‘You are a veteran. An elderly man like Marcellus would not have put up much of a fight.’
‘Why would I want to kill him?’ Even to Paullus’ own ears, his tone sounded pleading and desperate.
‘The other victims were known to you,’ Vibius said. ‘Junius was your neighbour, and there was talk of you marrying Hirtius’ daughter.’
‘And it has been often observed that you are a changed man since you came back from Corinth.’ There was a well of unspoken hatred behind Fidubius’ words: You returned from the wars, and Alcimus, my son, did not.
‘But there are two killers.’
‘We only have your word for that,’ Fidubius said.
No, Paullus almost blurted out, Minado saw them sneaking away from the temple. Even in extremis, discretion prevailed. He would not drag the girl into this. She was a despised Bruttian. They would never believe her.
‘Or you had an accomplice.’ Vibius was smooth as oil.
‘Who?’
‘Your slaves have been taken. Eutyches and Pastor will be questioned.’ Fidubius seemed to relish the idea.
‘They are innocent and elderly. You cannot torture them.’
‘You know it is the law,’ Ursus said.
‘The only way to ensure the servile tell the truth,’ Vibius added.
Paullus looked round at his fellow citizens. Most he had known all his life. Now all those pairs of eyes were devoid of compassion, vacant and black like the windows of an abandoned house.
Fidubius nudged one of the magistrates.
‘Gaius Furius Paullus, I am arresting you for murder.’
CHAPTER 26
Patria et Militia
608–609 Ab Urbe Condita (146–5 BC)
THE ORIGINAL COLONISTS OF TEMESA were good Romans. They had tried to create a miniature Rome in remote Calabria. Even down to the gaol.
The Tullianum in Rome was at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, hidden away behind the senate house. It was a circular underground chamber, about seven paces across and twelve feet high. The cell was enclosed by strong walls and a stone vault. The only access was by a ladder let down from a hole in the roof. A spring of water drained through it, and the dampness added to the repugnant air of neglect, darkness and stench. It was not intended for long-term imprisonment, but simply a place of detention for those convicted of capital crimes or treason, or captured foreign enemies of Rome. All committed were awaiting execution, usually by strangulation. The only ones who were hauled out alive were destined to be thrown to their deaths from the high cliff of the Tarpeian Rock.
The colonists of Temesa had excavated a cavern of similar dimensions behind the basilica on the forum, where the town council met. There was a guardhouse above to shelter the public slaves who were detailed to prevent any attempt to escape. The prison was seldom used. Those detained by the authorities, for debt or more heinous crimes, usually were confined to house arrest in the home of a respectable member of the community. Often the householder was a relative, who stood surety for the accused. If many were arrested at once, or if there were debtors for whom no trusted citizen would vouch, they were held in a nearby slave barracks. It had shackles, stout doors and iron bars on the windows. The bandits taken at Blood Rock had been held there. But the man believed to have murdered and mutilated three citizens had to be confined to the deepest dungeon. That Paullus had not been tried, let alone convicted, was thought irrelevant.
Paullus climbed down the ladder. There was no point in struggling. There were far too many of them, and they would have just manhandled him to the edge and thrown him down. The fall would have broken bones, maybe been the end of him. The latter outcome would have been convenient for some.
There was no spring, but the chamber was very damp. The river was close, and it could not be much above the water level. It would not help his persistent cough. There was a filthy, mildewed mattress, a cup and jug of water, and a bucket in which to relieve himself. While there was still light, he sat down on the mattress. The ladder was pulled up, the trapdoor slammed shut, the bolts grated. The darkness was absolute.
Almost at once he heard the heavy, guttural breathing and smelt their stale sarcophagus odour. Although he could not see them, he knew the Kindly Ones sat close around him. They whispered to each other, as might the dead in the gloomy halls of Hades. Then one of them – Allecto, or another sister, Tisiphone or Megaera – spoke.
Remember Corinth. Remember the Last House.
*
The street was full of smoke. Soot, like black snow, eddied in the backdraught of the fires.
‘One more house,’ Tatius said.
‘We have enough,’ Alcimus coughed. It was getting hard to breathe.
‘Alcimus is right,’ Paullus said. ‘The flames will cut us off.’
