Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  ‘I was thinking…’

  ‘On your knees, slave. I’m not looking up to you while you talk to me.’

  Marsia sank to her knees and looked up at him submissively, waiting for permission to speak.

  Olorix took a sip of the wine and grimaced. ‘No wonder people don’t want to drink here. But the quality of the wine can’t be improved until we have more customers paying for it. Interesting conundrum. Anyway, let’s hear it, slave.’

  ‘Rome has many soldiers. Veterans who have fought in the legions. Legionaries in vexillations on duty in the city, or on leave.’

  ‘This isn’t news to me.’

  ‘I was thinking, what if we held an event. A festival, like one of the city-wide holidays, but this would be confined to the tavern.’

  ‘What sort of festival?’ asked Olorix cautiously.

  ‘A celebration of the legions and their victories.’

  ‘Well, there hasn’t been anything major for a while.’

  ‘Then we can celebrate the battle of Idistaviso. When Germanicus defeated Arminius once and for all, and finally revenged the Teutoberg forest massacre.’

  ‘That was eleven years ago. And was not fought in the winter. People will wonder why we celebrate it now?’

  ‘No one would care why, if there was entertainment and liberal amounts of wine.’

  Olorix nodded thoughtfully. ‘It could work.’

  ‘And if we provide the wine cheaply, and many men attend, then hopefully they would become regular visitors. It could even be a place known for welcoming legionaries, and they always have money to spend.’

  ‘You’re German. Why would you want to celebrate victory over your people?’

  ‘I am a slave of Rome, master. And I am your slave. I want the tavern to do well, so you will think kindly of me.’

  Olorix stroked his chin. ‘It could work. We can make it hugely patriotic. Celebrate our heroes and gods, and mock the German ones, like, like…’

  ‘Like Woden and Frigg, master?’

  ‘Yes, and that traitor Arminius. And we can dress you up like a prisoner taken in battle. How will that make you feel?’

  ‘If it is for my master’s benefit, I am happy.’

  Olorix looked at her with suspicion for a moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied she was not being sarcastic or disrespectful.

  ‘If this works,’ said Olorix, ‘I will be pleased with you. If not…’ He let the threat hang in the air. Then he finished his drink and put his cup down. ‘I’ll leave the arrangements in your hands. Then there is no one else to blame for the event’s success or failure. Do you understand? This is entirely your responsibility.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  Hope welled up inside Marsia, for the first time in a long time.

  * * *

  Centurion Brocchus of the XXIst Rapax sipped his wine, then took a deep breath through his nose. There was something comforting about the air of the Subura. He had been born in Rome, and for a long while as a child had lived in this poor but vibrant district, before, as so many did who dreamed of escape, joining up in the legions. He had been stationed in Germania for a dozen years or so now, and while he understood why the fresh air of the hills and forests in the province was favoured by some, he couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for Suburan odours. Street vendors selling roasted chickens, sizzling sausages and piping hot pies flooded the atmosphere with mouth-watering scents, which mingled with the smells of perfumiers and make-up sellers, tanners and fullers, not to mention the mixture of human and animal wastes that ran down the deep grooves in the streets ground down over the years by the wheels of transport vehicles, and the stench of rotting carcasses abandoned where they died, mainly beasts of burden, but occasionally human.

  It was a heady mix, and someone unused to it might struggle to cope. It was why the elites lived on the hills up above the city, particularly the Palatine and Esquiline. But for those to whom the Subura was home, the smell was as comforting as mother’s hair or grandfather’s musty tunic.

  He looked up and down the street, savouring the moment. He was only in Rome for a few short days, part of a small vexillation detached from his legion to escort the legate who had official business with Sejanus of some sort – he hadn’t enquired further. For him, it was a rare chance to relax in his home environment, and maybe see if he could track down any old friends.

  Something fluttering in the gutter caught his eye and he bent down to pick it up. It was a pamphlet made of cheap papyrus, covered on both sides with untidy but large handwriting. Some ox dung had obscured the odd letter, but overall its message was clearly legible.

