by Alex Gough
The screaming stopped. Carbo slumped back to the floor, rolled onto his back. A face appeared above his, out of focus. Bearded. Craggy. Kind-eyed.
‘Good evening, Carbo,’ said Vespillo. ‘What are you doing down there?’
Chapter Fifteen
Carbo held onto the bars of his cell, and shook them again in frustration. They were solid, well-made, not a speck of rust. He should have expected nothing less from anything in the headquarters of the second cohort of the vigiles, run as it was by the ever-thorough Vespillo. Taura and Pinarius stood guard outside the locked door, but their presence was superfluous. There was no way Carbo could escape, and he had no friends in the city who were capable of attemping a rescue.
‘Please,’ he begged them again. ‘You have to let me go. You don’t understand.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Pinarius. ‘You’re going to get what’s coming to you. You know, one of those girls you killed had a baby boy. Who will care for him now? He’ll probably just be exposed on the dung heap.’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Stop talking to him,’ said Taura. ‘He isn’t even man enough to admit to what he’s done.’
‘Where’s Vespillo? I must speak with him.’
The vigiles studiously ignored him.
Carbo turned away in exasperation, and thumped the wall of the cell. He dislodged a small puff of dust, but the only significant damage was a graze to his knuckles. He leant forward and pressed his forehead against the brickwork and tried to control his breathing. When he had regained some measure of composure, he took to pacing the cell, like a tiger in the holding cages behind the arena, all pent-up energy, waiting for release.
Eventually, with no outlet for his frustration, he sat on the floor and closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists and his jaw rhythmically.
‘Wake up,’ came Taura’s voice. ‘Visitors.’
Carbo was on his feet in an instant. ‘Vespillo?’
‘No, Carbo. It’s Tribune Pavo.’ Taura stepped aside, and two men stood before the cell, peering in at Carbo. One, Carbo recognised as Pavo, the Urban Cohort tribune who had been so incompetent and obstructive in the lead-up to the great fire on the Caelian hill. The other, older, floppy-haired, looking down his aquiline nose, was unfamiliar.
‘Is that him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Pavo. ‘This is Carbo.’
The man’s expression held fury and contempt, but his voice was tight and controlled.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
Carbo looked to Pavo uncertainly, then shrugged. The man now looked affronted as well as angry.
‘I,’ he said haughtily, ‘am Titus Servilius Ahala.’
Carbo looked at Pavo, wondering if the name should mean something to him.
‘I am a very rich and powerful man!’
‘I’m pleased for you,’ said Carbo. ‘You came here to tell me that?’
Ahala’s composure disappeared now. ‘You murdered my son!’
Carbo looked down.
‘I’m sorry for your loss. But I had nothing to do with it.’
‘You’re a liar as well as a murderer? Do you have no shame?’
‘I’ve never even met your son.’
‘His name was Quintus. And he was a good boy. He had his… idiosyncrasies, but who doesn’t fool around in their youth? He didn’t deserve to die. And in such a way, so violent, so humiliating…’ Ahala broke off and swallowed hard. Pavo put a supportive hand on his shoulder.
‘What will happen to him?’ asked Ahala.
‘He will be tried and quickly found guilty.’
‘You’ll give me the names of the jurors so I can make sure they are properly rewarded for their work?’
‘Of course,’ said Pavo. ‘Although it is hardly necessary. The evidence against him is overwhelming. And he has no resources to… incentivise the jury himself.’
‘Nevertheless, I want to be sure.’
‘I’ll make sure you have the information.’
Carbo stared in disbelief. He knew that bribery was commonplace in the Roman judicial system, but to discuss it so openly, in front of not only the defendant, but his gaolers, showed a level of arrogance and entitlement that was way beyond what the vast majority of Romans would ever know.
‘And when he is found guilty?’
When, not if, Carbo noted.
‘There are options,’ said Pavo, as if he was discussing the menu for a banquet. ‘Thrown to the beasts is one. They may put him up against a Thracian or a retiarius in the arena armed only with a wooden sword. Something to entertain the masses.’
‘It needs to be painful,’ said Ahala. His voice had turned icy now.
‘Well, there will be plenty of time to dream up something imaginative. I’m sure if you talk to the Urban Praetor, he would be happy to take your suggestions on board.’
Carbo shivered, from the coldness of the cell, and fear of the punishment. Not for the likes of him the quick and merciful death of a beheading or garrotting. If he was to die horribly in the arena, he hoped he would go with honour and dignity. But he doubted it. He had seen enough death to know how few faced it in the manner they would wish.
He tried one more time. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I didn’t kill your son. You must believe me.’
‘You disgust me,’ said Ahala. ‘You go on this killing rampage, and my son gets caught up in your madness, and you don’t even have the decency to admit what you did. I will take great pleasure watching you die.’
He strode off, footsteps echoing on the flagstones. Pavo looked Carbo up and down one last time, then followed.
Taura and Pinarius took up their places on guard once more. They kept their backs to Carbo, carefully avoiding eye contact with him, or with each other.
