The question remained. Would Scrofa and his beggars follow through and send us incriminating information to be used against the elder Gallus and Rome’s criminal element?
Could they?
Chapter 28
Within a week, the agreement with Scrofa the beggar king started bearing fruit. At dawn, early on a crisp morning, one of his weasel-faced beggars, Mico, left a message at Sabinus’s home for Crispus and me. Scrofa asked us to meet him at the Probus Bridge, near the grain silos of the Emporium, a beggar’s haunt.
When we arrived, we saw Scrofa lurking in the shadows beneath the rat-infested bridge crossing the polluted Tiber. Little knots of ragged mendicants hovered with thieving eyes around a dozen fires along the riverbank. Noise from the docks drifted on the frigid morning breeze as barges poled upriver from Ostia and unloaded their cargoes at the big stone docks. Scrofa ordered a group of beggars away from one fire, and motioned for us to join him.
“What do you have?” I inquired, as we rubbed our cold hands over the small fire.
“My people discovered the whereabouts of a big cache of goods,” Scrofa replied. “Most of the things were stolen from shops along the Sacred Way.”
“Where is it hidden?” I questioned.
“In one of the caverns.”
“Near your people’s home?” Crispus asked.
“No, as far as I can guess, it’s at the other end of the city.”
“Then you’ll lead us and the Watch to the cave,” I said.
The beggar king hesitated, blowing his breath into cupped hands.
I knew he would back away if he wasn’t given the proper incentive. For all his boasting, he was a coward at heart.
“If you expect to be paid for your information,” I said in a menacing voice, “you will lead us. Is that clear?”
“All right,” the beggar leader said grudgingly. His breath steamed but instantly disappeared. “I’ll guide you, but it’ll cost you twice the usual price.” He gestured with his remaining two fingers through mittens filled with holes. “When we made this bargain, I wasn’t expecting to risk my life.”
“You’ll be well compensated,” I answered. I didn’t mention the reward for lying—the loss of his head.
*
In the early morning light, Scrofa and Mico led Crispus and me, and thirty hand-picked, sword-carrying watchmen, commanded by Centurion Faenus Rufus and Optio Casperius Niger, down into a cavern. As Scrofa said earlier, the cave was at the other end of the city far from the beggar king’s lair.
Not only beggars, but Rome’s criminal element claimed the city’s vast network of caves as their home. I recalled asking Sabinus one day how long the gangs of thieves and cutthroats had lived beneath the city.
“They’ve festered there for countless ages,” Sabinus had said. “They’re considered part of the natural order of things. At night, they leave their dark recesses, surfacing to rob and plunder, and return below before sunrise.”
“Has the Guard or Watch seriously attempted to rid the city of this vermin?” I asked.
Sabinus exhaled. “Occasionally, they’ve raided their hideouts when they got out of hand. Meaning they had robbed a senator or killed some high official.”
“There must be a better reason for not making a concerted effort to wipe out the bandits.”
“Two reasons,” he said. “There are too many, and the Watch and City Guard fear the underworld. The risk of becoming lost and murdered in the endless labyrinth is too great. More than an entire century, eighty men, has disappeared at one time in its bowels.”
As we descended into what seemed to be a pit of no return, I understood what Sabinus had meant. As uninvited guests, we had entered Pluto’s empire, god of the underworld, and Roman companion to the German goddess, Hel. The light of our fluttering lanterns gave life to eerie cavern shadows. They ebbed and flowed with pulsating movement of light. I had the feeling that any moment some monster would pounce and devour us. The mind plays many tricks on those who allow their imaginations to run wild.
Carefully, the troops eased past gaping fissures, cautiously trekking through the mud and murk seething from invisible crevices. The air grew stale and heavy, and perspiration poured from our bodies. For a moment, a howling wind swirled through a crag, and cooled us. Perhaps Aeolius, the god of wind, screamed at us for foolishly invading its domain, a land of Stygian darkness. The wind laughed at our folly, sighing we might never return.
When we stopped a moment later for a breather, Crispus tapped me on the shoulder, and nodded to the men. “You see the looks in their eyes, Marcellus?”
