“No,” said Carbo. “I’m not lying, you corrupt felator.”
The dock official raised an eyebrow, then said to Zosimus, “Safe journey. Oh, and I recommend you gag that foul-mouthed slave till you reach your destination. You wouldn’t want him spreading those lies too widely.”
Chapter XIII
A wooden pole ran lengthways along the compartment within the hold, fixed to the walls at either end. Metal chains ran between manacles on Carbo’s wrists and ankles, and another chain looped around them to secure them to the pole. Carbo sat on the damp wooden floor, unable to fully straighten either his back or his legs. A twisted strip of cloth had been forced between his teeth and tied tightly behind his head. The dark hold, lit only by cracks in the boards above them, was filled with several dozen other captives, chained as he was, though no others were gagged. Carbo smelled tar, urine, sweat and pungent farts.
The marked degree of the pitch and roll of the boat told Carbo they were far out to sea. Carbo was not a seasoned mariner, but he had spent some time on river boats on the Rhine when serving in Germany, and a little time in sea-faring boats when on secondment to other units. A couple of hours had passed since he had been loaded aboard like a piece of heavy freight, dumped below and left with his fellow passengers.
He had half-heartedly tested his bonds, and found them secure as he had expected. He had kicked the pole, but the wood was thick oak, not yet softened by age or soaking in brine, and he just bruised his heel. Then he had slumped forward, fighting the nausea the boat’s motion induced. Despite the discomfort, his predicament, his grief, he suddenly felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. He closed his eyes and within a few heartbeats was fast asleep.
A sharp pain in his leg woke him. He opened his eyes in time to see a guard lift his foot back and kick him again.
“Wake up, slave.”
Carbo lifted his head and glared at the guard.
“Dinner,” grunted the guard, and threw some bread at Carbo’s feet. He watched it soak up the bilge, like a sponge thrown into a chamber pot. He looked up at the guard and gestured to his gag. The chains were too short to allow him to reach his mouth with his hands. The guard shrugged and moved to the prisoner to Carbo’s left, throwing another small piece of bread down. The prisoner scooped it up rapidly and hungrily tried to cram it into his mouth. He was brought up short by his own chains, and only managed to eat by rolling onto his side, angling his face towards the sky and dropping the bread into his open mouth.
Carbo stared at the skinny man. His clothes were rags, and through holes in the tunic Carbo could see the marks of a recent whipping. The prisoner continued to eat without any show of obvious self-consciousness. Carbo shook his head and looked down at the bread between his feet. Nausea, misery and fear leant him no appetite, even if he could stomach the filth-soaked food.
Carbo suddenly felt he was being watched, and turned. The prisoner to his right was a slight, young girl with long dark hair. She regarded him with unblinking, curious eyes. As he watched, she tore a small piece of bread off her portion, tossed it into the air and caught it deftly in her mouth. Then she cocked her head on one side, winked, and gave him a cheeky smile.
Despite himself, Carbo found himself, for just a moment, smiling back. Then he felt abruptly stupid, and turned his head away from her, gazing into the gloom of the hold, trying to empty his mind of thoughts of Rufa, of Fabilla and Vespillo, of Rome. From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl’s smile fade.
Carbo’s head nodded forward, and he drifted in and out of sleep. A sudden jar to the hull as the boat ploughed into a particularly deep trough startled him awake. The prisoner to his left was fast asleep and snoring. Sounds of creaking timbers were interspersed with a few quiet sobs and moans. Carbo realised he was losing track of passing time. Glancing up, the bits of sky he saw were dark grey, but it was not yet night.
The prisoner to Carbo’s right fidgeted, shifting from buttock to buttock, pressing her knees together. When she saw that Carbo had looked in her direction, she glared at him defiantly. Then a more anguished look came into her eyes.
“I need piss,” she said. The voice was light and melodious, incongruous with the statement. Carbo could not place the accent. Not quite Germanic, not Greek. Carbo glanced around him. No guards were in sight, and from the ammoniacal smell, Carbo guessed that trips to lavatory facilities were probably not allowed on this cruise. He shrugged at her.
