The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Shoving his way through the gathering rain-soaked rabble, a bearded and cloaked Spaniard, surrounded by four shaggy barbarians, lumbered to the gate. I recognized the Germans as belonging to the Hermundurian Tribe by the twisted, long, fuzzy knots hanging from the right side of their heads.

  “I’m here to see my nephew, Marcellus. Open up!” their leader demanded.

  “There’s no one here by that name,” the gate custodian answered in a contemptuous voice.

  “Dammit, you Persian snake-eater,” the Spaniard growled. “He’s your master’s retainer, Centurion Marcellus Reburrus. Now open this gate before I wrap it around your scrawny neck!”

  Nobody but Uncle Budar would be so caustic with a senator’s servant. I ordered the gatekeeper to let them pass. He obeyed grudgingly, obviously insulted by Budar’s rough manner. The crusty old veteran came into the vestibule, escorted by his trusty Germans. Smelling as foul as ever, his retainers reminded me of soaked rats in their animal skins. They stayed at a distance from us, continually searching the area, waving away anyone coming into the room.

  After shaking the water from his clothes, Budar gave me a bear hug.

  “I said I’d come with a visit, didn’t I, boy?” He laughed heartily.

  Budar inspected my uniform. “Not bad, not bad at all. You look every bit a centurion. Except.” He paused. “Except the hair. Why did you grow it long?” It was about a finger thickness longer than before. “These modern centurions and their long, stylish hair,” he growled. “Disgusting.”

  I ignored his comments and explained about the attempted murder of Eleyne and death of Karmune. With the exception of several false leads, our inquiries had been fruitless, and Sabinus’s spies hadn’t fared any better.

  Budar thought for a few minutes, glanced at his Germans. Unconsciously, he scratched an armpit and studied my face for a few seconds. “There’s somebody you’ve got to meet. When you’re through at the Palatine, come and see me at the Sling and Onager wine shop on Minerva Lane—you know the place?”

  “If you mean the dirty hole in the wall with the ugly woman owner who’s missing a left ear, I’ve seen it.” I grinned.

  “Good. It’s a soldier’s den, so you won’t be out of sorts.”

  Budar motioned to his Germans and turned to leave. “I’ll see you later. Have some business to take care of while I’m here.” He left with his bickering Germans trotting behind.

  I wondered who the person was that he wanted us to meet. Would it be someone who could assist Crispus and me in digging up evidence against the elder Gallus? Or just another waste of time?

  Chapter 27

  Crispus and I hurried through an icy downpour and met Budar at the wine shop near the Field of Mars—not far from Watch headquarters. I surveyed the cesspit, known as the Sling and Onager, remembering why I had avoided falling into that sewer. A small place, its masonry counter, ingrained with fragments of colored marble, faced the street. Three large earthenware jars, uncomfortably similar to urine containers, were embedded into the bar filled with steaming soup and stew. Against the wall leaned four long-stemmed amphorae wine jugs. Sides of bacon, dried fish, and chickens hung above the counter in various stages of decay. From one end drifted the pungent fragrance of warm spice wine, Calda, from a bronze bowl atop a hot tripod brazier.

  Painted on the outside wall, a chipped picture depicted an army catapult, the Onager, and a Belaeric Islander hurling a keg of Syrian whiskey with his sling. In a niche next to the sign stood a small statue of Hercules, for good luck.

  A goatskin covering protected the interior from the elements. Inside, strewn about the cement floor, fresh sawdust covered numerous older layers of festering compost. A snoring drunk had fallen onto the floor, leaving a partial bowl of Calda. A fat tavern maiden poured it into a fox-shaped terra-cotta drinking flask. She emptied a wooden dish of some unknown stew onto the floor with a flick of the wrist, to be covered by tomorrow’s straw.

  As we sat, I rubbed some heat into my frozen hands, removed my wet army cloak, and shook it before moving another step. Back in the dimly lit corner, beneath a picture of the household gods, Budar sat by himself on a brick bench. The Germans congregated over a low, cement table molded into the floor in another corner, happily swilling large earthen bowls of beer. Sitting in the opposite corner, an old craggy-faced, drunken soldier slurped from a jug.