“Aye, the sounds are playing havoc with their superstitious minds,” I answered. “Can’t say that I blame them. I’m struggling to keep my own imagination under control.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’d rather return to the world of the living,” I continued, “but we have to flush out this den of thieves and murderers. And recover the contraband.”
“If it exists.”
“We’ll deal with Scrofa if it doesn’t.”
“None of these troops are cowards,” Crispus added, “but it doesn’t lessen their fears of this hole.”
“Remind them it’s like going into battle,” I said, “everyone is scared.” Their hands and faces glistened with sweat, and their mouths were no doubt as dry as mine.
I motioned to the troops. “Come on, let’s go.”
Again, we encountered the cave’s perpetual fires. Escaping blue flames hissed and seethed from lignite and igneous rocks. Squealing, plague-infested rats scurried helter-skelter between our feet, and blood-sucking bats whisked by our heads. Turning a bend, Scrofa nearly tripped over a sprawled, rag-covered skeleton, a rusty dagger sticking between its ribs.
Crispus and I pushed the remains out of the pathway with the flat of our swords. At the touch of the weapons, the bones fell apart, clattering into one big pile.
Scrofa stopped from time to time, holding up his hand for silence. He cocked his head, listening for suspicious echoes. Then he waved the band cautiously forward. A brief commotion ensued as the young optio, Casperius Niger, shook his fist at a watchman for coughing after he had given the command for silence.
Once again, the detail halted. Scrofa signaled to Crispus and to me to move forward.
“We’re nearly there,” he whispered. “They’ll have guards posted, so we must be silent.”
Casperius Niger glared at the Bucketman to stifle any urge to cough.
“Do they have an escape route?” I questioned.
“Yes,” Scrofa answered.
“Is there any way we can block it?”
“No. We can’t circle around, but chances are they’ve bedded down for the day. It’s the first hour of dawn. They ought to be sleeping, and won’t go out again until tonight.”
“They won’t get the chance,” Crispus interjected, “but you’d better be right. If they escape, we’ll never find them, not in this black Hel.”
“Which do you want?” Scrofa asked. “The men or the goods?”
“Both,” I replied.
“Then get rid of the sentries if you want to surprise the rest.”
“Naturally.” Crispus drew a finger across the throat.
“Crispus and I will go alone. He and I fight well side by side,” I said.
“Aye, that’s the best,” Scrofa confirmed. “Probably no more than a couple of you ought to do the trick.”
“How do we approach without lanterns?” I asked. “It’s too dark to move in this pit of death without them, and we’ll warn them if we do.”
“As you go around the bend and down to the entrance, there are scattered along the way clusters of fires flaring from the burning rocks. Stick to the shadows,” Scrofa advised, “and you’ll have enough light to guide you.”
I waved to Faenus Rufus, the centurion in charge of the detail, to join us and explained the situation. “Your troops will stand by until we return,” I explained. “Count to one tho
usand while you wait. If we’re not back by the time you’ve finished, then rush the troops forward.”
“You can depend on us,” the broad-faced centurion answered.
I turned to Scrofa. “You’ll remain behind.”
“Gods,” he said raising his thick eyebrows, “you think I’ve come this far, at the risk of my neck, not to get paid? By the goddess Hel, I’m staying here until you’re done with them cutthroats.” Torchlight glistened in his oily face, reflecting avarice more powerful than fear.
I nodded approval and consoled my jangling nerves with Sabinus’s pledge to exterminate Scrofa’s entire lot if he betrayed us.
Crispus and I stripped off our armor and swords, aware we could move with more stealth without it. Dressed in tunics and armed only with daggers, Crispus and I forged ahead into the gray-black tunnel. Despite numberless flames spewing from the dirt and rocks, visibility was no more than a few feet. We halted every four or five paces and listened for echoes of danger, but heard only the sounds of dripping water. After what seemed like an eternity, I spied a dim light ahead. Slowly, as if stalking game, we crept forward until Crispus held up his hand. He pointed to the silhouettes of two sentries sleeping next to a small campfire before a branching cave. Sneaking up behind them, we clamped our hands tightly to their mouths, pulled their heads back, and swiftly slit their throats.
