“What is it?” called Carbo.
“It’s the tunnel walls. They have shifted. It’s not just rubble here, it’s solid rock face. We are going to have to mine ourselves out.”
“With one pick, excavate a whole new tunnel from solid rock? That would take days.”
Carbo groaned and slumped to the floor.
“What, are you giving up?” asked Curtius.
“What’s your plan, then?” asked Carbo.
“I don’t know, I just…you have all the ideas.”
“Not for this,” said Carbo.
The three of them sat in silence. Carbo’s craving for water was intense. His mouth and nose were clogged with dust, and despair and extreme exhaustion overwhelmed him.
Something tumbled down the ventilation shaft. Carbo looked round. The end of a thick rope dangled in front of him.
Vespillo and Marsia finished a light lunch of sardines in garum and bread and walked back down to the docks, where they had spent most of their time in Neapolis for the last three days. They wandered slowly along the seafront, watching the slaves and sailors at work. Tar was reapplied, sails patched and sewn. Cargoes unloaded, new cargoes reloaded. Regularly, boats and ships landed and departed. Each time a new arrival docked, Vespillo quizzed the captain as soon as the gangplank hit the dock. So far, no Zosimus, and none had encountered him, or had news of when he was due back.
A tatty boat with ragged sails appeared over the horizon and drew close. Vespillo watched its approach, hoping that this was the one. The chariot races that the captain had mentioned were being held tomorrow. If Zozimus wasn’t back by then, maybe he didn’t intend to return. Maybe after he had dumped his cargo of slaves, he had found another lucrative job, and departed to some far flung part of the Empire, Egypt or Africa or Hispania.
The boat docked, sailors threw ropes to the dockers, and it was hauled side-on to the dock. The sailors heaved a gangplank into place, and Vespillo leaped onto it and boarded the ship, Marsia close behind.
The captain strode over to him, a short, round, bearded man, and said in a deep, Greek-accented voice, “Who by Hades are you?”
“Are you Zosimus?” asked Vespillo. The captain pursed his lips.
“I ask again, who are you?”
“My name is Lucius Vedius Vespillo, tribune of the vigiles of Rome.”
Zosimus frowned as he tried to place the description. “Vigiles? You mean the firemen? The ones that work in Rome? What right does that give you to board my ship?”
Vespillo cursed inwardly, he had hoped the mention of an official position might have awed the captain a little, but no such luck.
“I am here in a private capacity, investigating a disappearance. Please, are you Zosimus?”
“I am,” said Zosimus.
Vespillo breathed a sigh of relief. “May I buy you a drink, captain, in exchange for some information?”
“You can pay for my first whore. It’s been a long journey. Then you can buy me a drink and we can talk.”
Vespillo and Marsia leaned against the wall outside the brothel, listening to the guttural male groans and the simulated female cries of pleasure from within. A togate woman approached Vespillo, eyes heavily shadowed, cheeks lead-whitened, lips cherry red.
“Why are you waiting out here, handsome? Plenty of room inside.”
“Thank you, no,” said Vespillo.
“I bet an experienced man like you knows a thing or two about pleasing a lady. I bet I could teach you some new tricks myself though.”
“Really, I’m just waiting for a friend.”
The prostitute’s face dropped. She pointed at Marsia. “Are you doing him already? This is our patch.”
Marsia’s face remained impassive.
“I’m talking to you, bitch.” She brought a hand around fast to slap Marsia’s face.
Vespillo caught her wrist. “She is my personal slave. She is not a whore. Now go away, or I will beat you.”
A flash of fear twisted the prostitute’s face. She spat, and retreated back inside.
Fortunately, a few days at sea had deprived Zosimus enough that he didn’t need much time in the brothel to see to his immediate needs. He wandered out, doing up the belt on his tunic, a satisfied grin on his face.
“Now, about that drink,” he said.
He led them to the nearest bar, and ordered the most expensive wine they stocked, which fortunately wasn’t at all expensive. They sat together around a table and watched Zosimus drain his cup in one long draught. Marsia was fidgeting, itching to speak, but Vespillo restrained her with a subtle squeeze of her thigh. Zosimus signalled to one of the slaves for another drink, and while she was filling his cup, he turned to Vespillo and Marsia and said, “Right, what do you want to know?”
