Watchmen of Rome Read online

  ‘Accept our gift, Lord Ba’al Hammon and Lady Tanit, Face of Ba’al,’ said Elissa in a sing-song chant. ‘And with it, accept your new follower, Metella, into your family.’

  Elissa leant forward and used her thumb to make a sign on Metella’s forehead in the blood. The sign was hard to make out in the flickering light, but it looked similar to the strange mark on Fabilla’s head. What had Fabilla said earlier? That Shafat had put it there? Rufa’s stomach clenched involuntarily, and a wave of nausea rolled over her.

  ‘Metella,’ continued Elissa, ‘you are now part of the family of Ba’al Hammon and Tanit. You are bound to us by blood and will keep our secrets till death. Do you understand?’

  Metella nodded. ‘I understand, Mother.’

  Elissa smiled. ‘Congratulations, Metella. You belong now. One of the foremost among the followers of the Lord and Lady. A special one.’

  The others gave their congratulations with a word or a touch, and Metella smiled at them, appearing somewhat calmer now. Rufa wondered if it was anxiety and anticipation that had made her seem so jumpy, or some type of herb or potion.

  ‘And now,’ said Elissa, ‘to the next matter. The day of retribution. First, though, I should explain some things to Metella. Child, do you know the story of the wars between Carthage and Rome?’

  ‘Of course, Mother. We Romans have been brought up on tales of the terrible Hannibal, his defeat by Scipio, and the eventual destruction of the city.’

  ‘Brave Hannibal,’ corrected Elissa. ‘His name means beloved of Ba’al, and truly he was. How else could he do the impossible, lead an army over the Alps, stay for ten years in Italy, terrorizing the Romans, never defeated, except with the favour of Ba’al and the Lady? In the end, though, it was the cowardice of men, not the grace of the gods that brought him down.’

  Rufa wondered what Elissa meant. Hannibal was a name every Roman knew, a name that even to that day was used to scare children into better behaviour. She listened, interested despite her growing anxiety.

  ‘The elders of Carthage betrayed him and their city. Then fifty-five years later, they did it again, and this time, Carthage was burned to the ground.’

  The listeners nodded solemnly as Elissa described the scenes of Carthage’s destruction. Rufa listened in wonder and horror at the stories of the children and the elderly burned to death, or crushed under the hooves of the Roman cavalry and tossed, living or dead, into vast burial pits. She heard Elissa tell tales of looting, raping and murdering, and heard her curse people she had never heard of, like Scipio Aemilianus and the cowardly Carthaginian leader Hasdrubal who surrendered the city. In spite of herself, she was held rapt by Elissa’s hypnotic voice. Metella and the others listened, captivated, and Elissa’s monologue was punctuated only by crackles and sizzles from the fire.

  ‘Everyone that survived the siege was sold into slavery,’ Elissa said, voice hushed now. ‘Every building was levelled or burned. Scipio cursed the city and salted it. He performed the evocatio, claiming by doing so that he had driven the Carthaginian gods from the city.’

  Elissa paused, took a deep breath and looked around her. When her gaze drifted past Rufa’s hiding place a fist clutched Rufa’s heart, but Elissa’s attention did not linger, and she continued to speak, voice firmer now.

  ‘But there were others, in the countryside and towns around Carthage, where the spirit of the city, the tradition, and the gods, lived on. When Julius Caesar re-established his colony at Carthage, the descendants of the city found their way back, mingling with the Numidians and the Romans. Many lost their way, turned their backs on the old religions, and embraced the Roman pantheon, and called themselves Romans. Some of us, though, we never forgot.’

  There was a silence, which eventually Metella broke. Her eyes were filled with tears.

  ‘Mother. I am so sorry for the anguish my ancestors caused your ancestors. The horror, the injustice they inflicted on them.’

  Elissa reached out to hold her hand. ‘Rome has turned its back on you too, Metella. With your husband dead, you have no protector, no one to stand up for your rights. The city does not care to investigate your loss, and soon the vultures will be circling, trying to wed you to get their hands on your husband’s fortune, committing you to a life of servitude and lovelessness.’

