Watchmen of Rome Read online

  Watchmen of Rome

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  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 XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Carbo of Rome

  Tales of the Empire

  Copyright

  Watchmen of Rome

  Alex Gough

  Chapter I

  Rome, AD 27, September

  Elissa sat alone in a dark room. Shadows cast by a single candle flickered on the walls. Her eyes were closed and she intoned a prayer quietly.

  ‘O Lord Ba’al Hammon, O Lady Tanit, Face of Ba’al. Hear the prayers of your priestess. Guide me now. Show me what I must do, so I can further your glory and cast down your enemies.’

  She threw some knuckle bones and examined how they fell. Then she drew a small chicken from a box. It tried to flap its wings, but Elissa drew a knife quickly over its neck, taking its head off. Even as it convulsed, she was expertly opening its belly to examine its entrails. Blood spurted out of the neck, over the warm organs, over Elissa herself. She closed her eyes again, emptied her mind. A vision came to her, half-formed, not even an image. A colour. The colour of danger, of blood, of anger, of fire. Red. It had to be red.

  * * *

  Rufa sang a gentle lullaby to her daughter, Fabilla, who lay with her eyes closed on the straw mattress in the corner of the tiny room they shared with another family of slaves. The two children of the other family, a boy and a girl of about four and five years respectively, played with a carved wooden toy, while their parents rutted noisily. Rufa stroked Fabilla’s lush red hair, so like her own that no one would doubt whose daughter she was. Fabilla’s breathing grew deeper and slower, and Rufa marvelled at how easily the seven-year-old could ignore the noise that came from outside the walls of the house and from within. She wished she could sleep as well, but she hadn’t been born to this life the way Fabilla had. Which was worse, she wondered, to have never known freedom, or to have known it and had it taken away?

  As Rufa brushed the hair out of Fabilla’s eyes, she noticed a red mark on her forehead. It was smudged, but in this light Rufa thought it had the vague shape of a woman with outstretched arms. She rubbed it away with a moist thumb, deciding that Fabilla must have knocked herself at some point during the day, when she was playing while Rufa was working.

  The man on the other side of the room emptied himself noisily into his partner, who clutched him in the throes of her own pleasure. The man rolled off and within moments was starting to snore. The children too were starting to tire of their game, and lay down, cuddled together. The woman, a slave called Natta, sighed and rose, rearranging her tunic.

  ‘Rufa, we should attend our duties.’

  Rufa gave Fabilla a light kiss, nodded and stood. She stripped out of her dirty, ragged clothes and pulled on a clean, plain white robe that she was obliged to wear when serving. Natta and Rufa opened the door and walked through to their mistress’s triclinium. The dining room was being readied for a feast. Shafat, the steward, caught sight of them.

  ‘You are both late,’ he said, his voice heavily tinged with an eastern accent.

  They weren’t, but both women mumbled apologies. They fetched jugs of wine from the kitchen and stood behind the top couch, which remained empty. Time passed, the lamps sputtered and smoked. Rufa shifted from foot to foot, legs starting to ache, bored and tired from the forced inactivity. The other slaves had finished their work, and all had now either retreated to the kitchens or their quarters, or stood as Rufa and Natta did, waiting to attend.

  At last their mistress arrived. Rufa surreptitiously watched the woman who legally owned her. She was tall, slim, with long, dark hair braided behind her head. Following her were two men and a woman. Her mistress reclined on the top couch, and the others arranged themselves on the other two couches at either side.

  Her mistress held up a decorated glass and Rufa stepped forward swiftly, filling it deftly from the wine jug she carried. She moved on to the two men to her mistress’s right, while Natta took care of the woman on her left. The man on the mistress’s immediate right was enormous, with tanned skin, and a livid diagonal scar sweeping from his forehead over his eye and down to the corner of his mouth. Rufa was scared of him. He lived in the house, and sometimes acted as the mistress’s bodyguard, though he was a free man. She wondered if he was the mistress’s lover, but she had never seen any evidence of that. Often, he would look at Rufa, an expression on his face that she was sure was full of violence and lust. As she filled his glass, he grabbed her arm, firmly and painfully, and held her gaze with one good eye and one clouded.

