The Alexandrian Embassy

by Robert Fabbri

  ROME, MAY AD 39

  MARCUS SALVIUS MAGNUS did not look impressed; far from it. His pugilist’s face was crowned with a heavy frown; dark eyes stared grim from above a battered nose at the suave man across the desk as his index finger took out his aggression on one of his cauliflower ears, drilling it deeply. ‘I’ve not come all the way here, Tatianus, to be told that the shipment hasn’t arrived and, in fact, may never arrive.’

  Tatianus shrugged; the two thick gold chains around his neck glinted in the lamplight. He flicked away a fly that had had the temerity to land on the sleeve of his fine-spun pastel-green tunic and then met Magnus’ hostile gaze. ‘I’m afraid, Magnus, that it looks rather as if that’s exactly what you’ve done because it’s not here. I do, however, think that you’re exaggerating when you claim that I said it may never arrive. I believe that I told you that it would not arrive in the near future.’ With his little finger extended, he took an elegant sip of wine from a silver cup and swilled it around his mouth; his eyebrows creased and his lips puckered in appreciation of the vintage.

  Magnus struggled to keep his temper; he had never liked this smooth middle-man but, unfortunately, when it came to acquiring certain items, he was forced to do business with him. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘By the near future I mean today and tomorrow, so, by process of deduction, my statement means that the earliest your order will arrive is in two days’ time.’

  Magnus’ fist slammed down on the desk causing his untouched cup of wine to disgorge some of its contents onto the waxed walnut-wood surface. ‘You promised me that it would be here by two days before the Ides of May, and that is today.’

  The room was not large and Magnus’ voice filled it, causing Tatianus to wince. ‘My dear Magnus, shouting at me is not going to make the slightest difference to the speed with which your order gets past the Urban Cohort guards on the city’s gates. A consignment of fifty swords or a dozen re-curved Scythian composite bows are one thing: they can be hidden beneath a load of vegetables or suchlike, but a Scorpion? That’s a very big piece of kit to conceal. And bearing in mind that it is illegal for all but the Praetorian Guard and the Urban Cohorts to carry swords within the city, just imagine how much more illegal it would be to be caught in possession of a legionary bolt-shooter?’ Tatianus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ve resisted asking but now my curiosity has got the better of me: what in Hades’ name do you want a Scorpion in the city for? It’s not as if you can reassemble it anywhere public without it being noticed.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I want it in the city for, Tatianus. I want it in the city for the thousand denarii that I’ve paid you up front, and the balance of a thousand that I’ve brought with me, that’s what I want it in the city for.’

  ‘And you shall, Magnus, you shall; but not today. The centurion with whom I have a close financial understanding won’t be on duty at the Capena Gate on the Appian Way until the midnight of the Ides; as your delivery is coming up that road in three different carts, we’ll get them through then in the early morning. You can bring back the balance at the third hour of the Ides; I’ll be out until then.’ Tatianus raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Unless, of course, you would rather leave it here for safekeeping rather than risk walking back to the Quirinal with such a large amount at night?’ He gestured to the formidable-looking iron-reinforced wooden door with many locks, behind him. ‘I have the most secure strongroom.’

  ‘Leave you the money before you give me the goods? Bollocks! I’ve brought five of my lads with me; we’ll be fine.’

  ‘Just trying to be helpful, that’s all,’ Tatianus muttered, taking another sip of wine. ‘Remember, I only hold onto the items for a few hours. If you don’t come with the money quickly then I offload it to the first comer and your deposit is forfeit. It’s all one to me.’

  Magnus checked himself, swallowing a string of invective, and then looked around the painted and gilded items of furniture in Tatianus’ study. The tables and sideboard bore the trappings of a wealthy but tasteful man: exquisite coloured glass vessels, their rich umber and turquoise hues warm in the flickering light, were interspersed with many small, delicately sculptured figurines of gods; more gods, in fact, than Magnus had ever seen in one room. Lining two of the walls were shelves full of scrolls, almost all of them contracts, for Tatianus liked to keep his business close to hand in the only room in which he would discuss it. Tatianus visited no man. All who required his services had to come and pay court to him; he would have it no other way, and all of Rome’s underworld knew it and accepted it. ‘Very well,’ Magnus conceded, calming somewhat and getting up, ‘I’ll come back on the Ides and it had better be here or …’

