Bandits of Rome Read online

  “I see,” said Asellio, putting his hand to his chin thoughtfully.

  “Sir,” said Lutorius, tentatively. “There was a Carbo in the XIIIth that had some notoriety…”

  “There was, wasn’t there?” mused Asellio. “Lutorius, help him get cleaned up, then let him leave.”

  “But sir,” said Lutorius, “Shouldn’t we be asking him some questions. A woman has been murdered, isn’t it our duty to…”

  Asellio held up a hand to stop his optio. “Lutorius, you haven’t been stationed here many months. I have been here years. Unfortunately, Nola is a dangerous place. These things happen.”

  “But right in the centre of town? In broad daylight? Shouldn’t we be out on the streets, tracking down these murderers?”

  “By all means, keep your ears open. But experience tells me you will hear little. The murderers will never be found, and that is the end of the matter.”

  The words penetrated the fog of Carbo’s mind like a distant light, guiding him back to the present.

  “You aren’t going to make enquiries?” he asked, incredulous. “Find these bastards?”

  Asellio looked down at his desk, reading some notes on a wax tablet. He waved a dismissive hand. “Lutorius, please escort him out.”

  Carbo stared and was gripped with a sudden rage. He lunged across the desk, grabbed the centurion by the tunic, pulled his face close.

  “You have to do something!” he yelled. “She’s dead. The murderers can’t be allowed to go free.”

  Strong arms grabbed Carbo from behind, pulled him off. Asellio rearranged his clothing, an air of offended dignity on his face.

  “Put him in a cell until he cools off.”

  Lutorius and two other legionaries led Carbo away. He looked back at Asellio as he was dragged out of the office, incredulous at the centurion’s lack of concern.

  Lutorius led him to a wooden door with a small barred window set at head height. He opened it, and ushered Carbo forwards. Carbo stepped through the door, to find himself in a small cell, about six foot square, containing a low bench and a bucket. The door slammed shut behind him, and he heard a key turning in the lock.

  Carbo looked through the bars. Lutorius regarded him sorrowfully.

  “I’m sorry about this, sir. You will be out of here in no time.”

  He turned and left.

  Rufa was gone. It was impossible, but he had held her as she died. He sat at the bench, and put his head in his hands. Tremors shook his body. Then he started to wail.

  Chapter VI

  There were no windows in the cell, and the corridor beyond was dimly lit. Carbo sat in almost complete silence and darkness, replaying the scene over and over in his head. He kept finding flecks of Rufa’s blood embedded in the cracks and calluses of his weathered hands, and picked at them, trying to rid himself of the gore, then feeling guilty for the disgust the blood engendered in him.

  Rufa was gone. She had left him, alone. The one he loved, the one he needed, the one who had made him whole again. And then there was Fabilla. His heart missed a beat at the thought of telling the little girl her mother was dead.

  He felt empty. Numb. How could life ever be the same? How could it even be worth carrying on?

  He thought about the fight, ran over the sequence of events in his mind. How could he have saved her? What could he have done differently? So many things, he supposed. Never gone to the market. Never gone to Nola. Never left Rome, and encountered those bandits.

  The faces of the two masked men swam before him. In the darkness, where the eyes and the mind could play tricks so easily, he could swear for a moment they were actually there.

  Within him a spark appeared. Tiny at first. But something. He focused on those masks, the eyes behind them. The spark flared into a little flame. He remembered Rufa’s terror in her last moments, the mocking laughter of the thugs, the cold look in the eyes of her murderer. The flame roared into an inferno, and he now knew what the fire was. It was rage.

  He thrust himself to his feet and screamed aloud. He punched the walls, bloodying his knuckles. He picked up the bench and threw it across the cell, splintering it into firewood. He kicked the door, rattling it in its hinges, dislodging small pieces of plaster and brickwork from around the frame.

  “Hey, big guy, calm down,” came the voice of Lutorius.

  Carbo continued to give rein to his fury, and two more stationarii came down, peering through the small window.

