by Alex Gough
He had been told about the wounds on the bodies, observed by the first vigiles on the scene, before the rich young man had been returned to his family, and the young actor hauled off to be thrown into a mass grave outside the city walls. He had never seen what anyone could call a gentle murder. Even for bloodless deaths like strangulation, the violence showed in the bruises around the neck, the bulging, staring, bloodshot eyes. But these killings seemed particularly vicious and violent, as if the point had not just been the deaths themselves, but the manner of the deaths. The now-familiar words daubed in blood on the walls emphasised the point.
Rome will be cleansed.
Vespillo replayed the scene as best he could in his mind. He examined the spot where the nobleman’s son, Quintus, had been found. A large sticky pool of congealed blood marked the location, just in front of the bed. And on the bed itself, more blood soaked into the mattress, and the spray of arterial blood up the walls, consistent with the reported stab wound to the groin.
‘Do we know who the boy was yet?’ Vespillo asked the watchman standing guard. The man shook his head. ‘Has anyone talked to the neighbours?’ The man looked at his commander in surprise.
‘I was just told to stand guard.’
Vespillo suppressed a wave of annoyance. Of course the fireman–nightwatchman wouldn’t have thought it was his job to go investigating the crime. Why would it be?
‘Stay here, I’m going to see what I can find out.’
He exited the small apartment and walked down the external staircase to the floor below. The door to this apartment looked in slightly better shape than the one to the murder scene, which was expected – lower floors attracted higher rents, not least because you were more likely to escape alive in the event of a fire – but the difference was marginal. He knocked loudly.
For a while he thought no one was in. Then he heard a shuffling noise, and the door opened a few inches.
‘What is it?’ croaked an elderly man, face lined and weathered, his bald pate greasy and scabby, with fluid running down his cheek from one rheumy eye.
‘I’m Tribune Vespillo of the vigiles. Can I talk to you for a moment?’
‘Eh? You’re who?’
Vespillo raised his voice.
‘I’m Vespillo. From the vigiles.’
‘What do you want? Is there a fire?’
‘I want to ask you about last night. Did you hear anything?’
‘Did I what? Speak up lad.’
‘I said,’ said Vespillo, nearly shouting, ‘Did you hear anything unusual last night?’
‘No, no, no. Quiet as a mouse sneaking past a cat.’
‘Two people were killed upstairs. You didn’t hear anything?’
The old man looked shocked. ‘No, not a thing. It must have been some sort of demon, to kill two people so quiet, like.’
Vespillo sighed. ‘Did you know the boy who lived in the flat above you?’
‘Kyros? Is he one of the dead ’uns?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
The old man’s face dropped. ‘He was a good lad. Actor type. And… well, you know what other job actors do. He took plenty of men up there. Different one most nights. All sorts they were – working men, soldiers. One man was a regular though, a noble sort.’
‘He’s dead too.’
‘Ah. Poor Kyros. He used to go to the market for me. I don’t manage these stairs as well as I used to.’
‘I’m going to find out who did it,’ said Vespillo with more confidence than he felt.
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m going to find out who did it!’ shouted Vespillo. A couple of passers-by at ground level looked up curiously at the man shouting on the stairs above them.
‘Good for you. Kyros didn’t deserve that.’
Vespillo loudly thanked the man for his help, and descended another floor. The young mother, with a crying babe in her arms and a toddler clutching her leg and staring up at Vespillo unblinking, was also little use. She thought maybe she had heard something, but then the baby had started to wail, and she had thought nothing more of it.
The other occupants of the insula were of no help. Even trying the apartment on the other side of the building which shared a dividing wall with Kyros’ apartment was pointless, since it was currently vacant. He trudged back down to ground level, dog tired, sleep a distant memory. He looked up at Kyros’ apartment, and saw how the insula leaned outwards into the street, a deliberate design to maximise the living space without increasing the footprint on the ground. But due to shoddy workmanship, the gap between the top floor of this insula and the one on the other side of the street was a bare few feet apart, near enough to easily toss a ball from the window of one apartment to the other.