  Metella trembled.

  ‘Don’t worry, child,’ said Elissa. ‘You are with us now. You have a new family, who will care for you and protect you.’

  Metella smiled and blinked the tears away.

  ‘And Rome’s punishment is overdue. Soon, Rome will face her own evocatio.’ Elissa turned to Shafat. ‘The sacrifice that was chosen is safe and well?’

  Shafat inclined his head. ‘She is, Mother. And today, I marked her with the sign of Tanit.’

  ‘Good. And we have a symbol of the sacrifice now, to ask for the Lord and Lady’s blessings on our preparations?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Shafat produced something from beneath his robes, and for a moment in the dim, flickering light, Rufa could not make out what he held. Then terror grabbed her chest as she realized the identity of the little object. It was Arethusa, Rufa’s doll! As she watched, Shafat bowed his head to the statue, and placed it at the top of the outstretched bronze arms. He let go, and the little bundle of dry rags slid down and disappeared into the fire.

  Chapter II

  Dusk was rapidly giving way to darkness when Carbo arrived in the Subura. The path of his ride, a rickety cart of animal fodder that he had hitched a ride on from Veii, had diverged from his own before he reached the Tiber, and he had walked through a chill, gloomy Rome for at least an hour to reach his destination. The Argiletum, the road connecting the Forum Romanum to the Subura, was a great artery of a road, choking at night-time with the wheeled vehicles that were banned during the day. Carbo picked his way cautiously through the traffic, aware that death could come to him beneath the axles of a laden ox cart as easily as it could at the hands of a barbarian warrior in battle, with maybe a little less glory.

  Eventually, he recognized the turn into the street leading to the part of the Subura in which he had grown up. Though once the area had been as familiar to him as the hilt of his gladius now was, much had changed. Dilapidated apartment blocks collapsed with regularity, especially in the poorer districts, where unscrupulous landlords skimped on quality building materials and quality builders, and then erected dangerously unstable dwellings to replace them.

  Multiple wrong turns and dead ends lengthened his journey. The character of the Subura changed dramatically as night fell. The throngs of people and hordes of merchants were replaced by those brave or stupid enough to venture out into the unlit streets. Every dark alley, every recess was a potential hiding place for a cutpurse, or cut-throat. Carbo kept his hand tightly gripped on his gladius, striding calmly and purposefully forward, but with ears straining and eyes darting from side to side. Several times he thought he glimpsed from the corner of his eye someone watching him, but when he turned no one was paying him any attention.

  A flurry of wings startled him and made him duck. A black crow, disturbed from its nesting place by a prowling cat, flew close over his head and landed on a wall. It cocked its head and regarded him steadily. Carbo shivered, picturing the memory of scores of the birds picking through the human remains of a battlefield. He walked on and the crow cawed, the sound resonating in his head like a discordant, broken bell.

  At last, he recognized a small fountain, a familiarly twisted tree and a stone statue of Augustus. He traced his fingers around the statue base and found the writing he remembered, engraved there twenty-five years before.

  Carbo sat here, then left for the legions.

  It was all he had felt anyone needed to know, at the time.

  Twenty feet on, facing into a small courtyard, was the insula in which he was born and where he had been raised. He paused for a moment, looking up. It had evidently survived longer than many of its neighbours, although large cracks in
the fascia made him question how much longer it could hold out.

  He looked around. The buildings seemed smaller than he remembered, though he knew that was just his adult perspective comparing the view to his child’s memories. But Rome seemed different too, something was unsettling him that he couldn’t define. His stomach felt like it contained a lump of cold iron. He swallowed. He knew how his past could affect him, take hold of him, and he cursed himself inwardly for it. He set his shoulders and started for the insula in front of him.

