Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  Carbo nodded, then bowed reverentially to the statue.

  ‘Sit,’ said Sica, gesturing to the chair. ‘Wait.’

  Carbo did meekly as he was told, still completely bemused. Sica disappeared out of the door, leaving Carbo alone. He looked out of the window at the street below. He could see the docks, ships unloading throughout the night as they did during the day. Slaves trudged on and off gangplanks, loaded down for the most part with the sacks of grain that were constantly brought from the fertile grounds of Sicily and Egypt to be poured into the starving maw of the city. But other goods were plentiful too – fruits, vegetables, salted meats, earthenware, herbs, spices and raw materials like stone and marble. It was like looking down on an ants’ nest, the drones hurrying backwards and forwards, the work never-ending.

  Sica returned, and in her arms she carried a bundle of freshly laundered clothes, with the handle of a bucket of water looped through her elbow.

  ‘Clothes off,’ she said.

  Numbly, Carbo obeyed. It wasn’t the first time he had been naked before the young ex-slave, and it felt as unerotic as the first time, when they had been forced to strip under threat of the whip of the overseer of the mines.

  Sica placed the bucket on the floor beside Carbo, and taking a clean but rough rag, she scrubbed at his chest and arms, his armpits, even between his legs, with all the detached care of a young slave girl performing toilet duties for an elderly mistress. He submitted meekly to her rough ministrations, and when she had towelled him dry, she pulled a clean tunic over his head.

  Still not done, she produced a razor-sharp knife and took it to his stubble, scraping it away with sufficient precision to not leave a single nick. He rubbed his face, and it felt smooth even though the dry shave had left it stinging. Now she attended to his hair, rinsing the worst of the muck out in the bucket, then taking a comb to it to remove the tangles.

  When she was finished, she stepped back and looked him up and down, then gave a satisfied nod.

  ‘Better.’

  It was a strange feeling. Even before he lost the tavern, he hadn’t been looking after himself, and had rebuffed any attempts from Marsia to care for him, much as she had protested it was her duty. He was now clean for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  ‘Thanks, I guess,’ he said, running fingers through his dark hair. ‘Do you have anything to drink?’

  Sica nodded and handed him a cup of water.

  He looked down at it and wrinkled his nose. ‘I meant wine.’

  ‘Know what you meant. Drink.’

  Carbo did as he was told, and finding he was more thirsty than he had realised, he downed the cup in one long draught. Now his hunger hit him. Before he could ask Sica handed him a small loaf and a dish of nuts. He ate greedily, and looked for more. Sica shook her head.

  ‘Enough. Build you up slowly.’

  Carbo suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired. He sat back in the chair, closed his eyes.

  He opened them again, and felt a strange disorientation. The sun had come up and the apartment looked sufficiently different in the daylight that it took him a moment to work out where he was. Strangely he found himself lying on Sica’s small bed, his legs bent since they were too long for the small space. He stretched and yawned, marvelling at how much better he felt. No hangover. No aches and pains from sleeping on hard, cold floors. He even smelled better.

  He rose, and saw that Sica had left him a small breakfast, some more bread and some dates, and a large cup of water. He sat, ate and drank, and was just clearing up the last of the crumbs when Sica returned.

  ‘You look better,’ she said.

  ‘I feel better,’ he said. ‘At least, physically. Sica, I don’t understand. How did you find me?’

  ‘Came to visit your tavern. Wanted to know how you were. You never came to see me.’

  ‘Oh, I…’ He didn’t really have an excuse. They had formed such a close bond, but when they had returned to Rome he had left her to her own devices. She was resourceful, and he had never been worried for her, but now he realised how indifferent he had been to her welfare. Young, female, foreign. Vulnerable. Anything could have happened to her. He had been so self-obsessed, he had thought of no one else. Not Sica, not Marsia. Not even Fabilla. Shame rushed over him, and he put his head in his hands.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t hold back the tears, and he cried, guilt, sadness, despair driving his sobs. Sica put an arm around him and let the storm blow itself out. When he was done, he wiped his eyes on his tunic and looked up at her.

