Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  But it wasn’t enough. Cicurinus wanted revenge for himself. And though Olorix had taken Carbo’s property, and humbled him, the man still had his reputation. He had heard the talk in the tavern afterwards, when Olorix had left, taking Marsia with him and leaving a nervous looking slave behind to run the place.

  The vigiles had muttered to each other about the injustice of it all, how the man had saved the city, working alongside them, and this was his reward. One of the craftsmen had said loudly that it was a damn shame how far someone so honourable had fallen, but he was sure that he had it in him to rise back up again. The old philosopher, who was holding that runty dog protectively in his arms, said something about Euripides, and whom the gods wanted to destroy, and how gambling was a form of madness.

  It just made Cicurinus more sure of his course. Yes, his mission of purification was the priority. But in doing so, he could destroy Carbo, so he would never rise again.

  * * *

  He still had friends. At some level, deep inside him, he knew that. But he felt totally alone. How could he ask for help when he couldn’t bear to see anyone? What would Vespillo say to him right now? What would he be thinking? Even if he threw his arms around him and told him everything was going to be fine, and we all make mistakes, Carbo knew what would be in his head. How did you let it come to this? What became of you?

  He limped through the dark streets, head down. His leg ached worse than ever. It was raining, the late autumn precipitation feeling like a thousand pinpricks on his skin. He wandered down the main street through the Subura, the night-time wheeled traffic splashing mud and effluent over his lower legs.

  He considered just laying down in front of an ox cart. The driver wouldn’t see him in the dark. The dumb beasts wouldn’t stop for him. The wheels, pressed down by their heavy load, would crush his body. Would it be quick? He didn’t really care. Would it be certain? He was less sure.

  He turned off the main thoroughfare and ambled down a side street. The people out in the streets of the Subura that late were hurrying to be home, were homeless, or were loitering with intent. The homeless and those on their way home gave Carbo’s bulky figure a wide berth. Those with more mischief in mind watched him with interest, but the sword at his belt suggested no easy mark, and they left him alone.

  He came across a run-down tavern that he had never visited before. The door was shut, the tables and stools that would have lined the street in the day time were stowed safely away inside. He pounded on the door. There was no response. He thumped again, hard, and yelled loudly. ‘Open up!’

  He heard movement from inside. The sound of a wooden bar being lifted. The door opened a crack.

  ‘What do you want? It’s the middle of the night!’

  ‘I need a bed.’

  ‘We’re closed.’

  The door began to shut again. Carbo leaned his shoulder against it and pushed. Despite the man inside desperately trying to prevent him, he eased the door wide open and stepped inside.

  The tavern-keeper was a slim, bald man with a sparse beard and large, red birthmark across his forehead. He took in Carbo’s size and his sword, and stepped back, hands held forward in a gesture of peace.

  ‘Please, I have little.’

  ‘I need a bed,’ repeated Carbo.

  ‘Uh… of course.’

  ‘Show me my room.’

  The tavern-keeper hurriedly led him through to a small room at the back. ‘You can sleep here, sir.’

  Carbo entered and looked around. The room was about six foot in width and length, just enough space for a stone bed that protruded from the wall, with a rough straw mattress atop it.

  ‘It’s one sestertius for the night,’ said the tavern-keeper, lighting a small oil lamp.

  Carbo turned and with one hand on the man’s chest, pushed him gently out of the room. He closed the door on him, and stared at the flickering flame from the lamp for a moment. Then he propped his sword in the corner, sat on the bed and put his face in his hands.

  He didn’t cry. He was too numb for that. His situation was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t understand how he had arrived here. It seemed unreal. Many times he had had nightmares, of being in battle, of his torture in Germania, of his time as a slave in the mines, and yet he had always known even in the depths of sleep that they weren’t real, that he would awake.

  This was real.

  And he could envisage no way back.

  He reached out and picked up his sword. Ran his thumb along the edge. Still keen enough to draw blood.

