by Alex Gough
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked the man.
Carbo looked around at the tall, well built, scarred man.
‘That’s kind, friend. Wine, unwatered. Will you have one yourself?’
The man seemed to consider, undergoing some internal conflict, then smiled and nodded.
‘I will.’ He pushed through the crowd to the bar, and returned quickly with the drinks. They clinked cups, and Carbo downed his in one long swig. The man hesitated, then did the same.
Ulpius, the tavern owner, was the referee, and he entered the roped-off circle in the centre of the basement room. Cheers and jeers rang out as he raised his voice to speak.
‘Friends and fellow fight lovers. We have a special contest for you tonight.’ He beckoned on the wrestlers, who pushed their way through the crowd, gathering some shoves and slaps as they went.
‘To my right,’ continued Ulpius, ‘We have Bacchides the Syrian. Bacchides has won thirty bouts this year, and lost only four. He is tonight’s favourite.’
The crowd roared their approval, fists waving in the air.
‘To my left, we have Echelaos the Greek.’ A few cheers sounded, but were rapidly drowned out by a chorus of boos. ‘Echelaos has only been wrestling for three months, but has already won three of his first ten bouts.’
The record made Carbo’s heart sink. He looked at the two wrestlers, appraising them with the eye of a professional fighter. Each was naked, allowing him to fully assess their physique. Bacchides was tall, well-muscled, and carried himself confidently. Echelaos was shorter, more wiry in stature, and looked around at the crowd with evident anxiety. Carbo narrowed his eyes, looking for signs of intoxication in the big Syrian. Bacchides looked focused, stable, at ease. Carbo looked at Camilla, doubt in his eyes. The girl had her eyes fixed on the ring now, excitement shining on her face.
Ulpius handed a cup of wine to each fighter. ‘Drink, to the honour of Mercury, the god who first taught mortals to wrestle.’ Each fighter took the cup and drained it, then cast it aside. Ulpius stepped back.
‘Fight,’ he commanded, and the two wrestlers closed and the crowd roared. Bacchides moved with grace and ease, while Echelaos appeared more uncertain. Bacchides reached out in an attempt to slide his arm around Echelaos’ neck, but Echelaos ducked out of the way. Echelaos countered by charging his shoulder into Bacchides’ chest, wrapping his arms around and gripping tightly. Bacchides was rocked back by the initial momentum, then steadied himself with a backward thrust leg. They struggled together as the crowd screamed.
Carbo himself was yelling incoherently, voice hoarse. ‘Come on Echelaos. Kill the bastard!’ Excitement coursed through him, and he felt alive at the vicarious enjoyment of the fight. Beside him, the man who had bought him the drink stared at the spectacle in fascination.
Echelaos was slowly pushed backwards, and Bacchides’ superior height and weight began to force him down. Echelaos twisted, broke the grip, and the two fighters stepped back, panting. A few boos and cries to get on with it filled the room. Bacchides advanced again, and Echelaos met him. This time Bacchides got the grip he was looking for, arm around the back of Echelaos’ neck. He twisted, forcing Echelaos sideways and down towards the straw-covered floor. Echelaos stamped down on Bacchides’ foot, then punched him in the abdomen. Bacchides grunted, but didn’t loosen his grip. The big Syrian extended a leg and wrapped it around one of Echelaos’ legs, and with a sudden twist of his body, threw the Greek to the floor, following up so he landed heavily on the smaller man.
The air was driven out of the Greek’s body with an audible whoosh, and the crowd went wild, while Carbo groaned. He looked over to Camilla, who betrayed no sign of anxiety. For a moment, Echelaos lay unmoving, and Bacchides took the opportunity to adjust his grip around the Greek’s neck, squeezing tight. A couple of dozen heartbeats, and the Greek would be unconscious, the fight over.
Echelaos convulsed his body violently, bucking Bacchides up into the air. The Syrian kept a hold, but his grip loosened enough for Echelaos to get a hand between the Syrian’s arm and his own neck. It was enough to get the blood and air flowing to his head again, literally giving him some breathing space. Bacchides reached to grab Echelaos’ arm, but Echelaos managed to take hold of one of the Syrian’s fingers, twisting it back viciously. Bacchides roared in pain, and this time Echelaos took advantage to wriggle out of the hold and spring to his feet. Bacchides stood as well, and immediately closed with Echelaos.
