Bandits of Rome

by Bandits of Rome (retail) (epub)

  “Just sitting, brother. Thinking.”

  “Any thoughts you want to share?”

  Quintus shook his head.

  “Well, mind if your big brother joins you?”

  “You want to sit out with me in this weather? How drunk are you?”

  “Probably just the right amount of drunk, I would say.”

  Quintus laughed. “Sit then, brother, keep me company.”

  Publius settled himself next to Quintus on the bench, and took a long drink from a silver cup. For a while they were both silent, staring out into the well-tended garden. At the far end, a slave was weeding the flower beds, drenched to the skin, hair bedraggled.

  “Have you ever been in love?” Quintus’ words spoken suddenly into the quiet made Publius start. He turned to regard Quintus for a little, then took another drink and shrugged.

  “How can you tell?”

  “I wish I knew. If it’s what I feel, I’m not sure it is a pleasant experience.”

  “Yes, I can agree with that.”

  “Have you read Catullus?”

  “I’m not really one for poetry, you know that.”

  “Plato said, ‘At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.’”

  Publius smiled. “Well, in that case I must have never been touched by love.”

  “Catullus was a very angry man. Love caused him a lot of pain, I think.”

  “Who is it?” asked Publius. “A rich merchant’s daughter? A girl you met in the bars in Nola?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Quintus, disconsolately. “It can’t happen anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “She loves someone else.”

  “Why isn’t she with him, then?”

  “Well, he is probably dead for a start.”

  Publius barked out a laugh and clapped Quintus on the back. “Well it looks like you might have an advantage over him there.”

  Quintus gave a half smile, then stared out into the rain again. Publius’ merriment faded.

  “You are better off without her, brother. Your Catullus had it right. Love brings pain.”

  “I thought you had never been in love?”

  “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  Quintus waited for Publius to continue. Publius hesitated, seeming to struggle with his next words.

  “Father has never got over mother, you know.”

  Quintus’ face twisted in annoyance. “Oh, here we go. I get enough of this from father. How I killed the love of his life. Fine, blame the newborn baby if that makes everyone feel better.”

  “Don’t be so self-centred,” snapped Publius. “More happened then than you realise.”

  Quintus looked at Publius with open curiosity.

  “Like what?”

  Publius looked down. “I can’t say.”

  Quintus gripped Publius’ arm tight, until his brother met his eyes.

  “All my life, people have condemned me for my mother’s fate. Tell me. What happened back then? I need to know.”

  Publius looked anguished. “I promised I would never tell anyone.”

  “I’m family. She was my mother as well as yours. I have a right to know.”

  Publius took a sip of wine, swallowed hard.

  “I’m only telling you now,” he said, “because you have come back from Greece changed. You are a man now. And you deserve to know. But remember, whatever I tell you, you are always my brother and I love you.”

  Quintus stayed silent, barely breathing, hanging on his brother’s words expectantly.

  “Father had two brothers. The younger, uncle Lucius, and the older, uncle Gnaeus. I sort of remember him. He had a short beard and a very smiley face. He had no children of his own, but he used to play with me. I was very young at the time, but I remember I liked him.”

  “I didn’t know I had another uncle. He died?”

  Publius sighed. “Father loved our mother. There was never any doubt about that. But he was away a lot, commanding in the legions. He used to tell me tales of the army, when I was very little.”

  “He never spoke about it to me.”

  “No, he stopped. I think he blamed the army for what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Mother used to cry a lot when father was away. Women can become very melancholy after they have given birth apparently. Uncle Lucius was away with father. But Uncle Gnaeus was older, he had proved himself with the legions, and had started on his political career. So he was always around in Rome. When mother was lonely or sad, Uncle Gnaeus used to comfort her.”

