’ said Marsia simply, as if that said enough.
Carbo looked away. With all the pain, physical and emotional, he had put her through, she still had faith in him. Faith he was sure had no foundation. It was almost too much to bear.
She squeezed his upper arm. The wine, bad diet and lack of exercise had taken a toll on his physique, but he was still a big, well-muscled brute of a man. He flexed his thick bicep under her grip, a small gesture to remind them both of who he once was. She gave him a half smile.
‘Marsia, I…’
The door to the tavern opened, and a voice yelled out, ‘Marsia. Where are you? Are you neglecting your duties?’
Marsia’s face paled, and Carbo clenched his jaw and stood. She clutched at him. ‘Carbo, don’t. You will only make it worse.’
He gently prised her grip off him and walked into the public bar room.
Olorix was standing by the bar, flanked on either side by two bulky thugs, a huge, long-haired German and an equally big bald-headed Syrian. Olorix’s appearance was in sharp contrast to his bodyguards. Where they were tall, he was short, where they went out, he went in, and vice versa. Yet it was Olorix who held the power, and his stance, legs apart, belly thrust forward, showed he knew it.
Olorix’s eyes widened when he saw Carbo.
‘Well. An unexpected guest. You are of course welcome to purchase food and drink here. If you have coin to pay. But I must as
k you to stay out of the private areas of this establishment.’
‘I was invited there, by Marsia.’
‘I’m afraid my slave overstepped the bounds of her authority. She will be punished for it.’
‘No,’ said Carbo. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘Why should I do that?’ asked Olorix, sounding genuinely surprised at the suggestion.
‘Because I am telling you to.’ He took a threatening step forward. The two bodyguards stepped in front of Olorix, faces like stone. Olorix put his hand on the Syrian’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. The bodyguard nodded once, gestured to the German, and they both stepped out of the tavern, closing the door behind them. The room was empty now except for Carbo and Olorix, and an anxious Marsia, standing at the back, hands clasped together.
Olorix gestured to a table with two chairs. ‘Please Carbo, sit. Let’s talk.’
Carbo looked uncertain.
‘I have dismissed my bodyguards as a sign of good faith. Please, join me.’
Carbo reluctantly sat with Olorix, who flicked his fingers at Marsia.
‘Two cups of wine, slave.’
‘Water for me,’ said Carbo. It felt strange to say, not least because inside he was desperate for the solace that a strong drink could bring. But it would seem like weakness, to drink in front of this man. And it would feel like he was letting Sica down. He was attempting to stop disappointing people.
Marsia brought them a cup each and placed it on the table, then retreated when Olorix waved her away.
Olorix drank deeply. Carbo picked up the cup, just for something to do with his hands, though he didn’t touch the insipid liquid.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ asked Carbo eventually, when Olorix hadn’t spoken.
‘Well. I wanted to talk about our new relationship.’
‘What new relationship?’
‘The balance of power around here has changed now. Before, you emboldened people. They knew that if say, a local businessman demanded his rightful payment, and threatened them with just sanctions if they refused, that they could run to you, and you would take care of them.’
‘I never said I would do that. I was just keeping to myself. I’m no one’s protector.’
‘Oh, I know that,’ said Olorix. ‘But they didn’t. Your mere presence was enough to make them feel they could get away with anything. It was starting to impact my livelihood.’
‘If I gave the people of the Subura a sense of freedom, I’m glad for them, but it wasn’t my intention.’
‘Your intentions are irrelevant. Only the outcome matters. But of course, now the situation has changed. Until recently they saw a Carbo struggling with his sadness, and they made allowances while they waited for you to find yourself once more. Now, they see a man bankrupted by his own folly. Humiliated. His property forfeit. His beloved slave turned into an old man’s whore.’
‘I don’t care what they think.’
‘Oh, but I do. Now, they see what happens to someone who thinks themself above retribution. Too powerful to be challenged, because of your strength and your friends among the vigiles.
‘Already, outstanding debts are down. No one tries to avoid payment. Everyone respects me. And the tavern, and the slave’s degradation, will remain as a reminder of who has the real power around here.’
A thought entered Carbo’s head, unbelievable at first, but increasingly obvious as he examined it.
‘Camilla? She works for you?’
Olorix sat back and smiled.
‘The horse race. It was fixed, but not the way she claimed?’
‘Please, Carbo. Give me some credit for knowing what goes on in the shady world of the chariot teams. And indeed, having some influence there. Don’t look at me like that. You tried to cheat the system, tried to cheat me, by taking advantage of the situation. Unfortunately, you were misled about the true nature of the fix.’
Carbo squeezed his eyes shut. He had been taken in so easily. He could scream at his own stupidity. When he opened his eyes again, Olorix was wearing a broad grin.
‘So you see, Carbo. It has worked out very nicely for me. I own a new tavern. I removed a problem. And I have shown the locals where true power lies.’
‘Listen Olorix. I don’t care about the tavern. I don’t care about myself. But please, leave Marsia out of your game. You don’t need to punish her because of me.’
‘You aren’t listening, Carbo. Everyone knows you care about her. And while her shame is on public display, it will remind them all what it means to defy me.’
