Bandits of Rome

by Bandits of Rome (retail) (epub)

Vespillo clenched his fists, jaw muscles working. Then he took a deep breath, and let it out. “You’re right. Gods, though, if I ran this town, some of these lazy bastard officials would get a shock.”

  “Thinking of running for office? You, a politician?” Carbo chuckled.

  “Don’t laugh,” said Vespillo. “Why not? A man of my integrity and honour, not to mention my experience of leadership. It’s almost my duty to seek election.”

  Carbo punched him playfully in the upper arm. “You wouldn’t last an hour among those snakes. Come on, let’s get moving.”

  They headed out of the town, and once they were a little distance away, walking past the tombs outside the city boundaries, Carbo looked over his shoulder. The amphitheatre and the temple of Augustus were visible over the tops of the tatty houses that surrounded them. They looked shabby and uncared for. A city in decline. Carbo shook his head. Rome had its share of decrepit and run down buildings, but there was also a vitality to it, constant building and rebuilding, houses, shops, temples. Nola seemed tired, and scared. A place that had had enough, and was waiting to die. Or be killed.

  Atreus and Thyestes had bypassed Nola. They had no need for provisions, and though without their masks they could be any traveller or Nolan citizen, there was no need for any risks. The detour, and the slow going away from the main roads had delayed them, but they were in no hurry. The weather was not as foul as the previous day, though the torrential rain had turned some of the tracks to little better than muddy swamps.

  “A successful tour so far,” said Thyestes. “Though I think we should have kept the merchant.”

  “He had jaundice,” said Atreus. “Probably too much wine. He would have made us nothing. We made enough on his wife to make it worthwhile.”

  “The statues may have brought something, too.”

  Atreus shook his head. “Too bulky, too easily identifiable. Anyway, you know we mainly deal in human goods. Though that little collection of pearls we got from that Jewish fellow yesterday could come in handy.”

  Thyestes abruptly straightened. They had crested a hill, and the main road had come into view. In the distance was a small group of travellers. Atreus stood next to Thyestes, following his gaze. With a purposeful action, he slid his mask into place.

  “Your eyes are younger than mine,” said Atreus. “What can you see?”

  Thyestes squinted. “Looks like…three men. Three women. Wait, I see a child.”

  Atreus considered for a moment. “We take them.”

  Thyestes looked sideways at him. “Haven’t we done enough? Maybe we are pushing our luck.”

  Atreus pulled his mask on. “There is no such thing as luck, Thyestes. Just the results of our actions.”

  Thyestes smiled, and secured his own mask in place. Tragedy looked at Comedy, and they started towards the unsuspecting travellers.

  As Quintus had predicted, the going became much tougher after they left Nola. For a short distance they followed the branch of the Via Popilia that led to Abella, but soon after this they had to leave the properly made road and head along donkey tracks. The recent rain had made it muddy underfoot, and they squelched along unhappily. Quintus thought he recognised Carbo’s farm from the description, and it was in fact close to his father’s villa. The young man was a useful guide, and Carbo realised that they could easily have got lost as they navigated the branching trails.

  Carbo had to admit that, after a life spent either in Rome or in the northern parts of the Empire, this region was beautiful. Rugged but green hills looked down on them from the distance. The air smelled fresh after the rain, and the fruit orchards and olive groves still bore some fruit, despite it now being well into autumn. Up ahead, the path meandered through small but dense woods. Carbo peered forwards into the gloom of the trees, straining his eyes for signs of danger, still uneasy after their discovery on the road the day before.

  Beside him, Vespillo’s left foot hit a slippery patch of mud, and slid out from underneath him, causing him to flail his arms as he tried to keep his balance. Carbo started to laugh, just as the arrow glanced across Vespillo’s skull.

  Vespillo dropped like a beast stunned for sacrifice. A long wound had been opened in his scalp, and blood flowed freely. Carbo whirled, seeing a bowman on the path behind them. He was some distance away, but was clearly a good shot to have hit Vespillo from that far. He was already notching another arrow.

  Carbo turned. The woods were only a fifty paces away.

  “To the trees!” yelled Carbo, “Run!”

