Bandits of Rome Read online

  Vespillo shot a glance towards Lutorius, but the soldier was pretending not to have heard.

  “Let’s get you out of here. Lutorius, is he free to go?”

  “If you keep him under control.”

  “He’ll be no trouble. Will you, Carbo?”

  Carbo shook his head, but his eyes were blazing.

  “Lutorius is going to help us find them,” said Vespillo. Carbo looked at the optio, eyes narrowed.

  “The centurion may not be interested in justice, but that doesn’t mean we all feel the same,” confirmed Lutorius. “Can you tell us anything from today that might help?”

  Carbo closed his eyes. It was hard, picturing those scenes. His mind’s eye kept being drawn back to Rufa, collapsing in gouts of blood.

  “Before it happened, I thought I was being watched. Maybe a scout, or someone co-ordinating it all. He had a diagonal scar across his face.”

  Lutorius put a hand to his chin.

  “Sounds like Febrox.”

  “Who is Febrox?” asked Vespillo.

  “A local thug, nasty piece of work.”

  Vespillo nodded. “It’s a start.”

  “Well, it would be if we knew where to find him.”

  Vespillo looked thoughtful. “We can work on that.”

  Chapter VII

  Lucius Ambrosius Asellio sat behind his desk, arms folded. Carbo stood before him, with Vespillo and Lutorius behind, one at each shoulder.

  “Sir? Do I have your permission to release Carbo into the care of his friend, Lucius Vedius Vespillo?”

  Asellio inspected Vespillo with an air of faint contempt.

  “Is he an upright citizen?”

  Vespillo bristled. “I am a tribune of the vigiles in Rome,” he said. “Centurion,” he added, trying to keep the sneer out of his tone. “I believe that qualifies me as upright. Moreover, it qualifies me to ask what you intend to do about this awful crime committed on your doorstep.”

  Asellio sighed, and looked to his optio.

  “Do you remember, Lutorius, when our cohort was posted to Egypt? They had their own police force. Professional men, kept everything in line, investigated crimes.”

  “I remember, sir, it was very odd wasn’t it?”

  “And how are things done in Italy, Lutorius?”

  “Well, Rome has the vigiles…”

  Asellio let out a contemptuous laugh, and Carbo felt Vespillo stiffen beside him.

  “Really, Lutorius. I’m sure the vigiles are well intentioned, but everyone knows they are a bunch of freedmen whose main job is to fight fires, and occasionally beat up a burglar if they catch one in the act. Tell me how it really works, Lutorius.”

  “The people police themselves.”

  “Of course they do. They honour the way of their ancestors, they fear the legions, the duumvirs and decurions and aediles sometimes get involved, but mostly they will dish out their own justice to anyone they think has done wrong.”

  Lutorius looked at Carbo apologetically.

  “Sir, I will be assisting Vespillo and Carbo in tracking down these bandits.”

  Asellio sighed. “On your head, then Lutorius. Don’t blame me if it is all an entire waste of time. Or worse, you end up dead in a market square with a slit throat.”

  Carbo paled, jaw tightening. Vespillo put a warning hand on Carbo’s shoulder.

  “Carbo,” said Asellio. “You are free. You can go.”

  “Not without Rufa.”

  Asellio’s eyes narrowed.

  “What?”

  “I am taking my woman with me.”

  “Carbo,” said Vespillo, hesitantly, “I’m not sure…”

  “Take me to her,” said Carbo firmly.

  Asellio threw his hands up in the air.

  “Fine, fine. Just go. Lutorius, show him the way. And see if you can keep him out of trouble. “

  “Yes, sir,” said Lutorius.

  “And don’t let your…investigations get in the way of your duties.”

  “No sir, thank you, sir.”

  He gave a salute, and then turned to Carbo.

  “Please follow me, sir.”

  “It’s Carbo, not sir,” said Carbo as he followed Lutorius out of the office. “I’m retired.”

  Carbo looked down at Rufa’s body, shrouded in a plain woollen blanket, laid out on a table in the basement of the statio. He hesitated, looked at Vespillo, then nodded to Lutorius. Lutorius pulled the shroud back solemnly.

