Carbo lay face down, naked on a towel on the hard floor. Marsia did not have a gentle touch, and he clenched his fists as she scraped grit out of his wounds with a cold, damp cloth. Pain and frustration combined in him, till he wanted to howl. He had slept soundly and only woken with the sun, starting awake as he realized how much time had gone past without looking for Rufa and Fabilla. He suspected that the drink Marsia had given him the previous night had contained poppy juice for him to have slept so well. He tried again.
‘Just tell me,’ he said, pronouncing each word slowly, ‘where are they?’
Marsia tutted. ‘They are safe. I will tell you where they are when you are fit to walk without support.’
He opened his mouth to protest, and she pressed the cloth against an abrasion on his ribs, causing him to cry out. Nearby, Vespillo laughed.
‘Give it up, Carbo. You won’t win with that one. If she says they are safe, I believe her.’
Carbo simmered, allowing Marsia to finish her ministrations. When she was finally done, she passed him his tunic and he sat up and threw it over his head. He made to stand and his leg gave way, dumping him on his backside again. He looked at Marsia but no help was forthcoming there, so he tried again. This time, as he started to buckle, a firm arm gripped him under the elbow, supporting him. With Vespillo’s help, he made it to his feet. Placing one hand on a table to steady himself, he looked defiantly at Marsia.
‘There, as good as new. Now you can tell me. They spoke to you before they fled, am I right?’
‘They did, Master,’ said Marsia, her eyes narrowing as they watched him swaying slightly. ‘I’m not sure if you are truly…’
‘Marsia,’ interrupted Carbo, his tone urgent. ‘There are other people looking for them. They need my help.’
Marsia’s expression looked stricken, and her gaze dropped to the floor.
‘He’s right, Marsia,’ said Vespillo gently. ‘I know you are looking out for your master, but Rufa and Fabilla need his help too.’
Marsia nodded. ‘Very well. Rufa asked me where she should go. She was terrified, and I don’t think she was thinking straight.’
‘Where did you send them?’
‘Where can you go in Rome, when you are an escaped slave, with no money and nowhere to live? You cannot stay in a tavern, you cannot stay with a friend, you cannot beg aid from a patron or master.’ She shrugged. ‘You go where all the other poor and homeless go.’
‘Where?’ demanded Carbo.
‘The tombs.’
Carbo and Vespillo exchanged glances. Romans had a healthy respect for superstition, and hiding with the dead did not feel like a good omen. It did make sense, though. There would be shelter, and a crowd of other homeless amongst whom she could disappear.
‘Which one?’
‘I suggested she head outside the pomerium, to the east. There are lots of tombs that way.’
‘Did you tell her which one to go to?’
‘No, Master. I am not familiar enough with them to have made a recommendation.’
Carbo felt a surge of anger at what he took to be her irony, before he realized she was just stating a fact in flat Germanic fashion.
‘But she seemed to have heard of one,’ continued Marsia. ‘She said something I didn’t quite understand. She laughed, a strange mirthless sound, and said, “out of the fire, into the oven”. But the soldiers were entering the tavern. She had to flee before I could ask her what she meant.’
‘Then I guess we need to do some searching. Vespillo, do I have your help?’
‘Of course you do,’ said Vespillo. He reached out an arm to Carbo, but Carbo shrugged him away.
‘I can walk without aid. I’ve taken a lot worse and kept fighting.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ said Vespillo, and stood back, while remaining close enough to catch Carbo if he should fall. Marsia helped Carbo into his sandals and Vespillo and Carbo left the tavern together.
Dolabella hung back in the shadows and watched the two men emerge from the tavern and turn down the street with a purpose. He assessed them with a professional eye. The larger one, who he presumed was Carbo, was obviously injured, and he had heard from the sausage seller from whom he had bought breakfast what had happened the previous day. It was a factor to consider. He couldn’t rely on the usual apathy of the crowds to leave him to his work where this one was concerned.
