Bandits of Rome

by Bandits of Rome (retail) (epub)

  “I’ll take Fabilla to bed now,” said Rufa.

  Carbo nodded. “Marsia, you can go to bed now as well.”

  “And you, Severa. We still have some way to walk tomorrow.”

  Severa looked briefly defiant, but the tiredness seemed to overcome her resistance, and she dipped her head and followed the others to the bedroom.

  Vespillo joined Carbo at the bar. “Drink?”

  Carbo smiled. “I thought you would never ask.”

  Vespillo ordered two cups of wine, and they leaned against the bar table as they both took deep swallows. Vespillo looked into the cup reflectively for a moment.

  “You know, that’s not at all bad.”

  Carbo nodded his agreement. “Not quite as nice as that stuff from Mount Falernus.”

  “Of course not. Amazing how cheap you can buy Falernian if you are near where it is made. Of course once something arrives in Rome, its price automatically triples.”

  Vespillo took another sip. “No cold feet?”

  Carbo looked up sharply. “What?”

  Vespillo grinned at him mischievously.

  “You’re going to ask her to marry you aren’t you?”

  Carbo gaped. “How did you know?”

  “Friend, it’s obvious. You two dote on each other. And here you are, heading for your new home, your fresh start. Going to wait until you are settled, then ask her over a romantic meal?”

  “I… hadn’t quite worked out the specifics.”

  Vespillo laughed and clapped his friend on the back. “Congratulations. You two deserve each other.”

  Carbo looked around to hide his embarrassment. The tavern was quiet - a middle-aged couple arguing, a drunk snoring loudly in one corner and a small group of rough-looking men laughing and groaning as they played dice. At another table sat a smartly dressed young man, straight-backed and head erect, curly, dark hair cropped short and neat, sporting a light, youthful beard that he was trying to keep clean as he ate his sloppy stew. The tavern owner slouched against the wall behind the bar, looking bored and fed up. Carbo was happy to ignore him, but Vespillo was clearly in a more sociable mood.

  “So do you get much banditry around these parts?”

  The tavern owner looked up sharply, as the tavern became suddenly silent. The dice rolled to a stop with a clatter, but none of the gamers saw the score, all eyes turned towards the two strangers. The tavern owner picked up a cloth and started wiping down the bar table.

  “Why do you ask?” he said, sounding like he was making an effort to keep his tone casual.

  Carbo gave Vespillo a little shake of the head, but Vespillo continued oblivious.

  “We came across a party on the road, a few miles back. All dead.”

  The tavern owner said nothing, concentrating on wiping a stubborn piece of dirt from the table.

  “That doesn’t surprise you?” pressed Vespillo. “Banditry is that common around here? So common that it occurs in daylight on a main road?”

  “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing,” said the tavern owner sullenly. Carbo was aware that all eyes were on them, and he felt uncomfortable under the attention, but Vespillo was in his stride.

  “Blatant lawlessness, in Italy, and no one seems to care,” he said, his voice getting louder. “When I reach a bigger town, I will report what I have seen to the proper authorities, and I will make sure to mention the lack of interest from the locals here. I’m sure they will take that into account when they allocate their resources to protect the vulnerable citizens.”

  The barman said nothing, and Vespillo looked around the room. Only the young man in the corner met his challenging gaze. Vespillo shook his head.

  “I am a commander of the vigiles. I have led freedmen and slaves and the poorest of the poor as they fought for their homes and their lives against criminals, against fire, against…”

  Carbo put a hand on Vespillo’s arm, giving him a strong warning look.

  Vespillo shook his head. “Those slaves and freedmen are more Roman than any of you freeborn,” he said contemptuously. “I’m going to bed.” He stomped off. Carbo turned back to his drink, intending to finish it and leave. The buzz of low conversation slowly returned to the tavern.

  A touch on his shoulder caused him to stiffen.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. Your friend, he is right. I have been away from home, in Greece, for five years. Now I have returned, things seem different. No one will talk about it, but I am getting an odd feeling.”

