“Brother,” he said again. “Help me.”
Tragedy hesitated. He looked from Vespillo to his fallen brother. The arrow was starting to tremble as the weak Vespillo’s arm started to tire. But the wounded watchman stubbornly kept aim at the bandit’s chest. Tragedy spat out a curse. He lowered his sword, sheathed it and walked over to Comedy. He went down on one knee, stroked his brother’s hair tenderly. He looked down at the wound, and Carbo thought he saw a slight shake of his head.
“Don’t worry, brother. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
Comedy lifted a hand up to his brother’s face. “You always did.”
Tragedy put a hand beneath his brother’s shoulders, another beneath his legs, and lifted him with an effort. He regarded Vespillo and Carbo coldly for a moment. Then he turned and walked away, back the way they had come from, back bowed from the burden.
Vespillo waited until the bandits were out of sight, then let the bow go slack. The arrow dropped to the ground, and Vespillo collapsed.
Chapter III
When the sounds of fighting had died down, Quintus led the girls tentatively back through the woods. Nearing the place he thought the noise had been coming from, he gestured to the women to wait, and he crept through the brush. Rufa and Severa were only able to see his back as he peered out, and when they saw his shoulders slump, they had no way of knowing if it was relief or despair. But he turned, smiled, and beckoned them forward.
Rufa and Severa rushed past him. They found a bleeding Carbo slumped beside a recumbent Vespillo. Rufa threw her arms around Carbo, Severa ran to Vespillo. The two men allowed their women to tend them.
Carbo looked across to Vespillo as Rufa examined his wounds, and looked at his ankle. Vespillo met his gaze and smiled.
“How by all Vulcan’s fires do you get me into these scrapes?” asked Vespillo.
Carbo smiled back. “Wasn’t it you that wanted to do something about the bandits?”
Vespillo touched his head. “Was it? I think this wound has affected my memory.” He grinned, then winced as Severa pressed a rag firmly to his head.
Carbo yelped as well when Rufa manipulated his ankle, but she nodded and said, “Nothing broken, I think. It should mend quickly.”
Quintus distributed water to the two injured men, then turned to tend to Marsia. Her head wound was fortunately superficial. She made no complaint as Quintus probed it, then cleaned it with a damp rag. Fabilla looked at the injured men, eyes wide, mouth open and round. Carbo saw her and gestured her over to him. When she reached his side Carbo gripped her hand.
“Vespillo and I are tough bastards. It takes more than a couple of bandits to finish us off. We are fine, and you are safe. Always.”
She nodded, a little uncertain, but at least partially reassured. Rufa smiled at him, then set about cleaning up his wounds.
Quintus was anxious to get underway, and while Rufa and Severa wanted the injured men to rest more, Carbo agreed with Quintus.
“We should get moving. We don’t know if they will be back, or whether there are more of them lurking. And we certainly don’t want to be out when night falls.”
Severa and Rufa glanced nervously at each other at this thought, and reluctantly conceded the point. Rufa helped Carbo to his feet and Severa supported Vespillo. Quintus stayed close to the uncomplaining Marsia, though she shrugged off his offer of help. They made their way through the woods, Carbo intermittently cursing the uneven ground as his ankle twisted on roots, fallen branches and burrows. Before long, they had left the woods behind and were back on their path.
Their progress was slow, but as the sky started to become darker, they reached a fork in the track. Quintus stopped and turned to the group.
“Your farm is that way,” he said, gesturing to the right. “My father’s villa is this way. This is where we part company.”
Carbo limped up to Quintus, gripped his shoulder.
“Thank you. You saved them.”
Quintus looked embarrassed. “I was terrified. I was sick.”
Vespillo laughed. “I shat down my legs in my first battle, son. You did well.”
Quintus smiled hesitantly, and Carbo nodded his agreement.
“When you have settled, will you come to visit me? All of you?” He looked around them, and Carbo noticed that his gaze lingered on Marsia. “You would be very welcome.”
“We would love to,” said Rufa. “Thank you from me too. From all of us.” Severa nodded her agreement, then after a short moment, Marsia did too.
