Hermogenes wobbled a little as he walked home through the Trans Tiberim area of Rome, the crowded region on the far side of the river. The Tiber to his right was full of merchant ships and barges, queuing for mooring space to offload their cargoes from around the Empire into the huge warehouses. Brays and snorts came from lines of donkeys and oxen, harnessed to carts or bearing empty saddlebags, waiting for the produce to reach them for distribution to the markets around the city. Mundane food supplies, jewellery, spices and perfumes that the wealthier Romans could afford scented the air with an exotic mix. It all flowed through here to feed the Roman maw.
A vast population of workers lived and toiled in this region, many slaves, but also the free poor and foreigners, looking for casual labour to buy them meat or wine to last their families a day or two.
It was a perfect place for an escaped slave to hide.
Hermogenes Publii Petronii servus. Hermogenes, the slave of Publius Petronius. Hermogenes rolled his slave name distastefully around in his mind. Being a slave meant giving up everything into your master’s possession. Even the name ‘Hermogenes’ wasn’t his given name, but after his drunkard Greek father had sold him into slavery as a boy, that was the name he had received from his new master. Having had a small amount of education, Hermogenes was eventually noticed by his master. He had risen to the position of steward of a small estate in Campania, overseeing the farm workers and providing accounts for his master. It was a privileged position, no manual labour, good living quarters, use of the best looking of the domestic slaves.
He had got too greedy, though, he knew that. While it was expected that the steward would skim a little off the profits, his taste for fine wine and expensive prostitutes had caused him to take a little too much. When the auditor arrived from Rome, he knew his time was short, and taking his savings and a fast horse, he had fled.
He had easily persuaded a local warehouse owner to give him a labouring job. Realizing how unfit he had become had been a shock to him. As a young man he had been able to work all day and not feel the fatigue, but good living and little exercise had let him run to fat. Two months of hard work, though, had put him well back on the path to being in shape, and soon he had received a promotion to overseer.
Now he had enough income to provide him with a basic food ration, lodgings, and some left over to get drunk from time to time. Occasionally he would sit with fellow workers in the tavern and crow about how life was good. Those below him resented it, those above him mocked it, but he didn’t care, and when he was rolling drunk, he would tell anyone that asked that being a free man was the world’s greatest gift.
He paused in his wanderings. Had he heard a footstep behind him? It was very late, and even in this crowded region there were few around, for fears of the usual muggers and cut-throats. The thought of being robbed rarely bothered him unduly – he was big enough to take care of himself and he carried little with him in the way of coinage at any one time. Still, he felt a little unsettled as he carried on his slightly weaving journey home.
The tall warehouses cast deep shadows, which even the bright gibbous moon could not illuminate. Hermogenes found himself sticking to the light where he could. He started to wish for his bed. The wine was starting to wear off, making him realize that he was cold and tired. He turned a corner.
The punch took him full in the face and knocked him flat on his back.
For a moment he just lay there, dazed, not quite understanding what had happened. Then a dark figure loomed over him. He looked up into emotionless eyes, and fear gripped him.
Publius Petronius looked down at the man at his feet. He presumed it was a man, although he was barely recognizable as such. The face was a mask of congealed blood. A leg and an arm bent at unnatural angles. Any part of the skin that was exposed or showed through the ripped tunic was bruised black. The stench of faeces suggested the man had soiled himself. Only the noise of bubbly breathing and the occasional groaning sob gave any indication that the man was alive. Petronius looked up at the short, wiry figure who had brought this pathetic bundle in and dumped it at his feet. He was surprised that the slight man had been able to carry the heavy weight with such ease.
‘What is this?’ asked Petronius.
‘This is the fugitive, Hermogenes Publii Petronii servus.’
Petronius regarded the man on the floor again.
‘I asked for him alive.’
The short man tilted his head on one side, his expression confused.
‘You can clearly see he is breathing.’
‘Barely. What use to me is a slave in this condition? It will take him months to recover, if he ever does.’
‘The contract did not specify a condition in which the fugitive was to be returned to you.’
‘Did he really put up such a fight that you had to do this to him?’
The man shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Well, I will not pay you. You may have honoured the letter of the contract, but you certainly have not honoured the spirit. I commend you for your diligence in tracking this slave down. He has wronged me, and deserved punishment, but he was also valuable and I had further use for him. I will pay you a quarter of the agreed fee, purely as a gesture of goodwill.’
