Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  The dice were cast.

  The crowd erupted into a cacophony of noise – cheers, boos, encouragement, threats. Some prayed loudly to Fortuna for success of their favourites, others chanted curses, begging the demons of the underworld to rise and destroy the chariots of their rivals.

  On the track, the first half of the first lap was messy. Charioteers whipped their horses, then flicked their whips at each other. They guided their horses with four reins bunched in one hand, while keeping their balance and lashing out to the front and sides. No single chariot made significant progress in that initial dash for the first corner, though the lead Blue and Green quadrigas were ahead of those from the other two factions when they reached the turning post at the end of the spine.

  This was when it got really chaotic.

  With little to separate the teams, they all tried to corner together. Their positions in the starting gates had been chosen by drawing of lots, so it was luck that a Red chariot had the inside line, and theoretical shortest distance around the bend. But that was less of an advantage than it was to, for example, a runner on the inside lane of a curved track. The bend was impossibly tight for the horses, so they had to swing out to get a sufficiently large turning circle. And the teams outside them boxed them in preventing this.

  The Blue chariot next to the Red on the inside track, which had pulled slightly ahead, swerved sharply inwards. Though the Red tried to respond, his horses leaning against their neighbours as they galloped, the Red charioteer whipping desperately at the Blue, it was hopeless. The more powerful, faster Blue quadriga drove the hapless Red into the turning post.

  The inside horse went down, its cries as its front legs snapped like dry twigs lost in the noise. The weight of the recumbent equine dragged the rest of its companions inwards, and they too lost their footing. The chariot flipped, and the charioteer was thrown clear, landing with great fortune in the safe area within the central spine. He rolled and got to his feet, remarkably unharmed. He stared at the wreckage he had just cleared, then raised one hand to the crowd and walked away, cheers and boos following him.

  ‘What a shipwreck!’ exclaimed Camilla, eyes wide with delight. ‘How did he get away with that?’

  Carbo was more thoughtful. Even if the race was fixed, it could still all go wrong. A bad move by the White driver he had backed, a dirty move by another team, and his money, his tavern, could be gone like so much smoke in the wind.

  Not every charioteer was as fortunate as the Red. The Blue quadriga that had been drawn in the outside gate had gone wide, hoping to avoid the melee that inevitably occurred at the first turn. But the Green on its inside saw the tactic and swung wide too, forcing his chariot outwards and into the Blues’ horses. The chariots ran wheel to wheel, and the Blue charioteer drew the knife they all carried to cut themselves free in the event they got tangled in the reins during a crash. He slashed at the Green charioteer, opened a gash along the Blue’s shoulder. The Green charioteer recoiled in pain, but yanked the reins left as he did so.

  The outer wheel of the Blue chariot touched the perimeter wall and shattered into a thousand splinters. The chariot lurched to the side, tipped, and the charioteer disappeared under the wreckage. The horses stumbled, regained their footing, and ran on, dragging the broken chariot behind them. The crushed body of the Blue charioteer lay on the track unmoving, until the attendant slaves were able to safely rush over and drag him back to the spine, leaving a thick trail of blood in the sand.

  All the other chariots made the first turn safely, and as they charged down the back straight, a lead began to open up between the more powerful, better funded Blue and Green teams and their poorer relatives, the Reds and Whites. Carbo noticed nervously that the White team he had backed – driven by a ridiculously young charioteer and led by a motley collection of a chestnut, a bay, a grey and a black horse that Carbo thought looked ready for the butcher – was second to last, only a Red team further back.

  He glanced across at Camilla nervously. She grasped his knee.

  ‘Don’t worry, Carbo. They haven’t planned anything for the first lap. It’s important that there is nothing obvious that might allow the bookmakers to cry foul and invalidate the bets.’

  Carbo nodded, a nagging doubt rising inside him. But as the race progressed, hope began to rise.

