by Alex Gough
‘Too right. Your slave…’
‘Ex-slave…’
‘Right, Marsia? She seemed worried about you.’
Carbo’s first reaction was to shrug it off.
‘I’m fine.’
‘She said something about hard times.’
Carbo bristled at the thought of Marsia talking to a stranger about his personal problems. But he didn’t doubt that she had his best interests at heart. And what was the harm in opening up to this man? Stranger he may be, but he was a fellow centurion, who had served in Germania at a similar time. He probably understood Carbo much better than even those he was closest to.
‘Maybe. I went through some tough times in the legions. When I came home, it was hard to deal with the feelings.’
Brocchus’ expression was open and understanding. Carbo hadn’t come here for counselling, just to make contact with a potential ally. But now, once the words started to flow, it was hard to hold them back, like the flood from a breached dam.
‘I get these feelings – like total panic. They can come from nowhere. Drinking helps, but not for long. Gambling takes my mind away from it. But that lost me my tavern and my slave. There was a woman, the first one I had become close to for many years. And she was taken from me. I had my revenge, but still… She should be by my side.’
He swallowed, aware that his voice was cracking and his eyes were misted. Brocchus put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Carbo, I’ve heard of you. Your exploits in the legions are well known. You made pilus prior, leading a cohort, though you could have easily been made primus pilus of the entire legion.’
‘I didn’t want that responsibility,’ said Carbo. ‘Besides, the primus pilus doesn’t get to fight so much. He is an administrator. You know, when you are fighting, being scared feels right. When you are sitting alone in a dark room with your heart racing and your skin soaked in sweat, that is when being scared makes no sense. I would rather feel scared because of a real threat than because of what happened in the past.’
‘What happened? We all have bad experiences if we serve long enough, but I get the impression something worse happened to you.’
Carbo pursed his lips. ‘I was captured. At the Varian disaster. Held and… tortured.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Brocchus. ‘I can’t imagine what that would have been like.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Carbo. ‘But. I escaped.’
‘Well thank Fortuna for that. I met one chap a little while ago up in Germania. We were patrolling deep in barbarian territory and found this fellow who had been held captive for the gods know how many years. Terrible state he was. He didn’t know if he was coming or going. Tried to help him, but you could tell he was badly messed up by the whole thing.’
Carbo’s eyes widened as Brocchus spoke, and the breath caught in his throat.
‘What was his name?’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
Brocchus thought for a moment, looking up for inspiration, rubbing his fingers against his palm in concentration.
‘Cicero,’ he said finally. Carbo felt himself relax, until Brocchus said, ‘No, that’s not right, is it. It was like Cicero. Cicurinus! That’s it.’
Carbo sat back and stared at Brocchus.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ asked Brocchus, confused at Carbo’s flabbergasted expression.
Carbo took a moment to gather himself, then spoke quietly and earnestly.
‘Have you heard about the murders that have been taking place in the Subura?’
‘Not much. I overheard some people gossiping when I was in a tavern, but no more than that. I haven’t been back in Rome long.’
Carbo explained about the killings, the type of people and the graffiti left behind.
‘Terrible. But I don’t see how…’
‘It was Cicurinus. Same man.’
Brocchus whistled, shaking his head. ‘I can’t say it surprises me. There was something unhinged about him. He’s been apprehended?’
‘No, he is still at large.’
‘Then how do you know it was him?’
‘Because he tried to frame me for the murders. He looks a bit like me. And he seems to have something personal against me. I lured him to the baths, and we talked, then he attacked me. I was arrested, but he killed again while I was imprisoned, so at least some people now know I’m innocent.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Listen, this celebration at the tavern tonight. We have set the whole thing up as a trap for him. But I’d give it a miss if I was you. In some strange way, he was quite attached to the village you burnt down. When he came to Rome, he even brought the village’s priestess with him, someone called Veleda. Presumably the same one that tortured him.’
