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 man, 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.’
‘Of course, sir. Poscum, I presume, will suit?’
Carbo grimaced, realizing that his dirty clothes and unkempt appearance must have him marked as a street beggar, come into a couple of asses to fund a drink. He reached into his purse and took out a denarius. ‘I came here for wine, not vinegar and water. Make it a Falernian.’
The tavern keeper looked a little shocked, both at the value of the coin, which was sixteen times the value of the copper as that would usually be enough to buy wine, and also at the request for the fine vintage.
‘I’m sorry, sir, this is just a humble Suburan tavern. We don’t keep such fine wines here. Maybe I could suggest a Mamertinian.’
Carbo considered, then nodded. The tavern keeper poured a small amount of wine concentrate into a cup, then topped it up with water. Carbo took a sip, not bothering to comment on how diluted the drink was. He wasn’t intending to get drunk anyway, at least not yet. The tavern keeper retreated through a back door. A short-legged bitch with a shaggy brown and white coat came and sniffed his hand, and Carbo stroked her rough-coated head. The tavern keeper returned with a loaf that was still warm. Carbo devoured it, only now realizing how hungry he was, but saved a small crust for the dog who had stayed at his feet throughout, her gaze fixed on him. She gobbled the offered morsel in one swallow.
‘I apologize for Myia,’ said the tavern keeper. Carbo raised his eyes questioningly. The tavern keeper indicated the dog. Carbo waved the apology away.
‘Think nothing of it. She is good company.’
‘I haven’t seen you in here before, sir. I’m Publius Sergius by the way.’
‘Carbo,’ said Carbo through a mouthful of bread. ‘And I’ve been away.’
‘Oh,’ said Publius, realization dawning. ‘The legions?’
Carbo nodded.
‘I would have loved to have fought in the legions. The glory, the riches. But I am just a lowly freedman. Just able to buy this place after a lifetime of servitude, due to a small bequest on the death of my master.’
Glory and riches. Maybe the latter, compared to the people living in this district at least. The former, precious little. But before Carbo could retort, the door to the back room swung open and two arguing slaves strode in.
‘You are a lazy boy, Philon,’ said the first, a tall, well-built, dark-haired girl in her twenties, with a strong Germanic accent. ‘Master should punish you. But he won’t. He is too weak. Just be thankful you aren’t my slave, or you would feel the rod on your backside every day till you mended your ways.’
‘You are just spiteful, Marsia,’ Philon shot back angrily. ‘I do my chores. And the master would never hurt me. I am his favourite after all.’
Carbo looked at Philon, an effeminate-looking teenage boy, and then looked at Publius. The tavern keeper appeared to be doing his best to ignore the altercation, and when he caught Carbo’s eye he gave him a small shake of the head and a weary shrug of the shoulders.
‘Publius!’ said Marsia. ‘Why don’t you correct this slave, like a true master of his household should? He was supposed to have cleaned the bedroom and when I checked this morning I found six spiders, two cockroaches and a dead rat. I had to slap his face just to get him to wake up.’
Philon rubbed a red mark on his face and gestured at Marsia. ‘Master, shouldn’t you correct this slave, who takes it on herself to discipline your property without your say-so?’
‘Enough. We have a customer. Sort your petty squabbles out between yourselves.’
The two slaves seemed to notice Carbo for the first time, wrapped up as they had been in themselves. Philon’s demeanour changed instantly, a coquettish smile appearing on his face. Marsia put her hands on her hips and regarded Carbo steadily.
‘And now we have become a home for all the beggars and destitutes of the streets. I knew business was bad, Publius, but how desperate are we?’
Publius hissed at her. ‘Marsia. Enough. He paid in silver.’
Marsia raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. And who did you rob?’
Carbo held her stare. ‘Several thousand Germans,’ he said evenly.
Marsia paused, then nodded her head. ‘So, you are a war hero. Good. We are honoured. And stolen German money is as good as any.’
‘As are stolen German slaves. Publius, get me another loaf, I’m still starving.’
Carbo spent the morning sitting in a corner of the tavern, sipping slowly from his drink, and gradually restoring some energy with the simple food he bought. Philon and Marsia busied themselves – Marsia efficiently, Philon only with constant encouragement and bullying from Marsia. Publius tried to engage Carbo in conversation, but soon became dispirited by the one-way flow and got on with his own tasks. Other customers drifted in and Publius soon forgot about Carbo, as he chatted to his regulars.