  Carbo drew his breath in sharply. They had done their best to clean her up. They had respectfully cut away the bloodstained clothing, and wrapped her in a white sheet. They had mopped up the blood that must have spilled down her chest.

  But they couldn’t disguise the gaping wound in her throat, now filled in with dark, congealed blood. The perfumes they had anointed her with could not disguise the smell of fresh death. And what could anyone do about the dead eyes, wide open and staring at nothing?

  He wished she looked serene, at peace. But her expression, frozen in mortality, was terrified.

  Carbo swallowed. He had seen death many times before, on the battlefield, on the streets of Rome at night. He thought himself inured to it. But this was a woman. His woman. Grief rose within him, threatened to overwhelm him.

  A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump. Lutorius was looking at him with deep sympathy graven on his features.

  “You can take her now,” he said gently, pulling the blanket back over her face.

  Carbo lifted the stiff, cold body and hugged it close to him.

  Word of the horrific murder had got quickly round the town, and a small crowd had gathered outside the statio, a few holding torches shedding a little light. Some watched curiously, some saw the gathering as a social occasion and caught up on gossip with friends, others shouted for justice. Two armed stationarii stood on duty at the statio entrance, fidgeting nervously as the crowd slowly became more restless.

  When the doors of the statio opened, the crowd turned as one. Lutorius was first to come out, and he stood on the steps of the station house, and held his hands up for quiet. A reluctant hush fell over the crowd.

  “People of Nola. A terrible crime was committed this afternoon, near the market. A man was assaulted and a young woman was murdered. We have witnesses who tell us that it was the work of a group of thugs, who we have not yet identified. If you know anything about this horrible deed, please come and talk to me or one of the other stationarii. Whatever you say will be held in strictest confidence.”

  The crowd seemed collectively to look away and shuffle their feet.

  “Now, please make way for the wronged man, Carbo of Rome.”

  Lutorius stepped to one side, and Carbo emerged from the doors. In his arms, he carried the body of Rufa, wrapped in a blanket, her face and neck exposed. Rigor mortis made her expression even more terrifying, and the deep wound to her neck was clearly on show. As one, the crowd took a collective gasp. Carbo stood for a moment, tears streaming down his face. Then he walked down the steps of the statio, and the crowd parted for him.

  As he walked through them at a slow, dignified pace, angry murmurings began, and picked up in volume. At first it was unclear who they were directed against. Then the murmurings became clearer. Some people clapped Carbo on his back. A woman came and embraced him. A young girl came forward and placed a flower in Rufa’s hair.

  “Get them, Carbo,” shouted one man.

  “Find the bandits,” shouted another.

  “Death to the bandits,” cried a third, and the shout was taken up as a chant.

  A woman stepped in front of him, elderly face streaked with tears.

  “They took my son, sir. Please find them, avenge him. The people of Nola want to be free of this evil.”

  Carbo stopped, spoke in a loud, clear voice. “People of Nola.”

  The crowd was silent, watching and listening hopefully.

  “You people.” He spat on the ground. “You stood back, fled, cowered away while these
thugs attacked me and killed my woman. You did nothing. You cowards!”

  The crowd seemed to flinch back.

  “You people deserve everything you get.”

  He walked on to the edge of the crowd, where Vespillo was waiting for him with an ox cart. He respectfully laid Rufa in it, and then got up beside her. Vespillo waited until he was settled, then struck the ox with a cane to get it moving. Slowly, the cart with its grim burden made its way out of Nola, leaving the shocked, scared population behind.

  Melanchaetes’ barking alerted the household to the arrival of Carbo and Vespillo, so when they reached the front of the farmhouse, Theron, Thera, Marsia and Severa were waiting for them. Melanchaetes seemed to sense the mood, and lay down, watching the cart pull up with his head on his paws.

  Carbo stepped down from the cart. Marsia moved quickly to assist him with the body, but he shrugged her away. The small group could only watch as Carbo picked Rufa up, her light body appearing to take him no effort to lift. Gently, he laid her on the ground before the house, the traditional parallel with the birth rites, when the infant child was placed upon the earth. Then he sat beside her, staring into her eyes and stroking her hair.

