Carbo and the Thief Read online

  Barbatus looked weary. “Does it matter? What’s done is done.”

  “Of course it matters. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

  Barbatus thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Well if I can’t tell an old comrade, who can I tell?” He took a breath, seeming to steel himself, then said in a low voice, “We had a child.”

  Carbo didn’t miss the use of past tense, and put a sympathetic hand on Barbatus’ shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Barbatus nodded. “Barbata was fit and well for seven years. Not a day of ill health, not even the pox. She could hold her own in a fight with the local boys, that’s how fit she was. Then one day, we noticed she was starting to lose weight. We couldn’t understand it, she was eating well, eating us out of house and home in fact. Then she started drinking more, and the weight loss carried on.”

  “We consulted the local quack, and he gave us some potion. Lizard’s eye plucked while it was alive mashed up in partridge blood. Or something like that. Cost a small fortune, but nothing we couldn’t afford, or wouldn’t part with in a heart beat for her. Did no good at all though. The quack gave us a magic amulet with a prayer to Asclepius engraved on it. No help. We went to the priests, and in exchange for donations to their temples, they prayed for her, offered sacrifices, to Jupiter, Juno, Venus, Isis, Fortuna, Iaso, Panacea. We prayed to fucking Pomona, goddess of the orchards if we thought it would help. She started to get weak.”

  Barbatus’ voice caught, and he took a sip of his drink. Carbo waited, letting him take his time.

  “Then we heard of this new quack in town, a Greek called Demeter. Rumour was he could cure anything. We searched him out, begged him to help us. He refused, said he was too busy, that he was too expensive for the likes of us. We begged harder, offered him more gold. He eventually relented, and came to look at Barbata.

  “By this time she was bed bound. She was skin and bones, but she had lost her ravenous appetite by now, though she still drank and pissed and drank and pissed like she had been eating salt. This Demeter looked at her, examined her tongue, felt her pulse, smelled her breath, even tasted her piss. He declared she had what he called the sweet sickness. We asked if he could cure it. He shook his head and said no.

  “We urged him to try anything, and he hesitated and then said there was a cure, a fabulously rare and incredibly expensive orchid that was guaranteed to make her better, but he didn’t know if he could get it, or whether we could afford it. He named a price that was everything we had, including our land. It left us with just our apartment to our name, but we didn’t hesitate and agreed. He left us and said he would return if he could, and we should have the money ready.

  “We watched our little girl fading away before our eyes. She was so brave, made us so proud.” Barbatus wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took a breath.

  “After two days, Demeter returned. Barbata had slipped into unconsciousness by then. She breathed but no longer ate. Her breath had this strange sweet smell on it. But Demeter had a smile on his face. He showed us this flower, a small white thing with yellow petals. I wonder now how we could have put so much faith in such a thing, but we handed him all our gold, and he set to work, crushing the flower in his pestle and mortar, adding drops of other potions, chanting incantations. Eventually it was ready, and he tipped the tiny potion into her mouth. She swallowed, but didn’t stir herself. He just nodded and looked satisfied. He embraced me, and told me that by tomorrow this would all be over. Then he left.”

  Carbo grimaced, knowing how the story must end. “And he was right?”

  Barbatus nodded. “She was dead by the morning. I went looking for him, but the slippery Greek bastard had left town, along with everything we owned. We could barely scratch enough together to bury her properly. So for the past year, I’ve been making a living where I can, bodyguarding, labouring, even begging sometimes. My wife sometimes comes home with money, and the look she gives me tells me I’m not to ask where it came from.”

  Carbo hesitated. “Listen Barbatus. I’ve done alright for myself. I’ve got land and money. I’m taking most of it home for my mother, and to set myself up for an easy retirement. But there is spare there, I could…”

  Barbatus held up a hand. “Don’t you dare. I didn’t tell you all that to get your charity.” He prodded a finger into Carbo’s chest. “I was a senior centurion, so don’t you fucking patronise me.” He looked down.

