Carbo and the Thief Read online

  It wasn't just his stubbornness though. Something about the boy's actions, and this bulla, had piqued his interest. And, he had to admit to himself, there was something about the boy, even from their brief meeting, that had reminded him of his younger self, hustling and fighting to survive on the merciless streets of Rome.

  So he continued the search as the sun rose higher, the summer heat starting to become uncomfortable. He looked under arches, in tombs, on the steps of temples and the entrances to the baths, everywhere that the destitute and hopeless loitered, begging, sheltering, or for some, just waiting to die. As the sun reached its zenith, he started to flag, and found a table outside a run down tavern.

  The tavern keeper, seeing a reasonably well-dressed man with a military bearing, hastened to serve him. He ordered some bread and garum, and some well watered mulsum. He sat back and looked around him. The tavern was opposite the aqueduct, a place whose great arches provided shelter for a lot of the town's poor, and therefore a reasonable place to keep watch. He tried to picture the boy in his mind's eye. It had been a brief encounter, and dark, but there had been a long moment where their eyes had met, and Carbo tried to keep that image to the fore.

  He scanned the beggars and impoverished citizens, using one hand to shade out the sun from his eyes. He saw an elderly veteran, single-armed, laughing and playing dice with a comrade whose handicap was not so obvious. Near to them was a young boy, sitting alone, weeping into his hands. Younger than the boy he had encountered last night, Carbo thought, so his gaze swept on. There was an elderly lady, eyes clouded with cataracts, and cuddled against her was a young girl. Both looked reasonably well fed, or at least better than many of their neighbours, which given their respective ages, and the old lady's disability, suggested someone was looking after them.

  The tavernkeeper returned with his food and wine. The garum was of poor quality, and the wine so sour he suspected it was mainly vinegar, but he had tasted worse on many occasions during his time with the legions. He handed over a coin which was half the value the tavernkeeper asked for, but the beginnings of protestation were silence by a look from Carbo.

  Carbo took the bulla from his pouch and turned it over in his hands again. It was definitely old, which maybe implied it had been passed down within a family over many years, rather than bought new for a child more recently. He sipped his wine, grimaced and looked over at the old lady and the young girl. There was a smallish figure with them now, back to Carbo, talking to them earnestly. Carbo squinted, trying to make out some detail that the bright sun was hiding. The little girl noticed Carbo's attention and said something to the newcomer. The figure turned, and Carbo found himself looking into the face of a young boy.

  For a moment, he was unsure. It had been night, now it was noon, he had only seen him for a moment, was it definitely the same boy? Then the boy looked at the bulla in Carbo's hands, and his eyes widened. He looked up at Carbo, and Carbo recognised the face of the young beggar-thief, just as recognition likewise dawned on the boy.

  The boy turned tail and set off like a hare down the narrow streets. Carbo cursed and jumped to his feet, upsetting his garum and wine over the table. He ran after the boy, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the pain in his leg from his poorly healed injury.

  The chase was evenly matched. Carbo was a fit soldier, freshly discharged and still at his peak. He was large, and the crowds parted for him rather than get rammed out of the way by this charging bull. But his leg slowed him, and further the boy was small and could dart between the townsfolk with agility. He clearly knew the area too, so Carbo had to be careful to keep him in sight or lose him completely.

  The boy dodged down a narrow alley, and Carbo followed, nearly tripping over a sleeping dog, and kicking a chicken with rose into the air with a squawk and a flurry of feathers. As he rounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of the boy dodging down another turning. He accelerated, but found himself starting to pant in the heat. Carbo was a big, strong, fit man, but his bulk made him suited to short bursts, not prolonged athletic activity. He knew that he would have to end this race soon.

  The boy zigged and zagged down two more alleys, and Carbo recognised the narrow streets from his previous wanderings. Ahead, the road would turn right, then sharply right again, wending around an inconveniently placed dwelling that the town planners had obviously lacked the power or will to demolish. Instead of following, Carbo turned to the house on his right, and rushed at it, his shoulder impacting the wooden door and shattering it.