Quintus looked satisfied. “Thank you all too. I wouldn’t have made it through alone.”
Vespillo shook his hand, and Rufa and Severa embraced him in turn. Fabilla ran up to him and gave him a huge hug around the waist. Marsia looked at him, then cocked her head to one side and gave him a slight smile. He grinned back, then reddened a little. Severa and Rufa exchanged knowing glances, and Quintus noticed.
“Goodbye,” he said hurriedly. “I hope to see you all soon.” He set off down the path to his home without a backward glance.
Carbo watched him go for a moment, then turned to the path towards his farm.
“Well, let’s see what sort of a sumptuous estate the army has provided me with.” The group of travellers set off towards Carbo’s farm.
Atreus dabbed a damp rag over Thyestes’ pale cheeks and forehead. His brother’s face was screwed up in agony, and he screamed at regular intervals, shrill and piercing, as spasms wracked his body. Atreus felt helpless anger suffuse him. He had cleaned the wound, put pressure on to stem the bleeding. He had stopped Thyestes dying immediately.
But he had only delayed the inevitable. He was well aware of the slow, inexorable death that a gut wound would bring. He fixed the image of his brother’s slayer in his mind, and cursed him again and again. He prayed that Fortuna would turn her face from him, that Apollo would bring him terrible illness, that Mars would bring him violence and that Jupiter would spear him with lightning.
Thyestes vomited, profuse dark granules within the vomitus that Atreus had once been told signified bleeding into the stomach. The vomit splashed over both of them, and Atreus wiped his brother’s mouth, neglecting the staining and stench clinging to his own clothing. The effort of vomiting sent another intense spasm through Thyestes, accompanied again by an agonised howl.
The stricken man gripped Atreus’ arm tight. “Brother, help me.”
Atreus could say nothing. He stared down into his brother’s anguished face, and his heart felt like it would break.
“It hurts so much,” said Thyestes, his voice weak, barely above a whisper now.
After a while, Thyestes lost consciousness, and Atreus felt a guilty relief that he did not have to watch his brother suffering any more. He pulled out the knife at his belt, and ran his finger along the edge, checking it had retained its sharpness. He looked down once more at his brother and swallowed.
Was there really no hope? Should he not give his brother every chance of life? He shook his head. The wound was not survivable. To keep him alive to the very end would be a cruelty. He let the point rest lightly over his brother’s heart, then with both hands pressed down hard.
His brother’s eyes flew open, hands grasping at Atreus’ sleeves. The dying man locked his gaze on his brother, and Atreus saw incomprehension and betrayal reflected there. Thyestes tried to speak, then slumped backwards. His body convulsed, once, twice, three times. Gods would it not stop? Then all was still and quiet.
Atreus leaned forward and buried his head in his brother’s chest, and let the wave of grief overwhelm him.
When, after some time, his sobbing had subsided, he sat up. His face was set, hard. He thought about his prayers, and shook his head.
No, the gods should stay their hands. Atreus would play Nemesis himself. He would be avenged for this. A lightning bolt, a stab to the throat from some street thief, some illness causing his heart to cease its beating, these were too quick, too good for that man. Atreus would make
sure that he suffered properly.
The exhausted and wounded group of travellers reached Carbo’s farm as the sun disappeared behind the dark clouds that rimmed the horizon. The farm seemed to grow mainly olive trees, which to Carbo’s non-agriculturally educated mind, looked a little neglected, in need of some pruning. Some of the trees were bare, suggesting they had been harvested, but others were still full of fruit, a mix of green olives and the more mature brown and black ones. On the ground around these trees, windfallen fruit rotted.
A path led through the trees to the villa, if you could give it such a grand name. The farm consisted of about forty iugera of land, if Carbo remembered correctly. He had been granted it for service to the legions by Germanicus himself, the former owner, one Trigeminus, having died and left it to Germanicus in his will.
Forty iugera of established olive orchards should not be hard to farm for the two slaves he owned here, plus occasional hired help, Carbo reflected, and decided he would spend some time investigating the running of this property. First though, they all wanted food, drink, bathing facilities and a rest.