One early visitor caught Carbo’s eye – a thin, balding man, with a long grey beard and a deeply lined face. He moved purposefully to an empty table next to Carbo’s and spent some time settling himself, groaning as his elderly joints accommodated the change in posture. He gestured to Marsia, who came over with a cup of wine and some bread and garum.
‘There you go, Vatius.’
The man nodded his thanks and slid a coin across the table with an arthritis-twisted hand. He then looked around the room and his gaze rested on Carbo for a moment. He gave him a calculating look, then smiled and winked. Carbo couldn’t help but smile back at the friendly face.
‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ he said, in a gravelly voice.
‘I haven’t been here before,’ said Carbo.
The elderly man seemed to digest this for a moment and then gave a nod that seemed to suggest this was a satisfactory explanation.
‘Gaius Annaeus Vatius,’ said the man, and stuck his hand out. Carbo leaned over and grasped it.
‘Gaius Valerius Carbo.’
‘Enjoying the games, lad?’
Carbo smiled to himself. A lifetime in the legions with all the accumulated wear and tear on his body, coupled with a night spent sleeping rough, had left him feeling like anything but a lad.
‘I’m new in Rome. There are games on?’
‘Aye, lad. The Ludi Romani. The greatest of the Roman games. Chariot racing in the Circus Maximus, gladiators in the arenas, plays in the theatres, if you like that sort of thing.’
Vatius’ grimace suggested he didn’t like that sort of thing, and Carbo couldn’t help but agree with him – what little theatre he had seen seemed to be either convoluted tragedy or low farce, neither of which appealed much.
‘New to Rome, then? Where have you been?’
‘Away, in the legions.’
‘Ah, one of our heroes. Then it is even better to meet you.’
‘You never served?’
Vatius shook his head ruefully. ‘Not I. I’m a mere son of a freedman.’
‘What was your trade then?’
‘Oh, this and that. Actor in my wilder, younger days. Tutor. Itinerant philosopher.’
‘Is there much call for an itinerant philosopher?’
Vatius eyes seemed to twinkle. ‘You would be surprised. It made me enough money that I can sit here and eat and drink and watch the world go by, rather than live under the arches of the aqueducts and try to support myself and my wife with the corn dole.’
‘You are married? You prefer to be in here than with your wife?’
‘Socrates said that everyone should marry,’ Vatius said with a grin. ‘If they get a good wife they will be happy, if they get a bad one they will become a philosopher.’
‘Oh,’ said Carbo. ‘I’m sorry.’
Vatius fixed him with a stare. ‘Don’t be. Happiness depends upon ourselves.’
Carbo returned the look questioningly.
‘Aristotle,’ said Vatius by way of explanation. ‘I am content with my life.’
Soon the room filled enough that there was a constant background of noise, clanking cups, laughter, the odd raised angry voice, chatter. Once, a rather drunk customer rolled in and declared in a loud voice that he had won on the blues at the chariot races. He bought everyone a drink, then gave Publius a coin and grabbed Philon by the hand, guiding him to the small alcove. Philon sighed, and pulled the curtain closed behind them. A surprisingly short while later, the curtain was drawn back. The man, clothing awry, winked at Carbo and staggered back out of the inn. Philon emerged, his clothing undisturbed, wiping his hands on a grimy cloth.
Carbo took everything in, but his mind was wandering aimlessly. He felt paralysed with indecision. Since he had left the legion a few weeks ago, he had had only one aim, to go home. Now he found out he didn’t have a home. He didn’t have a family. The only people he called friends were still serving in the legion. He owned some land he had never visited, a purse full of money, a pension, his clothes, a stiff leg, and nothing else.
The sun rose high in the sky. The tavern was full, which surprised Carbo after Marsia’s earlier comments about business being bad. He started to wonder whether to stay here for lunch, or to make an effort to overcome his lethargy and inertia and make his way out into the streets of Rome. He didn’t know where to go, or what to do, but he had to do something, didn’t he?
Or did he? The life Vatius described suddenly sounded appealing to him. Just sit back, watch and take no further part in the world. Myia, who had been sniffing around his feet, stood up on her hind legs to put her paws in his lap, and he stroked her head absent-mindedly.
The door to the tavern flew open so forcefully that the noise as it banged against the wall silenced the clientele. A small crack appeared in the masonry, making Carbo look up nervously at the ceiling for a moment, wondering what it would take to bring the building down.
A well-muscled man with a pockmarked face swaggered in and gave an exaggerated grimace. Myia stood facing him, taking a step back into the shadows of the table, teeth bared and a grumbling growl coming from the back of her throat.
‘What a dump,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t get any better, does it?’
He looked around at the clients in the tavern, who studied their drinks intently, avoiding his gaze.
