Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  ‘But Carbo…’

  ‘You think the way out of bankruptcy due to gambling is more gambling.’

  ‘Please, let me finish.’

  ‘I need a drink.’ He flicked his fingers at Marsia. She brought him some strong wine, making no comment and avoiding eye contact, though he couldn’t help but notice the contemptuous glare she gave Camilla. He drank deeply, waited for the warmth to begin to spread from his centre, then nodded. ‘Fine. Go on.’

  ‘There’s a race in the Circus tomorrow. The usual teams, three quadriga chariots each. The odds between the Blues and Greens are about the same.’

  ‘So how do I make any money?’

  ‘You are going to bet on the Whites.’

  ‘The Whites? They never win.’

  ‘Exactly. The odds are huge. You will quadruple your money.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Camilla. The Whites never win.’

  ‘Not in a fair race.’

  Carbo sat back. ‘I see.’

  ‘This is big, Carbo. They have been working on this for months. They have people in the Blue, Green and Red camps.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that all the teams apart from White are going to suffer mysterious misfortunes. Drivers coming down sick. Horses badly shod. Axles falling apart. There is some big money going into this.’

  ‘Won’t the bookies get suspicious if too much money is bet on the hopeless underdogs?’

  ‘These people aren’t stupid. The bets are going to come from multiple sources, and will be spread out among all the bookies. Those guys are going to take a real hit, believe me. Including Olorix. He knows nothing about this.’

  ‘Fine, you’ve convinced me. More or less. But you’re forgetting one thing. I have no money. I can’t put down a sestertius as a stake, let alone anything big enough to recoup my losses.’

  Camilla looked around her meaningfully.

  ‘The tavern? Camilla. It’s all I have.’

  ‘Word is, you won’t have even this for much longer.’ Camilla gripped his hands in both of hers and looked earnestly into his eyes. ‘Come on, Carbo. You can get your life back on track. One big win, and you can start to move on. What have you got to lose?’

  Carbo noticed Marsia was staring at him, her mouth open, expression dismayed. For a reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, her reaction irritated him.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon? White?’

  Camilla nodded.

  ‘Then I guess I need to go and see Olorix.’

  Chapter Eight

  Cicurinus watched the couple from a discreet distance, hidden by a thick tree trunk and the overcast night sky. They were in one of the gardens on the Pincian Hill, just north of the Quirinal. Technically the gardens were owned by some senator or other, but their gates were left open and were rarely patrolled by the owner’s guards, and so they had become a popular location for lovers. The man Cicurinus was watching was called Quintus Servilius Ahala, Cicurinus had found out. It hadn’t taken much asking, he was notorious. A rich man getting his kicks in the slums of the Subura, finding rough lovers that the higher echelons of society could not provide.

  At that moment, Quintus was sitting on a marbled bench beneath an ornamental willow tree, whose branches, with few leaves left, dangled down over him, like a lover bending over to kiss his upturned face. His actual lover, a young boy who had probably not long ago cast aside his childhood tunic and bulla, was kneeling with his face buried between Quintus’ legs, head bobbing up and down.

  The act made Cicurinus nauseous and furious in equal measures. That Quintus was at least the one receiving fellatio instead of giving it should have mitigated the perversion – to be the submissive partner was even worse – but Cicurinus had no doubt this degenerate would be bending over and baring his arse to his young lover before long.

  Cicurinus had argued with Veleda that night. She had chastised him for being too passive, too inactive. The implication of sexual passivity had hung in the air between them, shaming him.

  In truth he had done little to advance his mission recently. The pain of his dental treatment had been so excruciating he had taken to bed for a whole day, despite Veleda’s excoriating admonishments at his weakness. But he had refused the poppy juice and willow bark that the dentist had offered him, and felt more virtuous for his avoidance of the medicines. Pain was a part of his life, and it purified. When he had emerged from his bed, the swelling and throbbing from his gums had reduced enough for him to wear the wooden dentures the dentist had provided him with, at least for short periods at a time. He had been able to chew hard food for the first time in many years. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel. Was meat a luxury? But it was a man’s meal, and it gave him strength. Strength for his task of cleansing Rome.