The smaller, stocky one of the pair, Vespillo he guessed, walked with a back only slightly bent with age. His manner was military in bearing, and he knew from his enquiries that both men had been in the legions and knew how to handle themselves. It was a concern, but not a major one. He had dealt with many men who fancied themselves in a fight – deserting soldiers, escaped gladiators, thugs who had stolen slaves. None of them knew how to fight the way he did. Caution was prudent, though. Besides, he needed these men to find his target. He wouldn’t have to fight them, if he was sensible.
The two men continued east along the Via Labicana, to the Porta Esquilina in the old Servian wall. At this bottleneck in the flow of traffic in and out of Rome, the crowds were particularly concentrated, and Dolabella lost sight of them in the crush. He remained calm, however, as he always did, and soon had pushed his way through. He reached a clearer stretch of road and looked around, trying to identify his marks. For a moment he didn’t see them. Then he realized they had not made as much progress as he had expected – they were standing on a street corner, pointing in different directions and arguing.
He lounged against a wall, took an apple from his belt pouch and took a deep bite. No point in passing up an opportunity to rest and replenish his strength. It was impossible to predict when he might need it. So, they didn’t know precisely where they were going. No matter. They would take him where he wanted to go in good time. He was in no hurry.
Rufa put her arm round Fabilla and cuddled her close. Fabilla snuggled against her, and they both savoured the warmth. Rufa looked around her. The tomb they were in was impressively large, but that meant that the air was cool, and they had with them only the clothes they had fled in. Of course, they weren’t the only ones in the building. Any place that provided respite from the elements was a potential shelter for the multitude of homeless in Rome. Many slept out on the streets in the more clement weather, or took shelter under the arches of aqueducts or in porches during brief downpours. The night had been cool, though, so there were a number of others in there. The atmosphere was thick with the stench of unbathed bodies, and of the excrement of those too lazy, or too infirm, to go outside to relieve themselves.
It had been a good choice of hiding place. Fabilla and she were both wearing hoods to disguise their red hair, and only the destitute would brave the company, the conditions, and the presence of the spirits of unknown intentions that undoubtedly haunted the place. Rufa tried not to think too hard about the lemures, and she told herself that the shiver that went down her back was purely due to the cold.
She looked around her. The tomb was the final resting place of a freedman called Eurysaces. She remembered the baker from whom she had purchased the bread for the household had told her about it, and how she needed to buy a lot more bread so he could afford a tomb like that when his time came.
The building was constructed in the style of a bakery, with horizontally orientated cylindrical depressions in the front wall, exactly the right size to hold a unit of grain. Across the top of the tomb was a relief showing various stages of bread-making. The inscription on the outside read, ‘This is the monument of Marcus Vergilius Eurysaces, baker, contractor and public servant. Obviously.’ She liked that Eurysaces, dead for decades, had had a sense of humour, and she offered a silent prayer to his shade, thanking him for his hospitality and asking that he do her no harm.
Nearby, a scuffle suddenly broke out between a filthy woman, maybe in her thirties, with almost no teeth and straggly hair, and a boy with a withered leg, over a small piece of bread. Rufa felt her stomach rumbling and knew that Fabilla, uncomplaining as she was, must be famished as well. The irony of starving inside a tomb designed to look like a bakery was not lost on her. Soon they would have to venture out. And then what? Begging? Worse, selling herself, so they could eat?
A short, skinny man with boils on his face, wearing a tattered, dirty tunic, woke next to her. He sat up, wheezing, then coughed paroxysmally, before spitting a large gob of phlegm out. He looked over to Rufa.
‘Have you got any wine?’ he asked in a rough voice.
Rufa shook her head. ‘No, sorry, we have nothing.’
He peered at her in the gloom, looking a bit puzzled.
‘You’re pretty,’ he said. ‘Not like the rest of the women here.’
‘You weren’t complaining when I sucked your cock yesterday, Sentius,’ said the toothless woman.
