by Alex Gough
Camilla swallowed. He could see the calculation behind her eyes. Risks and rewards.
‘What would I have to do?’ she asked.
Chapter Fourteen
Cicurinus stomped through the streets of the Subura, irritable and frustrated. Ever since Carbo had disappeared, and that fat bookmaker had taken over the tavern, the mood to kill had not been upon him. Actually, he wouldn’t have minded putting a knife in, what was his name, Olorix. Carbo was his prey. But Olorix had come along and taken Carbo’s business and his slave, and Carbo had fled, the Allfather Woden alone knew where.
So now, his mission seemed less clear, less purposeful. Yes, Rome still needed to be purified, but he wanted Carbo to be able to appreciate his achievements, as well as take the blame for them. If Carbo had left the city, if he was staying with someone who could vouch for his whereabouts, and Cicurinus committed another murder, it would be obvious even to the dumb vigiles that Carbo was not the killer after all. And that would not do.
He wished Veleda would advise him. But she had disappeared too. Maybe she had gone to find Carbo for him. Maybe she had other plans. She confided little in him.
He felt crushingly alone. Carbo, who he had thought could have been the fraternal companion he craved, had first rejected him, then vanished. Veleda, who guided him, was gone too. And he could not bring himself to seek social comfort with the lowlifes of the Subura.
So he stomped up and down the busy streets all day, ate when he was hungry, slept when he was tired. And he waited. For Veleda. For Carbo. For something.
And then, it happened. He saw him.
The big man with the dark hair was limping down the road arm in arm with that prostitute who had been by his side, that first time he had encountered him on his return to Rome. Quite blatant, for all the world to see. As if he cared nothing for propriety.
It was bad enough when a man skulked around brothels or took advantage of whores in back alleys. To be so unmindful of what it meant to be a Roman… it was upsetting. He knew Carbo had fallen far from the hero he had once been, but this was too much.
And yet still he would not kill Carbo. That would bring him no satisfaction.
The prostitute though…
He followed them, and after a short distance, the girl pulled Carbo up against a wall, and encircled her arms and one leg around him, kissing him deeply on the lips. Carbo clearly wasn’t mindful of picking up the cold sores that were so commonplace in Rome this winter.
That brought back the memory of his own lapse, the prostitute that he had been careful not to kiss. But even that was Carbo’s fault. That evening – when they had drunk and gambled together – was a seduction where a need for companionship, strong wine and the city’s open arms had dragged him down. He knew now that he needed none of that. He needed only his purpose, and Veleda. Where was that priestess?
‘Kill the girl.’
The sweet, soft whisper contrasted with the harsh words. He turned quickly, shocked. Veleda was standing under the awning of a spice seller’s stall, deep in the shadows. Despite her unusual appearance, her white robe, her barbarian hairstyle, she was concealed enough in the shadows that no one paid her attention.
‘Veleda. Where have you been?’
‘No concern of yours. Go quickly. Don’t lose them. And make sure the whore dies.’
With that, she was gone, slipping into the crowd and immediately disappearing from his sight. He turned back to Carbo, and found they too had vanished. He searched for them among the packed masses in the street, heart thumping and guts clenching at the thought of finding him and losing him so quickly. But both Carbo and Cicurinus were above average height, and after a few moments he spotted the top of Carbo’s head, fifty yards away.
Cicurinus elbowed and shoved his way forwards, ignoring the curses, gestures and filthy looks he received as smaller people, both in stature and importance, stumbled out of his path. Soon he was at a range where he could hang back, confident of keeping them in view, not wanting to get too close, not yet. Murder in the broad daylight of this late afternoon, in full view of the populace of Rome, was not his style, nor his plan. The whore would die somewhere quiet, and Carbo, who was clearly attached to her, would watch. They wouldn’t be walking the streets forever. Soon they would find somewhere to be alone together, to indulge Carbo’s disgusting needs. A tavern room, an apartment, a brothel room, a back alley even.
That was when Cicurinus would strike.
* * *
The young watchman breathed hard and his words came out in a jumble.
