The town forum was packed with market stalls, and crammed with traders and buyers. It was nothing compared to Rome, the density of the crowd, the variety of goods, even the intensity of the stench were all less in this smaller conurbation. But there was more than enough to keep Rufa occupied. Hawkers screamed to make themselves heard, advertising dresses in the latest fashions from Rome, exotic spices and jewellery, as well as the more mundane fare from the surrounding farms, olives, cabbages, onions, pears, grapes, cheese and bread.
The sun was past its zenith, Carbo was sure, and he was starting to get hungry as well as footsore. He wondered why it was so much more tiring accompanying a woman on a shopping trip than marching with the legions. He thought about attempting to persuade Rufa to stop for some lunch, then saw her face light up as she spied some new trinket. Despite himself, he smiled, and felt warm inside, watching the woman he loved enjoying herself.
Something caught his attention, a movement at the corner of his eye. He turned, sure that someone had been watching them, but he was surrounded by people, and there was no one that stood out as he scanned the crowd.
Suddenly uneasy, he put his hand to his gladius. This wasn’t Rome, there was no law in the provinces about being armed, and for travellers from the countryside to the town, it was positively encouraged. Especially, he suspected, in Nola. The familiar hilt felt reassuring in his palm. He turned his attention back to Rufa, who had not noticed his sudden alertness.
“I think it’s time to make a choice, Rufa, so we can stop bothering this poor man.”
Rufa pulled a face at him, then selected the first set of copper earrings.
“May I have these ones please, Carbo?”
The jeweller named a price which caused Rufa to gasp.
“Oh Carbo, I’m sorry they are too expensive. Never mind.”
“Don’t worry,” said Carbo. “I’m sure I can beat him down.” He looked at the jeweller. “Or beat him up,” he said pointedly.
The jeweller immediately halved the price, and with a little more haggling, they agreed a sum. Carbo paid him and gave the earrings to Rufa. He helped her to put them on, and she shook her head to make them swing from her earlobes, smiling broadly. She put her arms around him, and kissed him firmly, then hugged him. As her arms wrapped around his neck, he saw a man in the crowd, a diagonal scar across one cheek, clearly watching them. When the man noticed Carbo had seen him, he retreated back into the throng.
The nagging feeling of worry grew. He gently extricated himself from Rufa’s embrace.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find a tavern that looks like it doesn’t serve roast rat and piss.” As they walked away he looked back, but the scarred man was no longer in sight.
He wasn’t sure he had accomplished the first part of his mission as he looked down at the shapeless chunks of meat in the stew he had just bought, and when he sipped the cheap wine, he was sure he had failed the second part.
Rufa chewed some tough, stale bread heavily, trying to look like she was enjoying it. Carbo watched her, feeling a contentment inside her. He had been impressed with how she had handled herself a few evenings before, at the dinner with Blaesus. It was such a short space of time since she had been a slave, her life and the life of her daughter in terrible danger. Yet already, he was seeing the return of the vivacious, self-assured, independent girl he had known when she was the free child of his commanding officer.
At night, when everything was quiet, and there were no distractions to occupy her mind, he sometimes caught her trembling, or found her cheeks wet with tears when he kissed her. He knew that feeling, the way the memory of terror could creep up on you unexpectedly, and overwhelm you. He knew also that it was possible to get past it, or at least to cope with the feelings. He was starting to, with Rufa’s help.
The tavern was packed, despite the poor fare. Presumably the market day improved custom for all the taverns and guest houses. He couldn’t think of a reason for this place to be so busy, unless everywhere else was full. He looked around at the clientele. An unremarkable mix of townsfolk and farmers, likely both slaves and free, though they were hard to tell apart. He couldn’t see the man who had been watching earlier, nor anyone else paying them undue attention, and he wondered if he had been over-reacting.
Rufa pushed her bowl away, less than half eaten.
“I’m feeling rather full today,” she said. “I think the banquet at Blaesus’ is still sitting heavily.”
Carbo smiled at her, both of them knowing that no matter how filling the banquet, too much time had passed since then for it to be a factor, and in fact it was the atrocious food that had dented her appetite.