  ‘Glaukos,’ said the mistress in a low voice. Glaukos held her for a moment longer, then looked at Elissa, bowed his head and released her.

  The guests waited for the mistress to raise her glass to her lips, then they all drank. All eyes were on the woman on the top couch, none speaking. Rufa’s mistress swallowed, then placed her glass on the table before her.

  ‘Friends,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming tonight. I hope my simple offerings refresh your palates and satisfy your appetites.’

  She flicked her fingers and Shafat directed the slaves to bring forward the food from the kitchens. It was simple food by the standard of Roman banquets, as the mistress had said, but the cheeses, ham, eggs and market vegetables looked mouth-wateringly good to Rufa. She swallowed as her mouth filled with saliva, and tried to ignore the tempting smell.

  Again it was the mistress who started eating first, and the others followed suit. After a few mouthfuls, she spoke again.

  ‘So tell me, what news from the Urban Prefect’s office, Scrofa?’ asked the hostess.

  ‘Mother Elissa,’ said Scrofa, a plump man with broken purple veins over his cheeks. He touched his forehead in a gesture of obeisance. ‘Work continues on the restoration of some leaking aqueducts and pipework. The citizens persist in bashing holes in them, though, to get their own private water supply. The Temple of the Vestals is having some paintwork restored…’

  ‘I was referring to the games,’ interrupted Elissa.

  ‘Yes, Mother, I… I’m sorry,’ stuttered Scrofa. Elissa inclined her head and waited.

  ‘Well, the Prefect has procured a shipment of camelopards from Ethiopia. The jails are full of bandits and escaped slaves to be given to the beasts. There will be some gladiatorial combat, of course, though the details still need to be worked out regarding the appearance of some of the biggest names. Fees to the lanista, you understand.’

  Elissa’s face was cold. ‘I trust you will give the Prefect every assistance to make these games as spectacular as possible. You know what depends on it.’

  Scrofa glanced around him nervously. Rufa noticed with surprise that the female guest was regarding Scrofa with open hostility.

  ‘Of course, Mother,’ he said.

  ‘Glaukos!’ Elissa snapped at the large scarred man.

  Glaukos had been leering at Rufa, but turned his attention to Elissa as soon as
his name was spoken.

  ‘Do you have anything to contribute?’ asked Elissa.

  ‘Yes, Mother. We have recruited a number of new followers in useful positions in the city. We have an initiation ceremony for them planned tomorrow in the temple, and we would be honoured if you could attend.’

  ‘Of course. Make sure there is an appropriate sacrifice, to mark the occasion.’

  Finally, she turned to the only female guest, who was sitting to her right. She held out a hand, and it was taken and gently gripped. Rufa thought this woman very beautiful. Long, light brown hair flowed down the full length of her back, tied with a simple ribbon. She appeared around thirty years of age, but had made no attempt to cover the first sign of lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her lips held a faint smile, but to Rufa, her eyes seemed sad.

  ‘Metella, treasured friend,’ said Elissa. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am well, Mother. As well as can be expected.’

  ‘Thank you so much for joining us tonight. It was a delight to see you last week at our little gathering.’

  ‘The gratitude is mine. The peaceful ceremony was such a comfort at this difficult time, and your followers were so kind to me.’

  ‘You are no nearer to finding your husband’s murderers?’

  Metella shook her head angrily. ‘A month now, since we interred his body in the family tomb.’

  ‘And still no witnesses have come forward? The urban cohorts have nothing?’

  Metella looked at Scrofa accusingly. ‘The Urban Prefect refused even to see me. He told his lackeys that if I brought a suspect before him with evidence he would be happy to judge the case, but until then would expend no resources on the matter.’

  Scrofa nodded sadly. ‘It is the way of things. True justice is only for the powerful. For the rest of us, justice is whatever we can mete out ourselves.’