‘Taura sent… Carbo… hurry…’
‘Take a breath, Musca’ said Vespillo, forcing a calmness into his voice that he didn’t feel. The lad had obviously run to the station as fast as he could, but was now unable to talk. ‘That’s it. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. One more. Good. Now try again. What is it?’
‘Taura sent me, sir. He’s found Carbo.’
‘By the docks?’
‘No, sir. The Subura.’
Vespillo frowned. ‘Taura is supposed to be staking out Sica’s place in the Trans Tiberim region.’
‘Yes, I know, sir, but he had his contacts looking for Carbo across the city. Informers and beggars and street children.’
‘And?’
‘He was told he was at the baths of Agrippa. With a woman. Taura has gone there, but he sent me to get you.’
‘Not keen to deal with Carbo on his own?’
‘Who would be, sir?’
‘Fair point. Fetch half a dozen of the boys, just the ones who are ready to leave this instant. Go!’
Vespillo grabbed his belt and fastened it around his waist, then took his axe from the corner of his office and thrust the handle through his belt. In a gratifyingly short space of time, Musca returned with a motley selection of vigiles.
‘Boys,’ said Vespillo. ‘We’ve found Carbo. We’re going to go get him and bring him back. You all know how dangerous he is. We are going to attempt to capture him, alive and unharmed. We all have great respect for his actions in the past, and he is a personal friend to many of us, not least myself. But understand this. He is a killer. He has killed barbarians in the legions, he has killed criminals in Rome. And now he has started killing innocents.
‘We will not take any chances with him. If he doesn’t give himself up, or we can’t subdue him safely, then we put him down. Permanently.’
Vespillo looked into the vigiles’ eyes one by one, and they nodded grim agreement.
‘Let’s go, before we lose him again.’
* * *
Carbo felt distinctly uncomfortable, and not just because of the heat in the laconicum. He had never before been self-conscious of his scarred body, but the fresh, self-inflicted wounds felt shameful. Worse, Camilla sat beside him, the clouds of steam emanating from the brazier whenever someone splashed water over the hot coals doing precious little to hide her attractive nakedness. Despite his reduced circumstances, despite his general uninterest in women since the death of Rufa, despite the danger they were risking, he felt an unbidden stirring of desire. He had a sudden fear of an unwanted tumescence, and the humiliation that would bring, both from Camilla and the other bathers. Fortunately, anxiety about the possibility quickly dampened the possibility of the occurrence.
‘Are you sure this is the best place to try to lure him to?’ asked Camilla.
‘I have no weapon,’ said Carbo. Camilla glanced down at his lap with a smile, and Carbo covered himself with his hands, blushing like a little girl. He coughed and tried again. ‘I have no blade, nothing to defend us with apart from what you see before you now.’
Camilla giggled but Carbo ignored her and pressed on.
‘Maybe he won’t come for us here. But we will give him every chance, because if he does, he will be as unarmed as myself.’
He looked around the steamy room, assessing where the hard edges and solid surfaces were, where anything that could be used offensively might be. He assessed the
other bathers for threats, but was reassured. These baths were free, and tended not to be frequented by the rich with their bodyguards, who were more likely to bathe in more expensive or private facilities. There were a couple of old ladies, seated by the door to the tepidarium, wrinkled and droopy, gossiping in loud voices that the rest of the room couldn’t help overhear. Near the entrance was a pot-bellied man with a grizzled beard and a receding hairline. He had his eyes closed, as if he was trying to tune out the noise from the rest of the baths; the screams from the customers of the armpit hair pluckers, the grunts from the gymnasium, the splashes and shouts from the pools, the shouts and cries advertising the services of the masseurs and physicians.
It was early evening, and soon the bath attendants would be coming round to shoo the customers out, so they could close for the night. But not quite yet. There was time.
There was no mistaking the man when he entered, even through the misty atmosphere. Black haired, tall, broad-shouldered. More wiry and less muscular than Carbo, though his frame could have borne more brawn. Terribly scarred, from head to feet. Totally naked.