“We are looking for a man who has been wrongly arrested and enslaved. We think he was on your boat when you sailed last.”
“Really. There were a lot of men on my boat when I sailed last.”
“Tall man, very well built, black hair, scarred body, walks with a limp.”
Zosimus sipped his drink, slower and more thoughtful this time.
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” he said.
Marsia looked downcast. “But we were told…”
Vespillo slid a silver denarius across the table.
“I think maybe I can hear something tolling in the distance,” said Zosimus. He looked at the coin. “It’s a very faint sound though. Might just be the wind.”
Vespillo opened his purse. “How many coins do I have to throw at this bell to get it to make a noise?”
“I’ve always liked the sound of gold against bronze.” Vespillo pulled out a gold aureus and gave it to him.
“That’s better,” said Zosimus. “Now, where were we? Large chap, scars, limp, black hair. Yes, I do remember now, he was on my ship. Chained with the other slaves.”
“He’s not a slave,” said Vespillo.
“Well, he looked like one to me, that’s all I can say.”
“Who sold him to you?”
“The man didn’t give his name. Old chap, not from round here, needed a quick sale to get money for his fare home to some foreign country.”
“Where did you take the… slave?”
Zosimus cocked his head on one side, put a hand to his ear. Vespillo sighed, and gave him another aureus.
“Sicily,” said Zosimus.
“Why?”
Zosimus looked at the purse expectantly. Vespillo snapped his hand out and gripped Zosimus’ wrist tightly.
“I’ve paid you more than enough for information. Tell me.”
Zosimus looked down at Vespillo’s hand contemptuously, but replied anyway.
“He was with a group, bound for the lead mines.”
Marsia gasped, put her hand to her mouth. Vespillo looked grim.
“You would know which one?”
“I believe I heard their destination.”
“Take us there.”
Zosimus looked surprised. “I’m a cargo boat, not a passenger ferry.”
“Your boat looks fast enough. It might take us days to find someone going in the right direction, or willing to take us.”
“It will be expensive.”
“Our friend has some means. We can pay. Name your price.”
Zosimus named a price about three times more than the already exorbitant figure Vespillo had in mind. He managed to beat him down to just twice as much as exorbitant and shook hands.
“Let me unload. We have to wait for the tide anyway. We can depart this evening. Be ready, with the money.”
Vespillo nodded, stood to leave.
“And don’t forget to settle my bar bill before you go.”
Carbo looked up, and could just make out the form of Sica at the top of the shaft waving to him.
“Climb,” she called.
Curtius was the first to react. He grabbed the rope, gave it a tug to check it was secure, then hauled himself upwards, hand over hand, feet against the
wall. The shaft was tall, and Curtius’ progress was slow, with curses echoing down everytime a rock came loose or his foot slipped. In time though, Curtius disappeared over the top of the shaft. Carbo offered the rope to Orobazes. The foreign slave nodded, accepted the rope, and with some assistance from Carbo to get him started, he climbed.
When it came to Carbo’s turn, there was no one to help him, so he had to start his ascent with hands and feet on the rope, heaving his muscular frame upwards. Once he was into the shaft proper, he could use his feet on the wall to work his way up as the others had done, and this eased the strain on his arms. Progress was slow, though. His arms, his legs, even his fingers felt drained of all strength, after his exertions before and after the cave-in. His lungs still protested at the effort. Around halfway up, he stopped.
“Climb, Carbo,” called Sica, beckoning him. “Nearly here.”
He was exhausted, and yet terrified. A fall from this height would be fatal. Yet the shaft above him seemed interminable. He remained frozen, arms gripping the rope, legs jammed into the shaft wall, feeling the strength ebbing, waiting for it to fail completely. Why didn’t he just let go, end all this pain? What even awaited him at the top of the shaft? The hut, and then another day of labour, then another, then another, until he died of exhaustion or cold or despair.