They were met at the door to the villa by a tall, thin, bent old man, with long white hair, and a large, black dog that growled and snapped at the end of a lead.
“Be quiet, Melanchaetes,” said the old man in a quavery voice. Melanchaetes paid him no attention, and continued to bark at the newcomers, lips peeled back and saliva dripping from powerful jaws. Carbo gestured for the others to stay back, and walked ahead of them, approaching until he was just out of reach of the angry guard dog.
“Are you Theron?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the noise from the dog.
“I am, and who might you be?”
“I am Gaius Valerius Carbo, owner of this estate, and your Master. Now would you please tie up that dog somewhere safe, so we can come in?”
Theron’s mouth dropped open. “Master, I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”
Carbo never found out what Theron didn’t do, because at that moment the leather collar around Melanchaetes’ neck broke, and the huge dog bounded forward. In two swift steps it was on Carbo, leaping so its forepaws hit him square in the chest. Despite Carbo’s bulk, the sudden attack took him by surprise, and he tumbled over backwards, the dog landing on him heavily. He managed to force an arm under the dog’s throat, and with all his strength kept the snapping jaws away. Canine saliva dripped stickily over his face, and the stench of rotting meat breath made him gag. He dimly heard Theron calling the dog off in a high-pitched, weak voice which made not the slighest difference, heard Fabilla screaming, Vespillo calling that he was coming, though he knew his friend was too weak to help.
Carbo felt for his gladius, felt it trapped under his body. He shoved upwards with all his strength, and eased the weight of the dog just enough that he could draw the sword. He pulled it back, getting ready to plunge it sideways between the dog’s ribs.
“No, stop!” came a voice, high but commanding. “Mel, here, now!”
Carbo hesitated, and then felt a sudden brief increase in weight as the dog bounded off him, front legs using his chest as a spring board, making all the air leave him with a whoosh.
Slowly he regained his feet, to see a young girl of around twelve with her arms wrapped around the dog’s neck, while the monstrous beast wagged its tail and licked her face exuberantly.
Carbo glared at Theron, who wrung his hands with excruciated embarrassment. “Master, I’m so sorry, it was an accident, he thought you were an intruder, I…”
“You were about to kill him,” said the girl accusingly.
Carbo turned to look at her. “Yes, I was. It seemed to be him or me.”
“He was just protecting us. He didn’t know you were a friend.”
“I’m not a friend, I’m your Master. Assuming you are my steward’s daughter, Thera.”
“At your service, Master,” she said, with a lightness in her voice that made him doubt that was the case. “Come here Mel, say hello properly.”
The now docile dog trotted over obediently, and sat before Carbo, looking up at him suspiciously. The ears were drawn back, eyes narrowed, but his mouth, so close to ripping Carbo apart a few brief moments ago, was firmly closed.
“Well, say hello back,” commanded Thera.
Carbo paused, wondering if the changeable hound would take his fingers off if he tried to pet it. Then a little hand reached out from behind him and patted the dog on the head.
“Fabilla, no!” gasped Rufa, but it was too late. The little red-headed girl emerged from behind Carbo and started fussing and cuddling the dog, who sat and accepted the attentions with muscular tail thumping against the ground, his chest puffed out as if with pride.
Thera looked at Carbo defiantly. “See? He is a sweetheart. You two just got off on the wrong foot.”
Carbo raised a hand to stroke the dog’s head, and Melanchaetes let out a growl, so deep and low that Carbo felt rather than heard it. He pulled his hand away and looked around. No one else had heard, and given how the dog was tolerating Fabilla pulling its cheeks and looking in its ears, he felt foolish to make any further fuss. He wondered, though, why Theron needed such a fierce beast to protect them, and resolved to keep a close eye on the dangerous hound.
Theron approached Carbo, and started to attempt to brush the mud and leaves from his clothes, but Carbo gestured him away.
“We’ve travelled a long distance, Theron. We want food, wine and fresh clothes. See to it.” He looked at Thera. “And you, tie that dog up, then get some hot water for the ladies.”