She glowered at him for a moment, then said, “You turn away.”
Carbo turned his head. There was a pause, then he heard her sigh. After he felt enough time had elapsed, he looked back at her. The lower part of her tunic was soaked, even where it wasn’t in contact with the bilge water. Her glare was defiant, but even in the gloom he could see the redness burning her cheeks, and the tears in the corners of her eyes. Carbo thought for a moment. He was going to need to relieve himself soon too, he realised.
He raised one finger, then relaxed. It was harder than he expected, being watched, even in these circumstances. Soon though, he felt the flow warming the inside of his thighs, and his eyes unfocused at the transient pleasure of emptying his bladder. When he had finished he glanced down at his dark-stained lap, looked at the girl, and shrugged. She followed his eyes, and as realisation dawned, she smiled broadly at him, and again Carbo found himself, against the odds, smiling back.
“I am Sica,” she said.
Carbo grunted through his gag.
“Why your mouth tied?” asked Sica.
Carbo raised his eyebrows, and Sica laughed, suddenly realising the absurdity of her question.
“So I have to do speaking for both?”
Carbo nodded.
“I not speak Roman well.”
Carbo shrugged.
“Not good for us talking.”
Carbo shook his head. The girl went silent, and Carbo stared off at the dim walls. The distraction ended, dark thoughts crowded back into Carbo’s head. He tried to empty his mind, tried to think about happier times, army days with his comrades, but always the anger and fear and crushing grief forced them out. As he stared into the gloom, figures appeared, solidified. Vespillo, bleeding from a head wound. Elissa the priestess, laughing amid soaring flames. A man wearing a mask, that as he watched, swapped from the grotesque smile of the comedian to the sinister grimace of the tragedian. His heart started to race, and he breathed more heavily through his gag, trying to suppress the small cries of anguish that kept escaping him.
The figures faded away like mist in the sun, and his breathing started to settle, his heart started to slow.
Rufa’s face appeared directly in front of him. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers. But her beautiful face was white, as if daubed with the lead that the society ladies used for foundation. And below her chin, her neck gaped wide, slashed open, blood still flowing in torrents down her chest.
Carbo screamed aloud, terror gripping him. He kicked his feet, trying to put distance between himself and the lemur before him. The chains brought him up short. He tilted his head back as the face swam nearer. Rufa’s lips opened, puckering for a kiss as she had so many times before. But now bloodstained her teeth and ran from the corners of her mouth.
Carbo’s cries became formless and incoherent. He tried to turn his face away, but he couldn’t avert his eyes from the spectre. Rufa’s lips approached his.
A sharp pain radiated through his right arm. His eyes flickered to one side, then were drawn back to the dead face. The pain came again, and he turned to look for the source. Sica was looking at him with concern. His eyes drifted forwards, and he saw Sica lean across and headbutt him in the arm again.
“Look at me,” she said. He looked at her uncertainly, and she held his gaze with large, wide, green eyes. His eyes flickered, and she said sternly, “Look at me.” She extended her hand, but her chains prevented her from reaching him. He hesitated, then reached out his own hand, the length of his chains and hers allowing their fingers to touch.
He could hear the smack of Rufa’s lips, feel her cold breath on his skin, hear her respiration, smell her perfume. But he stayed focussed on Sica. The presence at his periphery receded, the scent fading, the soft breath noises diminishing. Sica stretched, took hold of his hand. He could see the effort was making the chains bite deep into her wrists, but he needed the contact and he selfishly gripped her hand tight.
Then it was gone. He swallowed, then braved a look. Just dark walls again. He looked around. The other prisoners were all staring at him, some with curiosity, some with suspicion, fear or hostility. He looked back to Sica. Her eyes searched his, concerned. He squeezed her hand one more time and let it drop. He nodded to her, and attempted a smile. She didn’t smile back, but the anxiety in her expression lessened.
