Carbo stood with Vespillo at his side and looked steadily at Manius. Marsia had told him how Cilo and Manius had turned up a couple of hours before, calling for Carbo, shouting threats and insults. They had brought with them a group of armed men, Marsia wasn’t sure of their number, but she thought there could be as many as fifty. Carbo had felt a chill when he heard that. Marsia told him Manius’ men had taken over the tavern, helping themselves to the stocks of wine and food, and had spilled out onto the surrounding street, smashing amphorae, turning over stalls and intimidating the locals.
Carbo had run straight to Vespillo’s house at the news, leaving Rufa there with Fabilla and Severa, and Vespillo had gathered up as many watchmen as were readily available at the nearby headquarters. The century should have numbered eighty men, but given the recruiting shortages, illness and injury, and the men who had been on patrol on the night shift who were at their homes, fast asleep, Vespillo could only call on around thirty. He had considered sending for the urban cohorts, but they were occupied with crowd control at the games and were unlikely to be interested in a minor scuffle in a back street of the Subura. He had instead sent for reinforcements to the nearest barracks, but it would take time to organize the off-duty watchmen. The men that Vespillo had rounded up were the usual mix, hardly more than thugs themselves, and yet they still carried themselves with pride in their position. They fastened on their belts and came with their commander, bringing clubs, hooks and axes. Taura joined them, grumbling that this was the urban cohorts’ job, but Carbo thought he saw a gleam in his eye.
As they walked through the streets word started to get around and a crowd formed behind them. Most were along for curiosity and excitement, but a significant number emerged with weapons of their own, whatever they could improvise, or kept for defence of their homes. Carbo saw sticks with nails through them, kitchen knives, even a few illicit swords and daggers, probably once used in the military. Carbo himself carried a gladius that had been thrust into his hand by an elderly veteran, too arthritic to fight. It was immaculately maintained, the old man obviously still proud of his time in the army.
More than one of the followers marched along with the discipline and bearing of veterans of the legions. By the time they arrived at the territory that Manius controlled at the eastern end of the Subura, the number of followers had doubled, not counting the thrill seekers.
They were at a crossroads, and when Carbo saw what confronted them he muttered a silent prayer to the lares, who guarded these spiritual places. Marsia had told him that the men with Manius were not from the neighbourhood. The gang leader’s power and authority had been seriously damaged, and getting men to follow him had been difficult. He had obviously accumulated some wealth from his activities over the years, though, and Carbo assumed that the thugs that lounged around insolently in front of his tavern were hired mercenaries. Assessing their bearing, their physique, the way they held their weapons, Carbo guessed that they were a mix of legionary veterans and bored gladiators.
Carbo cursed his own complacency. He should have known that a man like Manius, used to total respect in his own small kingdom, used to using whatever means were necessary to get what he wanted done, wouldn’t slink away like a beaten dog. He should have known that he would want to restore his pride and position, and to get his revenge. He walked towards Manius, stopping about twenty yards away. Cilo, Balbus and the rest of the troops grinned at Carbo and Vespillo. Some of the mercenaries drew their swords and waved them menacingly.
‘Get your men out of my tavern,’ said Carbo steadily. ‘You have taken enough beatings lately. Don’t make me give you another.’
Manius laughed. ‘No, Carbo. This neighbourhood belongs to me. Did you really think I would let you keep it?’
‘It isn’t my property, Manius, any more than it is yours. I own one tavern, the neighbourhood belongs to the citizens who live and work here.’
A few cries of approval came from the locals who had followed Carbo or who were standing around to watch. Most, though, remained grimly silent.
‘These people are sheep, Carbo. Not lions like you and I.’
‘You aren’t a lion. Maybe a jackal, preying on the weak.’
Manius’ eyes narrowed. ‘Give me the deeds to your tavern. Leave Rome and never come back. Or we will end this now. You will die.’ He raised his voice. ‘You will all die, all you people who are putting your trust in this man, all you little bucket boys playing at being soldiers. I will kill him, then I will let my men have their vengeance on all of you.’