  On the second lap, the leader, a Blue quadriga, had a sudden catastrophic failure. As it cornered tightly, the shaft attaching the chariot to the horses split in two. The chariot flew off at a tangent into the perimeter while the horses continued forward. The charioteer had wrapped the reins around his wrist and was yanked out of the chariot. The horses galloped on regardless of the charioteer’s screams as he was dragged at high speed round the track. Eventually he managed to retrieve his knife from his belt and slash at the reins. He came free, rolling end over end until he came to a halt on the sand, sitting on his backside like a bemused toddler who had taken an unexpected tumble.

  The second placed chariot, a Green, swerved to avoid him, but the next, another Blue, had sight of the track blocked by the Green and had no time to take evasive action. The Blue charioteer disappeared under the hooves and wheels of his team mate’s quadriga, and when the chariot had passed his body was twitching feebly, hand stretched out towards the spine. Three more chariots passed over him before the track slaves were able to retrieve the corpse, by which time it resembled more bone and offal than a human. The slaves hurried back to safety with the pieces bundled in their arms, dripping gore down their tunics.

  Over the next two laps, three more chariots, two Greens and a Red, withdrew with mechanical failure – snapped reins, a broken axle and loss of the pin that held the shaft of the chariot to the yoke. All managed to guide their chariots to safety and avoid the grisly deaths that had fallen their two competitors.

  When Carbo’s White chariot collided accidentally with another White along the home straight, Carbo thought his heart stopped. But it was the other team that went spinning out of control. The charioteer walked away from that crash but his horses were not so lucky, and they lay by the perimeter, a pathetically crying group of obstacles, attempting to rise on shattered limbs, forced to wait until the race was over so they could be mercifully dispatched.

  With three laps to go, the last remaining Blue pulled off the track when one of his horses went suddenly lame. The Blue fans in the crowd yelled and hurled coins, stones and fruit onto the track in their anger. The Greens laughed and mocked their misfortune. The Praetorians loosened their swords in their scabbards, but in the absence of a threat to Sejanus, they kept their position.

  On the next lap the last Green chariot inexplicably slowed, the horses tiring, breathing hard, until coming to a complete stop, heads down, snorting steam out of flared nostrils. No amount of whipping, shouting or pleading by the charioteer could exhort them to race again, and the best he could do was persuade them to walk slowly off the track.

  As they entered the last lap, only three chariots remained; two Whites, one of which was Carbo’s, and one Red. Carbo’s White chariot was a horse’s length in front of the other. The Red was half a lap back, its horses clearly winded. Camilla turned to Carbo, smiling broadly. ‘I told you.’ He nodded acknowledgement, but he would not believe he had won until it was over. Still, he allowed himself some hope, and his mind drifted to what he could do with the money. Repurchase the farm. Refurbish and restock the tavern. Buy a new slave to help Marsia. And then put his feet up, drink and gamble, in moderation of course, and begin to get his life back.

  The final catastrophe happened so quickly, Carbo almost missed it, and he was only able to piece it together by replaying it in his mind over and over, after the event.

  The White that Carbo had not backed had the inside lane as they took the final turn, but was clearly behind, and the inside advantage was not going to be enough to make up the distance. He couldn’t work out if it was a tactic by the lagging White charioteer, or deliberate sabotage. If it was a tactic, it was a stupi
d one, costing the White faction a rare and heroic victory.

  The trailing White charioteer yanked his reins to the left so his horses veered into the chariot Carbo had backed. The chariot flipped upside down, and the wooden edge landed heavily across its driver’s middle, crushing his backbone and innards. The up-ended chariot acted like a brake, and the horses, no longer being whipped, slowed and stopped.

  The other White chariot fared little better. The horses lost their footing, and tumbled over in a mess of broken legs and necks. The White charioteer, obviously prepared for disaster, leapt nimbly clear, and quickly made it to the safety of the spine.

  The remaining chariot, the slow, lowly Red, rumbled past the wreckage, giving it a wide berth, and crossed the finish line with the speed and grace of a general in a triumph.

  The crowd erupted, the delighted cheers of the few Red supporters drowned out by the fury of the fans of the other factions. Carbo stared in disbelief, not willing to accept what had happened. He turned to Camilla.