‘No, one last house,’ Tatius said. There was a strange, mad light in his eyes.
They gave in to the determination of Tatius.
The gate of the last house stood partly open. The courtyard was empty. Tatius led them into the house. There were signs of frenzied packing: bulging sacks, half-filled crates, treasured possessions dropped on the floor. It would take a small army to carry them.
They started rummaging through the baggage.
The roar of the fire could be heard clearly. It was getting close. A street away, perhaps nearer still? There was a breeze. It would carry burning embers. Fires could break out anywhere.
‘We have to go,’ Paullus said, ‘while there is still time. Any moment now, we are going to be trapped. No wealth is worth dying for.’
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ Tatius said.
Alcimus gave a low whistle. From a packing case, he lifted a wine cooler. It was huge and heavy, beautifully engraved, and made of solid gold.
‘Someone is coming!’
As Paullus spoke, dropping what they held, all three drew their weapons.
From deeper in the house, two Greeks burst into the room. They stopped, thunderstruck at the sight of the soldiers. They were unarmed, but for an instant Paullus thought outrage was going to impel them not to give up their belongings without a fight.
Then they turned and fled, and Alcimus set off in pursuit.
‘Let them go!’ Paullus seized Alcimus’ belt, and pulled him back.
Tatius was turning the wine cooler in his hands.
‘That is mine,’ Alcimus said. ‘I found the drinking set.’
‘It is mine now.’ Tatius was tracing the engraving with his fingers. He seemed entranced.
Alcimus went to grab the precious object. They tussled, like two children in the street. One hand still holding his sword, Alcimus was losing.
Paullus moved to separate them. He was too far away and never had the chance. Tatius’ sword was back in his fist, then its point was buried deep in Alcimus.
Paullus stood as if turned to stone. In the heat and the smoke he was icy cold.
Tatius withdrew the sword and pushed Alcimus away with the wine cooler. Alcimus staggered back. His hands were pressed to his stomach, his blood pulsing through his fingers. The blade had punched through the rings of his mail. His round, innocent face was blank with incomprehension. Then he doubled up and collapsed. No one survived a gut wound.
‘What have you done?’ Paullus said.
Tatius turned and carefully placed his treasure on the table. ‘I told him it was mine. I told you both.’
‘You have killed him.’
‘You should have listened to me.’ Tatius’ thin, delicate face was sad. ‘How many times did I say that nothing and no one was going to stop me returning as a rich man?’
‘But you killed him.’
‘And now I am going to have to kill you.’
‘What?’
Tatius pouted like a sulky girl. ‘You know the punishment for killing a fellow soldier: tied to the fork, slowly whipped to death – the ancient method of execution, the stern way of the ancestors. You think I am going to let you run and tell your new little friend
Centurion Naevius?’
Paullus stepped back, drew his sword.
Tatius followed.
Thick ropes of smoke were coiling through the doorway.
‘If we don’t leave now,’ Paullus said, ‘we are going to die in here.’
‘One of us is.’ Tatius advanced in a fighting crouch, half turned, blade held up by his right ear.
From nearby came the crash of a roof falling.
Tatius was between Paullus and the door.
‘It is your own fault really.’ Tatius shook his head, but his eyes never left Paullus. ‘You both have farms to return to, and I don’t. Again and again I told you both that I needed enough to buy an estate.’
Tatius jabbed to the face. Paullus flinched, but managed not to raise his guard. As he suspected, it was a feint. Tatius thrust at his stomach. Paullus turned the blow with the edge of his blade. The momentum drove them together. Tatius’ eyes were insane. Paullus tried to stamp on his instep, but missed. Tatius shoved him away.
Smoke was gathering in the ceiling. Paullus had to get out of here. Soon there would be no air to breathe. He would suffocate or burn to death. He aimed a backhanded cut, designed to drive Tatius out of the way to the door. Naevius and the army could hunt Tatius down, exact due retribution.
