Bandits of Rome

by Bandits of Rome (retail) (epub)

  Vespillo held out his hand, and gingerly, still bent at the waist, Lutorius gained his feet. He looked around the plaza. Febrox had fled. Only he and Vespillo remained in the square both conscious and alive

  Atreus was gone.

  Menelaus was gone.

  And Carbo…

  Vespillo and Lutorius stared at each other helplessly.

  Quintus sat in the small farmhouse kitchen, watching Marsia scrubbing at a large copper cooking pot. The previous night’s stew had congealed, and she was working hard using water, sand and her fingernails to prise off the grime. Her brows were knitted as she concentrated on the task, but Quintus knew her mind was elsewhere.

  “When did you say you expect them back?” asked Quintus again, for want of breaking the silence as much as hope that the answer had changed.

  “I do not know, master. They said it would be last night or this morning.”

  The sky was grey, but brightening. Quintus had arrived not long after dawn, intending to visit Carbo and Vespillo and find out how their evening went, but also hoping to see Marsia. Her long, dark hair was held back with a functional, plain grip. He surveyed her face, her broad nose, her blue eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows, lips full, chin stronger than was considered beautiful among Roman women. She was dressed simply in a beige tunic but though this did nothing to flatter her figure, he could clearly make out her thin waist, wide hips, ample bust and broad shoulders.

  No, she was no delicate Roman beauty. So why did she entrance him so?

  She looked up at him, gave him a stern look that admonished him for staring. He looked away, embarrassed.

  The last time he had seen her, she had put on make up, smiled at him, blushed. Now she seemed irritated by his presence. Had he offended her somehow? He shook his head. She was worried about her master. A man she genuinely loved, not like him, someone she had just flirted with for diversion.

  What was wrong with him? A Roman nobleman, heir to a fortune. He could have his pick of the nubile equestrian girls, maybe even a poorer senator’s daughter. He dreaded to think what his father would say, if he found out he was mooning over a slave.

  “May I have a drink, please, Marsia?” asked Quintus.

  A brief pursing of the lips showed Quintus he was putting her out, before she nodded.

  “Of course, master.” She brought him a glass of water. He reflected that that brief expression would have been enough to get her beaten in many a household. Carbo obviously gave her more latitude than most masters. But then, if she was his, so would he.

  He sipped his glass, returning to watching her work.

  “Why do you stare at me so, master?” asked Marsia.

  Quintus spluttered into his cup.

  “I…I’m not.”

  “Yes, master,” said Marsia in a tone of complete acceptance, which her expression gave the lie to.

  “I mean, yes, I was watching you work. There is precious little else to do in this house, while waiting for Carbo’s return.”

  “I see,” said Marsia.

  “Good,” said Quintus, and took another drink. Why did he feel so small in front of her? He had slept his way through half of Greece, with the appetite and stamina of a young man. He had had matrons and young girls, even the occasional older man, and he had displayed the confidence and arrogance of a noble Roman coming into his manhood. Yet this slave made him feel like a boy again.

  “Do you think they will be back soon?” he asked.

  This time she actually sighed. She opened her mouth to speak, and Melanchaetes started his deep, resounding bark.

  Marsia stopped what she was doing, looking towards the door as if she could see straight through into the atrium. Quintus stood and made to leave. He saw Marsia hesitating, and realised she knew it was not her place to leave her work and rush to the door to greet her master.

  “Come, Marsia,” he said. “Your master and his guests will have needs to attend to.”

  Marsia nodded gratefully and followed him.

  Theron was holding the door open, as first Vespillo, then Lutorius entered. They looked tired and bruised, and there was fresh blood on both of them. Quintus looked out of the door, but no one else followed them in.

  Vespillo nodded to Quintus. Lutorius didn’t meet his concerned gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, but Marsia beat him to it.

  “Where is my master?” The question was loud and hysterical.

  “Marsia, please calm yourself,” said Vespillo gently.