Carbo could sense the mood in the crowd – angry but scared. He weighed up the odds against him, the way he had so many times before in the legions. The mercenaries were better armed, all were carrying swords and many were wearing breastplates or other armour. They were trained fighters. They outnumbered the vigiles. On Carbo’s side he also had the citizens fighting for their homes and livelihoods, but how many, and how well, he had no idea. And what about the vigiles? What were they fighting for? These men were drawn from the lower ranks of society, held in contempt by the upper classes, by the Praetorians, the legions, even the urban cohorts. They were laughed at, resented by those whose houses they had pulled down to stop a fire spreading, or who they had punished for infringements of the fire rules or minor crimes.
‘Citizens of Rome,’ said Carbo, ‘do you want the freedom of your streets?’
A few nervous cheers came from the men behind him.
‘Is the freedom to do your business without extortion or threat worth fighting for?’
A few more cries of agreement came this time.
‘Will you join me, and these noble vigiles, men who work day and night in a dangerous job, trying to keep you all safe? Will you join their commander, Vespillo, an honourable man, and myself, to make these streets yours again, once and for all?’
This time Carbo heard Marsia’s voice ring out, her German accent strong.
‘Carbo, we trust you. Let’s kill these bastards!’
This time the crowd roared their agreement. Manius’ leer faltered slightly. Then he raised his arm in the air and brought it down.
Suddenly one of the vigiles cried out and fell, then another. Two of the citizens who had followed them fell too, and there was the crash of broken earthenware all around. Carbo looked around wildly and spotted men on the roof of the tavern and some of the other roofs, tossing tiles and pottery down on their men.
‘It’s an ambush!’ he yelled at Vespillo.
Vespillo grasped the problem straight away. He grabbed the nearest three watchmen and ran for the stairs between two insulae that led to the rooftops. Carbo drew his sword.
‘Vigiles. Honest citizens of Rome. For all of us, attack.’
There was a roar as both groups of men charged forward.
Carbo led the charge, hefting the sword in his hand. Standard issue gladii hadn’t changed much over the years and the weight and grip was as familiar to him as his own weapon. He felt a thrill surge through him, fear, anxiety, anger, battle lust, that heightening of every sense that accompanies times of acute stress. He could hear the individual cries of anger and threat around him, the pounding of shoes on the cobbles, see the expression in the eyes of his foes.
The two groups met with a dull thud that was accompanied by grunts of effort and howls of pain. The first man to confront Carbo was a sturdy-looking gladiator, a thraex, lightly armoured with a small shield, full helmet and a curved sword. As Carbo thrust with his gladius, he realized they were playing out a typical arena fight, with Carbo in the role of murmillo. The thraex caught the thrust on his shield and swung his own sword. Hemmed in by friends and enemies, Carbo couldn’t dodge, so instead stepped forward inside the arc of the swing. He grabbed the arm and hammered the hilt of his sword into the thraex’s face. Although it only impacted the face plate of the thraex’s helmet, it caused the gladiator to stagger back.
This wasn’t the arena. Two men fighting with the roar of the crowd in their ears, glory awaiting, rarely a fight to the death, space to duck and feint and manoeuvre. This was fighting legionary style, face-to-face with a row of enemies, side by side with your comrades, physical and brutal. Carbo thrust his gladius into the stunned thraex’s abdomen, twisted and withdrew. The gladiator clutched at his middle with a scream, and collapsed to the floor where he lay writhing.
To Carbo’s left, Taura, armed with a club, was fighting an unequal battle with Balbus. Taura had already been injured and was desperately trying to avoid the big thug’s sword while attempting to land a blow himself. Balbus made a thrust for the vigiles centurion’s chest, but Carbo blocked it with his sword. Taura took advantage of the opening and swung his club hard into the thug’s knee. Balbus went down, leg shattered. Taura nodded his thanks to Carbo, then a whizzing noise filled the air and he too went down, felled by a piece of spinning tile slamming into his leg, thrown from the rooftops.
