They released the women. “Just give us a few seconds to get ready,” Macha said, winking. “After all, you don’t want any disease.” She turned for a moment, but the toughs continued watching her. “Look,” she said, “I’m not going anywhere, but even a whore needs a little privacy. Can’t you turn your heads just for a few seconds?”
They did.
Her eyes darted to the alley across Ursus Street. “I know just the place where we can lie together,” Macha said to Balbus a few heart beats later. She saw a wagon noisily driving down the lane towards them. The driver wouldn’t get involved. She gave Shafer an almost imperceptible nod to edge her way out into the street. Suddenly, Macha stomped Balbus’ feet and elbowed him in the stomach.
Shafer kicked the fifteen-year-old in the groin. As he howled, doubling over and dropping to the ground, she kicked Balbus twice in the same place. He dropped like a sack of wheat from a tall-masted galley. Taken by surprise, the other three toughs stood in shock at the sight of the dagger now in Macha’s hand. It gave the women a few seconds, long enough to make their escape. They darted across the way, barely ahead of the rumbling vegetable wagon pulled by a team of four horses.
The rig blocked the thugs from chasing them for a few precious seconds, and Macha and Shafer raced down the trash-filled alley, oblivious to the garbage and dung sliming beneath their feet.
Minutes later they nearly ran into a wall blocking the way. From its direction drifted a fetid stench. Macha heard the curses and clattering footsteps of the pursuing gang drawing nearer with each passing second.
“Why are we stopping, Mistress?” Shafer asked in a fearful voice. “We must climb over the fence before they catch us.”
“Follow me, Shafer!” Macha said hurriedly. “I know this place. We’re next to the insula where Clodia and Lepidus the shopkeeper live. Directly on the other side is a great dung cart.”
A dung trader kept his wagon parked outside the apartment in the alley every evening, and drove it away early in the morning to collect offal around the city.
“There’s a bench where people step up so they can dump their slop buckets over the wall,” Macha said. They stopped at the base of the fence.
“We’re not going to jump into that awful mess, are we?” Shafer asked in an indignant voice.
Macha shook her head. “No, just as we climb over the fence, there is a roof to the side. It’s part of the stable next door. It’s next to the wagon, but you can’t see it until you’re on top. At night it’s impossible to see unless you know where to look. Help me up and follow behind—I’ll show you.”
They climbed the low wall and scooted onto the roof. Seconds later the gang flung themselves over the wall, into the filth-ridden foul-smelling barrels. Cries of surprise and obscenities erupted.
Macha and Shafer laughed as they scampered across the roof and down the steps on the other side of the apartment. “It looks like the spirit of the chase drained right out of them,” Macha said.
“I know the one I kicked between the legs had his drained,” Shafer said. “I doubt the Aeolian winds could suck his swollen balls through the city gates.”
Reeking of garbage, but otherwise safe, Macha and Shafer found another way to Ursus Street. As they rounded the corner, at the intersection with Serpent Lane, they spotted Bassus and Pomponius Appius at the head of forty watchmen. The two turned to head in the opposite direction, but it was too late.
“Stop right there!” Bassus ordered.
Chapter 21
Honest Horse Traitors are Hard to Find
Bassus glowered at Macha and Shafer where they lurked in the shadows ten paces away. He stood at the head of the watchmen with Pomponius Appius. Light from the smoky lanterns, carried by the bucketmen, cast a dingy pall on the uniforms of Bassus and the troops.
Macha and Shafer glanced at one another. A cool breeze streamed up the hill from the River Tiber, bringing the stench of floating sewage and the fetid smell of the wharfside cattle market. In the distance, two drunks bawled a slurring ditty, followed seconds later by the shatter of a wine jug and a string of obscenities.
Bassus nodded to a couple of troopers and back to the women. Wriggling a forefinger he said, “Come here, you two.”
There was no escape this time. “We don’t need an escort,” Macha said. She became aware of the reeking smell rising from her and Shafer’s clothing and the filth oozing from her sandals and between her toes. She nearly gagged, but suppressed the feeling. She and Shafer approached Bassus.
