“Have you talked to him?” he asked.
“I’ve tried,” said Vespillo. “But what can I say? I’m not sure if it even helps that I have been through exactly the same thing. Well, worse, though it wouldn’t do to point that out.”
“No. Well, I suppose these things take time.”
Vespillo looked at Quintus. So young, so little life experience. No, ‘these things’ didn’t take time. They stayed for ever. You just learned to cope. Vespillo didn’t chide the young man, though. He knew that he meant well. He just clearly had no idea what this really felt like.
“Will he see me?” asked Quintus.
“Yes, but don’t expect much.”
Vespillo led Quintus to the triclinium, where Carbo lay on his back on a couch, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed, breathing slowly. On the table was a meal of bread, nuts and olives, which looked untouched. Near Carbo stood Marsia, anxious to be of service, though her service clearly wasn’t required. She looked up when Vespillo walked in, then smiled when she saw Quintus. Quintus smiled shyly back at her, then turned his attention to Carbo.
“Carbo,” he said, softly. Carbo didn’t stir. He said his name a little louder. Carbo opened his eyes, turned his head towards Quintus, then turned back to stare at the ceiling.
Quintus glanced to Vespillo for guidance, but Vespillo simply shrugged. Quintus cleared his throat.
“Gaius Valerius Carbo,” he said in a formal tone. “I come to offer my condolences on the passing of your…loved one.” Carbo betrayed no reaction, so Quintus continued.
“My father, Gaius Sempronius Blaesus commands me to tell you how sorry he is for your loss, and my brother, Publius Sempronius Blaesus also sends his deepest sympathies.”
No reaction. “Curse you, Carbo, say something!” Quintus bent over to shake Carbo roughly by the shoulder.
Instantly Carbo grabbed Quintus’ hand, rising in one swift movement, pulling Quintus’ arm up behind his back, and propelling him against the nearest wall. Quintus managed to get his free hand in front of him just in time so his face merely squashed against the brickwork rather than smashing into it. Marsia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Like what?” Carbo hissed.
“Carbo?”
“What would you have me say, Quintus? What little speech of thanks for your concern should I give, that would let you leave here, duty done, so you can get on with your life?”
“Carbo, you’re hurting me.”
“Do you think I care? Do I care what you or your drunkard brother or your morose father think? Do I care what anyone thinks? Do I care if I pull on this arm harder so it rips out of your shoulder?”
“Enough,” said Vespillo. “Let him go.”
Carbo turned, keeping his grip on Quintus. The two friends locked eyes in a battle of wills. But Carbo’s moment of arousal was gone. He let go of Quintus, who stumbled out of reach, then turned his back to the wall and slid down it, until he could hug his knees and bow his head.
Quintus stretched his abused arm. He threw Carbo an angry stare, then marched for the door. From behind him came the sound of gut-wrenching sobs. He hesitated, turned back. He looked towards Vespillo, but the older man offered no guidance. He walked over to where Carbo squatted, head buried in his crossed arms, body spasming with grief, and sat beside him. Vespillo sat on the couch and watched.
For a while no one said anything. The sobbing subsided, and Carbo sat still, face still hidden.
“I care,” said Quintus. Carbo didn’t move, but Quintus could tell he was listening.
“Maybe you don’t care what I think, or my stupid brother, or my melancholy father. But I care. I care about how you are feeling. I care about Fabilla, and the other people around you. I cared about Rufa. And I care about finding out who did this.”
Carbo looked up at this last statement, surprised.
“You didn’t think I would let them get away with this did you? Comrades in arms, you said that, remember?”
Carbo nodded hesitantly.
“We are going to find them, and make them pay, Carbo,” said Quintus, and there was iron in his tone.
Carbo looked to Vespillo. “He’s right,” said Vespillo. “It’s time. The grieving will never stop. But the next phase has to begin.”
“The next phase?” asked Carbo.
“Retribution.”