  “He’s going to hurt himself,” said Lutorius.

  “He’s wrecking the cell,” said one of the others.

  “We should go in,” said Lutorius.

  “Screw that,” said the third. “You must be insane if you think I’m going in there with that raging madman.”

  The three stationarii looked on, wincing in unison at the heavier blows that damaged the cell structure as much as Carbo’s fists and feet. Slowly, the storm blew itself out. The blows became weaker, and the tears started to flow. Carbo sunk to his knees, put his head in his hands, and started to cry.

  “I’m going in,” said Lutorius.

  “Rather you than me,” said one of the others.

  Lutorius cautiously opened the cell door. Exchanging a nervous glance with his comrades, he entered the cell. Carbo didn’t move. Lutorius knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Carbo looked up at him but seemed to be looking straight past him. Lutorius could see his knuckles were bruised and red raw, and he was amazed that there were no obvious broken bones. Tears flowed freely down Carbo’s face, making clean trails in the mud and blood that still grimed his cheeks.

  “I’m going to kill them,” said Carbo, his voice low and quiet.

  Lutorius nodded. “Who did it?”

  “I’m going to rip them apart with my bare hands.”

  “Who?” asked Lutorius.

  Carbo now focused on Lutorius, seeming to see him for the first time. He looked down at his bloodied fists, flexed his fingers tentatively and winced.

  “You don’t care,” said Carbo.

  “I do. Some of us here have a greater sense of duty than their superiors.”

  Carbo shook his head. “I don’t know who they were. Two men. They wore masks. But I will find them.”

  Lutorius looked at him sharply.

  “Masks? What sort of masks?”

  “Those masks that Greek actors wear. One for comedy and one for tragedy.” Carbo saw Lutorius’ thoughtful expression. “What is it? You know these men?”

  Lutorius shook his head. “No. But I know of them. They have become rather notorious around these parts.”

  “How so?”

  “They have been terrorising travellers for years. Often just the two of them, the comedy mask and the tragedy mask, but sometimes accompanied by local thugs to provide numbers and muscle.”

  “They are just simple bandits?” asked Carbo, his tone contemptuous.

  “Far from simple. They are skilled and ruthless. They defeat parties that have superior numbers, with armed bodyguards. Sometimes they take money, but often they take people.”

  “For what?”

  Lutorius shrugged. “Draw your own conclusions.”

  Carbo considered for a while, then said, “We met them before. In the countryside, near the via Popillia towards Abella.”

  Lutorius’ eyes narrowed, and he waited for Carbo to continue. Carbo weighed up whether to tell the story, then decided he had nothing to lose. He related to Lutorius how they had been attacked, how they had managed to fend the two bandits off.

  “But I killed one of them. The one that wore the comedy mask.”

  “You killed him?” said Lutorius, surprised. Then he frowned. “But you said two masked men attacked you today.”

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

  “You saw the one in the comedy mask die?”

  “No, he was still alive when his comrade dragged him away. But I was in the legions for twenty-five years. I know when a wound is morta
l. I killed that man, I’m certain.”

  “Yet the same man attacked you today.”

  “I can’t explain it,” said Carbo, forlornly. “Maybe if I had made sure, not let them escape, Rufa would still be…” The sentence choked off.

  Lutorius put a hand on Carbo’s shoulder sympathetically. Carbo swallowed.

  “And there is no one who knows who they are?” he asked.

  “They refer to each other by names, but they are probably aliases.”

  “What names?”

  “Atreus and Thyestes.”

  Carbo thought about this, then shook his head.

  “No, that’s not right. Today, they used the name Atreus. But the other was called…” Carbo shut his eyes, picturing the horrible scene. Watch, Menelaus, he had said. And then the knife…

  Carbo squeezed his fists together tight, took a deep breath.

  “The one in the comedy mask was called Menelaus.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Lutorius. “We have lots of witnesses from previous crimes who say that their names were Atreus and Thyestes.”