Groaning inwardly at the prospect of another tall, rickety staircase to climb, he trudged up to the top floor of the insula across the road and hammered firmly on the door. Almost straight away it flew open, and Vespillo found himself confronted by a red-faced, plump woman.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m Tribune Vespillo…’ he began.
‘Oh, the vigiles. I was wondering when you would show up. Took your time.’
‘I…’
‘I suppose you’re here about the murders.’
‘I’m… what?’
‘Doesn’t surprise me one bit, what with all the goings-on in that apartment. You can see everything from here you know. He doesn’t even close the shutters half the time. And I’ve got a daughter. It ain’t right.’
Vespillo felt he was losing control of the conversation.
‘You saw what happened?’
‘Not saw, no. He was more discrete when he had someone posh with him. But I heard plenty. All their little chit-chat, and their filthy noises. And then their screams. Frightened us to death, me and my daughter. “Where are the vigiles?” I said to her. “We could all be murdered in our beds and all they care about is putting out fires.”’
Vespillo bridled at the unfairness. Two of his men had been badly injured the previous night, stopping the fire spreading to residential areas, where it would have killed many, especially those at the top of insulae, like this woman. But he held his tongue.
‘Did you hear anything apart from screams?’
‘Oh yes. I heard that nobleman begging for his life. I mean, dirty immoral man yes, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘What did he say exactly?’
‘He said something like, “Please don’t do it.” Then he screamed, “Carbo, no!”’
Vespillo felt like a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown over him.
‘Say that again,’ he whispered. But the woman babbled on.
‘Then his cries were cut short pretty quick. But the boy carried on screaming. My daughter was crying her eyes out. Then he screamed even louder, then he stopped. And that was it.’
‘He said Carbo? You’re sure? It couldn’t have been something else? Like Cilo? Or Cato?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Definitely Carbo. Clear as a bell. I’ll remember that man’s last words to my dying day.’
* * *
Carbo’s fitful sleep was punctuated by horrible visions of normality. Sitting in the tavern with Marsia. Having a drink with Vespillo. His arms around Rufa. Each time, he woke with a start, the brief lingering happiness that the scenes engendered deep inside evaporating as memory crashed back upon him. The windowless room gave him no indication of the passing of time, so he had no idea whether it was midnight or midday when he was woken fully by a heavy banging at the door. The oil lamp had long since guttered out, and the small cubicle was pitch black.
He stared towards the door, then rolled over and closed his eyes. The hammering came again, and a familiar voice yelled, ‘Carbo. Open up. I know you’re in there.’
He blinked hard, sat up, rubbed his palm across the growth of stubble. How long was it since he had last shaved anyway?
‘Carbo!’ More hammering.
He felt around
for his tunic and pulled it over his head, then staggered over to the door. He fumbled with the bolt and then opened the door to let a crack of daylight in. Although the light was filtered, having first passed through the tavern beyond, it was bright enough to make him squint at the bearded face before him. But of course he knew who it was. Who else?
He turned his back and returned to his bed, flopping down onto it, facing the wall. The door creaked open to its full extent, flooding the room with an illumination that even pierced his closed lids.
‘Get up, Carbo. I need to talk to you.’
‘Fuck off, Vespillo. I don’t need your pity and I don’t need your help.’
‘Carbo,’ said Vespillo more firmly. ‘Get up.’
Carbo frowned at the tone. It didn’t sound pitying or solicitous. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat with his head in the palms. Hunching forward squashed the skin on his chest and the self-inflicted wound stung suddenly. It felt good.
‘Carbo, I’m sorry about what happened to you…’
‘Save it.’
‘I need to know where you were last night.’
Carbo looked up at his friend sharply. Now that his eyes had had time to adjust, he could focus on his features more clearly. The expression was not that of one who had come to lend a fallen friend a helping hand. There was worry yes, but something else. Suspicion?
‘What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Answer my question. Where were you? Were you drunk?’