  “I’m sorry,” said Carbo, “I didn’t mean…” He trailed off.

  “I’m sorry, too,” said Barbatus. “It was a kind offer and well meant. But I still have my pride. I just wanted you to…understand. I didn’t gamble or drink my pension away. It was cheated from me, in the cruellest way.”

  Carbo placed an arm around Barbatus’ shoulders. “Let me at least buy the next round.”

  Barbatus grasped Carbo’s forearm and gave him a sad smile. “I can let you do that,” he agreed.

  “Antiochus, Antiochus, Antiochus,” chanted the crowd in the tavern. The huge gladiator stood on a table, a large mug of beer in one hand. He lifted it in the air, and then with a roar from the crowd, upended it into his gullet. The beer went down like it had been poured into a drain. He threw the mug into the onlookers, and yelled for another. It was supplied to him within seconds, and seconds later that one had vanished too.

  Carbo was at the back of the tavern, relying on the wall for support as his head spun a little. One more drink with Barbatus had turned into several, and day had turned to night as they reminisced on old battles, nights on the town, the reprobates they had served with.

  “So you’re telling me,” said Carbo, words slurring only a little. “You’re telling me that tomorrow that guy is going to fight at the top of the bill.”

  “’S right,” said Barbatus, a little further gone than Carbo.

  “But he’s completely pissed,” said Carbo.

  “That’s like the Greek calling the Egyptian a cocksucker.”

  Carbo smiled. “But I’m not fighting tomorrow. Think back, would we have got drunk before a battle? Allowed our men to?”

  “No,” conceded Barbatus. “But this is the arena. It’s a show, a performance. It will last as long as Antiochus wants to draw it out. But he won’t have to fight all day long in the heat, or the rain, or the cold, then sleep standing up and do it all over again the next day. ’S just pretend.”

  “Men still end up dead.”

  “Not often. Too valuable a commod… commody…thing.”

  Standing next to the table on which the gladiator stood was a short, pot-bellied man with skinny legs and a sunken chest. Carbo mused that he looked like an egg on a pair of sticks. He was tapping Antiochus on the leg, trying to get his attention, as the big man upended yet another mug of beer.

  “Antiochus,” he said in a pleading voice. “It’s time to rest now. You must be fit for the fight tomorrow.”

  “I could take down that Diomedes prick even if I was so drunk I couldn’t walk,” roared Antiochus.

  The crowd cheered its approval and raised their cups to him.

  “Is Diomedes that bad?” asked Carbo.

  “No one really knows,” said Barbatus. “He is new to the area. But Antiochus has never been beaten, in over a hundred fights. The betting on him is heavy, even though the odds make it hardly worth it. Blandinus the bookmaker must be having a sleepless night.”

  Carbo looked impressed. “Good record. Though I still bet he wouldn’t last two minutes in a battle facing a berserk German.”

  Barbatus smiled, but shook his head. “I disagree. The man is unbeatable, unstoppable. Nothing can take him down.”

  At which point, Antiochus collapsed.

  Most of the crowd had drifted away by the time the gladiator’s medics had carried the huge man off. Carbo looked at him as he passed, noting the drool from the corner of his mouth, the way one side of his face hung slack, the arm and leg on one side of the body limp.

  “A stroke,” commented
Carbo.

  “Huh?” said Barbatus.

  “Remember that old tribune, fat chap, always eating and drinking heavily. Out of the blue, suddenly paralysed down one side. He lived for a short while afterwards I think. The medics called it a stroke.”

  Barbatus nodded. “I remember. Poor chap. Well, that’s buggered up tomorrow’s entertainment.”

  The skinny-legged pot-bellied man was sitting on the table in the middle of the tavern, gripping his hair and shaking his head. Carbo nudged Barbatus and pointed.

  “Antiochus’ lanista, do you think?”

  Barbatus looked over. “Yes, that’s Mero. He will have had a lot of money tied up in Antiochus. Probably bet heavily on him too.”

  “Won’t the bets be voided now?”