‘Maybe it’s the atmosphere,’ he said. He walked to the bar, elbowing aside anyone too slow to move out of the way. Carbo regarded him with curiosity.
‘Cilo,’ said Publius, droplets of sweat appearing on his forehead, a tremor in his voice. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Mulsum,’ said Cilo, and waited impatiently while Publius poured a cup of the honeyed drink with shaking hands. Marsia had moved close behind Publius, saying nothing. Philon was at the opposite end of the room, trying to remain unobtrusive. A few customers slipped discreetly out. Cilo downed his drink, and Carbo noticed that he didn’t offer to pay, nor did Publius ask.
‘Cheap muck, as usual,’ said Cilo, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve come to expect no better. Now, give me what you owe, and I will leave you and your customers in peace.’
Publius hurried into the back room. As he came out, he avoided looking at Marsia, who was regarding him with narrowed eyes. He thrust a small bag of coins into Cilo’s hand. Cilo hefted the bag speculatively, then laughed.
‘There was supposed to be a week’s payment here. This barely covers a single day.’
‘There are ten denarii in there,’ said Publius indignantly. ‘That is the price your father agreed.’
‘I’ve put the price up. One hundred denarii a week.’
Publius gasped. ‘I can’t afford that. My entire takings wouldn’t cover it.’
‘Maybe you should think about a price rise. I’m sure your customers here would be glad to pay extra for the wonderful service they get here.’
‘I can’t, Cilo, please, you will ruin me.’
Cilo touched a knife at his belt and looked hard into Publius’ eyes. ‘There are worse ways to ruin someone than financially. Give me what you owe.’
Hastily, Publius emptied a pot from beneath the bar. ‘That’s all my takings from last night and this morning. That’s all I have.’
Cilo weighed the money. ‘It will have to do as a down payment. I will come for the rest tomorrow.’
‘I don’t have any more,’ said Publius, pleading. ‘I don’t even have enough to buy new stock. How am I supposed to pay you if I don’t have the means to make money?’
‘Your problem. Maybe you should make those pretty slaves of yours work a bit harder at what they are good at. Talking of which, I think I fancy a turn with the handsome German.’ He turned his gaze on Marsia, who held it defiantly.
‘Cilo, sir, Marsia doesn’t provide that service. Take Philon.’
‘No, I have taken a shine to Marsia. Even more so now you tell me she isn’t for public use.’ He strode over to Marsia and grasped her by the wrist. Marsia glared at Publius, who turned away, eyes downcast. Cilo started to pull the struggling Marsia towards the cubicle and, as she resisted, he cuffed her hard around the head, dazing her a little.
‘If you struggle, I’ll leave you so you are no use to any man again.’
‘Please,’ whispered Marsia. ‘No.’
Cilo drew his knife and stroked it around her throat, causing her to freeze. A livid line encircled her neck where the tip had touched it, one bead of blood oozing out where it had bitten deeper. He led her, unresisting now, towards the cubicle.
Carbo’s voice was low, but it carried across the room. ‘She said no.’
Cilo turned in surprise to see where the voice had come from. He took in Carbo’s appearance with a glance and laughed.
‘Fuck off, you idiot, or I’ll hurt you as well.’
Carbo stood and Cilo’s eyes widened momentarily, then he pushed Marsia aside and faced Carbo.
‘You don’t understand the size of your mistake.’ He waved his knife in small circles in the air. ‘But it doesn’t matter, as it will be your last one.’
Carbo regarded him steadily, hands by his sides, unmoving. Cilo struck with the speed of a snake, knife flashing to plunge into Carbo’s stomach and up under his ribs. But Carbo was no longer there. The knife stabbed at the space out of which Carbo had sidestepped, and Cilo staggered forward, his momentum unbalancing him. Carbo grabbed the knife hand, twisted, and stepped back. Cilo found himself suddenly disarmed. Carbo tossed the knife aside and took a menacing step forward. Cilo retreated before the large, furious-looking man confronting him.
‘You’re a dead man,’ he hissed at Carbo. ‘You too, Publius. My father will destroy you all, and this tavern with it.’
‘Get out,’ said Carbo. ‘One chance to walk away.’
Cilo hesitated, pride warring with prudence in his face. With a last obscene gesture he stormed out, slamming the tavern door behind him.
Carbo let out a breath. His heart was racing, the anticipation of an imminent fight that did not materialize leaving him tense. He looked around to see Publius sitting with his head in his hands.
‘They’ll kill me, they’ll kill me,’ he was muttering, over and over.