Chapter VIII
The narrow street was deserted, and dark as a mine. The moon appeared intermittently from behind black clouds, just enough so Marsia could see where she was going. She glanced behind her, but could see nothing. The purse of coins at her waist clinked, as loud as the clash of arms in this silent street, to her ears. Every door was locked, every window shuttered. She hurried along, breath quick, heart pounding, trying hard not to regret being in this position. It had been her idea, after all.
She thought she heard footsteps behind her, and stopped, straining her ears. Nothing. She carried on, heard them again. She stopped, but this time the footsteps continued. She peered into the dark, could make out two large shapes approaching, not twenty feet from her.
She turned and ran. The footsteps were loud behind her, leather shoes slapping against the cobblestones. She rounded a corner, kept running. Brought up in Germania, amongst barbarians as the Romans called them, she was no weakling. Still she cursed her lack of masculine strength and speed, cursed that she had not been born a man.
The pounding steps behind her came closer, gaining. Another corner approached, and she sprinted, gasping breath into her lungs, legs burning with fatigue. She could hear the heavy breathing of the men close behind her. She turned the corner, with the men nearly upon her.
She was going at such a speed, she nearly collided with Quintus, who was standing in the centre of the street, a short way round the corner, feet planted apart, his sword held casually, angled towards the ground. She stopped, stood behind him and to one side, and turned to face her pursuers.
The two men stumbled to a halt as they rounded the corner and came face to face with Quintus. They hesitated, and Quintus held his ground, expression stern. The two thugs took in Quintus’ youth and slight frame, looked at each other, and laughed.
“Get out of the way, boy,” said one. “We just want the money.”
“And the girl,” said the other.
“Well, of course, and the girl. Not going to all this effort of chasing her down, without having some fun with her too.”
Quintus didn’t move, and the thugs looked uncertain.
“You can have her afterwards, if you just get out of the way now,” said the first thug. Quintus raised his sword.
“You asked for it.” Both thugs drew out short swords of their own.
“Drop them,” said a voice from behind the thugs. They turned as one. Behind them, an armoured legionary stood, gladius drawn.
“There’s still only two of them,” said the first thug. “We can take them.”
“Think you can take all four of us?” said a new voice. From black doorways on either side of the street emerged two more men, one short and squat, the other tall and muscular. The thugs looked around them in disbelief.
“Pluto’s foreskin, what is this? An ambush?”
“That’s exactly what it is,” said Lutorius.
“Put your weapons down,” said Vespillo.
The first thug rushed at Quintus, sword out, before any of them could react.
“Quintus,” cried Carbo in alarm. The thug lunged forward, to thrust at Quintus’ abdomen. Quintus sidestepped neatly, let the sword pass him, then stabbed his sword viciously through the thug’s rib cage, all the way to the hilt. The man opened his mouth, and blood poured out. He toppled forwards and was still.
The other thug let his sword fall to the floor and held his hands out to the side. “What do you want with me?”
“We just want to talk to you,” said Vespillo. “We want some information.”
“I don’t know nothing about nothing.”
“We haven’t asked you anything yet,” interrupted Lutorius.
“I won’t tell you bastards nothing.”
Carbo grabbed the man’s tunic in both hands and thrust him backwards. The thug’s head hit the wall behind him with a dull thud.
“Who do you work for?”
“What? I…”
Carbo punched him in the abdomen, pulling the force of the blow, but still hard enough to double the thug up as the air rushed out of him. Carbo pushed him upright.
“Who do you work for?” he repeated.
“H…him,” gasped the thug, gesturing to the man on the floor.
Carbo looked round at the thug who lay still in a huge pool of blood.
Vespillo stepped up close to the man Carbo held.
“And who does he work for?”
“I… couldn’t say.”
Vespillo drew a knife and pressed the tip into the thug’s neck.
“Lutorius here is a stationarius. His job is to uphold the law. He would have to arrest you, try you. I am a tribune of the vigiles of Rome. If this was Rome, I would have to do the same. But here in Nola, I have no authority. So that means, when Lutorius turns his back, I can simply cut your throat, and then we can all walk away.”
