***
Marcus looked grim as he sat alone in the small study of his office in the building that housed his military veteran’s charity. The hospice, located close to the Mausoleum of Augustus was quiet, apart from the sound of a lonely army veteran singing to him-self in a nostalgic voice. It was late, after midnight, but Marcus didn’t feel like returning home just yet. Slowly he raised the cup of wine to his lips. The verbal and highly public assault on his character and reputation, which he’d endured in the senate house, had been brutal. It had left him feeling physically sick and his ordeal had not been improved by the furious look Nigrinus had given him on his departure. But it was just politics he thought. It was not important. He would ignore the political attacks. He would rise above it. He would get on with his job and let those self-important and self-serving men in the senate say what they liked. And as he pondered the day’s events, he suddenly remembered the young woman who’d been raped during the riots. Picturing her bloody face, he sighed. He could not let politics undermine his ability to do a good job. People were counting on him.
“Sir, is everything all right?” a voice said from the doorway to his study. “You said you wished to see me?”
Glancing across the room, Marcus saw Aledus standing watching him. Quickly Marcus rose to his feet, his expression softening. After the ex-soldier and young friend of Fergus had approached him in the Forum, he had given him a job providing security for his charity. It had however quickly become apparent to all, that Aledus was a highly competent and experienced soldier and that his martial skills would be grossly underused at the charity.
“I have another job for you if you are interested,” Marcus said, getting straight to the point. “I have a relative, a youth called Ahern. He’s seventeen and I need an experienced soldier like yourself to teach him how to fight. The boy has never been trained in how to use a sword or shield. It’s time he learned. It’s time he started to behave like a man and not the spoilt brat that he is in danger of becoming. Would you be willing to teach Ahern? To be his trainer? You will be well paid for your time and you will be free to live here at the charity for no cost.”
Aledus looked down at the floor as he seemed to think proposal over. Then he looked up at Marcus.
“I would be delighted to teach the boy Sir,” Aledus said cheerfully.
***
After Aledus had gone, Marcus raised his cup of wine to his lips and finished off the contents in one go. At least something positive had come out of the day. He was about to refill his cup with wine when he heard a woman calling out his name from the hallway outside his office. A few moments later Kyna burst into his study, her cheeks red with exertion, as if she had been running. And as he caught sight of the expression on his wife’s face, Marcus stiffened in alarm.
“What?” he blurted out. “What’s happened now?”
Kyna paused as she struggled to regain her breath, her chest heaving with exertion. “A messenger came to our house just now,” she gasped. “They were looking for you. They said it was urgent. There was no one able to warn you. So, I decided to come myself.” Kyna gazed at Marcus with an apprehensive look. “The messenger came from the bakery who operate the water mills along the Aqua Traiana on the Janiculum. You know, the ones they use to grind the grain into flour. Well someone has attacked the mills. Several have been destroyed. But no one saw who did it. The saboteurs used the cover of darkness. The bakers say someone has deliberately sabotaged them, but there is something else Marcus.” Kyna’s eyes widened. “Afterwards when they inspected the damage they found red graffiti painted all over the aqueduct near to the mills. The slogan is scrawled repeatedly across the aqueduct. It’s there for everyone to see and the graffiti is addressed to you.”
“To me? What does it say?” Marcus said as he started to feel sick.
“It says that you should have gone to the temple of Invidia,” Kyna exclaimed as a little horrified blush appeared in her cheeks.
Chapter Eleven – A Deal with the Devil
Marcus looked up at the high, stone arches of the Aqua Traiana and sighed. It was morning and he was standing on the rocky slopes of the Janiculum, close to the point where the aqueduct crossed the Tiber. Amongst the reed beds, that lined the banks of the swollen river, an otter inquisitively poked its head out of the greenish water and gazed at the group of men. Cassius together with a few engineers and the men from the bakery, which operated the mills, were standing beside Marcus examining the damage to the watermills. Several of the wooden mills, built into the stone and concrete structure of the aqueduct, had been destroyed by fire and others had been severely damaged.
