Bandits of Rome Read online

  Bandits of Rome

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Alex Gough…

  Tales of the Empire

  Copyright

  Bandits of Rome

  Alex Gough

  To all my loved ones, human and animal, living and no longer with us.

  Chapter I

  Italy, October AD 27

  The wooden wheel on the cart hit another pothole in the road and Gurges swore aloud as the bump jolted up his backside and through his spine. From beneath the tarpaulin that covered the cart behind him, he heard an ominous tinkle. Already aching from the long journey, he felt his jaw clench and his head start to throb, and he thumped the mule driver seated on his left with a bony elbow.

  “By Hercules, how many times? Watch out for the holes. Those aren’t storage jars in the back there. Those statues are worth a fortune.”

  The mule driver grunted an apology, eyes set straight ahead. Gurges grumbled to himself. A spot of rain fell, then another, and he looked up at the grey sky with trepidation, knowing another soaking was on its way. Seated on his right, his new young wife drew her cloak more tightly around her. She never complained, but then why would she? He had found her as a destitute freedwoman, and given her a home, food, and now a new life growing inside her. Thinking of his unborn child, he called across to the head of the hired thugs that made up his bodyguard.

  “How much further till we stop for the night?”

  The large Gaul shrugged his shoulders, his long, matted blonde hair waving in the breeze. “We stop when we get there.”

  Gurges choked back a reply. This whole journey had been hellish from the start. The euphoria he had experienced when he made his original find in Rhegium had long since evaporated. He recalled the joy he had felt as he paid the uneducated farmer for the statues he had been using to shore up fences and hang washing from. Gurges had a keen eye for all things artistic, and knew that this collection consisted of genuine originals from the time when Rhegium had been a Greek colony, part of Magna Graecia. Bought for a pittance, these statues would fetch a fortune in Rome, enough to propel him at last into the ranks of the equestrian class.

  The rain came harder, and the cart rattled over the cobblestones of the Via Popilia that connected Rhegium to Capua. He thought about the swiftness of a sea journey from Rhegium to Ostia, how by now he could already be drinking Falernian wine and eating the choicest sow’s udders, before taking a slow stroll around Rome with his beautiful woman, to look for their new mansion on the Palatine.

  But he would take no chances with this once in a lifetime find. A sea journey always bore risks. Pirates were uncommon these days, but storms and rocks and freak waves took their toll. The seabed along the coast of Italy must be littered with wrecks, and the bones of merchants unwilling to take the slow route. As the rain started to soak through to his skin, and his hair became plastered flat against his head, he consoled himself with Aesop’s tale of the hare and the tortoise.

  The small group, merchant and wife, driver and three bodyguards on foot, moved slowly along the Via Popilia. Other traffic on the road was sparse, just the occasional lone horseman or farmer transporting his goods. Their route continued between some hills. Roman engineers had cut the road into the slopes to avoid having a bend or steep incline, and low cliffs lined the way. Up ahead, Gurges thought he could see something lying in their path. He wiped the rain from his eyes and peered forwards, but couldn’t make it out. He watched his head bodyguard. The Gaul had seen it as well, and was watching it closely as they approached.

  The visibility in the heavy rain was so poor they were only twenty feet away before Gurges realised that what they had seen was a body, lying sprawled out, clothed in soaked rags. The Gaul held up a hand to stop the group, then motioned one of his men forward. The chosen bodyguard pulled his spear from his backpack. Suspiciously, he approached the body, weapon at the ready. The body made no movement, even when he prodded it. It lay face down, motionless.

  The guard gripped a shoulder and heaved so the body rolled onto its back. He stared down in puzzlement.

  “What is it?” called Gurges. The bodyguard turned back, and opened his mouth to speak.

  The body sat up.

  In shock, Gurges watched the body they had thought dead pull a long, curved dagger from beneath his rags. But his gaze was drawn to the man’s face. It wore a mask, bronze, firmly secured by leather straps, the frowning face of a Greek tragedy actor. Gurges opened his mouth to call a warning, but no words came.

