Killer of Rome

by Alex Gough

  Cicurinus showed no sign of slowing down, and Carbo felt his heart pounding harder, leg muscles burning like acid. Where was he going? Was he just trying to lose Carbo, or did he have a destination in mind?

  If it was the former, he would probably be successful. Carbo was lagging, and whatever the state of his willpower, if his flesh was unable to meet its demands, there was nothing more he could do. Cicurinus glanced behind him, and the smile of triumph as he saw his pursuer dropping back bit into Carbo. He redoubled his efforts, but he knew the race was as good as lost.

  * * *

  When Cicurinus saw Carbo dropping back, his initial emotions were of victory and relief. He was going to get away, and he was going to do it in the face of the great hero Carbo. If there was anything that would prove to Veleda his worth, surely the events of tonight would suffice.

  Or would they?

  Yes, he had killed the odious bookmaker who had denigrated the honour of the Germanic peoples. But then what had he done? When the people had failed to praise him, he had run, like a cheap criminal. He was not a criminal! He was a saviour!

  He stopped and placed a hand against a wall, breathing accelerated but controlled. So how would the dawning of a new day find him? Not triumphant. Hiding. Nothing changed. Had he really thought Rome was going to change its ways because of him? He was just a man, for all the encouragement Veleda had given him. And now, even she had deserted him.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  He started at the gentle voice by his ear, turned to find himself looking into Veleda’s deep, dark eyes.

  ‘Priestess, where have you been?’

  ‘Nearby, watching. As always. You did well tonight.’

  ‘I did?’ He looked down the street. Carbo had been pursuing him ever more slowly, clearly struggling to close the gap between them and had not yet appeared around the last corner he had turned.

  ‘You made a mark, but it is not enough.’

  Cicurinus bowed his head, chagrined. But she was only confirming his own thoughts.

  ‘You are mortal, Cicurinus. To change worlds, you need the help of the gods.’

  He nodded, listening, watching for the approach of Carbo.

  ‘And the gods will not help you without sacrifice.’

  ‘Who should I call upon? The Roman or German gods?’

  ‘This is Rome, where the gods of Olympus are supreme. Woden will not aid you here. Who is the chief of all the Roman gods? Who has the mightiest temple?’

  ‘Jupiter Optimus Maximus of course.’

  ‘Then go there, go to the heights, and make your sacrifice.’

  ‘Whose sacrifice?’

  Veleda looked down the street, towards the sounds of the heavy, laborious tread of Carbo’s boots. ‘That is for you to decide.’

  * * *

  Carbo rounded the corner and found Cicurinus waiting for him, a mere half a dozen yards away. He came to an abrupt halt, breathing hard, suddenly acutely aware how fatigued he was if he had to fight.

  ‘Wait, Cicurinus. Let’s talk.’

  Cicurinus let out a single, barking, humourless laugh.

  ‘Oh, now you have time to talk. Well, better late than never.’

  ‘What do you mean? Why did you say it was all my fault? Just because I didn’t become your new best friend?’

  Cicurinus shook his head.

  ‘Come on old man, let’s see if you can keep up.’ He set off down the road, his long legs eating up the distance with a loping stride. Carbo groaned and forced himself into motion once more.

  Now, Cicurinus seemed to be taunting him, the way he had heard wolves sometimes toyed with the hunt. Just out of reach, leading the chase, always in control. They left the Subura, heading west towards the Forum Romanum, and Cicurinus led him down the via Sacra, past the Temple of Vesta, the Temple of Castor and Pollux, into the forum itself beneath the rostra. Few paid them any attention. The two men looked like trouble, and whether one had robbed or assaulted the other, or been found in bed with the other’s wife, was no concern of theirs.

  When Carbo felt himself falling behind, Cicurinus slowed, and Carbo wondered where he was being led. Surely it was some sort of trap. Yet what was he to do? Abandon the chase? Instead, he reduced his speed further than he needed. This was clearly no longer a chase, and it was prudent to conserve at least a modicum of energy.