  The staircase was external on this building, and he started to climb the narrow uneven steps to the higher apartments. His old family apartment was on the third floor. Reasonably sized compared to many in the district, it had three rooms: a bedroom for him, one for his mother and father, and a communal eating and cooking area. He sighed as he remembered his father. The letter he had received had been dictated by his mother to a scribe, informing Carbo of his passing. That had been at least ten years ago, he realized. Carbo reached his old front door and knocked gently.

  There was no response, so he hammered more forcefully. This time he heard low muttering and curses from within. He frowned. A male voice? His mother’s last letter hadn’t mentioned a new man in her life, though it was several months since he had heard from her.

  The door was pulled abruptly open and Carbo found himself staring into the bleary-eyed, suspicious face of a man in his twenties.

  ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘A fine welcome home,’ said Carbo.

  ‘Home? Have the gods taken your senses? What are you talking about, man?’

  ‘Get out of my way, I want to see my mother.’

  Carbo pushed the man firmly in the chest, making him stagger backwards, and brushed past him into the apartment. The old place was how he remembered it in shape and layout, but completely different in appearance. The walls were painted in brighter colours than his mother would ever have tolerated. The furniture appeared reasonably new and in good condition. On the table, illuminated by a dimly burning oil lamp, was a cheap vase and a child’s rattle. A rattle?

  ‘Lucius?’ came a voice from behind the curtain separating the living room from the bedroom. ‘Who is it? Is everything all right?’

  Carbo strode to the curtain and ripped it aside. The young woman in the bed screamed and snatched up a baby from the cot beside the bed, clutching it to her. The baby woke and joined in the screaming. A roar from behind Carbo alerted him and he spun to find himself caught full in the chest by the charging Lucius. They landed together on the bed, the young woman jumping deftly out of the way.

  Disorientated by the confusing turn of events, Carbo allowed Lucius to get the first blow in – a punch to the mouth, softened by proximity, but enough to split his lip. He rolled the man off him and onto the floor. Lucius rose quickly, and snatched a dagger from beneath the bed. Carbo stood, putting some distance between them.

  Lucius feinted, thrust, and Carbo dragged the curtain down over his head. Lucius swung wildly, but the curtain temporarily blinded him. Carbo stepped forward, an elbow to the temple causing Lucius’ legs to buckle beneath him, allowing Carbo to disarm him easily. He stepped back and let Lucius regain his feet.

  Lucius eyed Carbo, able now to take in Carbo’s large frame, and the easy, seasoned way he held the knife he had just taken. Carbo saw the change in his posture that meant he had thought better of taking him on.

  ‘We don’t have anything worth taking. See for yourself. But I will kill you if you touch my wife or child, even if I have to come back across the Styx to do it.’

  ‘Where’s my mother?’ asked Carbo.

  Lucius looked nonplussed. ‘How should I know where your damned mother is?’

  ‘Because this is her damned house!’ shouted Carbo.

  For a moment Lucius stared at Carbo, and then he looked at his wife and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

  ‘Are you Atella’s son?’ asked the woman, her voice a little shaky, but soft.

  ‘Yes, I’m Carbo. Where is she?’

  ‘Carbo, I’m sorry. Atella passed on three months ago.’

  Carbo stared, understanding, but not believing. He let the dagger fall to the floor. Lucius spoke, his voice also softer now.

  ‘Gnaea and I were living with Gnaea’s father, in the next insula. We knew Atella, knew she was ill. Gnaea helped look after her as best she could, brought her bread and water, tended to her when her illness became too much for her to get out of bed. When she died the landlord offered us the apartment. We could afford it, just, so we moved in.’

  ‘She didn’t have many possessions,’ said Gnaea, ‘and she owed some rent, so the landlord sold most of what she owned. We put some things aside, though, for safe keeping.’