  Come to Olorix’s tavern to celebrate Rome’s victories over the Germans.

  Brocchus frowned. It had been a good few years since there had been a major battle in Germania, but as he was well aware, skirmishes, scuffles and police actions were commonplace. He wasn’t sure why they had decided to have a party in honour of them now, but he was curious enough to read on.

  Girls. Dice games. Cheap wine. Legionaries and veterans especially welcome.

  The reverse side of the pamphlet gave the street, the time, which was from mid-afternoon till late at night, and the date, which was tomorrow. He stroked his chin. Some of the lads that had come down with him, like Gratius, his optio, might enjoy the event. Girls, gambling and booze were always welcome, and finding them in a place that was not only welcoming but encouraging legionaries, and celebrating their work would be great for morale. He resolved to reconnoitre the place beforehand, as any good soldier should. He tucked the pamphlet inside his tunic and finished his wine. Then he stood, oriented himself and headed in the direction of the street indicated in the notice.

  It was only a short walk as the crow flies but a long one in the Subura’s twisted and crowded streets. Soon, though, he was at the tavern. A couple of drinkers were sitting at a table on the street directly outside gambling and arguing good-naturedly.

  He opened the door and entered.

  It was an unprepossessing venue. Tired, old furniture. Cracked plaster on the walls. Faded frescoes. Timbers pitted with woodworm holes. But it was clean. Dry, sweet-smelling straw on the floor, surfaces wiped down, the stew in the serving pots on the bar looking fresh, not just reheated from the previous night.

  He approached the bartender, a barbarian-looking slave. The odour from the stew made his belly rumble, and he ordered a bowl full. The slave ladled out a portion and handed it over, taking his coins and stowing them under the bar.

  It was scalding hot, so he took a spoonful, blew on it, then tasted it. Chicken meat and vegetables. Not bad at all.

  ‘Wine, too, slave.’

  ‘Yes, master. Any particular variety?’

  ‘Nothing too cheap, nothing too expensive.’

  She nodded and poured him a cup of red liquid. He smelled it, tasted it and grimaced. Rough as sandpaper, but it had a kick. It would do the job.

  He pulled out the pamphlet and waved it at the bar slave.

  ‘So what’s this party all about, then?’

  She smiled at him, professional charm, and he didn’t care that it was obviously insincere. She was nice enough to look at that he wasn’t bothered if she was only pretending to enjoy his company.

  ‘It’s a celebration of our brave legionaries, and their battles fighting against the evil Germans.’ Her Germanic accent was not lost on him, and his eyes twinkled as he returned her smile, acknowledging the irony.

  ‘But why now?’

  She looked around her, then leaned in conspiratorially. ‘To be honest, sir, the tavern hasn’t been doing too well of late. This was just an idea to drum up business, get some more bodies through the door.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a good idea. Legionaries do like to be acknowledged for their hard work, and if that acknowledgement involves booze, dice and girls, then there’s not too much to think about.’

  ‘Would I be wrong in thinking you are a legionary yourself, sir? Even though you are in civili
an dress, you have that bearing, and you are too young and in too good health to be a veteran.’

  She had the charming patter finely honed, he noted, though there was still a reserve that suggested she was happy to serve him food and drink, but there was nothing else on the menu.

  ‘You’re quite right. I’m Centurion Brocchus, of the XXIst Rapax, stationed at Castra Vetera in Germania Inferior. Here in Rome on duty, though with a couple of days leave to enjoy the best that the city has to offer.’

  ‘I’m glad you are choosing to spend your time here. You know, my former master served in the legions in Germania. This was his tavern. Maybe you would know him?’

  ‘I doubt it. Many thousands of men serve under the eagles on the northern frontier.’

  ‘I understand he was quite well known. His name is Carbo.’

  Brocchus paused, his cup halfway to his lips.

  ‘Carbo? He was the owner of this tavern? What happened to him?’

