by Alex Gough
‘Yes, yes come in. And who is this?’
‘Vespillo, Tribune of the vigiles,’ said Vespillo politely.
‘I see. I think you will find my fire-fighting arrangements are all in order. And there have been no crimes…’
‘He is here with me,’ said Carbo. ‘He is a friend of mine.’
‘Well, come in, come in. You are very welcome. Although there is a small extra charge for spectators.’
Vespillo looked around pointedly. ‘I don’t see a bucket of water or sand nearby.’
‘But of course, a Tribune of the vigiles can observe for free,’ said Sitkamose hastily, and Vespillo nodded a perfunctory thanks.
She ushered the two men into her chamber, and fussed around, lighting lamps and incense burners. When she was satisfied with the atmosphere, she sat across a small wooden table, and took Carbo’s hands in her own.
‘I have had little time to prepare today, I hope you understand. And the spirits are fickle. I don’t know if she will come.’
‘Try,’ said Carbo, in a flat, firm voice.
Sitkamose gave Carbo a puzzled look. Then she closed her eyes, and began to mutter words that Carbo thought sounded Egyptian. He watched her face, saw her twitch and flinch, heard her raise her voice in what sounded like one side of an argument. Then she opened her eyes again and looked sorrowfully at Carbo.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I cannot reach her today. Maybe we could try next week. I will only charge you half price today…’
‘No,’ said Carbo. ‘Try again. Try harder.’
Sitkamose glanced at Vespillo, alarm at Carbo’s tone showing on her face. But she saw no support in the expression of the Tribune of the watch.
She tried again, muttering, arguing in her strange language. Then she became suddenly still. She stared straight into Carbo’s eyes.
‘I’m here, my love.’
A chill shot down Carbo’s spine. Despite Vespillo’s words, despite Kahotep’s explanation, he felt her.
‘Rufa. I… I miss you so much.’
‘I know, Carbo.’ The accent was Sitkamose’s, but Carbo knew the words were coming from Rufa. ‘Be strong. One day we will be reunited in the afterlife. We will be together again. Until then you must live your life.’
‘It’s so hard. I don’t know if I can.’
‘I know you better than anyone, my love. You are the strongest man I have ever known. You can do it. Be brave. For me. And take care of Fabilla.’
At this, Carbo’s throat seemed to swell, making it hard to talk. He knew that he had neglected Rufa’s daughter, her face a constant reminder of his loss. ‘I will. I’m sorry I didn’t do more for you when you were still… when you were with me.’
‘You gave me yourself. That is all I ever wanted.’
‘Do you still have the gift I bought you, just before you… before you left?’
‘Of course.’
Vespillo squeezed Carbo’s knee. Carbo looked at him questioningly. Then he knew what his friend wanted him to do.
It felt like a betrayal. To doubt her seemed like doubting her loyalty, her honesty, her love.
‘You still wear that necklace? In the underworld?’
Sitkamose put a hand to her neck. ‘Of course, my love. I never take it off. It reminds me of you.’
Carbo felt like a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped on his head. He struggled for breath for a moment. His last gift to her had been copper earrings. She had taken an age to choose them. It had exasperated and amused him. She had been killed not long after.
Vespillo watched his friend struggle, and put a gentle hand on his arm. Carbo shrugged it off, then leapt to his feet. With a roar, he slammed both fists into the table, splitting it into two.
The seer started to scream hysterically. Carbo clutched at his hair, trying to relieve the intense pressure building inside his skull. He spun and punched a wall, his fist penetrating right through the flimsy partition. He pulled it back and looked at the blood on his knuckles with a strange sense of detachment.
He turned to look at Sitkamose, who was cowering away from him.
‘Carbo,’ said Vespillo, his voice soft and low. ‘You have your proof now. We can bring a prosecution. We can let it be known she is a fake, so she can’t work any more. Let’s go.’
Carbo regarded Vespillo for a long moment.
Then he threw himself at Sitkamose.