Tatius did not move to the side, but instead gave ground. He was still blocking the path to safety. And now Tatius moved to the attack. Long years with the eagles had taught him to fight. He unleashed a combination of blows to the head and shoulders and torso, cutting and thrusting, varying the point of attack. The wound he had taken earlier to the shoulder did not seem to be any hindrance, and experience was on his side. Paullus was forced back, step by step, doggedly parrying, just trying to stay alive. One strike got through. Paullus staggered as the sword clanged and bounced off his mailed shoulder.
Paullus was standing in Alcimus’ blood. A great pool of it was spreading across the floor. Alcimus was almost underfoot, not moving. Paullus did not know if his friend was dead yet.
Tatius was maddened, like a cornered beast, insensible to reason or pain. It would take a mighty injury to stop him. He had to be incapacitated. Paullus did not know if he had the strength. Tatius only wore a chest protector. But did Paullus have the skill to find an exposed extremity?
The back of Paullus’ legs bumped against the table. There was nowhere to retreat. Tatius smiled, sensing his advantage.
‘Time to join your friend,’ Tatius said, unleashing a powerful right and left. Somehow Paullus got his weapon in their path. Steel rasped on steel, just in front of his face. Again he collided with the table, was forced halfway back over its surface. Something heavy shifted and fell on the wooden boards. Tatius’ gaze flicked to the glitter of gold. It was enough. Paullus got his sword inside Tatius’ guard and thrust its tip straight at his mouth. Tatius jumped back, but his boots slipped in the blood. Paullus thrust again. Tatius lost his footing and fell. Paullus was above him, plunging his blade down. Tatius rolled aside, knocking away Paullus’ left leg.
The momentary advantage was gone. Paullus landed hard next to Tatius. The impact jarred and made him grunt with pain. They grappled, the left hand of each gripping the wrist of the other’s sword hand. They wrestled in the gore, turning over, attempting to use brute strength to drive the sharp steel into the chest of the other.
Paullus felt Tatius’ blade nudge into the rings of mail guarding his ribs. One snapped, then another. The steel was worming its way through the leather padding under the armour. Then it would be into the muscle and bone of the ribcage.
Making a last throw of the dice, Paullus slackened his own attack. Surprised, Tatius lost a fraction of his grip. Paullus altered the angle of his own weapon: not the chest, but the armpit. With a titanic effort he put his weight behind the thrust.
Tatius grunted with disbelief and pain.
‘Poverty has undone me.’ Tatius’ tone was almost bitter. ‘If only I had owned a coat of mail.’
Paullus twisted the blade deep into the wound.
Tatius dropped his sword; pointlessly his fingers clutched at the blade of Paullus’ weapon.
Paullus drove the tip deeper still.
The heels of Tatius’ boots drummed on the floor, and his eyes closed as his body convulsed.
Tatius was still. Paullus thought he was dead.
But Tatius opened his eyes. He looked through Paullus with an expression of horror, as if he had caught a glimpse of what awaited him beyond the great divide. Then his gaze focused on Paullus. His lips moved. Paullus had to bend close to catch the words.
‘Hades, hear me – Furies hunt him across the face of the world.’
The final malediction, and Tatius was dead.
Paullus hauled himself to his feet.
The smoke was roiling down from the ceiling. There were only a few feet of clean air above the floor. More smoke was eddying in through the door.
Paullus went to Alcimus, knelt and touched his neck. There was no pulse. He looked at the two bodies. Soon the fire would consume both.
They had called themselves brothers. They had been inseparable. Naevius had called them the Three Graces. And now two of them were dead by the hands of their brothers. And Paullus knew that nothing in the world would ever be the same again.
CHAPTER 27
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
THE ROUTINE OF THE PRISON did not change. Twice a day the trapdoor was opened. The ladder was not put down. No opportunity was offered for escape. Instead, one by one, a pail of food, a jug of water and a new slop bucket were lowered by rope. The prisoner had to tie the handles of the old ones to the rope to be hauled up. The trapdoor had opened three times. It was the evening of the second day.
The public slaves were in an invidious position. Doubtless they had been ordered not to talk to the prisoner. But, on the other hand, Paullus was both a local landowner and the holder of the civic crown. It was known he had high-ranking patrons in Rome itself. A turn of the stars, and his fortunes might change. If he were declared innocent and released, things would be very difficult.