  The Gaul was not paralysed like his employer. He yelled to his man to look out. It was too late. The guard started to turn, but the curved knife swung upwards, the still-seated man holding it double-handed, so it sank with force up through the bodyguard’s groin and into his guts. The bodyguard let out a high-pitched scream and fell backwards, clutching between his legs in a vain attempt to stop the river of blood flooding out through the rent the knife had made. Gurges’ wife let out a shrill scream.

  With a roar, the head bodyguard drew his two-handed sword and rushed at the masked man.

  An arrow took him cleanly between the shoulder blades, and he sprawled forwards, sword flying out of his hands. Gurges and the remaining bodyguard whirled to see the bowman standing in the road behind them. He too wore a bronze mask, this one the smiling face of a Greek comedian. The bodyguard only had time to draw his spear before the bowman let fly another arrow. It took his target in the throat, and the bodyguard went down, blood and air gurgling around the shaft.

  Gurges remained frozen in shock. Beside him, his wife was silent, trembling violently, pulling the cloak ever tighter around her as if it would make her invisible. His driver jumped off the wagon and in blind panic started to run away from the bowman, down the road, head turned back, trying to see the arrow that might bring him down. He ran straight towards the tragedy-masked man, who took two swift steps to intercept him. The curved blade lashed out, eviscerating the mule driver. He let out a plaintive cry and dropped to the ground, trying to hold in the loops of intestine that spilled out onto the road.

  Tragedy and Comedy advanced on Gurges. His whole body trembled, and to his shame he felt urine trickling down his leg. Tragedy grabbed Gurges’ tunic and pulled him off the cart. Comedy kept the bow trained on the shaking merchant, while Tragedy went to the cart. He yanked off the tarpaulin, to reveal a number of delicately made marble statues.

  Gurges found his voice. “The statues, they… they are priceless. Take them, they’re yours. Just let me go, I won’t breathe a word. They will make your fortunes, I promise…”

  “Silence,” said Tragedy. He reached down and unhitched the two-wheeled cart from the mules. He opened the back flap of the cart, then took the tow bar and hoisted it upwards. The cart tilted, and the statues tumbled out of the back and smashed into small pieces on the cobbles.

  Gurges stared aghast at the wreckage. He looked back towards the man in the Tragedy mas
k. The grotesque frown on the mask chilled him to the marrow. Of the bandit, all he could see were the man’s stony eyes, and they gave nothing away.

  “Who are you?” said Gurges in a strangled whisper. “What do you want?”

  “I’m Atreus,” said Tragedy, “and this is Thyestes.” The bowman gave a curt nod.

  Atreus fixed his gaze on Gurges, studying him, and Gurges stared back, chilled from the rain and the fear, numb in his extremities, tremors running through his body.

  The curved knife flashed out. It cut through skin and vessels and windpipe in one deadly slash. Eyes wide, Gurges sunk to his knees, then toppled forwards.

  Both bandits looked down at the dead man. After a while, Thyestes, of the comedy mask moved to take hold of Gurges’ cowering widow, and as he bound her hands, he asked, “The man asked us something. What do we want?”

  Atreus, of the tragedy mask, regarded him through the eye holes. He thought for a moment before replying.

  “That’s a very good question.”

  Carbo bit back a groan as he stumbled into a pothole. His old wound complained, and his leg buckled slightly before he recovered his balance. Rufa held out a hand to steady him, but he waved her away.

  “Don’t be grumpy,” she chided playfully, taking his arm against his protests.

  “Hmm,” he grumbled. He looked up at the skies, squinting against the rain that was drizzling steadily on them. “Remind me why we aren’t in the dry in my tavern, drinking wine and eating hot food.”

  “Because,” said Rufa, “Someone thought it would be a good idea to leave Rome and move to their little farm in the country.”