The old mystic was surprisingly nimble. She shrieked and ducked, and Carbo’s arms grasped the space where she had been a moment before. He spun, braced himself to leap on her. Sitkamose backed against the wall, wide-eyed, face blanched.
Vespillo hurled himself through the air. He hit Carbo in the side of his chest with his shoulder, knocking the bigger man off balance. Carbo gripped his friend’s arms, tried to prise them off.
‘Run!’ gasped Vespillo. ‘I can’t hold him long.’
Carbo roared in frustration and used his clenched fist to club Vespillo around the side of his temple. Vespillo’s head snapped back, but he hung on tight.
‘Run!’ Vespillo cried again.
Sitkamose pulled her dress up around her knees and fled out of the house. Carbo lunged for her, breaking free of Vespillo’s bear hug. But Vespillo stretched out and grabbed his ankle, and Carbo fell forwards, He lashed out backwards with his free foot, catching Vespillo in the nose, and blood flowed freely down into the Tribune’s beard. Still the smaller, older man held on.
It was just long enough. Carbo kicked back again, the blow landing on Vespillo’s shoulder and breaking the grip. Carbo jumped up, but the old lady was gone. He spun and stared furiously at Vespillo, balling his hands into tight fists, breathing heavily through flared nostrils.
Vespillo struggled to his feet, and wiped the blood pouring from his nose with the back of his hand.
‘What are you waiting for, friend? You need someone to take it all out on? I’m right here. I won’t even fight back. Just put me up against the wall and pound me until you feel better.’
Carbo glared at him, but made no move.
‘But you won’t feel better, will you? Rufa will still be dead, and you will still be a violent, drunk gambler, who people used to admire.’
The brutal words were like knives, twisting in his guts. He stared, open-mouthed.
‘Vespillo,’ Carbo said, his voice even. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
He turned his back on his best friend, and walked away.
* * *
Carbo stalked into his tavern, slamming the door behind him. The few customers present looked up from their drinks in consternation. Most were regulars, and knew that Carbo in this sort of mood was not to be messed with.
For a moment he stood just inside the threshold, fists clenched, staring at the ground, breathing hard. Marsia hurried over to him, a cup of unwatered wine in her outstretched hand. He batted it away and she let out a little cry as the liquid sprayed across her and the cup cracked on the floor, the sodden straw carpeting the ground not sufficient to cushion its fall.
Shocked silence fell over the tavern. Carbo looked around him now for the first time. He saw Vatius, two legionaries from the Urban Cohorts, that odd veteran that he had met when gambling that time – he thought he had told him where to go already – and a couple he hadn’t seen before. A young wealthy man, probably noble, and an even younger actor type.
‘Everybody get out,’ he said. His voice was low, but those who knew him understood the threat it held. Marsia retreated to the back of the bar. The legionaries hurried to finish their drinks. Vatius gave Myia a little fuss behind her ears and slowly stood with an exaggerated groan as he got his aching old joints moving. The odd veteran looked resentful, but he shuffled his stool back, preparing to leave.
Unfortunately, the nobleman did not know Carbo’s reputation. He got to his feet slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, which was a good foot shorter than Carbo, adjusted his fine tunic and strode purposefully over to him. To Carbo’s amazement, the rich young
man prodded him in the chest and looked up at him with an expression of outrage and indignation.
‘Now look here, you ruffian. Who do you think you are?’
‘I’m Carbo,’ said Carbo, surprised, presuming that would be enough.
‘Well, listen here, Carbo. I think you can tell I am a man of importance. Of substance. And I will not take any nonsense from the likes of you. If I want to take a drink in this grotty establishment with my friend, I will do so. And I will stay for as long as I wish.’
Carbo’s meaty hand shot out and grabbed the presumptuous nobleman by the neck. He thrust him back against the wall, and the back of his head thumped painfully against the brickwork. Carbo squeezed, slowly, relentlessly increasing the pressure. The nobleman tried to loosen the fingers with both hands, as his face turned red, then purple, then blue. His wide, panicked eyes began to roll upwards. Carbo squeezed harder.
‘Master, please no. Think what they will do to you if he dies.’
