The King of Rome

by Francis Mulhern

  “What the f…” he started to say as a bloody face looked him in the eyes and spoke quietly.

  “Only three of us left with you, Brevo. And we want our gold and wine. Keep yourself alive you bastard” said the voice. Brevo tried to grin, but the pain in his head suddenly tripled and the world went black.

  ******

  Chapter 30

  Cossus waved at the victorious Roman soldiers as they drank in their success. The camp had been over-run, the left gate had been closed, all the men who had gone to that side of the Volscan fort had been killed, but not before ladders had scaled the walls. The right gate, however, had been breached, the squad down to a few soldiers by the time the legion had made the run across the killing ground to the bridge. The loss of life in the suicide squads had been high, with only a handful remaining alive, though the medics said half of them wouldn’t last the day. Cossus had been magnanimous in his speech to the legion, telling them that they were the best soldiers he’d ever served with and being cheered by the men after he’d finished speaking. Thousands of Volscans had been captured, and were being interrogated to find fresh news of who the leaders of this uprising were. Following the speeches two centurions had left for the medical area, their faces long as they walked. The medical tents stank of death, with spent limbs thrown to the floor where they’d been hacked from their owners. More than a dozen dead were also lined up on the floor by the tent pole in the middle, two tables set either side with men working feverishly to staunch blood loss and sew men back together.

  “Where is he?” asked Narcius. Crastinus grunted and stepped to the left. Several men were lying on the ground, stripped and washed with only a loin cloth protecting them from the watching faces around them. Three pairs of eyes looked up at the senior centurion as he approached, one attempting to rise and salute but waved down by Narcius. “You men are heroes” he said casually to the three faces. “I’ll make sure you are all rewarded.” Each man tried to grin at this news, though one man had stitches right across his mouth and winced as he put a hand to his face at the pain the movement caused. The other two nodded thanks and mumbled words of gratitude. “It is us who are thankful to you for your bravery” said Narcius as he placed a hand on one of the men’s shoulders. “Only four of you left” he shook his head. “That’s a story you can tell your grandchildren with pride” he said slowly. He took a small bag from his belt and fished inside. He knelt to the floor and looked the first man in the face. “What you did was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen” he said as the legionary’s eyes widened in surprise at the words. He glanced to the sleeping body to their right. “Brevo is a good man, will he live?” he asked.

  All three men looked to the former centurion and shook their heads. “The medics aren’t sure, sir” said the man Narcius had spoken to, his arms covered in deep cuts and a long scar across his chest which was stitched in several places where the deep cuts still leaked long trails of blood. Narcius nodded, and then held out his hand to the first man. In his hand were two small gold lumps, each impressed with the head of a what looked like a bear, mouth open as if it were roaring. “This is your payment from him” he nodded to Brevo. “I believe that was his bargain?” the man nodded as his jaw fell open. The gold was more than he had expected, high quality Etruscan gold which would not only feed his family for a year but was also enough to buy him and his wife enough land to move up the plebeian ranks. He tried to thank Narcius, but Narcius nodded to Brevo. “It’s his gold” he said, as he handed each of the three men their own small handful of precious metal. Standing he looked down on Brevo’s battered body, his face puffed and swollen out of all recognition. “You men are as much part of his success in gaining the crown as he is, remember that. When we are back in Rome, come to my house and we’ll discuss how to help your families” he nodded, the men’s wide eyes responded with pleasure at the thought of patronage from a senior centurion. He opened a small pocket in his tunic and took out three small wooden objects tied with cord. “These are for you men. Your deeds today have won you more rewards than you can imagine.” He handed the three wooden eagles to them, the man with the ripped mouth letting a tear fall from his eye as he stared in disbelief at the eagle in his hand. Each man quickly placed the cord over their necks and looked up at the centurions with pride etched on their faces.

  Crastinus nodded and took out three small bags, heavy with clinking metal. “These are from the centurions, all of us, as a mark of respect for your actions” he said as he dropped the three bags into each of the men’s open hands. “Silver ear-rings, precious stones and copper coins. There’s enough there for each of you to get your feet back on the straight path when you get home, lads. Use it wisely” he said. “We salute you” he added as both centurions saluted the three, wide-eyed, men. The humbled thanks were waved away as Narcius took a slow look at Brevo. “Look after him when he wakes, he’ll be senseless for days, so remind him what he has done. Keep him away from any gambling though. I mean that” he added with a stern look. “Come and get me when he wakes” he said with warmth as both centurions turned and walked away from the men, who now called their thanks more loudly.

