Blood and Steel. Harry Sidebottom

Caenis smiled. It felt good that she knew a secret that could bring down a high and mighty Senator like Gallicanus.

      Once all the Senators were safely gathered in, the great bronze doors of the Curia clanged shut. Again the Senate would meet in secret session. The plebs made their disapproval known. The mob surged towards the Senate House. Libertas! Libertas! The atmosphere had changed in an instant. The shouts of Liberty echoed back off the surrounding buildings with an air of menace, as if the stones of the Forum itself called for blood.

      The way back to the Subura was blocked; an angry mob wedged between the Curia and the Basilica Aemilia. Pushing and squirming through, careless of groping hands, Caenis fought her way past the Shrine of Venus Cloacina, and into the comparative quiet of the Portico of Gaius and Lucius Caesar. She would have to take a longer route home.

      From the passage by the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, she emerged into the immense courtyard of the Temple of Peace. The wind had shifted and was stronger, bringing down from the north isolated dark clouds, the forerunners of a storm. But for now the sun shone on neat flowerbeds, fountains, statues, and ornamental trees. The stalls of the merchants were closed, and it was pleasantly empty after the Forum, just the occasional stroller. She had most of the day. It made no odds if the rain caught her. She would have to change before going to work.

      Calm now, she turned to the right, ambling along under the colonnade. The columns were a pretty pink, with white bases and tops. Most of sculptures and paintings she could not identify. Unable to read their inscriptions, to her they were just a young athlete, a beautiful girl, or a grizzled wrestler. But some she knew. Here was Venus climbing from her bath, and over there was the shrine of Ganymede, with the convenient privacy of its hedges. It was deserted now, but memories of other days at that naughty little shrine made her smile.

      She turned the corner, and made her way towards the offices of the Prefect of the City. Sometimes she liked to go into the public room, and look at the great marble plan of the city on the wall. It made her feel like a bird or a goddess gazing down at Rome, as if able to peer into the lives of all those people in the endless buildings, and then soar away. Once an earnest young man standing beside her had said it was odd that South was at the top of the plan. He was trying to pick her up, but she had asked him why. He had looked at her strangely, and said because North was at the top of most maps. When she had again asked why, he had looked put out, obviously not knowing the answer.

      The offices were shuttered and chained today. Everyone said that the Prefect of the City had not been seen since Vitalianus had been murdered yesterday morning, and certainly the Urban Cohorts had remained in their barracks. Apparently the Prefect was a friend of Maximinus. Some said he had fled north to the protection of the tyrant.

      ‘I smell a she-wolf.’ Three men were sitting by the doors. They were unshaven, dirty, and were passing a jug from hand to hand. Normally the guards would have shooed their sort away.

      ‘Come and have a drink, little she-wolf.’

      Caenis ignored them, and went to walk past.

      One of them reached out, and caught the hem of her gown. ‘Just a little fun, no need to be stuck-up.’

      Caenis pulled her gown free, saying she had to get to work.

      ‘Start early,’ the man said. ‘We have money.’

      She walked on.

      One of the others laughed. ‘Turned down by a Quadrantaria.’

      Caenis bristled; how dare he call her a quarter-ass whore.

      ‘Come back here.’ She sensed the man who had grabbed her getting up.

      She walked faster, knowing the others were on their feet too, that they would all follow her. There was no one in sight.

      ‘Come back here, and get what is coming to you.’

      They were gaining, she hitched up her gown, and started to run.

      ‘Fucking bitch,’ one shouted.

      She darted to the left, down between a row of stalls, then right along a flowerbed, cutting towards the nearest gate. Their footfall slapped on the earth behind her.

      There were two men, a little way off.

      ‘Help!’

      They turned, took in the situation, shrugged, and turned away.

      She burst through the gate. No one. The Street of the Sandal-makers was near deserted; just an old beggar off to the left, slumped against the base of the statue of Apollo. Of course, fear of unrest must have driven away the fashionable young men, and shut all the bookshops.

      Her pursuers crowding through the gate, she sprinted towards the statue. There was a bar there, The Lyre, if it was open, and she got inside, she might be safe.

      Her head jerked back, searing pain as one of them grabbed her hair. Her legs went out from under her. She landed hard, agony driving up her spine.

      ‘Over there, do her up against the wall.’

      She was half-pulled, half-dragged across the street. They pushed her into a corner formed by a buttress, crowding in at her.

      ‘You should have taken the money, bitch.’

      Hands were hauling her gown up her legs, pawing her breasts, pushing between her thighs.

      ‘Show us what you have got.’

      The neck of her gown was torn open, her breast-band yanked up.

      ‘Look at those tits.’

      She was forced to her knees. No point in fighting now, they would beat her, perhaps mark her for life.

      The man who had first accosted her, undoubtedly the leader, unbuckled his belt, pulled up his tunic, and fumbled in his breeches.

      ‘Get the old beggar. Let him have a go after us.’

      The laughter died. The man facing her spun around, his penis still in his fist.

      Caenis tugged her gown together, gathered her legs under her, waiting for a chance to run.

      ‘Put it away, and go.’ The speaker was her neighbour, young Castricius. The old die-cutter stood with him.

      The man laughed, with no mirth and little conviction. ‘A boy and an old man.’

      One of the others had a knife in his hand.

      Castricius shook his head. ‘Leave.’

      ‘Run along, boy.’

      ‘Last chance.’ Castricius spoke softly, as if saddened by the stupidity of the world.

      ‘Fuck off, and take your grandfather with you.’

      One hand stuffing his penis back into his breeches, wrestling with the buckle of his belt, with the other the leader tugged a knife from the sheath on his belt.

      In a moment, all the men, even the die-cutter, were crouched forward, balanced on the balls of their feet, steel flicking this way and that.

      ‘The die is cast.’ A strange, unreadable emotion slid across Castricius’ thin, angular face.

      A sudden movement, making Caenis start. A scuffle of feet and a grunt of pain. The die-cutter was down, clutching his thigh. His assailant bent over him.

      Neatly, Castricius stepped inside the knife of the third man, and stabbed him deep in the stomach.

      Before anyone else could react, with the grace of a dancer, Castricius whirled, and again faced the leader.

      The man who Castricius had stabbed dropped his weapon, and curled over, blood flooding out between his splayed fingers. ‘He has done for me.’

      ‘Yes,’ Castricius replied, never taking his eyes off the other two. ‘And now I will deal with your friends.’

      The leader backed away. The remaining man joined him. Their eyes flitted between each other,