  There was a way out. It was a path trodden by honourable Romans through history. Like Brutus, when all was lost.

  He held the sword by the blade and placed the hilt in the join where the stone bed met the floor. He placed his finger on the tip, felt the sharpness indent the pad. He stood before it and pressed the end of the sword into his belly, the blade angled up through his liver into his chest.

  He stayed in that position for a long moment. Was he doing this right? Was this what he wanted? What happened next? Would someone take care of his funeral, so he could cross the Styx to Hades? Or would his wrongdoings destine him for Tartarus and eternal torment? Or would he be thrown into the Tiber, no rites to ensure his onward passage, so he was doomed to walk the earth as one of the lemures?

  Or was there nothing at all, as some people said? Just oblivion? It was hard to imagine not existing at all, but at the same time it sounded like an end to pain. And that was what he wanted, more than anything else.

  He clenched his jaw. Took deep breaths. Prepared himself for the brief agony, to be followed by the ending. He clenched his fists. Shut his eyes.

  Rufa was before him. Looming out of the darkness behind his closed lids. She didn’t say anything but her expression was one of supreme sorrow.

  ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t stop me. Let me do this.’

  Still she said nothing. Remained still. But a tear welled in the corner of one eye, rolled down her face.

  ‘I want to be with you.’

  Now she shook her head, a small movement, but a clear refusal.

  Carbo roared in frustration. He stepped back, kicked the sword so it clattered across the room. Then he grabbed the hilt, ripped off his tunic, and drew the edge in a swift slide across his chest.

  The pain was delayed by just a moment. It hit him at the same time the blood began to flow in rivulets down his skin, over his belly. He cast the sword aside, and threw himself onto the bed, on his back. He gazed at the ceiling, focusing on the throbbing, the stinging, as his blood soaked the mattress.

  Chapter Ten

  It was simple enough to find out where Quintus lived. Just a few queries in the right places, a simple lie that he had to make a delivery to the house of the wealthy Equestrian’s son. Now, late at night, he waited in the shadows of a small public garden by the Equestrian’s sumptuous domus, high on the Viminal hill. The moon had broken through the cloud, bathing the well-to-do area of the city in a beautiful pale light.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be tonight. If not, he would return another night. And another. He had time. Nothing but time. He caressed the hilt of his sword, the feel of the ridges against his palm soothing him.

  The moon moved slowly across the sky as the hours slipped by. From time to time he imagined he saw Veleda, white-robed, standing under a tree and watching him steadily, or walking past in the distance, glancing sideways at him from under the folds of her palla. But each time when he looked harder, he realised it was just a trick of his mind – a statue, an ordinary passer-by. Still, it wouldn’t surprise him if she was lurking nearby. She always seemed to know what he was doing. He would do his best for her.

  A figure came out of the house. It paused for a brief, argumentative conversation with the night porter stationed just inside the door in the vestibule. Then it scurried out into the city.

  Cicurinus followed at a discreet distance behind. The hooded figure glanced around him frequently, looking like a mouse who had br
avely come out to nibble at crumbs on the kitchen floor, while keeping an eye out for the cat. But Cicurinus kept far enough away that he was either not seen, or not considered a threat.

  The man moved quickly through the city, skirting round anyone who looked like trouble, until he came to an insula in the northern part of the Subura. A rickety wooden staircase clung to the side of the building, and the man quickly ascended, two steps at a time, until he got to the top floor. He knocked three times, and looked around nervously while he waited. Although he had been in no doubt, Cicurinus now clearly saw the features of Quintus Servilius Ahala. Then the door opened and he ducked inside.

  Cicurinus slowly climbed the staircase. Each step creaked with his weight, the noise loud in his ears. When he reached the top he paused. He closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath through his nose, then slowly exhaled. One more breath, in and out. He was ready.