  “I doubt it. The bookmakers aren’t fond of giving back cash, even when someone has won. I guess Mero could take them to court, but given the wealth and the thugs at the bookies’ beck and call, I suspect no court would argue against them.”

  Mero was wailing. “Ruined,” he moaned. “Ruined. Damn that stupid oaf. I hope Cerberus chews his balls for eternity.” He looked up, and at that moment saw Carbo looking at him. He got unsteadily to his feet and approached the big veteran.

  “You,” he said, looking up at Carbo. “Can you fight?”

  Carbo looked down at him with a patronising smile. “Yes, I can fight.”

  “Fight for me tomorrow.”

  Carbo laughed and shook his head. “I’m retired.”

  “It will be a walk over. Diomedes is nothing. I just need someone who can hold a sword and look the part, someone big and hard looking. You will do.”

  “I can’t really imagine why I would.”

  “I will reward you handsomely. This is the biggest fight for ages round here. People have flocked from miles around.”

  “I have money. And I’ve finished with fighting.” Carbo looked over to Barbatus. “I’m tired.”

  “Will you stay with us tonight?” asked Barbatus. Carbo shook his head. “No, I won’t meet your wife for the first time drunk and stinking of the road. I’ll find a tavern bed.”

  “Are you staying in town for a while?”

  “Another day or two maybe. I’ll stay for the show, assuming it happens. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Barbatus nodded and looked thoughtful.

  “Are you coming?”

  “No, I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”

  Carbo clapped him on the shoulder. “It was good to see you again.” He made his exit, leaving his old comrade standing with the morose lanista.

  Finding a bed was challenging, and Carbo found himself wishing he had taken up Barbatus’ offer. Eventually he was offered a sodden mattress in the corner of a dormitory with half a dozen other men or women packed in. The price was extortionate, but the tavern keeper wasn’t stupid, he knew the laws of supply and demand, and demand that night greatly outstripped supply.

  Carbo lay, trying to get comfortable. Things crawled in the straw mattress, his room mates for the night tossed and turned and snored and one even vomited. Carbo himself squeezed his eyes tight, willing the world to stop spinning around him, and fighting down the nausea that accompanied the sensation. Soon he drifted off to sleep.

  He woke with a start and a cry. His dream had been vivid, and he shuddered, cupping one hand between his legs to make sure that his precious possessions were still attached to his body. He was relieved to find that, unlike in the dream, they were.

  Orange light through the window showed that it was only just dawn, and some of the occupants of the dormitory cursed him for waking them so early. Carbo stretched and rose, searching for something to drink that would quench his thirst and rid him of the foul taste in his mouth.

  He spent the morning idling and recuperating. The town was quiet at first, but as the previous night’s revellers roused themselves, breakfasted and took whichever hangover cures they favoured, the streets and markets began to fill. Carbo installed himself at a table outside a tavern to watch the world go by. He wondered where Barbatus lived. He should have taken some directions, or arranged a meet up when they were together last night. In an army camp, everyone had a place, and everyone knew each other, so it was no problem to locate someone. In this city, Carbo now realised, it would be hopeless trying to track his old comrade down. Still, he knew Barbatus was going to the spectacle later on, so he resolved to look out for him there. It would be nice to see him again, before he moved on.

  Two men sat at his table, and nodded to him in brief greeting before starting their own conversation. Carbo half-listened to complaints about bossy wives and lazy slaves. His day-dreaming was interrupted when they turned to the subject of the fight that evening.

  “Stupid bastard drunk himself to death, apparently. That’s really ruined the whole thing tonight.”

  “No, I heard they got a replacement.”

  “Really? That’s very short notice. I thought the lanista was a bit light on reserves, that’s why they got Diomedes in from outside the city.”

  “Well, he found someone apparently.”

  “Bet they aren’t up to much. Still it might be a better event than if Antiochus had fought. Diomedes is a complete no-hoper apparently, Antiochus would have demolished him.”

  “The new guy knows his way around a sword, I’ve heard. It sounds like that is all that will be needed to take out Diomedes. No need to change your bet!”

