Carbo shook his head. “You aren’t a team player,” he said. “We are better off without you around.”
“No,” said Curtius, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “You need another man who can fight if you run into trouble with the guards or locals.”
“You abandoned me!” roared Carbo into Curtius’ startled face.
“No, I…”
“You left me, in the tunnels. You ran and left me to die. Now you are on your own.” Carbo turned away.
“Go then,” yelled Curtius. “See how far you get. You are only getting rid of me so you can fuck that girl in peace.”
Carbo whirled, a solid punch connecting squarely in the centre of Curtius’ face. One blow was enough to knock him onto his back. Carbo stood over him, fists clenched.
“Get up,” he roared. “Get up and say that again.”
Curtius cowered back, holding his broken nose as it poured blood.
Sica placed a hand on his arm. He pushed her away angrily, then saw her alarmed expression. He took a deep breath, unclenched his fists.
“I’m sorry, Sica.” He looked down at Curtius. The stricken man looked up at him anxiously.
“Please, Carbo. I can’t do this on my own.” He held out his hand. Carbo looked at it for a while, then grabbed it and heaved Curtius to his feet.
“From now on, you do as I say,” said Carbo, voice low but firm. “And if I need you, you had better damn well be there.”
“You’re the boss, Carbo,” said Curtius gratefully.
Carbo nodded. “It looks that way.” He turned and resumed his march.
Chapter XX
Vespillo stepped down from the carriage Zosimus had helped them rent in Messana, and held a hand out for Marsia. She ignored him and jumped down, a little heavily, sending up a splash of mud. Vespillo rolled his eyes at the mule driver that Zosimus had insisted accompany them. The mule driver motioned for them to stay by the cart and approached the guard at the gates of the perimeter fence surrounding the mines. He passed the guard the letter of introduction that Zosimus had told them he would provide, then beckoned them over. Vespillo addressed the guard in a firm voice.
“Who is in charge here?”
The guard eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
“Lucius Vedius Vespillo, tribune of the vigiles.”
The guard wasn’t as well informed as Zosimus about the limits of the vigiles authority, and he looked impressed.
“Durmius is the overseer. He runs the place.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lartius, sir.”
“Take me to him then, Lartius.” Vespillo’s tone was military and brooked no argument.
“Yes sir.”
Lartius led them through the compound. Vespillo took in the lines of dirty, exhausted slaves marching to work, the thick fumes belching from smelting furnaces, the ramshackle huts he presumed served as accommodation for the workforce. His gut clenched at the thought of proud Carbo, reduced to a slave, working in these conditions. Hopefully, his bondage would soon be at an end. Horrendous as the conditions were, they weren’t enough to break a man like Carbo in such a short space of time. Maybe in weeks, or months, he would succumb, but not yet, not Carbo.
Lartius took them to one of the few stone buildings and knocked. Another guard opened the door, and Lartius said, “There is a tribune here to see the overseer.”
They were shown into a small atrium, where they stood. After a few moments, a bald, hook-nosed man appeared. He looked them up and down, then beckoned them into his tablinum. He offered them both seats, then sat behind his desk. The guard passed him the letter, which he took without reading.
“I am Durmius, head overseer. What can I do for a tribune of the legions?”
Vespillo wondered whether to correct him, and decided against. This looked like the sort of man who would be impressed by rank.
“I am Tribune Lucius Vedius Vespillo. I have come to find the whereabouts of a man who was wrongly enslaved.”
“They all say they were wrong enslaved, Tribune. Can you be more specific?”
“His name is Gaius Valerius Carbo.”
Durmius broke the seal on the note that Zosimus had sent, scanned the contents, then put it to one side.
“You travelled with Zosimus, who recommends I listen to you. So what is your interest in this Carbo?”
“That need not concern you. All you need to know is that he was enslaved in error, and I want him freed.”
Durmius pressed his palms together and touched the tip of his fingers to his long nose.