Carbo took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His stomach churned, and he knew the nausea wasn’t from the rolling seas this time - he had experienced fear, from threats real or imagined, often enough to know how it felt afterwards. He willed his muscles to relax, felt some of the tension drain away.
“We all have had bad things happen,” said Sica, and her voice betrayed sympathy, not reproach. “Everyone here.” She gestured around her.
The skinny prisoner to Carbo’s left grunted. “Ain’t that true,” he muttered.
Carbo nodded. He hoped his face expressed contrition, but he was no actor, and he had no idea what message he was conveying. Sica seemed to have relaxed though. She reached out again and Carbo touched her fingertips with his.
“Sleep,” she said. “Long journey. Nothing else to do.”
He shook his head, but tiredness suddenly overwhelmed him again, and Somnus took him.
Lutorius nodded to the stationarius, who brought the heavy axe down hard. Wood splintered from solid door. With a tug, the stationarius freed the axe, brought it down again. Three blows were enough to break a big enough hole in the door for Lutorius to reach in and heave the bar out of the way. Another stationarius then hefted a large hammer and smashed at the door lock. Door and frame splintered, and another blow smashed it wide open. The door flew back on its hinges, crashing against the wall.
“I think they know we are here, now,” said Vespillo.
Lutorius grimaced. “After you?”
Vespillo drew his gladius and entered the atrium of the thieves’ hideout. Lutorius and the detachment of ten stationarii followed behind him. A surprised sentry stood at the far end of the room. He turned tail and ran deeper into the building at the sight of them.
“Let’s go,” yelled Vespillo, slipping into a command role easily, though he had no authority here. The stationarii followed without question, and ran behind him, weapons drawn. They entered the triclinium where Vespillo, posing as Hilarius, had met the unfortunate Rabidus. Two men stood there, weapons drawn. One looked terrified, knife gripped in shaking hand. The other, who Vespillo recognised from his previous visits, gave a defiant yell, and charged him.
It was over in an instant. A street thug was no match for a veteran of the legions and commander in the vigiles. Vespillo parried the blow, sidestepped, and ran the thug through his chest, skewering him side to side. He tugged his weapon free, watching the spurt of heart blood ejecting through the hole he had made with satisfaction. He turned to the other thug, who threw his weapons onto the ground and sank to his knees, hands clasped before him.
Lutorius stepped up beside Vespillo, putting a hand on his shoulder and looked around.
“Is this how you remember it?”
Vespillo shook his head. “This place was full. And there were statues, tapestries, silverware. It looks cleaned out now.”
Lutorius pointed to the kneeling thug with his sword.
“You. Where are the rest of your friends?”
The thief shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know.”
The thief closed his mouth tight and looked down.
Lutorius sighed. “It’s going to be like that is it? You sure you aren’t prepared to talk before this gets messy?”
The thief trembled, but said nothing.
Lutorius turned to his comrades. “Let’s get him back to the station, and get some answers.”
“We should have expected it,” said Vespillo. “Febrox would have moved immediately when he knew the location of his hideout was no longer secret. It’s a shame we couldn’t have raided the place sooner.”
He punched the prisoner in the abdomen. The thief was suspended by his chained wrists from metal loops on the wall, feet dangling off the ground.
“It was a long shot,” agreed Lutorius, punching the man square on the nose, cartilage crunching beneath his fist. The thief cried out.
“Stop, for Clementia’s sake, please.”
Vespillo punched him in the gut again, driving the air out of him and cutting off his pleading.
“You know how it can be in the military,” said Lutorius. “Asellio hesitated for an age before he let me get this group together.” He nodded at the hanging thief. “Should we ask him again?”
Vespillo considered the prisoner for a moment. “I suppose we can try.” He addressed the quietly weeping man. “Where is Febrox?”
“I don’t know, please believe me. Wait!” he yelled as Vespillo pulled his fist back. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Vespillo paused. “Why do I have a feeling that won’t take long?”
