by Alex Gough
Mollified, Carbo nodded. ‘Then it is a deal. When is the match?’
‘Tomorrow night. Just after sun-down. I will meet you there.’ Camilla took a drink, then stood.
‘Now I should go. Clients with valuable titbits of information don’t just seek me out, you know.’
Camilla departed, and Vatius shook his head, tickling Myia between the ears.
‘Well, she seemed trustworthy,’ said Vatius.
‘Mind your own business, philosopher,’ said Carbo, and drained his drink.
* * *
Carbo diced with the legionaries, cursing his luck as he threw a one and two twos. He picked up the dice and inspected them, looking for evidence of weighting, but could see none. Fortuna really had turned her face from him today. Tomorrow would be different, though. He wouldn’t need Fortuna, and he could get back to winning. That was all he needed, something to start the dice rolling in his favour. One good win, and it would all fall back into place. He tossed a sestertius into the pot in the centre of the table. The legionary opposite him rolled a four, a two and a three. A very beatable score. Carbo rolled again. Three ones! The worst possible throw.
The legionary laughed and scooped the money out of the pot. Carbo banged the table.
‘You must be cheating!’ he roared. The legionary exchanged a glance with his friend.
‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘All’s fair here.’
Carbo stood up abruptly, his stool crashing to the ground. ‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘I won’t have cheats in my tavern.’
The legionaries stood. ‘Don’t worry, we’re going. And we won’t be back,’ said the one he had been dicing with.
‘And neither will our mates,’ added the other.
They left, slamming the door behind them. Carbo looked around. Vatius was looking down, inspecting his wine seriously. Marsia regarded him with a steady stare, shaking her head slightly. The room started to spin a little, and he felt the sudden desperate urge to urinate.
He went out into the dark street, and leant one hand against the wall of his tavern, fumbling to take out his cock, and sighing in relief as a strong stream splashed against the wall. A hand clapped him on the back, and he tensed, looking round but unable to stop the flow.
‘Keeping your customers happy, Carbo?’ asked a familiar voice.
‘Vespillo,’ said Carbo. He finished off, wiped his damp hands on his tunic, and turned to face his friend. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nice greeting. Going to offer me a drink?’
‘Yeah, I suppose. Come in.’
Marsia smiled broadly when she saw Vespillo, and brought over a cup of wine for him without prompting. Carbo looked at her in surprise. ‘What about me?’
‘Don’t you think you have had enough, Master?’
Carbo gaped at her. ‘I don’t think that’s for you to even consider, slave. Fetch me another drink.’
Marsia rolled her eyes at Vespillo, then went to do as she was told.
After she had returned, and then gone about her work, Vespillo said quietly, ‘How are you doing, friend?’
Carbo grunted. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ he said, sipping his drink. There was a pause. ‘It’s just it doesn’t seem that way.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Carbo again.
‘So the constant drinking? The gambling away of all your savings from twenty-five years in the legions? The scaring away your customers with your temper so your tavern is as quiet as a tomb?’
‘Well, Vatius is nearly dead, so maybe that’s appropriate.’
Vatius spoke up. ‘I can hear you, you know. Not dead yet, nor deaf.’
Carbo ignored him. ‘What do you want, Vespillo?’
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Don’t be.’
Vespillo shook his head, and beckoned Marsia over.
‘Marsia, how does your Master seem to you?’
‘Moody, prone to temper, frequently drunk, melancholy, acting rashly and irrationally…’
‘Marsia!’ gasped Carbo. ‘Do you remember who you belong to?’
‘I used to belong to a kind Master, strong and honourable. Now I seem to belong to a bad-tempered drunken gambler.’
‘Would you like me to sell you to someone more to your liking?’ asked Carbo, pointedly.
‘No. I just want my old Master back.’
Carbo stared at her, noticed even through his drunken fog that her eyes were glistening. Without being dismissed, Marsia turned abruptly on her heels and walked away.
‘She cares about you, Carbo,’ said Vespillo quietly.