Before any of the mercenaries could take advantage of Taura’s fall, a slight figure leaped over him, grabbing the veteran’s club, setting himself in a wide stance to protect Taura and screaming out a bloodthirsty challenge. The way Plancus swung his new weapon about, as much a danger to himself as to his enemies, together with the look of madness on his face, caused the mercenaries to cower back from him and look for an easier fight.
Carbo smiled at the sight, then ducked just in time as a missile nearly took his head off. Hades, cursed Carbo. Where was Vespillo? Then another mercenary was in front of him, another veteran, and Carbo had to bring his mind back to the immediate fight. This confrontation was more even, two men used to fighting in this style. But Carbo hadn’t become pilus prior of his cohort just by shouting and bullying. The man before him was a foot soldier, had probably seen some fighting, and knew how to handle a sword. He wasn’t Carbo, didn’t have Carbo’s skills, tactical awareness, nor Carbo’s immense strength.
They thrust at each other, then Carbo closed with the man, taking the weapons out of the equation, allowing his greater bulk to decide the issue. He gripped him tight around the chest, lifted him, then slammed him into the ground. The shock reverberated up the man’s spine and he cried aloud, but Carbo kept his hug tight. Then, with a twist of his body, he hurled the man to the ground, and stabbed downwards, skewering his chest.
A gap in the fighting appeared in front of him, allowing him to take stock. Although the vigiles and citizens were fighting bravely, the aerial bombardment was taking its toll, in direct casualties, and in forcing them to guard themselves from the front and from on high. They had not yet been forced back, but the bodies littering the ground, moving and unmoving, showed that they could not hold against the experienced mercenaries for long.
Another missile from the roof hurtled towards him, but he saw it and ducked, seeing the tile shatter on the cobbles beside him. He looked up towards the source of the attack, and saw a man on the roof preparing to throw again. Then, suddenly, he pitched forward and tumbled down with a cry. Behind him, Vespillo appeared, raising his sword.
‘Carbo, we have the roofs,’ he cried. ‘Take them.’
The other mercenaries on the roofs were hurled off, some already dead, some flailing wildly till their bodies broke on the flagstones below. Carbo raised his sword in salute, then roared, ‘For your homes and families!’
He charged forward, and the vigiles and citizens renewed their attack with fresh impetus and new strength. The mercenaries rocked back at the assault. Carbo fought doggedly, trading blows, stabbing and thrusting with his sword. Slowly he tired, but his opponents tired faster. He knew from the look in their eyes now that they were going to lose, and that they knew it too. They had reached the point in a battle where the balance had tipped, and would not come back. The mercenaries had nothing to gain by throwing their lives away. They were fighting only for money. The citizens were fighting for their homes.
Carbo confronted a scared-looking hoplomachus who carried a spear that was useless in this type of close-quarters fighting. Carbo dispatched him with a thrust through his neck, and suddenly realized he was through the last line of defence. Although the battle still raged around him, he stepped forward and stood before Manius and Cilo. Both men stared at him in disbelief and fury.
‘End this,’ said Carbo, breathing hard. ‘Call off your men. It’s finished.’
Cilo looked at his father, his bruised face twisting in anger. Then he threw himself at Carbo with an incoherent cry.
Cilo was a large man, almost as large as Carbo, and he fought with a rage that was berserker-like in intensity. Carbo for a moment was transported back to Germany, confronted by crazed barbarians who fought and killed without fear. For a moment, panic paralysed him, and Cilo, forgetting his weapons in his fury, threw a punch into Carbo’s face that stunned him briefly. Cilo pressed his advantage, raining blows into Carbo’s face and chest, making Carbo rock back. Cilo drew his dagger and pulled it back to deliver a killing thrust.