The slave hunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘I spent a month tracking this man down. I have considerable expenses.’
‘That is not my concern. You have been told how much I will pay you.’
‘No.’
Petronius looked at the man in shock.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No. You will pay me the full amount you owe.’
Outrage suffused Petronius’ face, his plump cheeks turning ruddy.
‘I am Publius Petronius. I am a senator of Rome,’ he said. ‘I was a consul. I will not be dictated to in my own house!’
‘I am Dolabella, the fugitivarius. I do not fail to fulfil a contact, nor to collect what I am owed.’
Petronius stared at him in shock, then cried out. ‘Steward. Call the porters. Have this man removed from my premises.’
Several bulky slaves appeared at a run in moments. They surrounded Dolabella, waiting for instructions from Petronius. Dolabella held Petronius’ haughty stare for a moment, then turned and left without a word. Petronius realized he had been holding his breath and sighed. He looked down at the man at his feet. ‘Get this slave some medical attention. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this debacle.’
Petronius lay awake in bed, staring at the decorated ceiling, barely visible in the darkness. There were no external windows, just a slight glow under the cracks of the door from the moonlight and torches that illuminated the peristylium. He couldn’t sleep – he was strangely unsettled by the slave hunter who had been in his house a little earlier. He had sent his wife away and even spurned his favourite slave girl that night. He sighed and turned onto one side, staring at the wall.
Something cold and sharp touched his neck, and he froze.
‘Do not make a sound,’ whispered a familiar voice, causing Petronius’ heart to miss a beat.
‘How did you get in here?’ croaked Petronius. The knife pricked the skin and Petronius felt a small dribble of wetness run down his throat.
‘I said, not a sound. Now, let’s walk to your safe. Get up slowly.’
Petronius did as he was told. He had not been wearing nightclothes, but Dolabella did not allow him to dress, and his nakedness heightened his sense of vulnerability. They walked together, Dolabella at his side, knife still at his throat.
‘You will be crucified for this,’ hissed Petronius. The knife pricked in again, drawing more blood, and Petronius gasped. They reached his office and he stood before the safe. He paused for a moment and looked round at Dolabella.
‘Pay me what you owe me,’ said Dolabella. Petronius hesitated, then unlocked the safe and withdrew a number of aurei. Dolabella tucked the coins into a purse on his belt. ‘Now double it.’
‘What?’
‘This second visit to collect my debt has been inconvenient. This is my fee for the inconvenience.’
The knife had not wavered, and Petronius sighed and counted out the same number of coins again. He rose to his feet.
‘You have what you asked for. Now leave and I will think about asking the urban cohorts to go lightly on you.’
Dolabella made no movement, the knife remaining at Petronius’ throat. Unblinking eyes fixed the senator’s gaze. For the first time now, Petronius started to feel genuine terror. This man had done horrible things to Hermogenes, and now he was in his power while all his staff slept. He wondered where the night porter was, then realized he was probably incapacitated or dead.
‘You can’t kill me,’ whispered Petronius. ‘I’m a senator.’
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ said Dolabella flatly. ‘But I do have a reputation to maintain. It wouldn’t do for my clients to think there were no consequences for reneging on a deal.’
Before Petronius could say another word, Dolabella flicked the dagger up over the senator’s cheek, opening a deep flap of skin, then plunged the point into the man’s eye. Petronius let out a ghastly shriek as he fell to his knees, clutching his face. Slaves were with him in moments, but through his agony he heard their whispered questions, asking who had done this, and he realized that Dolabella was gone.
Carbo stared at the walls of the holding cell. It was a converted cellar below the barracks of the urban cohorts and a small amount of street-level light filtered through a high, barred window. Graffiti covered the walls, scratched into the soft cement with fingernails or any sharper instrument the guards had been too lazy or incompetent to discover. ‘Centurion Herennius is a cocksucker’, ‘May the gods curse Porcius, whose bad faith put me here’, ‘Will I ever see Ambusta again?’ and ‘Friend, watch out for the guards, they will try to bugger you while you sleep.’