  Quintus paled. “You don’t mean…”

  Publius fidgeted uncomfortably. “I remember them being close. Remember sometimes being sent away to be looked after by the slaves, when mother wanted to be alone with Uncle Gnaeus. Other things I found out later. Bits of gossip from the slaves. And then one day, after we had left Rome, I was playing soldiers behind a statue in the peristylium, just over there.” He pointed to the far end of the garden. “I heard father and Uncle Lucius talking. I learned everything. They discovered me listening, but it was too late. Father was going to beat me, but Uncle Lucius just made me promise not to tell anyone, ever. That bad things would happen to father and to everyone in the family if I did. I was maybe eight years old by then, horrified by what I had heard, but relieved I wasn’t getting a beating. I’ve never told anyone since. Until now.”

  “Tell what, Publius,” urged Quintus.

  Publius mouthed something, like he was trying out the words before saying them.

  “Father is not…”

  “Not what?” asked Quintus, his voice low and dangerous.

  “He is not…your father.”

  He had seen it coming, but was trying not to believe. The actual words hit him like a blow from a watchman’s club to his face.

  “You’re lying,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” said Publius. “It’s true. Father…er… Gaius…”

  “Call him father,” snapped Quintus.

  Publius nodded. “Father was away for four months. You were conceived in the middle of his campaign. Uncle Gnaeus was your father.”

  Quintus stared at his brother, face slack in horror and disbelief. After a few moments, he gathered himself enough to speak.

  “What did father do?”

  “At first, nothing. Oh, they shouted, screamed, swore bloody murder. Told Gnaeus never to come near mother again. I remember the arguments, the broken crockery thrown across the triclinium. But father loved mother more than anything. She cried, begged forgiveness. And he forgave her.

  “As her belly grew, they seemed to come to some understanding. I think mother was genuinely sorry for what she had done, and father knew it. They seemed happy together. And father swore to mother that he would raise the child as his own.”

  Quintus looked down. “I wonder if he thinks he has fulfilled that promise.”

  Publius squeezed his arm gently, but didn’t answer him. Quintus sighed.

  “So, it all changed when mother died.”

  Publius’ took a deep breath. “Do you want to hear this?”

  “You seem to be in a sharing mood, brother, why not?”

  Publius’ mouth tightened, but he carried on.

  “It was the worst day of my life, the day mother died. I was old enough to understand, just. I think she developed an infection, or something like that. The physicians couldn’t save her. I have never seen father behave the way he did, before or since. He screamed, he tore clothes, he smashed statues. He had the physicians seized and Uncle Lucius had to stop him from killing them. Uncle Lucius tried to console him, but it was no use. One of the slaves took me away, kept me out of sight. You were given to another slave to wet nurse you.

  “For a while he refused to believe it was true, wouldn’t allow her to be prepared for burial. After he was finally persuaded to allow the funeral to go ahead, he wandered the house, crying out what a terrible husband he had been, how it was all his fault.
/>   “Then one day it suddenly changed. Even now I can remember how he went quiet, in a way that terrified me. He took to whispered conversations with Uncle Lucius, that would stop whenever I came near. Soon after that we had to flee Rome.”

  “What did he do?” Quintus’ voice was a whisper.

  “I don’t know the details. Just what I overheard, and put together myself. How it happened doesn’t matter I suppose. Was it an argument that got out of control, or was it pre-meditated? Either way, Uncle Gnaeus ended up dead, and father and Uncle Lucius fled into voluntary exile before the authorities could take action.”

  The fine rain had soaked Quintus without him realising, and small drops now fell from his fringe onto the hands clenched tight in his lap. He was frozen in place, eyes wide, a fine tremor running through him. Publius put an arm around his shoulder, tried to pull him close, but the action seemed to break a spell. He angrily shrugged his brother off.

  “Quintus…”

  “That man,” Quintus spat. “Killed my father.”

  “Quintus, he is your father. He raised you…”

  “No! He didn’t expose me at birth. He tolerated my existence. He did not raise me as his own. I was a constant reminder to him, of loss and betrayal. I know it now, he really does hate me.”

  Publius grabbed for Quintus’ arm. “That’s not true, Quintus, he does love you.”