The slaves volunteered next to nothing, but they answered his questions. Evidently there was no overseer of the two on duty at any time. If there had been, the guards would have remained silent. Their answers had mainly been negative. No, there had been no visitors. No one was to be admitted. Eutyches and Pastor were being held in the house of Ursus. No, they had not been put to the torture yet. The priest refused to give them up until there was a formal trial. No, there was no date set for the proceedings.
The grudging conversation over, they shut the trapdoor. Paullus was left to eat in the dark. The food was always bread and cheese.
Every Roman citizen accused of a capital crime was entitled to a public trial before a magistrate and jury in Rome. It was one of the foundation stones of the Republic. Without that right there would be no liberty, and it was libertas that made Rome the envy of the world. If the charges were treason or aiding the enemy, the prisoner would be kept in custody. Otherwise, even if he was to be tried for murder, it was accepted that he had the option to retire into exile.
Paullus knew that he would not be put on trial in Rome. There was no evidence against him, except the theta ornament, and it could not be proved that he had lost it in the house of Marcellus. Indeed, his own familia – his mother as well as his slaves – could testify that it had been mislaid or stolen some days before the murder. He had no motive and could not be argued to have gained from any of the killings. Eutyches was a witness that he had been in his own field the day Marcellus died. Of course, many slaves said what they thought their inquisitors wanted to hear under the lash, but, for all his surliness, Eutyches was loyal as well as tough. No conviction would be secured. Not if he were defended by senators of consular rank, his old commanders, Lucius Aurelius Orestes and Lucius Mummius, the conqueror of Corinth. Like most things in Rome, libertas was amenable to the influence of the powerful.
Paul
lus would not be put on trial in Rome. The real killers could not allow it to happen. Paullus would not leave this cell alive. They would have to ensure that.
Talking to the guards in the brief moments of light, Paullus had looked all around the subterranean chamber, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was nothing – just bare, damp stone walls. If they came to kill him, he would not die quietly. He would fight with his fists and boots, his teeth and nails. If they came to kill him, they would also have to kill the guards. They might be suborned, but then they could not be left alive knowing the truth.
It would do no good explaining the danger of their predicament to the guards. Even if he convinced them, they would not dare turn him loose. If he escaped, the dereliction of duty would bring them torture and execution. For them the whirlpool of Charybdis was in plain sight, but the monster Scylla lurked out of sight in her cave.
Paullus had thought about poison. Yet he ate the gaol rations. It would be difficult to conceal toxins in plain bread and cheese and water. Poison was not always certain, and usually it left a trace, a black discolouration of the skin. The prefect of the Bruttians would arrive next month, and there would be an investigation.
There was an awful irony in this. The visit of the prefect was as regular as the seasons. November: thirty days; the sun in the sign of Scorpio; sowing of wheat and barley; the prefect holds court in the town of Consentia. December: thirty-one days; the sun in Sagittarius; olives gathered and beans sown; the prefect hears cases in Temesa. The prefect, of course, was Orestes, Paullus’ old commander. With him, in charge of his bodyguard of soldiers, would be Naevius, the old centurion. It was November. They were in Consentia. So close, yet so far. They might as well have been on the other side of the Adriatic, back in Achaea. It was late in the month. Soon they would take the road to Temesa. Yet the imminent arrival of his patron, and his friend, promised Paullus no salvation. Rather, it hastened his end. The killers could not let Paullus talk to the prefect. They would have to ensure he was dead before Orestes reached Temesa.
Paullus sat alone in the dark, a foul old blanket draped around his shoulders. Had there been light to see, an observer might have taken him for a vagrant. At times he doubled up coughing. The damp was making it worse. Paullus’ thoughts reached out beyond the stone walls to Minado: the way her hair curled over the nape of her neck, the perfect oval of her face and the way she lifted her chin without a hint of vanity. In her company he felt an ease, and a companionship he had known with no other girl. It was a cruel tragedy that he had found the woman he wished to marry, and now he would die in this dank cell. But he could not have married Minado. She was a Bruttian. She could have become his concubine. There was no shame in that. But their children would not have been Roman. Debarred from inheriting his land or wealth, they would have had a dismal life in the Roman colony of Temesa, forever trapped among the oppressed.
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