From the window he could hear the sounds of street life continuing, the traffic and merchants and tradesmen contributing to the cacophony. In his little cell nothing changed. There was no bed, no chamber pot or bucket. There was a pool of stale water in one corner which he had used to slake his thirst. The opposite corner he used as a latrine. No one had come to see him yet, not a guard to bring him food, nor a friend. He had no news of what had happened since the urban cohorts had hauled him away, roughly this time the day before, and his stomach was a knot of tension and frustration. He tried not to dwell on the fates that could have befallen Rufa and Fabilla, but with no other mental stimulation it was an impossible task. Had they been killed outright? Returned to Elissa for whatever she intended for them? Imprisoned somewhere, like him, awaiting crucifixion or some other grisly punishment for their escape?
He punched a fist into the wall. Some loose cement came away, but the wall barely yielded and his knuckles came away grazed, small spots of blood welling up. The pain felt good, felt justified. He had promised to protect them and he had failed. Failed in his oath to them and to their father. Dark despair threatened to overwhelm him. He looked around the cell for the hundredth time, wondering if there was something he had missed, some way out. The high window was out of his reach. Despite the unlikelihood of success, he had tried jumping and climbing. The door was solid oak, with a small, cross-barred window. It didn’t yield to kicks or punches, nor did anyone come to investigate the noise when he yelled. He paced the cell like a caged lion waiting for its turn in the arena, but eventually he gave up and slumped on the floor, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He had had time to ponder things while he was locked up. He thought about Elissa and the story that Rufa had told him. Having met the woman, he now had no doubts as to the truth of the tale, and he could also see how people fell under her spell. She was intelligent, persuasive, calm. But it was her eyes, the piercing gaze, that made it so hard to ignore her, so tempting to give her what she wanted. What could a woman like that achieve, what harm could she cause, with an evil will and a band of fanatic followers?
He shuddered. Unbidden, as always, images of priestesses in white came to his mind. The dark cell disappeared, and he was in Germany. Naked, bound, terrified, as the priestess leaned over him, curved knife in hand. He pulled his knees up to his chest and started to tremble.
Upstairs, Vespillo took a deep breath and counted to ten slowly. He let it out and tried again.
‘I must insist that you release this man.’
‘With the greatest respect, Tribune,’ Lucius Mocius Poppillius said, pronouncing the title with a sneer, ‘you have no authority over me. I am not in your chain of command. I am a member of the urban cohorts, part of the army, not a semi-professional band of firemen and vigilantes.’
‘You are aware, Centurion,’ Vespillo also laid emphasis on the title, attempting to reiterate his seniority, ‘that two of my men were murdered, along with several civilians, at the premises of the man you hold downstairs. We are investigating the matter, and witnesses say that members of the urban cohorts were involved. Not only do you hold no evidence against the man you have imprisoned, but he is material to our ongoing investigation. The co-operation of the urban cohorts would be noted and appreciated. It may influence our conclusions on whether criminal activities in the cohorts are due to rogue elements, or something more systemic, going up the chain of command.’
Vespillo held Poppillius’ stare. Poppillius looked to one side, calculation appearing in his expression. Vespillo could tell he was wavering, but the centurion still held out.
‘We believe he is involved in the illegal harbouring of fugitive slaves.’
‘For which you have no evidence.’
‘When we recapture the slaves and torture them we will have evidence enough.’
‘Then at that time you can re-arrest him.’
Still Poppillius looked uncertain. Vespillo sighed.
‘Very well, I will report your intransigence to Macro.’ Vespillo looked at Poppillius. ‘Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro, that is, Prefect of the vigiles. Quite the up-and-coming man, I hear, someone who is going places in Rome. Not someone in whose bad books you want to be.’
‘Look,’ said Poppillius, and Vespillo could tell from the centurion’s expression that he was beaten and was looking for a way out with pride. ‘We are certainly sorry for your losses and will help with your investigation any way we can. My information is that the incident was already over when my men arrived at the tavern. They found your men and the civilians dead, and presumed it was a local gang. I understand there was some history between the man downstairs and a local gang leader. Some of my men were even killed by these gang members before they escaped.’
Vespillo considered letting Poppillius know he had eyewitness accounts of the cohorts’ raid from Marsia, but now was not the time, and besides, the word of an untortured slave was worthless anyway.
‘Thank you, that will be very helpful in our enquiry. But having your prisoner released to my custody will also be most useful.’
‘If I am releasing him to your custody, then I can see no harm,’ said Poppillius. ‘As long as we can have him back when we recapture the fugitives.’