“Carbo,” called Sica again. “Please. I need you.”
He shook his head. She didn’t need him. He was no help to anyone. He couldn’t protect, couldn’t save, couldn’t even avenge…
Rufa’s face appeared before him, from the gloom. He hadn’t seen her for the last couple of nights, his exhausted sleep dreamless. Now the sudden manifestation of his lover’s lemur nearly caused him to lose his grip on the rope.
She looked into his eyes, with affection, and longing and sadness. Her mouth moved, and though he heard no sound, he could read the words her lips formed. “I love you. I love you, Carbo.”
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he clung tightly to the rope, staring at the pale face of the only woman he had ever loved.
“I love you, too, Rufa,” he whispered.
“Carbo,” called Sica. “Please climb. For me.”
For Sica? Maybe. For Rufa? Yes. He could do that.
He moved one hand further up the rope, took a step up the wall, moved his other hand. His fingers cramped where he had been gripping the rope so tightly. But he gritted his teeth against the pain, poured every ounce of his will into the climb. Rufa’s face faded away, but he kept climbing, not looking up, the next step all that mattered, then the next one.
Suddenly strong hands were grasping him, hauling him up and over the edge. Curtius and Orabazes heaved him onto the ground at the top of the shaft, and he lay there, limp, breathing hard.
Sica jumped on him, knocking the air out of his chest, and kissed him on his cheek and forehead and nose, beaming broadly.
“You did it,” she cried. “I knew you could.”
Carbo sat up, looked around. They were a few hundred feet from the main shaft to the mine. Night had fully fallen, and the area was deserted. Further away, Carbo could see guards patrolling the staked wooden fence that marked the perimeter of the mining complex.
“Well, I guess Durmius is going to be surprised to see us,” said Curtius
“We’re not going back,” said Carbo flatly.
Curtius looked at him in surprise.
“What are you talking about? We are still stuck in here. They have a fence, guards. I’ve heard the dogs barking at night. Even if we get out, they will come looking for us, track us down. Where would we go?”
“They think we are dead,” said Carbo. “If we can get out of here unseen, they will never know. We would be free.”
Curtius looked at him thoughtfully. Orobazes regarded them both patiently, uncomprehending, waiting to follow them, whatever they decided.
“It has to be all of us,” said Carbo. “If one of us returns to them, they will know the others escaped.
Sica took Carbo’s hand. “I come with you.” She turned to Orobazes, pointed to each of them in turn, then pointed to the fence. Orobazes’ eyes widened, then he nodded.
“Curtius?” asked Carbo.
Curtius hesitated, then nodded. “You’re going to get us all killed. But right now, that feels better than the alternative. I’m with you.”
Chapter XIX
Vespillo looked around the boat, while Marsia remained at the side rail, watching the Bay of Neapolis recede. There was a pleasant smell of wheat, the main cargo that vessels brought out of Sicily. But underneath were more earthy, visceral smells. Faeces. Urine. Blood. Fear. He opened the hold and looked down, and the smell slapped him in the face, even more powerful. He descended the ladder, looked around, squinting into the darkness.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw a long wooden bar across the floor of the hold. Attached to it were rusty iron chains with wrist and ankle cuffs. The floor was still slick with human excrement. He gagged at the sight, and shook his head in disgust. Poor Carbo, chained here like the lowest farm animal. He climbed back up the ladder, and found Zosimus at the prow, surprisingly sober, keeping a steady look-out ahead.
Vespillo put a hand on his shoulder, turned Zosimus to face him. “You kept them chained up in their own filth?” he said. Zosimus shrugged the hand off.
“I’m busy.”
“I’ve seen pigs treated better. These are humans!”
“They are slaves,” spat Zosimus. “And not just any slaves, but the lowest slaves. I don’t know what they have done to deserve their punishment. I don’t ask. But I can guess. They are thieves, runaways, rapists. They are being sent to die in misery for their crimes. Why should I treat them well?”
“Maybe they are innocent,” said Vespillo. “Maybe they shouldn’t be slaves at all.”
“Someone else made that decision. I’m just taking them to their fate.”