  The man laughed, and the conversation moved on. Carbo finished his drink, and moved on.

  Carbo spent the rest of the day sightseeing. Not that there was much to see. The Temple of Augustus and Livia was moderately impressive, a large rectangular building with Corinthian columns, recently built and still undergoing modifications. Apart from that it was the theatre, shops, markets stalls and a small bathhouse. He paid for entrance to the baths and for a slave in the apodyterium to guard his belongings, then went for a plunge in the frigidarium. The bracing cold took his breath, and he quickly moved through to the tepidarium to warm up. After that, a short spell in the boiling hot caldarium, and he was ready for a rub down with olive oil in the unctorium. The masseur was skilled and gentle, avoiding his poorly healed war wounds. Carbo soon found himself drifting off to sleep under the strong fingers.

  He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed when he awoke. The masseur was politely indicating that he had other customers waiting, so Carbo smiled his thanks, and returned to the apodyterium to reclaim his clothes and purse. He walked out into the streets and saw that the sun was low in the sky. The preliminaries of the show would likely be underway, and the crowds no longer flowed randomly, but predominantly in a single direction. He followed until he arrived at the Forum, in which rickety-looking sloping wooden stands had been erected.

  Carbo joined the long queue, and waited patiently until he gained entry. There was no entrance fee, but all the best seats near the front fence that separated the arena from the crowds were gone. He spotted a gap on a bench about half way up the seating area, and squeezed in, his bulk eliciting grumbles from the people whose toes he trod on and noses he elbowed. He settled down into the tight space, ignoring the muttering from the people behind whose view he now blocked. The man to his left smiled at him.

  “They found a replacement for old Antiochus then, I hear.”

  Carbo looked over to him. He judged his neighbour to be in his fifties, broken veins on his cheek bones showing above a white streaked beard.

  “Apparently so,” agreed Carbo.

  “Got to get through all the rubbish before the big event though.”

  The rubbish proved to be a troupe of jugglers and acrobats and the execution of an elderly escaped slave who had obviously been so badly beaten since his recapture that he was stuporous. When the executioner slid the sword into his chest from behind his collar bone, he barely reacted, just toppling forward with a disappointing trickle of blood. The promised big animal hunt involved two hunters with spears trying to goad an emaciated and lam
e boar into some display of aggression, and by the time it was dispatched the crowd were distinctly fed up. The hunters departed with a hail of rotten fruit and vegetables accompanying them.

  Carbo looked around him as he waited for the final act to start, seeing if he could catch sight of Barbatus in the crowd. It was hopeless, the crowd was too big and tightly packed. His attention was drawn back to the centre of the sand by the announcer.

  In an impressively loud and sonorous voice, the announcer cried, “Aaaaand now, the main event. Please welcome the challenger, Diomedes the murmillo!”

  A skinny man slunk out of the shadows by the entrance and made his way to the centre of the arena. He didn’t salute or acknowledge the crowd, which was booing him from the moment he appeared. Carbo appraised him with a soldier’s eye. He wasn’t tall, and had little muscle to him. He held himself with a certain arrogance though, and something about his demeanour made Carbo think he was deserving of more respect than the crowd were giving him.

  “Now, as many of you know, Antiochus was struck down by the gods last night.”

  The booing intensified, and the announcer raised his voice further.

  “But we have a replacement. A true Roman hero, resident of Vienne, veteran of the legions, has stepped into the breach. Appearing in the arena for the first time, but no slouch in a fight, please welcome Barbatus the Thracian!”

  The crowd went wild as Barbatus strode out into the centre. Carbo’s jaw dropped. What was the idiot playing at?

  Barbatus wore the distinctive brimmed, crested helmet, with a griffin emblem sported by all Thracians. He carried a small, square wooden shield and a sica, a short curved sword. He wore an armguard on his sword arm, and thick padded greaves to protect his legs. He saluted the crowd with his sword, smiling and clearly enjoying the attention.