  He burst through into the living quarters of a large family, who greeted his dramatic entrance with a range of screams, from the shrill of the youngest child, through the piercing shriek of the mother, to the baritone yelp of the grandfather. Carbo hurdled a cot with a baby, his trailing foot catching it just enough to start it rocking gently, then he was through and into the next room, which served as the shop of the stola maker who lived here and supported his family.

  Carbo carried on through, ignoring the outraged cry of the shopkeeper, flailing through several dresses that hung from hooks in the ceiling, collecting two around his chest and shoulders as he exited through the shop frontage. The boy was just racing past, and he looked with horror and astonishment at the unexpected appearance of the bulky figure inexplicably suddenly dressed in women's clothes.

  Carbo leapt, both arms out, and closed the boy in a tight hug as they both fell to the ground. The boy wriggled like a fish, but Carbo hung on tight, and eventually the resistance went out of him. Carbo clambered painfully to his feet, keeping a firm grip on the boy's arm.

  “First of all,” said Carbo, still out of breath. “What's your name?”

  “Felix,” said Felix, sullenly.

  “Good,” said Carbo. “I'm Carbo. Now, secondly.” Carbo held up the bulla. “What did you mean when you said you didn't steal this?”

  Felix hesitated, then appeared to decide he had nothing to lose. His words came out in a rush, and Carbo listened attentively.

  Carbo entered the centurion's quarters just before sundown, escorted by the optio and legionary that had knocked on his door that morning. They seemed uncertain what sort of reaction they would get from the centurion - praise that they had finally brought him as commanded, or a rebuke that it had taken all day. The centurion, though, simply waved them away wordlessly. He looked at Carbo for a moment, then saluted him with respect. Carbo returned the salute with equal respect, acknowledging someone like him, the common soldier who had worked his way to a position of responsibility.

  “Gaius Valerius Carbo,” said the centurion. “I am Gnaeus Lucretius Balbus. It's an honour to meet you.”

  “The honour is mine,” said Carbo, magnaminously. Balbus indicated the other figure in the room with a nod of his head.

  “This man in my command, Septimus, has brought a grievance against you to my attention. Septimus, elaborate please.”

  The legionary that Carbo had encountered the night before looked like he had been straining at a leash, and was now released.

  “This man,” he blustered, his voice somewhat nasal, “is in receipt of stolen goods. A bulla that belonged to me.”

  “A bulla?” asked Balbus. “Like children wear?”

  Septimus was momentarily taken aback. “Well, yes. But a valuable one at that. And it is my lucky charm. Seven years in the legions and not a scratch on me. Until last night that is, when this man broke my nose.”

  Balbus sighed. “Is this true, Carbo?”

  “That I broke his nose? Certainly. Your legionary threatened me with his sword. That I disarmed him with out killing him felt like considerable restraint on my part. As for whether the bulla is his lucky charm, I'm afraid I really couldn't comment.”

  “But you do admit you received it?” said Septimus, eagerly.

  “Yes,” said Carbo. “It was passed to me. But I no longer have it.”

  Septimus stared at him in disbelief.

  “Then who does, Carbo?” asked Balbus.

 
; “If another might be permitted into your presence, centurion?” asked Carbo.

  Balbus inclined his head resignedly. Carbo motioned to one of the guards at the door, who gestured to another to enter.

  Felix strode in, cocky demeanour masking what Carbo knew would be a racing heart and churning stomach. Carbo breathed a sigh of relief. Giving the bulla back to Felix had been a risk, especially when he was asking him to confront to authority he habitually avoided. But Carbo had put himself in the boy's place, and guessed how a young Carbo would have behaved. He was pleased that his faith had been well placed.

  “Centurion Balbus, may I introduce the young man currently in possession of the disputed bulla.”

  “That's him,” cried Septimus. “That's the little thief that stole my charm!” He moved to accost the boy, who flinched, but Carbo interposed himself between them and Balbus held up a warning hand.