‘I won’t let you…’
‘You? What can you possibly do? You’re a shadow of who you once were. The locals don’t support you. Your friends in the vigiles certainly aren’t going to help you, since they are pursuing you for murder. Yes, I know about that, too. You’re the prime suspect.’
‘The murders? That was you as well?’
Olorix laughed. ‘Give me some credit, Carbo. “Rome will be cleansed.” What nonsense is that? Not my style at all. I actually thought it was you. I wonder now, from your reaction.’
‘I didn’t kill those people.’
‘That doesn’t really matter to me. But the vigiles will catch up with you soon and you will be executed. A tragic end to a tragic story.’
Carbo heard the door to the tavern open and Olorix looked over his shoulder.
‘Oh, what a coincidence.’
Carbo turned in time to see four vigiles march into the tavern. Their tunics were grimy with soot and ash, and in one case some dried blood, unwashed from the previous night’s duties. They were armed with axes and clubs, tools of their trade, useful in fighting fires and criminals alike. The leader blinked, eyes adjusting to the gloom of the poorly lit room. Then his gaze settled on Carbo and he strode forward.
‘Carbo. Please come with me. Don’t make this difficult.’
‘You summoned the vigiles while you kept me talking?’ Carbo asked Olorix. Olorix just smiled.
Carbo stood, squinted at the watchman, trying to place the face. He noticed that the arm that loosely held the watchman’s axe was crooked, the bones of the forearm broken and healed askew.
‘Pinarius,’ said Carbo. He nodded at the arm. ‘Still give you pain?’
Pinarius glanced down. ‘Sometimes,’ he conceded.
Carbo reached down and rubbed his right leg. ‘This one still hurts, all these years after a German stuck his spear in it.’
‘Carbo…’
‘We fought the great fire on the Caelian side by side, didn’t we? We saved the city. Did you get credit for your heroism?’
‘I’m an optio now,’ said Pinarius. ‘And you were a hero, too. But that was then. This is now. Things have changed. You have changed.’
‘Maybe I have, but I didn’t do those things they say.’
‘That’s not for me to decide, Carbo. You can give your defence in court.’
Carbo looked at the other vigiles.
‘You only brought three with you? Has your respect for me fallen that far?’
Pinarius glanced behind him at his comrades, and in that instant Carbo struck. Shoulder down, pushing off with his good, left leg, he charged Pinarius in the midriff. The optio folded around the blow, axe flying away, bundled back into two of the men behind him. All three fell to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs. The fourth watchmen stared in shocked indecision for a moment, then heaved his club at Carbo’s head.
Carbo ducked under the wild, poorly aimed blow and punched, an uppercut with the force of a hammer that caught the unfortunate watchman in the jaw. His eyes rolled upwards, his legs gave way, and he crumpled to the floor, knocked out cold.
‘Stop!’ Pinarius was reaching for his axe. Carbo wasted no time and rushed to the door. He wrenched it open, and cast one quick look back. Olorix was standing, yelling at the vigiles to get to their feet and stop him. The vigiles were struggling to rise. Marsia was standing by the bar, something in her hand.
‘Carbo, catch.’ She
tossed the piece of iron to him, and he caught it in one hand, looked down into his palm.
It was the door key.
He looked at her in gratitude. ‘I’ll make it right,’ he said, then dashed out onto the street. He yanked the door closed, placed the hefty key in the lock and turned it. The mechanism slid into place.
It wouldn’t hold them long. At night, the door was barred from the inside to discourage burglars and other miscreants from attempting to gain entrance. Even that was not enough to stop a determined intruder. The lock was mainly for when the tavern was left unattended during the day, to deter casual theft. But it gave him a chance.
He turned to run and found himself face to face with Olorix’s big Syrian bodyguard. Behind him, blocking escape, was the hairy German. Both had their clubs drawn.
Hard thumps on the tavern echoed out into the street. Passers-by looked at the commotion in alarm and retreated to a safe distance to spectate.
Carbo squared up to the Syrian, who grinned at him, patting his club in his hand. The long piece of wood had two nails hammered at right angles to each other through the tip. Swords were technically forbidden in Rome, but one blow in the wrong place with that weapon would be just as fatal.
Carbo clenched his fists, preparing to strike. The Syrian smiled. Despite Carbo’s words to Pinarius about respect, Carbo knew he looked out of shape. And it was true. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t still as powerful as an ox and as dangerous as an asp.
Carbo dropped to his knee.
The German’s club swished through the space his head had been a moment before. Carbo punched hard, and his fist connected with the German’s lower chest-bone. He might have struck it with a brick, such was the force behind the blow. It knocked the wind out of the bodyguard, who dropped to the floor, clutching his midriff and gasping for breath.
The Syrian reacted quickly. He swung his spiked club downwards, and Carbo threw himself sideways. The club smacked into the ground, one of the nails splitting a cobblestone in two. Carbo rolled and regained his feet, staggering slightly as he put too much weight on his damaged leg, then recovering his balance. The Syrian was already swinging the club upwards, trying to catch Carbo under the chin. If it made contact, it wouldn’t knock him out, as Carbo had just done to the watchman. It would kill him.