Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  The legionaries looked away.

  ‘What a mess,’ said one, a man with an unusually clear complexion and broad shoulders, young and unscarred enough to be a new recruit.

  ‘He was a legionary,’ said the second, older, bearded and with a glaucomatous right eye.

  ‘Then he should have more self-respect,’ said the younger, not even trying to keep his comments from Cicurinus’ hearing. ‘He’s a wreck. He should get to the bathhouse. And get some decent clothes.’

  Cicurinus had indeed tried to bathe, but the attendants had turned him away with wrinkled noses, not willing to allow the filthy man to contaminate the water. He had instead found a fountain, and had stripped naked to wash the worst of the excrement and muck from himself. Too much was ingrained though, deep in the cracks and scars in his skin, and although he could not smell anything unpleasant himself, years of exposure having made him immune to his own odours, he could tell from the reactions of those who passed him that he still stank.

  His clothing had been cast-offs donated by Brocchus, who had been in a hurry to get rid of him. Ripped and worn, the tunic was at least reasonably clean, and the caligae protected his damaged feet. Cicurinus returned to his soup, but he was unable to block out the conversation from the next table.

  ‘He is the one they rescued from the Germans. The one who had been imprisoned all those years,’ said the older legionary.

  ‘I would rather have died than let myself get like that,’ sniffed the younger one. ‘Look at him. What would your hero Carbo say to one of his men if they came to him in that state?’

  ‘He would have damned well had more sympathy than you. Don’t forget, Carbo was captured himself.’

  Carbo? Cicurinus looked up sharply, then just as quickly looked away.

  ‘And he escaped. That’s what this guy should have done. Escaped, and if he couldn’t then he should have killed himself.’

  Oh, he had tried. So many times he had tried to kill himself. Veleda wouldn’t let him. And eventually she had taught him to love her, to love his ordeal. A wave of panic washed over him as he thought of life without her. With no one to look up to and respect. How could he cope?

  ‘You don’t know what you are talking about,’ said the older legionary. ‘Yes, Carbo was a hero, but he would never have treated a comrade with contempt. Anger, disappointment, yes. But he loved his men.’

  ‘So why isn’t your wonderful Carbo still serving the Empire?’

  ‘He did his time in the legions. The Empire got their pound of flesh from him all right. Now he is back in Rome, relaxing and enjoying his retirement.’

  ‘Sounds boring,’ said the young man. ‘Give me battle and glory over the easy life, any day.’

  The older legionary shook his head. ‘You know nothing.’

  Cicurinus sipped his soup, and thought about Carbo.

  Chapter Two

  Rome, AD 28, January

  The two cockmasters held their champions up to the crowd that surrounded the cockpit, to a roar of approval. They flapped their wings as if accepting the acclaim but anxious to be getting to business. Carbo drank deeply from a cup of unwatered wine, and watched carefully. Though he wasn’t at the front of the crowd, his height and bulk afforded him an excellent view, to the extent that those behind him cursed their luck. He drank again, and felt a thrill of anticipation at the upcoming contest.

  ‘Where’s your money?’ asked the spectator beside him. Carbo turned to look at the young girl who had spoken.

  ‘On Cicero,’ he replied. ‘The Median.’

  ‘You mean, Melian?’

  ‘If you like.’ Melian was the suburan corruption of Median, ferocious cocks that came from the country of the Medes. When Carbo had been this girl’s age, he would have probably used the common term himself. A full term of duty in the legions had afforded him better education and experience of the world, but he had no right to look down on anyone here, where he had been raised, and where he had now returned to live out his days. He looked over at the cock he had gambled on. It certainly looked full of itself, haughty and arrogant, living up to its name.

  ‘You should have bet on Agrippa.’

  Carbo sneered. ‘That runt? Looks like it would barely make a small meal, let alone hold its own in a fight.’

  ‘It’s Tangrian. Fierce little shits. And they never give up. Good odds too.’

  ‘There’s a reason for the good odds. Bet on the favourite, bet heavily, and you will come out on top. That’s my method.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  Carbo didn’t reply. He fiddled with his betting token, and thought about his finances. Then he took another deep drink of his wine, letting the warmth flow through him.