  Just east of the rostra was the Carcer Tullianus, the small underground cell in which many famous prisoners had awaited their execution, like Vercingetorix, leader of the Gauls, and Jugurtha the Numidian king. Carbo wondered who was imprisoned in there at that moment, as they ran past. Sitting in the dark and the damp, waiting to die. He shuddered, acutely aware how close he had come to that fate himself.

  They reached the Arch of Tiberius, built a mere decade earlier in celebration of regaining the lost Eagles from the Teutoberg disaster. It was a place of honour to Carbo. Cicurinus spat on it as they passed.

  From here, Cicurinus led them on to the Clivus Capitolinius, the road leading up the Capitoline Hill, and Carbo groaned as he saw the steepness of the route he would have to take. His pace was barely more than a fast walk now, and even that was exhausting. But Cicurinus did not let him drop behind, calling out a mixture of insults and encouragement to him.

  ‘Just tell me where you are taking me,’ Carbo yelled, ‘and we can walk there hand in hand.’

  ‘Just a little further, old man. We’re nearly there.’

  At the top of the Capitoline Hill stood the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Tradition had it that the first Temple to Jupiter on this site was completed by the last king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, but that edifice was burnt down during the civil wars of the dictator Sulla’s reign. This ‘new’ building was now a century old, but it still looked magnificent, the marble columns of its portico white in the moonlight. On the gable at the top of the face was a statue of the obscure god of nocturnal thunder, Summanus, greatest of all the Manes. Carbo remembered pondering this deity when he had first returned from his service in Germania, wondering if he was somehow equivalent to the Germanic thunder god Donner, in the same way that the Greeks called Jupiter, Zeus.

  But it was on the pitched, red-tiled roof of the temple that the real power in the pantheon was celebrated. A gold and ivory statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the best and greatest, looked sternly down over the Eternal City. The chief of the gods was seated on a throne and dressed in a tunic covered with palm leaves and a gold and purple toga. In one hand he held a sceptre, and in the other he clutched a jagged thunderbolt, ready to hurl down on any mortal that caught his eye. He was flanked by the other two deities that comprised the Capitoline triad, Juno, queen of the gods, and Minerva, goddess of wisdom.

  The temple was a sight that never failed to awe, whether viewed by a newcomer to the city, or a cynical old resident who had lived their entire life within the Servian Walls. And it was to this iconic monument that Cicurinus was leading Carbo.

  Cicurinus mounted the steps of the portico, and turned at the top, smiling broadly, watching Carbo struggle up to the top of the hill and approach the temple. When Carbo was a dozen feet away, he stopped and put his hands on his knees, bent double as he sucked in lungfuls of air.

  ‘So we’re here,’ he said, gasping out the words. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Our journey’s not quite ended yet.’ Cicurinus leapt onto the dais of one of the numerous statues that encircled the base of the temple, donated over the centuries by victorious generals in honour of their triumphs. Putting a foot on a protruding spear, using the open mouth of a decapitated barbarian for a handhold, Cicurinus quickly climbed to the top.

  Carbo groaned. The way his body was protesting at the exertion, he felt he would rather fight and die right there, than have to follow Cicurinus any further, even if it was to eventual victory. But already, Cicurinus was scaling the wall at the side of the temple, skilfully using cracks in the stucco, the uneven brickwork and the reliefs of religious and military sce
nes, to haul his way up.

  A young priest, toga tied back with the Gabine cinch, one fold pulled up over his head like a shawl, hurried out of the temple and gaped up at Cicurinus.

  ‘What’s he doing? Get down here, or I’ll call the vigiles!’

  Cicurinus looked down and waved.

  Carbo took a breath, then said, ‘I don’t suppose there are any stairs to the roof?’

  The priest looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course not. No one goes up there. If repairs are needed, they put up scaffolding.’

  ‘I thought you were going say that. Oh well. I’d better go and get him.’