Thera gave a little bow, which Carbo couldn’t help but think had a touch of irony about it. She gave Fabilla a little wink, who grinned shyly back at the older girl. Before Carbo could say anything more, Thera turned, tugging on the rope she had wrapped around Melanchaetes’ neck, to get him trotting away meekly by her side.
Carbo looked around at his friends and adopted family. They all looked away, attempting with more or less success to conceal smirks. Carbo frowned.
“Oh yes, it’s all highly amusing. Poor old Carbo nearly gets ripped to pieces. But at least it was entertaining.”
Rufa came up to him and took his arm. “Come on grumpy, let’s get you inside. We all need some food and some rest.”
Theron led the way, and the group entered Carbo’s villa.
Thera and Theron waited on them as they reclined for the evening meal. The triclinium was tiny compared to the dining rooms of the wealthy, or cosy, as Severa termed it. Marsia reclined with the others, eating the simple meal of roast chicken with bread, and of course olives, that Thera had cooked. Marsia had tried to insist that her place was serving with the other slaves, but Rufa would hear none of it, and had attended to Marsia’s head wound herself. The wound looked like it had been made when she was clubbed by the hilt of the knife, which Marsia herself confirmed, and Carbo wondered why the bandit in the tragedy mask had not killed her outright. Probably wanted to sell her and make some profit, he mused.
Carbo looked over at Theron. “You aren’t a very curious sort, are you?”
Theron looked surprised. “Master? What do you mean?”
Carbo gestured around him. “My wounds. Marsia’s bruise. The cut on Vespillo’s head. You don’t want to know how they happened?”
Theron squinted and peered at Marsia and Vespillo. He walked up closer, and then his eyes widened.
“Oh my! Master, I’m sorry. My eyes, they are very dim these days.”
Carbo looked more closely at Theron and realised that his pupils were indeed cloudy. Clearly the old man was not blind, but his vision must be quite restricted.
“How did your friends get these injuries, Master?”
“Bandits,” spat Vespillo, twisting his mouth like he had a bad taste. “We were ambushed.”
“Bandits?” gasped Theron. “In these parts?”
Carbo nodded. “Not two hours travel from here.”
Theron shook his head. “We don’t have much tr
ouble with bandits around here.”
Thera looked at him in surprise, opened her mouth, then shut it again. Carbo looked at her curiously.
“Thera?”
“Yes, master?” she said, not meeting his gaze.
“Do you know something about banditry around here?”
She looked at her father for help, but he remained impassive.
“People… talk. When I go to the market, I hear stories.”
“Go on,” said Carbo.
“They talk about men with masks,” she said hesitantly. Theron shot her a warning glare.
“That was who we encountered,” confirmed Carbo.
“We saw them off though,” said Vespillo. “The one who thinks he is a comedy actor in a Greek play won’t be accosting innocent travellers any time soon.”
Thera looked surprised. “You have done what many others have not then. These men have been spreading terror around here for years. People robbed, murdered, disappearing.”
“Why have the authorities done nothing?” asked Vespillo tetchily.
“They say they don’t know where to look,” said Thera. “But the farmers and merchants at the market say they just can’t be bothered. I think maybe they are frightened.”
“Ignore my daughter,” said Theron. “She is young, and doesn’t know what she is talking about.”
Vespillo looked angry. “Why is everyone so scared of these men? The local authorities should send out parties to capture them. They should be crucified.”
Theron shook his head. “Our leaders aren’t interested in that sort of thing. The council just look after their own interests, and the stationarii seem to think they are only needed for crowd control.”
Vespillo glared at Theron. Carbo put a hand on Vespillo’s shoulder. “It isn’t Theron’s fault,” he said gently.
Vespillo narrowed his eyes at Carbo, then relented. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, my head hurts like stink, and I’m embarrassed I got taken out by the first arrow that was fired.” He took a deep drink of his wine. “Well, we are here now, safe. Let’s enjoy our time here.”
The dry clothes that Theron found for Vespillo, together with the wine and food, improved Vespillo’s demeanour considerably, and he spent much of the meal teasing Fabilla, while Rufa looked on indulgently. Fabilla’s giggles often split the room as Vespillo told another tall tale, or simply tickled her mercilessly.
Bandits of Rome Page 4