  Carbo thought back to the fight in the woods. The man in the comedy mask then had been about the same height as the one today. Their voices were muffled, so he couldn’t tell if their accents were the same. But the build. As he thought about it, he realised that Comedy from the woods was thicker set than Comedy from the town today. Different too in the way they moved - the one from the woods seeming more self-assured, confident, the one today more hesitant, more subservient to Atreus.

  “I did kill him,” said Carbo.

  “What?”

  “The man with the comedy mask. In the woods. I killed him. The one today was a different man.”

  Lutorius considered this. “So you killed Thyestes. And now Menelaus has replaced him.”

  “There’s something else,” said Carbo. “Atreus and Thyestes called each other brother.”

  Lutorius sat back and let out a low whistle.

  “You killed Atreus’ brother? No wonder he was mad at you.”

  Do you understand loss, soldier? Atreus had asked him. I will teach you.

  “Let me out of here,” said Carbo.

  “It’s not that easy,” said Lutorius. “The centurion won’t let you out until he knows you aren’t a danger. Do you have someone who can vouch for you?”

  Carbo looked at him coldly. “Go to my farm and fetch Vespillo.”

  Lutorius knocked on the farm door and waited. It had started raining again, and he was thoroughly soaked. He cursed himself. What was he doing, running errands for the prisoner? The centurion had laughed at him and called him soft when he had told him the prisoner’s request, and then told him to go if he felt the need.

  The door opened, and a huge beast leaped out, knocking him over backwards. A large foul-breathed maw dropped saliva on his face.

  “Melanchaetes. Off!”

  The dog backed off and stood a few paces away, hackles up, lips drawn back to reveal large stained teeth.

  A young girl held out a hand to him. He took a deep breath, then let the girl help him up.

  “I am sorry, sir. Melanchaetes is a, um, dutiful guard.”

  Lutorius scraped ineffectually at the mud on his back, scowling at her.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Is this Carbo’s farm?”

  “It is, but I am afraid he is not here at the moment.”

  “I know,” said Lutorius. “I’m here to see Vespillo.” A sudden thought struck him. “Are you…are you Fabilla?” Carbo had told him the name of the murdered woman’s daughter.

  “No, sir, I’m Thera, the steward Theron’s daughter.”

  Lutorius let out a sigh of relief.

  “Fabilla is inside, sir. Shall I summon her?”

  “No, no,” he said hastily. “Just let me see Vespillo.”

  “Of course, come in out of the rain. I will tell him you are here.”

  Lutorius followed Thera through the door, and took a seat in the atrium, while Thera went off to search for Vespillo. There was a small lararium, and Lutorius offered a quick prayer to the household gods, to help him through the next few moments.

  Presently, an older man, short and stocky with a grizzled beard entered the atrium and Lutorius stood.

  “I’m Vespillo,” said the man, looking at Lutorius suspiciously.

  Lutorius offered his hand.

  “Lutorius, stationarius, on detached duty in Nola.”

  “Carbo isn’t home,” said Vespillo.

  “I know,” said Lutorius. “He sent me to fetch you.”

  Vespillo’s face creased in concern. “He is in trouble?”

  Lutorius hesitated, then nodded.

  “Rufa too?”

  Lutorius said nothing, but his expression was anguished.

  “Sit down. Tell me everything,” said Vespillo in a strained voice.

  “Carbo and Rufa were attacked in the market in Nola.”

  Vespillo looked grim but said nothing.

  Lutorius took a deep breath. “Rufa is dead.”

  Vespillo closed his eyes. His head slumped into his hands, and he remained like that for a few moments, motionless on the stone bench he sat on. Lutorius waited. Vespillo looked up at him, and his eyes were bright with tears.

  “Carbo?” he asked, in a whisper.

  “Carbo is unhurt, more or less. He is being held in a prison cell for violent behaviour. We need someone into whose care we can release him, who will vouch for him.”

  “Gods,” said Vespillo, face creased in anguish. “Poor Rufa. Poor Carbo. Oh Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Fabilla.”

  “Carbo is asking for you.”

  Vespillo nodded. “Who did this?”