* * *
Carbo sat on the floor of the cell, staring at the wall, contemplating the punishment awaiting him. He could see no way out, whichever angle he looked at the problem. The evidence, Vespillo’s probity and the enmity of the powerful Ahala combined to make a cage as escape-proof as the brick and iron one in which he was currently incarcerated. On top of that, he worried for Camilla. Cicurinus had been intending to kill her. Had she escaped? Was she safe now?
‘Carbo.’ Vespillo’s voice was full of sadness. Carbo turned to see his friend’s mournful face at the cell door. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. There was a big fire on the Viminal and they pulled crews in from all the stations. It’s under control now, but I think this one will burn for a day or two.’
‘Vespillo, listen to me. You have to let me go.’
‘You know I can’t do that, old friend. You can’t know how sorry I am that it has come to this.’
‘Camilla is in danger.’
‘Who?’
‘The girl I was with.’
‘Carbo, there was no one in that room apart from yourself.’
‘Vespillo. I found the killer. He came for me. And for the girl. He wants to kill her, to punish me.’
‘Why would he want to punish you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Carbo said helplessly.
‘Carbo, we found you on your own. You had slipped and hit your head. I think you had been in there too long, got a bit too much heat.’
‘No. The killer was there. His name is Cicurinus. Camilla witnessed it. There were others too who saw him, a couple of old ladies and a middle-aged man.’
‘When we got there, the baths were closing. There was no one there who had seen anything untoward, though one or two heard the sound of your voice and the impact when you fell. You were seen going in with a girl, this Camilla I guess, but she must have pushed off when you injured yourself. I guess she realised she wasn’t going to make any money off you last night.’
Carbo gripped the bars of the cell in frustration.
‘Please. If our friendship meant anything. This isn’t just about me. Marsia is in trouble; she is being used badly by Olorix. Camilla is in danger. I can’t do anything for either o
f them while I’m stuck in here.’ Or if I’m dead, he thought. The idea chilled him further.
‘I’ll look in on Marsia,’ said Vespillo. ‘Make sure she is all right. Put a bit of pressure on Olorix if necessary. He won’t want me paying too much attention to his business.’
‘He’ll do what he wants to her when you aren’t looking. And what about Camilla?’
‘I’m sure a girl of her… status… can look after herself.’
‘Vespillo, this man is crazy. Who knows what he is capable of?’
‘Is there anything you need, Carbo? Anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Food, blankets?’
‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘I am listening, Carbo, but it changes nothing. But I will do everything I can to make everything as… easy as possible.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘What happened to you, old friend?’
‘I’m aware I have been behaving badly, but you know me. You know I couldn’t do those things.’
‘I know what the witnesses told me. I know there was blood on your sword.’
‘I can explain that…’
‘Save it for the trial. I haven’t slept and I’m exhausted from the fire-fighting, and dealing with the mess you have made. I’m going home to my wife, and to Fabilla, who I hope will forget you very soon.’
‘Vespillo…’ The words and the lack of faith from his friend were as devastating as any punishment he might have to face. He dropped his head, turned his back, and did not look around as Vespillo walked slowly away.
* * *
It took Veleda’s best efforts to calm Cicurinus down. He had had Carbo and the little whore at his mercy. Moments more and the girl would have been dead, and Carbo covered with her blood.
But no, his friends in the vigiles had to come and save him. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t arrested him already. How much more could he do to make them believe Carbo had committed all those murders? They were all corrupt. Just more turds in the sewer that was Rome. But the death of the prostitute would have made it indisputable that Carbo was to blame.
He had thought of going ahead, even as he heard the shouts from the entrance to the baths. How long would it take to strangle her, to break her neck? Too long. If he was spotted, everything would be ruined.
He had slipped out of the door leading to the tepidarium, doubled round to the changing room, grabbed his tunic and boots from the changing room and strolled nonchalantly away from the baths, outwardly without a care, inwardly seething. He even nodded to one of the vigiles who was standing guard at the entrance to the baths. The watchman didn’t give him a second glance.
He had caught sight of Camilla fleeing down the street, barefoot, clutching her stola around her. He had thought to give chase, but it would have drawn too much attention. Instead, he had returned to his apartment, where Veleda had been waiting for him.
He had expected admonishments, recriminations, but her words were surprisingly soothing, even as he raged and swore.
‘All is well, Cicurinus. Everything is as it should be. You will find the girl and kill her. There are many witnesses placing her with Carbo. When they finally believe he is the killer, when his lack of dignitas and pietas is on display for all of Rome, when the common people have seen what happens to degenerates, then you can step forward, and show them there is a better way. They will plead with you to allow them to follow you.’
Cicurinus took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He clenched and unclenched his fists, letting the emotion wash out of him. She was right. These people needed more than just retribution. They needed an example, a light to guide them to a better path. He could be that light.
He looked at Veleda, who smiled at him beatifically. ‘You can be the saviour of both worlds, German and Roman,’ she said. ‘You, Sextus.’
Cicurinus frowned. That wasn’t quite right. ‘My name is Cicurinus.’
Veleda bowed her head. ‘As you wish. Now go and do your duty, and take your rightful place in the world.’