Carbo looked down, not trusting himself to speak.
‘So do I,’ continued Vespillo. ‘So does Fabilla. She asks about you a lot. Wonders why you don’t visit.’
‘I… I can’t.’
‘You’re grieving, it takes time. But don’t ruin your life, your wealth, your health, your relationships, while you get over it.’
‘Get over it? You think I can just get over it? Losing someone you love to violence. What in all Hades do you know about it, you fucking cunnus?’
Vespillo’s voice was low and dangerous. ‘You know what I know about it. You know that I’ve been there.’
Carbo slumped, looking down into his lap. ‘Get the fuck out of my tavern, Vespillo. Just leave me alone.’
Vespillo hesitated, then sighed and left.
‘Epictetus said, “Control your passions, lest they take vengeance on you,”’ said Vatius.
‘You can get out too,’ said Carbo. ‘We’re closed.’
Vatius shrugged, finished his drink, gave Myia a pat, and left. Carbo sat where he was, staring at the table. Myia came over to him, gave him a nuzzle. Carbo stroked her absently, mind elsewhere. Marsia locked and barred the door, and tidied around him. When she had finished she asked, ‘May I retire, Master?’
Carbo nodded, but remained where he was as she left, Myia trotting after her. He stayed there for some time, still, head foggy. He looked at his cup. It was empty, and he called for Marsia, before realising he had dismissed her. He considered fetching another one himself, but couldn’t summon the energy.
His mind wandered to Sica, the girl he had rescued from the Sicilian mines. She was so bright and alive. Would she make him feel better if she was around? Or would the contrast with his own misery just make him feel even worse? He had heard she had set herself up in business. He guessed she was too busy to come and visit him. He put her from his thoughts.
One of the lamps on the wall guttered out, leaving only one still burning, the room now dim. Carbo remembered a time of captivity, of torture, isolation in a foreign land with a barbarian tribe. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them. He needed someone to put their arm around him. Someone who he had let get close to him, who had the power to soothe him. He needed Rufa.
He felt the panic coming back. The anxiety that used to overwhelm him, that Rufa was able to rid him of, had now returned worse than ever. His heart raced, his breathing became ragged. He stood, paced, feeling terror, that enemies were all around him; that he was in terrible danger.
He picked up his gladius from behind the bar, its familiar weight and solidity reassuring him a little. Then the last lamp guttered out, plunging the room into near darkness and a full-blown panic overtook him. He cried, desperate, little moans coming from the back of his throat, not knowing how to shake this overwhelming feeling. He pulled down the top of his tunic, ripping it open, and he drew his blade across his chest. He screamed.
Blood welled up, and the pain focused him. He felt the panic ease, his heart rate slow. He watched the blood soak into the tunic. He sat down against the bar, and closed his eyes.
The door leading to the kitchen opened. Lamplight shone through.
‘Master. Master are you well? I heard a noise.’
Carbo quickly placed the gladius back in its home behind the bar and pulled his tunic up.
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Marsia.’
/> ‘Will you come to bed now?’
Carbo nodded, and got to his feet. The room suddenly spun dangerously, and he thought for a moment he would fall. Then a firm hand took his elbow, guided him out of the back of the tavern, and up the stairs.
Unresisting, Carbo allowed himself to be undressed. Marsia laid him in bed, then got in beside him. She knew better than to try to stimulate him sexually. Instead she lay behind him, arms around his chest. It wasn’t like having Rufa there. But Vespillo was right, he knew Marsia cared about him, and it gave him some comfort.
Her fingers brushed against the incision on his chest, and he winced. She pulled her fingers away.
‘Master, you are bleeding,’ she said, concern in her voice.
‘It’s nothing, I cut myself on some glass.’
He lay on his side, staring blankly at the wall. The wine in his belly, the warm arms around him and the strange sensation of peace he had got when he cut himself, finally combined to numb him into sleep.