  “I seem to recall something about the warmth and sun of the south,” said Vespillo from behind them.

  “I thought you knew better than listen to Carbo,” said his wife Severa.

  “Hope sometimes overcomes experience, you know.”

  Carbo called out. “Well how was I to know the Nephelae would be dogging our journey?”

  “We could have been a bit more sure of the weather inside your tavern.”

  “I like it,” said Fabilla. The little girl was walking on the other side of Rufa, holding her mother’s hand, looking around her in wide-eyed wonder. “I’ve never been outside Rome before.”

  Carbo looked over at the young girl. She had been through so much, and yet here she was mere weeks after the horrors she had endured, enchanted by hills and trees and wild rabbits and deer. He knew she wasn’t completely unaffected, that most nights she crept into the bed he shared with Rufa, just to be held while the bad dreams faded. But during the day, it was as if none of the evil had ever happened. He caressed the hilt of his sword, vowing silently to give them the peace and safety they deserved.

  As they headed south along the Via Popilia, the road entered a valley. Carbo could see it was carved into the hill by Roman engineers, and he admired the amount of effort that had gone into such a simple thing as avoiding a bend. As they got further into the valley though, a chill ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold rain.

  The terrain here was different than the one in his mind’s eye. In the German forests, it had been treacherously muddy underfoot. The path had not been cobbled, and the flanking hills sloped steeply away, in contrast to these sheer man-made cliffs. Still, he imagined he could see, dimly through the diaphanous curtains of rain, Germanic soldiers lining the clifftops, ready to pour down on them, screaming and hurling spears. He felt for his sword, gripped the hilt.

  A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

  “Easy, soldier,” said Vespillo. “We aren’t in Germany. This is Campania, safe as Rome itself.”

  Carbo raised an eyebrow at this. Rome? Safe? After everything they had been through there. His eyes unfocused, staring into the distance, as memories of flames, burning flesh, screams of the dying flooded over him. Severa, Vespillo’s wife, backhanded him across the upper arm.

  “Always saying the right thing, aren’t you, my love?” Vespillo had the good grace to look abashed.

  “Not all Germans are blood-thirsty barbarians,” said Marsia, Carbo’s slave, who walked just behind Vespillo and his wife. Carbo considered how many masters would punish a slave for being that outspoken. But Marsia knew where the boundaries were, and knew that Carbo wasn’t capricious or cruel. Besides, they had been through too much together for pettiness.

  “Not all,” agreed Carbo. “Though I have only met one who wasn’t.”

  Marsia let out a harumph. Fabilla tugged at Rufa’s arm and pointed ahead.

  “Mummy, what’s that lying in the road?”

  Carbo stopped dead, hand moving immediately to the hilt of his gladius. Vespillo almost bumped into him.

  “What is it, Carbo?”

  Carbo peered ahead at the shape lying in the distance. He looked around, up at the low cliffs, shielding his eyes against the rain.

  “Carbo?” asked Vespillo again. Rufa was staring at him in mounting alarm, and Fabilla was plucking at Rufa’s sleeve.

  “I don’t know,” said Carbo. Vespillo stood beside him, squinting to try to bring the object into focus.

  “Stay here with the women,” said Carbo, and before Vespillo could protest, he continued cautiously forwards. His heart raced, nerves jangling, chest tight as he approached, constantly looking around for signs of ambush. The shape slowly came into focus as he got nearer, an upturned cart, smashed statuary lying around it. Carbo began to wonder if he was being ridiculous. How foolish he would look and feel, getting so concerned over a simple road accident. But as he reached the cart, he saw almost simultaneously, the body slumped against one wheel, and the other bodies spread out further down the road.

  He drew his sword in one smooth motion, entering into a combat stance without thinking, balanced on the balls of his feet, knees bent to allow him to spring in any direction. He prodded the body by the cart with one foot and it slumped sideways. He had heard of bandits ambushing altruistic passers-by, pretending to be injured or in need of aid.