Carbo stood slowly. They looked at each other, eye to eye. Now he was seeing him, really seeing him, rather than just being aware of the presence of a drinking companion, as was the case previously, there was something familiar about him. He narrowed his eyes.
‘What’s your name?’
Cicurinus let out a single bark of a laugh. ‘You seem to have trouble keeping that in your head. My name is Cicurinus.’
Carbo frowned. He had a vague recollection that was the name this man had given when they met, but he had not known anyone by that name in the past. Maybe his sense of past familiarity was a mistake.
‘Just tell me why?’
Cicurinus looked around the room, at the old ladies and the middle-aged man, who were watching the exchange with curiosity and some nervousness.
‘Get out,’ he said to them, his voice brooking no argument. All three hurried out rapidly. Camilla stood to leave as well, but Cicurinus pointed at her. ‘Not you. Sit.’ Camilla looked to Carbo, who nodded, and she reluctantly sat back down on the warm stone seat.
‘Why what?’ asked Cicurinus. ‘Why the killing? Or why pretend to be you?’
‘You can tell me both. In whatever order you like.’
Cicurinus seemed to consider for a moment. Then he spoke, and his voice was strangely flat.
‘I fought in Germania, like you. I killed the so-called barbarians, hated them even while I admired their courage and nobility. But I was just a young soldier, doing what soldiers did. Whoring, drinking, gambling. I don’t need to tell you about that, do I?’
Carbo said nothing and Cicurinus continued.
‘And then I was captured. Just a routine patrol, ambushed. I hadn’t even been a legionary for that long. A year or so. Enough to think I knew it all, not long enough to realise I knew nothing.
‘They took all of us who survived the ambush prisoner, and intended to sacrifice us all in honour of Tywaz, their god of war. They did in fact, nail the rest of my comrades to trees and then slice open their bellies. They made me watch.’
Still his voice held no emotion.
‘But their priestess, a young woman called Veleda, saw something in me. She told me that Frigg, wife of Woden, had spoken to her. Told her that one day I would make a difference. Be someone.’
‘I guess you are still waiting for that day?’ interjected Carbo, but Cicurinus carried on as if he hadn’t spoken.
‘It was a long time coming. Veleda put me through many trials. To prepare me. Sometimes she treated me with kindness. Often it was pain. You might even call it torture. For years.’
Carbo had no comeback to that, but his eyes roamed over Cicurinus’ naked body, which told its own story in the scars of burns and cuts and healed fractures.
‘And then the Romans came again. A raiding party led by a Centurion of the XXIst Rapax, curse him. He destroyed the German village where I was held. Killed them all, women and children. He rescued me, or so he thought. But no legionary ever welcomed me back. They stared when they thought I wasn’t looking, looked away when they thought I might catch their eye. I didn’t care. Veleda taught me what mattered.’
‘And what is that?’ Carbo couldn’t help wanting to hear the story, even as he itched for the fight to begin.
‘The pure life of the savage. The Germans are at peace with the world, the forests and the hills and the rivers, the birds and animals and fish. Their warfare is noble and honest. They are true warriors.’
Carbo thought of the treachery of Arminius in the Teutoberg forest, that had led to his own brief capture. He shuddered at the thought of what he might have become if, like Cicurinus, he had been unable to escape.
‘And look at Rome. Beggars. Drunkards. Whores. The empire is in decline, and soon will fall to the warriors at its gates.’ Cicurinus was becoming more animated now, accentuating his words with conviction and righteous anger.
‘You don’t think that’s a good thing?’
‘Germans and Romans both need strong enemies. Corculum knew it, back when Cato was arguing for Carthage to be destroyed, and Corculum said it must be saved. A strong Carthage would have meant a strong Rome. But that ship has sailed. Now it’s the turn of Germania to be Rome’s foil. They keep each other powerful. But if Rome continues its decline, then the German tribes will soon follow, just as the Romans did after the destruction of Carthage.’
‘So this is your purpose? Your mission? This is why you write “Rome must be purified” at the scenes of your crimes.’
‘I can’t rid Rome of all the degenerates, there are far too many. But Veleda tells me, if they see the consequences of their ways, then fear may complete my work for me.’