  Uncle Budar waved to us. “Ah, Crispus, this is a pleasant surprise, welcome.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Budar ordered one of the wrinkled keeper’s better vintages of the grape, but he warned against sampling the stew. “I’d rather lick one of them Germans’ armpits than taste her swill.”

  We laughed. The bearded Germans, clothed in smelly tunics and breeches with wolf-skin cloaks hooked at the shoulder, looked at each other, as if trying to decide whether an insult was intended.

  Budar leaned closer as he tugged on his graying beard. “There may be a way you can learn if old Gallus is behind this murder business.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “I have a hook with the right people, the kind you’d least expect.”

  “Who?”

  “Beggars.”

  I nearly dropped my cup. “Are you mad?”

  His powerful hand grabbed my wrist. “Wait a minute, boy. You’d be surprised at what they hear.”

  “Why beggars?” Crispus asked.

  Budar released my wrist. “They’re all over the city—the docks, the Forum, the streets—everywhere.”

  “But they can’t be trusted,” I protested, “They’d sell their mothers for a copper.”

  “Aye, so they would, but they’re prey to criminals, too. Like you, they want to see the streets rid of them.”

  “What does it have to do with us?” Crispus interjected. A boisterous roar of laughter from Budar’s men delayed the reply.

  “Most beggars are harmless, and want to be left in peace,” Budar answered. “For a price, they’re willing to give information.”

  “We can get that from the secret police,” I said.

  “The difference is these people have no political vendettas, and certainly no influence. They want the criminals to leave them alone.”

  “The Watch isn’t about to help them either,” Crispus added.

  “That’s why,” Budar continued, “the beggars are willing to help anyone who’ll protect them. All they have is one another for protection—that accounts for having their own leader.”

  “The idea still smells of rotten mullet,” I said.

  Crispus bared his big teeth and spat on the floor. “Why don’t we give it a try, Marcellus, nothing else has worked.”

  Another outburst of laughter from the Germans gave me time to think. Crispus was right. So far, we had met with failure and frustration. A couple of days before, we’d investigated the Broken Oxcart, the place the dying young tough mentioned, and not only hadn’t learned anything, but been forced to fight our way out, barely escaping with our lives.

  “All right,” I conceded, “we might as well. Where do we find them, Uncle?”

  Budar gave me a pat on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Marcellus, but Crispus has lots of common sense. Fortunately, he’s your friend. Come along, I’ll show you.”

  The four Germans, who had been drunkenly pawing the tavern wench’s ample buttocks, suddenly sobered as Budar stood. I realized their beer-swilling boisterous ruse was to cover our conversation and raised my opinion of Budar another notch.

  The rain had eased, but as we got to our feet I noticed Uncle Budar smiling.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “That,” he answered, referring to the drunk on the floor. “Do you suppose if he lays there long enough they’ll cover him with straw and the rest of the shit?”

  We laughed and departed, trudging by the Theaters of Balbus and Pompey and down the water-swollen Cornelian Way.

  We left Rome through the Capenian Gate and traveled along the Appian Way. Headi
ng south, we passed endless private cemeteries, lining both sides of the worn volcanic-stone highway, stretching far out onto the Campanian Plain.

  Travelers on foot, caught by bad weather, huddled beneath the darkened porticoes of the deserted mausoleums. Wrapped in woolen cloaks, our little party of seven traipsed onward. Periodically, rushing horseman and lumbering wagons splashed us as they passed through deep puddles.

  Budar led us off the highway, between a couple of nondescript vaults, and down a ravine of heavily moisture-laden bushes. Pushing the branches aside, we entered a large cave. Water falling through cracks in the dark, eerie ceiling formed into puddles of water lining the rocky floor. In a dark corner Budar found clumps of dried faggots, and we wrapped them into torches with oily rags and twine. The amber torchlight revealed naturally hollowed-out walls of hard rock and mildewed earth.

  My uncle motioned to the dark recess leading downward at the far end. “This is the way, let’s go.”

