by Alex Gough
‘If not us, then who will?’
Pavo shrugged. ‘I understand you were away in the legions a long time, but you have been in Rome long enough to know how justice works now, surely? If a victim of crime, or their relative, has evidence against a wrong-doer, they need to bring a private prosecution.’
Vespillo shook his head. ‘Yes, of course. But this is different. I feel it in my guts.’
‘Probably some bad garum you ate. If that’s all, Vespillo? I have a report to write for the Prefect about the number of replacement caligae we require.’
Vespillo opened his mouth to speak, then realised the futility of it, and with as respectful a salute as he could muster, he left.
* * *
Carbo looked into the woman’s face, trying to read what might be written in the heavily lined features, concealed beneath thick white lead make-up. The room was dim, lit by a single flickering oil lamp, and the air was thick with incense. He felt nauseous, though he didn’t know whether that was from his perpetual hangover, from the dense atmosphere, or from his anxiety.
‘Her name was Rufa?’ The accent was Egyptian, matching the old woman’s features.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. How many times had he attempted to pluck up the courage to do this? Look at him, brave hero of the legions, terrified to talk to an old lady.
He had got her name, Sitkamose, from a customer at the tavern, a veteran who swore blind she had helped him contact his dead son. He had paid her five denarii on entrance and told the seer that he wanted to contact Rufa, a woman he had known.
‘You do understand that contacting those who have passed over the Styx is difficult, sometimes even dangerous. It is not like talking to someone in the room with you, or reading about them on a tablet.’
Carbo nodded his understanding.
She took hold of both of his wrists, thumbs at the points where his pulses throbbed rapidly. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved, muttering to herself in a foreign language, and he caught glimpses of yellow-brown teeth with large gummy gaps.
Suddenly her eyes flew open, red-veined whites surrounding wide pupils, and he took a startled breath.
‘I can sense her.’
Carbo’s heart hammered in his chest.
‘You loved her very much,’ said Sitkamose. Carbo swallowed, nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
‘She says she loves you too.’
Carbo gaped. ‘You are talking to her?’
‘Not exactly. But we communicate. She was taken from you too early.’
‘Way too early,’ he said, angrily.
‘There was violence, I feel.’
‘Yes,’ said Carbo amazed. ‘She was murdered.’
Sitkamose nodded. ‘I thought as much. And you have had many thoughts of vengeance.’
‘I’ve taken my vengeance,’ he spat. ‘Now I’m left with nothing.’
‘She is talking to me. She is saying… she is saying Carbo, be calm. She is at peace. She knows you did everything you could. And she has to tell you… to tell you…’
The seer suddenly went rigid, head thrown back, fingernails digging painfully into Carbo’s wrists. The oil lamp flickered out like it had been snuffed, though no hand had touched it. Carbo ignored the sudden darkness.
‘Tell me what?’ he hissed.
Sitkamose abruptly went limp. Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath, like a dying sigh.
‘Tell me what?’ demanded Carbo, voice rising in anger.
Sitkamose shook her head. ‘She is gone. The connection is lost.’
‘No. I need to know what she was going to say!’
‘Remember, Carbo, she told you to be calm; that she is at peace. She will return, and she will tell you what you need to hear.’ She stood and feeling her way, relit the oil lamp with a taper.
Carbo stared at her in frustration as the light returned. ‘When can we try again?’
‘Oh, not for a while. I am far too exhausted, and besides, she won’t return today. We can attempt contact tomorrow, if you like. There will of course be another fee to pay.’
Carbo ground his teeth. The money was a problem, but he needed to know.
‘Very well. Tomorrow. Thank you, Sitkamose.’
‘You are welcome, Carbo of the legions. Go with the blessing of the gods.’
* * *
The dark liquid swirled in a miniature whirlpool as Carbo rotated the cup in small circles. He stared down into the wine, eyes unfocused, mind somewhere else. Was it real? He so wanted to believe. The drink called to him, but he resisted, at least for that instant. If Rufa was there, if she could speak to him, it meant one day they could be reunited. And if they were, what would she think of him now?
