by Alex Gough
Carbo swayed to the side, and as the club passed him, he struck forward, a straight jab to the middle of the Syrian’s face. Cartilage split, and blood spurted from his nose. The bodyguard staggered back. But he was made of sterner stuff than the watchman Carbo had rendered unconscious. He shook his head then swung the club back over his shoulder, ready for another hefty sweep.
Carbo stood up to him, as if he was preparing to accept the blow.
From within the tavern came the sound of axes splintering timber. The door shook and shards of wood sprayed out into the street.
The club came round.
Carbo stepped forward, inside the arc of the blow. He gripped the Syrian’s wrist, twisted his body, and with one leg extended, threw the bulky man over his shoulder. It was a trick a legionary who was something of an expert wrestler had taught Carbo years ago and it had saved his skin in many brawls.
The Syrian landed heavily, still clutching the club. He put a hand beneath him, ready to get up again.
But Carbo would not give him that chance. He kicked the Syrian hard in the side of the head with his booted foot. The Syrian fell back, and this time didn’t move.
An axe-head crashed through the tavern door. Carbo looked up and down the street, then ran. Behind him the door flew off its hinges, and he heard shouts.
‘There he is! This way!’
Carbo risked a glance behind him. The three vigiles who remained conscious had emerged from the tavern, and Pinarius was pointing in his direction. Carbo put his head down and sprinted down the street. His war-wounded leg screamed in complaint at the abuse each time it impacted the hard cobbles, but he gritted his teeth and ran on.
The Subura was a maze of narrow streets and alleys. Carbo’s knowledge of the local geography was passable. He had explored the area exhaustively as a child in search of entertainment and adventure. But Rome was a vibrant, living city, and its houses, especially in the poorer areas, were shoddily built. Regular fires and collapses, together with ambitious building projects aimed at packing ever more people into tighter spaces meant that the topography of the Subura was in constant flux. And since his return from the legions, Carbo had done little exploring for its own sake. He knew where the best taverns and gambling dens were, but would struggle to locate a single shop selling kitchenware or furniture.
So after turning two corners, Carbo was already in unfamiliar territory, and dodging down two more side streets got him thoroughly lost. The vigiles pursuing him spent every night pounding these streets and knew them as well as the lines on the palms of their hands. Coupled with Carbo’s lack of fitness and his war wound, they were soon gaining on him.
He risked another look back at the corner of a dangerously leaning insula and saw that only two vigiles were still giving chase, a bare score of yards back. For the barest of moments he believed he had shaken one off, until he turned the corner and saw Pinarius charging towards him from the other end of the narrow street. He had obviously cut down a side street to head Carbo off, and now Carbo was trapped.
He slowed down, looking for a way out, an alleyway or cut through between the houses, as the vigiles closed in on him from front and back. But he was confronted on either side of the street by shop after shop, cheek by jowl with no gaps between. All manner of merchants and tradesmen sold their wares and plied their trade, cheesemongers beside cobblers, potters next to butchers, perfumiers nestled up against barbers. The men, it was mainly men, working behind the counters or sitting on stools waiting for customers watched Carbo with dispassionate curiosity, waiting for the unfolding of the drama that was building to a climax before them.
‘Carbo, in here.’
The voice was a loud hiss, and he turned to see a white-haired, crinkle-faced old lady beckoning him into her fruit shop. He hesitated, but without any other options he ducked inside, past the displays of apples, pears, plums and pomegranates and into the interior of the shop, where crates of produce were stored. The air in the room smelled fresh and sweet, in contrast to the usual odours and stenches of the Subura streets.
He peered at the lady who was still beckoning him, ushering him out of the back. He didn’t recognise her.
‘Who are you? How do you know me?’
‘There is no time,’ she said. ‘I saw you were being chased. I don’t know why and I don’t care. Just follow me.’
She hurried into a small backroom, and pointed to a backdoor.