  In the daylight he could see her clearly. She was the same slight, young girl, long dark hair and wide green eyes. But there was a little more substance to her now. Not just a fleshing-out from better nutrition, but something inside. She seemed to have changed from a defiant, sharp-toothed mouse to something more self-assured, a fox strutting through the city streets, alert for danger but confident in its ability to fight or flee, to survive whatever fate threw. He smiled sadly, reached out and touched her face gently.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sica. I let you down. If it’s any consolation, I let a lot of other people down too. Not least, myself I think.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  He didn’t know if he had been expecting words of comfort, but he was quickly disabused of that idea as Sica continued.

  ‘This isn’t the man that saved me in the mines. That fought those bandits. That man brave. Didn’t give up. This man here is – what is the word? Broken.’

  Carbo couldn’t disagree. That was exactly how he felt.

  Sica took the statuette of Derzelas off the shelf, and after a moment’s hesitation, she handed it to Carbo. He took it carefully, respectfully, looking at her, uncertain what she wanted him to do.

  ‘Look at it,’ she said.

  He turned the figurine over in his hands, and saw now in the better light that it had a crack through its midriff. He rotated it and saw that the crack went right to the other side. At some point the statuette had split in two.

  ‘Broken,’ said Sica. Then firmly, ‘Mended.’

  Carbo stared at the figurine. It was a simple analogy. But this was something that Sica cared deeply about. And she had fixed it. He nodded and handed it back to her. As he did so, he noticed that where it had been damaged there was a small chip in the fault line. A piece missing.

  He didn’t mention it to Sica as she placed the sacred statue back in place.

  * * *

  Sica told him that she had to work, and that she would return in the evening, and then they would talk. She made him promise not to leave, just to eat, drink and rest. He did as he was told, but as soon as she had left, he felt anxiety creeping up on him again, like a demon stalking him, just behind him, always out of sight. He tried to think of pleasant thoughts, but he had so few that were not tied to sadness. He could not think of happy times with Rufa without the fact and manner of her death bursting in. He could not think of good times in the legions without remembering terror and torture and slaughter. He could not even recall his mother, without thinking about coming home and finding her gone.

  He thought about his half-brother. They hadn’t been close, the age gap had been too big. And Carbo had resented the new arrival, offspring of a different father. Most of the time, he had been beneath his notice, a bit of an embarrassment when Carbo was trying to make bonds with the older lads on the streets, or woo the neighbours’ daughters.

  And yet there had been regular family meals. Shared games when Carbo had been bored – ball games, hide and seek, or wrestling which inevitably ended with Carbo holding him down and tickling him until he shrieked so loudly that their mother screamed at them to shut up.

  And he remembered the boy bravely holding back the tears when he had left for the legions, and vowing to follow in his steps when he was old enough. He supposed it had been some twenty-five years since he had seen the kid. He had had occasional updates in letters from his mother over the years; enough to know that he had indeed joined the leg
ions and been killed in action. He had mourned briefly, paid for a mason to carve a funerary stele with a brief epitaph that could be placed in the grounds of the legions headquarters, then returned to his duties. He hadn’t even taken leave in Rome to check on his mother. Just more people in the list of those he had let down.

  So much for happy memories. And he couldn’t bear to contemplate the future. So he sat and stared out of the window, trying to stay distracted by the porters, travellers and tradespeople working at the docks. Watching the constant flow of cargo ships, coming and going in a carefully choregraphed dance was strangely relaxing, and it kept his anxiety at bay until Sica returned.

  She smiled when she saw him, walked straight over to him and hugged him. She smelled of urine.

  ‘Thought you might have run.’

  Carbo shook his head. He wasn’t sure if it was bravery or cowardice that had kept him there all day. It didn’t really matter.