  Rufa didn’t hesitate, picking up Fabilla and running as fast as she could with the child in her arms. Severa and Marsia ran too, and Carbo was pleased to see the slave positioning herself behind the mother and daughter to protect them from any further shafts.

  Carbo hoisted Vespillo up, grunting with the effort, pulled the injured man’s arm around his shoulder and started to manhandle him towards the woods. The burden eased as Quintus took the other arm, and with Vespillo moaning incoherently, they moved as quickly as they could towards the safety of the trees.

  A whistle came through the air. Carbo reacted instantly, pushing Vespillo and Quintus sideways, the shove propelling him in the opposite direction. The arrow whizzed through the space they had occupied just the briefest of moments before, and lodged in the mud ahead of them, shaft quivering.

  Carbo grabbed Vespillo again, and they made a last rush for the woods. As they reached the first trees, Carbo dragged Vespillo sideways into cover. Another arrow hissed through the space they had been a moment before, and embedded itself deep in a branch, splinters of wood spitting out.

  Carbo pulled Vespillo behind the thickest tree trunk he could find. It wasn’t that wide, and Vespillo’s broad shoulders protruded beyond the cover on either side, but his vital areas were protected, and if he took an arrow in the arm, he would probably live.

  Carbo looked to the others. Rufa, Severa and Marsia were herding Fabilla deeper into the thickest parts of the woods. Quintus had gained cover and was standing with his back to a tree trunk. He had drawn a long sword, a spatha, Carbo noted, of the sort that was gaining popularity among the auxiliary cavalry. Carbo suppressed a shudder. He had been on the wrong end of one of those swords too many times during his service in Germany.

  Quintus caught his eye, held the contact. Carbo returned what he hoped was a reassuring expression. No more arrows had whistled past, so Carbo risked a peek out from his cover. The bowman had closed the distance to the woods now. Carbo saw, in the instant available to him, that the bandit had an arrow nocked on his bow. Carbo heard the twang of the bowstring and ducked back behind his tree, feeling the wind from the arrow where his face had been a split heartbeat before.

  He looked over to Quintus and held up one finger. Quintus nodded to show his understanding of the head count. Carbo mimed with his hands to indicate Quintus should head deeper into the woods to help protect the others. Again, Quintus nodded, and jagging like a hare, darted off into the trees. Understanding Carbo’s plan, his retreat was noisy, as he thrust aside branches and crunched twigs and leaves underfoot.

  Carbo followed a short distance, then veered off to one side, moving with remarkable stealth for a man of his bulk. He settled behind a large bush a short distance from the obvious trail of broken undergrowth that Quintus had left. As he waited, breathing slowly and deeply to calm his racing heart, something from his subconscious appeared in his thoughts. The glimpse of the bowman. There was something odd. Something about his face?

  Carbo prayed to Mars that the bowman wouldn’t find Vespillo, or if he did would ignore the grizzly watchman. Vespillo would clearly play no part in this fight, in fact looked dead at brief inspection, so the bowman would hopefully move straight on to pursue Carbo and Quintus.

  Only a few more moments passed, before Carbo heard the sound of their pursuer, approaching quickly but without haste. Carbo kept himself hidden, estimating the right timing by sound alone. When he judged that the bowman had just drawn past
his position, he leapt from behind the bush with a roar, gladius raised high.

  The bowman whirled with incredible speed, and as Carbo brought his sword down to cleave the bandit’s head in two, the man swayed to one side, bringing his own sword round in an arc to fend off the blow. Both men allowed their rotatory momentum to continue, giving power and speed to their sword swings. They both completed full rotations, and brought their swords together with immense power and an enormous clash of metal on metal.

  Carbo was the larger, bulkier man, but even he winced at the shock of the meeting of the weapons. The other man staggered, but held tight. Carbo saw the bow had been discarded, useless for fighting in this terrain.

  The bowman took a step back, and stared at Carbo, and Carbo was finally able to see what had been bothering him. The man wore a comedy mask, grinning insanely. From behind the mask, shrewd eyes assessed Carbo.

  The effect was unsettling, like a bad dream, but Carbo had faced down German warriors dressed only in spear and shield before, and he put it swiftly from his mind. He could see the man’s eyes, and that was all he needed.