  Cautiously, our band snaked its way through the shadowy underworld. Carefully, we avoided the bottomless chasms on each side of the path from which Budar told me no man returned—convenient places for accidents to occur. We bypassed dozens of caves in which one might wander forever. Mixed with scurrying rats and dark fluttering and flying things, the stench of decay and death flowed too freely.

  Smelling it long before I saw it, we halted at the edge of a great, lethargic underground river reeking of sewage. The flowing sound echoed quietly through the vast cavern.

  “This is the great cistern of Rome, the Cloaca Maxima,” Budar explained.

  “Smells like the world’s shit has been dumped here,” Crispus commented.

  “It has, and a body or two now and then,” Budar said.

  Across the fetid river dozens of fires peaked and ebbed, and hissed and roared brightly, lighting up the other side to reveal the enormity of the sewer.

  “Good gods,” I said, “you could sail a trireme down this stink hole.”

  “Someone did,” Budar replied. “Years ago, they say, under Caesar Augustus, his son-in-law, Marcus Agrippa, did. He was the victor of Antony and Cleopatra at Actium. When he was the Aedile in charge of the water supply, the old admiral drained and cleaned the sewer. Once he finished, he supposedly sailed a three-banker down to the Tiber.”

  “Where are those fires coming from?” I asked.

  “Escaping gases from beneath the earth, the caves are full of them. Sometimes there’s no fire, just the smell of sour grapes. The place reminds me of the stories of the German underworld, reigned over by their half-goddess, half-monster queen, Hel.”

  Budar stopped. He turned and cursed his bickering guards in their harsh, grating tongue. They cringed beneath his wrath. By the gods, if it were possible, I believe he actually hurt their lice-infected feelings.

  “Damn, Germans are too quick with their swords under pressure,” he muttered. “I don’t want them chopping up the first runt of a beggar that steps out of a shadow, so I ordered them to use the flat side of their swords if threatened. Trouble is, them bastards don’t know they’ve got flat sides to whack ’em with.”

  Crispus and I waited while Budar and one of the Germans walked a short distance along the bank. The smaller of the Germans stayed beside me. He grimaced and dug a dirty fingernail hard beneath an armpit. He scratched the louse and smiled a broken-tooth victory. I edged a discreet foot or so away from him.

  “Over here,” Budar called, his voice echoing through the vast recess. In the darkness four or five small boats huddled along the embankment. Their circular shape reminded me of the cowhided coracles used by the Britons.

  “Get in.” He motioned to one of them. “We’re going across.”

  A slight commotion ensued as three of the Germans throttled the fourth until he got into the bowl-shaped boat. Budar looked at me. “The bugger can’t swim.”

  With Budar, Crispus, and I in one tiny vessel, and the Germans huddled in the other, we deftly rowed across the scum-filled waters as more filth floated by.

  The Germans began fussing again until Budar croaked, and they ceased scooping the slimy water with their hands and splashing the non-swimmer.

  “Uncle, how did you find this place?”

  He paused before answering simply, “A woman.”

  I didn’t pursue the question, but tried to imagine any woman who would make it worth the effort to traverse the bowels of this Hel.

  Upon landing, we hiked up the deep bank, passing the gaseous fires that conjured images of Hades, and plunged into the abyss. After what seemed an endless journey, we encountered an unusually large, torch-lit grotto. The stench of unwashed bodies engulfed the stale air. In the shadowed light, pathetic, rag-clothed creatures squatted in groups around small cooking fires. A couple of gaunt women distributed earthen bowls filled with bread and gruel.

  Suddenly, nine or ten beggars jumped from the shadows, threatening us with walking sticks.

  “Get out!” A toothless mendicant in a dirt-encrusted robe spat. “We don’t want your kind here. This is our world! Go back to yours!” The echo of his voice thundered through the cavern.

  As Budar’s bodyguards drew their swords, he stepped ahead of us and held up his hand as a sign of friendship. “Easy man, we come in peace. We’re here to see Scrofa. Tell him Budar’s here, he knows we’re coming.”

  Budar turned to his bodyguards and gestured for them to lower their weapons. They did, but their intimidating eyes threatened a sharp death if provoked too far.