Chapter Three
Cicurinus walked down the Argiletum, the broad street leading to the Subura, wide-eyed. Castra Vetera had been overwhelming with its bustling populace, after his years in near isolation. It was nothing compared to Rome. He had grown up in the Subura, thought he had a clear memory of what it was like. He was wrong. He had forgotten the stench and noise of a million people. In captivity in various small settlements in German forests, he had become used to the fresh air, the quiet. Yes, the Germans were unwashed, as was he, but they lived in such wide open spaces that it was never overpowering, not like this. Though it was mid-winter, and the air was cold, the heat of all this humanity warmed the city. He felt like he could barely breathe.
A merchant to his left yelled out, causing Cicurinus to start, heart suddenly racing.
‘Honeycakes, fresh baked, cheaper and tastier than Tubero’s!’
Tubero’s reply from the other side of the street made him spin round, body overreacting to this new threat.
‘Didius’ honeycakes taste like shit. Buy mine. They taste like nectar straight from Olympus!’
Cicurinus squared his shoulders and carried on walking. Passers-by crowded him, jostled him, and he had to fight down an urge to scream at them or strike out to keep them at a distance. He breathed slowly and deeply, the way he had learned to do in his isolation when panic threatened to conquer him. A degree of calm returned, and he carried on.
With more control of himself, he was able to observe this Rome that he had left so long ago. Were his memories true, or had Rome really changed this much? There were so many poor, beggars and cripples. So many foreigners with their outlandish clothing. So very many prostitutes. He looked at one of the women, a doris, standing naked in her doorway. She was beautiful, long black hair cascading over her chest, accentuating her full breasts. She looked at him, one hand on her hip, and smiled. He felt a stirring in his loins, and a surge of anger that she could affect him so easily. Veleda would be so disappointed in him.
He turned away in disgust and walked on. He was now fully in the Subura, the poorest, roughest part of Rome. The towering insulae leaned dangerously, cracks throughout the brickwork demonstrating how precarious their continued existence was. Every inch of street was crammed with traders and hawkers and beggars and prostitutes. Men thrust jewellery and perfumes into his face, whores reached out to touch him, grab at him. Anger and panic rose again, and he broke into a run, pushing his way through the crowds, curses and shouts of annoyance in his wake.
He saw a quiet looking tavern and burst in, panting. The bartender looked up from where he was wiping out an empty stew bowl, and regarded him curiously.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Cicurinus gulped down air, feeling like he was suffocating. The uncrowded room was unthreatening though, and after a moment he regained his composure. He sat, feeling a little light-headed, fingers tingling as they often did when he lost control of his breathing.
‘Get me a beer,’ growled Cicurinus.
‘A what?’ asked the bartender, looking confused.
Cicurinus cursed quietly. Another thing he had forgotten. During his time serving in the legions in Germany he had acquired a taste for the bitter drink, and had renewed his acquaintance with it after his rescue. In Rome though it was almost unheard of.
‘Wine. Get me a cup of wine, well-watered.’ Drunkenness was another vice he had forsworn. Veleda had taught him much.
‘Yes, sir.’ The bartender brought it over for him. ‘Nasty sore throat you have there, sir. A lot of it about at this time of year.’ The bartender sneezed, then wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Think I might be coming down with something myself.’
Cicurinus ignored him, and when he realised this wouldn’t be a two way conversation, the bartender shuffled back to his washing up. Cicurinus sipped his wine, wrinkling his nose. It was too sweet, but it was warm and quenched his thirst. He cradled it and looked around him. There were only two other customers in the tavern. One was a middle-aged, balding, pot-bellied man, at a table by the window. He was leaning against the wall as if he needed its support, even though he was seated. At the other side of the bar was a young man, maybe in his early twenties. He was well-dressed, clean, carefully barbered. He looked very out of place in this poor district. He appeared on edge, starting every time there was a noise from outside, and he kept his eye on the door. Cicurinus watched him with idle curiosity.
The bartender came back over.
‘Would you like anything to eat, sir?’
Cicurinus considered. He realised he was hungry, and nodded. ‘Soup and bread.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the bartender turning away.