He hadn’t taken a drink since visiting the seer. Maybe he didn’t need to. When he had returned to the tavern, he had snapped his fingers for Marsia and demanded wine, but it was only habit. He looked up, and found Marsia regarding him with narrow eyes. She caught his gaze, held it defiantly for a moment, then returned to wiping tables.
Carbo looked back at the drink. The surface of the liquid showed fine waves, and he realised the cause was the tremor in his hand. He put the cup down and held his hand out straight, palm down. The tremor was grossly visible, and he pressed his hand onto the table. Drinking would eliminate the shake, he knew. It would be so easy. He took the cup in his hand, gripped it tight, lifted it from the table.
The door to the tavern opened. Carbo looked up, and saw Vespillo stride in. He put the cup down hastily.
‘Marsia, water and one of those disgusting meat pies you make from the dead dogs you find in the gutter, and make it quick.’
Marsia glowered at him, but Carbo saw her smile as she turned to get his food and drink. Vespillo pulled up a stool and sat at Carbo’s table.
‘How are you doing, friend?’
Carbo clenched his fists and put them in his lap.
‘I’m good, friend, you?’
Vespillo surveyed him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Good to hear it. Me? Not so sure. Came across something strange this morning.’
‘Oh? Tell me.’
Marsia brought the cup of water and the pie on a rough clay plate. Vespillo took a large bite, chewed and swallowed hungrily, despite his comments on the provenance of the meat.
‘Three dead bodies.’
Carbo waited. Nothing strange so far. Dead bodies were a common sight on the streets of Rome. Elderly slaves thrown out to starve once they were no longer of use. Unwanted babies. Murder victims. The homeless and the sick, falling asleep for the last time at night, for the sun to rise over their cold corpses in the morning, waiting patiently to be cleared up and taken to the mass graves outside the city boundaries for those too poor to contribute to a funeral club.
‘A merchant, and the two thugs that attacked him.’
Carbo’s brow narrowed as he processed the information.
‘The merchant killed some of the gang that robbed him before he died?’
Vespillo shook his head.
‘The merchant wasn’t robbed. He still had his jewellery with him, although the thugs that attacked him seemed to have made a good start of parting him from some of it. Quite literally.’
‘The other dead weren’t his bodyguards?’
‘No way. You should have seen the state of them. An armpit plucker wouldn’t have hired them, let alone a rich merchant. But there’s more. A nearby wall was daubed with the blood of the victims to spell the words “Rome will be cleansed”.’
‘So some good may come of this,’ snorted Marsia. ‘Rome stinks. Rotting fish, shit on the streets, urine from the fullers, dead animals, dead horses…’
‘No one asked you,’ said Carbo. Marsia folded her arms truculently, but made no move to leave. Carbo sighed and looked back to Vespillo who gave him a small smile.
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Carbo. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘I really don’t know
. But it’s troubling.’
‘A little odd maybe. But really, who cares? Three more dead bodies in a city littered with them?’
‘You sound like Pavo.’
‘He wasn’t interested either? Are you surprised?’
‘Not surprised by him. I thought you might show more concern though. You fought for the people in this district.’
Carbo looked at his wine. It was calling harder to him now. He needed Rufa. He needed her right now, to hold him, to stroke his hair, to soothe the cramping anxiety in his belly, to slow his heart, to tell him everything would be all right.
‘I suppose I should have known better. Fabilla keeps asking for you, you know. Severa looks after her well, cares for her. But she has lost her mother, and the man she had come to think of as her father won’t see her.’
Carbo stared down, saying nothing, his full being concentrating on moving air in and out of his lungs. No matter how deep a breath he took it didn’t seem to be enough. Every fibre of his body was screaming to run, or to fight. He didn’t know whether to grab Vespillo and scream in his face, or overturn the table and flee out of the tavern.