We listened for any stirrings from the next cave. Silence. Melting into the darkness, we rejoined the waiting watchmen and retrieved our armor. I hadn’t realized how excited I was until now. My heart seemed to pound through my chest.
“The two sentries are with the gods,” I told Faenus Rufus and Scrofa. “Follow me.”
The troops snaked ahead with drawn swords. Passing the dead men, one of them still twitching, we arrived at the mouth of the interior cavern they once guarded. Except for the gurgling of a small spring running near the entrance, all was quiet. Stealthily, we entered, our lanterns revealing the massive and fetid interior. Pitted into the stone wall gaping recesses spread like fingers. Dozens of leather and cloth lean-tos draped its jagged side. Entire families huddled with their men in scattered, pockmarked crags in the wall. Surrounded by ancient man-made fire pits cluttered with cauldrons and other cooking utensils, three small, natural fires provided the interior’s only light. A line of drying laundry hung nearby. Scrofa hadn’t lied about the community of thieves. Sprawling near the fires, about ten cutthroats peacefully slept.
Scattered in their midst rested a veritable treasure even the dim light could not hide. Countless gold and silver plates laid haphazardly beside statues inlaid with bright lapis lazuli stones. Small pieces of what appeared to be exquisite furniture sat about the dusty floor. Pearl necklaces, gold rings encased in rubies, sapphires, and other gems spilled from dozens of chests. Long-neck amphorae, no doubt containing expensive wines, squatted in neat little rows along one wall. A few broken crocks nearby indicated the essence of Bacchus did not go unappreciated. And one expensive armoire contained priceless Frankincense. Indeed, we had stumbled upon a storehouse for the black market.
Then I saw her—a little girl, not more than four, sitting alone in the dirt next to a fire at the rear of the cavern. The flickering amber light revealed her matted, sooty hair and little dirt-smudged face. She wore a coarse, linen tunic but played with an expensive ivory doll dressed in a bright stole. Quietly, she sung a toneless song to the doll as she cradled it in her arm.
We paused, but she heard us. The child stopped singing, turned her pale face toward the opening of the cave, and jumped up. She stared in our direction, her mouth dropping, her narrow, dark eyes wide. The doll fell to the earth. I put a finger to my lips in warning. Her mouth quivered. Suddenly, in a shrill voice, she cried, “Mama! Mama! Soldiers! Soldiers!” She ran to one of the wretched hearth coverings, and I waved the men forward.
To the shouts and curses of the watchmen, those slumbering around the fires rousted. Rufus ordered part of the detail to clear out the shelters. But their inhabitants came out fighting. Women screamed, and children cried, clutching to their mothers’ sides as the men put up resistance. A handful of thieves attempted to escape.
A dagger shot past my head. I turned as the bearded assassin reached for another weapon in his waistband. I flung my knife, striking him in the throat. Reeling backwards, he clawed at his neck with both hands. Blood foamed from his mouth, and he fell face down into a smoldering fire ring.
On my left, Optio Casperius Niger fought one villain as a second one crept up from the rear. I ran the second through the back with my short sword as he was about to strike. Niger slew the first thief and wheeled. Seeing me standing over the would-be assailant, he nodded quickly and turned to assist another comrade.
Everything appeared flat and gray in the insane dance of torchlight and campfire shadows. I whirled and eyed Rufus as he battled two thugs and scrambled to his aid. In a split second, I warded off one blow with a parrying movement and split open his skull. A chilling scream echoed from a woman. I must have slain her man.
The skirmish ended almost as quickly as it began. Few escaped into the bowels of the earth, and a couple of watchmen were foolish enough to try and pursue them. I ordered them back before they could be lost and murdered.
After prying the wailing females from their dead men, the survivors were herded into one corner. Four blood-smeared, wounded thieves survived, along with the sobbing women and whimpering children, a sorry lot. The little girl who gave the alarm darted from her mother’s side to the body of the one I had stabbed through the back. Kneeling, she tugged at the dead man’s shoulder.