  “Vespillo, sir, please. Where is he?” Her tone was anguished and pleading now. If Quintus had harboured any doubts about the devotion Marsia felt towards Carbo, they were extinguished now.

  “It’s my fault,” muttered Lutorius. “All on me.”

  “No,” said Vespillo. “Even if you had been there on time, the outcome would not have been different.”

  “It might have been.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Quintus. “What outcome? Why was Lutorius late?”

  Vespillo suddenly looked old and tired.

  “Please, masters, come and sit,” said Theron. “Have a drink and let me fix you ientaculum. Give me your cloaks.”

  Lutorius and Vespillo allowed themselves to be guided to the tablinum, where they slumped onto padded benches. Marsia and Quintus followed them in, Quintus taking a seat, while Marsia remained standing, wringing her hands, eyes wet with tears.

  “Sirs, please tell me. Is my master dead?”

  Vespillo looked at Lutorius, then shook his head.

  “I honestly don’t know, Marsia.”

  Marsia let out a stifled sob, putting a fist into her mouth and biting her knuckles hard.

  Severa came into the room, rushed straight over to Vespillo and threw her arms around him. Then she pulled back, looking at the blood stains on his clothes, the dark congealed mess on his face and hands.

  “Husband, are you hurt?” she asked anxiously.

  “Nothing serious,” he replied. She turned to Lutorius. “And you, sir? Are you injured?”

  Lutorius shook his head, staring at the floor.

  Quintus reached over and touched a hand to Vespillo’s arm.

  “Vespillo?” he prompted.

  Vespillo looked around at the expectant faces staring at him - Theron, Severa, Quintus, Marsia.

  “Somehow, the man with the tragedy mask, Atreus, he knew everything. He seemed to have expected us to be there. He even seemed to know the poison wasn’t real.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Quintus.

  Vespillo shrugged. “The poison, maybe he just asked a quack. He mentioned to Rabidus that is what he should have done. That it was an ambush? I think it must have been Febrox. I don’t know how widely Rabidus discussed the plan, but Febrox was his second in command, so it would make sense that he was informed. And Febrox was in league with Atreus.”

  “What? He turned against Rabidus?”

  Vespillo nodded. “He said that Atreus paid more than Rabidus. I suspect there was an element of coercion as well. Rabidus was feared, but the respect of his men must have plummeted when they saw how Marsia and I had so easily defeated him. Atreus on the other hand, everyone seems to be terrified of meeting him.”

  “You said Febrox was Rabidus’ second in command,” said Quintus. “Is Febrox dead then?”

  “No, Rabidus is.”

  Quintus shook his head in confusion. “What happened, Vespillo?”

  Vespillo took a deep breath. “The plan we told you about, Rabidus had agreed to it. Partly because of the threat of withholding the antidote, but partly too I think because he feared Atreus, and wanted to end the threat to his authority.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” said Quintus. “My father sent me on an errand, but it didn’t sound like you needed me.”

  “We shouldn’t have,” agreed Vespillo. “We shouldn’t even have needed Lutorius to help us. And the more of us there, the more likely Atreus would have been able to detect a trap.”

/>   Quintus didn’t look satisfied, but he let it pass and waved a hand for Vespillo to continue. Vespillo explained how they had confronted Atreus and Menelaus, how the ruse had seemed to work, until Febrox turned against his boss, and ordered Rabidus slain. How Carbo had been about to kill Atreus when Menelaus intervened, and how Vespillo had been overpowered, allowing Atreus to force Carbo to surrender.

  “And where were you?” Marsia asked Lutorius, her social status completely forgotten, her face flushed red with anger.

  Lutorius looked devastated. “I was…delayed. By the time I arrived, Carbo had already put his sword down. If I had charged in then, it would have been suicide, and Carbo and Vespillo would have been dead before I could do a thing. So I…waited, until the odds had evened up.”

  “And how did that happen?” asked Quintus.

  “Atreus, Menelaus, and two of the thugs…left.”

  “Empty-handed? Why?”

  Lutorius shook his head. “Not empty-handed. They…took Carbo with them.”