He did neither. Instead he picked up the wine and drained the cup in one long swig. For a moment he held his breath, letting the strong drink seep into his core. Then he let out a shuddering sigh, and placed the cup back on the table with a trembling hand.
‘That’s your answer is it?’ asked Vespillo, and the contemptuous look on his face made Carbo’s heart sink. Vespillo stood, shaking his head. ‘I don’t have time for this. Please, Carbo. For all those who care about you. For Fabilla, for Marsia, for me. And yes, for Rufa too. Sort yourself out.’
He walked to the door and gripped the handle. ‘And if either of you do hear anything from your customers…’ He glanced around the empty tavern. ‘Well, if you hear anything that might help, let me know.’
Carbo didn’t reply or even look up. Marsia held the door for Vespillo as he left.
‘Thank you, sir. I wish I knew what to do.’
Vespillo patted her arm, and looked back to Carbo, who stared into his cup, pretending not to hear them.
‘So do I, Marsia. For now, all we can do is be ready to help him if he wants us to. Find me if you hear anything about these murders, won’t you?’
‘I will. Take care, sir.’
Marsia closed the door behind him and walked back to the bar.
‘Marsia.’
She turned to look at Carbo hopefully.
‘Bring me more wine.’
* * *
Cicurinus sat at a table in the street outside a sausage seller’s stall, drinking water, and nibbling at a frugal meal. He wore a cloak over his tunic, the hood pulled up to ward off the chill late autumn wind, and to keep curious eyes from staring at his scars. Carbo’s tavern was a couple of dozen yards down the street, and Cicurinus watched it through narrow eyes. He had watched Vatius arrive as usual early in the morning, and the philosopher had remained inside all day, except to come out into the street to urinate. In the afternoon he had seen a short, well-built man dressed as a member of the vigiles enter the tavern, and moving close to a half-shuttered window, he had been able to make out most of the conversation.
So Carbo didn’t care about the killings? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A condemnation of the murders from Carbo would confirm that the former hero was on the side of the foreigners and criminals. Praise would have gone some way to redeeming Carbo in Cicurinus’ eyes. But apathy? Was Cicurinus’ mission of so little importance to him? Well, he would make him pay attention. He would make him care.
The sky was clouded over, and night was falling fast. The sausage seller stood nearby, clearly uncertain whether he could ask the solemn stranger to move on so he could lock away his furniture until the morning. Cicurinus stood abruptly and stalked off down the street. The sausage seller moved quickly to clear up, before he changed his mind and came back.
Cicurinus was not going to change his mind. His path was set. Veleda had shown him the way. He would make Rome great again, worthy opponents of the mighty Germanic tribes. And he would make it happen, one contemptible wretch at a time.
The Subura’s streets twisted and turned, came to dead ends unexpectedly, or just as suddenly opened into plazas and crossroads. Some buildings and alleys were familiar from his childhood, others he had known had collapsed or burnt down, and been rebuilt, so he had the unsettling feeling of being in a dreamworld, a place both familiar and alien. He came across the Eagle, an old bar for veterans that he had frequented as a youth, always desperate for tales of heroism and valour from the legions, and he smiled at the memories of how the old soldiers had indulged him, telling him stories he now knew were exaggerated and sanitised versions of reality. They had, however, induced a desperate longing in the naive boy he had been to join up and earn fame and honour for himself.
He looked up at the sign of the Eagle painted onto the wall high up. Faded and cracked now. Like much of Rome, uncared for, neglected. The front door opened, and a tough-looking, grizzled man emerged. Cicurinus greeted him like an old soldier, but the man looked down, seemingly embarrassed, pulled his cloak up and hurried away. Cicurinus frowned, aware that he was being distracted from his path, but curious as to what had become of the place. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
He was immediately hit by an overwhelming scent of perfume. Although the aroma was qualitatively different from the stench of shit and decay on the streets, it was still powerful enough to make him gag. It was gloomy on the streets, but it was even darker inside, and for a moment, before his eyes adjusted, he could see next to nothing. A figure loomed before him out of the darkness, and as he blinked the features resolved into that of a woman.