  She was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Carbo’s feet took him automatically home, while his mind reeled in disbelief. It wasn’t until he actually arrived at his tavern that he realised where he was. He reached out a hand, then pulled it back like the handle had been heated in a blacksmith’s fire. He stared at the closed door, completely unable to force himself to open it. His legs trembled and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

  The door flew open, and he had to stifle a cry of alarm. Two legionaries of the Urban Cohorts, mildly inebriated and laughing, emerged. They glanced at Carbo as they left, then did a double take as they realised who it was.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ muttered one, not meeting his eyes. The other one clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder and then they both moved on, continuing their banter, Carbo’s misery instantly forgotten.

  Standing a short way inside the tavern was Marsia. Her eyes were wet. Her expression combined the empathy of someone comforting the bereaved, with the fear of a newly orphaned child.

  Carbo swallowed and stepped into the tavern. He glanced around. There were a few drinkers present, but a hush descended as they noticed Carbo enter. He looked around at his customers. A couple of vigiles he counted as acquaintances bordering on friends. A few local traders and craftsmen. Vatius, stroking Myia who was nestled into his lap. That odd veteran that had latched himself onto Carbo previously, before Carbo had sent him packing, sitting at a table on his own, wine and food untouched before him.

  ‘Marsia…’ He prepared himself for her anger, his well-deserved tongue-lashing for his stupidity, for ignoring her.

  Instead she stepped forward and threw her arms around him.

  ‘Master, I’m so sorry,’ she said, voice thick with emotion.

  The compassion was so genuine it took him completely by surprise. He had been prepared for anger, not kindness. It was too much.

  He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably, not caring that he was the centre of attention, that all his customers were watching with embarrassment this unmanly, un-Roman display.

  Marsia ushered him away to the back room, away from the staring eyes, and sat him down on a stool. She fetched him a cup of strong, unwatered wine and encouraged him to take a deep drink.

  When he had regained enough control to speak, he said in a small voice, as if a naughty child talking to his mother, ‘I’ve lost it all, Marsia. First Rufa. Then my friends. Then the farm and all my money. And now the tavern. It was the last thing.’

  Marsia knelt before him and put her head on his knee. ‘You still have me, Master,’ she said in a whisper. He put a hand on her head, stroking her hair, staring at the wall, eyes unfocused.

  A call came from the tavern, ‘Carbo, Marsia.’

  ‘It’s Vatius,’ said Marsia. ‘He probably wants a top-up.’ She stood and adjusted her tunic, wiped the sleeve over her eyes, then disappeared off to serve the elderly philosopher. She returned a brief moment later. Her face was white, and her hands shook even though she had them clasped tightly in front of her.

  Carbo slowly stood and followed her into the tavern.

  Olorix stood in the centre of the room, grinning broadly. His hands were resting on his large belly, as if he was holding in an uproarious laugh. Behind him were half a dozen bodyguards, armed with swords despite Rome’s laws prohibiting this. This was not a group that Carbo could fight, even if he was in peak condition, and the right frame of mind.

  Olorix spread his arms wide. ‘Carbo, Carbo, Carbo. What misfortune. I mean, not entirely unexpected. You did bet everything on the no-hoper. But it was brave, and it’s tragic it didn’t pay off for you.’

  Carbo said nothing. What could he say?

  ‘I have to confess, I have had my eye on this place for a while. I have a few businesses that supplement my bookmaking income, but this one has potential you know, despite the way you have run it down. Great location, and with a bit of imagination it could double up as a den for gambling. Turn the upper floors into cubicles for the girls to work in. Cock fights and boxing matches in the street outside. So many possibilities.’

  Carbo’s guts clenched. He felt all eyes on him, Olorix, his guards, his customers, Marsia. All waiting for a reaction. Waiting to see the old Carbo roar into life, thrash these interlopers within an inch of their lives, then throw them out on their backsides.

  ‘Give me a few moments to gather my things,’ he said.

  A sigh went around the onlookers, a soft sound of disappointment.

  ‘Technically,’ said Olorix, ‘All the contents of the tavern belong to me, too.’

  Carbo hesitated. ‘But I’m not an unreasonable man. Go and fetch some clothes and any personal items.’