  Quintus stood, pulling his arm sharply away from his brother.

  “You should have told me before, Publius. You should have told me.”

  “Quintus, I’m sorry, I swore…”

  Quintus regarded his brother coldly, then turned and walked away.

  They worked without conversation. At first because of the tension in the air following the confrontation, but soon because the work in the stale air left them breathless. Carbo’s palms became numb from the repetitive impact, and he felt his fingers blistering. His front was largely protected by the leather apron, but the skin on his knees rubbed raw, and stone chips shot into his face. His throat stung, his mouth tasted metal and every muscle and joint protested.

  Amasis returned, carrying buckets of water. They all threw down their tools and crowded round the supervisor, while he passed out cups. Carbo waited his turn, then drank thirstily, the bland, cold water tasting like the finest Falernian as it moistened his dessicated mouth and washed the dust out. He dipped his cup for another drink, downed that too, and all too quickly the water was gone and the break was over.

  “You are doing better,” said Amasis, “But Durmius said you are still behind quota.”

  By the time the next break arrived, Carbo’s arms felt as heavy as the ore he was mining. The effort was making him feel nauseous. No longer a cathartic process, working out anger and grief, it was now all about keeping going.

  They all drank greedily again, and when the water was gone, they looked at their tools, the rock face and the ore pile miserably.

  Amasis shook his head. “You will have to work hard to avoid punishment by the end of the day.”

  “How much longer do we have to work?” asked Carbo.

  “Four more hours till sundown. That’s all you have to make up the deficit.”

  “We can’t do it,” said Meru, voice cracking with dust and emotion. “We are exhausted.”

  Amasis gathered up the cups. “I’m sorry, I don’t set the targets.” And he was gone.

  They knelt together in a circle, silent for a while, heads bowed, as if in prayer. Carbo was overcome by a massive inertia, an almost physical inability to move. His mind played over the punishment of the slave they had witnessed, the free use of the whips the guards employed, and he knew that if he didn’t get back to work, the consequences would be severe. Still he didn’t move.

  He felt a sudden pain in his arm and turned. Sica was rubbing her fist.

  “Ow. Your muscles hard.”

  He opened his mouth, surprised.

  “Time to work.” She looked around. “Time to work everyone.”

  She bent and started to gather ore fragments for her basket. They all watched her for a moment, then Phraates tapped Orobazes on the shoulder, and they retrieved their tools and went back to the rock face. Meru sighed and joined Sica. Carbo and Curtius looked at each other, then Carbo reached for his pick, and with a grimace, Curtius did the same.

  Carbo’s shoulders and back cried out to him as he heaved his pick backwards, his muscles begged for mercy as he swung, again and again, but he gritted his teeth, pressed on.

  The sounds of work around him became gradually weaker, the thwock of the tools coming less frequently. Carbo worked on through the pain, the rocks around him starting to accumulate faster than Phraates and Orobazes could break them up.

  Eventually there was no more room to work. He looked around. Everyone had stopped. Slumped against walls, on the floor, breathing hard, bleeeding from scrapes and cuts, bruised and aching. Meru was crying. Phraates and Orobazes couldn’t meet Carbo’s eyes. Curtius stared at him defiantly. Carbo let his pick fall and slumped to the floor. None of them could go on. What would happen now, would happen.

  Carbo looked up briefly as Amasis emerged from the tunnel, then let his head droop again. Their supervisor looked around in alarm at the despondent group of miners, who were sitting or lying in various poses, tools discarded.

  “Oh no.” He shook his head. “Oh no, oh no.”

  Carbo didn’t have the energy to speak.

  “Why have you all stopped?” asked Amasis.

  “Why do you think, you idiot?” snapped Curtius. “We are exhausted. We have been working like mules all day.”

  “Some of us for longer than others,” muttered Meru, earning him a glare from Curtius.