Carbo sat back down in his seat and sipped his wine, letting the drink soothe his jangled nerves. The tavern was silent.
Marsia walked up to him unsteadily, fingers dabbing intermittently at her neck, which was still damp with blood. ‘Thank you, sir, that was a kind thing you did.’
‘Thank him?’ cried Publius, leaping to his feet. ‘Are you mad, Marsia? You know what Cilo and his family are like. This fool has destroyed us. We will need to leave Rome. Who will buy this place from me at such short notice? And with those men ready to terrorize anyone here? We will have to leave, and we will have nothing. I will have to sell you and Philon, but the money I get for you worthless pair won’t be enough to start a new business. Dead or ruined. Those are the choices I face.’
Carbo looked around him. The customers looked conflicted, maybe pleased at the humiliation of the thug, but worried about the consequences. Philon and Publius both looked terrified, but Marsia was standing straight, a half smile on her face. What would it be like, he wondered, to have somewhere to belong? Somewhere to have pride in? He suddenly realized how terribly lonely he was, since he had left the insulated life of the legions.
‘I’ll buy the tavern,’ said Carbo.
All eyes turned towards him, Publius, the slaves, the customers. Publius gaped at him. ‘You? But you… surely you couldn’t… I mean… could you?’
Carbo pulled out his purse. ‘I’ll give you thirty aurei. And throw in the slaves. And the dog.’
Publius’ expression turned calculating. ‘Thirty? The slaves alone are worth that. And the building, the customers, this is a nice, steady-earning business…’
Carbo knew he was driving a hard bargain, though the tavern owner was clearly overvaluing the slaves. The small farm Carbo owned was worth around a thousand aurei, but though he had never visited it, he knew it was a nice estate, bringing in an income, whereas this was a dive in the worst part of town.
‘You were ruined before I stepped in, Publius. You couldn’t afford to pay the money to those men any more. Thirty is a fair price, given the circumstances. Take it or leave it.’
Publius took in Carbo’s set features and nodded. He disappeared out into the back of the tavern and returned shortly afterwards with a surprisingly small sack of belongings. He held out his hand to Carbo. ‘Give me the money and the place is yours.’
‘Wait,’ said Marsia. Both men looked at her, annoyed by the interruption. ‘This isn’t legal. By law of mancipatio you need five citizens as witnesses, some scales and an ingot of copper.’
Carbo raised an eyebrow. There was obviously more to this Germanic barbarian slave than met the eye. Looking around the tavern he counted only four men remaining, the ones brave enough to have wanted to witness how the scene played out, or too drunk to leave. Vatius was one, grinning broadly, but neither he nor any of the other customers looked interested in the idea of participating, and although there was a rusty pair of scales behind the bar, finding a copper ingot seemed unlikely.
‘I don’t think you are going to come back to Rome to dispute my possession, are you, Publius?’ said Carbo.
Publius shook his head anxiously. Carbo counted the coins out of his purse. Publius snatched them, and with one last glance around, was gone. Marsia stared at the door he had just departed through, disbelief on her face.
‘Gone, just like that. I have served him for three years and he didn’t even say goodbye.’ She faced Carbo. ‘Well, Master. You are the proud owner of your own tavern and two slaves. What now?’
Carbo thought for a second. ‘Pour me a drink, I guess. And then carry on as you were. I presume you two know how to run this place?’
‘Of course,’ said Marsia, as she poured Carbo a cup of wine. ‘You don’t think Publius did any work, do you?’ Carbo smiled, then walked round behind the bar and sampled the unfamiliar viewpoint. He didn’t think of himself as an impulsive person, but he realized his current frame of mind had pushed him into a decision he wouldn’t normally have made. Maybe that was a good thing, though. He suddenly felt like he had some vague sense of purpose. Or at least, something to do.
First, though, he had another task, now the morning’s torpor had been lifted.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m going out.’
‘May I ask where to, Master?’ asked Marsia.
Carbo looked at her, surprised at the presumption for a moment, then walked out into the street.
Elissa stood before the worshippers, who knelt in hushed silence like obedient schoolchildren. The initiation ceremony was finished. The new follower, a Numidian freedwoman called Dahia, knelt at the front, beaming in pride.
Arms raised, Elissa chanted a prayer, eyes half-closed. The worshippers listened intently, responded obediently where they should. Elissa felt bathed in serenity. This was where she belonged, receiving adoration, continuing her mother’s legacy, and the legacy of her homeland. She finished the prayer and lowered her arms. The large, dimly lit room was silent, expectant. She drew out the tension skilfully, inhaling a deep breath through her nose, then exhaling gradually. Her gaze swept over the ranks of the worshippers. She marvelled at the stew of Roman life she saw before her, old and young, angry and scared, destitute and comfortable, slave and free. While those at the front were silent and rapt, a few at the back were muttering to each other.