  There was a silence as the small group took in the information. Then Marsia stepped forward and slapped Lutorius hard across the face. Lutorius didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his hand to the welt on his cheek as it slowly turned red.

  “You hid,” hissed Marsia. “While they took my master, to torture and death. You let it happen. You cowardly cunnus. I hope you suffer in Tartarus for eternity.”

  She turned and fled the room, sobbing as she left.

  For a moment no one spoke. Then Vespillo reached out to put a hand on Lutorius’ shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, friend,” said Vespillo.

  Quintus frowned. “And why is that, Vespillo? We haven’t heard why he was delayed yet.”

  Vespillo looked to Lutorius, waiting to see if the man would defend himself. When no explanation was forthcoming, he spoke for the stationarius.

  “There was an incident with a woman. A liaison that was interrupted by the return of her husband.”

  Quintus gaped. “You have got to be joking! Lutorius was late because he was fucking another man’s wife? If that’s true, it’s despicable. It’s beneath contempt.”

  “What do you mean, if it’s true?” asked Vespillo in a low voice.

  “How do we know Atreus got his information through Febrox? He has money, he can scare people into obedience and betrayal. What if Lutorius is his source?”

  “Take that back,” said Vespillo, standing. “You have no right to make those accusations.”

  Quintus stood too, raising his voice. “Isn’t it just a little convenient? He arrives just too late to save Carbo. Only intervenes once Atreus is gone?”

  Vespillo stepped forward and hissed between gritted teeth into Quintus’ face. “He risked his life to save mine. He fought against Febrox and his thugs.”

  “And where is Febrox now?”

  “He escaped,” said Vespillo, slightly more subdued.

  “And where are Atreus? Menelaus? Carbo?”

  Vespillo looked doubtfully across to Lutorius, who sat with his head in his hands, saying nothing.

  Quintus pointed at Lutorius. “There is your traitor!” he cried.

  “Where is Carbo?” asked a little voice.

  They all turned, to see Fabilla standing framed in the doorway. Her face was pale and drawn. Her dark eyes were dry, but sunken. She had been losing weight, and her cheekbones were prominent on her face in a way that a little girl’s should not be. She clutched a small rag doll that Thera had given her to play with.

  “Oh, Juno,” whispered Vespillo.

  “Is Carbo coming back? Or have the bad people killed him, like they killed mummy?”

  A lump formed in Quintus’ throat, all anger evaporating from him instantly.

  Severa rushed over to her, wrapped her up in her thick arms and crushed Fabilla to her chest.

  “No, little darling. The bad people haven’t killed him. Carbo will be coming home.” She stared over the child’s head at the men in the room, and challenged them to keep her promise to the little girl. They stared back at her helplessly.

  “Come, sunbeam. Let’s go and find Thera and see what games we can play.”

  She ushered Fabilla out of the room, leaving silence in her wake.

  At last, Lutorius spoke, his voice low and quiet. “I’m not a traitor,” he said. “I’m many things. An idiot, an adulterer. Maybe even a coward. Maybe I should have thrown myself into the fight even when it was hopeless. But I would not betray my friends.”

  Quintus paused, regarding the dejected man with suspicion. Then he turned away.

  Chapter XII

  Carbo woke with a start. He found something across his face, gasped in some breath and found material sucked into his mouth, cutting off the inflow of air. He tried blowing the material away, only for it to suck back against him when he breathed in. He tried to bring his hands up, and found they were tied behind his back. His heart raced, stomach clenched in the familiar grip of fear and panic.

  He tried to breathe more slowly, and the reduced airflow stopped the material from sticking to his face with each breath. Recently, whenever panic had gripped him, as it still often did, he had taken to picturing himself in Rufa’s arms, her fingers stroking his hair, her warm body soothing against his. But as Rufa’s image appeared in his mind, he felt panic and grief flood him again, threatening to drown him. He tried to concentrate on Fabilla instead, but the misery that was the loving little girl’s existence now made him even worse. In desperation, he fixed on the image of Marsia. Marsia, always there for him, calm, strong, brave. Even beautiful.