  Gnaea took a small, carved wooden box from under the bed and offered it to Carbo. Numbly he took it, opened the lid and looked inside. It contained all the letters he had written to her over the years he had been serving in the legions, pitifully few, he now realized. He picked one at random and read it. It must be twenty years old, written when he was not much more than a boy, still serving in the XIXth, before that legion was destroyed. The words were brief, informing her of his good health and wishing her the same, hoping the enclosed money was of help, and telling her he loved her. Beneath the letters his fingers touched something hard and he pulled it out. A lead legionary soldier, his prized toy. How he had wanted to be a soldier all those childhood years. If only he could have known what it would be like.

  Carbo looked up. Gnaea and Lucius were regarding him, still cautiously, but also with sympathy.

  ‘I owe you both an apology. I’ve travelled a long way, and I… I thought I was home.’

  Lucius put a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘If you don’t have anywhere to stay tonight, you can sleep on the floor here. But you need to be gone in the morning. There isn’t enough room for you here, you understand.’

  Carbo smiled sadly. ‘You are a good man. But I will not disturb you further. Please accept my apologies again, and thank you for your kindness to my mother. Your kindness to me, too, for saving me these memories.’

  He turned to the door, then paused. ‘For the damage, and the trouble,’ he said, handing them a coin that was unnecessarily large to compensate them for both. Lucius’ eyes widened at the value and he thanked Carbo. Then Carbo walked out of the door of his childhood home and made his way back down the stairs.

  * * *

  Carbo woke to a spatter of foul liquid landing on his head. He realized from the smell and the solid chunks that one of the occupants of an apartment above had emptied their chamber pot on him. He was lying in the doorway of a shop that smelled as if it mainly sold garum, the ever popular sauce made from rotted fish guts. He wiped his face, cursed, and stretched, joints that had had twenty-five years of hard wear and tear courtesy of the army protesting. His backside was numb, and although he figured he had got an hour or two of sleep, his mind and body felt drained. He stood and limped his way down the street, stroking the poorly healed war wound in his leg.

  Rome was waking. Shutters on shops were opening and the keener citizens were hurrying out to meet their patrons to be first in the line for a dole out of cash. Some of the more enterprising ones would be visiting several different patrons that day, and making a decent living from what amounted to professional begging.

  He came across the fountain that had served as his landmark the previous night and dunked his head in, rinsing off the worst of the excrement and grime. An old woman cursed him for polluting the water and filled her jar from the trickle of clean liquid flowing from the pipe that served the fountain. He ignored her and looked around, taking stock.

  He was back home, but what was here for him? No family remained and he was sure there would be few friends who remembered the unnaturally large teenager who had left to join up. He felt the weight of the purse suspended around his waist, concealed by his tunic. The years of campaigning had left him a comparatively rich ma
n, at least by the standards of the citizens of this district. Of course, he would never hope to see in his lifetime even a fraction of the wealth that the poorest of Rome’s elite, the senators and equestrians, owned.

  Nearby, a tavern opened its doors. A sign of a cockerel was painted on the wall. A man dressed in a tunic and apron came out and looked up and down the street. He was tall, but starting to stoop, and the remaining hair that rimmed his bald pate was white as goose down. He seemed ill at ease, but after a few moments he sighed and put out his sign, which declared him open for business. Carbo decided he had no other place to be and walked in.

  The tavern was like a thousand others he had been in throughout the empire. The floor was tiled with a plain pattern, the walls decorated with poorly painted depictions of bacchanalian scenes. Tables and chairs were scattered around. A long table served as a bar. Large depressions in the bar held pots of various stews and sauces. Jars of wine and other drinks sat on shelves behind. A small door at the back led to what Carbo presumed would be the kitchen and living quarters of the tavern keeper. A small room, little more than an alcove, was separated from the main part of the inn by a tatty curtain. This could be drawn across to give the alcove a semblance of privacy, but was currently pulled back to reveal a low, stained couch within. Carbo knew what sort of services were performed in that room – he had paid for them himself often enough.

  He took a seat by the table that served as the bar and the tavern keeper approached him with a nervous smile.

  ‘What would you like, friend?’

  Carbo nodded, not feeling in the mood to return the smile. ‘A loaf and some watered wine.’