“I’m sorry,” said Carbo. “I don’t think you would get food this bad, even in the Subura.”
Rufa laughed. “Don’t worry. I will buy some vegetables and some fresh rabbit today, and cook us something tasty.”
“You don’t have to cook, you know. We do have slaves to do that.”
“A German barbarian, an old man and a young girl. Which of those do you think cooks better than me?”
Carbo shook his head, knowing this was an argument he couldn’t win.
“Come on then,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Let’s do some more shopping.”
Rufa smiled happily, and they left their partly consumed meals behind and headed back to the market. Rufa browsed the meat and vegetable stalls. They found a place with dozens of rabbits strung up by their back legs. Rufa prodded and sniffed four plump specimens, pronounced them fresh and haggled a good price with the seller. She then found stalls selling carrots, onions, cabbages and courgettes, and they rapidly filled the two cloth bags they had brought with them. Carbo started to feel like a pack mule as the bags got heavier.
Finally Rufa seemed satisfied, and at Carbo’s pleading, agreed that they could return home. Carbo looked around, suddenly aware that he had lost his bearings in this unfamiliar place. He took Rufa’s hand, and walked purposefully in a direction he hoped was correct, as he looked out for a familiar landmark. The thick crowds slowed his progress, and he became frustrated. His height allowed him to see over most of the crowd, but the densely packed market stalls made it hard to see any buildings.
Carbo squeezed between two booths, one selling farm tools and one selling clay pots, and found himself in a small square, rimmed with stalls and carts stocked high with produce.
Lounging against a stall, a dozen yards from them, were three men. Carbo was instantly alert. They looked out of place. They were showing no interest in buying goods, nor were they attempting to sell anything themselves. His hand moved to the hilt of his gladius. One of the men looked up, and Carbo recognised the man with the diagonal scar who had been watching them earlier. Carbo put a hand on Rufa’s upper chest, and stopped her. She looked at him questioningly.
“Let’s go back,” he said to her in a low voice.
The three men started to approach them, and Carbo turned to go back the way they had come. Behind them, three more men had appeared, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the exit from the little square. Curious glances from passing marketgoers turned into alarmed stares. The square suddenly emptied of stall holders and customers, until only Carbo and Rufa and the six men remained. A few of the braver and more curious citizens peeped over the tops of the stalls and carts from a safe distance.
“Carbo,” said Rufa, panic creeping into her voice. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. Stay calm. They probably just want our money.”
The three men blocking their exit behind them were not moving, so he turned back to the first three who continued to advance on them.
“What do you want?” he shouted. “You’re making a mistake if you are looking for a fight.”
The three men stopped a short distance in front of them, spreading out so they were completely boxed in. Six men, varying sizes, but all looking tough, all carrying a weapon of some sort, a club or a knife.
“You may take me down,” said Carbo, feeling anger rise inside, “But some of you will die too. Walk away. It’s not worth it.”
The three men in front of him suddenly looked past him and smiled. Carbo turned to see what had caught their attention. The men blocking the exit parted, and allowed two more men to come through. The newcomers wore masks.
Tragedy.
And Comedy.
Carbo stared in disbelief at the two masked men.
“You,” he said, looking at Comedy. “I killed you. You couldn’t have survived that wound.”
Comedy was silent, the grinning mask giving nothing away. Tragedy regarded Carbo steadily as well, eyes unblinking through the eyeholes. Carbo drew his gladius and pointed it towards them. Beside him, Rufa was breathing raggedly, and Carbo recognised the symptoms of an attack of panic gripping her.
“Get out of my way,” said Carbo, keeping his voice calm, with an effort.
“Do you understand loss, soldier?” said Tragedy. As before the mask muffled the voice, the words hard to make out.
Carbo said nothing, keeping his sword arm steady. Behind him he heard the three men come closer and he waved his gladius towards them threateningly. “Stay back,” he said.
They looked to Tragedy, who nodded, and they retreated a few steps. A young couple, arm in arm and laughing, stumbled drunkenly into the square. One of the men showed them his knife. “Fuck off,” he said, and they retreated in alarm.