“Please, he would kill me.”
“Be in no doubt, we will kill you right now if you don’t tell us what we want to know.”
The thug looked around at the grim faces staring back at him.
“There is a man, he is… sort of in charge around here.”
“What do you mean, in charge?”
“Well, if anyone…um… comes into some money, they had better give him a cut of it, or they will get a visit from him or one of his men.”
“So he is the one you go to if you need any muscle around here, then?” asked Vespillo.
“That’s right.”
Lutorius nodded. “We know there is a big fish in Nola. I think Febrox, the one with a scar who followed you, he works for him. Everyone we have arrested though has clammed up about him. He must be pretty scary.”
“His name?” asked Vespillo, pushing the knife in a little deeper.
The thug swallowed. “Rabidus.”
“Lovely name,” muttered Quintus.
“And where do we find him?” asked Carbo.
“You don’t. He finds you.”
“I think we’ve got all we’re going to,” said Vespillo.
Carbo nodded, and released his grip on the thug.
“Listen,” said Lutorius. “We are going to let you walk away. But we will be watching and listening. If you tell anyone what has happened here tonight, we will let it be known that you snitched on Rabidus. Then I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
The thug shook his head vigorously. “I won’t say a word.”
“Very well.” Lutorius looked around at the others. “Are we done?”
“Yes, let’s go,” said Carbo, turning to leave.
Quintus stepped forward and punched the thug hard in the face.
“That was for what you planned to do to Marsia, you scum.”
The thug held his nose, as blood poured down his face. Quintus put his arm around Marsia, and followed the others out of the alley.
Carbo sat in a shadowy corner of the tavern with Lutorius, head bowed, unnoticed by the increasingly drunk clientele. The man responsible for the contagious inebriation was standing at the bar, racing a wiry, tough looking patron to down a full cup of wine, then turn it upside down on his head to prove it was empty. Though the tough guy finished first, his cup was not quite empty, and red wine soaked into his hair and poured down his face, to the delight of the onlookers.
“Barman, two more cups,” cried the man at the bar, pulling out a large purse bulging with coins. “Who’s next?” Another contender stepped forward. The onlookers roared as the two men raced to finish their drinks, the competition ending by consensus as a draw.
The generous man pulled out some more coins. “More,” he shouted over the noise of loud conversation, cheering and singing.
The tavern door opened, and a man stood framed in the doorway, darkness behind him, his face lit by the flickering glow of the brazier and the oil lamps. A diagonal scar on his cheek stood out livid against his olive-skinned face.
Carbo tensed, and made to rise. Lutorius put a hand on his chest, gently pressing him back into his seat. Carbo reluctantly settled back.
Some of the patrons of the tavern noticed the scarred man, nudged their neighbours and gestured towards him subtly with nods of the head or pointed elbows. Slowly the cacophony of the crowd diminished and faded away, until only the man at the bar, oblivious to the newcomer, was making any kind of noise, singing a bawdy ballad, out of tune and at the top of his voice.
The scarred man walked through the crowd, which parted, making a clear corridor for him, despite the crush. The newcomer sauntered with an arrogant assuredness up to the bar, and sat next to the singing man who was clearly well on the way to being fully drunk.
The drunkard’s song trailed off and he turned to the scarred man. He put an arm around him and held up a cup of wine.
“Will you drink with me?” he slurred.
The scarred man tensed at the familiarity, and firmly removed the arm from his shoulders.
“You look like a man who has just come into some money,” said the scarred man.
“Maybe,” said the drunkard, winking and tapping his nose in an over-elaborate enjoinder to secrecy. “Name’s Hilarius.” He stuck out a hand with a smile. “It means cheerful.”
The scarred man looked at the hand contemptuously.
“My name is Febrox,” said the scarred man. “It means fierce.”
Carbo felt disappointed. He had been hoping this was going to be Rabidus. It couldn’t be that simple. He looked across to Lutorius, who held out his hand, palm down in a calming gesture.