“And no one saw anything,” Marcus asked turning to gaze at the men from the bakery. “No one saw who did this?”
“It happened under cover of darkness,” one of the bakers replied. “All my workers had already gone home. There was no one here during the attack. We were only alerted when the mills were already on fire.”
Marcus grunted in frustration. Then gathering himself together, he turned towards one of the engineers. “How long will it take before you can rebuild them?” he asked.
“That depends on the resources that I am given,” the engineer replied gruffly. “If I am allowed to do my job without constraints, then we can have the mills back up and running within a few weeks.”
“And what stops these arsonists from coming back during the night and destroying them again,” one of the bakers snapped angrily. “I can’t grind grain without these mills, not in the quantities that are needed. You need to start paying for round the clock security. Proper security. These mills are crucial to the making of flour and bread. They cannot be left undefended.”
Marcus sighed again and ran his hand across his stubbly chin. Funds were tight, especially now and it would be tough getting Paulinus to agree to more spending. But the watermills were part of the state-owned infrastructure for which he, as prefect of the grain supply, was responsible. He could not just do nothing. Turning away without saying anything, he walked over to one of the stone arches and gazed at the red, painted graffiti that defaced the fine stone-work.
“You should have gone to the temple of Invidia, Marcus,” he muttered to himself as he read the graffiti out loud. “You should have gone to the temple of Invidia, Marcus,” he repeated.
“Do you think it is connected to the warning by that stranger,” Cassius blurted out, as he came up to Marcus and stared at the scrawled message. “You know; the man who delivered that warning, telling you to leave Rome. Didn’t he tell you to pay half a million denarii to the temple of Invidia?”
“He did,” Marcus growled. “He did.”
Cassius remained silent as he turned to gaze at the freshly-painted red graffiti messages that were scrawled over the stone arches of the aqueduct.
“The temple of Invidia,” Marcus said pronouncing each word slowly and carefully. Then he frowned. “Invidia. Known to the Greeks as the god Nemesis. God of vengeance; of revenge. Why Invidia? Why choose this god?”
At his side, Marcus’s young secretary shrugged as he stared at the tall arches of the aqueduct. “Maybe the person behind all of this wants revenge Sir,” he said at last. “Maybe they want to take revenge on you for some reason. Choosing Invidia would be a good way of getting that message across.”
“Who the fuck would want to take revenge on me?” Marcus snapped, as his face darkened. “Is this what this is all about? Some stupid personal vendetta. Well I will be damned if I am going to let these arseholes run me out of town.”
“I understand,” Cassius said quickly. “But would it not be wise to take some precautions. Whoever is doing this may decide to try and strike closer to home next time. Maybe we should start to limit your public exposure; limit the number of meetings that you attend. Maybe we should hire a few more bodyguards Sir. No offence, but Indus is old.”
“I am not going to change my routine and public commitments because some terrorists are trying to scare and blackmail me,” Marcu
s retorted, as he rounded on Cassius. “No way in hell am I doing that. And as for my personal security, Indus is more than capable of handling matters. No Cassius, there will be no compromise with these terrorists whoever they are.”
“Then what do we do Sir?” Cassius muttered as he looked away.
“We are going to find these bastards and stop them,” Marcus growled with sudden resolve. “And to help me do that I am going to have to make a deal with the devil!”
***
The Subura neighbourhood brought forth many memories and none were pleasant, Marcus thought. Pushing his way through the crowd and accompanied by Indus, he headed deeper into the chaotic warren of dank alleys and overcrowded, crumbling tenement buildings. Most respectable people avoided the inner-city neighbourhood just off the Forum. The Subura was where the poor and the criminal classes of Rome had set up their businesses and made their homes. And it was here too, in this densely populated, squalid and overcrowded neighbourhood, that many newly arrived immigrants from across the empire came to try and make their fortune. Their presence was easily noticeable by the dozen foreign languages that he could hear being spoken around him. The stink of shit and piss was overwhelming, and rats were skittering about amongst the human refuse, that had been dumped out of windows and into the street. The voices of the shopkeepers filled the alleys and in the shadows of doorways, female and male prostitutes, some of them no more than children, were eyeing up potential customers. Keeping his hand firmly on his money bag in the pocket of his senatorial toga, Marcus paused at an intersection and tried to get his bearings. He’d been to the Subura many times before - but the place was still a bewildering labyrinth.
