The warehouse had been vacant for a month, but the pungent smell of salt and rotting fish still hung in the air like a hundred broken promises. Spots of blood marked the dusty, warped floorboards and cracked walls. The former overseer’s office was situated at the back of the building, at the end of a narrow corridor. The door was shut. Light slanted down from two open shutters positioned half-way up the wall. But they were too high for anyone to see through. Labeo didn’t want the small army of men, congregating in the main part of the warehouse, to know they had captured - and were torturing - a spy.
Manius arched his back on receiving another vicious blow. He felt like his arms might come out of their sockets. His bound wrists bled from where the rope had worn through his skin, like a warm knife through butter. The piece of rope hung over a hook, which was attached to the main beam on the ceiling. A pulley system meant that a couple of Labeo’s foot soldiers could easily raise the Briton up - and let go of the rope when ordered, to leave him to drop to the floor. His bottom lip was split open, his nose was broken - and his right eye and cheek had swelled to such an extent that his vision was blurred. The world was growing dimmer.
They may have broken his nose, but they were yet to break the man. The only words Manius uttered so far were, “I am a Roman citizen”. The first time he spoke there was a measure of defiance, or irony, in his tone. He soon mumbled the sentence however, not quite knowing why he was doing so. Under his breath however Manius cursed his captors and ill fortune.
The new agent had duly followed Carbo that morning, making sure to keep his distance, adopting the tradecraft he had learned from Agrippa. Manius expected another routine day, as Carbo met with his friend. He was wrong. Along with a larger retinue than usual the two men purposefully walked through Rome, towards a district situated between the river and Jewish quarter. They entered the warehouse and soon after a steady stream of others joined them. Realising that the attack upon the Jewish district was imminent Manius resolved to get word to Agrippa. The demagogue needed to be stopped. Some may have considered Carbo and his policies to be foolish - the cancelling of debts, the state appropriating private capital and industry, the persecution of Jews - but Carbo was dangerous. His promises and propaganda were proving popular among the gilds and students. This attack could just be the start of things. Weeds grow quicker than flowers. But Agrippa would soon cut the rabble-rouser down to size, Manius thought.
Unfortunately, the agent was being spied upon. Tarquin Gellius had caught sight of the man who had attacked him at the tavern. It was surely more than a coincidence that he was present. At first Gellius merely observed Manius, before he suspected that the brute was surveilling the warehouse and his comrades. The student rushed to alert Paulus Labeo, who instructed his chief enforcer, Gnaeus Piso, to muster some men and apprehend their uninvited guest.
Manius was injured and outnumbered. He was able to fend off the first couple of attackers but then he was brought to the ground. The Briton suffered blows to the face and hobnailed boots stamped upon already cracked ribs. Gellius was sufficiently wise, or cowardly, not to enter the fray until he was sure his enemy had been knocked unconscious.
Gnaeus Piso used smelling salts to arouse his prisoner. Or his acetum-drenched breath may have been considered just as potent. Piso was a soldier, who had served out his twenty-five years in the army. He had been given a plot of land near Cosa, after his retirement, but Piso had been a better fighter than farmer. His wife passed away and his sons left to join the army. He sold his farm, to pay off his debts, and travelled to Rome to find employment, as a tanner. He blamed the Jews for his fate. They had loaned him the money, at a crippling interest rate, to cover his gambling debts. But the Jews were not content just to ruin his life. He believed that they had bled Rome dry, during the civil wars, as they loaned money to Caesar, Pompey, Antony and Augustus over the years. They worshipped false gods and stole Roman women. When he heard Publius Carbo giving a speech in the marketplace, the demagogue was preaching to the converted. He met with Paulus Labeo and soon became his enforcer. The ex-soldier helped to recruit men in the taverns and gilds and break-up rallies by opponents. Piso was loyal and believed in Labeo and their cause. He had yet to refuse an order, including that of setting fire to a Jewish temple, abusing Jewish women - and torturing a suspected spy.
