of a bargain price to read his fortune, to have his teeth examined and to write his will that very instant, in case the gods suddenly struck him down. His gaze settled on a portly figure sitting under a sign that read: LETTERS COMPOSED. NEAT SCRIPT. REASONABLE PRICES. Catching Carbo’s eye, the scribe gave him an amiable nod. Pleased that the man hadn’t verbally assaulted him as his neighbours had, Carbo nodded back. ‘I need a letter written,’ he blurted, feeling his resolve weaken.
‘That’s my job.’
‘It won’t be long. No more than a few lines.’
‘Four asses.’
‘Fine. Can you have it sent as well?’
‘That will cost more. Where does it need to go?’
‘Rome.’
There was a frown. ‘The road south isn’t safe at the moment, as you know.’
‘Because of Spartacus and his men?’
A tight, angry nod. ‘They say that he’s advancing on the town. The proconsul is sure to act within the next day or so. His two legions are ready for a fight. With the blessings of Jupiter, Greatest and Best, we will soon rid be of the Thracian murderer and the scum who follow in his wake.’
‘Let us hope so,’ Carbo replied blithely. ‘Can you have it sent anyway?’
‘I should be able to find someone. It will cost you, mind.’
‘How much?’
‘Call it an even denarius.’
Carbo made a rueful face, but he would have paid far more if he’d had to. He fumbled in his purse and handed over a silver coin.
Selecting a small piece of parchment, the scribe placed it on his stained desk and weighed its corners down with pieces of lead. Dipping his stylus into a pot of ink, he looked enquiringly at Carbo.
‘“Honoured Father and Mother, I live in hope that this reaches you both healthy and well.”’
The scribe pursed his lips with concentration as he finished the line. ‘Yes?’
‘“I can only apologise for the lack of communication since I left home. I departed because I wished to”…’ Carbo paused, wondering what he should say. ‘… “help the family’s financial problems in my own way, rather than doing as Father wished. I know that this makes me an undutiful son, but I could not bear the thought of becoming a lawyer.”’
‘I don’t blame you,’ said the scribe, scowling at the stallholder opposite, a tall man with oiled hair and an imperious manner. ‘Liars and thieves, the lot of them.’
Even more aware of the need to choose his words with care, Carbo smiled.
‘Continue.’
‘“I still hope to help with regard to Father’s obligations in the future. For the moment, however, that will have to wait. I am about to embark on a long and dangerous journey, one from which I may never return.”’ May? Will. But he couldn’t say that, in case the scribe got too curious. His letter was surely odd enough as it was. ‘“Before my departure, I wished to let you know that I pray for you both daily. May the gods watch over and protect you. Your loving son, Carbo.”’
The scribe signed off the letter with a flourish. ‘Thinking of seeking your fortune abroad?’
‘Yes.’ You cannot even imagine.
‘With a merchant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Gaul, or somewhere even further afield?’
‘I have to meet a man in Placentia who is heading for Gaul and then Britannia,’ lied Carbo.
‘You’re a braver man than me,’ said the scribe with a shudder. ‘They say that the seas around Britannia are full of terrible monsters. Its natives live under the malign influence of the druids. Their warriors fight naked, eat the flesh of their enemies, and make drinking cups out of their skulls.’ He took Carbo’s feigned horror at face value. ‘Of course I didn’t mean that you would come to any harm. No doubt you’ll be home within the year, a wealthy man.’
‘No doubt.’ Real grief gripped Carbo. Despite the lie about his intentions, his imminent departure was no less final. If only he could turn up on his uncle’s doorstep and say goodbye to his parents in person, instead of sending them a coded letter. Be content. It’s the best you can do.
‘To whom should the letter be sent?’ asked the scribe, folding the parchment into a little square.
Carbo’s mouth opened and closed. He wanted to say, ‘Jovian Carbo, at the house of the lawyer Alfenus Varus, who lives on the Esquiline Hill in Rome,’ but his tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. What am I doing? This is insane.
‘Well?’
Still Carbo said nothing.
‘The letter’s no good without a name and address.’
‘Leave it. I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Change of heart?’
‘Yes,’ Carbo muttered. ‘My prayers will have to suffice.’
‘Family are always hard to deal with.’ The scribe’s tone was sympathetic.
‘Yes,’ replied Carbo gruffly. ‘I want my denarius.’
‘Give me four asses, and it’s yours. I have to be paid for my time,’ said the scribe with a frown.
Carbo rummaged in his purse and handed over the small coins. In return, the scribe tossed him the denarius. Carbo nodded his thanks and left. He had to concentrate on his real mission and find out what he could about Longinus’ plans. After that, he could drown his sorrows. In the morning, they’d return to their camp, where Spartacus would be waiting. He walked past a druggist’s stall, vaguely noticing a legionary who was engrossed by he bottles and lotions on display without discerning it was the same individual who had been talking to the doormen outside the inn. He also missed the man hurrying over to the scribe.
By the time he’d reached Vulcan’s Anvil again, it was nearly dark. He was ushered inside with more greasy smiles. Carbo scanned the room, but there was no sign of Navio. His eyes were drawn to the women behind the bar. A raven-haired temptress now stood where the brunette had been. She was even more gorgeous than the others, and Carbo knew that she was the one he’d pick. But before that, he had work to do. Ordering a jug of Campanian, he found a space on a long bench that ran along one wall, which fortuitously afforded a good view of the door as well as the stairs to the floor above.
Casual glances revealed that his neighbours were soldiers. Carbo’s guts churned, but he slurped at his wine, eager for the confidence that its effects would bring, and listened to every word he could.
To his left, three junior officers were bitching about their centurion. ‘All he cares about is spit and polish,’ moaned one, a fresh-faced tesserarius.
‘I know,’ agreed the signifer, who was a decade or so older. ‘That bullshit has its time and place, but when we’re facing the fight of our lives, you’d think he could concentrate on other things.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, lads.’ The optio was a tall man with jug ears. ‘But Bassus has been around the block more times than you and I can imagine. Focusing the men’s minds on boring duties like keeping their kit sparkling clean helps them not to think about more worrying things.’
‘Like Spartacus and his fucking army, you mean,’ said the tesserarius heavily.
‘Precisely.’
‘I hope to Hades that Longinus knows what he’s at,’ muttered the signifer. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re all buggered.’
Carbo pricked his ears.
‘Shut your trap,’ growled the optio. ‘You know we’re not supposed to talk about it.’ He glanced to either side, and Carbo busily filled his cup again. Fortuna, please let me hear something, he prayed.
To his disappointment, the officers then began talking about the whores on display. Carbo turned his attention to the group of legionaries on his right, but they were arguing furiously about whose turn it was to order the next round. It appeared to be the turn of a slight soldier with mousy brown hair, although he was denying it, meeting his comrades’ protests and insults with a small, amused smile. The men’s racket was so great that Carbo couldn’t hear what anyone else in the vicinity was saying. He wanted to find another spot where he might be more