Carbo saw the blade in slow motion. The image of Rufa came to mind. How would she cope without him? Who would protect her? The blade came forward, straight for his throat.
With a desperate effort, Carbo’s dulled mind forced his body into motion. He twisted and the blade thrust sliced the skin on his cheek. He carried on the twisting motion and brought his forearm round to land a blow on the side of Cilo’s head. Cilo lost his footing and fell to the ground. Carbo, head clearing, remembered his gladius and brought it up to deliver the final strike.
A body hurtled into him from the side and Carbo was knocked to the ground, his gladius flying loose from his hand. Winded, he found himself staring up into Manius’ wild eyes. The gang leader closed his arms around Carbo’s neck and started to squeeze. Carbo gripped the hands, surprised at the older man’s strength. He felt darkness at the periphery of his vision as the blood was choked off, felt his lungs burning as they tried to expand.
He let go of Manius’ hands, feeling the pressure on his neck intensify, and then jabbed both thumbs into Manius’ eyes. The gang leader cried out and the pressure lifted as he gripped his face. Clear fluid leaked down both of the man’s cheeks and Carbo knew he would never see again. He reached for his gladius with an outstretched hand, felt his fingers close around the grip, then thrust it through Manius’ chest, skewering it from side to side. Blood spurted over him and Manius stiffened, then slumped on top of him.
Carbo gasped air into his chest, the exertions of the fight and the strangulation making him feel like he couldn’t even lift his arms.
A muscular, scarred, bloody-faced figure reared over him, dagger in hand. Carbo clutched at his gladius, but it was stuck firmly in Manius’ ribcage. He tried to thrust the body off him, but his strength was gone.
‘Die,’ said Cilo, raising the dagger. Carbo just watched, helpless.
A strange expression came over Cilo’s face, puzzlement. His eyes rolled up into his head and then he toppled over sideways. Behind him, Carbo saw Vespillo affectionately patting the club he had used to knock Cilo out.
‘Always saving your cursed backside, aren’t I?’
Vespillo heaved Manius’ corpse off Carbo, then offered him his hand. Carbo took it and allowed himself to be pulled unsteadily to his feet. The world spun a little as he stood, but the feeling passed. He looked around him. The mercenaries were in the process of throwing down their swords, or running. The vigiles were rounding up those who surrendered, binding their hands behind them with rope, but leaving those who fled. Plancus, the battle lust still on him, was being calmed down by his comrades, who were trying to persuade him to relinquish the sword. Taura had found a stick and regained his feet. His leg looked swollen and bruised, but not obviously broken. A medicus was fussing around him. Taura shooed the healer away and looked over to Carbo. He raised his club in salute and Carbo saluted back with his bloody gladius.
The vigiles were battered and exhausted, and there were many casualties, but Carbo could tell they were carrying themselves taller and prouder now. Here, at least in this district, from now on Rome’s watchmen would be treated with respect.
The citizens, too, seemed proud of their victory. Many celebrated, dancing and hugging each other. Some abused the injured and surrendered mercenaries, spitting at them, name-calling, even punching and kicking. A middle-aged woman walked slowly over to where Cilo lay, breathing shallowly, stunned. Carbo recognized her as the mother of the boy who had been struck down by Cilo’s thug. She picked up the dagger that Cilo had been about to use on Carbo and a faraway expression came over her face. Cilo raised one weak hand in entreaty. The woman plunged it down into his chest. Heart blood spurted around it and Cilo gasped, then blood welled from his mouth. Convulsions briefly shook his body, then he was still. The woman looked at Carbo.
‘For my son,’ she said, and walked away.
Carbo left Marsia to organize immediate repairs to the tavern and to distribute free drink and food to everyone from what remained of the stores. The citizens started a spontaneous party and many of the stallholders contributed food and wine as well. Someone started to play a pipe and soon everyone was dancing, singing and getting thoroughly drunk. A reeling Vatius gave Carbo a hug.