  ‘Fight’s about to start,’ he said.

  The cockmasters held the birds close, thrusting them towards each other, annoying them and stoking their natural aggression to other males of their species. Each tried to peck the other when they came close, but the cockmasters held them far enough away to prevent contact. Both cocks had vicious spurs protruding sideways just above their feet, and Cicero’s struggles opened a slash along the forearm of his handler, evoking cursing from the cockmaster and hilarity from the crowd.

  The referee raised his voice and announced the bout to the crowd.

  ‘Now the fight you have all been waiting for. Cicero the Melian at four to three against Agrippa the Tangrian, at three to one. Commence!’

  The cockmasters placed their gamecocks down at opposite ends of the pit and let them go. Each cock danced forward, wings spread, neck feathers up, trying to look intimidating. Carbo wasn’t sure if he was just humanising the bird, but Cicero did seem to have a contemptuous swagger as he approached the much smaller Agrippa. Cicero feinted, and Agrippa danced out of the way, sideways and up into the air with a desperate flap of his wings. The crowd jeered. Cicero lunged forward again, and again Agrippa dodged. But this time Cicero struck home, and a small plume of feathers flew into the air.

  The birds parted and circled warily again, posturing and fluffing themselves out to the best of their abilities. Then Cicero dived at Agrippa, and the little bird went down beneath the heavier one. The speed of their strikes with their beaks and feet were impossible to follow for the crowd. All they could see were the two thrashing bodies with feathers erupting all around them. The crowd screeched. Carbo smiled at the young girl.

  Cicero broke off first, leaving Agrippa lying on the floor. His beak was parted, and his chest heaving as he drew deep breaths. Cicero had bald patches across his back and was trailing one wing slightly, but his triumphant swagger was if anything even more exaggerated now. He circled Agrippa, as if toying with him. Then like a lightning bolt he threw himself at the Tangrian cock.

  Agrippa leapt sideways, wings and feet giving him impetus, so Cicero’s attack failed to strike home. Instantly, Agrippa was on Cicero’s back, beak slashing into his neck, spurred feet digging into his flanks. Cicero flapped desperately, shook, rolled, trying to dislodge the smaller bird. It was to no avail. Agrippa fought with a breathtaking ferocity, strike after strike hitting home.

  It was over in moments. Agrippa danced back, gasping for breath through wide beak, watching Cicero intently. Cicero didn’t move. He lay on the sand of the cockpit, wings spread, neck stretched out, unmoving. One eye blinked. Carbo wondered if it was surprise or resignation.

  Cicero’s handler came back into the ring. He nudged his bird with a foot, shook his head when there was no reaction, then picked him up by one leg. Cicero dangled limply from his hand.

  ‘Agrippa is the winner!’ announced the referee, and Agrippa’s cockmaster pumped his arm into the air, then jumped into the ring to pick up his champion. He gave him a hug and a kiss, and then held him up for the crowd. Half booed, half cheered. The bookmakers looked smug. Carbo looked at the betting token in his hand, and threw it on the ground in disgust.

  ‘Pluto’s fucking balls,’ he swore.

  ‘Not your day, Carbo?’ came a Gallic-accent
ed voice from behind him.

  Carbo turned.

  ‘Looks like it is yours, though, Olorix,’ he said sourly.

  ‘Well, we bookmakers rarely complain when a favourite loses. It helps make up for all the losses, trying to keep people like you entertained and rewarded.’

  Olorix was a portly man, and Carbo regarded his fine robe and expensive looking gold bracelets and rings. Behind him, two bulky men stood close, scowling at Carbo as if daring him to try anything physical.

  ‘I think you probably do well more often than not,’ said Carbo.

  ‘I sacrifice regularly to Fortuna. Maybe you should try that yourself. Anyway, can I tempt you to another wager today?’