  A flicker of the pupils, a widening of the lids, and Carbo saw the thrust coming. Even so, he barely managed to parry in time. The man was fast, an accomplished swordsman. Maybe he had fought in more single combat than Carbo, who was more used to fighting with a man either side of him, the man on his right protecting Carbo’s flank with his shield, while Carbo did the same for the man on his left.

  Still, Carbo was a hardened veteran of twenty-five years in the legions, not to mention some hard fighting in Rome itself recently. Two more feints from the bandit were followed by another thrust. Carbo watched the eyes, and parried again, following up with a stabbing thrust of his own. The bandit parried, but the strength of Carbo’s sword arm meant the gladius did not move sideways as much as the man intended, and the blade raked his ribs, ripping a bloody line in his tunic.

  The bowman gasped and put a hand to his side, looking at his palm in amazement as it came away bloody. The mask still laughed at Carbo, mocking him. But Carbo saw something different in the eyes. They held no mockery, only fear. Carbo raised his gladius.

  Quintus quickly caught up with the three women and the little girl. Marsia, at the back of the group, rounded on him when she heard his approach, a short dagger in her hand. She relaxed a little when she saw it was him, but still clutched the knife tightly.

  “Where’s Carbo?” asked Rufa tensely, her arm around Fabilla’s shoulders.

  “Where’s Vespillo?” asked Severa, more sternly. Quintus ignored them.

  “Keep moving,” he said, looking behind him anxiously. He ushered them forward, taking up position at the back of the group. Reluctantly, the three women continued onwards, Fabilla safely between Rufa and Severa. Marsia moved to the front, dagger outstretched, as she navigated between the fruit trees.

  Quintus urged the group to hurry, as he guarded their rear, spatha at the ready. A large roar and a loud clash of weapons came from behind them, and Quintus glanced back, although he knew the sound was from too far away for him to be able to see anything through the trees.

  A woman screamed.

  He whirled, to see Marsia sprawled on the ground, bleeding from a wound to the side of her head, moaning and moving slowly. Severa and Rufa held Fabilla tight, staring in terror at the man who had just stepped out in front of them. Tall, unarmoured, a curved dagger in his belt and a long, unadorned gladius in his hand. And the mask of a tragedy actor on his face.

  Quintus didn’t hesitate. With his spatha outstretched, he shouldered past the women, and threw himself at the strange figure. Quintus was a passable swordsman, had trained with gladiators as a boy, and kept himself fit in the gymnasia in Greece on his travels. He gave his anger and fear their head, and attacked the bandit with a flurry of blows, screaming aloud as he did so. The bandit parried each cut and thrust with ease, the eyes behind the mask almost seeming to twinkle in exhilaration. Tragedy retreated step by step, letting the storm blow itself out.

  Then when Quintus started to fade, when his sword arm started to burn, and his breathing came in rasps, Tragedy stepped forward. He striped his blade across Quintus’ thigh, causing him to buckle and sink to one knee, then he slashed his upper right arm, causing the sword to drop to the floor.

  He looked down at the young man, barely more than a boy. Quintus’ head was bowed, breathing hard, shoulders slumped in defeat. Tragedy raised his sword for a finishing thrust. Quintus lifted his head defiantly, looked his killer straight in the eye.

  Tragedy hesitated, stared. Quintus refused to tremble before his imminent death. Tragedy lowered his sword.

  A loud scream reached them, distant in the forest. A man’s voice.

  “For Jupiter’s sake, have mercy.”

  It did not sound like Carbo.

  Tragedy stared off into the woods. Then he started to run in the direction of the scream.

  Quintus sagged, then bent forward and vomited.

  Carbo’s gladius descended like a blacksmith’s hammer. Terrified eyes stared out wide from behind the laughing mask, and for a moment, Comedy seemed transfixed. At the last instant, he threw himself to one side, and Carbo’s sword swished through the air, missing a cleaving blow to the skull by a hair’s breadth. Carbo staggered, unbalanced as the momentum of the swing pulled him forward. For a moment, his flank was unguarded.