‘And do you have a room?’
‘To rent you mean? Yes, I have one free upstairs.’ He named the price.
‘I’ll take it.’ Cicurinus passed over the coins to pay for his food and drink and his lodgings. He looked over at the young man; he presumed him to be from a rich background from his dress, even though he seemed to have removed obvious ostentation like jewellery and expensive clothing. The man was getting increasingly edgy. Cicurinus’ soup arrived, and he sipped it with the spoon that had been provided. His raw tooth protested, and he resolved again to visit the dentist.
The door opened, letting in some cold air. A young boy came in, seeming in his mid to late teens. He had a fair complexion, a feminine appearance, and was dressed in a well-made tunic, with a studded belt. Silver bracelets hung off each wrist, and a gold pendant hung round his neck. The nobleman, as Cicurinus presumed him to be, jumped up when he arrived, and embraced him, kissing both cheeks.
‘Kyros! I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.’
The young boy smiled. ‘Quintus, how could I not?’ he said in a light Greek accent.
‘Sit, sit,’ said Quintus, ushering Kyros to a chair at his table. ‘Tell me how the show went last night.’
Kyros rolled his eyes.
‘It was a disaster,’ he moaned. ‘Half the frogs were sick, so instead of croaking they just coughed and sneezed. In the scene with Aeschylus, he was late with the line where he mocks Euripides, you know, “…lost his little flask of oil,” every single time. And don’t talk to me about Dionysius. Aristophanes would have been rolling in his grave.’
‘And your Xanthius?’
Kyros tilted his head down and looked up at Quintus coquettishly. ‘Modesty forbids…’
Quintus smiled, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it,’ said Quintus. ‘My boorish father was hosting a dinner for some senator or other and insisted I attend. When I told him I was missing a play of wit and culture, he just laughed and said I was missing some young boy’s arse.’
‘Well, weren’t you?’
‘Very much,’ said Quintus, smiling. He leaned in and kissed Kyros firmly on the lips.
Cicurinus turned away from the sight, stomach churning. He looked at his soup, and no longer felt hungry. What had happened to his Rome
, the noble city that nurtured him? He needed to talk to someone, a man who understood the values of Rome and the virtues of the warrior. He called the bartender over.
‘Do you know a man called Carbo?’
* * *
Carbo stood in the crowd packed into the basement of the Ass and Cart, sipping his third cup of unwatered wine. It had yet to calm his nerves. He seemed to have to drink more these days just to get to a point where his gut unclenched and his breathing was steady. He wasn’t there yet, so he took another deep draught of wine. He looked across to where Olorix was sitting at a table, his bodyguards behind him, taking in a steady stream of bets. The fight would start soon, and Olorix was lengthening the odds on the favourite, trying to encourage a last minute burst of flutters on the strapping Bacchides. Carbo had placed his bet already. The wager he had agreed with Camilla wasn’t huge, partly because he didn’t yet fully trust the girl, and partly because he didn’t have that much ready cash to bet. He had cleared out the reserve behind the bar for this, much to Marsia’s disgust.
Despite the fact that his bet was modest, Olorix had regarded him with surprise when he placed it.
‘Not lost enough, recently, Carbo?’ he had asked. ‘I shouldn’t stab myself in the foot, but if you want to change your bet to the favourite, I will let you. As it’s you.’ When Carbo had declined, Olorix regarded him steadily for a moment. Still, he took the bet and gave out the token with the amount and the odds scrawled on it.
Carbo was jostled from behind as someone tried to get a better view, and he pushed them back, causing mutters of protest all around him. No one thought it sensible to take the irritable, muscular Carbo to task over it, though. Carbo looked to Camilla, standing next to him. Camilla grinned and winked. It did nothing to calm the churning in Carbo’s stomach.
A man appeared at Carbo’s side.
‘You have a bet on this fight?’
Carbo nodded, not looking around. ‘Echelaos.’
An expression of mild disappointment flashed across the man’s face, but Carbo was oblivious.
