Magnus and the Crossroads Brotherhood Read online

  Servius smiled and patted Magnus on the shoulder as they strolled along the walkway. ‘Only because Fabricius burned down the house between here and the wall a couple of months ago; they haven’t started rebuilding it yet.’

  Magnus glanced down at the burnt-out ruin below, just visible in the weak moonlight. ‘Silly man, he doesn’t realise just how much that bit of extra sun is going to cost him.’ He stopped and scrutinised the house. The courtyard garden, surrounded by a portico with a sloping, tiled roof, was a decent size for the tightly packed Caelian Hill, stretching forty paces by twenty; although the wall surrounding it was a good twelve feet high, from where he stood, thirty feet up, Magnus could see the door that led into the tablinum and on into the atrium of the house. ‘From here to the door must be almost a hundred paces; if Fabricius walked out of it, it wouldn’t be an impossible shot for a good archer. Tigran’s our man, he’s an easterner; they’re born to the bow.’

  ‘My thoughts entirely; but he’s not going to come out at night at this time of year and it would be too dangerous to try during the day; Tigran needs the dark to be able to escape cleanly.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to come up with something that’ll bring him out from under his fat slaves and into the garden. Have Marius and a couple of the lads watch the place for the next few days; we need to get an idea of the household’s routine. In the meantime we’ve got to work out how to prevent three Blue teams and three White teams finishing ahead of the Reds.’

  ‘What about our Greens?’

  ‘That’s the easy part, Brother; I saw how to do that this afternoon.’

  Magnus’ face fell as he walked through the tavern door. A Greek in his late twenties, with a thick black beard and dark, expressionless eyes, sat at his table in the corner. ‘Does she want to see me, Pallas?’

  ‘She does, master,’ Pallas replied, getting up and bowing his head.

  ‘There’s no need to do that.’

  ‘I am a slave and you are freeborn.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’re also steward to the Lady Antonia.’

  ‘But still a slave.’

  ‘Which is what I’m going to be for the rest of the night.’

  ‘That’s a matter of perception, master. If she demanded it of me I could not refuse to go to her bed; you, on the other hand, could.’

  ‘And if I did that, then I wouldn’t benefit from her favour.’

  The Greek steward raised an eyebrow a fraction. ‘But that would be your free choice, whereas if I refused she’d be within her rights to have me crucified.’

  Magnus turned and headed for the door with Pallas following. ‘Yeah, well, however you argue it there’s no getting around the fact that she’s a powerful woman and we all have reason to do her bidding.’

  ‘And some of her requests are a little more demanding than others, which is why she sends me to fetch you so that she can preserve her dignity and as few people as possible know that she ... er ...’

  ‘Likes to get a hard fucking from ex-boxers?’

  Pallas cleared his throat. ‘Precisely.’

  *

  ‘You may go now, Magnus,’ Antonia murmured, lying back on the pillow and staring up into the gloom of the ceiling high above, beyond the reach of the few oil lamps placed around the bed. ‘And take your things.’

  ‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus looked down at the most powerful woman in Rome and wondered how it had come to this. During his two years as a boxer, after leaving the Urban Cohorts, she had often hired him to fight as an after-dinner entertainment for her friends; like many other respectable Roman matrons, she would sometimes retain him for services of a different nature after the party broke up. He had always performed his duty with diligence, acceding to all her demands – which were numerous and sometimes not for the faint-hearted. However, once he had retired from fighting, the massive difference in their social status precluded any liaison until he had met his patron Senator Pollo’s nephews, Vespasian and Sabinus. They had been favoured by Antonia and because Magnus’ loyalty was to Senator Pollo and his family, his and Antonia’s paths had crossed a few years previously; since then she had made regular demands on his services. It was not so bad, he reflected as he retied his loincloth; for a woman in her mid-sixties she was still attractive. Her skin remained smooth with only a few wrinkles around her sparkling green eyes: eyes that never missed a single detail. She wore very little make-up; her high cheekbones, strong chin and full lips needed no embellishment. Even with her auburn hair loose and dishevelled she still managed to look like the high-born patrician that she was; an image helped by the fact that she had not run to fat and her body had not yet creased and sagged.