  And Quintus was just the sort of man that Rome needed to be cleansed of. Not only that, Carbo had assaulted and threatened him the previous evening. It was too perfect.

  He fingered the blade concealed in a fold of his tunic. The edge was wickedly sharp. It should be, he had spent hours honing it. When was the perfect time? Quintus was emitting audible moans now as the boy moved faster. The moment was approaching. He stepped from the shadows. The boy’s face was hidden in the folds of his lover’s tunic, and Quintus’ eyes were closed in ecstasy. Cicurinus drew the blade and approached silently.

  A high-pitched giggle split the air. Cicurinus whirled around to see a group of youths approaching along the path between the trees. At the front a girl dressed in an overly revealing stola was bent double with laughter while a young man in a finely decorated tunic and ostentatious jewellery held her upright. Behind them were half a dozen others, men with arms around girls, smiling, laughing, singing, and weaving drunkenly towards them.

  Quintus heard the group’s approach as well, and shoved the boy between his legs hard, so he tumbled onto his backside in hurt confusion. Then Quintus saw Cicurinus and his gaze dropped to the knife in Cicurinus’ hand. His eyes widened and he looked back at Cicurinus’ face, squinting through the gloom to make out his features.

  ‘Carbo?’ asked Quintus. ‘Is that you? Please. I didn’t know you would be here. I didn’t mean to offend you last night. I’m sorry. I’ll never come near you again. I’ll never even go to the Subura any more.’

  The group of revellers were nearly on him. He hesitated. Veleda would be so disappointed. But he couldn’t kill so openly. The young men of the group wouldn’t stand by and let him murder someone before their eyes, especially when they were in the company of a group of girls they wanted to impress. Maybe he could overpower them, but it would be a risk. And if he failed, he was caught, or killed, his mission would be over before it had really got started.

  He turned his back on Quintus, and on the approaching party, his mind in turmoil. He walked away, just remembering to affect a limp as he went.

  * * *

  The blood thumped in Cicurinus’ ears. There was a pressure inside his head that he couldn’t relieve, even when he pounded his temples with his fists. He gripped his knife hilt till his knuckles turned white.

  The frustration of being so close to the kill, to that feeling of release and pride that it brought him, and then having it snatched away at the last moment, felt unbearable.

  ‘Sestertius for a war veteran, Master?’

  Cicurinus looked down. He had nearly tripped over the bundle of rags at his feet in his self-absorption, hadn’t realised it was a person. Now he could see that it was a man, sitting against the wall of a shuttered shop. He wore a tattered tunic and a dirty cloak. His face was covered by a matted grey beard, and his hair was long and unkempt. His right leg ended at a stump above the knee. Beside him was a wooden crutch. He smelled of urine.

  He could almost feel Veleda’s powerful disapproval. He knew what she would say, if she was with him right now. Maybe she was. Maybe she was nearby, watching him, testing him. He looked around, but saw only the dark, empty st
reet, the towering insulae on either side increasing the gloom as the moon tried to break through the cloudy sky.

  When the derelict saw that Cicurinus had stopped, he held up a cracked clay dish and wiggled it hopefully. Cicurinus regarded him wordlessly for a long moment.

  ‘Just a copper as?’ said the old veteran, a slight tremor in his voice now. It was common for drunken revellers to give Rome’s destitute a good kicking for a bit of wholesome fun, and the veteran would no doubt have received a few beatings in his time begging. But still he persisted, maybe driven by a hunger suggested by his emaciated frame.

  ‘Please, sir. I was with the great Germanicus when he beat that Arminius bastard.’

  Cicurinus stiffened. This broken human had taken part in the battles that revenged Rome on the victor of the battle of Teutoberg forest? That didn’t seem right. Someone as weak as this had helped defeat the best of the Germans?

  The conflict inherent in Cicurinus’ position came to the fore. Was he doing this for Rome or Germania? Was cleansing Rome of its weak, making it more powerful and honourable, really helping his beloved Veleda and her people? His hand loosened on his knife hilt.