  ‘He fell on hard times, sir.’

  From the sorrow in her voice, he could tell she had a genuine affection for him.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. It is a constant fear to all of us in the legions. Much as we might desire our freedom from the hard life we lead, most of us worry what life will be like when we are no longer surrounded and supported by our comrades, fed and paid by the army. Will we be able to cope with normality? Many don’t.’

  ‘His experiences serving under the eagles have weighed heavily on him, that is for certain.’

  ‘Do you think a visit from someone like me, who knows what he has been through, would be a comfort to him?’

  Marsia looked at him in surprise, and hesitated. Brocchus spread his hands in a gesture that seemed to withdraw the offer.

  ‘Stupid suggestion. I’m sure the great Carbo has plenty of friends he can rely on for support. Why would he need to see the likes of me?’

  ‘Fewer friends than you might think, sir. And I only hesitate because things are… precarious for him, right now.’

  ‘Well,’ said Brocchus. ‘If you think he would like a friendly face to chat to, I’ll be staying at the Castra Praetoria. Nice new barracks for the Praetorians, those lucky bastards, but at least I get to stay there for a couple of days and not have to find myself a billet in the city like the rest of my men. If you see him, tell him to come and visit and we can chew the fat together.’

  ‘I will, sir, thank you.’

  ‘In any case, I’ll bring my men over to your little bash tomorrow.’

  ‘You will all be most welcome.’

  * * *

  The Castra Praetoria had the feel of a building where the cement had not yet set. Only four years old, the permanent camp of the Praetorian guard had been ordered to be built by Sejanus, the Praetorian Guard Prefect and de facto ruler of Rome during Tiberius’ self-imposed exile to Capri. It was situated on the high ground to the north-east of the city, and had the layout of a standard provincial barracks, but with a much finer and less ephemeral construction; the walls built from pink and red bricks and the streets between the camp buildings neatly cobbled.

  Carbo queued at the gates, waiting to be seen by the immaculately attired Praetorian on guard duty. He wondered if he was making a mistake. But when Marsia had told him about this Brocchus, it had got him thinking. If there was to be a group of battle-hardened men in the tavern during the party, ones who didn’t owe their allegiance to the Urban Prefect or the Prefect of the vigiles, then it might make sense to have them on side, or at least make sure they weren’t going to intervene in what might be about to happen.

  The man in front of Carbo in the queue was a baker with a sackful of honeycakes on his back. The guard ordered him to dump the sack on the ground, then he rummaged through it to ensure there were no weapons or other contraband. Satisfied, he took a cake for himself, bit into it, and jerked the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder to indicate the baker could enter. The baker grabbed his sack and hurried inside with head bowed.

  When Carbo stepped up, the Praetorian looked up at him and frowned. Men in positions of authority often took an instant dislike to Carbo, and he suspected it was purely on the basis of the intimidation caused by his imposing physical presence.

  ‘State your business,’ said the guard brusquely.

  ‘I’m here to see Centurion Brocchus.’

  ‘There are no Praetorian Centurions by that name. On your way.’

  ‘He isn’t a Praetorian. He is with the XXIst Rapax, on temporary assignment to escort his legate from Germania to Rome. He has been quartered in the Praetorian barracks.’

  The guard looked doubtful. ‘And what’s your business with him?’

  ‘Personal.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  Carbo sighed inwardly, willing himself to appear outwardly calm, not to clench his fists or push his chest forward, or to step forward threateningly.

  ‘I’m an old friend of his,’ Carbo lied through tight lips. ‘He invited me to see him while he is in Rome.’

  The guard pursed his lips. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Vatius,’ said Carbo, the first that came into his head. Though the vigiles no longer believed him guilty, the Urban Cohorts’ position was less clear, and though the Praetorians considered themselves to be above mere policing of crime, if pressure came from someone powerful like Ahala, they might be forced to step in. A false name at this point seemed prudent.