  “Carbo, please explain, and make it quick. I have the utmost respect for your record, so I am indulging you, but you are now a civilian, and I am a busy man.”

  Carbo nodded to Felix. “Tell the centurion what you told me.”

  Felix swallowed, then spoke up in a confident sounding voice.

  “The bulla belongs to me.”

  “That's absurd,” blustered Septimus. “He can't deny that he took it from round my neck last night.”

  Felix looked steadfastly at the centurion. “No, sir, I don't deny that. But still, the bulla belongs to me. This man took it from me, I think maybe five years ago.”

  Septimus stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Explain,” said Balbus.

  “Sir, my mother raised my sister Tullia and myself as good citizens. She worked hard to keep us in food and clothing and shelter. When we were younger, we sometimes had money from our father to help us, but his visits and his money became less and less frequent as time went by.

  “The bulla was mine. It had been passed down to me from my mother's father, and though I knew it was valuable, it was always more important to me as a family heirloom. It was my only treasure, and I knew every flaw and every nick on its surface. But it disappeared, on the day of my father's last visit.

  “It had been nearly a year since we had last seen him, and he came to our dwelling, drunk and poor, insisting my mother gave him what coin she had earned. When he realised how little we had, he took my bulla. My cries and pleas he ignored. The day I lost my treasure is in my mind as clear as if it were yesterday.”

  Balbus looked at Felix, head tilted to one side, an eyebrow raised. Septimus stared at Felix, colour draining from his face.

  “My mother died I think two winters ago, and ever since I have been fending for myself and my little sister. But I never forgot the father who left me, or the bulla he took. I had never thought to see either again, until yesterday. As I was begging, I saw the bulla, and I knew it straight away. It was only then that I recognised my father.”

  Septimus looked like he was finding it hard to breathe.

  “F...Felix?” he managed to gasp.

  “Yes, father,” said Felix.

  Septimus dropped to his knees, and tears started to roll down his face.

  “Felix, I'm so sorry. I meant to... I just... the legions.” He could find no more words. Felix regarded him dispassionately.

  Carbo turned to Balbus.

  “I think there is no doubt the bulla belongs to the boy, don't you agree?”

  Balbus nodded. “No doubt at all. And what should we do about these two?”

  Carbo raised his eyebrows. “Do? It's none of our business, centurion. Purely a family matter from here I would say.”

  Septimus was looking up at Felix, his eyes pleading forgiveness. Felix looked down on him with contempt and overt suspicion.

  “You are quite correct,” said Balbus. “Septimus, you are dismissed. Take your son with you, and see if there is anything you can do to make amends for your misdeeds.”

  Septimus rose, and with Felix, left the centurion's quarters. Felix gave a backward glance to Carbo as he went, gratitude in his expression, and Carbo gave him a wink.

  Balbus sighed. “I don't think I have anything so pressing that it couldn't wait till tomorrow. Carbo, would you care to join me for a drink? I've heard a lot of stories about you, and I would like to hear from the horse's mouth how many are true.”

  Carbo smiled. “All lies, I'm sure. But yes, I would love to take a drink with you.”

  The centurion rose, and the two military men left the building together, to find a convenient place to sit and drink, and swap tales of battles and superiors and tight scrapes and tavern brawls. Carbo thought he was going to enjoy retirement.

  Carbo and the Gladiator

  The streets of Vienne were packed when Carbo entered the town. He was irritated. He had walked far that day under a hot sun blazing out of a cloudless sky, and just wanted to find a tavern for food, drink and a seat to rest his backside on. He was surprised that the place was this busy. He had been told that Vienne was a complete latrine of a town, full of ugly women, corrupt merchants and ruthless criminals. This had, however, been relayed to him by a tavern keeper of the Aedui, one of the Gallic tribes further north. Vienne was a settlement of the Allobroges, a tribe that had supported Caesar in his Gallic conquests. Carbo suspected that his Aeduin source had a somewhat jaundiced opinion of his southerly neighbours.

