by Alex Gough
Carbo clapped Vespillo on the shoulder then hurried away. From behind him, he heard Pavo count down to one, then urge his men forward. Vespillo in turn called to his men to hold firm. Carbo hoped they wouldn’t resist too long, or they would get hurt, maybe killed. He rushed past the rows of beds, though the rudimentary kitchen with pots and pans hanging from the walls and a brazier glowing and smoking in the middle of the room. He spotted the trapdoor at the top of a short, steep wooden staircase, yanked the bolt and emerged out onto the street.
One or two people gave him a semi-curious glance, and damping down his anxiety, he gently closed the trapdoor and walked slowly away, blending into the crowds.
* * *
The old tavern was packed to the rafters. Carbo sat at a table near the back, making small talk with the inebriated legionaries that sat with him. It was hard making yourself inconspicuous when you were Carbo’s size, and so he hunched forward, keeping low over the table, and keeping his voice down.
He had mixed feelings about seeing the tavern so busy. While it meant that the publicity for the celebration had been successful, and that Cicurinus was therefore likely to be aware of it, he also reflected with melancholy what he could have done with the place if he had paid it the attention it deserved. He resolved to do better, if he ever got the place back, then almost laughed aloud as he reflected how many areas of his life and relationships he should improve, if he ever got the chance.
Olorix was making sure he was a centre of attention. He had arrived after Carbo, and hadn’t spotted him in the throng of happy drinkers, nor was he showing any inclination to make the rounds of his customers. He sat on a raised dais, dressed like a centurion with a polished chest plate and a helmet with a transverse crest. He waved a gladius around dangerously, clearly having no idea how to use one, but having tremendous fun nevertheless. He had one bodyguard by his side, the bald Syrian who Carbo had fought before, and who was fending off overly friendly patrons wishing to thank Olorix for his largesse, while at the same time keeping an eye on the sword so he could duck some of the more perilous sweeps.
Since the tavern was so crowded, the hired dancers were pressed up against the customers, constricting their performances, and leaving them exposed, scantily clad as they were, to pinches and blatant gropes from uninhibited drinkers. The party had spilled out onto the street, and the prostitutes brought in for the night were mainly plying their trade in nearby alleys and up against the walls of the neighbouring houses and businesses. The dicing tables that had originally been set up inside the tavern had also been moved out onto the streets to make more room. The wine was flowing freely, and though it was priced cheaply, Carbo suspected that Olorix had brought it in even more cheaply, and between the whores, the gambling and the wine, he was making plenty of money. The broad smile on the fat bookmaker’s face certainly suggested that was the case.
Marsia was rushed off her feet, though she took any opportunity she could to attend Carbo’s table, reassure as best she could with a glance or a half-smile. She was dressed in a skimpy breast band and loin cloth with an iron collar around her neck, an outfit she wore with obvious bad grace. Sica, Carbo knew, was out in the street, keeping to herself, no doubt ably fending off amorous advances while she kept a lookout.
Vespillo was somewhere in the tavern, though Carbo couldn’t see him at that moment. They had nodded to each other when Vespillo had arrived, but the Vigiles Tribune had seated himself far from Carbo, correctly presuming that Carbo would prefer him to be present but separate. They hadn’t had the chance to speak since he had fled the vigiles station that lunchtime, so Vespillo had no idea what was going on, and on reflection, Carbo thought, that was probably for the best. While he would have no objections to the plan to trap Cicurinus, and would not mourn the killer if he died in the attempt to catch him, Carbo suspected he would not approve of using Olorix as expendable bait.
Carbo sipped a cup of water. He was too anxious to eat, and was only half paying attention to the conversation of the legionaries, who were babbling about what a great idea this whole thing was, how no one gave enough credit to the legions for keeping Rome safe, and how the barbarians were savages who deserved to be crucified and their families sold into slavery. Surely Cicurinus had seen the advertisements. Surely he would be infuriated. Surely he would come here, to make sure Olorix received his retribution.