  The priest gaped as Carbo followed Cicurinus’ lead, climbing as high as he could on the statue, snapping off the tip of a spear as he reached for the wall. Slowly, laboriously, he clambered after Cicurinus.

  The wall was over a hundred feet high and by the time Carbo was halfway, he was beginning to think he had made a huge mistake. If he had found the running tiring, pulling his big frame vertically up the side of an enormous monument was completely exhausting. Soon it was no longer about willpower, but the burning in his arms, the hammering in his chest. Rapidly, he felt his strength failing, as he pushed his body’s endurance beyond its physical limitations.

  Three-quarters of the way to the top, the strength in his grip gave out. His hand slipped off the smooth marble head of an embossed deity, and his upper torso swung out, away from the wall. He looked down, saw a small crowd had gathered to watch. They already appeared tiny, and his head spun as he was gripped by a sudden terror.

  Desperately, he threw himself back at the wall, and his hand found purchase on the extended wing of a Pegasus. He held on tightly, regaining his composure, letting the blood flow back to his weakened limbs.

  ‘Hurry up, Carbo. It’s cold up here.’

  Carbo looked up to see Cicurinus peering down at him over the side of the pitched roof. He gritted his teeth and began to climb again.

  Every foot of height now was hard won, and he tried not to think about what would happen when he got to the top. He had precious little strength left to fight, and that was if Cicurinus even gave him the opportunity of getting onto the roof in the first place. A stamp on fingers or a boot in the face would easily send him spiralling down to a quick end on the flagstones below.

  Abruptly, his exploring hand encountered only air, and he looked up to see he had reached the top. All he had to do was drag himself over the lip of the roof, that protruded outwards about a foot.

  But that simple last obstacle seemed insurmountable. He would have to suspend his full weight from his hands, lift himself up and over while his feet dangled free.

  He couldn’t do it.

  And yet, what was the alternative? Even if he wanted to descend again, he didn’t think he could do it before his strength failed completely and he plummeted to his death.

  He took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the edge of the roof. His feet left their footholds, and his legs swung out into fresh air. His arms took his full weight, as his fingers gripped the tiles.

  He tried to pull himself up, but the strength just wasn’t there – he could get the top of his head level with the roof edge, but no further. He eased himself back down so his arms were at full stretch once more, and tried to fight down the rising panic.

  He swung his body from side to side, trying to get enough lateral momentum to latch a foot onto the edge of the roof. He nearly succeeded, but as his heel swung down, it cracked the tile. His foot slipped off, his legs tumbled downwards, and his forearms screamed under the strain. He tried to pull himself up once more, but he knew that if he had failed once, fatigue would make the chances of a second attempt succeeding virtually impossible. Though he strained his muscles with every ounce of his being, he barely elevated himself at all.

  His fingers began to slide, to loosen. Despair warred with terror. He kicked his legs helplessly.

  A strong hand gripped his wrist. Pulled.

  Carbo used the last of his reserves of energy to help the man dragging him up onto the roof. Once his upper body was over the lip, he crawled forward and rolled onto his back, gasping for air like a landed fish.

  Cicurinus’ face appeared over his own. Then disappeared again.

  Carbo rolled over onto his front, got to his hands and knees, then slowly stood, swallowing and squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden wave of dizziness that accompanied a strong feeling that he might faint.

  When he opened them again, Cicurinus was sitting in Jupiter’s lap, his arm around him. Despite Cicurinus’ size, the statue dwarfed him so he looked like a child seated on his father.

  Carbo approached him cautiously. He had no idea what was going on in the killer’s mind, but the beatific expression on his face suggested rationality was no longer present.

  ‘Alone together at last,’ said Cicurinus.

  ‘You wanted me here.’ It was a statement. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are the beginning of all this. And you are the end.’

  ‘You keep saying this is my fault, that I started this. Are you really blaming me for the deaths of all those people? People you killed? Just because I turned you away?’

  ‘Carbo.’ Cicurinus’ tone was disappointed, melancholy. ‘I know it’s been a long time, and I’ve picked up the odd scar. But have I really changed that much?’