‘Not drunk enough,’ said Carbo. ‘I was here.’
‘And before you were here?’
‘I don’t know. I walked. I had just been thrown out of my home. You know that, right? I had just had everything taken from me. I wasn’t keeping notes about which streets I wandered down.’
Vespillo pursed his lips. ‘What time do you think it was when you got here?’
‘How the fuck should I know? My portable sundial doesn’t work at night!’ Carbo was irritated by the stupid question. The day was divided into twelve equal hours spanning sunrise to sundown, so the length of the hour changed with the seasons. The night was similarly divided, but unless someone was paying particular attention to the movement of the celestial objects, time at night was an imprecise and uncertain measure.
‘Don’t be smart,’ said Vespillo, voice tight. ‘I just meant roughly. Did you see the position of the moon when you got here?’
‘No I didn’t. Why would I? Listen, just tell me why you are here, or get the fuck out.’
Vespillo took a breath, then said evenly, ‘There were more murders last night.’
Carbo frowned. ‘And? I’m not really in a position to help you with an investigation Vespillo, even if I had the inclination. I have enough to worry about.’
‘Witnesses at this and the previous killings saw a big man with dark hair and a limp leaving the scene.’
‘Well that narrows it down. I can’t imagine in a city of a million people, full of veterans and cripples, that there would be many tall people with a limp.’
‘Last night was different. A witness heard the victim cry out before he died. He said, “Carbo.”’
Carbo stared at Vespillo, uncomprehending. Carbo was not a particularly common name. He was aware that there had been a family of Carbo’s that had held various offices a hundred years before, but they fell out of power in the convulsions of the end of the Republic. Carbo didn’t know if they were distant relatives, or if he had a slave ancestor who had been given their name on his manumission. He liked to think it was the former, but he suspected the latter. There were certainly a handful of Carbo’s around in Rome with a variety of skin tones and body types suggesting that at least some of them were the descendants of freedmen of the old family rather than directly from the noble Carbos.
But the name was rare. Carbo didn’t even have any family. Father long dead. Mother more recently. A half-brother that his mother had produced, some time after the death of his father, also dead now.
‘The witness misheard,’ said Carbo.
‘She doesn’t think so,’ said Vespillo.
Carbo cocked his head to one side, unable to believe what he was hearing.
‘Let me get this straight, old friend’ – he emphasised the word ‘friend’ sarcastically – ‘you think I did this?’
Vespillo ran his hand through his hair.
‘I don’t know what to believe, friend.’ Unlike Carbo, Vespillo used the word sincerely. ‘But this is a real mess. The last fellow who was murdered was important; An equestrian’s son. Someone who matters, as Pavo puts it. This isn’t going to go away. I just need to look into your eyes and hear you tell me it wasn’t you.’
Outrage washed across Carbo.
‘Are you serious? After all we have been through together?’ He stood, stepped forward, towering over Vespillo. ‘You really think me capable of that?’ His voice was rising in his indignation.
Vespillo took a step back and his heel clanged against something metallic. He turned, bent down, and picked up Carbo’s gladius from the floor where it had been discarded the previous night. He held it by the hilt and angled the blade into the light so he could see it clearly.
The congealed blood along the edge was clearly visible, spattered like someone had spilled redcurrant jam over it.
‘Oh, Carbo.’
Carbo stared at the blood, mouth open. ‘That’s not… I mean…’ How could he explain the desire to inflict a wound upon himself to Vespillo. He would never understand, even if he believed him.
‘Listen, come with me to the station. I’ll pop you in a holding cell. It will be safer for you. People are angry about this.’
‘Vespillo. You can’t possibly think this was me.’
‘What am I supposed to think, Carbo? Look at the state of you. And now we have witnesses – your appearance, your name, and a sword covered in blood. Let me take you in, and we can see about getting you a light sentence, after all you did for the city. I’m sure we could get Sejanus to commute the death sentence to exile.’
‘I haven’t even had a trial, and you have convicted me already!’