  Magnus slipped on his tunic, gently rubbing the bite-marks on his shoulder. ‘Domina?’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  ‘I have a favour to ask, domina.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I would like you to give someone a racing tip.’

  ‘To whom and why?’ Antonia turned over languidly to lie on her belly, her eyes closed and her face nestled into the pillow; the sheet fell away from her buttocks.

  Magnus admired his handiwork. ‘To your nephew, Ahenobarbus.’

  ‘You don’t want to get involved with him; he’s probably the most unpleasant member of my family. I’m just pleased that he and Agrippina haven’t managed to breed yet; a child of that union would be atrocious.’

  Magnus knew enough about the imperial family to understand that was condemnation indeed.

  ‘I don’t want to get involved with him; I was hoping to do this without him ever knowing where you got your information from – until it’s been proven reliable, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘Why do you want him to win at the races?’

  ‘I don’t want him to win as much as I want him to place a bet with a bookmaker called Ignatius, big enough to ruin Ignatius when he does win.’

  ‘If he wins.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll win all right; it’ll be a sure thing.’

  ‘How much do you want him to put down?’

  ‘A thousand aurei on a Red one-two-three at odds of around fifty to one.’

  ‘And if he wins then the bookmaker will owe him over a million denarii; it would probably break him.’

  ‘Yes, domina.’

  ‘This bookmaker has upset you, I take it.’

  ‘Very much, domina.’

  ‘Ahenobarbus might not believe me.’

  ‘I know, so before he places the big bet we’ll have a practice run on the races on the calends of March; then he can judge just how good the information he’s getting is. If you’re willing to grant me this favour, have Pallas meet me at the Temple of Mars in Augustus’ Forum that morning at the third hour.’

  ‘I’ll think about it, Magnus; now leave me.’

  ‘Yes, domina.’ Magnus scooped up his sandals, took the short black-leather whip from off the bed and left the room.

  ‘The Whites bring their teams out of their stables’ gates and turn right, past the Pantheon and the Baths of Agrippa; they then pass between Pompey’s theatre and the Flaminian Circus and on to the Fabrician Bridge and over the Tiber Island,’ Servius informed Magnus as they stood in the rain outside the Villa Publica on the Campus Martius, three days later. ‘They cross the river, turn left along the Via Aurelia and go across the Aemilian Bridge and then through the Porta Flumentana and into the Forum Boarium, the race-day camp for all four teams. The Reds also take that route; however, the Urban Prefect never lets the Reds go at the same time as the Whites – that way he avoids any faction trouble.’

  Magnus digested the information for a few moments; drops of rain trickled off his wide-brimmed leather hat. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. ‘What about the Sublician Bridge?’

  ‘To stop any rabble getting into the teams’ camp, that’s always closed on a race day as it too leads directly into the Forum Boarium.’

  ‘So the only ways to cross the river near the Circus Maximus on a
race day are across the Tiber Island and the Aemilian Bridge.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘What about the Greens and Blues?’

  ‘They take a different route. They don’t cross and recross the river; they enter the city through the Porta Carmentalis and then cross Velabrum and enter the Forum Boarium from the east.’

  ‘Why are there two different routes?’

  ‘To avoid congestion.’

  ‘And they always stick to the same route?’

  ‘Always. You wouldn’t know this because our connections mean we can always get into the circus whenever we want; however, hundreds of thousands of people can’t and they line the routes so that they can see their favoured teams pass.’

  ‘How the masses live, eh?’

  Servius spat; his saliva was immediately lost in a rain-battered puddle. ‘Fucking rabble. Come on, Brother, let’s get back before my old bones seize up.’

  ‘How far in advance do they bring the teams in?’ Magnus asked as they turned to go.