  ‘Or what, Magnus?’ Tatianus leant across the desk and steepled his hands as if his interest had been exceedingly piqued. ‘What would the patronus of the South Quirinal Crossroads Brotherhood have to threaten me with? A drubbing in a dark alley or an arsonistic visit to my home, perhaps? The latter’s more your style from what I hear. Or you might even skewer me with a Scorpion bolt if you could find someone else who could supply you with that particular item; but of course, you can’t, can you?’ He sat back in his chair and gave Magnus a pleasant smile. ‘So it’s “or nothing”, isn’t it, Magnus? And if you ever say “or” to me again it will be the last word you will ever utter in this room because my services will be closed to you. Understand?’

  Magnus closed his eyes and grimaced; Tatianus was a man he could not afford to alienate. ‘I apologise, Tatianus, I meant nothing by it. I’m sure you will do your best to get my order here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Of course, my friend; of course I will.’ Tatianus, suddenly all affability once more, rose and walked around the desk and, clapping an arm around Magnus’ shoulders, guided him to the door; he was a full head taller than his guest. ‘It’s been a pleasure as always.’ He opened the door and slapped Magnus’ back so hard it propelled him out of the room.

  The door slammed closed leaving Magnus, seething inside at the humiliation of being dismissed in such a patronising manner, standing in a brightly lit, marble-floored corridor, staring at two grinning henchmen. With as much dignity as he could muster he barged his way past the two heavies and stomped back down the stairs and on through the house to the atrium.

  ‘Where do we take this, Magnus?’ Marius, a tall, shaven-headed crossroads brother, asked, pointing the leather-bound stump of his left arm at a strongbox on the floor.

  Magnus shook his head at the five crossroads brothers who had accompanied him with the money from the Quirinal to the Esquiline Hill. ‘Put it back on the cart, lads; we’re leaving empty-handed.’

  The largest and most oxen-like of the brethren turned his hands over and stared at the half-eaten onion in his right palm.

  ‘It’s an expression, Sextus,’ Magnus snapped, venting his frustration on the slow-witted brother as he headed into the vestibule and grabbed his cloak from its hook. The doorkeeper performed his role with alacrity and Magnus stepped out into the drizzleladen gloom of an overcast, but warm, May night. Pulling his hood over his head, he kicked the slave belonging to Tatianus who had been keeping watch on the handcart, shouldered him into the gutter – the man’s head narrowly missing the wheel of a passing wagon – and then walked at pace straight down the raised, ill-lit pavement, forcing other pedestrians to stand aside for him. His five brethren scurried after their patronus, placing the strongbox under a pile of rags on the cart, pushing it out into the constant delivery traffic that plagued Rome’s streets at night and shoving the filth-splattered slave back down into the gutter as they did so.

  ‘So he didn’t have it then, Magnus,’ Marius asked as they finally ma
naged to catch up with their leader as they passed the Temple of Juno Lucina towards the base of the Esquiline and in the shadow of the Viminal.

  ‘No, he didn’t have it,’ Magnus growled, kicking at the corpse of a dog.

  ‘Then what will we do?’

  ‘We need to get onto the roof in order to break in through the ceiling. We can’t get the rope across without a Scorpion, and therefore if we don’t have a Scorpion until the night of the Ides we’ll just have to do the job then. So let’s not moan about it and find something to occupy ourselves with in the meantime.’

  ‘Right you are, Magnus.’ Marius grinned. ‘We could always stop at one of the brothels on the Via Patricius on our way back.’

  ‘No, I ain’t going to go into the West Viminal Brotherhood’s territory with this amount of cash on me; that would be asking for—’

  A cry of agony cut him off.