“What in the name of Mars are you doing here?” Bassus inquired in a voice tinged with menace. “I ordered you to stay home.”
“I did for a while,” Macha admitted. “I’m sorry, but I had to follow. I take responsibility for bringing Shafer. Don’t punish her, and don’t send us back, not now.” This wasn’t the time to mention their harrowing escape.
Bassus crinkled his nose. “You smell like you’ve waded through every garbage heap in Rome. Explain why you followed us.”
“I’m not going to lie—I wanted to see Crixus arrested. He may not have my son, but he might know where he is hidden.”
Crixus, also known as Horse Arse, was only a freedman. But Macha suspected the plot against her husband, and the kidnapping of her son, came from the highest levels in Rome. Most likely young Titus was being kept somewhere more secretive and safer than a dingy apartment among Rome’s poor.
“And in doing so, you could have gotten yourselves killed,” Bassus answered, snapping Macha out of her thoughts. “You know how dangerous Rome is after dark.”
“I thought we would be safer dressing as prostitutes.” Now she knew how wrong she had been.
The bucketmen viewed the women and murmured among themselves. “What in Mars are two whores doing here?” one watchman muttered.
“To service us, what else?” another sneered.
“At ease!” Appius growled. “Keep your mouths shut! This is a lady and her slave.”
Bassus struggled to maintain a sober face. “Very clever, Macha, sometimes you amaze me. Consider yourself fortunate not to have been accosted tonight.”
“We managed,” Macha answered truthfully.
The Senator grunted. “No doubt your son’s kidnappers know you are in Rome and asking for my help in finding young Titus.”
“But they wouldn’t know you are about to arrest Crixus, or that I was present when it occurred.”
“If he’s in there.” Bassus motioned to a sagging tenement down the shadow-filled street.
“Shafer and I can wait outside while your men arrest Crixus.”
“Only because I have no men to spare escorting you home. But you will stay out of the way.”
“I promise we will.”
Minutes later the bucketmen arrested Crixus, dragging him from the dingy apartment bound in leather straps. Macha recognized him in the flickering lamplight as soon as the troops wrestled him from the apartment. His face matched the description given by the deserter, Faunus, after the attack outside of Luna. A long deep scar split the middle of his face from forehead to chin. Short of killing him, an axe couldn’t have done more damage to his face. Gods knew how he had survived such dreadful wounds or where he had received them. No wonder he was also known as Horse Arse.
Bassus followed the prisoner. He shook his head when he met Macha’s eyes.
“My son wasn’t with Crixus?” She asked.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Macha turned away, dropped her head, and held a cupped hand to her face. She knew the chances of finding young Titus with the horse trader were slim, and his arrest confirmed her disappointment. She prayed Bassus’ interrogation would reveal where her son was hidden.
The women tagged along as the Watch transported him by wagon to Lautumiae Prison for interrogation. Surrounded by the troops, the wagon holding Crixus bounced along the tufa stone Vicus Jugarius Road. The noise from the wagon’s wheels and the tramping bucketmen echoed down the street, off the sagging tenement wal
ls.
The detail turned out of the dreary shadows of the narrow lane and entered the Forum. Ebbing light from the watchmen’s lanterns silhouetted dozens of statues dotting the plaza. In the surrounding gloom towered the colonnaded courthouse, Basilica Julia, the Temple of Saturn, and other public buildings. Latumiae Prison waited on the far side of the square.
As the party trudged up the slight incline past the Rostra, the prison emerged out of the purple darkness. The austerity of the grim-faced edifice seemed out of place among the elaborately designed buildings surrounding the Forum. Entering the prison’s cramped reception room, the group headed down the murky narrow corridor leading to the cells and torture chamber below. The door from the outer room slammed behind the women, the sound echoing down the passage way as Macha and Shafer followed Bassus and Appius into the bowels of the prison. A couple of torch bearing Watchmen led the way as two guards followed behind with Crixus between them.
The smell of excrement and urine seeped from behind the solid iron doors of the cells, through narrow slots at the bottom where food was shoved to the prisoners. In the dim light outside one door Macha noticed a chipped bowl, crawling with vermin.