Carbo looked at Marsia. At first her words seemed meaningless. Then rationality began to return. This man was important. Punishment would be certain and cruel.
He let go, and the nobleman slumped to the ground. His little catamite rushed over to him, stroked his hair as the choked man gasped air through his bruised windpipe.
Slowly, unsteadily, with assistance from his companion, the nobleman regained his feet.
‘Get out,’ said Carbo. ‘And if I ever see you again, I will kill you.’
The nobleman fled, his lover chasing after him. The other customers filed out too, the legionaries looking shame-faced that they hadn’t intervened, but clearly not foolhardy enough to risk a confrontation with an angry Carbo. Last to leave was the tall, scarred, muscular, but somehow broken veteran. He gave Carbo an odd look, then nodded to Marsia and left, closing the door behind him.
Marsia put a hand on Carbo’s arm, but he shrugged her away, and slumped down on a stool.
‘Get me another cup of wine.’
* * *
Carbo stared at the deep-fried canary on the plate before him, and tried to hold in the contents of his stomach. He couldn’t remember much of the previous night, but he had flashes of memory involving Camilla, betting heavily on some dicing games, drinking, and possibly some fighting. His cheekbone throbbed and he reached up to touch it gingerly, wincing as his fingers made contact. He had definitely taken a punch there.
Marsia served a couple of customers, keeping deliberately out of Carbo’s way, looking away when he tried to catch her eye. She was obviously disappointed in him, but despite that she had gone out early to buy him his favourite hangover cure, and had it ready for him when he rose from his bed in the late morning.
He took a nibble from the breast meat. It was fatty, with a taste somewhere between duck and chicken. He nearly retched, but swallowed hard, and then ate some more. His stomach calmed infinitesimally.
The door opened and someone walked in. Carbo didn’t look up until they came and sat next to him.
‘You look like shit,’ said Olorix.
‘I feel worse,’ said Carbo.
Olorix’s expression was grave. ‘You lost a lot of money last night, Carbo.’
Had he? Mercury’s bollocks.
‘A lot of money. You owe me big.’
Carbo took a sip of the water that Marsia had provided him, grimaced at its tastelessness and lack of warming afterglow.
‘It will be fine,’ said Carbo. ‘I’ll sort something out.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ said Olorix. ‘I have expenses. Pork nipple scratchings and nightingale tongue pasties don’t grow on trees. And besides, if I let one person off payment, I will look weak. Others will try to take advantage.’
Carbo sat back and looked at him steadily. ‘So? What am I supposed to do? I don’t have the cash.’
‘That isn’t my problem now, is it? Where does one get cash in this city if one doesn’t have any? Labouring at the docks? You should pay off your debt in a few years. Unfortunately I’m not that patient.’ Olorix looked over to Marsia and signalled for a drink. ‘Robbery? Extortion? You could even sell your body for sexual services. I’m sure there is some rich noblewoman who would love to bed a rugged veteran like yourself. Or rich nobleman.’
Carbo gripped the edge of the table and half-rose, his posture full of menace. Olorix appeared unperturbed. He held up his hand, palm forward. ‘Please, Carbo. With the sum you owe me, I could have you carted off into slavery. You’re getting on a bit, and don’t have the manners to be a house slave, but I think you could put a decent shift in at the mines.’
Carbo shuddered and sat down heavily.
‘Oh, I forgot. You have been there already. I take it you don’t relish the prospect of going back. In that case. Get. Me. My. Money.’ Each word was like the crack of a whip as Olorix’s tone sharpened.
Marsia approached the table with a cup of wine. As she placed it down, Olorix put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. He squeezed her backside, and she slapped his hand and stepped back, glaring.
‘You know what, I would take this one. Full and final settlement. She wouldn’t fetch the amount you owe me if you sold her on the open market. But I like her spirit. I would enjoy breaking it.’
Marsia looked at Carbo in alarm, and the mere fact that she thought he would agree made his heart sink. He looked down. ‘You can have the farm,’ he said quietly.