  Severa took Vespillo’s arm, looked at him questioningly.

  “Leave him,” said Vespillo, quietly. Then his frown deepened. “Fabilla?”

  “Asleep,” said Severa. “Thank Somnos for that.”

  “She needs to be told, before she sees her mother like this.”

  “I will tell her,” said Carbo in a flat voice. “No one else.”

  “When?” asked Vespillo gently.

  “As soon as she wakes, fetch me. I will talk to her.”

  Carbo returned to stroking Rufa’s hair. Rain started to fall, fat, solitary drops at first, but soon turning into a downpour. Theron and Thera were first to go back inside, then Vespillo and Severa. Carbo remained where he was. Marsia hesitated, then sat on the ground, just behind Carbo and to one side, not touching him, not saying a word. He looked at her, then nodded, and returned his attentions to the dead form of the woman he loved.

  Atreus sat in a corner of a busy tavern, and watched his son curiously. Menelaus took a small sip from his cup of well-watered wine, and returned the stare impassively.

  “What is it, father?”

  “I was wondering how you were feeling, that’s all.”

  Menelaus shrugged. “How should I feel?”

  “Well, you took part in your first murder today. Maybe you should feel something.”

  “How did you feel, father, the first time?”

  Atreus’ eyes lit up. “Avenged!” he said.

  Menelaus nodded. “And did you feel avenged today?”

  Atreus looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Or maybe I should have killed him too. I’m not sure yet which makes me feel better. How did the mask fit?”

  Menelaus glanced to the bag on the floor that contained the comedy and tragedy masks. Without them on, they were just ordinary market goers getting a drink at the end of the day. Even the thugs they had paid to help them today would not recognise them. But when they wearing them, they were feared by all for miles around. Well, maybe not all. Menelaus recalled the expression on the big veteran’s face as his father slit his beloved’s throat. He suppressed a shudder, born from the memory of excitement and fear.

  “It fits well. You never did tell me why the actors’ masks.”

  “It was your uncle’s idea,” said Atreus. “When we started this adventure together, he thought the idea of us as actors, playing out tragedy and farce, was somehow fitting.”

  “Was the adventure his idea too?”

  Atreus shook his head. “All mine.” He looked Menelaus straight in the eyes.

  “Have you ever felt so bored that you feel your soul is shrivelling inside you like a prune? So alone, despite the people around you, so grief stricken for a lost past, that you would do anything to just feel alive. Shout, scream, hurt yourself. Hurt someone else.”

  Menelaus was silent.

  “Of course not, my son. You are sheltered. Still, it feels good to share this with you, my own flesh and blood. Even if you are a replacement for someone I dearly loved.” Atreus sighed. “Ah, listen to me. Sentimental old man.”

  Menelaus sipped his drink again, expression betraying nothing. He had his own reasons for joining this so-called adventure, he reflected, and they had nothing to do with boredom.

  Rufa’s body lay on a pyre, firewood and kindling spread over a shallow pit. Carbo stood with a burning brand in his hand, staring at the small, wrapped bundle that represented the last sight he would have of his beloved. Beside him stood Fabilla, little hand gripping tight to Severa.

  True to his word, Vespillo had fetched Carbo inside from his all night vigil as soon as Fabilla had stirred in the morning. Carbo remembered the expression in her eyes when he entered her bedroom. He must have looked in a state, soaked through, with a haunted expression. She had immediately ran to him, hugged him and asked if he was all right.

  Carbo had gently peeled her arms from around his waist, squatted on his haunches so he was looking up into her eyes, and squeezing her hands tight, told her that her mother was dead.

  Her reaction had surprised him. There had been no hysterics, screaming, beating of fists against his chest. Her lower lip had quivered, and she simply asked how. Carbo had told her that her mother had been murdered, and then as he started to tell her how sorry he was that he couldn’t save her, he had broken down into tears himself. Fabilla had put her arms around him and comforted him while he wept, until Severa had entered and taken Fabilla away.

