Carbo and Rufa stood on the Pons Fabricius, the arched stone bridge over the Tiber, and watched the water rush by underneath. Fabilla was with Severa, who had taken to the child like a long lost aunt.
A pall of smoke still drifted up over the Caelian Hill. The fire had burned for two days, but Macro’s tactic of isolating the hill had worked. The rest of Rome was safe. The Caelian, however, was devastated. Carbo had walked the ruins with Vespillo yesterday, the day after the fire had officially ended. The ashes of the buildings still gave up phenomenal amounts of heat. They had found the centre of the fire, Elissa’s warehouse. Almost nothing recognizable remained.
Carbo had kicked at the ashes and his foot had connected with something solid and metallic. Brushing away the debris, he had uncovered the sacrificial statue. The intense heat had partially melted it, deforming its shape. Not even bones remained of Glaukos and Elissa.
Vespillo had pulled up his tunic and urinated over the statue. Steam rose up where the yellow liquid splashed. He shook and rearranged his clothing, then spat.
‘She deserved worse,’ Vespillo had said. ‘She should have been hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, or ripped apart by beasts in the arena.’
‘She’s dead,’ said Carbo. ‘That’s all that matters now.’
Now Carbo reached out to Rufa. He felt cold metal beneath her dress. He insisted now that she carried a knife for protection. It made him feel better. He squeezed her hand and smiled at her, and raised his hand to her mouth for a soft kiss. Last night they had made love, but it had been less about pleasure and more about comfort, recovery, relief. They had held each other close until sleep had claimed their weary bodies.
What now? Carbo wondered. It really was over. Elissa was gone, and had no heir. Carbo would claim Rufa and Fabilla as his own, and then manumit them. Then he would marry her. Well, if she wanted to marry him. She would be his freedwoman, not his slave. The choice would be hers. He looked into her eyes and saw his love for her reflected back at him. He took a breath and let it out contentedly.
A small urchin tugged at Carbo’s sleeve.
‘Sir, my master sent me to ask you to attend him.’
Carbo looked at him, bemused.
‘Who is your master?’
‘Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro. He has heard of the help you gave the vigiles and wanted to thank you.’
‘Now?’
‘If it pleases you, sir. He is about to attend a play at the Theatre of Marcellus, just across the way. He promises not to detain you long.’
Carbo looked across at Rufa, who smiled.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Accept the thanks. I will wait here for you.’
Carbo kissed her lightly, then followed the urchin. He wandered slowly over to the theatre, taking in the late September air. For the first time since he had walked back into Rome, after his discharge from the legions, he felt content.
As he approached the theatre, he looked around. A puzzled frown crossed his face. There was a sprinkling of theatregoers and passing citizens, old ladies, mothers, freedmen. There was no noble here. No equestrian with his entourage of slaves, no suggestion of anyone of rank.
A cold, nagging feeling crept up his spine. He reached for his knife, turned and ran to where he had left Rufa at the bridge. From a distance he saw Rufa, back turned, looking out over the river, and a slender figure approaching her. He called out but the noise of the city drowned his warning. The figure glanced around and he saw the unmistakeable features of Dolabella. Thrusting people out of the way, leg protesting in agony, he closed on the slave hunter. Dolabella whirled round at the commotion and his eyes fixed on Carbo. For a moment, Dolabella’s features creased in concern.
Then Carbo stumbled over a passer-by’s foot and his injured leg gave out on him. He fell forward heavily, just feet away from Rufa and the fugitivarius. Carbo stretched his hand out in supplication.
‘Dolabella, please, no.’
Dolabella shook his head sadly. ‘Carbo, I did make it clear. I never fail.’ He pulled a sharp dagger from his waist belt and grinned. Then his features became fixed, eyes widening. He turned, revealing Rufa’s knife deep in his back, then pitched forward into the swirling waters of the Tiber.
Carbo stood painfully and staggered to Rufa, who was standing with her hands to her face. He grabbed her to him, crushed her close, and wept his relief into her hair.