‘Of course, if you recapture them, and they implicate him.’ Vespillo smiled. ‘Would you like me to fetch him, or do you have a man who can do that?’
Poppillius snapped an order to a nearby legionary, who hurried off.
‘Would you like some wine?’ asked Poppillius. ‘Just to show there are no hard feelings, just two soldiers doing their jobs.’
Vespillo smiled but shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I have a busy day ahead of me. Water would be acceptable, though.’
Poppillius frowned slightly, but commanded a slave to fetch him wine, and his guest, water. Vespillo sipped from the cup, waiting quietly now. Poppillius looked like he wanted to fill the silence, but could think of nothing to say.
The legionary returned, leading Carbo before him.
‘Found him quivering,’ he said to Poppillius, laughing. ‘Dirty bastard has shat and pissed in one corner. Shall I make him clean it up?’
‘Perhaps if you had provided him with access to a latrine, or even a bucket, that wouldn’t have happened,’ said Vespillo angrily. ‘You try holding it in for a whole day. Carbo, have they fed you?’
Carbo shook his head, a little numb at the sight of his friend.
‘Poppillius, is this how you treat everyone before they are found guilty? It’s a disgrace. I will have to consider whether to include this in my report to the Prefect. Come on, Carbo, you are released to my custody. Let’s go.’
Vespillo led Carbo out of the barracks by the elbow.
Carbo wanted Vespillo to tell him everything that had happened straight away, but Vespillo, after saying only that Rufa and Fabilla were alive, insisted that Carbo had something to eat and drink before telling him more. He had wanted Carbo to bathe as well, but knew that that could wait. They sat by a fountain and Carbo used cupped hands to collect water to quench his thirst. Vespillo bought sausages and bread from a nearby stall and Carbo wolfed them down greedily.
He wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve and turned to Vespillo.
‘Thank you, friend, for getting me out of that place.’ He had regained his composure, the terrors of captivity disappearing once he saw the blue September sky. ‘Now I need to know, what happened after I was arrested? Where are Rufa and Fabilla?’
Vespillo sighed and looked down. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
Carbo reached over and grabbed his arm, looking at him intently. ‘What do you mean? Are they safe?’
‘That I don’t know either, but I believe they are. They had fled the tavern by the time I arrived.’
‘So the urban cohorts did go there. How did they know? Cilo and Manius?’
‘There’s more, Carbo. There was a fight. My men Dentatus and Bucco, they died giving Rufa and Fabilla time to escape.’
‘I’m sorry. Marsia? Philon?’
‘Marsia is fine. She killed a cohort legionary, but no one will hear that from me. Philon was out on an errand when it all happened, he returned when it was all over. Vomited his guts up when he saw the mess.’
Carbo looked at his hands, clasped together before him. He was exhausted, not having managed to sleep in his cell, feeling washed out in the aftermath of the panic that had gripped him. Thinking straight was difficult, but he forced himself to focus. Where would Rufa go? Her freedom was so limited as a slave, she couldn’t know the city too well. Besides, she knew she wouldn’t be able to survive on her own, that she still needed him. She would be too scared to return to the tavern, though. She must have given him some indication of where she had run to, then, a clue she could have left quickly when she realized the house was being raided.
‘I want to get back to the tavern.’
‘Of course. Are you happy to make your way there from here? I have some reports to write, and a hundred other distractions of my job.’
‘I will struggle home, I’m sure.’
‘Well, call if you need anything.’ Vespillo put a hand on Carbo’s shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘Anything.’
‘Thank you, Vespillo, for you all your help. I will see you soon.’
Carbo made his way through the city streets, the early afternoon sun making him sweat. He bought more food and drank from more fountains on the way back. His legs were weak from the lack of food and the general anxiety he felt. He trod the increasingly familiar route back to his tavern wearily, as the sun started to dip in the sky. As he neared the tavern, a young boy who had been lounging against a wall caught sight of him and hared off down the street. Carbo approached the scruffy place that was his home and business, thinking that when this was all over, he should spend some time doing the place up, then cursing himself for the distraction.
He walked in through the front door and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. The face of the figure in front of him, with Marsia seated on his lap, slowly became identifiable. It was Manius.
Carbo froze and looked around him. Cilo lounged against a wall, stroking a terrified-looking Philon’s hair. Around the tavern sat six gang members. These ones looked tough, Carbo thought to himself. They were all well built, with pitiless expressions and gazes that didn’t waver, and all were armed with clubs and coshes.