‘There are stairs outside that lead to the roof. You can get away that way.’
His leg gave a spasm as he thought of climbing the steps, but he heard shouts from outside. He pulled the door open, grabbed hold of the stair rail and hauled himself onto the first step. The old lady shuffled back inside, holding the door handle, about to pull it shut.
‘Why are you helping me?’
She pursed her lips in exasperation at his questioning. ‘I used to have to pay Manius more than I could afford. You stopped that. Thank you. Now go!’
She slammed the door shut. He heard raised voices inside the shop, demands from the vigiles, protests from the old lady. She wouldn’t hold them up for long, but he thought Pinarius to be a basically decent person, and he would try to persuade her to let him pass without hurting her.
He climbed, left leg up two steps, right leg pulled up level, left leg up another two steps. He was soon even more out of breath than from the running, and he cursed his fitness levels. If he got away, if he cleared his name, if everything went back to normal, he swore to all the gods that he was going to go to the baths every day and exercise in the gymnasium until he was back in shape.
He reached the top of the stairs and found himself at the door of the top floor apartment. The roof was not high, and there was a protruding beam which he used to drag himself up. The tiling was patchy, but that was an advantage since he could see where the underlying rafters ran. He stepped out, feeling tiles crack beneath his feet. But the rafters took his weight. Tentatively, he made his way across the rooftop, balancing only on the beams, where he could see them or predict their path, until he reached the edge.
The insula walls leant out at an alarming angle, and it likely wouldn’t be long before this building, like so many others, collapsed from its poor construction and substandard materials. But for Carbo now, it was a boon, since the roof leant across the street, near to the insula on the other side. The opposing building was also a little lower. So Carbo, despite his lack of fitness and injury, should be able to leap across.
He hoped.
He took a deep breath, stepped back from the edge to take a short run-up. He hesitated. But the sound of the vigiles stomping up the staircase and yelling his name forced him into action. He took two strides forward and leapt.
There was no way the roof of the building across the street was going to take the weight of a big, hurtling body. He crashed straight through the tiles, bouncing sideways off an unyielding rafter, and thumped to the floor of the top storey apartment. For a moment he couldn’t suck air into his chest, his muscles locked in defence against the damage from the impact, and it felt like he was suffocating.
As the spasm eased, he gasped sweet lungfuls of air, and then slowly sat up. The room had two occupants, a man and woman, frozen in shock. The woman, short, wide, held the handle of a saucepan with both hands, the pan over her shoulder ready to swing it at the man’s head. The man, skinny and balding, was backed against the wall, one arm held defensively before his face.
Carbo got painfully to his feet.
‘Sorry to intrude,’ he said, voice tight but apologetic. He went to the small window overlooking the street and looked up. Pinarius was standing with the other two vigiles on the edge of the roof opposite, silhouetted against the fading light of the early evening sky. Pinarius was pointing at the hole in the roof, and the others were shaking their heads emphatically. In their fire-fighting capacity, they would be familiar with heights and shoddy constructions. Clearly they felt the risk of the leap across the street, with an unfirm fo
oting at the leaping-off point and an uncertain landing, was too great for the reward of apprehending one fugitive.
Pinarius noticed Carbo at the window and put his hands on his hips, a dark look on his face. Carbo gave him an exaggerated shoulder shrug.
‘We’ll find you, Carbo,’ he yelled.
‘I’m glad we didn’t have to fight,’ Carbo called back. ‘I didn’t murder anyone. Please believe me.’
Pinarius returned Carbo a mirror image of his shrug. Carbo sighed and ducked back inside the room. The woman had dropped the pan and was now cowering behind the man Carbo presumed was her husband. The husband had his arms spread protectively, to keep Carbo from molesting his wife. Carbo smiled inwardly at the thought of this slight man being any impediment to him, or at the thought of having the slightest design on his wife. But he didn’t mock them.