  He kicked the door hard. The latch snapped, some of the shoddily nailed-together planks splintered apart, and the door flew backwards with a mighty crash. He stepped into the tiny, dark apartment.

  Quintus and his lover – Kyros, Cicurinus had heard him called, – had wasted no time. Kyros was sitting on the side of his bed, fully naked, legs open. Quintus was kneeling between them, holding his stiff cock in one hand, looking up into his lover’s eyes. They both stared at him, a frozen tableaux of fear and guilt.

  He drew his sword in one smooth motion.

  ‘What do you want with us?’ gasped Quintus in a voice that shook in terror.

  ‘You know why I’m here. Your perversions bring shame on the city and its people. One in your position, son of a nobleman. On his knees like a submissive whore. You make me sick.’

  ‘We aren’t hurting anyone.’ Quintus’ tone was shrill.

  ‘You are injuring the dignity and majesty of Rome itself. How will our Empire stay great, and be a worthy opponent to the noble barbarians, if it is home to such as the pair of you?’

  Quintus shuffled round, still on his knees, so he was facing Cicurinus. He put his hands together. ‘Please, don’t do this.’

  Cicurinus lifted his sword.

  ‘Carbo, no!’ screamed Quintus. Cicurinus smiled broadly. Shadows concealed his scars, and Quintus had taken his bulk and dark hair to be Carbo, once more. The walls of these apartments were as thin as parchment. Carbo’s name would have echoed around the entire building for all the residents to hear. This is why the gods had stayed his hand two nights prior, sent those youths to stop him killing Quintus and his lover at that moment. Because now he could escape easily, but there would still be witnesses, and Carbo would be condemned.

  He thrust his sword forward, one smooth stab. It penetrated between the ribs, straight into Quintus’ heart. The young nobleman stared down at the weapon protruding from his chest in disbelief. Then he toppled backwards, blood fountaining out of the rent in his torso.

  Kyros shuffled backwards on the bed, letting out a high-pitched, girlish scream that went on and on. Cicurinus advanced on him, and the scream changed into a series of panting howls of despair. The naked boy held his hands before his face in a futile warding gesture.

  Cicurinus stabbed him in the groin. The sword penetrated up through his genitals and into his guts. The boy’s scream turned inhuman, the dying howl of a wild animal. Cicurinus withdrew his blade and for a moment regarded with satisfaction the mess he had made of the boy’s lower body. Then he pulled his arm back, and thrust the blade straight through the boy’s open mouth, so the tip burst out of the back of his head.

  The boy instantly went silent, body stiff, and his eyes rolled up into his head. Cicurinus let him slip off his sword and onto his back.

  Then he dipped his sword in the copious blood, which was already starting to drip through the floorboards into the apartment below, and using the tip of the sword as his stylus, and the wall as his tablet, he began to write.

  * * *

  ‘This has gone too far!’ said Pavo, knuckles on his desk like a gorilla, his face so close to Vespillo’s that he could feel the breath and the spittle, smell the onions from his last meal. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He had been up all night directing the vigiles fighting a fire in a warehouse by the Tiber. It had been a big one with the potential to spread further. It took until dawn to get it under control, and the sun was poking over the horizon by the time he got home, to find a messenger summoning him to a meeting with Pavo. He hadn’t had time to change or wash, and his tunic, hair and beard still smelled of smoke, and his eyes stung like they had grit in them.

  ‘There is no need to shout. I can hear perfectly well.’

  ‘I’m not shouting!’ shouted Pavo.

  ‘May I ask why it has gone too far now?’ Vespillo asked innocently. ‘What bridge was crossed that was one too many?’

  ‘Don’t try to be smart, Vespillo. It doesn’t suit you. You know exactly why.’

  ‘Because this time someone who matters is dead.’

  ‘Because this time, Someone-who-matters’ son is dead, and Someone-who-matters is ready to start throwing bodies to the beasts until the killer is caught.’