  The beggar, taking Cicurinus’ hesitation as a sign for hope, wiggled his empty dish again. ‘You’re a veteran too, aren’t you, sir? I can tell. Did you fight the barbarians too? Spare a coin for one who didn’t make it out whole, sir.’

  That this could have been him, if fate had been slightly different, had not occurred to him. If a sword thrust that had missed his leg, that he maybe hadn’t even noticed in the heat of battle, had instead been nudged by Fortuna two inches to the side so it penetrated his calf muscles, then maybe it would have been him lying in the street, leg amputated to stop the gangrene spreading, begging for coin to provide the bare minimum sustenance to stay alive. His hand moved towards his purse.

  ‘Kill him.’

  Veleda’s whispered words were so close he could hear the breath caress his ear. How had she got so close without him realising? He froze, not turning, not speaking.

  ‘He is your mission. Do not give in to pity, to mercy. Cleaning the streets of Rome of filth like this glorifies all nations.’

  His breath came slow and even. His doubts melted away like the ice under the spring sun. He felt a serene calm descend on him. He watched the beggar’s eyes with a sense of detachment as he clamped his hands around his neck, watched the panic flare and fade, ignoring the hands that clutched him feebly, the one leg that kicked, until all was still.

  He stepped back and let the body slump to the ground, head lolling. The odour of urine was more powerful now, joined with the acrid stench of voided bowels. It gave an emphasis to his desire for purification. He looked around for Veleda, for guidance, approval, but she had disappeared, as silently as she had come.

  He looked at the corpse, sitting in a puddle of its own excrement. He scooped some faeces onto his fingers, wrinkled his nose, tried not to gag. But no one would know why this wretch had died, if he did not tell them. Using the filth like paint, his fingers like a brush, he began to write on the wall.

  * * *

  ‘He wrote, “Rome will be purified of such as these,” on the wall in the dead man’s own shit!’ said Vespillo, exasperated.

  ‘Well, this killer is clearly insane,’ said Pavo calmly, taking a nut from a small bowl on his desk and picking at the shell.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Vespillo.

  ‘But I still don’t understand why you have brought this to me. We discussed this before. This is what I like to call, “your problem”.’

  ‘You’re a tribune of the Urban Cohorts. It’s your job to keep the peace!’

  ‘A murder or two does not disturb the peace.’ He popped the nut into his mouth and crunched it loudly.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say. People are getting scared now. Everywhere I go, people are accosting me, asking me what I’m going to do about the killer. What am I supposed to tell them?’

  ‘Everywhere you go?’ said Pavo, rubbing his chin. ‘And where is that exactly? The palaces of the palatine? The wealthy residences on the Esquiline?’

  ‘You know where I patrol.’

  ‘The slums, Vespillo. The criminals and the poor. No one that matters. Look at the people that are being killed, for Jupiter’s sake. Prostitutes and beggars and thieves. The people I talk to believe this madman is doing Rome a favour.’

  ‘The people you talk to? The Senators and Equestrians?’

  Pavo nodded. ‘People from those echelons of society, yes. And to my boss. Lucius Calpurnius Piso. You may have heard of him? Urban Prefect?’

  Vespillo grimaced at the weak sarcasm.

  ‘Look,’ said Pavo, ‘until this madman kills someone of importance, there is no appetite to do anything about him.’

  ‘And when the poor of Rome erupt in riots because they fear for their safety? What then?’

  ‘Well, then we crush them with my Cohorts. As you say, Vespillo, it is my job to keep the peace.’

  ‘You know in my job, we prefer to prevent fires from starting, rather than fighting them when they have already burned down half the city.’

  ‘Well, your track record there isn’t exactly pristine now, is it?’

  Vespillo glowered. It was hardly his fault a group of cultist arsonists had tried to destroy Rome, and without the valour of his vigiles, they may have succeeded.

  ‘I’ll look for this killer with or without your help, Pavo. But don’t say I haven’t warned you. There is more to follow.’

  ‘Then we will cross that bridge when we come to it. Now if that’s all, Vespillo.’