* * *
She had been tempted to flee Rome, the experience in the bathhouse had shaken her so thoroughly. Take what money she had accumulated and start afresh somewhere else. Ostia for example, the port city, thronged with sailors with purses and ball sacks full and waiting to be emptied. Or maybe she should be thinking further away. Baiae, the resort town, where the rich went to escape the city and enjoy the warm weather and the beach. But the competition there would be intense. And was it far enough? Maybe she should consider Regium, at the tip of the Italian peninsula. Or another country. Britannia or Syria.
But Camilla was nothing if not stubborn and self-confident. Once she had collected herself, sitting on the bed in her small, private apartment between the Subura and the Viminal, a feeling of determination and anger had settled over her. Who was this man, to threaten her, to make her feel small and scared? She had lived off her own wits for so long, and she didn’t intend to change now.
She had a plan, and she would stick to it.
She couldn’t honestly say prostitution was a job she enjoyed. But there was a big difference in the working conditions for the free and the enslaved. Slaves had no rights, no choices. They were forced to have sex with whoever and however many their masters required, in whatever manner was desired. And beyond the act itself which could be more or less unpleasant depending on who was involved, was the absolute loss of all sense of humanity. Slaves were tools, toys, domestic animals, and were treated as such. Some masters developed a fondness for their slaves in the same way as they may favour a beloved dog. Others viewed them as cattle, with no regard for their welfare beyond what was necessary to keep them useful and profitable. Enforced sexual degradation was about as bad as it got, in Camilla’s mind.
She, by contrast, had control, agency. If she didn’t like the look of a client, she refused him. If a client treated her badly, she never allowed him near her again. By working mainly through established brothels, she benefitted from the protection of the brothel owner and his doormen. Of course she was expected to pay her way with a certain level of customer throughput. But she still had choice, and that was what made the difference.
And so, she chose to return to work, and not let the crazy bully intimidate her.
That said, she wasn’t foolhardy. So she returned to a regular haunt, where she trusted the leno and his muscle.
The greasy pimp greeted her with a friendly smile.
‘Good to see you back, Camilla. I hope you are here to work, and not to receive social calls today.’
‘Get lost, Villius,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘Usual room?’
‘Cleaned specially for you.’
‘When, last month?’
Villius grinned, revealing a mix of yellowy-brown teeth and wooden dentures. ‘Becoming fussy? Go and get yourself ready, girl.’
Camilla headed for the stairs, then turned back.
‘Oh, if a big, dark-haired man, scars and a funny look in his eye comes asking for me, I’m not here, right?’
‘Whatever you say, beautiful. As I say, you’re getting fussy.’
Camilla shook her head and went to her room. It was a small cubicle, a dozen feet by six. By one wall was a wood-framed bed with a cheap straw mattress and a couple of wool blankets. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her toga out of her woollen bag, shucked off her tunic and wrapped it around her, taking care to fold it just the way a proud senator would. Once she was done, she took out her bottle of kohl, the dark eye make-up made of antimony and ashes, and a rounded bone applicator. She applied it carefully around her eyes, then darkened her eyebrows and drew them towards the centre in the fashionable way. Then she applied chalk power to whiten her face, and rouged her cheeks with wine dregs. One day she would be able to afford red ochre, but for now, economy was the watchword. Finally, she applied some perfume behind her ears, and tipped a little breath-freshening powder into her mouth, enjoying the fizzy, sweet taste on her tongue before swallowing it.
‘Visitor,
Camilla,’ called Villius up the stairs. ‘You ready yet?’
‘Send him up,’ she called back.
Her third client of the evening, a regular named Manlius, was making so much noise that she almost didn’t hear the noise that came from downstairs. She moved her head to one side trying to tune out his groans. There it was again. Raised voices.
‘Stop,’ she said.
Manlius seemed not to hear, lost in his own world. She heard a shout this time, though her client was oblivious. She put both hands under his shoulders and shoved upwards.
He levered himself into a kneeling position, looking at her in surprise and irritation.
‘Didn’t you hear?’ she said. ‘There is some trouble downstairs.’
‘Just a visitor being quarrelsome,’ he said. ‘Drunk or unable to pay. The leno and his bodyguard will sort them out.’
At that point a scream of pain and fear echoed up to them. Camilla grabbed a sheet from the bed, wrapped it around her, and ran to the door. She opened it a crack, and saw other doors on the same floor were open too, the frightened faces of her co-workers peeping out. From the ground floor came the sounds of violence, yells of rage, crashes.
Suddenly, Villius came running up the stairs, face a mask of terror. He saw Camilla and yelled to her.
‘Help me! He’s killed my man. He’s coming.’
Camilla slammed the door shut in his face and locked it. She leaned her back against the wood, heart racing, breath coming fast and shallow. Villius hammered on the door.
‘Camilla, let me in. Please, I beg you. Oh gods.’
Manlius was staring at her in disbelief.
‘What’s happening?’
Camilla looked around her desperately, ignoring his questions. There were no windows and no other exits. The room held no weapons; that would be foolish in her line of work. The only piece of furniture was the bed.
‘Help me move this,’ she snapped. She grabbed one end of the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, Manlius grabbed the other. They manoeuvred it over to the door, then upended it, so its weight was braced against the wood.
