Carbo and the Thief Read online

  Vespillo shook his head. “Remember, I had seen it before. The Pannonian uprising. The mutiny by the Pannonian legions. I had seen what happened to civilians when soldiers drunk on wine and rage and battle lust were let loose on them.

  “I petitioned the Governor to command them to restraint, or to send a detachment to enforce discipline. He ignored me, told me that the locals were in revolt, and they were getting what they deserved. I cursed him, and he had me removed from his presence. I was broken to the ranks, and put on sentry duty. Out of my mind with worry, I deserted.”

  Vespillo looked into Carbo’s eyes now, searching for a reaction. Carbo tried to keep his expression neutral, but he felt shock inside. Of all the crimes a member of the legions could commit, desertion was surely the worst. Punishment was usually being beaten or stoned to death in front of his comrades. How was Vespillo even still alive?

  “I ran through the countryside, avoiding Roman patrols, Thracian rebels and rioting Thracian loyalists. I ran past burning villages and crops, past trees with bodies nailed to them, many still alive. I skirted around groups of soldiers who had cornered civilians, an old man they were stoning, a woman they were taking it in turns to rape. When I came to Orphea’s village, it was already alight. Soldiers went from house to house, as they drunk and laughed among the destruction. Orphea’s house wasn’t burning, and I felt a surge of hope as I rushed inside.

  “Orphea was on her back on her table. A Thracian soldier was between her legs, while another jeered and laughed. I killed the spectator first with a thrust in his back, then when the other stood, I stabbed him in the heart. Then I turned to help Orphea. She was already dead, her throat cut. In the corner, head caved in, was my four year old son.”

  Carbo reached out and put a hand over his, squeezing firmly. “You don’t need to say any more.”

  Vespillo swallowed. “There were ten Thracian auxiliaries in the village. They were drunk and slow. I killed them all. Then I returned to the governor and threw myself on his mercy. When he heard my story he put me in the front line, aiming to carry out my full punishment after the battle. I think he hoped I would die in the assault. I think I hoped I would too.

  “The Thracians were desperate when they came, starving and out of water. They attacked with stones and fire-hardened stakes and branches of trees. Behind them their women screamed them onwards. We fought all day, and then night fell and we fought all night. In the dark, no one could tell friend from enemy. Echoes of the enemies cries came from behind us, and some of the men thought we had been overrun, and they broke. I stayed and fought. Those of us left pushed the Thracians back to their hill fortress at dawn, and they surrendered.

  “I was taken before the governor, ready to receive my punishment. In view of the way I had fought, and the reasons for my desertion, he took pity on me. I was dishonourably discharged, quietly and without fuss. I lost my back pay and my chance of any land on retirement. I made my way back to Rome, doing odd jobs along the way, or begging scraps of food.

  “When I arrived in Rome, I was destitute. I was sleeping under the aqueducts and in the temple doorways, begging along with the rest of the poor. Some of the crippled veterans I begged with told me about the vigiles, how they would take anyone, so I applied. They were right. I didn’t hide the truth of my dishonourable discharge, but my recruiting officer didn’t care. The vigiles were made up of thugs and freedman, and they were keen to have someone with experience of the legions, especially the officer.

  “I threw myself into the work, and found that I enjoyed it. It’s exciting and rewarding, genuinely helping the people of Rome. I could put the memories aside, and I could try to restore my pride, bury the dishonour of desertion, and of failing to save my family. My work was noticed, and I was promoted, quickly. I met Severa, who was the widow of a local tradesman, and we married. Life now is good. I enjoy my work, I command a lot of men, I have a position in the community, respect, and a wife who loves me.”

  “Yet still you have something to prove don’t you,” said Carbo quietly.

  “Yes,” said Vespillo. “And I always will.”

  The Battlefield

  The first news we received of the battle came with the arrival of a wounded centurion. I abandoned my game of legionaries and barbarians that I was playing with Roscius, the head cook's son. He was moaning about having to play the barbarians again, anyway, and was imparting little enthusiasm to the role. At twelve years of age, though, I am two years his senior, and it was only natural that I should be the Roman. If the roles were reversed, then Rome would lose, and that is plainly unthinkable. So we dropped the sticks we had been using as gladii, and watched with excitement the slow progress of the dirty, tired, wounded soldier, as he limped down the paved path leading to the villa.

  As soon as he entered the atrium, we sprinted to the door and peeked around. The soldier was on the floor, slumped against the wall. Urtha, the Numidian housekeeper, who was also my father's companion since my mother died trying to give me a sister, leant over him. Her face showed concern as she examined his wounds. She looked up, and spotted me.

  “Pedius,” she said. “Fetch your father.”

  I groaned. He was in the bottom vineyard, surveying the early spring's growth. It was at least a mile.

  “Hurry,” said Urtha. Roscius grinned impudently at me, but I couldn't cuff him in front of Urtha, so I turned and hurried out.

  “Run, Pedius!” I sighed, and broke into a trot.

  I found my father, wandering up and down the trellises, making marks on a wax tablet with a stylus.

  “Father! Father!” He didn't turn.