‘Carbo…’
‘No! You call me friend, and then accuse me of murder. Give me my sword back, and get the fuck out!’
Vespillo shook his head sadly. ‘I can’t do that.’ He held the blade before him, not pointing at Carbo, but ready to strike if there was trouble. A black anger overwhelmed Carbo. Vespillo must have seen the change in his eyes, and raised the sword.
Carbo struck like a snake. For such a big man he could move with amazing rapidity. One hand grabbed the wrist of Vespillo’s sword hand, slamming it against the wall, while his other reached for Vespillo’s neck.
But Vespillo was no stranger to a tussle. A veteran of many years in the legions, and almost as many in the vigiles, dealing with the violent criminals of Rome’s underclasses, he knew how to fight dirty. He batted Carbo’s outstretched hand aside with his forearm, then brought his head sharply forward. His thick skull smashed into Carbo’s face, who turned aside just enough to take the blow on his cheekbone and avoid the broken nose that would have inevitably resulted from the head-butt.
Carbo grabbed Vespillo’s thick hair in his fist and slammed his head back into the wall. If the partition had been solid brick, the impact would easily have knocked Vespillo out cold, if not killed him outright. But in fact it was made of thin, dry, partly rotted planks of wood, and Vespillo’s head went straight through it, protruding into the tavern, where the startled owner was cleaning a stew pot.
Vespillo brought his knee up sharply, and though he didn’t find the target between Carbo’s legs, his kneecap drove into Carbo’s thigh, causing the leg to buckle. Vespillo shoved hard, and Carbo staggered backwards two steps, releasing Vespillo’s sword hand.
Vespillo whipped the sword round in an arc, aiming at Carbo’s neck, a killing blow. But at the last instant he altered the aim and pulled the power, so the edge sliced into Carbo’s shoulder, a sti
nging wound, but not dangerous.
‘Stop this, Carbo,’ said Vespillo, panting heavily. ‘We shouldn’t be fighting.’
Carbo looked at the blood trickling down his upper arm. The pain kicked in a moment later. It felt different when it was inflicted by someone else. Not satisfying, releasing, but enraging.
He put his head down and charged at Vespillo like a bull. His shoulder smashed into Vespillo’s chest and he wrapped his arms around him. Vespillo flew backwards, Carbo holding him in a tight bear hug. Both crashed through the partition wall which disintegrated into a cloud of flying splinters. Vespillo landed heavily on his back, his breath leaving him in a whoosh. The sword skittered across the floor. The tavern owner leaped back with a shriek, clutching the clay pot before him like it could provide him any sort of protection.
Carbo sat up, straddling Vespillo, and reached for his neck with both meaty hands. Vespillo boxed him hard in both ears, then bucked, tipping Carbo sideways.
Vespillo put an arm underneath himself, trying to rise off the ground. Carbo kicked the arm away, so Vespillo fell backwards, then lunged for the sword. As Vespillo struggled to get upright, Carbo leapt to his feet, and stamped on Vespillo’s chest. There was the sound of a rib cracking, and Vespillo slumped back with a cry, clutching at his side.
Carbo towered over him. He held the gladius above his head in both hands, the sword pointing directly down towards Vespillo’s heart. His grip on the hilt was so tight, his knuckles turned white. The sword point trembled. Carbo breathed hard through gritted teeth, eyes wild. Vespillo stared up at him helplessly. Then, resigned, he closed his eyes.
A moment passed, and he opened them again.
Carbo hadn’t moved.
‘What are you waiting for?’ said Vespillo. ‘Look at you. You can’t control yourself. You’re a wreck. Come on, killer. Do it.’
Lucidity returned to Carbo. He looked at the sword in his hand as if not recognising what he held. He stared down at his supine friend, who was waiting beneath him for the killing blow. For a moment, he wondered if he was everything Vespillo had accused him of. Was he a killer? Could he have done these things, and had no memory of them? It didn’t seem possible. But then, it didn’t seem possible that he had lost everything, and yet that was true.