Carbo cocked his head on one side. ‘The German priestess is here in Rome?’
‘Of course. She is my guide. She tells me what is right and wrong.’
‘And me? Why try to make it look like I committed these crimes? Because I am one of the degenerates your Veleda despises?’
Cicurinus shook his head, and his pitying smile revealed his new wooden dentures. ‘You really don’t know do you?’
‘Then tell me.’
‘Enough. You have had the benefit of Veleda’s wisdom now. Maybe you will come to understand, as I do. Before the end. But I didn’t come here to talk.’
‘You’re here to kill me then,’ said Carbo, his voice matter of fact.
‘Actually, no,’ said Cicurinus. ‘Not you.’ His gaze drifted sideways and down to where Camilla sat. She shrank back from him.
‘Carbo,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Don’t worry, Camilla. I won’t let him hurt you.’
‘So Carbo the hero is still in there somewhere?’ Cicurinus’ tone was mocking. ‘I thought he had vacated your body in favour of Carbo the drunk, Carbo the gambler, Carbo the beggar.’
‘What makes you think you know anything about me?’
Now Cicurinus laughed with genuine amusement. Then he lunged forward.
He was quick. He was a little smaller and a lot younger than Carbo which allowed him to put his mass into motion more quickly than Carbo could.
But Carbo was no slouch. He had always had quick reactions, and with no wine in his belly, they were not dulled. Cicurinus reached out for him with both arms spread, but Carbo ducked under the embrace, pivoted to one side, and punched Cicurinus in the side of the head.
Cicurinus rocked with the punch, and the impact was slight. He followed up with a blow of his own, spinning sideways with elbow out, so the pointy bone jabbed into Carbo’s ribs. It stung but did little more.
But now they were close, too close for sparring and feinting. Cicurinus moved again to grapple with Carbo, but Carbo’s body was slick with sweat, and he couldn’t get a purchase. Carbo brought his knee up, aiming for between Cicurinus’ legs, but the other man twisted so the blow caught his outer thigh. It was clearly painful, maybe enough to deaden the leg, but that
only put Cicurinus on equal terms with Carbo given the battle injury that stiffened his own leg.
They wrestled, attempting head-butts, kicks, trips. Carbo tried every trick he knew from his brawling days in the legions, and on this account he had the upper hand. But Cicurinus was younger, had not been abusing his body with wine and poor diet like Carbo, and further, Carbo had spent more time in the hot room than him. Quickly, Carbo found himself gasping for breath, heart racing, and knew that he would not be able to fight on for long.
He grasped Cicurinus’ wrist, turned his body swiftly, and attempted to throw him over his shoulder in the classic wrestler’s move.
A combination of his old injury and the slick concrete floor let him down. His leg buckled, then slid from under him. He crashed heavily onto the flagstones, turning his head to one side at the last moment to avoid smashing his face in. But he landed prone, with Cicurinus’ weight on his back.
The air rushed out of him, and for a moment he couldn’t draw breath. The impact and the pressure from Cicurinus compressed his chest, and panic hit him as he tried to gasp in air.
Cicurinus took immediate advantage of the situation. Unharmed by the fall, cushioned as he was by Carbo, he was able to grab Carbo’s wrist, and before there was any chance to resist, twist his arm behind his back. A wrestling trick from Cicurinus, this time.
Carbo struggled as he gasped, but it was impossible. Exhausted, winded, armlocked and unable to suck in air, he was helpless.
Cicurinus leaned close to Carbo’s ear, and the smell of rotten gums washed over him.
‘I’m not here to kill you,’ he hissed. ‘I’m here to kill your whore friend. While you watch.’ He grabbed the hair on the back of Carbo’s head, pulled it back, then smashed it forward into the ground. His forehead hit the stone, and his vision filled with sparks, while the room blurred and darkened.
The weight abruptly lifted from his back, but he was too dazed to move. He could hear screaming. He panted hard and got to his hands and knees. The room spun around him dangerously. Then he heard shouts, yells, from far off, getting nearer.