This time though, Carbo thought there was a slight unsteadiness in the bigger man’s gait. As he lunged for Echelaos, the small Greek twisted his body, and with a grapple and a flick of his ankle, threw the Syrian to the floor. He leaped on top of him, working for an arm lock to force Bacchides into submission. Bacchides threw the Greek bodily off him, and again the two men got to their feet.
The man beside Carbo tried to talk to him.
‘Interesting fighting technique. Not sure they would last long in the legions…’
Carbo cut him off with an angry gesture, all his attention fixed on the fight.
Bacchides was swaying now, and Echelaos could see it. Bacchides made a lunge for Echelaos, but the smaller man side stepped easily, taking the opportunity to swing an elbow into Bacchides’ temple. The Syrian staggered but kept his footing. He turned again, clearly struggling, and threw himself at Echelaos. Echelaos pivoted and then put a foot out, tripping Bacchides so he fell heavily, face first onto the straw. Echelaos immediately pounced on him, gripping Bacchides’ wrist and forcing it up behind his back. The Syrian cried out and struggled, slamming his free hand in frustration on the floor as he kicked his legs and bucked his body. Echelaos held on tight, the leverage he had keeping the larger man pinned down. The crowd was silent, holding its communal breath.
‘Submit,’ said Echelaos, clearly. Bacchides struggled harder, so Echelaos wrenched the trapped arm further up his back making Bacchides cry out.
‘Submit,’ repeated Echelaos, straining now with the force he was exerting. Bacchides’ shoulder joint started to deform alarmingly.
‘Never,’ grunted Bacchides. Echelaos gave an upward jerk with his arm. There was a barely audible pop and then a high-pitched scream from Bacchides as his shoulder dislocated. All the fight left the big Syrian as he flopped weakly on the floor.
‘I declare Echelaos the winner,’ shouted Ulpius. The crowd erupted in boos and jeers, some directed at Ulpius, some at Echelaos, and some at the writhing Bacchides. Elation surged through Carbo and he punched the air, then turned to Camilla and hugged her. Carbo turned to the man beside him and hugged him too. The man hesitated, then hugged him back enthusiastically.
A medicus came over to tend Bacchides, and with the help of a couple of volunteers from the crowd, accompanied by shrieking from the injured man, he set about relocating the joint.
Carbo pushed his way through the crowd to where Olorix was sitting with a satisfied smile.
‘Ah, Carbo. Luck was with you today.’
‘And with you, Olorix. It seemed most of the crowd were expecting Bacchides to win.’
‘He was the obvious favourite. He did look out of sorts today though, didn’t he?’
Carbo glanced across to Camilla, who said nothing, then handed over his betting token. Olorix looked at it and snorted. ‘Well, this will hardly bankrupt me, especially after a day like today.’ Olorix counted out Carbo’s winnings. ‘Don’t spend it all at once.’
Carbo took the coins, smiled and turned away, putting his arm around Camilla’s waist, and around the shoulder of the man who had bought him the wine.
‘Come on you two, let’s celebrate.’
‘Come back soon,’ shouted Olorix after them. He watched them leave with narrow eyes.
* * *
Cicurinus wandered through the Subura, heading back to his lodgings, with a smile on his face for the first time in twenty years. He was slightly drunk, not enough to dull his senses, just enough to give him a warm feeling inside. He was glowing too, from the aft
er-effects of his time in the brothel. It had been all too brief, and the girl had not been the prettiest, especially since she had succumbed to the plague of cold sores that was going around Rome this winter. He had been careful not to kiss her, but she had been enthusiastic, and the experience had been intense.
At the back of his mind he felt a small pang of guilt. What would Veleda think? Back in Rome for no time at all, and he was drinking, whoring and gambling. But it didn’t matter. He had a new friend.
Carbo. The hero of the German legions. Captured like him, Carbo had gone through many of the same traumas, and had come out of it strong, self-assured and enjoying life. Carbo would be the star he would guide his new life by. He would be a mentor and friend, and Cicurinus would rebuild his life.