Hilarius smiled. “Febrox?” He stroked his chin. “I had a dog called Febrox once. Cute thing, loved to be rubbed just behind its ears.”
A low chuckle went around the onlookers, which was immediately quelled by a look from Febrox.
Febrox fixed Hilarius with a dagger stare, to which Hilarius seemed oblivious.
“I hear you have been shouting your mouth off all evening, talking about your good fortune.”
Hilarius waved his hand. “Oh, you know. I had some luck.”
“Tell me about it.”
Hilarius looked around, then leaned in close to Febrox.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he said in a slurred whisper so loud the whole tavern could hear, “but I mugged someone.”
Febrox’s eyes narrowed.
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Hilarius. “Some old nobleman, walking the streets without his bodyguard, silly man. Huge purse at his belt. I don’t normally do this sort of thing, but it was so easy. I just showed him my knife, and he begged me not to kill him. He litul… littreral… he litterelurally threw the purse at me. Then he ran away, little skinny legs sticking out from under his toga.”
Febrox put a hand on Hilarius’ arm.
“That’s not how things are done around here, friend.” The word friend sounded anything but friendly.
Hilarius looked confused, then mild alarm settled on his features.
“Oh no, you aren’t one of those stashlio… stationarii are you? Are you going to arrest me?”
Febrox chuckled humourlessly.
“No. I work for someone else. You are going to need to speak to him.”
“Why?”
“Because you owe him.”
“I’m not from around here,” said Hilarius looking confused. “I don’t owe no one nothing.”
“You owe him,” repeated Febrox firmly. He pulled his cloak back to reveal a long dagger at his belt. “Now come with me.”
Looking concerned, the tottering Hilarius allowed himself to be led out of the tavern. Gradually, the conversation restarted.
“Do you think he will be all right
?” asked Lutorius.
“Vespillo is always all right,” said Carbo firmly. Then he looked doubtful. “I just hope he isn’t really as drunk as he looks.”
Lutorius shook his head. “Come on, we don’t want to give them too much of a head start.”
Vespillo let Febrox lead him down the dark street. Although nowhere near as busy as in daylight hours, this part of Nola had enough taverns, guest houses and brothels that there was a regular stream of passers-by. Febrox kept a firm grip on Vespillo’s arm, nodding to anyone who looked at them curiously, showing his knife to anyone who looked twice.
Vespillo’s head was spinning. He could hold his wine, years of keeping up with the other centurions in the legions, and after that with the vigiles, had hardened his constitution. Still, that didn’t mean he was completely immune to the effects, and he had drunk a fair quantity that evening while making sure all and sundry knew about his new found wealth. His staggering gait was only partly exaggerated for appearance. He hoped that Carbo and Lutorius were not far behind. He was very unsure of his ability to fight his way out of trouble.
Nola had a surprisingly twisty collection of narrow streets and back alleys. Unlike the more modern colonia and other new settlements, started from scratch with an efficient grid pattern of streets, the more ancient Nola had developed haphazardly, like Rome itself. Consequently, Vespillo with his blurred senses found it hard to track his route. A few more turns, and he was convinced he was lost.
Febrox led him to a nondescript house, nestled close to its neighbours. Its only unusual characteristic were that its walls were free of graffiti, unlike most of the other vertical surfaces in Nola. Febrox banged on the door. After a few moments of silence, the heavy wooden door swung open with a deep creak.
A bulky porter looked Vespillo up and down slowly, then stared questioningly at Febrox. Febrox returned the look silently, eyes narrowed. The porter patted Vespillo down roughly, checking for concealed weapons, then stepped aside, and Febrox gripped Vespillo’s upper arm and pulled him through the door.
Two scruffy men, both holding long knives in loose grips at their sides stood in the atrium, watching Vespillo with little interest. Despite the tatty exterior, the inside of the house was well decorated, with bright murals, and a well-tended lararium, the little deities of highly polished silver surrounded by offerings of food and coin. A third man stood before Febrox, not even acknowledging Vespillo’s presence.
Bandits of Rome Page 10