Vespillo stared at him angrily, but knew there was nothing more he could say.
“How long till Sicily?” he asked, curt.
“Unladen like this, with tide and wind in our favour, two days.”
Vespillo nodded, then went to join Marsia at the side rail.
They approached the perimeter fencing cautiously, bent over so their silhouettes could not be seen against the faint light of the cloud-strewn night sky. Carbo led the way aiming for a point on the fence halfway between two sentry huts. The night air was bitter, and all four of them, naked as exposed babies, shivered violently.
Motion caught Carbo’s peripheral vision, and he looked round, trying not to look directly at the movement, to make the most of his night sight. It was a guard, on a casual patrol along the inside of the perimeter. Carbo gestured for everyone to get down, and they flattened themselves to the ground, barely daring to breathe as the guard wandered within feet of their position. Once he had passed, Carbo beckoned them forward.
When they reached the fence, Carbo looked up. It was a ten foot palisade, made of sharpened stakes. He grabbed one and shook it experimentally, but it was well built, probably by the legionaries or veterans. He put his hand out, and Sica gave him the rope that she had found discarded. He made a loop at one end, and tossed it up so the loop caught over one of the stakes. He pulled on it hard, then passed the rope back to Sica. Nimbly she scaled up and gracefully disappeared over the top. They barely heard her land.
Curtius was up next, and the short climb caused him no problems. Orobazes was slower, and his landing was heavier. Carbo looked around. He saw movement again, the guard returning. The pace was still slow, showing no sign of alarm. Carbo gripped the rope. Though the climb was short, his muscles screamed protest at being put to use again so soon. When he reached the top, he swung his leg over. For a moment he found himself straddling the fence, his whole weight on his hands, a sharpened stake pointing directly at his bare genitals. He closed his eyes as he swung his other leg over, then let himself drop.
The tip of a stake grazed a buttock as he fell and he gritted
his teeth as the sting hit him, even as he rolled on the hard ground to soften the fall.
“Where is rope?” hissed Sica.
Carbo cursed.
“Great,” said Curtius. “I thought they were supposed to think we were dead. We might as well have scrawled graffiti on the fence saying ‘escaped slaves this way.’”
“I get it,” said Sica.
“Wait,” said Carbo. He pressed his face to a gap in the fence, saw the approaching guard. How observant was he? Carbo wondered, praying to Fortuna. The guard strolled past, not slowing, not looking around, the rope that hung against the fence concealed in shadow. Then he stopped, turned to the fence, hitched up his tunic and started to urinate. Carbo watched, waited as he shook, put himself away. The guard took a few steps away from the puddle he had made, then sat down, back to the fence. He reached into a pouch on his belt and brought out an apple, which he started to crunch loudly.
Carbo cursed to himself, then gestured to the others to move quietly away from the fence. When they were out of earshot, he said, “The guard has settled himself in. We can’t get the rope.”
“Then we’re in the shit,” said Curtius.
“Not necessarily,” said Carbo. “They won’t see that rope till dawn, it’s too concealed. And even if they do, they won’t know who put it there.”
“I think they will have a pretty good guess,” said Curtius bitterly.
“Well, let’s just make sure we are long gone by then. Come on.”
They followed him, picking their way tentatively through the rocky terrain, balancing speed and a desire to put as much distance between themselves and the camp, against the fear of a twisted ankle or lacerated sole that could leave them unable to flee. Still, they made steady progress, and soon the camp was a shadow in the distance.
“Where are we going?” asked Curtius.
“We need to find shelter,” said Carbo. “Keep your eyes open for any signs of civilisation.”
Carbo had no real idea which was the best way to head. He had a rough idea of the direction they were going in, from the north star which appeared from behind the clouds from time to time, and he kept them heading north east, on the assumption that they had landed in Sicily at the nearest port to mainland Italy, and that would be the quickest way back. Before they contemplated leaving Sicily though, they needed water, food, clothing. And most importantly, they needed to rest, to just stop, and sleep, and maybe start to come to terms with their suffering over the last few days.
Bandits of Rome Page 26