‘Shut your mouth, Elpis,’ snapped the man. ‘Or I will shut it for you.’
Sentius turned back to Rufa and reached out a hand to stroke her face. Rufa tried not to flinch, and kept her face impassive.
‘I haven’t seen you round here before. You must be new. I wonder what your story is? You and your pretty little girl.’
Rufa kept quiet, looking down. Sentius reached out a hand and tilted her chin up so she looked into his eyes.
‘It’s a bad place, you know. The tombs, the streets. A woman and a child on their own, they could get hurt. There are bad men here. Bad women even. Not to mention the lemures that lurk in the shadows when you turn your back. A woman needs protection.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Rufa. ‘I can look after myself.’
Sentius grabbed her arm tightly, causing Rufa to cry out.
‘What sort of a citizen would I be if I left a vulnerable woman undefended? I can be your guardian, your protector. In fact, I insist.’
He pulled her towards him. Fabilla looked up, eyes widening at the sight of the ugly man, and shrank back.
‘No, please.’
‘Of course, as your protector, it’s only fair that I have certain… privileges. But a pretty woman like you should have no problem obliging a handsome man like myself.’
He shoved her hard and she tumbled over backwards. In an instant he was on top of her, rough hands pawing at the top of her tunic. She got her hands between them and shoved, rolling her body so he tipped sideways. She tried to move away, seeing Fabilla’s terror-filled face, then she was grabbed and pushed back down again. She struggled, but he slapped her hard across the face, temporarily stilling her. He drew a rusty knife from beneath his tunic, and touched it to her neck gently. Then he put it back in his belt, and as she lay, no longer resisting, he ripped the top of her tunic open and grasped her breasts painfully, letting out a throaty growl as he did so.
Sentius pulled Rufa’s tunic up around her waist, exposing her to the interested onlookers within the tomb, some of whom were shouting encouragement to him. As he pulled up his own tunic to reveal his erect member, she turned her face away, waiting for the inevitable. Her eyes fastened on a stone about the size of her fist. His weight bore down on her, his hands fumbling between her legs. She gripped the stone and brought it round against his head with a dull thud.
He cried aloud, rolling to the side off her, clutching his head. Rufa pushed herself up off the floor and ran to Fabilla, grabbing her arm. Fabilla looked at her, paralysed, like a rabbit caught in a hunter’s lamp.
‘Come on,’ she urged. Sentius was staggering to his feet, blood running through his fingers.
‘You bitch,’ he hissed. ‘I was trying to be nice to you.’
He advanced towards her and Rufa backed up against a wall, pushing Fabilla behind her.
‘Leave me alone,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’
Sentius laughed and stepped up close to her, his face against hers. She desperately brought the stone around again, but he was ready for her this time, and he caught her wrist, then squeezed until her hand opened and the weapon clattered to the ground. He pushed himself against her, foul breath in her face, hardness pressing against her. He fumbled for her again. She tried to push him away but her hands were weak and trembling. Her fingers brushed against the knife in his belt.
His rod probed against her, trying to gain entry. She looked into his vacant, faraway gaze, and she gripped the knife hilt, then pulled it free from his belt. He thrust forwards, and she gasped in despair as he entered her. He let out a loud groan, then staggered back. The hilt of the knife protruded from his ribs, the blade buried deep in his chest where it had penetrated him just at the moment he had penetrated her. He clutched at the knife and pulled it free, and dark blood spurted from the wound.
He turned on her, amazement and rage on his face, and took a step towards her. Then he sank to his knees, pitched forward on his face, and was still.
When Carbo found Rufa she was sitting against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, trembling violently, Fabilla clutched to her side. He rushed to her and put his arms around her. She stiffened at his touch, eyes wide, then wrapped her arms around him and gripped him tight.