“Wake up, Tata,” she pleaded, “wake up.” She pulled on her father’s corpse again. Another minute passed before she gave up. She ran to the woman and clung tightly to her legs. Her mother stared numbly into the fire.
“Why won’t Tata wake, Mama?” the little girl whimpered to the high-cheeked woman. “Make Tata wake.”
The woman bit her thick lower lip as she knelt before the little urchin. She pulled the child to her thin chest and nearly smothered her in a tattered shawl.
The child seemed to understand as she pulled her head away from the mother’s wrap. Her body shook and face tightened. I thought she was going to weep—who could blame her? Then her eyes locked with mine as I supervised the shackling of the prisoners. She glared at me with the face of a wounded animal. Beast-like, her scowl turned into a vicious animalistic rage. Until then, I didn’t believe a child so young was capable of such hatred. Her glare could have killed. I shall carry the image in my mind’s eye to the grave.
“Marcellus,” Crispus said, snapping me to my senses, “come and take a look. I found more booty.”
“Where?”
He motioned with his bloodied sword to one of the caves branching from the main cavern. “There’s a mountain of treasure.”
The horde of riches was so vast it disappeared into the deep shadows.
“By Neptune and Hercules!” Scrofa exclaimed, as he approached the cache. “It’ll take a small army just to haul off my twenty percent.” He twirled around gesturing grandly with his filthy hands.
“You agreed to ten percent,” I corrected.
“I don’t recall agreeing to such a paltry figure.”
“You have a convenient memory,” I said as I jabbed my finger into his chest, forcing him backwards. “We just got rid of your more powerful competitor.” I thumped his chest again. “Your people are free of his plundering raids. Be grateful I don’t change my mind!” I dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword.
Scrofa frowned, but his mood quickly changed. “Just look at all of this.”
The greedy old bastard immediately loaded up all his fingers with jewelry and pranced about like a king.
Weasel-faced Mico groped a small, gold ring, and Scrofa backhanded him. “Leave it alone, you greedy, blood-sucking dog!”
Returning to the main cavern, I felt someone’s eyes upon my neck, and turned to meet the child’s gaze. Her e
yes flicked to the dead man and then back to me. I caught the sparkle of the doll’s bejeweled figure on the ground. Picking it up, I held the toy out slowly, and she took the plaything and began the rocking motion and monotone song she had sung when I first saw her.
We examined the dead for documents. We hoped they might lead us to the masterminds of the thefts. By the looks of our captives, I doubted if they had the intelligence to steal the quantities we found without an organization to dispose of the booty. And why did they live like beggars when there was so much wealth stored in these caves? They must have been controlled by masters, men far stronger and meaner than themselves, who kept them from stealing this treasure trove.
One of the blood-spattered bodies was a big Celt, by his tartan clothing, a Gaul. Remembering the description given to Eleyne by poor Karmune, I examined the body carefully. Carved into his ugly face, I saw a jagged scar similar to the one Karmune traced on my face with her blood-smeared finger. Spreading from the center of his broad forehead across the right, the old wound ran through the middle of his cheek and hooked into his mouth. I checked his hands. The left was ham-like and gnarled. Thousands in Rome have scarred faces. But how many were big Gauls with a similar scar and hand? He had murdered Karmune.
I searched the pocket fold inside his tunic and found an old, crumpled scrap of parchment containing an unsigned note.
My master was displeased that you killed the wrong woman. If you value
your life, you will not fail your next task. Otherwise, the idiot Claudius
shall not be the only one who dies.
I reread the note. A chill ran down my spine. “Look at this, Crispus,” I said, handing him the note.
He read the message and whistled afterward. “Damn, is this what I think it means?”
“Aye, we haven’t just discovered a ring of thieves, we’ve uncovered a conspiracy against the emperor’s life. The captives must be taken at once to Latumiae Prison for questioning.”
I told Centurion Rufus of the discovery. At my insistence, he left ten of his most trustworthy men, including Optio Niger, to protect the contraband, while we hauled the prisoners away. Another detail would be dispatched later to retrieve the stolen goods.
The Broken Lance Page 24