Or he might realise it was a trap. Or he might not care enough. Or he might have left the city. So many what ifs. And Carbo knew that, after his narrow escape earlier that day, though Vespillo believed him innocent, more powerful people still wanted him executed for the murders. This had to work.
The sun fell, dusk turned to darkness. The party showed no sign of ebbing, but Cicurinus showed no sign of turning up. When Carbo caught sight of Vespillo through the crowd, the Vigiles Tribune shot him questioning looks, to which Carbo could only shrug in return.
Carbo half-listened to the legionaries chattering at his table, his attention fixed firmly on the tavern door. This was a gamble, he realised. He had bet on Cicurinus taking their bait. The odds weren’t fixed this time, but he wasn’t sure they were in his favour. And he was gambling his life.
Chapter Eighteen
Even at this late hour, Cicurinus had doubts. He hesitated at the end of the street that led to the tavern, turned around, almost walked away. He had lived in the shadows for so long. Both before and after his release from captivity. Much of his time as Veleda’s prisoner – or was it protégé? – was spent in a dark hut, with only the visits of the priestess to keep him company. Though he had feared her and hated her at first, eventually he came to relish the time spent with her, whether she was treating him with kindness, or giving him the stern chastisement of a disappointed parent.
And since his return to Rome, commencing his sacred mission, he had stayed out of the sun, working in the dusk and the gloom, in the dark places of the city. Was he ready now to come out into the harsh glare of the daylight, where all could look at him and see him for who he was? That night was now falling did not alter the fact that if he killed Olorix now, in front of so many witnesses, he would be marked. There would be no hiding, ever again.
What would be his fate after that? Would he be seized, punished, executed? That would only make his message all the stronger. Or maybe the gathered legionaries who were debauching themselves would be shamed by his example. Maybe they would follow him, acclaim him…what? Imperator? King?
A glow built inside him. His path was set. There was no turning aside. What would happen would happen. There was just one thing about which he had no doubts whatsoever. He would make Veleda proud.
He straightened his back, pushed out his chest, stroked the handle of the knife he had concealed beneath his tunic and strode purposefully down the street.
* * *
Carbo didn’t think he could stay still a moment longer. Every instinct in him was telling him to lash out, or to run. It was all he could do not to leap up, overturn the table, smash his drunken companions in the face, then run screaming out of the tavern. Clenched guts, dry mouth, a cool dampness on the back of his neck, beads of sweat on his forehead, heart thumping so he could feel the pulse in his throat. Bodily reactions to stress that were so familiar to him now, he had almost become inured to them. Almost.
He craved wine. That would blunt the sensations, loosen the tightness inside. But what would Marsia say? Would she even serve him? And what about Sica, after all the care she had taken of him?
And as he thought of the young Dacian freedwoman, she suddenly appeared in the tavern, scanning the crowd, looking for him. He raised a hand carefully, then tucked it back down again before anyone else noticed. Maybe it was an unnecessary precaution in the raucous disorder of the party, but if Olorix spotted him now, it could ruin everything.
Sica weaved her way through the packed bodies until she reached Carbo’s table. One of the legionaries sitting with him reached out to pinch her backside, but she slapped his hand away i
mpatiently. When the legionary looked affronted and prepared to make his displeasure clear, Carbo squeezed his arm, and once he had his attention, gave a single shake of his head. It was enough to make the legionary sit back and turn to his friend to grumble about killjoys.
Sica leaned into Carbo’s ear.
‘He’s here.’
Carbo’s head jerked up and he scanned the tavern.
‘Where?’
‘Coming down the road now. Looked like he might change his mind. He stopped. But he will be here any moment.’
As she finished the sentence, Carbo saw Cicurinus enter, and stand framed in the doorway. Carbo regarded him. Tall, dark, broad. Eyes flashing with anger. Cicurinus’ gaze drifted across the drunken crowd towards Carbo.
Carbo grabbed Sica, his hand round the back of her neck, and pulled her face against his. Close-mouthed, he kissed her, keeping his eyes open, watching Cicurinus the whole time. Cicurinus’ gaze drifted past Carbo without pausing, clearly not recognising the small part of Carbo’s face that was visible from behind Sica’s head. The killer turned to the raised dais on which Olorix sat like an oriental satrap, dispensing largesse to his subjects and enjoying the decadent fruits of his position.