  The town itself seemed pleasant enough. Carbo had spotted a theatre, the markets and shops looked to have a variety of fresh produce, and the women were anything but ugly. Still, for the town to be this crowded was unexpected. The reason was soon obvious when Carbo saw a sign painted in big bright letters on a prominent wall.

  “The gladiatorial troupe of the aedile, T. Salonius Avitus will fight tomorrow in Vienne. There will be a big animal hunt. Antiochus will fight Diomedes. Awnings will be provided.”

  Carbo smiled. It was the first good news of the day, a nice sporting event to break up his long journey back to Rome. He found his way to a tavern that looked slightly less crowded than the rest, and used his bulk to force his way in. Despite protests from those already crammed into the small room, he eased his way to the tavernkeeper and bought a large cup of well-watered wine and some bread and cheese. Finding somewhere to sit was impossible without starting a fight however, and as a brawl would mean at least evens that he would spill his wine, he decided not to force the issue. He went back into the street and sat with his back against a shop wall, stretching his aching legs out. He drained his cup, then ate hungrily.

  When the small meal was gone, he looked around. The crowd was of varied make up - rich nobles, local town dwellers and many farmers and labourers who had been drawn in for the upcoming spectacle. Carbo presumed the aedile on the poster, Avitus, was up for re-election and was buying votes. It wasn’t long before his wandering gaze found a piece of graffiti exhorting the reader to “Vote Avitus for Praetor again.” Underneath was another piece of graffiti stating baldly, “Avitus fucks goats.”

  A small detachment of legionaries marched past. Carbo regarded them with mixed feelings. The wound in his leg throbbed, and Carbo felt old, especially after the day’s long walk. But he thought fondly of the comrades he had left behind, the men he counted as his friends and his family. His mind drifted to his mother in Rome. He hoped she was well, it had been a little while since he had heard from her.

  “Don’t tell me you miss all that,” came a voice from a man standing over Carbo. Carbo turned from the legionaries and squinted up into the sun to try to make out the face of the speaker. The man extended his hand, and Carbo took it and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. The man grunted. “Not lost any weight then.”

  Carbo looked down at his body. He knew he was tall, well-muscled, with not a pound of excess fat. He looked back at the man.

  “Screw you, Barbatus. You’re looking a bit chubby round the middle there yourself.”

  Barbatus grinned.

  “Carbo, it’s good to see you. What are you
doing here?”

  “I’m retired now. You too, I presume?”

  Carbo nodded confirmation. “Got my plot of land,” he said. “And some ill-gotten gains to tide me through my dotage, and I’m heading to Rome for a life of peace. You live here?”

  “Been here since my discharge, what, ten years ago now. Come on, let me buy you a drink and we can catch up.”

  Barbatus was nearly as tall as Carbo, and nearly as bulky, but Carbo had been right, Barbatus’ girth around his middle now significantly exceeded his chest size. In making their way through the crowds though, bulk was all that counted, whether it was muscle or fat, and Barbatus pushed his way through the crowded tavern, and returned shortly afterwards with two large cups of wine. He gave one to Carbo, who sipped it, noting that it was much stronger than the cup he had bought for himself. They looked around for a table or a bench, but every horizontal surface seemed occupied, so they stood in the street and let the crowds flow around them as they talked.

  “What made you settle in this place, then?” asked Carbo.

  “A woman,” said Barbatus, making a face.

  “Special one, I take it.”

  “Well, yeah, she is,” Barbatus admitted reluctantly. “I thought she was out of my league, that she only wanted me for my money. But she has stuck around, even now when my pension is all but gone.”

  “Times hard?” asked Carbo.

  Barbatus looked like he was about to say something, then thought better of it.

  “We’ll get by,” he said, not looking like he believed it.

  Carbo sipped his drink, and regarded him steadily. Barbatus held his gaze briefly then looked down.

  “You were a senior centurion,” said Carbo. “Savings from salary, loot, requisitioning a reasonable percentage of the quartermaster’s supplies for onward distribution, taking your cut from the gambling clubs to turn a blind eye. We all did it. Then your land and pension. You shouldn’t have to worry about money. What happened?”