  With head bowed he went out of the back of the tavern. Marsia helped him put a few things in a bag, but in fact he had little in possessions, fewer that meant anything to him. When he had pulled the drawstring, he took his sword down from its place behind the bar, and strapped it around his waist.

  ‘The sword isn’t a personal item,’ said Olorix.

  ‘It’s the most personal item I possess,’ said Carbo, summoning a modicum of defiance.

  Olorix shrugged. ‘So be it. I have plenty.’ He gestured to his guards.

  Carbo couldn’t bear to drag it out farther. Without even a last look around, he headed for the door, Marsia on his heels.

  As Marsia passed Olorix, the fat bookmaker grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’

  Marsia gasped.

  Carbo stopped, the door open, and looked back.

  ‘What are you doing, Olorix?’ he said, his voice low, uncertain.

  Olorix kept a tight grip on Marsia. He smiled, revealing two perfect rows of ivory dentures.

  ‘The tavern, and all its contents, Carbo. Those were the terms of the bet.’

  ‘That means the stores, the tables and chairs. Not the people.’

  ‘Just the property, is that how you interpreted our bet?’ asked Olorix, his grin broadening.

  ‘Yes,’ said Carbo firmly.

  ‘No,’ whispered Marsia and Carbo realised he had stepped straight into Olorix’s trap.

  ‘You are all witnesses,’ Olorix said in a loud voice to all those in the tavern, the customers as well as his lackeys. ‘Carbo has acknowledged that all property within this tavern is forfeit to me by the terms of our wager.’ He turned to Carbo. ‘Now tell me. I understand you have no legal training, but what is the status of slaves in law?’

  Carbo stared in disbelief. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘Property, is the answer. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I free her,’ said Carbo desperately. ‘Right now, she becomes a freedwoman.’

  Olorix shook his head sadly. ‘You have no power to do that, Carbo. From the moment your chariot lost the race, she became mine.’

  He spun Marsia to face him. ‘She has spirit,’ he continued. ‘And is attractive, in a certain way. I thi
nk she can earn some money for me on her back, or on her knees. There is always a market for German slaves. Especially among those men who wish to prove their masculinity against the barbarians. You know the type. Wannabe legionaries who think it’s brave to beat up a woman. It’s risky for me, because the merchandise gets damaged, but charging premium prices can overcome that.’

  Marsia was shaking violently from head to toe, trying in vain to stifle choking sobs.

  ‘Or maybe I will keep her for my own private use. I really can’t decide.’

  ‘Let me buy her off you.’

  Olorix let out a scoffing laugh. ‘With what, exactly? You don’t have a copper coin to your name.’

  ‘I’ll get it. I’ll borrow, or find some work.’

  ‘No, Carbo. I don’t believe you are good for it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t sell her to you. Can’t you see how good it is for my standing around here. Not only do I now possess the great Carbo’s tavern. I also own his prized slave. Maybe I will keep her chained to my bed. Or set her up with a mattress here and make her free for all to use. That would be good for business. And the people of the Subura will know who has true power around here.’

  ‘Marsia,’ said Carbo reaching out a hand. ‘Come to me.’

  Olorix pulled her behind him, and two of his guards took her arm. She struggled violently, and one of them cuffed her around the side of her head with an open palm.

  She gazed at Carbo with terror in her streaming eyes.

  ‘Master,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Carbo put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Two other guards stepped forward menacingly, weapons drawn. Carbo looked at them, then at Olorix, then at Marsia. Then his shoulders slumped. He turned his back and left the tavern that used to belong to him. Marsia’s cries echoed after him as he walked away.

  * * *

  It had been the most joyous thing he had witnessed since he had returned to Rome. Cicurinus replayed the scene over and over in his mind as he walked slowly back to his lodgings, a broad smile lodged firmly on his face. The great Carbo, the hero the legionaries had talked about in Germany, the champion of the downtrodden in the Subura, who had cast him aside like a used rag. That Carbo had been completely humiliated by a fat, foreign bookmaker. Olorix had taken everything of material value from him. He was even going to break that uppity whore as well. It was all good.