her, taking the opportunity to shoot a glance within. He saw nothing but the blank walls of the entrance hall. The audible ribaldry meant that at least two slaves were inside, however. Cross that bridge when you come to it. Get the girl out of harm’s way first.
They rounded the corner of the house, coming off the paved street and on to the freshly tilled black earth of the fields. Carbo could see right up to the tree line where they’d hidden just a short time previously. A few figures moved up there, stragglers no doubt, but they were far enough away to make it unlikely that he and the girl would be seen. All the same, he felt a surge of relief when the door came into sight. It also lay ajar. The girl turned to him, her face white with terror again.
‘Don’t move. I’ll go in first.’ Carbo took a deep breath. He tiptoed to the door, and peered around its edge. There was no one in sight. What he saw instead was a large, but typical, Roman garden. Filling half the space were neat rows of vines, and lemon, fig and apple trees. The rest of the ground was given over to a combination of vegetables and herbs. A red-brick wall enclosed the space on three sides, with the back of the house taking up the fourth. Another small door in that wall provided access to the garden. Thankfully, it was closed.
Carbo’s eyes flickered from side to side. There was what looked like a tool shed, and a well, but no shrine. ‘Where is it?’
‘You can’t see it. It’s on this wall.’ The girl tapped the brickwork.
Understanding flooded through him, and he led the way inside. The area dedicated to Dionysus was immediately apparent. Two lines of pillars had been thrown out a dozen steps from the back garden wall. They supported a low wooden roof. It was nothing compared to even the most basic Roman temple, but it was undoubtedly a place of worship. The floor, which had been covered with crudely laid stone slabs, was covered with offerings. There were little oil lamps by the dozen, but also statuettes of Dionysus and his maenads, jugs of wine, piles of olives and small sheaves of wheat. Bronze coins were dotted here and there; there was even an occasional silver denarius.
It was only when Carbo drew level with the shrine’s entrance that he was able to appreciate the imagery beneath which the offerings had been placed. His eyes widened. Under the area covered by the roof, the garden wall had been plastered and then painted. Wreathed by lines of green ivy, one of Dionysus’ favoured emblems, were three large panels. On the left was a bucolic scene of the grape harvest. In the background, men laboured, placing the fruit they picked in baskets. Other workers carried loads of the purple fruit to a figure in the foreground, which was reclining on a couch and flanked by attendants holding vine branches. A beardless, nude youth, Dionysus lay holding a cantharus, or ritual drinking vessel. Carbo instinctively bowed his head. I ask for your protection, O Great One. For both of us.
The middle panel depicted Dionysus as a much older man, bearded and wearing a Greek chiton. Draped over his shoulders was the skin of a fawn. Around him clustered groups of women, some fawning in obeisance, others dancing in ecstatic frenzy, still more coupling with men on the floor. But it was the last image that Carbo didn’t like. Here was Dionysus, youthful once more, clad in an undergarment, descending into the underworld to hold hands with its god, Hades. Is that what you’re doing today? Making a pact with Hades? It certainly feels like it.
His chin firmed. Whatever Dionysus’ intentions, the girl should be safe here at least. He turned to find her regarding him.
‘I thought it was just slaves and women who prayed to Bacchus. Or foreigners.’
‘My leader’s wife is a priestess of Dionysus. I’ve learned to hold him in great reverence.’
‘You’re a Roman,’ she said accusingly. ‘What are you doing with murderous slaves?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ Carbo snapped. He pointed. ‘That door. Can it be locked from this side?’
‘No. Only from inside the kitchen.’
Damn it! If he stayed, there’d be no chance of rescuing other children. ‘Stay under the shrine’s roof. No one will bother coming into the garden. Even if they do, you won’t be seen,’ he said bluffly.
‘You’re going to leave me?’ She began to cry again.
‘I have to,’ he muttered awkwardly. In an effort to reassure her, he said, ‘I’ll take a look into the house. See what’s going on. Make sure it’s safe for you.’ Safe?