  But Comedy had snagged his foot on a root, and he sprawled sideways. His sword flew out from his hand as he sought to break his fall. He landed on his shoulder, then rolled onto his back, winded.

  Carbo regained his balance, and looked down at the fallen bandit. Incredibly, his mask still remained in place, curly grizzled hair poking over the top, the smile now seeming to Carbo like the hysterical grin of a madman. He saw tears form at the corner of the bandit’s eyes, overflow. He lifted his sword.

  “For Jupiter’s sake, have mercy,” cried Comedy.

  Carbo paused, narrowed his eyes. Mercy. He considered it briefly.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Comedy opened his mouth, stuttered. “I…because…”

  “Will you cease your banditry? Give up killing? Make amends to those you have wronged?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Carbo looked down and shook his head sadly. “I wish I could believe you. Experience tells me I can’t. There are too many like you in the world.”

  He gripped his sword in two hands and stabbed it downwards towards Thyestes’ chest.

  A crashing sound came from the undergrowth to Carbo’s side, with an anguished scream.

  “Noooo!”

  Carbo looked to the noise even as his sword came down. Comedy saw the distraction and pushed hard with his legs, twisting his body at the same time. The sword missed its mark, the bandit’s heart, instead sinking deep into the side of his abdomen.

  A tall, slim figure wearing a tragedy mask burst out from the trees, sword high, emitting an incoherent scream. Carbo pulled his sword out from the fallen bandit’s guts, heaving it upwards with both hands using all his considerable strength in time to parry a tremendous downswing. Swords clashed, the shock running down Carbo’s arm. He pushed hard, opening up some distance between him and the newcomer in the tragedy mask. He had only a moment to fear for the safety of the rest of the party, before Tragedy attacked him with a frenzy. Carbo desperately parried each cut and thrust, forced backwards by the fury of the attack. His arms started to burn, the beginnings of fatigue, and he wondered how long his opponent could keep this up.

  The onslaught showed no sign of abating though. Carbo took another step backwards, and his foot got caught in a rabbit hole. As he tried to retreat further, his ankle twisted and he stumbled. He managed to keep upright, but when he tried to put weight on his left foot, pain spiked upwards and his leg buckled.

  He kept his weight to his right, favouring the injured leg, but the reduced mobility quickly showed. Tragedy saw his opportunity, pressed his advantage, and Carbo found it inc
reasingly hard to defend himself. He watched Tragedy’s eyes, looking for any sign of weakness or fear. There was none, just a cold fury.

  Carbo was forced backwards by another flurry of blows, and suddenly his back was against a thick tree trunk, and he could go no further. His arm felt like lead, and he found himself cut, across the chest, across the shoulder, then through his leg. None of the blows were crippling, but blood was flowing, and he knew he would weaken quickly now.

  His sword arm started to sag, and he could see triumph in the eyes behind the mask.

  “Stop!” came a loud voice, “Or I will drop you where you stand.”

  Tragedy hesitated. His eyes remained locked on Carbo’s, still full of hate and anger. But he paused his attack.

  “I have an arrow aimed between your shoulders. Step backwards.”

  Tragedy did as he was told, moving out of Carbo’s reach before turning. Carbo was now also able to see beyond Tragedy, to where the voice had come from.

  Vespillo stood unsteadily, blood flowing freely down his head, holding Comedy’s bow, arrow notched and bow drawn, ready to shoot.

  Tragedy seemed to consider him for a moment, head to one side.

  “You look ready to fall.”

  “Not before I have placed an arrow into your heart.”

  “I wonder. Are you that good a shot? You seem to know the basics of how to hold a bow, but you lack a certain finesse. And you seem to be having trouble focussing. How many of me can you see? Which one of me will you aim at?”

  “Want to try me?”

  “Maybe. You will only have the choice to get off one shot, then I will be on you, and you will be dead.”

  “Then why not just leave us. That way we know that neither of us will die.”

  Eyes narrowed behind the mask, and the fury was still there, cold, controlled, but waiting to be unleashed.

  “I can’t do that.” He lifted his sword.

  “Brother.” The word came out as a groan.

  Tragedy looked across to where Comedy lay, still on his back, hands clasped to the bloody wound in his abdomen.