A square head sat on even squarer shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose veiny, as if it were a map of all the tributaries of the Rhine. Piso was the wrong side of fifty but his frame was still brawny, his mind a patchwork of bitterness, courage, duty and rage. He would not bat an eyelid at continuing to torture the man, hanging up like a slab of meat in front of him. And he would not bat an eyelid at then killing him. He was a spy, an enemy of the cause and a foreigner.
Piso bared his yellow teeth, in a seething smile, as he thrashed the captive’s back once more. His hand ached from clutching the cane too tightly, for too long. The malice he bore the Briton still easily eclipsed the begrudging respect he gave him, for his ability to endure his blows.
“I’ll break the bastard. He’ll be squealing, like a pig about to be slaughtered, soon. I’ll wring the Briton’s neck, like a chicken, if I have to. I’ll beat him so hard that even his own mother won’t recognise him,” Piso remarked to Labeo, who had been tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for the prisoner to confess. The propagandist was keen to know who his enemy was. Once Piso had compelled the Briton to talk, he would silence him. A dead witness was no witness at all.
Death is the solution to all problems. No man - no problem.
“We must still proceed with the plan,” Paulus Labeo ordered, taking charge of the matter. He knew that his aristocratic friend had little stomach for some of the decisions that needed to be made. “You can have your fun with him later. The men have assembled. We cannot afford to call the raid off and lose face or followers. We may never get this opportunity again. Publius, you should give your speech - put iron in their souls. And then, Gnaeus, lead our forces off. You have your instructions.”
“Yes, Sir,” Piso replied, as if he were back in the army. He would direct select groups of trusted men to enter properties and steal valuables. Coinage and jewellery should be prioritised. Many of the younger Jewish men would be away, at work. Most of the inhabitants would be women or elderly men. There would be little resistance and Piso had the numbers to subdue the enemy. Properties would be ransacked or torched. Temples would be desecrated. Their holy men would be abused and beaten. Women defiled. It would be a joyous day - one Rome would remember. Carbo could deny responsibility. But new recruits would flock to his banner and support the cause. They would no longer be an idealistic movement, but a force to be reckoned with.
“You can leave two of your men with us. We will be here, if the dog decides to talk. Should he be encouraged to loosen his tongue we can then release him. Set him down for now. He has suffered enough,” the tribune said, lying. He hoped that the prisoner had heard and believed in his offer of freedom, in return for a confession.
The rope slackened and Manius slumped to the floor, like a puppet with his strings cut. He heard Labeo’s words but believed them not. He knew that a full confession was tantamount to a death sentence. “Better to trust an augur than politician,” Fronto had always advised.
The prisoner let out a groan. He hoped that his captors would hear and believe that he was a broken man. Frightened. Enfeebled. The hulking bodyguard lay curled up like a baby. His arms and shoulders felt like they were on fire. His bounds still bit into his wrists, like a bracelet of serpent’s teeth. His ribs were a slab of agony. Every breath caused him pain. But where there is life there is hope, Cicero had consoled. His plan was to convince his enemies that he was weaker than he was. He had employed the tactic in the arena, on more than one occasion, of convincing his opponent that he was injured or defeated. And then suddenly fighting back. Sooner or later they might move him. Or they might leave him alone. Left for dead. Manius had already surveyed the room, for weap
ons. There was a hammer and rust-ridden chisel on a large chest by the door. A heavy, clay jug sat on a nearby table, along with a bronze stylus. Labeo had called the Briton a “dog”.
But every dog has its day.
The determination to find and save his friend overruled the fear Varro felt at entering the lion’s den. He was not sure he had ever experienced such breathlessness as he ran through the streets of Rome, following Vulso. His thighs and throat burned. The praetorian finally led him up to a rooftop, where Agrippa was waiting. The roof overlooked an anonymous looking warehouse, albeit the crowd assembling there were far from inconspicuous. Many were tradesmen - bakers, carpenters, blacksmiths or other guildsmen - still wearing their aprons. Jugs of wine were being passed around. Labeo thought that the acetum would put some fire into the bellies of his foot-soldiers. In contrast to the rough-looking workingmen, a smattering of students, wearing tunics as white as sheep, also populated the burgeoning mob.
