Carbo heard the sound of voices before he could open his eyes. Far off, the hubbub of Roman street life was audible, but nearby those noises were strangely muted. He opened his eyes and found his face was flat on the ground, staring horizontally out over the detritus of the street – the broken pots and jars, the food remains, the human and animal faeces. He saw feet, hairy and gnarled, clustered in small groups nearby. He tried to sit up, but found simultaneously that his hands were bound behind him, and that his whole body screamed in agony when he tried to move any part of it. An odd, acrid smell stung his nostrils.
‘He’s awake,’ came a deep voice.
‘At last, sit him up.’ The voice sounded like Manius. Rough hands grabbed him and jerked him to an upright sitting position. He cried out involuntarily, then clamped his mouth shut. He found himself propped against solid stone. He recognized that he was at the crossroads of the street on which his tavern intersected the Clivus Suburanus. That meant that behind him was the statue of Mercurius Sobrium, the statue that Augustus himself had gifted to the district. The crossroads were a focal point in the community and consisted of an open, paved plaza where the two roads met, with a raised platform of marble-veneered limestone. Carbo realized that he was propped against the altar to the statue on this raised platform. At a respectful distance a small group of locals from the neighbourhood had gathered, quietly watching the scene with curiosity. Nearer were a group of Manius’ men, and in front of him were Manius and Cilo. Manius had his back to Carbo, and was looking out over the crowd.
‘All of you, residents of the Subura, men, women and children,’ said Manius in a loud voice that dripped with the lower-class accent the rich and powerful mocked. ‘Look at this pathetic, beaten man.’ He turned to Carbo and spat on him, a phlegmy gob that hit him on the side of the face. Carbo didn’t flinch, but inside his heart was in despair.
‘Some of you were starting to think this man was a hero, weren’t you?’ Manius continued. ‘A champion of the people? Standing up to the bullies?’ He turned again and gave Carbo a kick in the side. Carbo groaned, but remained upright.
‘I saw you all,’ he continued. ‘The way you started to look at me in the street. The way you muttered as me and my son walked past. Some of you even thought you could stop paying me my rightful taxes, the protection money that keeps you safe. You thought that you didn’t need me, now you had your hero Carbo, and those losers playing at soldiers in between putting out fires.
‘Well, I am going to show you what happens to those who defy me. I am going to show you who is in charge here. Not Carbo. Not the little bucket boys. Not the old men in the Crossroads Brotherhood or the urban cohorts or the Praetorians or even fucking Tiberius himself!’ His voice crescendoed, and the crowd shrunk back a little at the anger and the blasphemy against the divine Emperor.
‘And when I have finished with this pathetic turd, we will be visiting each and every one of your taverns and cobblers and butchers and whatever else you do to scratch a living, and you will pay every as you owe me, and you will pay as much again for your disrespect. I will not be mocked.’ Each word of the last sentence came out as a roar. He gestured to his men, who had been standing around grinning. Two of them went to fetch a large jar and between them they heaved it over to him. Unceremoniously, they upended the jar, covering Carbo in sticky oil. He looked up uncomprehending, as the viscous liquid streamed down his hair and face. Then Cilo came into his field of view. He was holding a flaming torch.
Carbo looked down at himself and realization came with a sickening feeling in his guts. The acrid smell was because his clothing, which he had thought sticky with blood, was coated in pitch. The oil was lamp oil. And Cilo stood before him with a flame.
Cilo’s face leered in front of his, the damaged nose just inches from his own. ‘Have you got any last words, hero?’ sneered Cilo.
Carbo tried to speak, swallowed, tried again. ‘I’m not a hero,’ he croaked.
‘What was that?’ said Cilo, plainly enjoying this moment of victory, wanting to savour it as long as possible. ‘Speak up, hero.’
Carbo had to spit some sickly-tasting oil out of his mouth. He spoke in a louder voice this time.
‘I’m not a hero.’ He looked out at the surrounding crowd. ‘I’m just a retired soldier, trying to make a home. I just wanted to be left alone.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have made trouble for us,’ said Cilo.
‘You made trouble for yourselves.’