The troops led Crixus to the torture chamber, a shadowy fetid room in the lowest level of the sprawling lock up. Because this was Macha’s first visit to the jail, Bassus explained it was used at one time as a barracks for prisoners taken in Rome’s many wars. Now only common felons and high-grade misdemeanor offenders awaiting trial were incarcerated within its rough hewn stone walls. Occasionally inmates lingered in the filth-ridden rat-infested cells for more than a year. In some instances, for years at a time, prisoners were forgotten, accidentally or otherwise.
Smoky torches burning in iron casemates along the stone walls and two braziers resting on bronze tripods near the interrogation wheel provided the chamber’s only light. The acrid fumes stung Macha’s throat, causing her to sneeze and sniff. Others, including Bassus, fared no better as they snorted and cleared their throats. She scanned the room hoping to find a pitcher of water. All she saw was a splintered wooden tub filled with scum-covered water and iron prods. She covered her mouth and nose with a silk handkerchief. She may have dressed as a prostitute, but that wasn’t going to stop her from carrying one bit of luxury. Shafer followed suit with a piece of homespun cloth she pulled from inside her long tunic.
Macha spotted a rack in one corner of the dungeon. A stone hearth containing hot irons and red coals rested at the other end. Nearby, dressed in a heavy black tunic and a dirty leather apron, a stubby interrogator with broad shoulders and a fat belly waited.
Bassus sat at a wooden plank table in front of a high double-sided wooden wheel. Macha and Shafer huddled behind him in the darkness of the hot stuffy room, dreading what was about to take place. The watchmen shoved Crixus to the front of Bassus’ table. Crixus reeked of filth and horse sweat. Unconsciously Macha pressed her silk handkerchief closer to her nose again.
“I swear I’ve done nothing wrong,” Crixus protested.
“We’ll see if you’ll change your story once the Quaestionarius gives your feet a love tap,” Pomponius Appius said. A head taller than Crixus, he stared at the shorter man, his eyes brightening. “But the irons aren’t warm enough…yet.”
Two bucketmen grabbed the prisoner’s arms and dragged him to the upright wheel. It reminded Macha of a waterwheel. No doubt plans for Crixus provided for something far more dreadful than grinding wheat.
Stepping out of the shadows, the tall, horse-faced assistant torturer ripped off Crixus’ tunic, leaving him clothed only in a dirty loincloth. Both interrogators untied his hands from behind his back and spun him around, facing Macha and the rest. The two men spotted Macha and Shafer. For a moment they stared as if puzzled by their presence. Women were not allowed in the torture chamber. Bassus gave them a sharp nod to continue.
As they pulled Crixus’ arms above and behind his balding head, he shouted, “No!” and attempted to wrench himself free. The torturers yanked his arms tighter eliciting from him a scream that echoed through the chamber. They shackled his wrists with clattering iron chains to the wooden cross slats connecting both sides of the wheel’s frame. Quickly, they clasped his ankles in leather restraints and iron buckles anchored to the stone floor at the wheel’s base.
Crixus groaned. “But I tell you I’m innocent.”
“Maybe you’ll change your story once the irons have turned hot enough to blister and char a little, but not so white hot as to cauterize the wounds,” Pomponius Appius grinned.
Bassus motioned to the torturers to begin. Gripping the spokes on both sides of the wheel, they began turning until Crixus’ body was extended tautly, standing him on his tiptoes. He grimaced and closed his eyes. Sweat poured down both sides of his face as if anticipating the forthcoming agony. Macha doubted if she could bear to watch, yet she couldn’t turn away.
The Senator leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands together under his chin. He glared at Crixus. “What part did you play in the attack on Lady Carataca, Pomponius Appius, and myself on the road to Luna?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Lord Bassus,” Crixus replied. “I’m a horse trader, not an outlaw. I demand to confront my accusers.”
Appius approached Horse Arse and a sadistic grin crossed his thin lips. “That would be difficult, considering they’re now in the bellies of wolves or festering as their droppings.” He pulled a dagger from his scabbard and shot it to the base of Crixus throat. Barely pricking his skin, it sent a trickle of blood flowing down the side of his neck.