“It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid. Error or not, if he is a slave here, it is not in my power to release him. That would involve a loss of money for the mine owners, and they would not tolerate it. His emancipation would require an edict from Rome.”
“We can compensate you financially. And by ‘you’ I mean both the mine owners, and you personally. I will take care of the emancipation myself.”
“I see. And how much ‘compensation’ might be involved?”
“The going rate for a mine slave, for the mine owners. The same again for yourself, for your trouble.”
“Well, I’m sure we could arrange something. Carbo, you say?” He pulled a scroll from a drawer, unrolled it, and ran his finger down the page, reading.
“Ah, Carbo. Oh. Oh dear. I’m very sorry.”
“What is it?” asked Vespillo, an ominous tension rising inside him.
“I’m afraid your Carbo is dead. A mine collapsed, three days ago. Killed the entire working party.”
Marsia let out a cry, pressed her hand to her mouth. Durmius looked at her curiously.
“I’m sorry your trip has been wasted.”
“Dead?” Vespillo shook his head incredulously. “He can’t be, not Carbo.”
“Mining is dangerous. These things happen. It’s tragic.”
“I want to see the body,” said Marsia.
Durmius raised his eyebrows. “And you are…?”
“Never mind who she is,” snapped Vespillo. “The body.”
Durmius shook his head sadly. “Regretfully, they were all buried under tons of rubble. It hasn’t been safe yet to try to dig them out.”
Vespillo sat back, squeezed his eyes shut, put a hand in his hair. Was it really over? After all the two of them had been through together?
“It’s not true,” said Marsia.
“Marsia,” said Vespillo, his voice soothing. “I know what he meant to you.”
“No. He is not dead. This man is lying.”
Vespillo stood, taking Marsia by the arm.
“I’m sorry, Durmius. Grief easily turns to anger and blame. Thank you for your time.” He shook the overseer’s hand, then ushered Marsia towards the door.
“I just wish I had had happier news for you. Safe journey home.”
Vespillo guided Marsia out of the overseer’s house.
“No, Vespillo. He isn’t dead. I know it, here.” Marsia thumped her chest.
Vespillo sighed, and Lartius escorted them back towards the gate. The grim industry all around, the human misery and the desecration of the landscape summed with the despair in his heart, and he fought the urge to just fall to his knees and scream. Instead, he forced himself to make conversation with Lartius.
“The guards here are all legionaries?” he asked.
“No,” said Lartius. “This mine is privately owned, so we are employed by the mine owner. Some senator who lives in Rome and never visits.”
“I’ve been to some harsh places in my time in the legions, but this has got to be one of the worst.”
Lartius looked despondent. “The pay is good. The slave women are a bit rough, but we are isolated out here. Can’t exactly nip out to the local brothel after the shift finishes. I’m just doing this until I have saved enough to set myself up in business. I’m a carpenter by trade.”
“I can see this isn’t a job you would want to do for long.”
“
It’s pretty dull. Unless we get an escapee. Then some of us get out of here for a while. Not me this time, though. I wasn’t chosen for the seach party.”
Vespillo looked at him sharply. “Someone has escaped. Do they know who?”
“Maybe. If they do, they haven’t told me.”
They reached the gate. Marsia was trying to catch Vespillo’s eye, but he was carefully avoiding her gaze. He stopped and leaned against the fence casually.
“How do they go about tracking the escapees down then?”
“The dogs follow the scent if they can. Otherwise they just spread the net as wide as they can, question the locals. There isn’t much shelter nearby, so there are only so many places they can go.”
“Think you will catch this one?”
The guard shrugged. “There are a few of them apparently. They’ve been gone three days, that’s longer than most. But I think they are closing in on them. One of my mates was in the search party. He twisted his ankle, so he came back this morning. He said they passed through a small village, to the north east, a couple of days ago. Not moving very fast. I guess you wouldn’t, not without decent shoes, and knowing where you are going, and what with trying to stay out of sight and everything.”