  Carbo put his hand on his purse. It was empty. He cursed. He would have to hope the tavern had done good business today. He supposed he would have to leave some money aside for stock purchase, and food for the slaves. That was a worry for another time. The same as his sorrow. This was not the time to face it. He drained his wine.

  ‘Not today, Olorix.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m sure.’

  Olorix turned and departed with a flounce, his two bodyguards in tow.

  The young girl looked smugly at Carbo.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Carbo churlishly.

  ‘A loser.’

  Carbo clenched his fist, then relaxed it, letting his shoulders slump, the flash of anger passing in an instant. Not that he would hurt her. Whatever his state of mind, he hoped he would never fall that far.

  ‘So how did you get to know so much about cockfighting?’

  ‘I keep my ear to the ground. I know lots of things.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  The girl nodded and tapped her nose.

  ‘How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Twenty-one,’ she said. Carbo doubted she was a day over eighteen, but he let it pass.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Camilla.’

  ‘I’m Carbo.’

  ‘I know. I told you, I know lots of things.’

  Carbo regarded her steadily for a moment.

  ‘So what else do you know?’

  Camilla grinned conspiratorially.

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  Carbo thought for a moment. ‘Come back to the tavern with me and we can talk.’

  * * *

  The short walk through the Subura back to Carbo’s tavern was passed largely without conversation between the two. Camilla seemed to be unwilling to divulge anything for free that she might be able to make money from, even if it was speculation about the weather. When they entered the tavern, Carbo was disappointed to find it quiet. Vatius sat in a corner as usual, Myia curled up by his feet keeping him company. A couple of off-duty legionaries from the urban cohorts diced in a corner. Marsia approached him.

  ‘Welcome back, Master.’

  He nodded to his slave.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  Carbo grunted. ‘Get me a drink. Wine, unwatered. And one for this girl. What was your name again? Canina?’

  ‘Camilla.’

  Marsia looked at him with a sceptical eye. ‘Where did you find this waif?’

  ‘None of your business,’ said Carbo. ‘Where’s that drink?’

  ‘We met at a cockfight,’ said Camilla, helpfully.

  ‘I see,’ said Marsia. ‘And was Fortuna on your side today, Master?’

  ‘I’m afraid your Master lost rather heavily. I suppose that’s why I’m here, so he can get some tips in the future.’

  ‘You do know, Master, that our takings are down? That our stock is low, and you owe money to the wine merchant and the baker?’

  ‘I’m aware of all that, Marsia. If you did your job properly and made sure this place was busy, we wouldn’t have any problems. We are due a payment from my farm in Campania, and I can always visit the argentarius and withdraw some savings if necessary.’

  ‘You already did that, if you remember,’ said Marsia tightly, her Germanic tones clipped short. ‘Your savings went on a dogfight.’

  Carbo grimaced and turned to Camilla. ‘That dog was a dead cert.’

  ‘And now it’s just dead,’ said Marsia.

  ‘Get me my wine!’ snapped Carbo.

  Marsia put her hands on her hips and cocked her head on one side, then with an audible harumph, she turned and poured two cups of wine. Carbo took them grudgingly and went to sit at a table, nodding to Camilla to follow him. He looked over at Vatius, who was grinning broadly.

  ‘Watch yourself, Carbo,’ said Vatius. ‘“Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.” Socrates told us that.’

  ‘She is just a slave, and I only tolerate her nagging because I can’t be bothered to discipline her. Sit, Camilla.’

  Camilla sat and took a drink of her wine, then made a face.

  ‘This tastes like cat piss.’

  ‘Drunk a lot of cat piss in your time, have you, girl?’ asked Vatius.

  ‘I’ve drunk enough wine to know when it has been diluted to the consistency of Tiber water.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Vatius. ‘Does it have turds and dead bodies in it, too?’

  ‘Marsia,’ yelled Carbo. ‘Why have you served Camilla this muck?’

  Marsia came over with an expression of mock innocence.

  ‘I didn’t think she looked old enough to drink strong wine.’

  ‘I’m twenty-one,’ said Camilla, forcefully.

  ‘Really,’ said Marsia. ‘Then I must be ninety-three.’