‘Veleda? You’re sure that was the name? Did you meet her?’
‘Yes I’m sure and no I haven’t met her; he told me about her. She is behind his whole insane mission to purify the city, she is the one urging him on to commit his atrocities.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Veleda died in Germania. We caught her soon after we attacked the village. I watched my optio strangle her to death with my own eyes.’
Chapter Seventeen
Cicurinus paced up and down the small apartment room, the floorboards shaking under his heavy tread. His fists were balled, and he gnashed his dentures, the rough surfaces of the fake teeth grinding against each other.
‘How dare they?’ he hissed. ‘How dare they? I will make them pay for this.’
‘I know you will,’ said Veleda. ‘You will not let them show such disrespect to the gods and people of my country this way.’
Cicurinus had been keeping his head down since he had killed Camilla. Veleda hadn’t shown herself, and he had been feeling adrift and uncertain of what to do next. Then he had seen the poster painted on a wall advertising the so-called festival. His jaw had dropped and a rage had built up inside him as he read about a tavern, Carbo’s former tavern no less, honouring Roman victories over the Germans, mockery of the German gods and people, all celebrated by whoring and drinking and gambling.
The rage had barely faded, still bubbling away inside him like a pot left too long on the fire, but the memory of the words on that poster dripped constantly into his mind so the stewing anger would never boil dry.
‘I’ll kill them all,’ he said. ‘Every soldier that throws a dice. Every whore that lifts her tunic. Every customer that takes a sip of wine. They will all die by my hand.’
‘Calm yourself, Sextus,’ said Veleda.
‘Don’t call me that,’ he said sharply.
‘Calm yourself, Cicurinus,’ she corrected herself. ‘There is no need to kill everyone. Your mission is to teach the Romans, not to wipe them out. An example is sufficient.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who owns the tavern of course, who has organised this whole thing. Olorix.’
Cicurinus pictured the corpulent freedman, always dripping with the finest perfumes, dressed in the most expensive and gaudy jewellery. Strutting around the quarter with his bodyguards, displaying to all his wealth and power. All Cicurinus could see in him was decadence. With his appearance, his money, his business interests and his general behaviour, he was the epitome of all that Cicurinus considered was wrong with the Empire. What a mark it would make, to end Olorix. Especially publicly, in the middle of his offensive celebration.
‘Yes. I will do it. I will go to this abominable festival this evening and I will show everyone the consequences of his life, his sacrilege.’
‘You will do it before everyone? You won’t pretend to be Carbo any more?’
Cicurinus hesitated. How long should he keep up that pretence? At least until Carbo was executed. He wondered how long that would be. Surely it would be soon. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you could ask about in casual conversation on the street, and he didn’t really know anyone in Rome, certainly not anyone with connections to the autho
rities that could find out more for him. As far as he knew, Carbo was still rotting in his cell, awaiting trial. If he killed Olorix, would that be taken as proof of Carbo’s innocence?
But this opportunity could not be missed. Olorix could not be allowed to live.
‘Maybe Carbo has outlived his usefulness to me.’
He looked at Veleda, who was regarding him steadily.
‘You don’t agree?’
Veleda shrugged. ‘Consider what Carbo is to you.’
Cicurinus thought about that, really thought about it. What did that man mean to him? He couldn’t honestly answer nothing. They were too connected. But was that enough?
‘If Carbo isn’t executed by the authorities, he will die by my hand, or I will give my own life.’
When he spoke the words out loud, they had a finality about them. A vow, made before his priestess. One way or another, one of them would die.
* * *
Carbo hesitated outside the IInd station of the vigiles. Sica had persuaded him to go and talk to Vespillo, before whatever would happen that evening came to pass. She had given him emotional and practical arguments.
The practical argument regarded having the vigiles onside, or at least not actively getting in the way. Carbo hadn’t accepted this. He didn’t need the vigiles, and he certainly didn’t need Vespillo, after all the harm he had caused by not trusting Carbo.