  ‘Normally, on a twenty-four-race day, they start by bringing in the twelve chariots for the first four races plus the spares for the day and all the hortatores; then they do relays of twelve throughout the day so that the Forum Boarium doesn’t get too crowded.’

  Magnus grinned despite the rain. ‘So if we were to stop the Whites bringing their last relay of twelve in then they wouldn’t have any teams in the final four races, would they, brother?’

  ‘Don’t forget the spares.’

  ‘How many do they have?’

  ‘It depends on the fitness of the horses, but normally between three and six teams, never more because of shortage of space.’

  ‘So we could guarantee the last two races being free from Whites?’

  ‘It’s possible; but how would you do it? They’re very well guarded and if you were to block the way they would just go back and take another route to the circus.’

  ‘Not if we block the bridges and trap them on the wrong side of the river.’

  ‘But the Reds would be trapped as well.’

  ‘Not if we time it right. Let’s invite Nonus Manilus Rufinus over for a little chat when he gets off duty this evening.’

  ‘So what have you learnt, brother?’ Magnus asked, rubbing his hands over a portable brazier as Marius walked into the tavern’s back room.

  ‘Fabricius doesn’t go out much and when he does he’s very well guarded.’

  ‘As we expected,’ Servius commented, taking a sip from a steaming cup of hot wine; his eyes watered from the brazier’s smoke.

  Magnus indicated the jug on the table. ‘Help yourself, Brother. What about his household?’

  Marius poured himself a cup, chuckling. ‘Well, every morning two of his fat slaves – and they really are fat, you should see ’em, Magnus, you’d have to roll ’em in flour and look for the damp patch. Anyway, every morning the same two head off for the market to buy whatever they need that day. They come back a couple of hours later laden with stuff; it’s unbelievable how much they all eat.’

  ‘Fabricius likes to keep them fat and he can well afford it.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t ever seen the like of it, Magnus.’

  ‘Are they guarded when they go?’

  ‘No, who would want to touch ’em?’

  ‘We would. Tomorrow, Brother, I want you to invite those two well-formed ladies here for a little bit of the Brotherhood’s hospitality, if you take my meaning?’

  Marius’ eyes glinted with amusement over the rim of his cup. ‘They’re big old beasts; it’ll take more than me and my two lads.’

  ‘Take Sextus; what he lacks in brains he makes up for in brawn.’

  Marius turned to leave, taking his cup with him. ‘Right you are, Magnus; I’ll have them here by the third hour of the day.’

  ‘Make sure you do, brother; and don’t let them see your faces or where you take them.’

  ‘Of course not, Magnus.’ Marius opened the door and stepped out.

  ‘Leave the door open; let’s get some of this smoke out.’

  Servius rubbed his eyes. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’ll be ready to do this first part tomorrow night; how’s Tigran doing with his archery practice?’

  ‘He says he’s fine; his wound has healed nicely. The last couple of days he’s gone out into the country each morning and has been practising shooting at a sack of hay a hundred paces away; he reckons to hit it nine times out of ten.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not the tenth shot tomorrow. Tell him to practise all day and to be here by nightfall. And get one of the lads to purchase a couple of snakes first thing in the morning, but not poisonous ones.’

  Servius picked up a stylus and a wax tablet and scratched a note. ‘That reminds me,’ he said, reading a previous note. ‘Cassandros came in this morning; he says he’s been doing very nicely with a young lad from the Reds. I’ll spare you the details, but the boy enjoys all of Cassandros’ little hobbies and can’t get enough of one in particular.’

  Magnus winced and looked at his hand. ‘I suppose that involves a lot of olive oil.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does, Brother. Anyhow, suffice it to say that the lad is very amenable now and Cassandros is sure that he can get whatever information we require out of him.’

  ‘Good; tell him that, when the time comes, I’ll want to know the form of the Red teams in the last two races on the first race-day after the calends of March.’

  Servius made a note of the race as a figure appeared silhouetted in the doorway.