“I asked you a question, soldier boy,” said Tragedy.
“Let us pass,” said Carbo, his voice holding as much threat and menace as he could muster.
Tragedy sighed.
“You won’t answer? Then I must conclude that you do not. And I will teach you. Menelaus.” He gestured to Comedy.
Comedy drew a sword from its scabbard, then pulled a curved dagger from his belt. He leaped forward, impressively light on his feet. He thrust out with his blade, and as Carbo fended it away with his own sword, brought the dagger round in an arc towards Carbo’s throat. Carbo swayed back, feeling the wind from the dagger’s passage against his cheek. He countered with a two-handed swing, and when Comedy parried, Carbo twisted his arms so his blade slid down his opponent’s. Seeing the threat, Comedy spun to the side, and the thrust grazed his chest, tearing a rent in his tunic, but drawing no blood.
Comedy took a step back.
“You have some skill with the sword, soldier boy,” called Tragedy. “But just a legionary’s skill. You don’t know how to fight like a gladiator, one on one.” Comedy sprang before Tragedy had even finished speaking, launching a flurry of one handed thrusts and sweeps. Carbo parried each one with ease, but was unable to find a counter, and at the end of the sequence, the dagger flashed out again, catching his sword arm and opening a superficial skin wound. Carbo felt no pain, but saw the blood run freely down towards his elbow to drip onto the dusty ground.
Now Carbo went on the offensive, using his superior strength and reach to push Comedy backwards. Comedy retreated, one slow step at a time, back across the square. Carbo feinted then gave a thrust towards Comedy’s midriff, which the masked man barely turned aside in time. Carbo saw alarm in the man’s eyes, and thrust again, pressing the advantage. Comedy wove his sword with skill and desperation, keeping Carbo at bay, but Carbo’s power began to tell, and he saw the man start to fatigue.
As Comedy backed up against the men blocking the exit, he thrust his gladius towards Carbo’s chest. Carbo let the sword pass to one side, then trapped it with his arm tight against his chest. Too close to stab, he slammed the heel of his fist into the centre of the mask, rocking Comedy’s head back, then twisted his arm in front of his body, the armlock forcing Comedy to drop his sword.
A woman’s scream came from behind him. He turned, realising too late that Comedy had been leading him away from Rufa. Tragedy held Rufa, one arm pinned behind her, knife at her throat. Steady eyes regarded Carbo from behind the mocking mask. Carbo pushed Comedy away from him with a roar, and raised his sword to charge at Tragedy.
A massive blow connected with the back of his head, a club wielded by one of the thugs. Carbo staggered to his knees, the periphery of his vision turning black, bright specks of light dancing in front of him. He looked up, and saw Rufa struggling against her captor. The knife bit deep into the side of her neck, but she didn’t stop her efforts to escape. One of the thugs cuffed her hard across the side of the head, and she cried out, and stopped her struggles.
Carbo tried to regain his feet, feeling the world spin around him. His sword had flown out of his hand, and was out of reach. He managed to get his legs underneath him, but they felt as weak as a reed, barely supporting his weight. He tried to walk towards Rufa, but felt a hand grasp the hair at the back of his head, pulling him backwards. He staggered, fell against the man behind him, and found Comedy’s knife pressed into his back.
“Stand still,” hissed Comedy.
“Carbo,” cried out Rufa, helplessly. Her eyes were filled with panic, and brimming with tears.
“Rufa, don’t worry, everything will be all right.”
Tragedy laughed aloud.
“Oh soldier, you don’t seem to understand. I told you I would make you understand loss.”
“No, please,” said Carbo. “Kill me. Let her go. She is innocent.”
“An eye for an eye, the Jews say. A loved one for a loved one. Yes, she is innocent. But killing you will not inflict the same pain on you as you inflicted on me. Killing her will. And maybe it will make all these cowards hiding behind their stalls and carts understand what happens when someone defies me.”
“Carbo,” cried out Rufa hysterically.