‘Well, we are ending it now.’ Cilo waved the torch near Carbo’s face, and he could feel the heat. Terror started to rise within him, the unbidden memories of a clearing in Germany, white-robed priestesses cackling at him.
Carbo slumped, his head falling onto his chest. Utter despair overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes. He had failed Rufa, failed Fabilla. Now he was going to die, and die horribly, bound, in the manner of his recurring nightmares.
‘He is a hero,’ came a loud female voice with a German accent. Carbo thought it must be in his head, the Germanic priestesses mocking him. But the voice came again, and he realized the source was in the crowd.
‘He is a hero to me.’
Carbo raised his head and saw Marsia. She was standing at the front of the onlookers. There was matted blood on her hair, a ruddy bruise on one side of her face. But she stood with hands on hips, staring down Cilo and Manius defiantly.
‘Shut your mouth, you slave whore,’ said Manius. ‘Watch your master die.’
‘He fought for the Empire,’ came another female voice, tremulous, but loud. ‘Like my sons.’
‘He stood up to those thugs who oppress us every day, while the urban cohorts stand by and do nothing,’ shouted someone else from the back of the crowd.
‘His mother was Atella,’ came a woman’s voice. Carbo saw it was Gnaea, standing beside Lucius and clutching his arm. ‘He’s one of us.’
A low muttering went around the onlookers, whose number was starting to swell. They no longer looked so cowed. Manius and Cilo exchanged looks, uncertain. Marsia turned to address the onlookers.
‘Are we going to go back to how it was? Paying money we can’t afford so these men won’t hurt us? Bowing to these scum in the street, though they aren’t worthy of us shitting on them?’
Sporadic shouts from the crowd broke out, ‘No, never.’ But no one moved.
‘Is Carbo the only hero today?’ Marsia yelled at them. ‘My ancestors would not allow this to one of their own. Won’t you all be heroes as well?’
Vatius, head bandaged, called out in a croaky voice. ‘Plato said, courage is knowing what not to fear. Friends, don’t think just of helping Carbo. Think of yourselves, your families, living under the tyranny of these murderers, every day scared for your lives and your livelihoods. All we have to fear is that today we do nothing.’
‘Shut the old fool and that slave up,’ said Manius to Cilo. Cilo passed Manius the torch, stepped forward and grabbed her by the arm. A boy in the front of the crowd, no more than nine or ten, threw a stone, little more than a pebble, but it hit Cilo in the head and made him yelp. One of the thugs stepped forward and clubbed the boy in the head, and the boy crumpled to the floor, head caved in. There was a momentary pause as the crowd took in what they had just seen. His mother, a stout, dark-haired woman, let out a wail. Then there was a roar of anger and the onlookers surged forward.
Manius’ men held their ground for a short while, swinging clubs and wielding knives, but the press of an angry mob quickly overwhelmed them. Some of the thugs dropped their weapons and ran, others went down under the feet of the mob, where kicks and stamps made sure few of them would ever rise again. Cilo and Manius exchanged terrified looks, then Cilo broke and ran. Manius turned to Carbo, face twisting in anger. Then he threw the burning torch at Carbo and fled.
The torch landed in Carbo’s lap. He twisted and bucked his hips, and he managed to throw the torch off his body, but the pitch and oil ignited, and started to burn. He felt the heat against his chest grow, a warmth that went quickly from uncomfortable to unbearable. He closed his eyes and screamed.
Someone grabbed his hands and cut his bonds, then thrust him onto his back. The same person then leapt onto him, smothering the flames on his body with their own, hugging him tight, starving the fire of air. The fire went out. He opened his eyes to find himself looking into the concerned eyes of Marsia, her face an inch away from his own.
‘Master,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’
He tried to take a deep breath, but his ribs protested and he found it hard to get enough air in. Still, he managed a small smile.
‘There seems to be some sort of weight on my chest. Otherwise, I’m fine.’
Marsia smiled back and gingerly got off him, inspecting him carefully to make sure there were no sparks or hot embers on him that could reignite. Around them, the riot had stopped as quickly as it had started. Down the Clivus Suburanus, Carbo could see a group of men marching. At their head was Vespillo. The crowd, seeing the group of vigiles with grim expressions on their faces, melted quickly away, taking their wounded and one or two dead with them, and leaving the bodies, mostly unmoving, of the street gang behind.