Agrippa briefed Varro. Confidence and concern laced his tone and stern features. Manius had been taken prisoner. How did he know? The agent, who Agrippa had tasked with shadowing Paulus Labeo, had seen the Briton being carried into the warehouse, before he reported back the consul and mobilised a contingent of soldiers. Agrippa could not be certain that Manius was still being held captive in the building, but it was likely.
“Can we not storm the building now, catch them by surprise?” Varro asked, desperate to liberate his friend - even if he had to climb over a mound of dead bodies to do so.
“No. The bulk of my men are positioned a few streets away from here, close to the Jewish quarter. I want Carbo’s mob to march towards their target. At present they are just a group of men. If I attacked now, I could cause that which I am seeking to prevent. Caesar could be labelled a dictator and butcher - and Carbo’s ranks could swell, if they are slaughtered. Factions in the Senate House could even legitimise him. When the armed mob close in on the Jewish district however we will have cause to strike. I am confident of their route and approach. I have men ready to close off the street. They will not break through our shield wall. We will also close off the street from behind, trap them in a vice. Archers will line the rooftop. Carbo’s would-be army will be forced to surrender - or perish. But that does not mean I will leave Manius to his fate. Firstly, I want you and Vulso to infiltrate the warehouse. Find out if Manius is present. Once the mob have been led off you should have an opportunity to locate him. I should warn you, Rufus, that Manius has probably been tortured. He may even be dead. You need to prepare yourself. You cannot afford to let revenge bubble over. You could compromise yourself and Vulso. I am sure Manius wouldn’t want you to forsake your life in a vain attempt to avenge his.”
Varro nodded his head, to convey he understood. But should Carbo be responsible for murdering his friend, the agent would not rest until he brought the demagogue to justice. And he would answer for his crimes in Hades, rather than in a courthouse.
I’ll kill him.
23.
The jugs of water and wine were still being passed around, but the ribald jokes and expectant chatter ceased as Publius Carbo made his entrance. He climbed the steps to the raised platform - stage - slowly, carefully. His solemn expression tempered any temptation from the crowd to cheer their political champion. The statesman suppressed the urge to turn his nose up at the unpleasant stench tickling his nostrils, for fear his audience would interpret the gesture of him turning his nose up at them. Carbo held his hand aloft to command further quiet, from those whispering in the congregation. He resembled a priest, about to offer up a prayer - or make a sacrifice. His tunic was brown and cut from the same cloth as others he saw before him. Carbo wanted to impress upon his followers that he was like them, as well as above them.
The demagogue surveyed the crowd below. Sweat dripped upon brows. Some clutched clubs. Some gazed up with admiration and adoration in their eyes - although one might have interpreted a few of the expressions as reflecting gormlessness rather than wonder. Carbo looked forward to a time when women would be attracted to his party too. His pictured them sitting at his feet, hanging on his every word. Giving themselves to him. The younger the better.
That morning he remembered his political antecedents: the Gracchi, Catiline and Clodius. He would honour them and learn the lessons they had to impart. Yet their chief legacy was one of failure. Their revolutions and reforms had not taken root. As much as he would publicly condemn Sulla and Caesar, the republican knew he needed to emulate them. Their ruthlessness. How they won and retained power. Carbo and Labeo had already drafted their proscription lists. Enemies would be exiled or executed. He would appropriate Agrippa’s residence. Labeo said he would take great pleasure in requisitioning and redecorating Maecenas’ palatial house on the Esquiline Hill. The pair of them would also ensure that any generals were subordinate and loyal to the new regime. He would disband the bulk of the army and mobilise a police force to suppress any dissent directed towards the state. New officials would be recruited, from the ranks of his devout followers. Diplomats would know their place too and not exceed their brief. Carbo smiled to himself, as he recalled a quote by one of Labeo’s mentors: “A sincere diplomat is like dry water or wooden iron.” Carbo envisioned that he would still plan feast days when in power, but not ones devoted to the gods. Rather they would celebrate the state. He would melt down the army of statues dedicated to Caesar and commission one of himself, if the people so demanded it. He compiled a list of tax rises, which he would implement on the first day of gaining power. The rich would be made poor. He would tax luxury goods and vices, although Labeo advised against upsetting his followers and raising taxes on wine.