“The gang moved out the day after we had that fight in the square. Transferred all the loot, weapons, everything.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know, I swear. The two of us were left behind to guard the old place, and to report daily so Febrox knew whether the hideout had been raided.”
“How did you report?” asked Lutorius.
“We just had to make a chalk mark on the wall of the hideout once a day. That was it. I guess he sent someone to check it.”
Lutorius looked over at Vespillo. “What do you think?”
“Maybe,” said Vespillo. “Febrox may have planned to go back to using that place one day, so it would make sense to keep it guarded. And he would also want to know whether he was being pursued, whether he still needed to keep his head down. If he was expecting the raid, or at least worried there would be one, he wouldn’t have told anyone he left behind where he was going.”
Lutorius nodded. “Then this has been pointless, hasn’t it?”
“Wait a moment,” said Vespillo. “You said, ‘the day after we had that fight.’ You were there?”
The prisoner nodded. “I didn’t hurt anyone, I promise. I was only doing as I was told.”
“What happened to Carbo?”
“Carbo? You mean the big guy? I don’t know.”
Vespillo drew back his fist.
“Febrox said something to that guy, the one with the frowny mask, something about slaves, and the docks at Neapolis. That’s all I know. Please stop.”
Vespillo stroked the whiskers on his chin.
“It’s a start,” said Lutorius.
“Maybe not completely pointless then,” agreed Vespillo. “I’ll do some asking around.”
“Why do you care about this man?” asked Asellio, expression sour.
“Does it matter?” said Lutorius. “Isn’t it our job to help find him?”
“Really, Lutorius. You still have to ask that question? No, it isn’t our job to investigate crimes, or to search for missing citizens, or to help old ladies get their pussies out of trees. The emperor stationed us here to keep order, and make sure the taxes are paid. If we have to crack a few heads, or crucify some criminals, fine. But using our limited resources on a manhunt? I thought you knew better.”
“He is a good man. He stood up to the bandits that have been preying on the travellers around Nola. You know, the ones that we have failed to catch, despite their effect on commerce and tax revenues in Nola.”
Asellio’s eyebrows drew close together, eyes narrowed to slits.
“Watch yourself,
Lutorius. I will not have you questioning the job I do here.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We have some information. He may have been taken to Neapolis. Illegally sold into slavery. I’m only asking for a few men to help…”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“I said no. I have given you plenty of leeway to help this Carbo. But enough is enough. We have spent sufficient effort on this. Time to move on.”
“But sir, we can’t just abandon him.”
“He is not our responsibility, Lutorius. You will return to your duties. I want you to take four men and patrol the market. The traders keep asking for more presence from us to deter thieving.”
“You want me to spend my time stopping children stealing apples and trinkets?”
“I want you to obey my orders, optio!”
Asellio’s face was red, round cheeks blowing in and out as he breathed hard through clenched teeth.
Lutorius stood to attention and snapped an overly formal salute.
“Yes, sir! Am I dismissed?”
“You are.”
Lutorius wheeled and marched for the door.
“Lutorius,” called Asellio after him. Lutorius paused at the door, turned.
“Sir?”
Asellio seemed to be wrestling with something. His mouth worked, but no words emerged. He clenched a fist, then relaxed it and sighed.
“Just get out.”
Quintus looked slyly at the woman walking beside him. His insides were taut, and he struggled to find words. He didn’t understand. He was no virgin, he had had his share of whores and farm girls and slaves since he had reached manhood. He had even had a brief dalliance with an older man during his stay in Greece. He had had him do things no respectable Roman man would do. He still felt chagrined about the way he let himself be dominated in the man’s bed, the way he had become the giver of pleasure instead of the receiver. But he couldn’t regret it, he had taught him so much.
Yet he had never felt like this around anyone before. Stumbling over his sentences, uncertain as to whether to offer an arm, or keep his distance, or even have the woman walk behind him. A flush on his cheeks that his sparse beard couldn’t hide.
Bandits of Rome Page 17