Vespillo marched up to Carbo.
‘I leave you alone for a couple of hours…’ He shook his head. ‘Someone reported what was going on. I didn’t think the urban cohorts would rouse themselves for a minor disturbance like this, and it sounded like you needed help.’ He looked around him. ‘Looks like I was wrong.’
Carbo counted around twenty casualties.
‘Manius obviously went for a real show of force,’ he said. ‘Wanted to properly subjugate the locals.’
‘And it turned into a rout,’ said Vespillo. ‘His power is well and truly broken now, both in manpower and morale. The locals won’t let him rise again.’
‘Probably not. But he is a wounded animal now. He is still dangerous.’
‘That’s not a worry for today.’ Vespillo held out a hand and helped Carbo to his feet. Carbo prodded himself carefully. His injuries seemed to be superficial burns, a lost molar, bruises, contusions, and probably a cracked rib. He had got away lightly, he reflected. Vespillo took Carbo under one arm, Marsia took the other, and while the vigiles made sure order was restored, they helped him inside.
The fugitivarius slouched against a pillar, looking at Elissa with a disrespectful half smile on his face. She returned his gaze with a cold stare.
‘That’s a ridiculous sum,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I was told by your man here,’ he gestured at Shafat, ‘that this escaped slave is valuable. That you wanted the best. That you wanted Sextus Pontius Dolabella.’ He swept his hands downwards to indicate himself. ‘Here I am.’
‘I will give you half that amount.’
Dolabella straightened, then gave a short bow. ‘I think we have wasted enough of each other’s time. I was obviously under a misapprehension.’ He turned to leave.
‘Very well.’ Elissa hated being the supplicant, but time was running short. She looked calculatingly at the short, wiry man with the calm expression but the wary eyes. ‘I will pay you half now, and half on completion of your task. She, and her child, need to be in my possession by the evening of the fourteenth day before the Kalends of October, at the very latest. It is the child that is the most important to me. You may keep the mother alive to keep the child pacified if you must, otherwise kill her. If the child is dead, though, you will get nothing.’
Dolabella inclined his head. ‘Five days should be more than adequate. You will have your property back soon.’
‘Start your investigations with this man, Carbo. Watch him, though, he is dangerous, and he seems to be in with the vigiles.’
Dolabella laughed. ‘Really? The vigiles are supposed to catch fugitives themselves. They are hopeless amateurs, though, freedmen playing at law enforcement. They won’t be any impediment. If this Carbo is involved with your property somehow, however, that will be useful. Now, with your permission, I will start my work. Once, of course, your steward has sorted out the… deposit.’
‘Pay him, Shafat, and show him out.’ Elissa waved a dismissive hand.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
When Shafat returned she glowered at him. ‘Do we really need him?’
‘He is the best, Mistress. Everyone says so. He has never failed to return a fugitive slave when he has taken the work on.’
‘But I hear they don’t always return alive.’
‘His methods are reportedly… severe, sometimes. I don’t think we would want to enquire too closely what he actually does, I doubt he will stay within the law. He is also reputed to have certain urges, which mean that the property is not always returned in pristine condition. He always seems to have a plausible explanation for any damage. But you were clear that you needed the girl slave alive for him to be paid, and it seems money is the one thing that will control him.’
Elissa nodded, but she remained worried.
‘We need that girl. All the followers knew the importance we placed on her as a sacrifice. I never considered there would be any problem in ensuring there would be an appropriate sacrifice, if I selected her from my own slaves. With her distinctive appearance, that little brat was ideal. My followers will think our cause is cursed by the Lord and Lady if we do not go ahead with the ceremony as planned. We would have to delay, wait for the next major festival, maybe wait a whole year, a year in which our plans may be discovered. A year in which Carthage will remain unavenged.’
‘He will find her, Mistress. The Lord and Lady will ensure it.’
Elissa turned to stare into the middle distance. ‘So much planning, so much work. To hinge on this.’ She faced Shafat again, and squared her shoulders. ‘You are right. I must have faith in the Lord and Lady. They will find her. We will go ahead.’ Her eyes blazed. ‘And then Rome will pay, in fire and blood.’