Carbo released Sica, and she pulled back, face flushed, breathing quickly, looking searchingly into his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Carbo. ‘I thought he was going to see me.’
Carbo wasn’t sure if the look that passed fleetingly over her face was disappointment, but he had no time to consider it. Cicurinus was moving slowly through the throng towards Olorix.
But so was Vespillo.
The stocky Vigiles Tribune had seen Cicurinus enter, and while he may not have known who he was, he had an instinct for trouble born from years patrolling the violent night streets. He stood and moved forward, politely asking those in his way to stand aside, not yet suspicious enough to make a fuss, curious enough to want to find out if this newcomer was a threat.
Carbo cursed and got to his feet, started pushing his way through to intercept Vespillo.
Cicurinus’ whole attention was now fixed on Olorix. He walked slowly forward, one ponderous step after another. Those who were too slow to move aside got shoved, and though some were tempted to push back, the look on the imposing man’s face soon made them think better. A space began to open around Cicurinus as he got closer to the dais.
Olorix was stroking the bare leg of a young slave girl who was draped across his lap, and drinking from a jug of wine that another was pouring from a height into his mouth. The red liquid overflowed down his chin, and he coughed and spat some over the girl he was fondling, then laughed uproariously at the expression of disgust on her face.
As Cicurinus approached Olorix, the Syrian bodyguard stepped forward to block his path.
‘Stand back. Boss is busy.’
The knife flashed almost too fast to follow with the eye. The Syrian looked puzzled for a moment, then held a hand up to his neck, where a red line had appeared. As he felt for it, blood trickled, then gushed, flowing in crimson rivulets down his front. He opened his mouth, and more blood flowed through his lips and down his chin in a fatal mirror of Olorix’s wine. Still uncomprehending, he toppled to his knees and slumped forward, twitching.
The slave girl who had been pouring the wine dropped the jug and screamed. Her piercing cry and the smash of the clay vessel as it hit the floor cut through the noise of the revellers, and there was a moment’s quiet.
Olorix stared at Cicurinus who faced him, bloody knife in hand, face suffused with anger. Cicurinus pointed at the fat bookmaker with a trembling finger.
‘You,’ he said, in a hoarse, shaking voice that was nevertheless audible to every person in the tavern. ‘You are everything that is wrong with Rome. You sit there, dressed in your finery, drinking and whoring, making money from the poor, the hard working, the brave soldiers who fight to keep the Empire strong.’
The tavern was silent now, everyone staring in fascination, spellbound by the killer’s words, by the exsanguinating corpse lying prone in the straw, by the terror on Olorix’s face. Only Carbo and Vespillo moved, struggling towards Cicurinus.
‘It is because of men like you,’ continued Cicurinus, oblivious to anyone else present, ‘that I had to embark on my mission in the first place. It is because of men like you that Rome needs to be purified. Cleansed. By blood.’
A murmur went around the crowd inside the tavern. The words were familiar. From the graffiti. Purified. Cleansed. This was the killer that had been terrorising them all these weeks. Now unease began to spread. Those nearest the exit decided that it was better to leave than watch the drama unfold, in case they became victims themselves. Who was to say that this madman didn’t find the behaviour of every single one of them at the party objectionable, punishable by death? As legionaries, citizens, performers and slaves crowded for the exit, the doorway became jammed, and panic spread like a flame on kindling. The change from expectant stillness to frenzy happened in the blink of an eye, and everyone was shouting, yelling, pushing.
Carbo saw Vespillo buffeted by those fleeing, but the tribune braced himself and pushed forward, determined to reach Cicurinus. Carbo did the same, using his bulk, as well as his elbows and knees, to lever himself through the crowd. They were both within feet of Cicurinus and Olorix now, but the jam of bodies was becoming denser.
‘Who are you?’ asked Olorix, his voice high-pitched and strangled.
‘I am justice. I am fate. I am the representative of the gods of Germania and the gods of Rome. And I will deliver their vengeance.’