  “Bandits. Carbo thinks it was the same bandits that attacked you when you were travelling down here.”

  “The ones with the masks? I thought Carbo killed one of them.”

  “We think there has been a replacement. Besides, there were other men today. Local muscle.”

  Vespillo looked grim. “So what is your next move? Legwork? Hitting the streets and asking questions?”

  Lutorius shook his head sadly. “My centurion won’t allow much in the way of resources to be allocated to this. He says it is a fact of life in Nola, and we won’t find anything out.”

  “What? But it’s his duty!”

  “You don’t have to tell me about that. I want to find these criminals too. What does it say about us as Romans, as legionaries, that we let these bastards get away with this evil?”

  “It’s you and me, then,” said Vespillo, voice firm. “I need to speak to my wife, then we should get moving.” He stood abruptly, and his knees buckled. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself, head bowed. Instantly, the young girl was at his side, supporting him.

  Vespillo looked up. “Thera.” The girl’s cheeks were soaked with rivers of tears. “You heard everything?” asked Vespillo.

  The girl nodded wordlessly. Vespillo bent down so his eyes were at the same level as hers.

  “Thera, listen to me. I know you and Fabilla have become good friends. But you must not tell her any of this.”

  Thera looked uncertain. “This is important, Thera. I will tell her when the time is right. We need to break the news to her very gently.”

  “I…understand,” said Thera hesitantly.

  Vespillo held her gaze a bit longer then nodded. “Now go and fetch Lutorius some warm wine and fresh clothes. Lutorius, as soon as I have spoken to Severa, we will get on the road.”

  Carbo stared at the wall of the cell blankly. Emotions churned inside him. Anger. Hatred. Loss. Fear. He felt a familiar tremor in his limbs, an increase in his heart rate, a cold sweat across his skin. The thought of life without Rufa was terrifying.

  But the panic did not overwhelm him, like it would have in the past. Maybe that was Rufa’s enduring influence. More likely it was his fury. His breath was short and fast, and he clenched and unclenched his fists. He focused on the mas
ked men, trying to recall every detail about them, their voices, their build, the way they moved. He would find them, he vowed, and he would make them suffer.

  He thought too about the thugs that had helped them. Without those men, he would have had a fighting chance. He could have saved Rufa. His hatred was voluminous enough to encompass them as well. They would all pay.

  He had no idea how much time had passed. There were no external windows in the cell, the only illumination a lamp just outside, sending a tiny beam of light through the barred window in the door. It must be night time, he thought. It had been hours since Lutorius had left. That made sense though. It would take hours, for Lutorius to reach his farm, talk to Vespillo, and return. That’s if there were no hold ups. Like being accosted by bandits.

  Footsteps came from outside the cell door. There was a jangle of keys and the door swung open. Vespillo’s short, stocky figure stood, outlined in the dim light. He swayed, steadied himself against the door frame for a moment, then entered the cell.

  Carbo got to his feet, and for a moment they simply stood, looking at each other. Then Vespillo took two swift steps forward and put his arms around Carbo, and Carbo sagged against him, burying his head into his best friend’s shoulder, and letting the tears flood out in sobbing gasps.

  After a short while, Vespillo started to weaken under Carbo’s weight, and guided him back to the stool that Lutorius had earlier allowed Carbo to have after extracting a promise he wouldn’t destroy it. Carbo sat, head bowed, shoulders slumped. He tried to speak, but the sight of his friend’s anguished face blocked the words in his throat.

  Vespillo looked around for Lutorius. “Can you get me a seat, too?”

  Lutorius, who had been standing in the door, nodded and hurried out, returning quickly with another wooden stool. Vespillo took it and placed it in front of Carbo, and sat facing him, placing one hand on his shoulder.

  “There is nothing I can say, friend. Nothing that will bring her back, or ease the pain. All I can do is be here for you. And I am.”

  Carbo nodded and covered Vespillo’s hand with his own.

  “I’m going to kill them all, Vespillo. Every one of the cunni.”