  The old beggar eyed them suspiciously, and then us. “Wait here.” He hobbled into the darkness.

  A few minutes later he returned with a shabby but familiar-looking indigent. A tattered patch covered his left eye, two fingers were missing from his right hand, and a torn skullcap partially covered his shaved head. It was the beggar I had kicked near the docks.

  He turned his attention to my uncle, and the two vigorously embraced. “Budar, you old son-of-a-whore.” He gestured around the cavern. “Welcome to Hel. It’s been ages. How are you, old dog?”

  “Good to see your throat isn’t slit ear to ear, you old bastard,” Budar roared. “Yet, I’m not bad, for an old trooper.” They laughed heartily.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Scrofa said.

  “Knowing your chain of informants, I reckoned if I left word you’d hear soon enough,” Budar answered.

  “Eh, I did. What can I do for you, old comrade?” His manner changed abruptly to business.

  Scrofa studied us suspiciously with his sunken, dark eye and scarred, narrow face. He looked closer at me. “I’ve seen you before.”

  Then a smirk split his jagged face. “Now I remember, you kicked me at the Emporium! A favor for you? By Pluto’s ear, you’re mad!” He fell silent for a few seconds, studying me further. “It’s not often I have a boot kicker come begging,” he added sarcastically.

  I sensed his mock anger was to add value to granting a favor, and more importantly, a return in kind.

  “What did you expect?” Budar said. “You and I soldiered together for years. We treated beggars the same way. Why I remember—”

  “I don’t mind giving a hungry beggar like that woman a copper now and then,” I interrupted. “But I didn’t appreciate it going into someone else’s purse.”

  “We’ve got our reasons,” Scrofa said, gesturing to the paupers by the fire. “We share what we have, so no one starves. If we resort to trickery, so what? We’re no worse than the thieving senators and merchants.”

  “Can’t you get government bread?” I asked.

  He smiled and shook his head. “No. Most of these poor devils are ex-slaves. They’re not eligible for Rome’s generous gifts.” He sneered. “We’re just a simple clan of beggars and thieves—well . . . beggars, anyway.”

  “You have no patrons like Lord Sabinus?”

  Scrofa snorted. “Few are as generous as your Sabinus, and those who are publicly humiliate their clients with insults, forcing them to cower like dog
s. A man can only take so much before he’ll turn to stealing or begging. I’d rather beg than crawl before one of those powder-faced pansies.”

  “You’re still prey to thieves and highwaymen,” I reminded him.

  He spat. “Aye, we are. The stinking cowards rob people, many of them helpless cripples, before stealing from the strong and the rich.”

  “Maybe we can help,” I said.

  “Horseshit! What can you do?” he bellowed. “We can handle most of the thieves and robbers, it’s your Bucketmen we fear.”

  I explained my position with Sabinus and the attempt to link Gallus to the criminal element. I proposed using the beggars to relay information they might hear.

  “Why should I give information to the Imperial government? What’s it to us if this Gallus steals or murders his own kind?”

  “Not only do we want information on Gallus,” I said, “but any bandits you hear about.”

  “What do I receive for my help?” As in a game of dice, the cast of Venus was thrown on the table.

  “The information will be used to arrest those robbing your people,” I advised, “and you’ll be paid for your news.”

  A crooked smile wrinkled the beggar leader’s stubbly face. “That’s not enough. For money, I can give you a dozen witnesses who can tell such convincing lies that even Rome’s most corrupt and cold-hearted judge would burst into tears. Rome hasn’t done anything for us before.”

  He cut off my reply with a wave of the hand. “There is a way she can pay us back. Call off your dogs. Since the murder of that girl at Lord Sabinus’s house . . .” He mockingly bowed with the name. “The Bucketmen have made life miserable for us. We didn’t kill her! We know the killer is a Gaul, and if you meet our price, when we learn where he lives, we’ll lead you to him. As for the other forms of information, we want gold.”

  Scrofa agreed to being paid half for any truthful information he gave us, and the rest when we confirmed it. He would use his chain of beggars to gather information on the Gaul, and funnel it to us. He may have cared for his people, but he didn’t want the money entrusted to anyone but himself.