‘I am very sorry. When it is within my means I will pay for the damage. If I haven’t been thrown to the beasts first.’
He went to the front door of the small apartment, drew back the bolt, and went out onto the staircase. He hurried down, conscious that the vigiles might try to continue the chase. But when he reached ground level, he stopped and listened. There was no sign of pursuit. He wended his way through the alleys and narrow, grimy streets, until he found somewhere that looked familiar. Then he squared his shoulders, dipped his head to hide his face as best he could, and headed back towards the docks.
Chapter Thirteen
Olorix stared at the demolished door, his cheeks white with fury, comically accentuating his big red nose. Marsia stood with folded arms, a smug grin fixed on her face, a feral joy inside her chest. After a few moments, his two bodyguards limped back into the tavern. The Syrian had a duck-egg sized bruise on the side of his temple, and the German was breathing heavily, holding his ribs. Olorix gaped.
‘You let him get away?’ His voice was high, squeaky, like an alarmed girl.
The bodyguards hung their heads, not answering the obvious question. Olorix swung round to Marsia, then advanced slowly on her. She stopped smiling and backed off, the triumph quickly evaporating to be replaced by an acute sense of danger.
Olorix jabbed a finger in her face. ‘This is your fault. You helped him.’
‘He didn’t deserve…’
‘Silence slave! Have you forgotten who your Master is? It is I, Olorix. Not Carbo, that pathetic criminal.’
‘Master, I…’
‘I said silence! It sounds like you need reminding who holds your leash. Boys, hold her down.’
She made a rush for the door, knowing it was pointless, but the instinct to flee too great to meekly submit. The two big bodyguards grabbed her arms, and dragged her to the bar, bent her forwards. Just like the last time. Her buttocks still ached, and she clenched her teeth at the thought of them taking more of a beating.
But Olorix had other plans. He grabbed the back of the collar of her tunic and yanked downwards. The woollen material bit painfully into her neck before it gave way, and the tunic ripped all the way down. He threw it open, so she was fully exposed from behind. She squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her legs together. Was this the time when he would force himself upon her?
The sting of the lash was so excruciating, so unexpected, she didn’t even scream. Not the first time. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. And it was only the first stroke.
By the time Olorix had finished, and the bodyguards released her arms, she was barely conscious. The torment had seemed to transport her to another place, a world filled solely with a rhythmic crack, and accompanying agony. She slumped to the floor, curled up, knees drawn up to her chest, her face a mess of snot and spit and tears. Twelve lashes had ruined her back, long bloody lines intersecting like a macabre map of the Subura.
‘Next time you defy me,’ said Olorix, breathing heavily from his exertion, ‘I will have you crucified.’
He left her lying on the tavern floor, in no doubt that he meant what he said.
* * *
Carbo hoped Marsia would not suffer for aiding him. Though it seemed likely she would. He clenched his fists in impotent rage. How could he have put her in this situation? How could he have let her down so badly?
He couldn’t let things stand the way they were. Not for Marsia. Not for himself. He didn’t yet know what he would do, what he could do, but there would be a reckoning. First though, he had to do something about the threat of arrest hanging over him. How could he clear his name? Finding the real killer would be the obvious answer, but if the vigiles had tried and failed, what more could he do? That said, the vigiles had stopped searching. They thought they had their man.
He was so lost in thought, he almost bumped into the scruffy, snot-nosed urchin who blocked his way.
‘Are you Carbo?’
Carbo looked down at the small boy.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Are you Carbo?’ said the boy again.
Carbo looked around, checking for a trap, an ambush. Something the vigiles had set up? Olorix? But if there were others lying in wait, they were too well-hidden for him.
‘Maybe,’ he said, suspiciously.
‘If you’re Carbo,’ said the boy, ‘I’ve got a message for you. From a woman with a funny accent. Name was Sica.’
‘Sica!’
‘She gave me a coin and said to wait here for a big man with dark hair and a limp, called Carbo. I reckon that’s you.’