  He shook his head at the thought of attraction to the slave. Not because a slave was below him, he had rid himself of that notion when Rufa had come back into his life. But because it felt disloyal to Rufa’s memory.

  Rufa’s memory. Is that all she was now? A memory.

  With an effort, he brought himself back to focus on the present. A little more in control of himself, he assessed his situation. He was lying on his side, wrists and ankles bound tight enough to numb his hands. He flexed his fingers and toes, which pumped a little blood into tingling extremities. The material on his face felt like cloth, rough against his stubble, and smelled of must and wheat. A sack on his head then. He expected to be able to see light through cloth, and yet his vision was black. So it was night, or he was being held somewhere without windows or lamps.

  The memories of the fight in the plaza returned, and with it a throbbing ache centred on the back of his skull that radiated throughout his head. As his mind became less fogged, questions started to crowd in.

  How had it all gone so wrong? That was the main one. It had all seemed to have worked so well. Atreus and Menelaus, there at his mercy. Rabidus in his power, Rabidus’ thugs leashed and obedient to their merciless leader. It had seemed to be all over.

  And then, what? Atreus had been in control all along, it seemed. The thugs were his. Rabidus was cut out, impotent, and not from the fake poison. Atreus had to have been forewarned. He knew about the poison, and had had the foresight to co-opt Febrox. Maybe Febrox had always worked for him, maybe that was a new event, but Atreus and Febrox could not have controlled the whole gang until that moment, or Rabidus would long ago have been forced out.

  Carbo blinked his eyes hard, shook his head to clear it, despite the headache. So who had warned Atreus? And where, by Juno’s dry cunnus, had that irrumator Lutorius been? A horrible suspicion swelled in his gut. Surely not. Lutorius had seemed such a straight man. An optio. Trustworthy. But what did he really know about him? Legionaries came in all shapes and sizes, and a variety of concepts of honour. Carbo had fought alongside plenty of men who would die without hesitation for the men in their contubernium, as well as many who would sell them into slavery for a copper as.

  Anger at the betrayal gripped him, as he convinced himself that Lutorius was working for Atreus. Then a worse thought struck him. Maybe Lutorius was Atreus. The man responsible for Rufa’s murder. A stream of curses erupted from
him, and he struggled violently against his bonds, his body bucking, legs spasming.

  A door flew open with a crash, and a flicker of light from an oil lamp penetrated the cloth sack.

  “What’s all the noise?“ A deep voice, Greek accented.

  “Let me go,” growled Carbo. His voice grew to a roar. “Let me go right now, you irrumator, or I will rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat!”Calm yourself, Carbo,“ said another voice, one he recognised. “You are going nowhere. Well, that isn’t quite true, but we will get to that. What I mean to say is your bonds are quite secure, I tied them myself.”

  “Atreus?” asked Carbo, trying to peer through the translucent sack. His voice was low and dangerous. “Atreus, I will kill you. I swear it, to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, to my mother, to Rufa who you murdered, on my very honour!”

  Atreus let out a low chuckle. “Zozimus, are you ready to sail?”

  “Within the hour, Atreus.”

  “Excellent. Thank you for taking this extra piece of cargo at short notice. You will make sure he reaches his destination?”

  Zosimus let out a deep booming laugh. “Of course. As soon as he is on board, he will be locked up with the others. Even this big old hulk won’t be able to break out of iron chains.”

  “Very well. Could you fetch some men to get him loaded? But give me a short while alone with him first.”

  “As you say,” said Zozimus, and Carbo heard the door open and the Greek man depart.

  The lamp light flickered through the sack, and for a moment, all Carbo could hear was his own breathing. Then abruptly the sack was pulled off his head. He looked up into the mocking tragedy mask that he had now seen too many times.

  Fear and anger warred inside Carbo. He considered making a lunge at Atreus, but his struggles earlier had already shown him the ropes would not easily break, and that it would be futile.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Carbo, trying to keep his voice even. “Where are you sending me?”