Bandits of Rome

by Bandits of Rome (retail) (epub)

  Atreus squatted down in front of Carbo, the mask close to his face. Carbo could see the eyes through the slits, blue irises, the whites shot through with red veins. The skin around the eyes was slack, lined. Carbo suddenly realised, Atreus was old.

  “You didn’t answer me,” said Atreus.

  Carbo’s eyes narrowed in confusion. He was still disorientated, from the blow to his head and from recovering in captivity in an unfamiliar place. Had he missed part of the conversation.

  “What?”

  “I asked you a question and you never replied.”

  “What question?”

  “The second time we met, I asked you if you understood loss. Maybe at the moment I asked it, you didn’t. The gods know what dark turns your past journey has taken. Regardless I think you appreciate it better now.”

  “You took my woman’s life, in exchange for my killing of your brother. Yet my act was self defence, yours was murder. And you did not love your brother the way I loved my woman. Or maybe you did, you seem to have some pretty unnatural pleasures.”

  Carbo mentally stiffened for a blow at the insult, but Atreus simply continued to gaze down on him.

  “I know the loss of a woman, too, Carbo. My life has been all about loss. My family is cursed I believe, just like the Atreides. The loss you inflicted on me was one more in a long line. But I am avenged on you, as I was on the one who took my wife.”

  “I’m not dead yet.”

  “And why is that, do you think? Do I seem merciful?”

  Carbo was silent.

  “I could let you find out in time, I suppose, but I wouldn’t get to see your face. Tell me, what is the worst punishment that the authorities will inflict, apart from execution?”

  Carbo considered for a moment, unwilling to play along, but desperate to find out what Atreus was thinking. “Exile?” he guessed.

  Atreus shook his head. “Ah, I see your confusion. Yes, a Roman citizen convicted of a major crime is likely to be executed, exiled or fined. But you, you are now a slave. So that doesn’t apply.”

  Carbo’s eyes opened wide. “What do you mean?”

  “To Zosimus, you are just part of his cargo of slaves. I am actually going to get paid for you, which is gratifying. I will buy a fine Falernian and toast your memory.”

  “You can’t do that,” Carbo said, aghast.

  “Hmm. The facts suggest otherwise. Anyway where were we? Ah yes. Punishments. So many possibilities for a slave. Roman society uses its full imagination when it comes to slaves. We can brand you, break your bones, crucify you, whip you. Really whatever we like. But most of those things are either too quick, or too minor. If I crucify you, you will be dead in a couple of days. How does that honour my brother? No, I have a much slower way for you to die. You are going to Sicily to work in the lead mines.”

  Carbo blanched, felt his skin go cold and clammy.

  “Ah, I see you understand the significance of that. So many people in my world don’t understand what horrors, what sacrifice of human flesh and spirit goes into providing the luxuries they love so much. The marble quarries, the vineyards, the garum factories, all staffed by hordes of slaves, working themselves into early graves, tossed out when they are no longer of use, at which point of course they cannot support themselves, and so starve to death.

  “And the worst of all? The mines. It’s why slaves are sent there as a punishment. The weakest slaves survive there only for days. A strong one like you might make it for months or more, assuming you don’t get murdered by a sadistic guard, or die in a cave-in. You will die though, one way or another, worn out, broken, knowing that everything you have worked for in your life has come to this. Exhaustion, agony and death, so that some rich Romans can have silver cups and water flowing into their fountains in lead pipes. And I will have both my revenge, and a decent payout for a strong specimen like yourself.”

  Carbo shook his head, but his throat was frozen. He wanted to argue, to plead, forgetting his pride to avoid the fate Atreus had manufactured for him.

  Atreus’ eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling with the suggestion of a smile. He nodded.

  “Yes, I think that will do nicely. Goodbye, Carbo. We won’t meet again.”

  Atreus turned to leave.

  Carbo found his voice.

  “Wait,” he cried out desperately.

  Atreus turned back, head cocked to one side.

  “Who are you?” asked Carbo.

  Atreus considered for a short moment, took hold of the bottom of his mask, then shook his head.