* * *
Carbo sat at a table near the bar, bowed over a cup of cheap wine. His head throbbed like a German was bashing it with an axe, and his stomach roiled. Another wave of nausea swept over him, and he thought he would have to run for the door to avoid Marsia’s wrath for soiling her clean floor. He swallowed, and the nausea passed. He took a sip of the wine, swilling it round his mouth to try to wash away the dryness and the foul taste. He swallowed and waited for the feeling to wash over him, to ease the fine tremors in his hands. What had he been drinking last night? For that matter, what had he been eating? His breath smelled like he had been fermenting garum in his mouth.
The fact was he couldn’t remember. He had been having more mornings like this than ever before, mornings that consisted of rising when the sun was already high in the sky, tottering down to the bar with a near fatal hangover, and then summoning Marsia for a glass of wine to try to restore some normality. Invariably his memory of the previous night was sketchy at best.
He remembered going out with Camilla, to toast their success. Someone else had been with them, a dim memory of a man, some hanger-on. Carbo couldn’t remember having met him before, supposed that he was someone hoping to benefit from the largesse of a happy gambler. He had told Carbo his name, but Carbo had retained that fact for only a few heartbeats, referring to him just as ‘my new friend’ all night.
The early part of the night had consisted of some drinks in a nice tavern in the IIIrd district of Isis and Serapis. It had moved on from there to a not so nice tavern on the Viminal, where Carbo failed to tempt Camilla and this other fellow to match him drink for drink.
As they wandered, they had passed a brothel at the eastern end of the Subura, and Camilla had suggested the two men indulge. They had gone in together, and Carbo vaguely recalled enjoying the attentions of the prostitutes as they sidled up to him, stroked his broad chest and whispered compliments about how he made them feel, and what they wanted to do to him. He remembered as well, when he showed no inclination of taking them up on their offers, how he had got tossed out on to the street by a fat bodyguard, who he had challenged to a fight. Unfortunately, at that point he had lost the use of his legs, and so had the ignominy of sitting slumped against the brothel wall, waiting for his new friend, who emerged some time later looking like the cat who had got the cream.
Marsia swept the floor around Carbo, saying nothing, but her expression was disapproving. When the besom banged against his feet, he let out a low growl. Marsia shot him a glance, but carried on sweeping.
‘How did I get home last night?’ asked Carbo.
‘A large man with terrible teeth and that silly girl Camilla carried you in. Woke me up to come and fetch you, and then between us we managed to get you up the stairs and into your bed.’
Carbo nodded, then wished he hadn’t.
‘Did I… bring any money home?’
‘No,’ said Marsia, and turned away.
Vatius strolled in and slammed the door behind him, causing shockwaves of pain to lance through Carbo. He groaned and clutched his head.
‘Another hangover, Carbo?’ asked Vatius cheerfully.
Carbo said nothing, but looked over at the elderly philosopher with a look of misery on his face.
‘I’ve told you before. Fried canary and owl eggs. I used to swear by it back in my heavy drinking days.’
‘Fine, fine. Marsia, go out and get me some.’
‘Oh, just like that, I have to find you some fancy food to cure you from your own stupidity. Where from? With what money? And who will look after this place?’
‘I will tend the tavern. Take some money from the float for the bar. And I don’t know where, just go and find me some, before you have to arrange my funeral.’
Marsia tutted and retrieved some money from a lockbox behind the bar. ‘You are lucky we had a good evening,’ she said, as she headed for the door. ‘Actually, it’s not luck. It’s because you weren’t here.’ She slammed the door behind her, causing Carbo to groan again.
‘Remind me Carbo, is she your slave or your wife?’ said Vatius with a grin.
‘Very funny. Do you want a drink?’
‘If you’re up to it.’
Carbo struggled to his feet and poured Vatius a cup of wine. He set it down before his regular, and sat with him. Myia, who had been lying fast asleep in a corner, opened an eye, stretched, then wandered over to see if Vatius had something to eat. Vatius patted her, and dropped her a small piece of dried fish he had brought for her. She swallowed it whole, then looked at him expectantly for more. He laughed and showed her his empty hands, and her ears drooped. Then with an audible sigh, she curled herself up on the floor under their table.