  “Not now, Pedius. I'm busy.”

  “Urtha sent me.” He looked up.

  “Oh?”

  “A soldier's here. He's hurt.”

  “Hmm.” He looked wistfully at the vines, then at the tablet, then at me.

  “Then I suppose I'd better come.”

  We walked back together, my father in no hurry, while I danced from foot to foot, anxious to hear the soldier's story.

  “Do you think there's been a battle?” I asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “The master's in Rome because of some trouble there, isn't he?”

  “The master's affairs are not for discussion.”

  “But since Nero killed himself . . .”

  “Pedius.” His voice was still quiet, but I knew I could push no further. I maintained an agitated silence until we reached the villa. Urtha was waiting for us, outwardly calm, but her face showing obvious disapproval of my father's tardiness.

  “Where is this legionary?” asked my father.

  “In Miriam's room at present.”

  Miriam, the Jewish serving girl, had experienced a beating from my father for being caught with a strange man in her bedroom. She probably relished the chance to have another here legitimately.

  Urtha and my father walked round to the back of the villa, to Miriam's room. I followed quietly, trying to stay unnoticed. Urtha and my father went in to the room, and I saw the usually squeamish Miriam tending the soldier's wound. Before Urtha's big bottom blocked my view, I caught a glimpse of the man's face. His beard was streaked with dust, his forehead split wide by a deep gash, and his cheeks were pale. But his eyes held me. They were tired, and so, so sad.

  “His wounds?” asked my father.

  Urtha replied. “Deep, but he will live.”

  My father nodded, then addressed the soldier.

  “I am Plotius, chief steward of this household. I bid you welcome in the name of my master, Gaius Cominius Rufus. May I ask your name?”

  There was a pause, then the reply came in a flat, husky voice.

  “Servilius.”

  “And your legion?”

  Another pause. Then, “I am a centurion of the Thirteenth Gemina.”

  “Will you tell us how you received your injuries?”

  I shifted my position so I could see round Urtha's fat legs, and I saw his gaze lift from the fl
oor to fix on my father.

  “I have fought in a bloody battle near Cremona. The usurper Vitellius led the German legions against the Emperor Otho. My men are massacred and the Emperor is dead.”

  My father nodded. The change of Emperor was unlikely to affect us, it never had in the past. Cremona was near, but not uncomfortably so. We would see few other soldiers, if any, and this one, wounded as he was, must have been wandering for two days before he found us.

  “I am tired and hungry, Plotius.”

  “Attend him, Miriam.”

  I retreated as Urtha and my father left him, and went into the peristylium to reflect on what I had heard. Roscius was there, and he pestered me for news. I told him what I knew, all the time watching Urtha and my father conversing in the house. I willed my father back to his vines, Urtha back to her duties, so I could sneak once more to the centurion. After an age, my father gave Urtha a brief kiss on the cheek, and they parted to go about their business. I abandoned Roscius in the garden and went back to Miriam's room, where I took up my position just outside the door.

  Miriam was bathing the wound on the centurion's head, while he hungrily ate from a wooden bowl filled with steaming broth. They said nothing, but Miriam beamed down at him with a possessive look on her face. He finished the soup, set the bowl on the floor, and let out a loud burp.

  “Do you have any wine?”

  Miriam hesitated. “Nothing of fine vintage.”

  He grimaced. “Anything will do.”

  In her hurry to fetch his refreshment, she bumped into me and we clashed heads.

  “Pedius,” she hissed, rubbing her forehead. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to see the soldier,” I whispered back.

  “Well he's ill, and he doesn't want to be disturbed by a little boy like you.”

  “Whereas I'm sure he loves being disturbed by a little girl like you!”

  Miriam drew herself up to her full height. “I am not a little girl. I am nearly sixteen. And I am looking after him. And I think he likes me.”

  I laughed. “You're dreaming again, Miriam.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but a harsh voice came from inside the bedroom. “What's all that whispering about? Where's my blasted wine?”

  “Don't you disturb him, Pedius. Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  She hurried off to the wine cellar, and as soon as she turned the corner, I went into the room.

  “Hello, I'm Pedius.”

  He acknowledged me with a nod. I got my first close up look at him. He wore a dirty red cloak and a torn tunic. On the floor were his armour and sword, dented and nicked, and his helmet, the crest of feathers flattened and tattered. His bare leg bore a thick black scab which ran from his knee up underneath his tunic. This man had been in a real battle, where men had really died, I thought.

  “What are you gawking at boy?”

  “Does that hurt?” I asked.

  “Of course it damned well hurts!”

  “Did you kill anyone?”

  “No, we just played dice. You ask the most stupid questions.”

  “What was it like? I mean fighting, killing people.”

  He looked at me for a long moment.

  “You really want to know what it's like?”

  I nodded.

  “It's terrifying. All around you, your friends are dying. You're bleeding. People are trying to kill you, and the only way to stop them is to kill them. And after, the ground is black with blood, and more full of flesh than a butcher's shop.”

  “It sounds exciting,” I said, feeling the thrill of battle, imagining the bugle calls, the clash of arms, the glory.