The emotional argument involved making peace with his friend while he still had the chance, meaning – it was unspoken – that he might not survive the night. Carbo had grudgingly accepted this. In his time in the legions, he had made it a habit before a big battle to seek out and make amends with anyone he had quarrelled with, whether it was a fight over a dice game, or just a joke taken the wrong way.
So here he was, readying himself to walk into his old friend’s office and talk to him man to man. Say his piece, ventilate the bad air, and return to how things were. Simple. So why was his heart racing, why were his hands trembling?
The watchman at the entrance to the headquarters looked at Carbo quizzically. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Carbo swallowed, committed himself. ‘I’m here to see Vespillo.’
‘Who shall I say is here?’
‘Carbo.’
The watchman’s eyes opened wide. Carbo hadn’t seen him before – maybe he was new, or transferred from another station, or just hadn’t been on duty when Carbo was imprisoned, or any of the times Carbo had worked with the vigiles or visited Vespillo in the past. But he clearly knew the name.
‘I’ll… right, I… Stay here. I’ll fetch him.’
The watchman hurried inside, and Carbo took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He looked down the street, always alert for threats, because of both his training and his ever-present anxiety. Movement at the far end of the thoroughfare caught his attention. The sound of hob-nailed boots stomping in time on the cobblestones.
He narrowed his eyes and saw the crowds on the streets parting, hurrying to get out of the way. Down the centre, marched a dozen soldiers of the Urban Cohorts. And at their head, back straight, chest thrust out, marched Tribune Pavo.
Their eyes met at the same time, and Pavo recognised Carbo instantly.
‘There he is,’ yelled the Tribune. ‘Apprehend that man!’
Shit. The Tribune obviously wasn’t as convinced as Vespillo of Carbo’s innocence.
Carbo looked in the other direction down the road, instantly assessing his escape options. Although there were no wheeled vehicles, there were plenty of people walking to and from places of work, homes, shops or their patrons’ houses, as well as the occasional mule or donkey laden with baskets, and a litter carried by four hefty slaves, bearing some noble or dignitary. He was not a fast runner because of his injured leg, and the congestion on the street would slow him down further.
As the lead four soldiers of Pavo’s men broke into a run, Carbo made a decision, and darted inside the vigiles headquarters.
A few watchmen milled around, one sweeping the floor, one sharpening his axe on a whetstone, two in conversation, lounging against the wall. All of them stopped and looked at him in surprise.
‘Trouble outside,’ he said. The watchmen were immediately alert. The two conversing vigiles reached for their nearby clubs and moved to the doorway. The one with the axe stepped up behind them. The one with the broom held it up uncertainly.
‘Get Vespillo, now!’ said Carbo. His tone was sharp with the authority of years of command, and the young man dropped his broom like it was on fire and hurried away.
‘Get out of our way,’ came a loud voice from the entrance to the station.
‘State your business,’ said the axe-wielding watchman.
‘We are here on the business of the Urban Cohorts.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘The authority of Tribune Pavo. Now stand aside.’
Carbo looked around for a weapon, but unsurprisingly, there were none lying around. In desperation, he picked up the broom, snapped the head off over his knee, and stepped up behind the three watchmen who were barring the entrance to the station with their physical presence.
‘Get out of here,’ said the watchman with the axe. ‘Leave this place.’
From behind the Urban Cohort legionaries came another voice, a commanding voice, albeit high and shrill.
‘Force your way in! I will have that man!’
The Cohort legionaries pressed forwards, and the three watchmen braced themselves, leaning forwards, feet back. Carbo added his bulk to the shoving match, his shoulder against the back of one of the watchmen. The air was full of grunts and curses.
‘Move aside, little bucket boys.’
‘Bugger off, you pretend soldiers.’
The watchmen were outnumbered, but the entrance was narrow like the neck of an amphora, so at first they could hold the intruders back. The legionaries shoved, kicked, threw punches, but the watchmen held.