  “What sort of feeling?” asked Carbo.

  “I’m not sure. The people around here seem scared, somehow cowed.”

  Carbo looked around the tavern. Conversation was subdued, eyes downcast. The gambling had stopped.

  “I don’t know what the problem is,” said Carbo, “But we reach our destination tomorrow, and that will be a relief after today.”

  The young man hesitated, then asked, “May I accompany you tomorrow?”

  “Of course, if we are going the same way. Where are you headed?”

  “To the villa of Gaius Sempronius Blaesus, near Nola.”

  “Nola? That’s where we are going, to my farm.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows. “Then maybe we are neighbours. I am Quintus Sempronius Blaesus. Gaius’ son.”

  Carbo reached out and shook his hand. “I suppose there are only so many places to stay for a night on this road, so it shouldn’t be a surprise to encounter someone with the same destination. Very pleased to meet you though, Quintus. I’m Marcus Valerius Carbo.”

  “Likewise, Carbo. So you live near Nola?”

  “Well I own a farm near there. Granted to me on discharge from the legions. I’ve never been there.”

  “So you decided to make a visit? To check it is being run correctly, make sure the steward isn’t fiddling the books?”

  “Sort of. We actually decided to move there. Rome… lost it’s appeal. I invited Vespillo to accompany us too, though he will return to Rome in time.”

  “Is he always so outspoken?”

  Carbo laughed. “He does sometimes get on his high horse. I think command can make some people like that.”

  “Command of a bunch of ex-slaves?”

  Carbo frowned at this. “He was a centurion in the legions as well.” His voice was low, and had a dangerous edge to it. Quintus noticed and back-tracked.

  “I suppose it is a hard job, keeping control of a group of thugs.” Carbo tensed, but let it go. How could someone who hadn’t fought alongside the vigiles understand their sense of honour and pride at being taken from their lowly positions and given the opportunity to make a difference to their city, and to their families and households.

  “How does he keep order?” asked Quintus. “Get respect and obedience from the likes of the men he commands?”

  “He is a good leader,” said Carbo, “And a good man. They follow him because he is in front of them. First into a burning house, first into a fight. And he treats them like Romans, not like shit on his shoes.” He gave Quintus a penetrating stare at this, and Quintus had the good grace to look a little embarrassed. Carbo changed the subject.

  “How long do you think it will take to reach your father’s villa tomorrow? I think our journey will be just over half a day, if we don’t tarry in Nola too long.”

  Quintus thought for a moment. “That sounds about right. It would probably be quicker if it was just you and me, but I presume your daughter isn’t as fast a walker as a grown man.” Carbo didn’t correct the mistaken assumption about Fabilla.

  “I have an injured leg, from the legions. She matches my pace pretty well.”

  Quintus smiled. “Well the road beyond Nola is not as well made as the Via Popilia. Just tracks, really. It will be nice to be home after so long away.”

  “I have to say I’m looking forward to seeing my farm. I hope my steward received the letters I sent on ahead asking him to be ready for me.” Carbo yawned. “Well, if an early start is needed, I should
go to bed as well. We will be ready to leave soon after sun-up. If you want to come with us, meet us in front of the tavern.”

  “Thank you, I will. Goodnight.”

  Carbo made his way up the stairs to their room. Vespillo was already snoring loudly, arms wrapped around Severa, lying on a blanket on the hard floor. Marsia had curled herself as small as possible in a corner, hugging herself for warmth. Rufa and Fabilla had the only bed. Fabilla was fast asleep, while Rufa lay awake, stroking her daughter’s hair. By the dim light of a small oil lamp, Carbo saw Rufa look up as he entered, and smile. She gently drew Fabilla closer to her to make room for Carbo, and patted the bed.