She set her gaze on one man with hair like an untended bush, who was more vocal than the others. He stopped talking when he realized he had become her centre of attention.
‘The Lord and Lady are almighty,’ she said, her voice penetrating the quiet. ‘Do any here doubt it?’
No one spoke up, the man she had singled out dropping his gaze sheepishly. Several shook their heads.
‘Rome is rotten. Do any here doubt it?’
Quietly, many of the followers mumbled, ‘No.’
Her gaze pierced into the eyes of the man she had singled out, and saw him start to tremble. She raised her voice, loud and clear.
‘The Lord and Lady are coming. Rome will belong to them. Do any here doubt it?’
‘No,’ shouted her followers. She saw tears trickling down the face of the wild-haired man and smiled inwardly.
‘Tonight,’ she said, her voice quieter now, ‘I am introducing to you a special new member of our family. Metella, please come here.’ She extended a hand, and Metella, who had been kneeling in the front row, rose gracefully with a smile and stepped forward.
‘Children, this is Metella. A noble woman, from a powerful and famous family. But even her power and wealth could not prevent tragedy from striking her. Her beloved husband, cruelly murdered by unknown criminals. And does the mighty city of Rome care? Will it give her redress, aid her in finding the culprits? No, it turns its back on her in her hour of need.
‘But we do not turn our backs on one who comes to us for succour, not if they renounce the evil Roman Empire and the oppression it stands for.’
A murmur of approval ran through the worshippers.
‘Metella, you have been initiated into the worship of the Lord and Lady. You are ours, and we are yours.’
‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Metella, a tremor in her voice, her eyes moist. ‘Thank you, all of you, for accepting me.’
She bowed her head, and several of the worshippers from the front row, including Glaukos and Shafat, got up and congratulated her. They led her into the congregation and started to introduce her to prominent members. Elissa smiled in satisfaction. Metella would be an invaluable asset. Especially once she had changed her will in favour of Elissa.
A short man with a weathered face approached her. She frowned, trying to place him. He wasn’t an initiate, so she decided he must be one of the curious newcomers that the cult increasingly attracted.
‘The Lord and Lady’s blessing on you, child,’ she murmured, benignly.
‘Oh, they have blessed me, in their way,’ he said. She looked at him more closely. Something about him was familiar.
‘You don’t remember me, do you, Elissa?’
‘No, I…’
His accent. African? Punic?
The man looked around him. ‘You have a wonderful following here. And now some powerful, dare I say rich, adherents. You have come a long way.’
‘A long way from…?’ Elissa hated being off balance, but a dreadful realization was dawning on her.
‘When I heard there was a cult reviving the old gods of Carthage, my curiosity was piqued. When I heard the High Priestess was called Elissa, well, how could I stay away? Elissa, the sole survivor of the slaves of the household of Proculus. Apart from me.’
‘Tegius?’ she gasped.
‘How soon you forget. I know I have lost some hair since you last saw me. And some teeth. Still, I’m hurt. You were just blossoming when… when it all happened, weren’t you? I had plans for you.’
‘How did you survive?’
‘I was the steward of the household. The most valuable slave. Proculus was reluctant to get rid of me, at least at first. Besides, he needed someone to oversee the whole affair.’
‘You organized it?’ Elissa said in horror.
‘Organize it or be part of it. That was my choice.’
Elissa swallowed. Their hushed conversation was drawing curious looks from some of the members of the congregation.
‘What do you want of me now?’
‘Just a little talk, I think. See if there is maybe a way that a rich lady like yourself can help out an old compatriot. I get lonely here in Rome, lacking the company of other Carthaginians. Sometimes I seek people out, just to talk, reminisce. Chat about things that happened in the old country.’ He looked at Elissa pointedly. ‘But I’m guessing you would rather I didn’t do that?’
Glaukos walked over. ‘Are you well, Mother?’ he asked.
Elissa realized she was trembling and fought to control herself. ‘Quite well, thank you, Glaukos. I was just talking to this new follower. Tegius, wasn’t it? We shall continue our discussion. Tomorrow evening? Please dine with me.’
‘It would be my honour, Mother,’ said Tegius. He bowed, a sneering smile on his face, and left. Glaukos looked at her curiously. Elissa looked away, then turned back to him, searching his face. She was satisfied with what she saw there.
‘Glaukos, dear friend and faithful follower. I may need your help.’