  Exiting the tent Crastinus turned to Narcius. “He looks bad.”

  Narcius grunted. “I’ve seen worse make a full recovery. Though he still doesn’t look as ugly as Vetto”.

  ************

  Chapter 31

  “There is nothing you can say that will make me change my mind, Menenius.”

  The plebeian tribune looked at his friend sourly, placing his empty goblet on the table and leaning back against the hard oak of the tall-backed bench at which he sat. His eye moved to the window over his friend’s shoulder, the darkness outside shouting that it was time for the two men to head home. He leant forward and whispered. “I tell you Lucius, this man will be our death. This talk of revolution, of overturning the order” he shook his head. “I can’t just sit by and watch him.”

  Lucius Sicinius stared back through bleary eyes at his friend and answered simply, “Marcus Menenius” he said slowly. “This man will change everything, making us rich in the meantime. What if he does want to be king? I don’t care what he wants.” He cocked his head slightly “and I’ll make enough to live on the Capitol like he does. Better to be a rich pleb than a dead pleb” he said with some feeling as he lifted his cup and downed the last drops. “Come on, time to go home, your constant noise has made me feel sick.”

  Menenius shrugged as Sicinius got to his feet. “No, I’m staying here for another. Come on, sit down” he said, waving to the seat. Sicinius shook his head and grabbed his cloak which was hanging over the back of the seat, shaking his head again as he turned to the door.

  “Your wife’s prettier than mine, my friend. Go home and enjoy her comforts before someone else does.” With that he waved a final arm and left the inn, the door slowly closing as he disappeared into the darkness.

  Menenius sat staring at his empty goblet, his mood darkening to the point that it was as devoid as light as the streets outside. The bar-maid had been past several times and offered to top up his goblet, but he’d covered the rim with his hand and declined on each occasion. Eventually the owner appeared with a dirty dishcloth wrapped over his arm and suggested that the young man left for his own bed so that he and his daughter could get some sleep themselves. Menenius had, grudgingly, left the inn and was now trudging along the road towards home when he heard a noise behind him. Turning quickly, he raised his blade and shouted, “Piss off, I’ve got a blade and I know how to use it.”

  Almost instantly the blade was knocked from his hand and an arm wrapped around his neck, cutting off his voice and his breathing. He tried to struggle, but the energy left his system as quickly as a rat leaving a burning building. He felt himself being bound and then dragged into the shadows.

  “I’m a plebeian tribune” he tried to say, though his voice failed and a rasping noise was all he could produce. He felt a sickness come over him, a cold fear which empt
ied him of all sensation except the deserve to loosen his bowels and throw up all that he’d drunk over the past few hours. “Don’t hurt me” he croaked.

  “I won’t hurt you” said a foreign sounding voice in street Latin. “I have a few questions, which if you answer them properly will see you returned to your feet with your blade back in your hand.” Menenius listened, not able to see anything except a couple of small pin pricks of stars which were visible above the wall of the building against which he was being held. He wriggled his hands but couldn’t move them much as he realised that, somehow, the attacker had managed to bind his hands.

  “What do you want?” he whispered, all that his voice could cope with after being crushed by his attacker.

  The man smelt of garlic and sweat as he leant over him and pressed a knife to his throat. “What are Capitolinus’ plans?” he hissed.

  Menenius tried to take a deep breath, but the pressure on his chest constricted his movement. “He’s not planning anything” he wheezed, which caused a nick to his cheek from the blade which bit like a swamp mosquito. He tried to yelp, but got a smack in the teeth from the blade hilt for his noise.

  “Tell me or you die” said the voice. “Is he planning an attack on Javenoli?”

  Instantly Menenius knew who was sitting on him, the Thracian. The fear he’d felt before now doubled as a numb coldness shot through his body. He babbled quickly, making no sense, which earned him another smack in the face. Groaning he replied, “No” his voice croaked as he tried to wriggle free. “He wants the plebeians to revolt, to rise against the patricians. He says he will lead us to greater glory” he gulped in air. “He’s mad” he wheezed. “Please, let me go” he begged.

  Istros was silent for a moment, feeling the heavy breathing of the plebeian tribune underneath him. “How will the people arise? What will they do?”

  “I don’t know” came the reply, almost a cry as Menenius whimpered. “I’ve told them I am going to resign, to step down. I…” he took another deep breath. “The man is going to be the death of us all” he added as his mouth dried and he croaked again.

  Istros had been sat in the inn listening to the two men and knew that this was the truth. Menenius had spoken at some length with the other tribune, about how they could extricate themselves from Capitolinus’ schemes, but it had seemed that the other man was more content to be a part of the future without the patricians as long as he profited from it personally. Istros thought it through for a moment, Menenius continuing to breathe heavily, as he pondered the issue.