  “I like the idea of you dying with that question on your lips.”

  “I will kill you,” spat Carbo.

  “No, you won’t. You will fall apart in a Sicilian lead mine.”

  Zosimus knocked and entered, three bulky sailors with him.

  “You can load him up now,” said Atreus. Zosimus nodded, and approached Carbo.

  “Pleasure doing business with you, as always, Atreus.”

  The three men sat around the kitchen table, faces downcast, not meeting each other’s eyes. They chewed laboriously at the salted bread and figs that Theron had brought them for their ientaculum. No one spoke.

  Presently, Marsia came back in. Her face was streaked with tear trails, but her eyes were dry, and her face set.

  “Would any of you like me to serve you a drink? Some water, or some wine?”

  “Water, please,” said Quintus, attempting a smile in her direction. She bowed her head and filled his cup from a jug.

  “Marsia,” said Vespillo. “I am not your master. I’m not clear who is in charge of you in Carbo’s absence, unless it is Fabilla. Nevertheless, you should apologise to Lutorius.”

  Marsia stiffened, but said nothing.

  “Marsia,” said Vespillo again, voice low. “You know how badly punished you could be, a slave striking a free man. I’m sure Lutorius would overlook it this time. We know how devoted you are to your master, and it can be put down to an emotional over-reaction.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” mumbled Lutorius, not looking up.

  “It does,” insisted Vespillo. He locked eyes with Marsia and she stared back, unblinking. Vespillo recognised the power of Marsia’s will at that moment, the iron inside that had allowed her to survive being ripped from her homeland to serve strange masters in a foreign country. Vespillo knew his way around wilful subordinates though, and he did not flinch. Eventually, Marsia looked down.

  “I’m sorry, master Lutorius. I was wrong to strike you.”

  “And…” prompted Vespillo.

  “And,” said reluctantly. “I was wrong to say the things I said.”

  Vespillo noted to himself that this was not the same as admitting the things she said were untrue. But it would do.

  Lutorius looked up at Marsia, and Vespillo saw his eyes were wet.

  “I am sorry, too, Marsia,” said Lutorius. “Truly I am. If I could go back a day, start afresh…”

  “It would have made no difference,” said Vespillo, firmly. “We have been over this. Now, Marsia, I will have some water too, and pour some for Lutorius.”

  Marsia did as she was bid. Vespillo looked around at his dejected companions.

  “Come on,” he said, trying to inject an enthusiasm into his voice he didn’t feel. “We are behaving like Carbo is dead. That man is a fighter and a survivor if anyone is.”

  Marsia looked up at Vespillo, and gave him a grateful half smile.

  “But even if he is alive, he is in captivity, suffering the gods only know what,” said Quintus. The smile disappeared from Marsia’s face as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Then let us start thinking how to help him,” said Vespillo.

  “What could we do?” asked Lutorius.

  “It would help if we knew who this damned Atreus was. And his son, this Menelaus,” said Vespillo.

  Lutorius shook his head. “The names are false. I have enquired enough in the past. No one by the names of Atreus or Thyestes live in these
parts. They must be like the names gladiators take for themselves for the arena.”

  “Then their names don’t help us at all,” said Quintus.

  “Well, where did the names come from?” asked Vespillo. “Why did he pick Atreus?”

  “Atreus was the king of Mycenae,” said Marsia. “He was the father of Menelaus and Agamemnon.”

  All three men turned to stare at her.

  “How do you…never mind. Thyestes? Who was he?”

  “He was Atreus’ brother.”

  Lutorius nodded. “Not random names then. We know our Atreus and Thyestes were brothers. That is what led to this whole problem in the first place. So, Menelaus is Atreus’ son?”

  Vespillo nodded. “It seems likely.”

  “So all we need to do is find a family that includes a man and his son, in which the man’s brother has died. There must be hardly anyone like that in Campania.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t going to help,” said Vespillo. “Marsia, I know Agamemnon and Menelaus from the Iliad. Greek kings who sailed against Troy. Agamemnon was killed by his wife I recall, and Menelaus had his wife stolen by Paris, which triggered the whole thing. But Menelaus is a recent creation, I am guessing. He has only made an appearance since Thyestes died, and may have taken the name simply as he is Atreus’ son, so the name Menelaus may have no significance beyond that. But why Atreus and Thyestes? What makes them special?”