  She had brought some hot food with her, a sausage each and a meat pie to share, and they ate and drank together. When they had finished, Carbo said, ‘So, I’m guessing you’re a fuller.’

  Sica nodded. ‘Bought business with money you gave. When you freed me.’ It explained the smell of urine and the supply of freshly laundered clothes. He wondered how Sica would explain their loss to their owners when they came to collect them.

  He gestured at the apartment. ‘It seems you are making a success of it. It’s impressive. A young woman in a strange city. I would think that men would have tried to muscle in.’

  Sica shrugged. ‘Had some offers. Had some threats. No one threatened twice.’

  Carbo could imagine how she had dealt with an overly persistent suitor, a thug trying to get protection money or a rival trying to put her out of business. A knife in the dark once or twice, and word would quickly get around that she was not to be messed with.

  ‘Sica, you still haven’t explained how you found me. You said you came to visit. Visit where? The tavern?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Sorry you lost it. Marsia told me everything.’

  Carbo felt a pang at the mention of her name. ‘How is she?’

  Sica looked down. ‘Not well.’

  ‘She’s ill?’

  ‘In spirit.’

  Carbo swallowed, said nothing.

  Sica hesitated then continued. ‘He treats her badly. New master.’

  Carbo took a breath, let it out slowly. Anger stirred inside him, mixed with frustration and impotence. A master could do whatever he liked with a slave. Beat her, abuse her, humiliate her. Kill her if it pleased him. He should have freed her long ago, then she at least would have been spared the consequences of his weakness. He hadn’t even checked how she had been since he had lost her. After all Marsia had done for him. Just another to add to the long list of people he had let down.

  ‘She told you where to find me? How did she know?’

  ‘She remembered where Rufa had hidden. Place where people without homes go.’

  ‘It was a lucky guess. The streets of Rome are full of the poor. Under arches, in temples, in the doorways of shops.’

  Sica shrugged. ‘If you not there, would have kept looking.’

  Carbo narrowed his eyes. ‘But why?’

  ‘Oh Carbo.’ She stepped forward and hugged him hard. ‘Sad that you don’t know. You not remember who you are.’

  He accepted the hug, the platonic act of comfort an almost forgotten pleasure. She stroked his hair and he held her close.

  She stepped back, hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘People still love you, Carbo. Me, Marsia, Fabilla, Vespillo.’

  At the mention of Vespillo, Carbo frowned, and the memory of their last meeting passed through his mind.

  ‘Vespillo thinks I’m a murderer.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Carbo’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Carbo. Look me in eyes. Tell me. Are you a murderer?’

  He fixed his gaze hard on her, and said firmly, ‘No!’

  Sica nodded, satisfied. ‘Good.’

  Carbo watched her expression in surprise. ‘You didn’t know what to believe until just now? And yet you did all this for me?’

  ‘You are my friend. Through good and bad.’

  Carbo shook his head. What had he done to deserve someone like her? Nothing he could think of.

  ‘Sica. I don’t know what to do.’

  She gestured at the little idol. ‘We fix you. Then fix everything else.’

  It sounded so simple. But she was right. He needed to get a grip on himself, before he could do anything about the rest of his problems. He gritted his teeth, and made a little promise inside his head to Rufa that he would try harder. He would try to mend, and become whole again.

  He looked at the benign face of Derzelas, gazing down on them. Then his eyes settled on the missing piece.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marsia swept the floor with a birch-handled besom. The dirty straw, mixed with spilled wine and ordure from the city, accumulated in soggy piles before she ushered it out of the door onto the street. When she had finished, she fetched a pile of fresh straw and tossed it out in handfuls, the way a farmer spreads his seed.

  Vatius sat in his usual corner, drinking slowly and reading from an unrolled scroll. He squinted in the dim light of the tavern, running his finger along the tatty papyrus as he deciphered the words. Myia sat curled in his lap, apparently asleep. But every time the door opened, she lifted her head and pricked her ears, only to slump back down with her chin on her paws when she saw that it was not Carbo coming through the door.