  Elissa looked sympathetic. ‘The elite care nothing for the rest of the people of Rome. We have to look to each other for succour and comfort. It must have been so traumatic for you, finding him in that alley.’

  Metella’s mouth tightened, lower lip trembling. ‘There was so much blood…’

  Elissa squeezed Metella’s hand tighter, but Rufa saw a brightness in her mistress’s eyes that unsettled her.

  ‘As you know, our followers have made enquiries, but we found nothing. I fear that the more time that passes, the weaker memories grow. I am very sorry, Metella.’

  Metella looked at Elissa through tear-brimmed eyes. ‘Thank you, Mother Elissa. For your kind words, and the support of you and your people.’

  ‘Our people,’ corrected Elissa, laying her other hand over Metella’s. ‘You belong with us now. And of course, we should thank you for the generous donation to our group.’

  ‘Money,’ said Metella, waving her hand dismissively. ‘My Decimus was rich beyond most men’s dreams. We had a town house on the Palatine, a villa in Baiae, fifty slaves, and dozens of clients paying their respects at our atrium every morning. What did it gain him? His blood emptied out in a dirty back alley.’ This time she did sob, and Elissa patted her hand gently.

  ‘You are with friends, Metella,’ she said. ‘Tonight you will join us for the first time in our mysteries.’

  Metella smiled through her tears. ‘I can’t wait to know more about the Lord and Lady, Mother Elissa.’

  ‘Tonight, Metella, you will learn much.’

  The meal continued with subdued small talk. The guests seemed to Rufa to be a little on edge, although she often felt the same around her mistress. It wasn’t that Elissa had ever mistreated her as such. There was just an intensity to her gaze, a tone to her soft voice that sent shivers down Rufa’s spine, the same way the squeak of a rusty cartwheel could if it was just the right pitch. Her attention started to drift, as it usually did on these occasions where her tasks mainly consisted of standing around doing nothing. Her mind wandered to her past life of relative freedom and luxury, as much as was afforded any female child. She was only eleven years old when she was sold into slavery – over half her life had been spent in bondage, including all her adult days. She missed the still vividly remembered time with her father before he died, and with the others who looked after her as their own, before she was sent to the slave market. She sighed, which drew a disapproving glance from Shafat. She stiffened her back, set her face to a neutral expression once more, and let her mind go blank.

  She was called on to serve a few more times as the meal progressed, welcoming the movement so she could stretch her legs, but despite her inactivity she felt quite tired by the time the guests rose.

  ‘Dismiss the slaves,’ said Elissa, and Shafat sent them on their way with a gesture. Rufa bowed deeply and headed back to her room with Natta, rubbing her sleepy eyes and looking forward with anticipation to the bed in which she hoped Fabilla was fast asleep.

  When she opened the door to the room, Natta’s family were all asleep, but Fabilla was sitting up, crying quietly. Rufa ran quickly to embrace her.

  ‘What is it, precious one?’ she asked, drying the girl’s eyes on her tunic.

  ‘It’s Arethusa,’ sobbed Fabilla. ‘I can’t find her anywhere. I think she is lost, Mummy. She must be so lonely and scared.’

  Rufa hugged her daughter tight, stomach sinking. There were many fears that plagued Rufa, but Fabilla losing Arethusa, her doll, was one of the acutest. Her daughter’s only real possession, Rufa had made the little doll out of rags, coloured wool and glass beads she had saved and begged for while she was pregnant. Arethusa had been Fabilla’s constant companion since the day she was born.

  ‘Where did you see her last?’ asked Rufa with concern.