  As quietly as he could, he got onto the straw mattress, and pulled the single blanket over the three of them. He placed one protective arm over the woman he loved and her daughter, feeling contentment seep through him. But as sleep approached, his last thoughts were of blood, gaping neck wounds, and sightless eyes staring at the sky.

  Chapter II

  The small company of travellers had assembled in front of the tavern promptly at sun-up. Carbo was pleased that no one had overslept, but not surprised. Vespillo and himself, used to rigid military timing from so many years in the legions, could not lie in bed with the sun up even if they wanted to. Marsia, Rufa and Fabilla, as slaves or former slaves, similarly had strict schedules that were ingrained. Severa kept her house with matronly efficiency, and pride would never allow her to sleep longer than Vespillo. Carbo had only doubted whether the little rich boy, Quintus, would be this disciplined. But he had been the first there, hair combed, tunic looking like it was fresh from the fuller, not grimed from weeks on the road. Around his waist he wore a long sword, seated in a scabbard, an ornate, silver-banded hilt protruding from the sheath.

  A light mist hung over the road, but it was nothing like the previous miserable conditions, and they started their journey with rather more enthusiasm than they had managed the day before. Vespillo, more talkative than Carbo as usual, engaged Quintus in conversation.

  “So what took you abroad then, Quintus?”

  Quintus looked surprised. “Surely it is an essential part of any young man’s education? Visiting the land of Aristotle and Euripides, Plato’s Academy and the Theatre of Dionysus. Where better to learn about the world?”

  Vespillo laughed. “Where better? In the legions, lad. Do you really think you can understand life by listening to some ancient Greek fellators? You know nothing, until you have shat yourself in terror as a barbarian army charges you, watched your friends’ guts spilling onto the ground, heard the screams of women and children as their villages are burned around them. Isn’t that right, Carbo?”

  Carbo just grunted. Quintus wrinkled his nose as if he had smelled something foul.

  “You may believe that. But why do those things? What drove you into battle?”

  “A centurion with a bloody great stick, most of the time!” said Vespillo. Carbo chuckled. Quintus just shook his head.

  “You fought, you suffered hardship and terror and deprivation, and yet you don’t really know why.”

  Vespillo’s expression darkened and his voice became hard.

  “I know why I did it. I did it for my friends to my left and to my right. We fought for each other.”

  Quintus nodded at this. “Without friends, no one would choose to live, even if he had all other goods.”

  “Aristotle,” said Carbo.

  Quintus looked surprised, and smiled. “Aristotle indeed.”

  Vespillo pulled a disgusted expression. “You have been hanging around with Vatius for too long. I thought we had left all that rubbish back in your tavern in Rome.” He turned back to Quintus. “So you spent your whole time in Greece sitting under plane trees and listening to assholes spouting crap?”

  “Not my whole time, no. The mornings were philosophy, the afternoons were fitness, wrestling and sword-training in the gymnasium, and the evenings were drinking and fucking the best looking girls I could find.”

  Vespillo laughed out loud and clapped Quintus on his back. “Now that sounds more like my idea of fun.” Severa glared at him. “In my younger days, I mean. When I was single, before I found my sweet wife…”

  Severa didn’t look mollified, and Carbo suppressed a grin as Vespillo went quiet, looking down at his feet.

  They reached Nola in good time, but as it was still only mid morning, they decided not to stop for long. Vespillo however insisted on finding someone to report the bandit activity to, and wandered off in search of one of the decuriones who comprised the local council. Carbo approached an elderly street seller to buy some drinks and snacks for the others.

  “Some of your dates and nuts, five cups of well-watered wine, and some fruit juice, please.”

  The reply that came was not in Latin, though it sounded similar.

  “I don’t understand,” said Carbo.

  The street seller repeated the same sentence.

  Carbo looked around helplessly. Quintus smiled. “He is talking Oscan. The language of the Samnites. More people used to speak it in Italy than Latin. It’s dying out now, but many people around here still speak it as their first language. This old fellow is obviously one of them.”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I’m deaf, can you speak up, please.”