  ‘Getting your balls twisted now, are you? Maybe if you had listened to me sooner…’

  Pavo slumped into his chair, the anger dissipating to be replaced by despair.

  ‘I’m in trouble, Vespillo. I don’t need shit from you, too.’

  Vespillo frowned. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Lucius Calpurnius Piso.’

  ‘What has the Urban Prefect got against you?’

  Pavo sighed. ‘I was at his domus on the Palatine, at a party. I had had one too many. For some reason we were talking about Caesar. Julius Caesar. I made some joke about wishing I had a wife like Calpurnia, who would let me screw as many other women as Caesar had.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Calpurnia was his older sister.’

  ‘Calpurnia? I feel like I should have known that. But… she is part of history. How old is Piso, anyway?’

  Pavo shrugged. ‘In his seventies? There was quite an age gap between him and his sister. But clearly there is still a lot of filial loyalty there. I was given a stern dressing-down and a lecture on the morality and faithfulness of his sister, who was clearly a paragon of traditional Roman womanhood. Not to mention an admonishment of my slur on the divine Caesar, grandfather by adoption of our own dear Emperor. All in front of a crowd of nobles and other people who matter.’

  ‘Oops,’ said Vespillo, knowing he should be more sympathetic, but still smarting from Pavo’s neglect of the previous murders.

  ‘So I’ve not been in Piso’s good books for a while, and he’ll jump at any excuse to drum me out of the Cohort. On the other hand, he is getting it in the ear from this dead boy’s father, Titus Servilius Ahala.’

  ‘The name rings a bell, but I don’t really move in those circles.’

  ‘He made a fortune in cheese and honey when he was financial procurator of Raetia, and now he performs some sort of judicial role in the law courts. He is an equestrian, but he is rich enough for senatorial rank, and is hoping to get promoted by getting in with Sejanus. He is not a man to mess with.’

  Vespillo whistled. This killer had really stirred the hornets’ nest. There was no way the authorities would turn a deaf ear now.

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  Piso’s tone became more pleading, ingratiating. ‘Look, my friend. Investigating murders in the grubby parts of the city isn’t really my thing. It’s much more up your street. And you have been looking into this already. All I’m asking is you continue to do your job. Find out who is behind this, and let’s get them nailed to a cross, before I’m out of a job.’

  ‘Before he kills again, you mean.’

  ‘Gods yes,’ said Pavo. ‘Just imagine if he killed someone else important.’

  Vespillo let the man’s bigotry pass. It was just ingrained in Roman culture, to look down on those below you in the social strata. But Vespillo lived and worked among those who were d
eemed unimportant by the elites, and to him they mattered.

  ‘I intended to do so anyway.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Pavo, and the relaxation in his shoulders told of his relief, like the burden had been removed from him and given to someone else. ‘Of course, I’ll give you any assistance in my power.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Vespillo, wondering what use Pavo could possibly be. But maybe at some point he would want to use the Urban Cohorts for some muscle. And it wouldn’t hurt to have Pavo owe him a favour in the future. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Pavo reached for a jug of wine on his desk and poured some of the thick red liquid into a delicately decorated glass. He offered it to Vespillo. ‘Join me for a drink.’

  ‘Thank you, but not at this time of the morning. I’m going to head over to the insula where the murders took place and see what I can find out.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Pavo, and tipping his head back, he poured the wine into his mouth.

  * * *

  Vespillo looked around the blood-spattered room. It was dingy and small. The mid-morning light, filtered through an overcast sky threatening rain, provided enough illumination to see by, while tingeing everything a gloomy grey.

  The bodies had been removed before he arrived, of course. The corpse of the son of a prominent equestrian could not be allowed to lay where it was where any riff-raff, such as himself, could lay eyes on it. So too, the body of the actor boy who had been found with him. The shame of the company the young nobleman had kept at the time of his death would remain theoretically confidential, albeit widely discussed by all levels of society. The semblance of secrecy though would be enough to maintain the father’s dignity.