As he paused, a prostitute appeared from a doorway and quickly slipped her arm around Marcus’s waist, as she gave him a glimpse of her breasts.
“Looking for some fun senator,” she purred.
“I will give you one sesterce,” Marcus replied as he patiently removed her hand from around his waist. “If you can tell me where Cunitius lives.”
The girl frowned and then looked down at the silver coin in Marcus’s hand. As she reached out to take the coin, Marcus’s hand closed around it.
“Cunitius,” he said sharply. “I am looking for Cunitius. He has an office in the Subura. He’s an investigator. Do you know him? Do you know where he lives?”
A coy little smile appeared on the girls face as she looked up at Marcus.
“Two sesterces, senator,” she replied. “Two sesterces, one for me and one for my baby. Then I will tell you where he lives.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows as he looked at the prostitute. Then, with a sigh he reached into his toga and produced a second silver coin. He handed the money to the girl and she hastily pocketed the coins and pointed down a crowded alley. “Follow it,” she said. “Then take the second alley on the left. Follow that right until the end. You will want the yellow door on the right.” The prostitute paused as she studied Marcus for a moment. “When you are done come back and find me senator,” she added. “You look like a good, honest man, not like the rest of them. I will give you a free ride.”
Marcus did not reply but turned and started to push his way down the narrow, congested street with Indus following him. There was nothing noble about the Subura. It was a hard, dangerous place where the poor were mercilessly exploited and discarded when they no longer had any commercial value or use. The people in the Subura were slaves in all but name.
Up ahead, a crowd had gathered around a man who was standing on top of a barrel, waving his arms around in an agitated manner. People were listening in respectful silence. Another street preacher Marcus thought, as he headed towards them. Street preachers could be found on every street corner in Rome. They came from all corners of the empire, peddling their bizarre religions, ideas, salvations and prophecies to anyone who cared to listen. Most of them were harmless, out to make a quick fortune or seeking fame, but now and then the urban guard had been forced to remove trouble makers who threatened society’s strict class hierarchy.
As he drew closer, Marcus could hear the man crying out and, as he did Marcus abruptly stopped and the expression on his face turned to one of alarm. The preacher standing on his barrel was speaking in good, clear Latin and he was laying into the leading politicians and senators of the War Party. As he stood listening to the man haranguing his friends and political faction, a little colour shot into Marcus’s cheeks. What the hell was going on? What was this? He had never come across this before. This was bold; bold in the extreme. A street preacher criticising the War Party in public. Who the hell did the man think he was.
“Heh,” Marcus shouted, as he stared at the preacher. “Heh you! Who has put you up to telling these lies? You don’t know what you are talking about. Shame on you.”
Catching sight of Marcus, the preacher grinned in sudden delight and, raising his hand, he pointed straight at Marcus.
“There is one of these monstrous people,” the preacher roared, spittle flying from his mouth. “There is the senator responsible for our miserable grain rations. If you are hungry people, then blame him. Blame that man for your misfortune. His incompetence is the reason that we all have to suffer.”
The crowd gathered around the preacher, had all turned to gaze at Marcus and, as he felt their sullen, raking, resentful glares, Marcus’s hand dropped down to the pommel of his sword, which he was carrying under the folds of his toga. The smouldering hostility was unprecedented. On top of his barrel, the street preacher was sneering at Marcus, making no attempt to hide his contempt. Wrenching his gaze away from the preacher, Marcus started to move away down the street. When he’d reached the alley, the prostitute had told him to enter, he paused and turned to gaze back down the narrow street. The preacher had resumed his shouting and frantic arm waving.