  Carbo looked into the man’s eyes. Though Cicurinus appeared younger than Carbo, his eyes were old, tired. But there was something about them. And the hair, and the nose. He shook his head, attempting to deny it, even as it hit him like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on him. But it was no use. It was undeniable.

  ‘Sextus.’

  ‘When you left Rome, what, some twenty-five years ago, mother was distraught. And you never came home. You wrote, you sent money, but you never came back. In all that time, did you never get the chance? To volunteer for an escort mission? Take some leave?’

  ‘You don’t know what happened to me out there,’ said Carbo defensively. ‘I was captured and tortured after Teutoberg. The army became my family, my security. I couldn’t come home and face the people I knew and loved. I thought it would break me. You don’t know what that’s like.’

  Cicurinus – Sextus – laughed sourly. ‘I don’t know? I was held captive for years. But unlike you, I came to relish my captivity. It turned me into who I am.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a good thing.’

  ‘And you would prefer I had become like you? The drunkard, the gambler, the wreck? There were so many times I wanted to be you, you know. When the stories came back about your exploits, when we heard of your promotions, all everyone could talk about was Carbo the hero. It’s why I joined up as well. So I could be like my older brother, though it broke mother’s heart.’

  ‘No,’ said Carbo, his voice not much more than a whisper. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I’m no hero.’

  ‘I know that now.’ Sextus cocked his head on one side, as if something had just occurred to him. ‘Why did you never try to find me?’

  ‘Mother wrote to me, and told me you had died.’

  ‘And did you mourn me?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ snapped Carbo. ‘I know we weren’t close. Different fathers, a big age gap. But you were family. You are family.’

  ‘So, now you see why this all began with you.’

  ‘And how does it end?’

  Sextus hopped off the statue and walked to the edge of the roof. The collection of onlookers staring up at them had grown to a small crowd, despite the priests trying to move them on as if there was nothing untoward occurring.

  ‘All I wanted was what was best for Rome,’ said Sextus. ‘But I can’t undo the years of decline and degeneration on my own. The people of Rome must rise up, embrace the old ways. The historians write about a better time, when the men held duty and morality first, served their city, fought as true warriors when they were needed, farmed the land when they weren’t. Like Cincinnatus. But no one doe
s anything about it. Because nobody has an example. A beacon to guide them.’

  He turned and looked at Carbo. ‘This ends in sacrifice. So there can be a new beginning.’

  Carbo tensed, wondering if the moment had finally come that they must fight. His strength was returning, at least in part. But he no longer had any desire to kill this man, his enemy, his brother.

  ‘Why do you believe these things? What if you are wrong? What if Rome is strong enough, moral enough? That it is the barbarians who are savage and immoral and cruel?’

  ‘I know that is not true. I have seen them for myself. And besides, she tells me it is so, and she does not lie.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Sextus frowned. ‘Veleda, the priestess.’

  ‘You mentioned her before. But Sextus…’

  Sextus held up his hand, tilted his head slightly, like he was listening.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right. Too much talking.’

  ‘I didn’t say…’

  ‘Quiet, Carbo. Do not interrupt her.’

  ‘She… she is here now?’

  Sextus looked to his left, then back to Carbo in genuine puzzlement. ‘I know it’s dark and you are getting old, but I didn’t think you were yet that blind.’

  ‘Sextus,’ said Carbo, and his voice was gentle but cautious, the tone you used to get a child to put down something sharp before they hurt themselves. ‘Veleda is dead.’

  Sextus turned to his side once more, then looked back at Carbo. ‘Have you lost your wits?’

  ‘She died in Germania. Shortly after your rescue.’

  Sextus’ eyes shifted from side to side, as if he was suddenly searching for escape. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She is right here.’

  ‘I met the centurion, Brocchus. They massacred that village you were held captive in, as a reprisal. The priestess escaped, but she came back. She tried to rescue you. They caught her, and they killed her, there and then. They didn’t tell you, they thought you had been through enough and didn’t know how you would react.’