Vespillo entered the tomb. He took in the scene in an instant, the terror in Rufa’s eyes, her dishevelled clothing, the dead man with the knife sticking from his chest nearby. He looked around at the other inhabitants of the tomb, who were sitting quietly, like children caught in an act of disobedience.
‘You all watched, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Stood by and let this happen. Let this young mother be assaulted, without lifting a finger to help.’
Sullen stares met his challenging gaze, but there was no reply. Vespillo pointed to a stocky, middle-aged man. ‘You. Why didn’t you help?’
The man shrugged. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’
Carbo stood slowly, unpeeling Rufa’s arms from him. He stepped towards the man, who stood hastily, backing away a step.
‘Look, Sentius was a bad one,’ he babbled. ‘Stand up to him and he might knife you in your sleep. There was nothing we could do.’
Carbo’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the throat and thrusting him against the wall of the tomb. The heavy man impacted the brickwork hard enough to dislodge plaster. Carbo started to squeeze the man’s neck, looking into his eyes as they started to bulge.
‘That’s enough.’
Carbo looked round at Vespillo, ignoring the choking and kicking from the man he held.
‘Let him go,’ said Vespillo sternly. Carbo held his gaze. ‘Rufa needs you.’
Carbo looked over to Rufa, and the anger evaporated. He released the man, let him fall to the floor gasping for breath, and stepped over to where Rufa sat against the wall, holding Fabilla to her. He knelt down beside her and stroked the hair tenderly away from her face, seeing the red mark from the slap, the tear-streaks showing cleaner skin beneath the dirt. He leant forward and kissed the top of her head, then put an arm around her. He tried to pull her torn tunic back together, but it was too badly damaged. Casting around, he saw an elderly man wrapped in a scruffy blanket. He grabbed it off him, the protests quickly cut off by a warning glance from Carbo. Gently he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked.
‘Out of the frying pan, into the oven? It was Vespillo, he guessed you meant the baker’s tomb. He knows Rome much better than me. Why didn’t you just tell Marsia where you were going?’
‘I was about to, then I hesitated. I know what happens to slaves when they are interrogated. I couldn’t expect Marsia to keep me a secret under torture. Then the soldiers were there and it was too late.’
Carbo nodded. ‘Come on, let’s get you both out of here.’
‘Where to?’ asked Rufa, annoyed with the self-pitying tone of her voice but unable to help it. ‘Where is there to run?’
‘Let me worry about that.’ He helped her to her feet. Vespillo moved beside them, and together the four of them walked out of the tomb.
Dolabella leaned against a wall, just round the corner from the baker’s tomb. A little while had passed since Vespillo and Carbo had entered the unusual building. He presumed that meant there was something of interest inside. He was a patient man. Waiting was part of his job.
Four figures emerged from the tomb. Carbo and Vespillo, with a woman and a child. The child had a cloak that covered her hair. But the woman was clothed only in a torn tunic and a blanket. Her bright red hair was on show. There could be no doubt that he had found his targets.
He considered his options for a moment, all the while watching to see what Carbo and the others did. They hesitated, Carbo and Vespillo in deep conversation, before nodding, and heading together down the street in the direction of the Esquiline. Dolabella followed at a short distance.
Carbo was walking on one side of the woman, his arm around her. The child was on the other side, holding her hand tight. Vespillo walked a little behind, looking left and right for possible threats. Dolabella moved a little faster. From the folds of his tunic he brought out one of his favourite weapons, a leather pouch filled with lead weights. He hefted it in his hand, a tight smile coming to his face.
Carbo and the two fugitive slaves rounded a corner. Vespillo was a few paces behind. Dolabella swiftly closed the gap between them. He raised his arm, and with all the force of his tough, wiry frame, he brought the weapon down on the back of Vespillo’s head. Vespillo crumpled to the ground soundlessly.
Dolabella turned the corner swiftly. Only a few paces ahead of him, Carbo and the two slaves were oblivious to the fate that had just befallen their friend. Dolabella moved closer and prepared to strike.