  The three men looked at Marsia expectantly, and she blushed lightly at being the centre of attention.

  “Well,” she began hesitantly. “The house of Atreides is said to be descended from Tantalus.”

  “The Tantalus?” asked Lutorius. “The one who fed his son to the gods and now lives in Hades with fruit and water forever just out of reach?”

  “So it is said,” said Marsia. “The House of Atreides was cursed by a charioteer who had been double-crossed after helping the father of Thyestes and Atreus win a chariot race and claim a kingdom.”

  “Is this really getting us anywhere?” asked Quintus. Vespillo shot him an angry glance, and Quintus threw up his hands in mock surrender. Vespillo nodded to Marsia, who was turning redder all the time.

  “Atreus and Thyestes were twins who were exiled by their father for killing their half brother Chrysippus. They fled to Mycenae and took the throne there. Their mother fled with them, and hanged herself. Atreus and Thyestes soon fell out. They fought over who should rule, and eventually Thyestes was banished. After this, though, Atreus discovered his wife was Thyestes’ lover. In revenge he killed Thyestes’ sons and tricked their father into eating them.”

  The men looked at each other in distate.

  “Thyestes then fathered a son off his daughter. His ashamed daughter abandoned the son, called Aegisthus, and eventually killed herself, but he was raised by Atreus, until Thyestes revealed the truth - that he was the boy’s father and grandfather. Aegisthus then killed Atreus. Atreus’ sons, Agamemnon and Menelaus were exiled to Sparta, where they married Clytemnestra and Helen.”

  “I know what happened after that,” said Vespillo. “The Trojan war. And when Agamemnon returned, Aegisthus who was now Clytemnestra’s lover murdered him.”

  Marsia nodded. “The family curse doesn’t end there. Agamemnon’s children, Orestes and Electra eventually killed Aegisthus and their mother Clytemnestra in revenge for their father’s death. What happens next depends on whether you read Euripides or Aeschylus, but in one version Orestes is judged by the gods, and when they found his actions were justified, the family curse was lifted.”

  There was a momentary pause as the men present digested the story Marsia had told.

  “Incest. Rape. Murder. Cannibalism. What a pretty tale,” said Lutorius.

  “So what are we saying here?” asked Quintus. “That Atreus is somehow modelling his life on the Atreus of myth? That he killed his nephew and fed him to his brother? That his brother had a son from raping his own daughter? This is ridiculous.”

  “It does sound far-fetched,” admitted Lutorius.

  “Every word of the story doesn’t have to fit,” said Vespillo. “But we do know the names are assumed, that they must have chosen them. Atreus and Thyestes, the original ones and the ones we met, were brothers. Menelaus was Atreus’ son. What else could be true? What elements of what Marsia has told us are possible?”

  Lutorius considered for a moment. “Well, the cannibalism seems unlikely. Possible but unlikely. The conflict between the brothers doesn’t ring true either, our Atreus seems to have loved his brother.”

  “The incest?” asked Vespillo. He shrugged at the disgusted looks he received. “I’m only asking.”

  “What about the exile?” asked Lutorius. “They could have come from somewhere else. Maybe even Rome.”

  Vespillo nodded. “That’s possible. Many people are exiled from Rome for a range of crimes.”

  “Anything else?” asked Lutorius.

  “The curse,” said Quintus. They all looked at him. “Maybe Atreus believes his family is cursed.”

  They digested this for a moment.

  “Well, what next?” asked Quintus. “Has this really got us any further forward?”

  “We could start looking for someone who is not native to Nola, someone who isn’t poor. Someone whose brother died recently and has a son.”

  “Well that really narrows it down,” muttered Quintus.

  “Have you got any better ideas?” snapped Vespillo.

  Quintus looked sheepish, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just so frustrating. Rufa dead, Carbo taken, and no real leads on where to find him.”