He drew his arm back to strike. Olorix flinched.
Vespillo lunged forward, grasping for Cicurinus’ knife arm.
Carbo grabbed Vespillo and threw him backwards. Vespillo landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him.
The knife thrust forward, burying itself in Olorix’s belly. Cicurinus stepped forward, pushing harder, ensuring the blade penetrated the rolls of fat and lacerated the guts beneath. He sawed upwards, under the ribs, into the liver, into the chest. Olorix gaped in disbelief, grasping the hilt of the blade ineffectually. His legs gave way, and he slid off his chair, tumbled off his dais, rolled onto the floor and lay on his back, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.
Cicurinus looked down at the body, his face expressionless, unreadable. Then he turned to face the crowd.
Those trapped in the tavern by the bottleneck at the door shrank back in terror. Cicurinus looked at them in bewilderment.
‘I did this for you,’ he said. ‘For all of you. To make you strong. To give you honour.’
No one spoke. Most of the slave girls, and one or two of the freedmen, were crying. No one prostrated themselves on the floor before him. No one praised him, raised their hands to him, lifted him onto their shoulders and proclaimed him their leader.
He looked around, as if searching for someone.
‘Veleda,’ he said, his voice plaintive. ‘Where are you? Why have you abandoned me?’
Vespillo sat up, tried to speak, but he was having trouble getting air into his chest. Carbo stepped forward.
‘It’s over,’ said Carbo, and his voice, even to his own ears, was surprisingly gentle. ‘Come with me.’
Cicurinus stared at him for a long moment, as if not recognising him. Then his face creased into a furious scowl.
‘You. This is your fault. You were the start of all this.’
‘Me?’ Carbo was shocked, despite everything. Just because he had rejected him in a mood of hungover self-pity. That was what this madman blamed his killing spree on?
‘Get away from me,’ yelled Cicurinus, and shoved Carbo hard in the chest. Still processing the strangeness of Cicurinus’ statement, the sudden assault took him by surprise and he staggered backwards, losing his balance and nearly tripping over the recumbent Vespillo.
Cicurinus bolted for the exit.
Those trying to force their way out saw him coming, and scurried out of his way. Those
few to slow to remove themselves from his path were thrown bodily aside. Cicurinus disappeared out onto the street.
Carbo cursed and surged forward, inserting himself in the lacuna within the crowd that Cicurinus had created, squeezing through and out of the doorway. Behind him he heard the voices of Sica and Marsia, unified in anxiety, begging him not to give chase, not to endanger himself.
Maybe they had the right of it. Carbo was exonerated in the plain sight of all. Olorix was dead. Cicurinus was no longer his problem.
And yet, it felt like he was. From the very beginning, Carbo had been there, caught up in the whole mess. And Cicurinus himself blamed Carbo.
Carbo had to be the one to end it.
Carbo emerged onto the dark street, full of milling people, drunk, scared, confused, some of whom had witnessed the events that had just occurred in the tavern, many of whom hadn’t and were pressing for an explanation of the commotion. He looked desperately up and down for sight of Cicurinus.
If Carbo had been shorter, or Cicurinus, then maybe he would have lost him. But they were both tall men, and a score of yards away, Carbo saw Cicurinus’ dark head, bobbing up and down as he fled.
Carbo gave chase. He hated running. He had never been built for distance, with his bulky physique, and his fitness had suffered from the abuse he had inflicted on his body recently. What’s more, his injured leg shot a jolt of pain through him every time it impacted the cobbled road.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t run if he put his mind to it. Within him was still that core of strength, and of will, that had seen him survive so much. So now he used it, pounding along the road, gritting his teeth against the pain, breathing hard to keep the air hunger at bay.
The chaos at the tavern was quickly left behind, and Carbo followed Cicurinus as he zigged down an alley, zagged along a cut-through. There were still people out on the streets – Rome was never completely quiet at any time of day, and the night traffic had its own character. But these back streets were not crowded, and the pedestrians and wheeled vehicles were sparse enough to be no impediment to pursuer or pursued.