Carbo lunged forward desperately, but another blow to the side of his head sent him sprawling, his face thudding into the cobbles. He groaned, got to his hands and knees and started to crawl towards Rufa. Comedy’s mocking laughter followed him. The few short feet separating him from Rufa seemed like a mile.
“It’s time,” said Tragedy. “Watch, Menelaus.”
Carbo held out a pleading hand.
Tragedy looked him straight in the eyes as he dragged the blade across Rufa’s throat.
Blood spurted out from the great vessels in her neck, filled her mouth, overflowed down her chin. She stared at Carbo, eyes wide in terror and pain and despair as she sank to her knees. He crawled the last few feet towards her, caught her as she toppled forwards.
“Rufa, gods, no,” he whispered, as he cradled her in his arms.
She looked up into his eyes, and tried to speak, but only bubbles and blood came from her mouth. His hands and arms and clothes were soaked with the sticky red fluid. She gasped and gurgled as her lungs filled with blood. He gripped her tight as he watched her eyes drift away from him, unfocused. Her body spasmed, jerked, then went still. He buried his face in her hair, and howled.
He didn’t know how much time had passed when he felt hands on his shoulders, roughly yanking him from Rufa’s warm body. He shook them off, hung onto her, but more grabbed him, and when he resisted, lashed out, a blow from a blunt object knocked his head sideways. Numbly, he let himself be pulled away. Two stationarii, legionaries seconded to police duty in the provinces, picked him up, supporting him beneath his arms. The thugs were gone, and the braver souls who had witnessed the crime had been joined by a larger crowd who stood a few feet away, gawping in morbid fascination at the blood-soaked man, and the murdered woman at his feet.
A man from the crowd bent down beside Rufa, taking in her blank, staring eyes, still chest, and the huge volume of blood pooled on the cobblestones. He looked up at the legionaries, and shook his head. Carbo lunged at the man, thrusting him backwards.
“Leave her alone!” he cried.
One of the stationarii put a hand on his shoulder, and Carbo rounded on him with a hard punch to the centre of his face, breaking his nose and causing blood to spurt.
The other stationarius was on him in an instant, pinning his hands behind his back, and the injured sol
dier stepped forward and punched Carbo hard in the side of the head, dazing him.
“You need to come with us till you calm down,” said the legionary holding his arms.
Carbo shook his head. “I can’t leave her. She needs me.”
“We’ll take care of her,” said the man kneeling beside her. “Go with the soldiers.”
All fight gone from him, he allowed his hands to be tied behind his back, then let himself be led away. He turned his head back as he walked, seeing them cover Rufa with a blanket, then respectfully lift her body onto a cart.
They took him to the statio, the local police station, a small group of children and curious market goers trailing behind. Inside, they unbound him and gave him a bowl of cold water and threw a cloth at him to clean himself. He put his hands into the bowl, and rubbed, seeing the congealed blood fall off in sticky sheets. He dampened the cloth and wiped his face, then put the cloth back in the water and watched the water turn crimson. He stared into the bowl, eyes unfocused, uncomprehending.
“Come with me,” said the stationarius with the broken nose, the words muffled and resentful.
He led Carbo to a small office containing a cluttered desk, at which sat a centurion, with his optio standing beside him. Carbo was marched forwards. The centurion looked up from the document he was perusing, and his eyes widened at Carbo’s gory appearance. Composing himself, he spoke in well-accented Latin.
“I am centurion Lucius Ambrosius Asellio. This is optio Lutorius. What’s your name?”
Carbo opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. The stationarius stepped in front of him, and punched him hard in the abdomen. Carbo, not expecting the blow, doubled forward, gasping for air.
“The centurion asked you a question,” said the stationarius.
“That’s enough,” said the optio. “Get out and leave him with us.”
“Yes, sir,” said the legionary, saluting and turning to depart.
“Well, man?” said Asellio.
“Gaius Valerius Carbo, pilus prior centurion of the second cohort of the XIIIth Gemina,” said Carbo, responding to the military tone of voice by force of habit. Then he added, “Retired.”
Bandits of Rome Page 7