  There were few other customers. A couple of regulars. Two legionaries that Marsia hadn’t seen before. Their loud conversation was all about the hardship of army life on the northern frontier, and how fortunate they were to have been part of a vexillation sent to Rome to accompany a provincial official at the end of his tenure.

  Business had not picked up after the moody and unpredictable Carbo had been evicted. In fact, the reverse. Carbo still had some friends who had continued to patronise his establishment from loyalty. With him gone, they had, probably with some relief, moved to other taverns with more welcoming atmospheres and no doubt better wine.

  Everything felt pointless. The world looked grey. Food and drink was as tasteless as ash. She had felt like this before, when she had first been taken into captivity, out of the forests of her beloved Germania and into the smelly and dirty capital of the Empire, her freedom yanked away, servitude her life. But when Carbo became her master, she had started to gain some self-respect. Yes, he had always treated her like a slave, and as she developed her love for him, he had never returned it. But he had always treated her like a human being, not a domesticated beast.

  Olorix was different, she knew it already. He had owned her over a week, and had done nothing overtly abusive, yet. But he had visited the tavern a few times, and his salacious comments, made with knowing winks and sly smiles to his bodyguards filled her with dread. She kept thoughts of him from her mind as best she could, but the anxiety kept creeping in at the edges when she let her mind drift.

  To keep herself occupied, she did a round of the customers, asking if there was anything she could get them. The soldiers ordered another cup of wine each, which they accepted from her without thanks, or indeed pausing their conversations at all.

  Vatius was more politely grateful for his cup of pomegranate juice, nodding to Marsia and smiling sympathetically.

  ‘What are you reading?’ she asked.

  Vatius furrowed his forehead, his thick white eyebrows closing together.

  ‘Oedipus, by Julius Caesar. Have you read it?’

  Marsia shook her head. She had some literacy, her master before Carbo having educated her to help him with his book-keeping, and she had greedily absorbed everything she could find about law, philosophy, history and politics. But she had no interest in fictitious accounts of figures from Roman and Greek mythology. Her people had the
ir own culture and folklore, and the tales of the exploits of Donner and Woden her father had told her around the roundhouse fire had thrilled her as a child. She didn’t know if the Roman deities were as real as her Germanic gods, but she had no desire to learn more about them.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t bother,’ said Vatius. ‘It’s not very good. Caesar had undoubted talents in many fields, and his Of the Gallic Wars is a fascinating, if self-aggrandising account of his campaign. This play though? Hmmm. I somehow doubt it will stand the test of time.’

  Marsia nodded, but could think of nothing to contribute to the conversation. She fussed Myia’s ears, and went back behind the bar to stir the pot of stew which bubbled softly over a low flame.

  The door opened, and cold winter air blew in. She turned to admonish the newcomers about the draught, and then froze.

  ‘Marsia!’ said Olorix. ‘How is my business?’

  Marsia bowed her head. ‘Last night we had eleven customers who spent a total of seventeen denarii and three copper asses. We finished an amphora of lora, and most of the stew which I…’

  ‘Enough!’ said Olorix. ‘I didn’t come here for an audit.’ He went over to an unoccupied chair and sat down heavily. Two bulky bodyguards joined him, one either side. ‘What’s the best wine we have in stock?’

  ‘We have some posca and some mulsum. Not much, our stocks are running low…’

  ‘Fine, posca will do. Three cups.’

  Marsia dispensed three full cups worth of the second-rate wine, far-removed from the strong and expensive Falernian that they had once stocked, but better than lora, which was made from soaking the skins of grapes that had already been twice-pressed in water for a day, and fermenting whatever juice and flavour leeched out. She carried them over on a tray to Olorix and his men. The bodyguards drunk them deep without complaint, but Olorix took one sip and wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Disgusting. Make sure we have some Falernian beneath the counter for next time I come to visit. For my sole use, understand?’

  ‘Yes, master.’