  The tears for Rufa arrived later, when she was helping Carbo prepare the body. The trigger had come when Fabilla was anointing Rufa’s hair with perfume. She had told Carbo that the perfume was a gift from her mother, that Rufa had liked the smell on Fabilla, and she was glad that her mother could take the nice scent with her. Then it was Fabilla’s turn to weep and howl, while Carbo held her, and Vespillo, Severa and Marsia looked on with heartbreak on their faces. Behind them, looking solemn, stood Theron and Thera.

  Carbo now turned to Fabilla. He wished she was too young to understand anything, or old enough to understand everything. Still, he was amazed by her strength and maturity. She looked up at him. Her eyes were red, but there were no more tears. A few drops of rain fell.

  “Are you ready?” he asked her. She nodded silently. He held out the burning brand, and she put her hand above his. Together they lowered the flame to the kindling, then let it drop.

  The wool, dry grass and tiny twigs caught quickly. More rain fell, and Carbo looked up at the sky nervously, suddenly terrified that the flame would be doused, the firewood soaked, the whole ceremony delayed until the conditions were better and more dry wood could be gathered. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to do this again. A panic started to build up in him.

  The fire roared into life, life of which Rufa had been robbed. A wave of relief swept through Carbo, for which he felt immediately guilty. Fabilla’s hand found its way into his, and he squeezed.

  The flames quickly obscured the body, and thick smoke from the newly damp wood billowed out, stinging his eyes and forcing him to take a step back. Only weeks before, he had saved Rufa from a fire that engulfed a large part of Rome. Now here he was, watching the fire take her away from him for the last time.

  The rain fell harder, dampening the mourners, but the fire was too strong to quench. They all remained, heads bowed, silent. Carbo could not tell who was crying freely and who simply had rain pouring down their faces.

  Eventually, the flames died down, the rain having stopped shortly before. When the ashes were cool enough, Carbo picked up a small trowel to gather them into a pottery urn. He bent down, and saw bones in the grey powdery remains. The fire had burnt away the flesh, but had not been hot enough to consume the skeleton. If this had been Rome, professionals would have taken care of this. Carbo cursed himself for botching the job.

  Carbo hesitate
d, looked to Vespillo. Vespillo stepped forward, and saw the problem. He signalled to Severa to take Fabilla further back, then squatted beside Carbo.

  “Let’s take some ashes back to Rome, then bury the rest. Then she can rest with your mother in the columbarium, and at the same time be here in the countryside, a free woman for ever.”

  Carbo gave Vespillo a grateful look, and collected some of the ashes into the urn. He moved a partially burnt log to take another sample, and found himself staring at Rufa’s blackened skull. He gasped, stepped back, eyes transfixed by the sight. Even stripped of flesh, he could picture Rufa’s face, the cheek bones, the smile, the soft skin clothing the bare bone.

  His chest tightened, his breathing quickened, his heart started to race. He wasn’t as superstitious as many Romans, but he had a healthy respect for the manes. He whispered a prayer of appeasement to the restless spirits, but still could not look away, as he felt the familiar panic and terror rise inside him.

  A touch on his arm made him cry out loud.

  “It’s enough, Carbo,” said Vespillo. Carbo nodded, and stood. He turned, facing the mourners. They were starting to shiver in their wet clothes, now the heat of the fire had receded. He looked down at the small pot in his hands, containing the remains of the only woman he had ever loved, then looked back at the onlookers, his friends and the members of his familia. His eyes fell on Fabilla, tired, cold, but resolutely seeing the ceremony out to its end. He knew there should be a eulogy, he should be heaping praise on Rufa, crying his love for her to the skies.

  He opened his mouth, but his throat seized up. He could not think of a single word to say. Anything he considered sounded trite in his mind, too feeble and insincere. He closed his mouth again, feeling embarrassed and useless.

  Vespillo put an arm around his shoulders, and led him towards the house. The rest of the mourners followed at a respectful distance.

  “How is he?” asked Quintus.

  “He doesn’t speak,” said Vespillo. “Barely eats. Alternates between drinking heavily enough to pass out, and not touching a drop.”

  They sat in the small peristylium, under the covered colonnade, watching the rain trickle off the roof. Quintus stared at a puddle into which a stream of water poured from a hole in the guttering.