“Shit,” Marcus hissed to himself, with a worried look.
***
“Well, well look who it is,” Cunitius exclaimed, with a genuinely surprised look, as he rose from behind a desk upon which were stacked piles of scrolls and wooden writing tablets. Marcus stood in the small entrance hall and said nothing as his former nemesis grinned, came towards him, and stretched out a hand. Looking down at the proffered hand, Marcus hesitated, then grasped it in a firm handshake. There had been a time, some years before, when Cunitius had been the enemy. He had been the implacable and relentless agent who had hunted Marcus, from the shores of Vectis to the back streets of Rome, intent on his capture and downfall. There had been a time when Cunitius had threatened everything that he had.
“I did not expect to ever see you walk through my door,” Cunitius said, still grinning as he took a step backwards and carefully examined Marcus. “I thought you’d had enough of me after my man tried to mug you, down at the harbour. But here you are. Marcus, the Senator, the prefect of the grain supply. How is you son Fergus? I heard that the assassination attempt on Hadrian’s life failed.”
Cunitius was a big broad-shouldered man with a broken nose and a closely shaven head. He looked in his late forties.
“Fergus is doing fine,” Marcus growled. “And as for the attack on Hadrian. I know nothing about that or why it failed.”
“Ofcourse you don’t,” Cunitius said smoothly, as his eyes twinkled in delight. “Nigrinus must have been furious that the attempt failed. I have done work for that man before and you do not want to cross him. You don’t want to make an enemy of Nigrinus. You may as well kill yourself if you do.”
Stoically, Marcus stood his ground as he gazed at Cunitius. The last time he’d seen Cunitius had been some eighteen months ago, when the investigator had arrived at his veteran’s charity and told him about the plot to assassinate Hadrian. The revelation had put him in a very difficult position, for it had forced him to choose between loyalty to the War Party or Fergus his son.
“For a man who claims to have made a fortune serving the rich of Rome,” Marcus replied sharply. “You do sure still live in a shithole.”
Cunitius
raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and turned to look around the small dingy office on the ground floor of the apartment block.
“Maybe, maybe,” he nodded. “You should see my country estate. It is in an even worse state than my office. But I don’t think you have come here to criticise my taste in interior design. What can I do for you Marcus?”
“I need your help,” Marcus said, forcing the words from his mouth. “I need an investigator to help me catch someone. I heard you specialise in such work.”
“Ah,” Cunitius said lightly as he raised his hand to stroke his chin. “You need a first-class investigator, a professional, a man who gets things done. So that is why you thought of me. I am flattered Marcus. I really am.”
“Cut out the shit,” Marcus growled, as he glared at Cunitius. “Can you help me or not?”
Cunitius seemed to be enjoying himself as he gazed at Marcus in silence. Then he turned and sat back down behind his desk.
“I am a businessman, Marcus,” Cunitius said at last, with a weary sigh. “I told you this many years ago. I bear no grudges. I do the job that I am paid to do - and I am the very best at what I do. And this may surprise you, but I enjoy my work. So, who are you looking for?”
Marcus looked away as he spoke.
“A man came to my house back in February, just after I was appointed as prefect of the grain supply,” Marcus snapped. “He threatened me. Told me to get out of Rome and leave everything behind. He told me to pay half million denarii to the temple of Invidia and warned me that a storm was coming. A storm that was going to sweep me away. I didn’t take it very seriously at the time, but then yesterday an act of sabotage was carried out against the water mills on the Janiculum. These mills are part of the infrastructure for which I am responsible. Graffiti had been scrawled across the aqueduct close to the mills. The graffiti was addressed to me personally. It said that I should have gone to the damned temple.” Marcus paused, as he took a deep breath. “I need this man, or whoever is behind this man, caught and caught quickly.”
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 10
