The army dead-cart was parked over to one side, one or two parts of corpses already loaded on, and its crew of soldiers were standing next to it, obviously having been interrupted in their work. The garrison commander looked them up and down. ‘Who seems to be in charge here?’ he demanded.
‘Me, commander. Sesquipularius Auxiliary Brunus at your service, sir.’ A swarthy senior soldier in a knee-length woollen cloak, sweat-stained leather tunic and a chain-mail jerkin stepped forward and performed a smart salute. I realized that I’d met the man before. I’d nicknamed him ‘Scowler’, though he wasn’t scowling now. He was treating the commander to an obsequious smile. ‘Hard to believe there were only five of them.’ He gestured to the human pieces lying on his cart. ‘Of course some idiot has half-dismembered several horses, too. And have you seen the state of that?’
He pointed. In the midst of this carnage stood another cart — this one half-lurched into a nearby ditch. Slumped across the titled driver’s seat was the limbless torso of a man. It was dressed in just a tunic — or what remained of one — and it told the same tale that the cloak had done: the savage, bloodstained slashes could be seen from here.
‘Merciful Mars!’ I heard the centurion’s muttered oath. He had been standing close beside me — apparently in case I tried to make a run for it. ‘In my life I’ve seen some gruesome scenes — on a battlefield you expect such things. But so many corpses on a public road. .!’ He made a helpless gesture with his muscle-armoured arm, incidentally lowering the dagger as he spoke.
I turned to the commander, but he was staring at the beasts with a peculiar expression on his face. I realized that the slaughter of the horses had affected him — perhaps more than the killing of the driver and the slaves. It was vaguely shocking, though I recollected he’d been a member of the cavalry himself.
He cleared his throat and said, quite gruffly, ‘Poor brutes — what had they ever done to anyone! But, Libertus, there was something that you wished to say to me?’
‘That seems to be the driver of the coach — or what is left of him. The owner of that belt and cloak you showed to me — and therefore your Roman citizen, I suppose?’
He looked then, and nodded. ‘Hardly an inch of flesh that’s not been slashed. Not much chance of finding ancient scars on that. Or of having him identified, as I had rather hoped, so that someone at his funeral could call his name aloud. All the same we must see that he is treated properly, in accordance with his rank.’ He turned to Scowler. ‘See that the driver’s body is accorded due respect. Find something suitable with which to cover him.’
Scowler looked puzzled. A sesquipularius is a fairly junior rank, merely a one-and-a-half-pay petty officer — as such, he clearly did things by the rules and this unexpected order took him by surprise. ‘But, sir, we don’t have anything to cover bodies with. We never carry anything like that — usually we are only dealing with people who don’t count, paupers who perished on the public road. We just sling them on the pile then tip them out in the communal pit and cover them with lime — along with those who died of plague or common criminals.’
The commander gave him an icy look. ‘I see that you are wearing a military cloak. That would do very well. And make sure that you do not simply “sling this body on the pile” — to use your charming phrase. We think he was a Roman citizen. More than that, in fact — we have reason to believe that he was once an auxiliary soldier like yourself. So bring him to the garrison when you have finished here, before you dispose of any of the rest. The army will see that he has a proper burial.’
‘Whatever you command, sir.’ Scowler looked both astounded and abashed. Then he recalled himself. He seized the swagger stick that was hanging on his belt, thumped his palm with it and turned to his outfit with the scowl I’d seen before. ‘Come on, you lazy good-for-nothing sons of whores!’ he roared. ‘You there, on the end. You heard the commander. Let us have your cloak. Put it round that body over there and leave it till the last. We’ll put that one on separately when we have loaded all the rest. And try to find the arms and legs that go with it. Well, don’t stand there gawping. You have your orders, what are you waiting for? Move! Before I use this baton on your backs!’
ELEVEN
The men moved off grumbling and Scowler strutted self-importantly across to supervise. The soldier that he had singled out, muttering imprecations when his superior could not see, stripped off his cloak and wrapped the driver’s corpse in it, while the others began collecting dismembered parts, apparently to see if they belonged — rather as I’d fitted tiles into the pavement earlier. They were so dispassionate about the task, it made this an oddly gruesome exercise to watch.
The commander clearly thought so. He turned to me again. ‘Well, citizen, I’m very glad we came, if only to get a first-hand view of these events and ensure that the driver’s body gets a proper burial. But now it seems there’s little more we can do. It is quite clear what happened. I see that I was wrong and you were right. This must have been the work of brigands, after all. Nothing to do with any threats that Voluus received.’
I looked around me at the carnage on the ground. There was something niggling in the corner of my mind — some detail that I could not quite identify — which made me feel this was not exactly what it seemed. Perhaps it was that feeling of disquiet which prompted me to ask, ‘What makes you so positive of that?’
He looked at me, surprised. ‘Well, surely, citizen, it is obvious. This is no casual assault and robbery. It would take a band of well-armed people to overcome that guard — swords and axes by the look of it — and who but rebels carry weaponry like that? No law-abiding citizen could lay their hands on them — far less use them to such horrible effect.’
I wished I were as certain as he was about that. It was true that civilians are forbidden to carry sharpened weapons in a public place — that law had been in force since the first nefas Ides of March. However, even the humblest landowner has hatchets and large knives on his estate, if only for chopping timber and butchering the stock — I even own such implements myself. But obviously I did not volunteer that fact. Instead I said inanely, ‘This was clearly not a law-abiding man. And almost everybody carries blades from time to time — if only knives when they are going to dine.’
Emelius, who had his own dagger half-pointed at my ribs again, laughed scornfully. ‘It would take more than dining-knives to make a scene like this! And it was not one man — it was a band of them. What is more. .’ He seemed to feel the commander’s icy glare. ‘With your permission, sir!’
His superior nodded. ‘Go on, centurion.’
‘It must have been a well-commanded band and very used to stealth.’ He shot a look at me. ‘I’ve been in a few ambushes and I can tell you that. No one else could have crept up on this lot unobserved, not even in the night, let alone while they were wide awake and travelling along.’
The commander glanced at me. ‘Go on,’ he said again.
Emelius, encouraged, was happy to rush on. (The name means ‘eager’ and it clearly suited him.) ‘These guards would have been watching for attack — that’s what they were here for — and most of them were obviously armed. Some of those bodies still have cudgels hanging from their belts. Not even time to heft them, by the look of it.’
‘Well said, centurion!’ the commandant approved. ‘That seems to confirm my views beyond all doubt.’ He turned enquiringly to me. ‘I think we can report back to the curia that there was a rebel ambush on the cart, and the guards were taken by surprise and overwhelmed. Perhaps it’s not surprising that such a thing occurred — the news that there was treasure on the way was common gossip, I believe. It would not have been difficult for it to reach the bandits’ ears. This might have been avoided — with sufficient care.’