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Olorix, cupping his hand theatrically to his ear.
‘I said you can have the farm,’ said Carbo miserably.
‘The olive farm in Campania? The one where you fought off those bandits so heroically? Back when you were still a real man?’
Carbo nodded. ‘I’m sure that will cover it.’
‘Master,’ said Marsia tentatively. ‘We need the income from the farm to keep the tavern afloat.’
‘Then you will just have to work harder to make sure this place actually turns a profit. Go and fetch the deeds.’ Carbo snapped. Marsia’s eyes filled with tears, but she simply walked away. Olorix sat back and folded his arms, watching Carbo with a smug expression. Carbo swirled his cup of water, and suddenly craved a large cup of unwatered wine, despite the sickness and headache from the previous night’s overindulgence.
Marsia returned with a scroll sealed with a wax stamp and handed it over to Olorix. Olorix broke the seal and scrutinised the contents. He nodded, then he stood and offered his hand to Carbo. Carbo looked at it, but made no move to take it.
‘It’s nothing personal, Carbo. The gods weren’t with you last night. Maybe your luck will change. But if Fortuna does turn her face from you once more, just remember, I always recover what I’m owed.’
He left the tavern whistling tunelessly.
Carbo wasn’t sure how long he remained sitting there, staring down without seeing. Rufa was gone. To have that connection dangled in front of him, then snatched away was agonisingly cruel. He hated Vespillo for doing that to him, whatever his motivation. He never wanted to see him again, nor that child of Rufa’s whose every mannerism, facial feature, laugh, reminded him of her.
And now he had lost the farm, and he knew Marsia was right. Maybe if he could restrain his spending, his gambling and drinking, there would be enough left at the end of the day to keep the tavern from going under. But how was he supposed to stop those things, when they were all that stopped him from throwing himself into the Tiber with bricks tied around his neck?
The chair opposite him creaked as it slid back across the floor and someone sat down. For a moment he didn’t look up. Then he felt a light hand hold his.
‘Carbo.’
He sighed, then looked into Camilla’s face.
‘What do you want?’
‘I thought you might need someone to talk to.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Olorix is bragging that he has stripped the tunic off the back of the great Carbo. He took your farm?’
Carbo clenched his jaw, t
hen let out the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding and nodded.
‘I’m sorry if it’s my fault.’ Her voice was small, and Carbo thought she sounded genuinely apologetic. He looked at her in surprise. ‘Your fault?’
‘I should have stopped you. You were betting too much, on all the wrong things. I tried to stop you, tried to tell you what to back, but you weren’t listening to me. Your mood last night…’
Carbo watched her expression as she struggled for words.
‘I hope I didn’t frighten you,’ said Carbo eventually.
Camilla looked surprised. ‘Frighten me? No. Of course not. You were always courteous with me, even when you were losing and angry. Unlike with that rich fellow.’
Carbo rubbed his hand over his face. ‘What did I do?’
‘He deserved it. He kept making advances on you, even when you made it clear you weren’t interested.’
‘What happened?’
‘He took offence at your refusal and set his muscle on you.’
‘Oh. I’m guessing it ended badly.’
‘You pummelled the bodyguard into the ground, then choked the man until he nearly passed out.’
‘I didn’t kill him?’ Carbo asked, a sudden chill coming over him.
‘No, no. But you did loudly tell him you would break his neck if you ever saw him again. You should have seen him run.’ Camilla giggled but Carbo didn’t join in. Advances from a man or a woman were equally unwelcome to him, and he felt justified in firmly rebuffing them. Especially when they wouldn’t take no for an answer. But he was losing control too often. Briefly he wondered what he should do about it. Then he remembered what a state his life was in, grief mingling with the threat of financial ruin, and he found he could summon no motivation to change his behaviour even slightly.
‘Why are you here?’
Camilla put her hand on his. ‘I want to help.’
‘Why?’
She didn’t answer directly, but said, ‘We can get your farm back.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s a horse race…’
Carbo put up a hand. ‘Stop. I don’t want to hear any more.’