  Magnus spun round to see three figures hacking at the two brothers pushing the handcart whilst Sextus fought off another couple of assailants, smashing at them with ham fists; the fifth brother, who had been pulling the cart, was struggling to relieve the ever tightening grip of vice-like fingers around his throat. As one, Magnus and Marius pulled their knives from the sheaths on their belts and crashed back into the fray as more attackers materialised out of the night. Leading with his left shoulder, as if he bore a shield, Magnus cracked into the ribcage of the nearest shadowed threat, stamping his left foot down on the man’s own, fracturing many bones, as he thrust his knife forward, military-style, underarm and low, with a short, powerful jab. Blood slopped over his wrist as the breath rattled out of the assailant. Magnus twisted the knife left and then right, shredding groin muscles and drawing a satisfying howl from the core of his victim’s being, as next to him Marius punched his leather-bound stump into the mouth of his adversary, shattering teeth and pulping his upper lip as he slashed the point of his blade to his right, taking one of the men hacking at the brother pulling the cart in the back of the neck, severing the spinal column; down he went like a stringless puppet.

  Magnus wrenched his weapon free of the tangle of ripped tissue, releasing the foul faecal stench of evisceration; he thrust his dying opponent aside and spun, one hundred and eighty degrees, his forearm raised, to block the downward stroke of a new entrant into the fight. The blow thwarted, he let his arm give a little, allowing the man to close with him, before jamming his knee up between his legs, rupturing a testicle, and doubling him over with a strangled intake of breath as three more shadowy figures emerged from the crowd – watching but making no attempt to intervene – and headed directly for the cart. Magnus felt the wind of a thrown knife hiss past his right cheek and instinctively ducked in the opposite direction as a blade from behind stabbed at the place his head had been an instant before; he turned to see a squat man staring cross-eyed at a knife juddering in the bridge of his nose. A sharp flick of Magnus’ right wrist opened the man’s throat as Marius crunched his forehead into the face of one of the new attackers, crashing him back with blood spurting from his nose; with one look at his mates he turned and ran. Sextus, with a bull-like roar, picked up his last surviving assailant and hurled him after the rest who were now, suddenly, all beating a hasty retreat.

  Magnus looked around. No one else threatened them and the crowd had begun to disperse, none of them wishing to get involved in a matter that was plainly not of their concern. On the ground dead, amongst the bodies of six of their attackers, lay two of his brethren; a third knelt, coughing dryly as he massaged his bruised throat. ‘Are you all right, Postumus?’ Magnus asked, hauling the brother up as Marius restrained a bellowing Sextus from chasing after their attackers.

  ‘Just about, Magnus; and you?’ Postumus wheezed.

  ‘I think so.’ As he drew breath, Magnus suddenly turned and rushed to the cart; the rags had been brushed aside. ‘Juno’s puckered arse!’ he cursed as he stared at the empty bed of the cart. ‘The bastards got it; they must have known what we were carrying.’ Marius and Sextus joined him, both still panting hard; they looked forlornly at where their strongbox had been. A groan from the ground distracted Magnus; he glanced down to see the man with the shattered mouth trying to crawl away. Catching him by the collar, Magnus cracked his head down on the paving stone, knocking him unconscious.

  ‘Here, lads,’ Magnus snarled, holding the limp body up, ‘get him on the cart and cover him with rags. Let’s get to our tavern before the Vigiles turn up and try to prevent us from asking matey-boy here a few very tricky and painful questions, if you take my meaning?’

  The questions were far less tricky than they were painful; in fact they were very simple and remarkably few.

  ‘I’ll ask you again,’ Magnus said in a convivial manner, smiling down at the prisoner and patting him in a kindly fashion on the cheek. The man wriggled in fear at the sight of a red-hot poker in Marius’ gloved hand as he hung naked, suspended by his ankles, from a ceiling beam in a room deep in the rear of the tavern building that served as the headquarters of the South Quirinal Brotherhood. ‘Who do you work for and how did you know what we were carrying?’

  The man’s eyes widened as Marius grinned at him over Magnus’ shoulder, showing him the glowing iron and repeatedly raising his eyebrows in ill-concealed anticipation. His swollen mouth, however, remained sealed as he struggled against the rope binding his wrists behind his back.

  ‘Tch, tch.’ Magnus shook his head in exaggerated disappointment as if he were a grammaticus having received the wrong answer from his most promising pupil. ‘I’ll tell you what: I’ll ask you the questions for the third time, just in case you misheard before. Who do you work for and how did you know what we were carrying?’

  The prisoner shook his head, screwing up his eyes.