  ‘I think it was this afternoon, after I had finished my cleaning chores. Natta said I could play in the peristylium. I sat her on one of the benches while I played ball with Cossa. Then Shafat came along and sent Cossa away, and he asked how I was, and he said some words in a foreign language, and then he rubbed something on my head, and I got a bit scared, so I ran away, and I forgot all about Arethusa until a little while ago, and then I woke up and she wasn’t there and you weren’t there and…’

  She started to sob louder, and Natta’s family all started to stir. Natta shot Rufa an angry look. Rufa held Fabilla close, gently easing her sobs, worried that she would be in trouble with Natta’s man, Cossus, if he woke. Cossus wasn’t afraid to dole out a physical punishment when he was angry, to his own family and to anyone else not protected by someone more powerful than him, although he was careful not to damage his mistress’s property.

  ‘I’ll find her,’ whispered Rufa. ‘I’m sure she will still be where you left her. And even if she isn’t, someone else will have seen her.’

  ‘Please bring her back for me, Mummy,’ said Fabilla. ‘I love her.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Rufa, saying a silent prayer to Juno Quiritis, the goddess of motherhood, to help her fulfil her vow.

  She settled Fabilla back to bed, where the little girl lay, calmer, but still awake, trust in her mother showing now in her wide eyes. Rufa quietly slipped out of the room and made her way from their quarters at the back of the house to the peristylium. She heard voices as she rounded the corner, and found Elissa, Shafat and the dinner guests seated in a circle on the floor of the peristylium, illuminated by the light of a few small oil lamps. Metella sat in the middle of the circle, holding a small piglet who wriggled occasionally. She seemed over-aware, eyes wide, body twitching a little.

  Rufa ducked back into a shadow behind a column, frustrated. She didn’t want to go back to Fabilla empty-handed, but clearly she was not invited to this meeting, and she didn’t think it would go down well if she started rummaging through the bushes and under the benches looking for Arethusa. She decided to just wait for them to finish whatever they were doing.

  Elissa had her eyes closed, and was chanting in a low voice in a language Rufa didn’t understand. The others were still, keeping their eyes fixed on her. Elissa raised her han
ds upwards, and they copied her movements. She then opened her eyes and fixed each one with a stare in turn.

  ‘Children, we are here today to bring this child, Metella, into our sacred circle. Since the days when our Lord and Lady’s city, our spiritual home, was founded, thirty-eight years before the first Olympiad, my ancestors have worshipped the Lord Ba’al Hammon and the Lady Tanit, Face of Ba’al. The office of the Priestess of Tanit has been passed down from mother to daughter through the generations, and though our city has been destroyed by the Romans, our people scattered into the desert and across the seas, our Lord and Lady live on and will rise again. We, their obedient followers, will carry out their commands, until the day when finally they exact their retribution upon the city of Rome, and avenge all the people of Carthage, and all those across the world who suffer under the Roman yoke!’

  The men gave a firm, low, ‘Aye’. Metella fidgeted in her seat, but kept her gaze fixed on Elissa.

  ‘Metella, we bring you into the worship of our Lord and Lady. Do you swear to worship, honour and fear them, and to worship, honour and fear me, their representative here in Rome?’

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Metella, speaking quickly. ‘I swear it on the bones of my ancestors, and with the blood of my children to come.’

  ‘It is unfortunate, Metella, that your marriage did not produce issue. But there is an ancient Punic tradition, that in place of a sacrifice of your own blood, the blood of another can be substituted. Hand me the piglet.’

  Metella did so, nearly dropping it as it wriggled. Elissa calmed it with some soothing words and a gentle stroke down the back of its neck. Then she drew a sharp, curved knife from the folds of her robe and slit its throat. She held the thrashing animal up so that the bright red blood spurted over Metella’s face, hair and white robe. The thrashings ceased, and Elissa handed the limp body to Metella.

  ‘Commit your sacrifice, to the fire,’ she said.

  Rufa noticed that the odd bronze statue that had always sat in the middle of the peristylium, arms stretched upwards with palms facing the sky, now had a fiercely burning fire in an open urn in its centre. With some gentle direction from Elissa, Metella placed the body at the top of the statue’s arms and let it go. It rolled down the steep incline and landed in the middle of the fire, where it immediately started to hiss and sizzle. The smell of roasting pork drifted over to where Rufa still crouched, motionless.