“North east? Towards Messana.”
“I guess so. Nearest port. Why are you so interested?”
“Just talking.” Vespillo mounted the carriage, held out a hand to Marsia, who ignored him and pulled herself up to sit beside him. He picked up the reins.
“Good to meet you, Lartius. Hope you get out of here soon.”
“Me too, sir, me too.”
Vespillo flicked the reins, and the horse pulled away.
Durmius re-read the letter that Zosimus had sent him, and shook his head at the captain’s stupidity. He had brought this interfering Tribune right to the heart of their criminal enterprise, no doubt taking decent money to do so, and then told Durmius to take him and his slave into captivity and put them into the mines. And then he had had the cheek to demand half of their value, for delivering them to him.
The note had clarified that Vespillo was a Tribune of the vigiles, not of the legions, and so had virtually no power. There was almost nothing he could do to hurt Durmius, and the setup they had. Even if he managed to trigger a more formal investigation, he would get wind of it from his contacts before it started. He could quietly dispose of the less legitimate workers here long before an official could arrive to start asking questions, and leave the legally acquired slaves to man the mines until the investigation was over.
Yes, almost nothing to hurt him. Unless he found Carbo. A living witness, a survivor of the mines, who had been wrongfully imprisoned. That could make things very difficult.
But it was in hand. Naked, unarmed, in inhospitable terrain, pursued by his men and their dogs. Carbo had no chance of escape.
Pinaria walked stiffly home from her shift, through the dark streets of Nola. Her back was aching, between her legs was stinging, and there was a taste of bile and alcohol in her throat, where the wine had failed to stem her nausea. Still, her purse jangled with a healthy amount of new coins.
She hated working in the brothel, hated coming home to her husband too tired and sore and frankly revolted by the thought of any more sex to attend to his needs. She knew that he knew where she went, that it shamed him that he could not earn a living for her and their children himself, that she had to be a prostitute by night, as well as a seamstress by day. But she didn’t blame him. He had lost an eye and a hand fighting for Rome, and she would continue to support him, even if Rome did not.
She heard a noise behind her. She stopped, and the sound stopped. Footsteps? Was someone following her? She turned, but could see nothing in the shadows that the faint starlight cast. She carried on, breath quickening, and heard the distinct sound of padding steps behind her. She hurried her pace, and the steps quickened too. She began to run, and heard the steps galloping, closing. It was obvious her follower had her outpaced, so she spun to face her assailant.
A large, skinny dog stepped out of the shadows, bared teeth white in the dim light. It stopped before her, legs gathered beneath it, ready to spring. It gave out a low growl that seemed to permeate her body.
Her foot twisted on a loose cobblestone, and she nearly stumbled. She tottered for a moment, kept her balance, then reached down and picked up the stone. The dog leaped, and as it did so, Pinaria brought the stone round in a wide swing, connecting with the dog’s head. Its leap missed her, and it landed clumsily, yelping. It spun to face her again, lips pulled back, eyes blazing. It seemed to calculate the odds for a moment. Then it turned, and slunk away.
She leaned back against the wall at the corner of the street, closing her eyes and saying a brief prayer of thanks to Fortuna.
A woman’s scream came from around the corner. Fearfully, she peeked around. A few short feet away, illuminated by the glow of a lamp from a high window, a man wearing an actor’s mask and holding a bloody knife stood over the sprawled body of an elderly man. She knew immediately it was one of the bandits that had been the talk of the town. The young woman with him screamed again, the scream turning to a gurgle as the knife plunged into her chest.
Pinaria put a hand to her mouth, desperate to run, but unable to tear her eyes away from the scene. The masked man knelt down, rummaged through the man’s clothing, and came up with a small purse. He pushed the mask back onto the top of his head, to give him a better view of his prize.
Pinaria took in an involuntary but soundless gasp of air. That man had paid for her services only the night before. She pulled her head back around the corner, and hurried away before she was discovered.