‘You are a true champion of the people, my friend. A new Gracchus, come to protect the masses from evil.’
Carbo laughed and clapped him on the back, causing the drunken philosopher to stagger.
Carbo felt a touch on his arm and he looked round to find himself staring into the drawn face of Brocchia. Behind her, faces carefully held emotionless, were her two bodyguards. Carbo opened his mouth, but no words came. Brocchia just looked at him sadly.
‘I’ve come for my husband and son.’
‘Brocchia, he did warn them,’ said Vespillo.
‘As did I,’ agreed Brocchia. ‘I told them, and I told you, Carbo, that this would end with death. The Parcae decided that deaths would be in my family. At least Balbus survived, though he will never walk straight again. Now may I take their bodies for burial? Will you grant a widow that?’
Carbo nodded and showed her to the place at the side of the road where Cilo and Manius’ bodies had been dumped. Even now, revellers were pointing and laughing at the corpses, spitting on them, or throwing old vegetables and fruit. When they saw Brocchia, the crowd parted and quietened. She walked to her husband and son, back straight, dignity intact. She bowed her head and for a moment Carbo thought she might break down. Then she straightened and indicated to her bodyguards to pick the bodies up. They did so and she departed with the remains of her family.
Moments later, the party had started again. Vespillo came and put an arm around Carbo.
‘You didn’t ask for this, you know that.’
Carbo nodded his head sadly, and Vespillo pushed a drink into his hand.
‘Come on, be the hero to these people, even if it’s just for a short while.’
Vespillo took a few drinks himself and both men enjoyed many a handshake or hug from the local men, and not a few kisses from the local ladies. Carbo, though, sore and bone-tired, wanted to get back to Rufa, and after a while he managed to persuade Vespillo that they should return to his home. Vespillo looked disappointed, but he gave vague instructions to the soberest vigiles to keep order.
When they reached Vespillo’s home, Severa gave Vespillo a sound scolding for drinking, fighting and smelling of cheap perfume. Vespillo took it all good-naturedly, and soon Severa was holding him tight and telling him he needed to be more careful in the future.
Rufa came to Carbo’s arms and Fabilla ran over to give him a big hug as well. Afer lit a brazier and Rufa and Severa cooked some food for their men. After sending a protesting Fabilla to bed, the two couples spent the evening chatting companionably. Weariness threatened to overwhelm Carbo, though, and he felt his eyes closing. Vespillo offered to put them up for the night in their spare room, rather than have him walk home, and Carbo gratefully accepted.
Rufa slid under the blanket with him and held him close, kissing him softly. He was in no shape for lovemaking and she didn’t try to arouse him, but he loved the feel of her warm body against his. Somnus, the god of sleep, soon claimed him, though his son Morpheus, the god of dreams, did not visit.
Carbo woke early and stretched stiffly. Every muscle ached, every part of his body felt bruised. His throat was painful and his cuts stung. Rufa was snoring lightly beside him. He rose and wandered down the stairs. A small breakfast of nuts, dates and bread had been laid out by Afer, but Vespillo and Severa had not arisen yet.
Carbo heard a cry from outside and he opened the front door quickly. He smiled and relaxed as he saw Fabilla playing with Afer. The tall, dark-skinned slave was chasing her in circles while Fabilla screamed and giggled. Carbo went to the table and picked up some dates. Another scream came from outside, this one more high-pitched, louder, longer. He frowned and walked back to the front door.
Afer was lying face down in the street, an arrow sticking out from his back. Fabilla had her hands over her face and was screaming hysterically. Carbo ran towards her, then felt a thud on the back of his head. His knees buckled and the world dimmed. A kick to his side rolled him over onto his back. He looked up into the face of Dolabella, who held the struggling, kicking form of Fabilla beneath one arm.
‘I never fail,’ said Dolabella, and was gone.