She was young, maybe sixteen he guessed, and although the smile was welcoming, the resigned look in her eyes told him that she was no innocent. As he became accustomed to the dim light, he realised the bar room of the Eagle had been transformed. Soft couches were scattered throughout, most of which accommodated one or more women, all dressed, as was the one before him, in brightly coloured dresses, gaudy and made from cheap material, but cut to reveal thighs and cleavage to their best effect.
The woman reached out with one finger, and stroked it down his damaged face.
‘Old soldier or old gladiator?’ she asked, head tilted to one side.
‘S… soldier.’ Hades! She was attractive. Long dark hair, long eyelashes, lead-whitened cheeks, bosom demanding his gaze. He swallowed, tried to keep his eyes on hers.
‘Does the old soldier need a massage? To ease those old wounds.’
‘No, I didn’t come here for…’
‘Am I not pretty, soldier? Don’t you want me? Wouldn’t you like to take me upstairs?’
Cicurinus gaped. This girl was much more beautiful than the one he had paid for two nights before. As he looked down at her chest, he felt himself involuntarily start to harden.
‘I… can’t…’
‘Are you worried about performance? Maybe it would help if there were two of us.’
The girl beckoned another girl over, dark of skin and hair, similar age, similarly beautiful.
‘I’m Incerta,’ said the first girl. ‘And this is Veneria,’ she said, indicating the second.
Veneria offered Cicurinus her hand, and when he didn’t take it, she laid it on his shoulder, shifting her weight towards one leg so her hip stuck out provocatively.
‘Just eight copper coins for both of us,’ said Veneria, her accent Numidian. ‘You won’t get two more beautiful women for a better price in all of Rome.’
Cicurinus was about to turn and leave. Then the words of Veleda came back to him. You can restore Rome to the purity it once had. His jawline tightened, his eyes narrowed.
‘Very well,’ he said, voice husky.
Incerta looked at Veneria uncertainly, taken aback by the sudden change that had come over the shy veteran. Veneria hesitated. He had not done anything aggressive, or even
impolite. Both girls were suddenly uneasy, but they had no reason to turn him down. Cicurinus fished in his purse for eight coins and gave them to Incerta. She tucked them away, then they both took a hand each, and led him out of the front door, and to the stairs on the outside of the building that led to the higher storeys. None of the girls or their clients paid them any attention as they left.
The wooden staircase creaked alarmingly under the weight of the three of them, though the two girls were slight. Some of the steps were splintered, and Cicurinus wondered if his foot might go straight through. They held though, as they ascended to the fourth floor, and Incerta led them through a tatty door made of planks roughly hammered together, into a small room containing just a single straw mattress on the floor.
The room offered no internal illumination, but a gibbous moon shining through a small window allowed him to make out the two feminine shapes. He closed the door behind him, and rested his back against it. The girls approached him hesitantly, but he gave no indication what he wanted. They looked at each other, then knelt before him. Incerta ran her hand up the inside of his thigh and Veneria reached around to stroke his buttocks. He was hard, but that was of no consequence – it was purely a physical reaction to the presence of these immoral women, and a clear demonstration of how they could corrupt a man.
He reached down, and with powerful hands, toughened by years of manual labour, he grabbed both women by the throat. They both clutched at his wrists, nails digging into his skin, clawing at him, trying to prise open his fingers. He lifted them up to their feet, watching with fascination as their faces turned red, then became tinged with blue. They made little noise, no air flowing through their windpipes, despite the heaving chests desperately trying to drag the wind into their lungs. Their feet kicked against the floorboards spasmodically, but they wore no shoes, and the tenants below this room would be well used to thumping and banging noises from above.