Carbo’s hand dropped to his side for his sword, cursing as he realized he had not worn one since he left his house to visit Elissa the day before. He was well outnumbered and unarmed. Despair overcame him again. Surely this encounter was not survivable. He looked around again. Where were the vigiles that Vespillo said would replace Dentatus and Bucco?
‘Welcome to my tavern,’ said Manius, a broad smile on his face.
Carbo didn’t reply, but kept his eyes on Manius while his peripheral vision monitored for movement.
‘Philon, go and get my guest a drink. Just some cheap lora, I think, nothing too special for this one.’
Philon moved quickly, legs trembling, to pour a cup of wine for Carbo. Carbo ignored the proffered cup.
‘You decline my hospitality, my wine, from my slave, in my tavern?’ Manius gestured around him.
‘What do you want, Manius?’ asked Carbo in a low voice.
‘Want? Nothing, Carbo. I have already taken what I wanted. Look around you. The little bucket boys your friend Vespillo left here fled as soon as they saw us. This tavern is now mine. And I must say I like it. I think I will enjoy spending time here. I like my new slaves too.’ Manius slid his hand inside Marsia’s tunic and squeezed her breast hard. She stiffened, remaining silent, but Carbo saw the fury in her eyes.
‘This will not stand, Manius. I will not allow it, nor will Vespillo.’
‘Vespillo is not here, Carbo, nor his lackeys. You are on your own. And when you are dead, the matter will be a moot point. Vespillo can protest all he likes then, but you will no longer be the boil on my arse that you have been. No one around here will bear witness against me either, nor will anyone try to take over this tavern. Certainly not when they have seen what we do to you.’
Carbo kept his face expressionless, but Manius laughed.
‘So brave, the old veteran. But I am sorry, your death will not be an easy one. You have undermined my authority around here. Before you arrived people would clear the way before me. Now they jostle me in the street, whisper as I walk past. I have even heard laughter. Today, the laughter will end for you, and everyone in this gods-cursed neighbourhood.’
Manius nodded to Cilo, and Cilo gestured to the thugs. ‘Take him.’
The men advanced on Carbo from all sides and his heart sank as he found himself hopelessly outnumbered in a fight for the second time in two days. This time, though, the outcome wouldn’t be a short stay in a cell.
Carbo dropped into a wrestler’s couch, legs spread, weight low to reduce his chance of being knocked over. Big as his assailants were, Carbo was bigger. He knew it wasn’t enough and decided he had to take the initiative.
Without warning, Carbo exploded forward, his head down, charging into the nearest thug, his shoulder striking into the man’s midriff. The man was thrown backwards onto the hard floor, the wind knocked out of him, and as Carbo’s weight followed through, he heard ribs crack. The man’s club, a long stick with a nail hammered into the end, fell loose on the ground. Carbo dived for it, grabbed it, and rolled to his feet. He was backed against a wall now, and there was room for only three men to approach.
Carbo swung his club wildly at them, keeping them at bay, and they held back out of his reach.
‘Get him, you cowards!’ yelled Cilo. ‘Get him now, or you will not be paid.’
The men exchanged glances, nodded to each other, then rushed Carbo all at once. Carbo stopped one swinging cosh with his club, and ducked another blow which smashed into the wall behind him with a crack. Plaster and dust flew into the air. The third man’s club caught him a glancing blow across the shoulder, which staggered him and made his arm grow weak, but he gripped his own club tightly and swung it hard at head height. The wicked nail struck the third man’s temple and penetrated his skull to its full length. The man stiffened and toppled over, a pool of blood spreading from the fatal head wound. The nail snagged in the bone, however, and the club was torn from his hands.
One of the thugs had got behind him and he shoved Carbo hard in the back, sending him sprawling forwards to the floor. Now there was room for the four thugs still standing to get round him and they started raining kicks and club strikes. He managed to grab one foot and twist, feeling the knee pop and hearing a satisfying scream, but the others redoubled their efforts, and then he could do nothing but curl up and wait for his fate. Repeated blows to his back and legs and head were agony and he tried to keep from crying out. A firm kick connected with the back of his head, and even though his hands cupped around it protected his skull a little, he felt darkness looming in from his peripheral vision. His head was struck again, and the darkness became complete.