‘It’s me,’ conceded Carbo. ‘What’s the message?’
‘She says the vigiles are watching the front of her insula. Go to the chandler in the insula next door. Say Sica sent you.’
‘That’s it?’
The urchin held out his hand.
‘I thought you said Sica paid you?’
‘Yes but…’
Carbo smiled despite himself and tousled the boy’s head. ‘Come and find me in better times and I’ll see what I can do. For now I can only give you my thanks.’
The boy sniffed, wiped his nose on the back of his tunic sleeve, and disappeared off down the street. Carbo reflected that he was starting to build up debts again. But none so big as those he owed Marsia and Sica.
He skirted the insula, avoiding the surveilled front door, and approached the chandler’s shop just as he was pulling down the shutter.
‘I’m closed,’ said the chandler, and let out a wheezy cough.
‘Sica told me to come here.’
The chandler looked him up and down. He would have been equal to Carbo’s height – though not build – if he hadn’t been so stooped.
‘Carbo is it?’
Carbo nodded.
‘Very well, follow me.’
The chandler pulled the shutters down behind them, shutting out the external light. The shop was illuminated by half a dozen candles rather than the ubiquitous oil lamps, not surprising given the nature of the business. Each was held upright by a rolled lead sheet, and Carbo could make out reliefs of warriors and mythic beasts in the flickering flame. The walls of the shop were coated in soot, and there was an overpowering odour of animal fat and smoke which made Carbo want to gag and cough simultaneously. The pollution from burning the tallow made it obvious why people generally preferred olive oil lamps to candles, though there was still a demand for the chandler’s wares from priests and those who had an aesthetic preference for the light of the candle.
The chandler picked up a candle stick and beckoned Carbo onwards. He led him into a back room and down some stairs into the cellar. The thin light from the candle showed Carbo huge vats of tallow, and though the atmosphere was less smoky, the sickly smell from the rancid lard almost overwhelmed him.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to stay there for long. The chandler located a door in the furthest wall, and lifted off a bar.
‘Years ago, the same person owned the chandler and the fuller and he knocked the cellars through to make it easier for him and his slaves to move between the two shops. Now
they are separate businesses, this door is usually barred from both sides. But Sica said she has unbarred it her side.’
He gave the iron ring door handle a gentle tug.
Nothing happened.
He pulled harder. The door remained firmly closed.
The chandler looked at Carbo. ‘Maybe she forgot.’
Carbo frowned.
‘I don’t think she would. Let me try.’
The chandler stepped aside, and Carbo grasped the door handle and gave it a huge jerk. Years of moisture had swollen the timbers of the door and its frame, wedging it shut. But Carbo’s strength shifted something, and the door moved inwards an inch. He braced his foot against the door and pulled with all his strength. The wood groaned and squeaked, the handle protested, then the iron ring came off in his hands with the sound of damp, rotted wood giving way.
Carbo flew backwards, the handle still in his hands, knocking into the chandler behind him. Both fell onto their backsides, Carbo sitting between the surprised chandler’s legs as if they were rowers on a galley. The candle fell to the floor and the flame sputtered. Almost complete darkness fell.
The chandler snatched up the candle and breathed wheezily on the dying spark. It glowed brighter orange, faded as he ran out of breath, then glowed brighter again as he huffed on it once more. The flame caught, and Carbo looked up to see the door was standing half an inch open.
He could just fit his thick fingers into the crack, and he pulled, opening the old door with the creak of unoiled hinges and the scrape of warped wood against stone flooring.
A new scent filled his nostrils to replace the sickly-sweet tallow smell.
Urine.
Not exactly an improvement, but he knew he was in the fuller’s now. He could make his way up to Sica’s apartment unseen.
He turned to the chandler.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
The chandler looked down at the iron ring still clutched in his hands. Carbo handed it to him sheepishly.