  Vespillo didn’t bother to bid him good day.

  * * *

  Carbo sat impatiently through the pre-race entertainment. The religious ceremony to open the afternoon’s activities was endured by the crowd respectfully, not least because the Praetorians were out in force. Sejanus, the de facto ruler of Rome with Tiberius withdrawn to self-imposed exile in Capri, had decided to honour this relatively small half-day programme with his attendance, so everyone was supposed to be on best behaviour. But the first event, a foot race of two laps by half a dozen naked competitors was greeted with disinterest, and the small troupe of amateurish acrobats and tumblers that followed had the crowd booing and throwing soft fruit.

  The execution of three criminals – Carbo couldn’t quite hear what their offences were when they were read out, banditry he thought but he didn’t really care – caught the crowd’s interest briefly. But their method of dispatch, tied to posts and then savaged by large dogs, smacked of cheapness. No mock gladiatorial displays, no tigers or elephants. This was no ludi romani or one of the other lavish spectacles funded by the emperor. Probably it was paid for by a minor official trying to work his way up the cursus honorum, though Carbo was too far back in the crowd to hear the announcement of who was footing the bill. Sejanus must have had a quiet day to have bothered to attend at all.

  But none of that mattered to Carbo. He wasn’t here for entertainment. This was business. It was all or nothing today. Win big, or lose everything. Yet despite that, the sense of excitement in the pit of his stomach was like the hit from a draught of strong, expensive wine.

  The chariots drove out onto the track, and at last the crowd went wild, whoops, shouts, jeers and cheers echoing around the vast stadium. Each team, Blue, Green, Red and White, sported three quadriga chariots, led by four horses in one row, their reins bunched in the fist of one charioteer per chariot. The Blue and Green chariots were the most ornate, brightly painted with their team colour inlaid with gold and silver. The charioteers’ leather costumes, also dyed in their teams’ colours, looked brand new. Their horses’ tack was polished to a mirror-like shine, and the horses were well-trained, disciplined, finely muscled athletes.

  By contrast, the Reds and Whites had an air of neglect. The chariots showed signs of damage from previous races, botched repairs not disguised by a thin veneer of paint. The horses were a combination of older beasts, pa
st their best, and youngsters showing a lack of discipline, shifting restlessly in their yokes. These two teams felt like they were just there to make up the numbers, and while their charioteers may have hoped for a miracle win that could make their careers and have them snapped up by one of the big teams, the bookmakers didn’t share their optimism. The odds on the White chariot that Carbo had bet the tavern on winning the race were twelve to one.

  Olorix had taken his bet with surprise and delight. He had written Carbo a chit, confirming an agreed value of the tavern and all its contents at a price generous enough that Carbo could have no argument. Even so, he had hesitated. But Camilla, who now sat on his right, had encouraged him. She had told him to be brave and bold, and he would recover all that he had lost. Grateful for her support he had placed the bet, and they had walked together to the Circus, Camilla chattering inconsequentially, Carbo in brooding silence.

  Now, as the horses lined up, one to each of the twelve starting gates, Carbo felt the familiar thrill, the tension in his guts. But this was no mere recreational flutter, something to numb the pain and take him away from himself for a brief moment. This was existential. All or nothing. It felt like the starting gate was his Rubicon, and the White team were his soldiers, lined up against Pompey and the forces of the Republic.

  The Circus track was half a mile long, rounded at one end like the letter V when handwritten in the cursive style. Down the centre ran a decorated barrier called the spine, dotted with obelisks, statues of the most important gods, and pine trees. At either end of the track were conical turning posts, and large bronze dolphin-shaped lap counters were placed up high so they were clearly visible to the crowd. At the end of each of the seven laps, one would tip forward so all knew how long the race had to run.

  An expectant hush descended on the crowd, so that Carbo could clearly hear the whinnying from the more excitable of the horses.

  A trumpet blared.

  The statues of men’s heads and torsos that acted as gates sprung into the air. The horses lunged out of the stalls, the slack in the yokes was taken up and the chariots jerked into motion.