“Merciful gods, don’t kill me.”
“Answer truthfully,” Bassus cautioned. "You are a freedman. Who is your former master?”
“I'm my own master!”
“Liar! Your manumission is recorded in the Imperial archives.”
Crixus swallowed hard and his face reddened. He licked dry lips and rolled his eyes from side to side. Somewhere down a distant corridor an anguished scream of terror echoed. Blood from his wound coursed down the side of his body, dripping onto the stained stone floor.
“Let’s not waste any more time with him,” Bassus advised. Pomponius Appius agreed.
“Interrogator, ready at my command,” Bassus ordered.
“Yes, my lord.”
"Wait!" Crixus cried. "The merchant Julius Pedius and his wife Pollia freed me."
"What!" Macha caught herself whispering. The revelation jolted her. She had no inkling that Crixus had been their slave. We're they part of the plot?
"What do they know about your criminal activities?" Bassus questioned.
"Nothing," Horse Arse croaked. "I haven't seen them in five years."
Bassus glared. "Why? They are your patron. As a client you have obligations to them."
"Hah! Once when I needed help, those rich bastards would not give me so much as a copper as, the Empire's smallest coin." Crixus shook his head. "I went my own way."
"Who hired you to kill Lady Carataca and my troop on the coast road to Luna?" Bassus inquired.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Appius slapped his face. "Liar!"
Crixus head snapped backwards. He groaned as his skull thudded against the wheel slats behind his head. Blood flowed down the side of his neck from the slight cut inflicted earlier by Appius' knife and onto his narrow shoulder. "I'm no bandit, I swear."
With a flick of an eyebrow Bassus motioned the interrogator toward Crixus.
The chief torturer pulled a long glowing iron poker from the burning coals. Slowly, to heighten the fear and accompanying pain, he crept to the wheel. Although Macha stood behind Bassus, she felt the heat radiating from the prod.
At the sight of the hot iron, Macha and Shafer braced one another. Shafer’s fingers dug deeply into Macha’s arms, sending a twinge of pain.
“Forgive me for touching you, Lady, but this is so horrible,” Shafer whispered. She lessened her grip.
“It frightens me, too.” Macha held Shafer closer, and it seemed to comfort them both.
As the torturer was about to lay an iron on Crixus feet, he cried, “Stop! I’ll tell you everything! I can’t stand pain!”
The torturer paused. “I’ll spare your feet.” He nodded to his assistant, and dropped the iron in the nearby brazier. The Quaestionarii with practiced professionalism grabbed the spokes on both sides of the great wheel, and ever so slowly started stretching Crixus’ body. His face contorted as he bared his brown teeth attempting to contain a scream. But as his limbs were pulled tighter a loud groan escaped his lips. He twisted from side to side, fighting against the iron chains. Bound so tightly, the rubbing motion soon cut his wrists, and blood flowed down his dirty arms.
Macha heard bones popping from sockets, and shuddered. Shafer’s fingernails dug into her arms, and they held one another tighter.
Crixus screamed.
“Stop the wheel,” Bassus ordered. The interrogators complied. “Now, are you ready to tell the truth, Crixus?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Bassus nodded to the rackmasters.
Again they turned the wheel. Crixus let out a gut-wrenching howl. He vomited and fainted.
Shafer trembled and turned away, tears running down the side of her smooth sepia face.
“It’s all right, Shafer, we won’t stay much longer,” Macha whispered. She struggled to overcome her own shaking and the roiling sickness in her stomach.
“Revive him,” Bassus ordered. “I want answers, not a dead man on my hands.”
The torturers loosened the tension, allowing Crixus to slump on the floor face down. They threw a bucket filled with scummy water on his prostrate body.
Macha turned in disgust, shocked by the barbaric methods used on Crixus. As she did, she noted most of the men present instinctively clutched and checked their limbs. She understood why. Crixus was a loathsome creature, but there had to be another way of extracting the truth. No doubt Horse Arse would confess to anything after his ordeal, but she hoped it would be the truth and not more lies. Then again, she dared not protest or she and Shafer would be removed from the chamber, none too gently, she suspected.
The Sign of the Eagle Page 16