  ‘You a veteran?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Lift your arms up,’ said the guard. Carbo did as he was told, and stood passive as the guard patted him down for concealed weapons. When he was satisfied, he stood back.

  ‘Fine. The temporary accommodation is at the far end of the cavalry barracks. Take the second left, and then follow your nose – you can’t miss the smell of horse dung. But if I hear you have caused any trouble, I’ll come for you and rip your balls off.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Carbo, aware that the much smaller man would need a number of allies to carry out his threat, but happy to let it pass.

  He walked into the camp, looking around him at the fine buildings, so much more ornate than any structures found in even permanent military fortifications in the provinces. Functional camps of necessity concerned themselves with function over form. But the Praetorians, the best remunerated, most highly trained soldiers in the legions, always had to have the appearance of superiority. It was typical of their reputation among the rank and file soldiers that served throughout the Empire under the Eagles. The Praetorians were over-paid, over-admired and under-experienced. Mainly used to make the Emperor look good and feel safe, they had little battle experience, and the other legions held them in contempt, while secretly jealous of their privileged lives.

  It was clear as Carbo walked through the camp, though, that Praetorians considered themselves a breed apart from most mortals. Those that were marching in units, training or on their way to some important destination, kept their eyes fixed firmly ahead, paying Carbo no attention, to the extent that he had to leap out of their way more than once to avoid being trampled under their polished boots. Those that were not on duty or training shot him contemptuous glances as he passed.

  When he reached the cavalry barracks, he found a young decurion hovering anxiously by the side of the farrier, who was bent over, paring a hoof with a sharp knife from a stoical pony.

  ‘Will she survive?’ said the decurion, ringing his hands.

  ‘It’s just an abscess,’ said the farrier, not bothering to hide his frustration with the close attentions of the cavalry officer. As he spoke, his knife dug into the infected cavity. The horse flinched, and there was a spurt of dark, foul-smelling pus. ‘There. She’ll be fine now. Get your orderly to poultice it three times a day for five days. Walk her out on her lead twice a day. Then call me and I’ll pop her shoe back on, and she will be good to go.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough!’

  The farrier grunted, and began packing up his tools.
/>   ‘Excuse me,’ said Carbo. ‘I’m looking for Centurion Brocchus. He is staying in the temporary accommodation.’

  The relieved decurion seemed in a good mood, and directed him to a low building beyond the cavalry barracks.

  Carbo pushed the door open and entered. Inside were rows of beds, all carefully made, sheets and blankets folded precisely. At the far end was a table where two bored-looking men sat playing latrunculi.

  Carbo approached, and they stopped and looked at him with mild curiosity.

  ‘Centurion Brocchus?’

  One of the men, tough and scarred, looked him up and down.

  ‘And you are…?’

  ‘My name is Carbo. My slave, my former slave, told me you had invited me here.’

  ‘Carbo, of course.’ Brocchus looked around to offer Carbo a seat, but the table had only two chairs. He moved towards another table, but Brocchus’ companion got to his feet.

  ‘Don’t worry, you can sit here. I’m going to push off Brocchus, and find something to eat in the mess tent. Thanks for the game; hope I can relieve you of some more of your pay before too long.’

  Brocchus gave him a sour grunt, then a good-natured slap on the arm, and gestured to Carbo to take the newly vacated seat as his erstwhile companion departed.

  There was an awkward moment where both of them looked for something to say.

  ‘So, you’re in Rome on escort duties?’ began Carbo tentatively.

  ‘Indeed. Legate had a meeting at the palace, though he is also grabbing the opportunity to take some leave in Rome. The higher-ups start to pine if they are away from the city for too long.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  Brocchus shrugged. ‘I miss the old place, of course, but after a while the army becomes your home and your family.’

  Carbo nodded.

  ‘And it’s difficult when you leave your home and family, right?’ asked Brocchus cautiously, his face sympathetic.

  ‘It is,’ said Carbo. ‘Especially when you are with people who have never seen what you have seen, done what you have done. Experienced the… stuff.’