  “Here’s what you will do, Menenius” said the Thracian. “You’ll go home, and you’ll say you slipped and hit your head, too much drink. Then you’ll carry on as normal and report any changes back to me. Understood? I will find you when I need to.” The plebeian didn’t speak but Istros felt his head moving and assumed it was an affirmative. “If there is any danger to Javenoli or any of his business dealings, I want to know. If I hear that you’ve double crossed me, I’ll be back and it won’t be quick, it’ll be very, very, painful. And then I’ll visit your family and make it painful for them as well. Do you understand me?” he growled.

  “Yes. Yes” said the mouse-like voice of the plebeian tribune.

  As Istros shifted his weight he dropped a bag of coins on Menenius’ chest. “For your information” he said as he slit the ropes which bound his hands and dropped the man’s dagger at his feet.

  ******

  Cossus scowled at the interrogator, his anger palpable. “Are you sure?” His voice was laced with malice as his teeth ground in his jaw. “The colony at Velitrae?” He almost spat the words, Narcius standing more stiffly as the dictator shot from his chair and paced around to the front of the table.

  Opposite him was a short man in a leather apron, his bald head and dark skin shining as if he’d been running in the mid-day sun, but the most notable thing about the interrogator were his cold eyes. “Absolutely” came the unemotional reply. “My methods get the best results. The man called Madrius is the son of a former centurion and he confirms that there are several Roman citizens in the Volscan forces, men who have been paid for their services. There are Roman colonists from both Cicerii and Velitrae in the Volscan ranks.”

  Cossus balled his fists. “Romans fighting Romans for money.” His shaking head was accompanied by a hard slap to his thigh with his right hand. “I can’t believe it” he snapped. looking to the officers around the tent, his eyes falling on a narrow-faced man with eyes which appeared to be almost totally black. “Get me a slate, I need to write to the senate. Narcius, I want the fastest riders available in ten minutes to take a message. We must look to Velitrae and Cerceii, gentlemen. If these colonies are rising against us with our enemies, then they must be brought to account for their actions.” Turning abruptly, he stomped back to the desk, the slate now placed in front of him. “Get the prisoners on the road to Rome. I want this Madrius and any other men who are Roman citizens to be taken with the riders to the senate, you too” he eyed the interrogator as he spoke. “I want the senate to agree to my marching on Velitrae as soon as the men are rested enough to be ready to do so. Narcius, that’s your job” he said without looking up, his stylus scratching into the lead lining within the slate. Narcius nodded, unseen by the dictator.

  ******

  “Which ones?” asked a quiet spoken man, his head covered in a thick woollen cowl.

  “Three end doors, the red painted windows” came the response.

  “Go” the quiet voice commanded, several men breaking into a run towards the doors that had been highlighted. The quiet-spoken Andros moved after them, wrapping a leather thong with small studs worked into the skin, around his right fist. The doors crashed as his men launched themselves into the thin wood, splinters falling to the floor, some covered in droplets of blood as the group of men barged into the dwellings inside. After a moment, Andros stepped into the doorway, smashed furniture and clay pots strewn across the floor. One of his men was dragging a buxom woman to the table hauling her skirts above her waist as she screamed, his hand clutching at her throat.

  “No, that’s not what we came for” he shouted, stepping past the woman as she was thrown to the floor, sliding into a broken chair. She turned her head to scream again but was silenced by a punch to the stomach which made her cry in pain instead. “Where is he?” Andros asked, his voice carrying into the three-roomed house. Noises from the adjoining homes suggesting that they were receiving the same treatment as this one. Thuds and bangs came from a rear room, two men fighting hard. Andros ran forwards and punched the back of a head he didn’t know, the man groaning and half turning before Andros’ man knocked him cold. “Is that him?” he asked. Before he could receive the answer he heard a cry from the other room which made him turn quickly and move back the way he had come. Three men dragged a body in through the front door.

  “Got him boss” said a bloody-faced hulk, his head brushing the top of the doorway as he launched a body onto the floor.

  “Excellent. Pick him up.” He turned back to the others and nodded at the door, “Make sure we have an escape route.” As half of his men moved out of the room he leant close to the face of the beaten man being held in front of him, noting a split lip, a bruised eye which was closing fast and a badly misshapen nose, though this appeared to be a long-standing break and nothing new. “Your family owe us” he said coldly, his voice remaining calm and quiet as he spoke. “You’re over-due.”