  “But…but…” stammered Amasis. “You were already struggling to meet your quota. You have done nothing for the last hour. You are well below an acceptable output. Oh dear. I’m so sorry.”

  Carbo’s head snapped up. “Sorry? Why sorry?”

  Amasis just sighed. “It’s not in my hands, I’m afraid. Come on, your shift is over.”

  “What is going to happen to us?” asked Meru nervously.

  “It’s not my place to say,” said Amasis, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

  “Amasis,” said Carbo. “How much trouble are we in? Should we try to carry on working?”

  “It’s too late,” said Amasis, his voice full of regret. “The pit closes for the night, the guards go off duty, you return to your huts. There is no option to carry on. It’s all my fault. I should have warned you, supervised you more closely.” Amasis let out a deep sigh, and turned back to the tunnel. “Come, all of you. Your day is done.”

  Carbo followed Amasis out, on his hands and knees. He felt he should be relieved the awful working day was over, but instead his guts were clenched, and even though the air became clearer, the lamps burning brighter as they ascended the sloping passageway, his breathing became tighter.

  When they reached the bottom of the ladder, Carbo waited his turn. Sica touched his arm lightly. “What is wrong?” she whispered.

  Carbo shook his head. “I don’t know. Something bad.”

  Sica bit her lip and was quiet.

  The climb up the ladder was tougher than Carbo expected. Despite the fact that he had been resting for the last hour, his arms felt like the lead he had been mining, and he started to worry he would lose his grip. Halfway up the ladder, a fatal fall below him, a hard climb still before, his heart suddenly started to race. His vision blurred, and he felt he would lose his grip. He stopped, clung on tightly, closed his eyes.

  “What’s the hold up?” came Curtius’ voice from below. “Get moving, you great oaf.”

  Carbo swallowed, waited for the moment to pass, then clambered the rest of the way up as fast as he could. Once at the top, he reached a hand down to help pull up Sica behind him. Between them, they helped up Meru and then the heavier Phraates and Orobazes. Curtius was last and when he reached the top he extended a hand. Carbo turned his back.
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  The sun was behind the hills, an orange glow in the west, but the dim light still made them squint and blink. The air was chill. Their sweat-damped bodies quickly lost the excess heat from their work in the hot tunnels, and they all started to shiver. Their nakedness was now more obvious in the twilight than in the dark mines, and Sica drew her arms around herself. Carbo took off his apron and slid it over Sica’s neck, and she smiled gratefully.

  “What now?” asked Carbo.

  “Now, you eat and sleep,” said Amasis. “And in the morning…” He shook his head and walked away, towards his own quarters. The same four guards who had escorted them in the morning secured them back in their chains, and then pushed them in the direction of their huts. All around, other groups of slaves were being led away, shuffling, heads bowed. Carbo’s workgroup was no different, except maybe showing more shock behind their exhaustion than the others, for whom this daily torment had become their lives.

  They were encouraged back into their hut with some cracks of the whip, some of which struck home. Once inside, they all slumped to the floor wordless. After a short while, the door opened again, and Agamede and Pamphile were thrust through, Agamede tripping and sprawling across the floor, landing across Curtius who pushed her away with a curse. Pamphile helped her up, and they found an unoccupied stretch of wall to lean against, arms around each other, shaking.

  Time passed, the last light of the day through the cracks in the walls disappearing, and Carbo, despite the exhaustion and the fear, suddenly realised how ravenous he was. Before a battle, he rarely had an appetite, and he was surprised that his anxiety allowed him one now. But the hard physical labour of the day had left him weak, his body craving replacement for the energy he had expended. The thought of food made him salivate, and his stomach cramped painfully.

  “Why you not belong here?” Sica asked Pamphile.

  Pamphile looked at her, momentarily confused.

  “You said you not belong here. Why?”

  Pamphile exchanged glances with her sister, who shrugged, looking down at the ground.

  “We were taken. Travelling to see a client. Kidnapped and sold into slavery.”

  Agamede didn’t look up, but her shoulders shook.