  Marius made a show of putting the poker back into the mobile brazier that, along with an oil lamp on a table next to it, lit the chamber. Sextus’ bulk lurked in the shadows by the door, under which flickered the dim light from the adjoining corridor; Postumus stood behind the prisoner to prevent him from rotating.

  ‘Perhaps he’s lost his voice,’ Magnus mused, scratching his chin. ‘Why don’t you check, Marius?’

  ‘Right you are, Magnus.’ He withdrew the poker, its tip now orange. Within an instant the stench of burnt flesh was accompanied by a piercing shriek that brought a happy smile to Magnus’ face.

  ‘His thigh doesn’t look too nice but I can’t hear anything wrong with his voice,’ Magnus observed, turning back to Sextus, ‘can you, Sextus?’

  ‘What’s that, Magnus?’

  ‘I said: can you hear anything wrong with his voice?’

  ‘Er … no, Magnus; it sounded fine to me.’

  ‘I thought so. What about you, Postumus, did you hear anything wrong?’

  ‘It sounded sweet to me, brother.’

  ‘In which case it’s time to stop being nice. Hold the gentleman’s buttocks apart for him, would you?’

  Postumus grinned with genuine enjoyment at the prospect. ‘My pleasure, Magnus.’

  Magnus squatted down and thrust his face close to the prisoner’s as Postumus pulled his legs apart. ‘Now listen, you piece of rat shit. I’m in a very bad mood and I don’t give a fuck how much or for how long I hurt you. Two of my brothers are dead and a lot of my money is missing so I’ll do whatever it takes to redress those facts. Answer my questions and Marius here won’t use your arse as a scabbard for his poker.’

  Still the man shook his head, his eyes bulging at the sight of the glowing terror coming towards him.

  ‘That’s a silly decision.’ Magnus nodded at Marius. ‘Just in the crease and then, Postumus, squeeze.’

  The red-hot tip was placed between the man’s buttocks as Postumus pushed them together. Smoke rose to the hiss of burning hair and skin and, after a moment’s delay, the prisoner issued a scream that made his last effort seem pathetic in comparison; on it went, rising in timbre and getting rougher as it grated, drying in his throat.

 
At Magnus’ nod, Marius withdrew the object of torment and pressed it back into the brazier; the prisoner started to hyperventilate.

  ‘He’s going to have to be careful how he sponges his arsehole for a few days,’ Magnus opined, peering at the damage before squatting back down and grabbing the prisoner’s chin. ‘Now how would you like that done to your scrotum, maggot? I can assure you that we’ll all enjoy watching and listening.’

  The man’s chest heaved and tears rolled down his forehead; his swollen lips drew back to reveal shattered teeth. ‘Se … Sem …’

  Magnus put his ear closer to the man’s mouth. ‘Who?’

  ‘Semp …’ He struggled for breath for a couple of moments. ‘Sempronius.’

  The name came out as a wheeze but it was clearly audible; Magnus’ face darkened. ‘Sempronius,’ he growled, chewing on the word. ‘He of the West Viminal Brotherhood?’

  The prisoner nodded feebly, his eyes closed.

  ‘How did he know about the cash?’

  ‘I don’t … I … I don’t know; he just …’ He winced and spat some blood from his ruined mouth; a globule rolled into his nostrils. ‘He just told us to track you back from the house on the Esquiline and attack you as you neared our territory so we’d not have so far to go with the box.’

  ‘So he knew about the box?’

  The man nodded, his eyes still closed.

  Magnus stood, his face set grim. He paused for a few moments in thought and then wrenched the glove from Marius’ hand, pulled it on his own and grabbed the iron from the fire. ‘As you’ve been a good boy and answered the questions as best you can I’ll make good my promise: Marius won’t use your arsehole as a scabbard for his iron.’ He pushed Postumus aside and, brandishing the searing bar in his right hand, he exposed the man’s anus with his left. ‘But I will!’ With a jerk he forced the poker into the sphincter and thrust it, with the palm of his hand, as deep as it would go. With a howl that would have drowned out both the previous ones combined the prisoner convulsed, almost doubling up, so that his face stared, eyes brim with horror, over his scrotum, directly at Magnus for an instant, before slumping back down, swinging limply, dead from shock, pain and horrific internal injuries.