Carbo stroked his fingers around his neck, trying not to pick at the long scab. Orobazes had not been gentle when he had sawn off Carbo’s neck collar, and had opened up a long wound in the skin. They had all used the hacksaw to work at each other’s shackles at hands and feet and throat during rest periods. It was tough, slow work, and they had to be careful not to break the small saw. But they were finally all free of the trappings of slavery. At least the most visible ones. Orobazes had a brand on his upper arm, but his tunic concealed it.
Carbo thought he could smell sea air. They were staying off the roads, avoiding the small towns nestling between the hills in the rugged terrain. The rocky countryside and scrub afforded them some shelter at night, but more than once they had heard the baying of hounds, and had had to find hiding places during the day, cowering beneath bracken and bramble like mice evading a prowling owl. Although travelling at night made sense regarding avoiding their pursuit, the treacherous footing made it impractical. Their food had run out the day before, and hunger pains wracked them all.
Finally though, Carbo thought their journey, or at least this stage of it, might be drawing to a close. Seagulls wheeled overhead, and in the distance, he could just make out the smoke from a substantial settlement.
“Messana,” he said. “It must be.”
The others were too tired and hungry to respond. They trudged along behind him, watching where they placed their feet to avoid sprains and breaks. He looked up at the sky. The sun was past its zenith, descending towards the horizon. He hoped they could make it before nightfall.
The sound of howling dogs reached him, closer than he had heard since the time they had disguised their scent in the stream. Sica looked at him in alarm. Orobazes turned in the direction of the sound, scanning the horizon.
“Let’s move it. We need to reach the town, before they find us. We can lose them there, and then start looking for a boat.”
The four fugitives put their heads down, pulled their cloaks and tunics tighter against the wind, and resumed their march. They followed goat trails around rocky hills, fought their way through scrubby bushes, slid down slopes of scree. All the time the sounds of pursuit grew closer.
“They are definitely onto us,” said Curtius, a hint of panic in his voice.
“It won’t be much further,”
said Carbo, remembering his mother telling him the same when she took him on shopping trips to the Forum Holitorium near the Campus Martius, where she said the best value vegetables in all the Empire were on sale.
There was no reply, as they all conserved their energy. The fast pace Carbo had set them would be a stroll for a seasoned legionary, but these were civilians, weakened by their recent ordeals, without the benefit of the time it takes for those ordeals to toughen them up. Carbo himself was no legionary in his prime either. Marching made the old spear wound in his leg ache, and his limp became more exaggerated.
They crested a hill, and suddenly, below them, was Messana. The outskirts of the port were maybe two or three miles away, he judged. Beyond was the part of the Mare Nostrum known as the Straits of Messana and beyond that the Italian peninsula. The sun was out, visibility was good, and he could clearly see the lighthouse.Even, if he squinted, he could imagine the statue of Neptune standing on the dome that topped the tower.
A cry carried to him on the wind, and he turned. He raised a hand to his eyes to shade the sun, and saw, standing on the peak of a hill behind them, a guard, holding back a large dog. As he watched, two more joined him, both with dogs, and they pointed towards the fugitives. Carbo realised that they were exposed, outlined against the clear sky behind, and cursed his carelessness. The guards started to descend at a run, the dogs barking excitedly and straining on their leashes. Three more guards appeared behind them.
“We have to run,” said Carbo. The others looked at him hopelessly.
“We can’t,” said Curtius.
“Run or die,” said Carbo, and set off.
The pace he set was a slow jog, the equivalent of a double time march. There was no way any of them could maintain a higher speed for the distance they had to travel. He hoped it would be enough.
After maybe half a mile, he risked a glance backwards. The guards who had been less than a mile away when they were spotted had already closed the pace. Fit young men, no blistered feet, daily physical training, but not to the point of exhaustion and bodily damage. With the threat of punishment for failure to capture the fleeing slaves. Carbo knew he was in the race of his life.
Bandits of Rome Page 28