She didn’t seem any happier, but Carbo didn’t know what else to say or do. Hefting his sword, he strode towards the small wooden door. Reaching it, he placed his head carefully against the timbers and listened. The voices he’d heard were still audible, but dim. Carbo waited for the count of fifty heartbeats, but the noise level remained the same. Good. There’s no one in the kitchen. He placed his thumb on the latch. With a metallic click, it lifted. He laid his ear on the door again. Nothing. Carbo’s stomach began to churn, but he pulled the door open and looked inside.
The kitchen had been thoroughly ransacked. Broken crockery lay everywhere. Doors had been ripped off cupboards. Bags of flour had been slashed open, strings of onions and bunches of herbs hacked down from the rafters. A yellow sludge of olive oil surrounded a smashed amphora. There was no sign of life, so Carbo took a step inside. Seeing the telltale crimson of blood on the tiled floor, he stiffened. He tiptoed further, finding an old man sprawled in the kitchen doorway. The slave — for that’s what he looked like — had been nearly decapitated. His head lay at a crazy, unnatural angle to his body. Carbo had never seen so much blood around one man. He must have bled out.
A woman’s scream transfixed him to the spot. It was followed by another shriek of distress, also female, and then a burst of loud, male laughter. ‘Let’s fuck them here in the courtyard,’ roared a voice.
‘Good idea,’ agreed another.
‘I’m first,’ said a third, commanding voice. ‘I’m not screwing either of these bitches after you filth. My cock would probably drop off with what I’d catch.’
There were a few nervous titters, but no one argued.
Crixus! What’s he doing here? Carbo crept back towards the door. He had nearly reached it when the first woman cried out again. ‘No! Please! No!’
Chloris? In all the gods’ names, how? Why? Carbo reeled with the shock of it. Her begging began again, and any doubt in his mind vanished. It was definitely her. Oh gods, what can I do? If I go out there, Crixus will kill me. He had to do something, however, or he’d never be able to live with the shame.
Gritting his teeth, he turned around. There was no way of getting around the old man without stepping in his blood. Carbo hesitated for a moment before dipping the fingers of his left hand in the sticky fluid, and smearing them all over his face. To have any chance of facing down Crixus, he needed to look as if he’d just slaughtered half the town on his own.
Clutching his sword with whitened knuckles, he stepped out into the courtyard. Like the garden, it was full of fruit trees, but a fountain, ornamental shrubs and Greek statues of the gods also served to decorate the space. It reminded Carbo of his family home. Through the vegetation, he spied Crixus and two other men with long hair about twenty paces away. At their feet, he could see the lower halves of two naked women. Chloris, and someone else. The heavily muscled trio were clad in mail shirts, and bloody swords dangled from their hands. They were all Gauls. Crixus would have his own countrymen with him. Carbo’s courage began ebbing away. He felt as Iolaus, Hercules’ nephew, might have felt if he’d been asked to tackle the Hydra on his own. How to play this? Threatening them won’t work. He was racking his brains for an idea when events took on a life of their own.
‘We’ve got company,’ one of the men shouted, dropping into a fighting crouch.
The others spun around, snarling with anger.
‘It’s all right. I’m one of you!’ Carbo did his best to swagger up to the trio.
‘Trying to distract me from my fuck?’ shouted Crixus. His heavy brows lowered, and then he sneered. ‘Well, well, well. It’s Spartacus’ little Roman arse wipe. You look to have killed someone at least. What are you doing sneaking around here?’
‘Looking for valuables, same as everyone,’ Carbo lied.
‘Well, you’ll find sod all here. The family savings are ours. They were under a flagstone in the atrium.’ Crixus jerked his head at the two women. ‘These two pretty bitches were hiding in a cupboard in one of the bedrooms. Finding them was a real bonus. The gods left the best for us until last, eh?’ He rubbed his crotch and his men sniggered.
Carbo took another step forward, as if to appreciate the women’s bodies. Is it really Chloris? His heart clenched with horror. It was. There was no mistaking her delicately boned face and the dimple on her left cheek, both now streaked with tears. Or her scars. Seeing Carbo’s blood-covered features, she screamed.
‘She doesn’t like you,’ said Crixus with a cruel chuckle. ‘Seeing as I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you have her