  ‘If you say so, old lady,’ said Camilla tartly. Marsia made to reply but Carbo interrupted.

  ‘Get her a proper drink, Marsia, before I have to instil some proper discipline.’

  Marsia simply raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to fetch the wine.

  ‘Now,’ said Carbo, after taking a long drink from his cup. ‘Tell me first, how do you know so much about the gambling dens?’

  ‘My clients talk. A lot.’

  ‘Your clients?’ Carbo was surprised this young girl had a business. ‘What’s your profession?’

  ‘Carbo, you are sweet. I’m a whore, of course.’

  Carbo sat back.

  ‘Oh, not so keen on my company now you know I earn my living on my back? Don’t tell me you have never been with a whore.’

  Not since he was a young man, he reflected. Not since his experiences at the hands of the German priestesses. There had only been one woman who had made him feel safe enough that he could be intimate with her. And she was gone.

  Carbo took a deep slurp of his wine, closed his eyes while he waited for the drink to deaden his emotions, then opened them again.

  ‘Are you a slave?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I am an independent businesswoman. Properly registered with the aediles and everything. Does it make a difference?’

  Carbo shook his head uncertainly, feeling suddenly out of his depth.

  Camilla slid her hand across the table and placed it over Carbo’s.

  ‘How about half price for the first one? I’m told I’m very talented.’

  Carbo snatched his hand back like she had poured boiling water over it.

  She raised her eyebrows in momentary surprise, then composed her features. Carbo glanced over to Marsia, who was glaring at him, mouth a thin line. He turned back to Camilla. ‘You can help me? Inside information?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ asked Camilla.

  ‘You would escape a beating,’ said Carbo.

  ‘You really think that if you beat me, I would tell you the truth? I would advise you to back a three-legged donkey, and then you would never see me again.’

  Carbo considered it. ‘What’s your suggestion then?’

  ‘How much are you going to bet?’

  ‘Let’s say five denarii.’

  ‘We only have six,’ said Marsia, setting Camilla’s new drink down.

  ‘Then you had better earn some more,’ said Carbo. ‘Get back to work.’
/>   Marsia flounced away.

  ‘Fine,’ said Camilla. ‘You pay me one denarius up front. I give you a tip with odds of three to one. You bet four denarii, you come away with your four plus twelve more. You give me a third of your winnings, that’s four denarii. You end up with twelve instead of your original five, and I end up with five.’

  Carbo tried to follow the maths, but he was considerably slowed by the amount of wine he had drunk. It seemed to make sense though.

  ‘You seem to do rather well out of the deal,’ he said dubiously, ‘Considering I am taking all the risks.’

  ‘You don’t know what risks I took to get the information,’ countered Camilla.

  Carbo considered, then nodded. ‘Marsia, fetch me a denarius.’

  Marsia did as she was told, tossing the coin onto the table contemptuously before heading back to the bar. Carbo looked after her for a moment, then shook his head and passed the coin to Camilla.

  Camilla inspected it carefully, then slipped it into a small purse beneath her tunic.

  ‘Very well.’ She leaned in towards Carbo, her voice dropping, and Carbo leaned forward as well.

  ‘There is a wrestling match in the basement of the Ass and Cart, you know, the tavern owned by Ulpius.’

  ‘I know the one.’

  ‘It’s between a Greek called Echelaos, and a Syrian called Bacchides. The book is being run by Olorix. Bacchides is favourite, Echelaos is a three to one outsider. He is smaller and less experienced. But Olorix is going to nobble Bacchides with some sort of drugged wine before the match. It will be a walkover for Echelaos.’

  ‘And how do I know you are telling me the truth?’

  ‘Look at how much I have to gain. The down payment is small compared to the payoff if you win. Our interests are the same. Just as relevant, how do I know you will keep your end of the bargain?’

  ‘You think me an oath breaker?’ said Carbo loudly, fury flashing through him. The two cohort legionaries looked over at him curiously, briefly pausing in their dicing.

  ‘No, no. I will accept your word,’ said Camilla, soothingly. ‘I apologise.’