  Magnus rose to greet the new arrival. ‘Rufinus, my new friend, good of you to come; I have a little proposition for you concerning the closing of bridges owing to a riot.’

  Magnus shivered; his breath steamed in the cold night air as he hunched down on the Servian Wall, keeping low so that his silhouette would not be visible. Next to him, Tigran examined an arrow in the moonlight, checking the fletching was secure and the shaft true; satisfied with his choice he nocked it.

  ‘Juno’s plump arse, come on, lads,’ Magnus muttered, peering down into the street that ran alongside Fabricius’ house, ‘what’s keeping you?’

  Marius and Sextus had delivered the two slaves earlier that day, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Magnus had been truly surprised by their magnitude and had feared for a while that his plan might not work; but after the lads had shown they could lift the women’s massive bulk he was happy with it.

  After a few more muttered curses Magnus finally heard the noise he had been waiting for: the clatter of hooves and the rumble of iron-shod wheels on stone. Out of the gloom a covered wagon appeared, making its way slowly up the street. As it drew level with the wall of Fabricius’ courtyard garden it pulled in as close as possible and stopped. The cover was thrown back by shadowy figures and then two ladders were placed upright in the wagon, leaning against the wall so that they reached its summit.

  ‘Good lads,’ Magnus said under his breath. Two of the figures started mounting the ladders with a large, struggling shape between them; underneath, in the wagon, two more figures took the weight of the writhing burden. Eventually they got it to the top and heaved it on to the tiled roof of the garden portico.

  ‘Remember, it’s the small skinny man we want,’ Magnus reminded Tigran as the second obese slave was hefted up the ladders. ‘The first people through the door will be bodyguards; it’ll be a fuck-up if you shoot one of them.’

  Tigran nodded and took a kneeling position, drawing his compact recurved bow as the second shape was manhandled on to the roof.

  ‘Hoods and gags now, lads,’ Magnus muttered, ‘and then give them something to make some noise about.’

  The two men up the ladders fiddled for few moments with the slave women and then leapt down as shrill screams pierced the night air. As soon as the ladders were removed the wagon thundered off into the night, turning left down a side street and disappearing.

  The screeching continued.

  Tigran aimed his arrow at the
closed garden door of Fabricius’ house; light leaked from beneath it. On the roof one of the two slaves started to slide down, increasing the intensity of the shrieks.

  ‘They really don’t like snakes down their tunics,’ Magnus observed, staring at the door, willing it to open. ‘Come on, come on.’

  The sliding slave neared the edge and then, with a shriller but suddenly curtailed yelp, fell into the garden.

  The door opened and two bulky figures filled its frame.

  ‘Bodyguards,’ Magnus whispered unnecessarily.

  The second slave continued screaming; the men ran towards her, disappearing from view as an enormous female shape, obviously naked, took their place in the doorway, closely followed by a second and then a third.

  Tigran’s aim remained firmly fixed on the mounds of female flesh silhouetted against the soft light burning within the house.

  A harsh shout from inside caused the three women to turn and move apart; light played on the rolls of fat that draped their forms and wobbled as they moved. A slight man appeared in their midst, pushing them out of the way.

  Tigran’s bow thrummed.

  The man stopped.

  The women jumped back.

  Tigran’s bow twanged again; this time the man jerked, arcing around with his left shoulder raised. The women brought their hands up to their mouths but failed to stifle the squawks that welled up from inside as Fabricius collapsed to the floor with two arrows in his chest.

  ‘Great shooting, Brother,’ Magnus said, shaking his head in admiration. ‘You’ve just created a most convenient vacancy.’

  ‘I’ve made my recommendation,’ Gaius informed Magnus the following day as he and a few of his brothers escorted the senator back up the Quirinal from the Senate House.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the aedile was rather surprised to hear that there was a vacancy, it was the first he knew of it; I assured him that it was the case – one of Fabricius’ rivals had finished him off over an argument about positioning in the senators’ enclosure. I told him that it wouldn’t be worth investigating because whichever one of the other three did it would be sure to cover his tracks.’