‘I won, yesterday,’ said Carbo. ‘Camilla was right.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Vatius. He took a deep sip of his wine. ‘Ahhh. A remedy for the moroseness of old age, indeed.’
‘Aristotle?’ hazarded Carbo.
‘Plato,’ said Vatius. ‘On the other hand, his mentor, Socrates, said that worthless people live only to eat and drink, people of worth drink and eat to live.’ Vatius looked archly at Carbo, who held the gaze for a moment, before turning away and looking at the table.
‘How are you, Carbo?’ asked Vatius gently.
‘Absolutely fantastic, by Mars’ hairy arse. How do I look?’
‘I mean how are you really. After… you know.’
Carbo looked around the tavern. It was empty, apart from Vatius, Myia and himself. Vatius regarded him sympathetically. Carbo felt something building inside him, like flood waters rising, about to burst the river banks. He wanted to tell Vatius everything. How the grief ate away at him every moment he let his guard down, how his terrors and episodes of panic were worse than ever, how he couldn’t sleep, how every day he wondered if taking his own life was the solution. He wanted to tell Vatius that he could only make those feelings fade by drinking and gambling, to numb him and distract him and transport him to a place away from this Hadean city. He opened his mouth.
The door opened, and a large man came in. He looked around the tavern and his gaze fell on Carbo. He smiled a broken toothed smile, walked over to Carbo’s table, and sat without invitation.
‘Carbo,’ he said with a smile. ‘What a night, eh?’
Carbo looked at him with confusion, taking in the badly-healed breaks of nose and jaw, the scars, all much more visible in the daylight than they had been last night.
‘Oh,’ said Carbo, flatly. ‘It’s you.’
‘Your new friend, as you kept calling me last night,’ said the man.
‘Right,’ said Carbo.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ asked Vatius.
‘This is Vatius,’ said Carbo.
‘And your new friend?’ asked Vatius.
Carbo struggled to recall but it was hopeless. He sighed. ‘You will have to remind me.’
The man’s face showed a flash of disappointment, but he recovered quickly.
‘Cicurinus.’ He offered his hand to Vatius who shook it respectfully.
‘So what are we up to today?’ asked Cicurinus brightly.
Carbo raised an eyebrow. ‘I have no idea what the fuck you are up to. I am going to quietly die
in the corner of my tavern.’
Cicurinus let out an uncertain laugh.
The door flew open, and three young men came in, laughing uproariously.
‘And then I asked him if it was confusing in the sack, since his tits are bigger than hers.’
The other two men laughed at their fellow’s joke, and dumped themselves down on stools at the back of the bar. Myia trotted over and settled under their table, waiting for any crumbs to fall. The first speaker looked around him, puzzled for a moment.
‘Where’s Marsia?’ he called out to Carbo.
‘She’s out,’ said Carbo, getting unsteadily to his feet. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Oh, you must be Carbo. I’m Porcius. Heard a lot about you when we were in here last night. You have a great slave in that Marsia you know.’
‘Thank you. Would you like some drink? Food?’
The three men asked for some bread and nuts and three cups of wine. Carbo stumbled over to the bar to fetch their order.
‘So that Marsia, she isn’t available to your customers?’
‘No,’ said Carbo.
‘Shame, great arse on her. I can see why you want to keep her to yourself. She is very sweet on you, you know. She clearly idolises you. Wish my slave had the same regard for me; no matter how much I beat her I can never raise a smile.’
Carbo set the food down in front of his customers, and then went to fetch their drinks. The room was still spinning slightly, but he navigated his way back across the room with the three cups in his hands, spilling only small drops. Then his foot landed on Myia’s tail, where it was sticking out from under their table. With a yelp she leapt up, jolting the table just as Carbo was setting the cups down. One of them tipped over, spilling wine straight into Porcius’ lap. He jumped back, with a cry, knocking his stool over.
‘You clumsy idiot,’ said Porcius. ‘That tunic was only cleaned the other week. It will cost a fortune to get those stains out.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Carbo. ‘The dog…’