  This one though was clearly beyond help. A huge rent gaped in the man’s throat, and though the rain had washed some of the blood away, there was enough still lying around for Carbo to know the amount lost to be unsurvivable, even if he hadn’t got the direct evidence of the corpse before him. Nearby was a second corpse, a larger man, a barbarian from his hair and clothes. This one had an arrow in the throat. Another body further on was full of arrows, yet another had had his guts spilled and a further man had bled out from some concealed wound. None moved or drew breath.

  Carbo took one more look around, then beckoned Vespillo and the others to approach. Rufa kept Fabilla’s eyes shielded as the small party arrived at the scene of the slaughter. Vespillo gazed around him in shock.

  “It looks like an ambush,” said Carbo grimly. His heart pounded, skin prickled, and his mind reeled. This was supposed to be a quiet backwater.

  Vespillo nodded. “And recent too. Look how fresh the blood is.”

  “I wonder what they were after?”

  Vespillo gestured at the broken marble statues. “These? They look valuable.”

  “Maybe once,” said Carbo. “Not any more. I suppose they must have been destroyed in the fighting.”

  “There doesn’t look to have been much of a fight. It looks like a massacre.”

  Carbo grimaced. “We shouldn’t stay here. Whoever killed these men aren’t long gone. And I reckon this was a merchant with three or four bodyguards. They are better equipped than us.”

  “You want to leave the bodies?”

  “You can report it to the authorities when we get to Nola if you feel you have to. Let’s get underway.”

  Vespillo hesitated. “Carbo, isn’t it our duty…?”

  “Duty can go to Hades!” snapped Carbo. “This is a new start. Rufa, Fabilla and me, we are putting everything behind us. I just want … no, I need, some peace. You can stay as long as you want, but I know your job will draw you back to Rome. For us though, this is it.”
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  Vespillo studied Carbo for a moment, then looked at the frightened faces on the three women and the little girl and nodded.

  “Let’s go.”

  They continued onwards, Rufa still shielding Fabilla’s eyes from her attempts to see what had happened. Carbo and Vespillo remained tense and alert, and everyone was silent, the only sound coming from the spatter of the persistent rain on the cobblestones.

  The sun had not put in an appearance, but the deepening gloom told them they wouldn’t reach Nola before night fell. They passed through a small village, only a handful of houses, a tavern and a couple of shops. By unspoken agreement, the cold, wet, bedraggled group filed into the inviting-looking tavern, where a fire was crackling in the hearth.

  Vespillo approached the tavern keeper. A depression in the bar held a large pot which contained a gloopy, congealed slop of a stew. It looked warm and filling though, so Vespillo bought a bowl for everyone and joined them at a large table.

  They ate quietly for a little while. Vespillo finished first, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, which gained him an eye rolling look of disapproval from Severa. He let out a satisfied belch, breaking the silence.

  “How far to Nola?” he asked Carbo.

  “Nearly half a day. Then my farm is a few miles from there, maybe another hour or so.”

  “We stay here for the night, then,” said Vespillo. It was not a question, but none were inclined to argue. Carbo looked around the table. The group seemed dispirited, eyes down, hair straggly with the soaking. Even the usually irrepressible Fabilla looked miserable, and she was shivering in her wet clothes. Rufa finished her meal, then put an arm around Fabilla and guided her over to the fire to warm herself.

  Carbo went over to the tavern owner at the bar table.

  “Do you have rooms for six for the night?”

  The tavern owner grunted. “I have a room. I’m sure you could all squeeze in.”

  “Surely you have more than one room here?”

  “I do. And they are occupied. Do you want to take it or not?”

  Carbo pursed his lips, but passed over the coins necessary to pay the no doubt inflated price. It was obvious with the women and child and the foul weather that he was in no position to haggle. The tavern owner passed over a chunky iron key, and Carbo handed it to Marsia. She gathered up their belongings and carried them up the stairs the tavern owner had indicated.