“Friends, Romans and comrades,” Carbo declaimed, smiling benignly. “Today we sow the seeds of a new Rome. A Rome for all. A Rome for you. Today we come out of the shadows and provide a cure for a pestilence which has plagued this city for far too long. The enemy is inside the gates. They have taken our wealth, women and jobs. They wish to cripple us with debt, subjugate us. Too many of us deal daily with hunger and privation, whilst they swagger around the city, wearing the finest clothes and eating the richest foods. But no more, I say. We will no longer be bled dry by these parasites. The Jews must be driven out, like lepers… We are many, they are few. Today we will turn the tide in this battle, this battle for the very soul of Rome. We must drag them out of their litters, burn them out of their homes, retrieve our money from the war profiteers and vile usurers - and tear down their temples… I want a world of peace, but I will not see Rome further corrupted and ruined on the altar of Judaism… If you are not for Rome, you are against it. You must even denounce your neighbour and consider him an enemy of the state, should he transgress. More than a husband, father or worker you must be a citizen of Rome!”
Publius Carbo drew breath and paused accept the applause and acclaim of the crowd, which numbered over a hundred. Cups and hands were raised, in a salute to their beloved leader. Spittle filled the air as they chanted his name in a low, rhythmic drone. His solemnity had turned into a blazing passion. His voice hammered into every ear.
Rufus Varro blended in, thanks to the worn, besmirched tunic Vulso had given him to change into. A piece of rope replaced his leather belt. His soft sandals had been replaced by hobnailed boots. A layer of dust and dirt was caked upon his fine features. He raised his cup too. The agent hoped however that none of the surrounding mob had noticed him roll his eyes, in response to their leader’s vicious, vapid speech. The agent stood next to the equally inconspicuous soldier. No one had given them a second look as they entered the warehouse and mingled among the crowd, hoping to glean whatever intelligence they could.
The cheers and foot stamping grew louder, like the tamp of soldiers marching to battle. Varro was worried at one point that the roof might give way, although he subsequently welcomed the scenario. The mob deserved to be buried under the weight of their own raucous din. The nobleman held up his nose, both at the fetid stench and revolti
ng, plebeian behaviour.
It never troubles the wolf how many the sheep may be, Varro thought, remembering the line from Virgil. Carbo would promise them Elysium and deliver Hades. He was using the politics of resentment and division to widen the cracks endemic to society. Varro surveyed the crowd and witnessed a sea of enthralled faces, as if they were listening to music. But Carbo’s oratory would prove a Siren’s song.
He recalled snippets of conversation, between his father and Tiro, about Lucius Sergius Catiline, who similarly attracted students and young aristocrats to his cause, as well as mobs formed from coarser stock.
“Narcissus was less enamoured with himself. Catiline was an impressive soldier and orator. But he also resembled a spoilt child, whose temper and ambition flailed as wildly as the legs of an octopus. His courage cannot be called into question, as opposed to his judgement. He set himself up as the people’s champion. He wanted to cancel their debts - after he had arranged to cancel his own. They swallowed his words like honey. But too much honey will cause a man to vomit… Catiline was as addicted to conspiracy as he was to sex. Women - and men - swooned over his attractive figure. But his reach exceeded his grasp. He was a formidable soldier, who could have served Rome well. Yet he wished to become master over it - and Cicero quite rightly never regretted acting like a dictator, in order to combat the would-be tyrant… Once defeated, Rome largely forgot about Catiline and his cause, until Clodius - that vicious peacock - adopted his mantle. The nobleman became a common street thug, standing on corners like a whore and whipping-up a storm against the establishment. As Diogenes said, “The mob is the mother of all tyrants.” Those were dark days. The darkest day was when Clodius forced Cicero out of Rome… Yet it was a happy day when Clodius met his fate. Those that live by the sword invariably end up dying by the sword.”
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