  “And why is it you care so much?” asked Vespillo suspiciously.

  “Because I fought alongside him. Because he treated me as an equal. A comrade and a friend. Unlike…” He trailed off. Vespillo regarded him for a moment, then nodded, satisfied.

  “Fine. But if you want to help, then you need to show it. Not just criticise and accuse.”

  Quintus hung his head, then looked up, into the eyes of first Vespillo and then Lutorius.

  “I apologise. To both of you, Vespillo, Lutorius. What would you have me do?”

  “We need to ask questions. Lutorius can use his contacts and his colleagues. You can talk to your acquaintances. I can talk to… well, the sort of people who might not want to talk to a stationarius or an equestrian.”

  Lutorius nodded, but Quintus looked doubtful. “I don’t really have many acquaintances. I have been gone from the region for a long time. And when I was younger, my father was hardly the most sociable person. My circle is not large. Still.” He took a deep breath. “I will do what I can.”

  “We should pay Febrox a visit too,” said Lutorius. “I don’t know what he knows, but it isn’t going to hurt to question him.”

  “The hideout is well defended,” said Vespillo.

  “I can ask the centurion for some men to help.”

  Vespillo nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Then the task before us is to rip those masks off. However we can manage it. Once we know who these thugs are, things will be very different. Then we will get Carbo back, and we will be revenged.”

  The ropes chafed his wrists, and the hobbles that shortened his stride bit into his ankles, and made the pain from his old leg wound more pronounced. The cart driver trundled away, and Zosimus gestured to the guards to lead Carbo towards the docks. Carbo had never been to Neapolis before, but he recognised the type of place, the smell of fish and salt in the air, the shouts of dock workers and sailors busy loading and unloading their wares. Officials wandered up and down with airs of superiority, as they inspected cargoes and ticked off checklists on their wax tabets with their styluses.

  Carbo had been hidden beneath a tarpaulin for the uncomfortable journey in the back of the cart from Nola. Now he was in the open, being led towards the ship that would take him to his enslavement and death. This might be his last chance.

  The ropes were thick, the bonds were tight, and there was n
o way he could overcome the four guards that accompanied him, especially bound and unarmed. He looked around him desperately, trying to find an official face, a legionary or dock official to whom he could appeal. One of the guards gave him a shove in the back, and the hobbles stopped him getting his leg beneath him to keep his balance. He sprawled forwards, bringing his hands up just in time to prevent his nose smashing into the cobbles, but still receiving grazes on his forearms and mud across his tunic and face.

  The guards laughed, and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. Zosimus frowned at the delay, and reprimanded the guard who had pushed him.

  “Don’t damage the goods, idiot.”

  The guard bowed his head in mock contrition.

  Carbo continued to scan the workers on the docks, looking for anyone demonstrating the slightest bit of authority, but all he saw were slaves and labourers, and scruffy, tough-looking sailors. He was led towards a cargo ship, and started up the gangplank.

  “Zosimus.”

  Zosimus turned, and so did Carbo. Behind them was one of the dock officials, wax tablet in hand.

  “Have you declared all your cargo?” asked the official.

  “Late addition,” said Zosimus. “I was just loading him, then was going to come and find you.”

  “I’m sure you were. Slave for the mines?”

  “Yes,” said Zosimus.

  “No!” cried Carbo.

  Zosimus and the official looked at him in surprise.

  “Sir, I’m a free man. My name is Carbo, I’m a veteran of the legions. I was abucted in Nola. I am not a slave. This man has illegally kidnapped me.”

  “I see,” said the official. “These are serious allegations, Zosimus.”

  “All lies. These slaves will say anything to avoid their just fate.”

  “Even so, maybe I should investigate.” The official stroked his chin and cocked his head to one side.

  Zosimus frowned. “I already paid you once, you greedy bastard.”

  “That was for the rest of the cargo. Like you said, this is a new addition.”

  Zosimus sighed, reached into his purse, and took out some coins. Carbo gaped as the dock official took them, then made a mark on his tablet and said, “Everything seems to be in order here.”