  Quintus laughed as Carbo tried to get his head around the problem of a man speaking in a different language, who was too deaf to realise that Carbo didn’t understand him. Quintus let him squirm for a while, before stepping in and speaking loudly and clearly in Oscan to the seller. The seller looked at Carbo in puzzlement, then understanding dawned. He smiled, and cupped his hand to his ear and Carbo signed back his incomprehension with an open armed shrug. Carbo then pointed out the food and drink he wanted, signalling quantities with his fingers. Quintus helped him bring back the provisions to where the rest of the group sat on the smooth paving slabs surrounding a fountain that was the centrepiece of a small plaza.

  Carbo looked around him as they ate. The place had an air of decay about it, a hint of former glories to be seen in faded frescos and crumbling statues. People shuffled around, going about their business, and there was a downbeat air to them. Tempers frayed too easily, the crash of a falling pot or jolt of a cart in a pothole startled too much. Carbo was reminded of a dog that had been beaten too often, and now slunk about with its tail between its legs, trying to stay out of trouble and terrified of any raised hand. Quintus noted his gaze.

  “This place used to be important, you know.”

  Carbo nodded. “It looks like it has seen better days.”

  “It has a noble history though. It is one of the oldest cities of Campania. Taken by the Romans in the Great Samnite War. Fought in three battles against Hannibal. Involved in the Social War and stormed by Spartacus. The divine Augustus died here.”

  “You seem proud of it.”

  “Proud?” Quintus considered. “Maybe. It’s where I grew up. Not as big or important as Rome, but still, it’s my home town, and that’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” agreed Carbo, reflecting on his own attitude to the city of Rome. He had spent most of his life away from it, but fighting for it. When he returned home, he found a city of splendour and squalour, opulence and destitution. He found a repressed, poor underclass, almost completely ignored by the elite who ran the city. But he found those same poor people to have courage and integrity, and he had led them to fight for their homes against fire and madness. He loved that city, he concluded, for all its imperfections. But like lovers who had undergone a trauma together, and found they couldn’t be together afterwards, he needed to be away from it, to start afresh.

  “Your father,” asked Carbo. “He is a Nolan too? Oscan through and through?”

  “No, he is from Rome, like yourself.”

  “How did he end up down here, then? No offence to Nola, but not many who can afford to live well in Rome ever leave there.”

  Quintus shrugged. “
I don’t know. He never talks about Rome.”

  Carbo knew when a tone of voice told him to let a matter drop, so he checked on Rufa and Fabilla, found them nattering with Marsia and Severa, and so went back to eating in silence.

  After a while, Vespillo arrived back, looking red-faced. Carbo tossed him a small bag of nuts.

  “How did you get on?”

  “Bloody incompetent officials. No one wanted to see me. Certainly no one seemed very impressed by my rank in the vigiles. I eventually got to see a junior clerk to one of the decuriones, who dutifully noted my report, said he would pass it on to the centurion of the stationares stationed here, and that was that.”

  “They aren’t going to investigate? Send any men out into the countryside?”

  “No. I don’t know if it was apathy or fear, but they certainly don’t seem to have any desire to rock the boat. The clerk just commented on stupid travellers going undefended.”

  “I didn’t think we needed a fully armed century to move around the roads of Italy,” said Carbo, frowning.

  “Quite,” said Vespillo, still looking like he wanted to strike something, or someone.

  Carbo put a calming hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done your bit, friend. There’s nothing else you can do.”

  “Of course there is. There is something very wrong here. You’ve noticed it too, I can tell. We can ask around, find out what’s going on here. I bet you and I could smoke these criminals out, show them what Roman law means.”

  “No.”

  Carbo said the word flatly. Vespillo looked at him in surprise.

  “No?”

  “This is not my problem. I’m not a soldier any more. I’m just a veteran, retiring to his farm, with his new family. And you are not an official, you are a watchman of Rome, not Nola. You have no authority here, and no duty to do more.”