‘Use your swords,’ screamed Pavo from the back. ‘Kill them if you have to.’
For a moment, the pressure against the defenders eased as the legionaries stepped back, but it was only to give them room to draw their gladii. Carbo stepped up beside the watchmen, two armed with clubs and one with an axe, and brandished the broken stump of the broom at them, feeling scared, furious and a little absurd at the same time.
One of the legionaries, clearly thinking a broom-armed civilian to be no threat, thrust towards Carbo, a blow with real intent that would maim or kill if it landed. Carbo swatted the blade aside with a flick of the broom handle, then brought the stick round hard across the side of the legionary’s head. There was an audible crack and he crumpled to the floor like an ox felled by a priest at a sacrifice to Jupiter.
The other legionaries roared their anger and rushed forward as one. Carbo and the watchmen parried sword thrusts desperately with their weapons, inferior as they were in reach, agility and damage. One jab went under Carbo’s armpit, lightly grazing the skin over the side of his ribs. Another sliced the side of one of the watchmen who bore a club, who grunted and swung his cudgel hard against his attacker’s arm. There was a crack as bone broke. The legionary screamed and fell back, but another immediately took his place.
The watchmen next to Carbo took a step back, then the one on the other side, and he could tell their initial bravado and defiance was dissipating, and they were ready to break. Carbo readied himself for the collapse of the resistance.
‘Stand down!’
Though a little breathless, this was a voice that held real command and authority, unlike the petulant whining of Pavo, and it was obeyed instantly, by watchmen and legionaries alike. Both sides took a step back, panting for breath, pressing hands to bruises and cuts and glaring across a narrow space at each other.
Carbo risked a glance behind him and saw Vespillo trotting up, fresh from wherever deep in the bowels of the headquarters he had been. With him was the watchman from the door, as well as Taura, Pinarius and the d
iminutive secretary Plancus. They had all stopped to pick up weapons, the usual assortment of dual purpose crime control and fire-fighting tools, though Vespillo carried a sword.
‘What is the meaning of this lawlessness?’ Vespillo demanded, his deep, booming voice carrying without the need to shout.
Pavo pushed his way to the front of his men.
‘Tribune Vespillo, I heard that you had released that criminal.’ Pavo jabbed a finger in Carbo’s direction. ‘I had come to demand you re-arrest him.’
‘You have no right to demand anything from me, Pavo.’
‘And I find him loitering outside your station,’ continued Pavo as if Vespillo hadn’t spoken, ‘a free man, looking for all the world like he is guilty of nothing.’
‘Guilty of nothing? That I doubt. Guilty of those murders? Definitely not.’
‘It is not your decision to make.’ Spittle was frothing from Pavo’s mouth, and Vespillo made a show of wiping his eye.
‘It is absolutely my decision. He was my prisoner, and I decide whether to keep him or let him go.’
‘Well now you have let him go, I can arrest him instead. And this time he can stay in my cells, and I will personally make sure he is thrown to the beasts.’
Vespillo shook his head.
‘Get away from my station, Pavo. And you can be sure your superior will be hearing from me about your thuggery.’
‘It was my superior who ordered me here, you fool. Now hand him over.’
Vespillo stepped away and put an arm around Carbo. He put his mouth close to Carbo’s ear. ‘I don’t know what you are doing here. We can sort things out between us another time. But you need to be gone. Pavo isn’t going to take no for an answer and I can only hold him for so long.’
‘Vespillo, there’s something big happening tonight.’
‘No time.’
‘Vespillo!’ came Pavo’s whine. ‘I’m going to count down from ten, then I’m coming in.’
‘Fine,’ said Carbo, ‘but come to my old tavern later. Be discreet about it. I might need your help.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Now go down the stairs, through the barracks, into the kitchen. There is a trapdoor for food supplies that leads back up onto the street. Go!’