  “You're not listening, are you? It is worse than the foulest torments of Hades.”

  “I'd like to join the army one day.”

  He raised his voice. “You little fool. You have no idea.” He tried to rise, then let out a cry and sank back, clutching his leg. Miriam came in, carrying a cup of wine.

  “Pedius, I told you not to come in here. You've upset the centurion. Get out!”

  “But . . .”

  “Out! Or I'll fetch your father.”

  Reluctantly, I left the room.

  The rest of the day I spent kicking morosely around the house. I wanted to speak further to the soldier, but didn't wish to incur my father's wrath, which though slow, once roused was severe. Then I hit on my plan, to see war for myself. So I was two days late, but there was a real battlefield, just a half day's ride from the villa. I couldn't pass up the opportunity Mars had granted me.

  I barely slept, so excited was I. I must have dozed, but I woke long before the sun appeared above the hills to the east of the villa. While the household slept, I tiptoed to the stables, saddled a pony, and rode south.

  I was a fair rider. My father allowed me to ride from time to time - it was one of the benefits of being the steward's son. The landscape slowly brightened as I rode, and with the burgeoning day, the amount of traffic on the road increased. Most of it was the usual sort - carts taking produce to market, merchants transporting wine and other essentials, the wealthy travelling from town houses to country estates. But another type of traveller caught my eye - men, usually in groups of three or four. Those heading towards Cremona looked anxious and hurried. Those travelling in the opposite direction sweated under the load of full sacks, clanking with the sounds of metal.

  Cremona was a city in festival mood. The streets were full, citizens, slaves, and many, many soldiers, mingling, drinking, dancing. Jugglers and pipers jostled for space on the street corners, vendors of wine and pastries competed to make themselves heard above the noise of the party. I dismounted and led my horse through the town. It was mid afternoon, so I chewed some bread from my saddlebag.

  A hand slapped down on my shoulder, and I jumped.

  “Boy, drink some wine. Celebrate the victory of the Emperor Vitellius.”

  I turned to find myself face to face with an unshaven, semi-uniformed, but happy legionary. He proffered me an amphora, half full.

  “Drink, boy.” I took a deep draught, then spat it out. It was unwatered wine. My father had only ever let me drink watered wine before - he said I must wait until I left behind the toga praetexta of childhood and donned the toga virilis of manhood before drinking my wine neat.

  “Too strong for you, boy? You're a flower, like those overpaid Praetorians. We showed them a thing or two about fighting.”

  “Were you in the battle?”

  “Was I in the battle? It could have been lost without me. Let me tell you . . .”

  I would have loved to hear his tale, but I wanted to get to the battlefield and return before dark.

  “Where was the battle fought?”

  “Eh? Oh, about five miles east of here, on the Via Postumia.”

  “Thank you. Goodbye.” I mounted my horse.

  “Where are you going? I haven't told you my story. Damned boy.”

  I left the festival behind and rode east. The unusual travellers with the full sacks were more numerous here. I also noticed a lot of plots of freshly dug earth in the fields by the roadside. I realised what they were when I came across a party of grave diggers. They were walking wearily back towards Cremona, shovels resting on their shoulders.

  “Don't die out there boy, will you?” cried one, as I rode past. “We've enough work to do tomorrow.”

  Then I started to encounter the bodies. The first one I saw, I noticed by the feet sticking out from behind a bush. I cautiously dismounted and inspected the unmoving corpse. At first, I saw no mark on him. It was only when I moved some twigs to see his neck and head, that I saw the mortal wound, a slash across the neck so deep it must have reached his backbone. I staggered back in shock, and unbidden, my stomach voided my lunch. Weakly, I remounted and continued east.

  The corpses became more and more frequent as I rode. Although I didn't stop to look closely at any more, I could see that most had been stripped of armour, weapons, jewellery and often
even clothes. From time to time, I saw the men engaged in this salvage, working in groups to fill their sacks.

  I rounded a corner and halted. The road was dark red. I looked around. Piled in ditches, spread at random round the vineyards, slumped against trees, face down, face up, were bodies. Thousands. A powerful stench pervaded the air, like the smell of a long dead sheep I had once found. All around, as busy as ants, men were attending the dead. No last rites here, no kiss to accept the dying soul. Their only purpose was to rob the dead of the things they no longer needed. The flocks of black birds took the flesh that didn't interest the men.

  A movement caught my eye. It was one of the bodies at the side of the road. I moved my horse closer. I thought I could detect motion from his chest. Was he breathing, still alive after all this time? I feared to get near, so I took an empty bottle from my bag and threw it at him. It thumped into his upper body. Immediately, there was a commotion. Two rats, their faces bloody, came scuttling out of his tunic and bolted across the road. Startled, my horse reared and I was thrown off backwards. I hit my head, and everything went dark.

  When I awoke, it was still dark. Then I realised I was looking at the night sky, freckled with stars. My horse was gone and my head hurt. Not a living soul stirred - no one would stay here after the light had faded. I was alone with the thousands of newly dead, violently slain, taken from this world before their time. I clutched at the bulla round my neck, and prayed it would do its job and protect me from evil spirits.