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montycrusto
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A Thief in the Macellum. (Crux story by Montycrusto)
My name is Gaius Pica; welcome to Puteoli, sir! You must be just off the galley from Tyre, though I can see you’re not a Syrian. Nor a Roman, neither; no offence intended, keep your secrets if you like; I’m just interested in people. All I’m saying is, you look like you need a guide. Well, don’t you worry. You just stick with me, and I’ll show you around, for a few coppers. There’s nothing I don’t know about this place.
You’re now standing in the great Macellum. If you have never been to Puteoli before, you probably won’t know what the Macellum is, so I’ll tell you. To you, sir, it’s a large complex of buildings, crowded with merchants, thieves, slaves and citizens, and rammed with all the food and drink of the Empire. To me, it’s my cradle and my school, my temple and my circus, my home, my life and my universe. I’ve been here all my life, and I’ll never leave. Why would I?
Right in front of you is the Tholos, that big dome in the middle of the courtyard, supported by columns of African marble. That’s where the moneychangers hang around; you’ll be needing their services, if you’ve brought foreign coins from Syria; they’ll change them into good Hadrians, or sesterces as you probably call them. Right down there at the far end is the Exedra, that semi-circular platform, where people sit and talk, worship, or wait for their wives to finish their shopping.
Round the edge, tucked in between the pillars of the arcade, are all the tabernae, where you can buy bread, wine, cheeses, pungent spices, aromatic herbs, meat, fish, vegetables and fruits of so many kinds, nobody can even name all of them. Well, I probably could. All the smells and flavours of the world are here. The Empire is a monster, and this is its belly. Funny how it’s always the fish that you smell first, though.
Some of these merchants have worked here all their lives, and they inherited their tabernae from their fathers. Many of these shops have been in the same family for four generations. The spice merchant over there? The previous owner died quite recently, and guess who’s running it now? His younger brother. Yes, I know how he died. I know everything round here. It’s rather a strange story actually…
His name was Licinius, a respected merchant, with contacts in Alexandria and all up the coast of Palestine and Syria. One morning he was found by his brother Quintus, lying dead in a pool of his own blood, at the back of the taberna. They said it was suicide, but I think he was murdered. The only clue was a drawing that he carved into the back wall of the taberna, presumably while he was bleeding to death. He carved a name too, a woman’s name. I think whoever she was, she stabbed him and ran away, leaving the knife behind, and so he wrote her name on the wall, so she would be caught. Oh, you want to see it? Well, I suppose that would be possible, if Quintus agrees; let’s go in and ask him.
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I am Quintus, brother of Licinius. Yes, I will gladly show you where my brother was found; it was I that found him. It was right here, sir, as young Gaius Pica may have told you. Licinius lay slumped against the back wall here, behind these crates, his bare chest covered in wounds. There on the wall is the graffito he carved with the same knife. His own blood was in those scratches. You see it is a drawing of a human figure, a female one, suffering the torment known as crucifixion. Just above it, he scratched the name “Alkimila”. I showed all this to the Vigiles and the other officials of the Praetorium, who investigate all suspicious deaths. And I told them exactly what I’m telling you, now.
No doubt, Gaius has spun you lurid tales of murder and mystery – he is an imaginative youth. Be on your guard, sir, for he has something of a reputation about the Macellum as a pickpocket – look to your purse. Don’t make that face, Pica, you dare not deny it. The truth is, sir, there was no murder, no mystery. My brother took his own life, slashing his own chest and arms until he bled to death. Ever since the episode with that slave girl of Tyre, he was never the same. He took to drinking – I often found him down here, lying in a pool of wine; I never thought to find him in a pool of blood, though. I knew he cut himself, sometimes, and tried to hide it from us. I think he hated himself.
The girl, yes, she was a slave he purchased in Tyre on one of his business trips, though I’m sure she was not Tyrian. She was a great beauty, olive-skinned, black-haired and dark-eyed. He was besotted with her, for a while. Brought her back here to Puteoli. No, Gaius, he didn’t bring her to the Macellum; her duties kept her at my brother’s house. They had some disagreement, or he tired of her, I don’t know. And she was accused of some crime, and sentenced to the cross. She was a slave. It happens.
Yes, I saw it. She was stripped, and her back was scourged – you can see Licinius drew the whip-marks across her flesh right here in his drawing. I remember she begged for mercy, or for a quick death, and uttered desperate cries in a foreign tongue, not Aramaic, something else. She was placed facing the cross, and nailed there, her arms outstretched. Her legs were bent, and her heels nailed one on each side of the upright, not far above the ground. And then that awful dance began, where she had to push herself up, screaming, to be able to breathe, and would then sink back again in exhaustion, blood seeping from her wrists and feet. It looked as if she was having sexual relations with the cross, as it was designed to do. All the time the girl was gasping and crying; I could not stand to watch for long. As I left, a couple of legionaries were preparing to abuse her tortured body still further, as if she was not suffering enough. I saw them divesting themselves of their uniforms, and laughing, and I turned away. My brother stayed, standing bolt upright, watching but I think not really seeing. His eyes had a faraway look, and, like I said, he was a changed man afterwards. I think he had loved her, and he could probably have saved her from this terrible end, if he had wanted to. I used to find him down here, sometimes, drinking himself into oblivion, occasionally mumbling her name.
But, sir, I see you are very moved by this tale. Please, I do not mean to upset you. Gaius, make room on that bench, that our visitor may sit down. Sir, are you unwell? What has affected you so?
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My name is Hasan. I come from the land you know as Arabia, far beyond the reach of your consuls and praetors. Alkimila was my beloved sister. How she was abducted, I do not know, but I followed her trail, joining one of the slave caravans that winds its way across the desert to the coast. I followed clues and faint hopes, threatening or bribing various traders, as the occasion demanded, and the trail led me to Tyre, where I heard that my sister had fallen into the hands of one Licinius of Puteoli, a spice merchant. As soon as I was able, I took ship for Italy, and now here I am, guided by this young thief, to the very place where that same Licinius met his end.
But too late! Too late for my dear Alkimila. That was our pet name for her, an affectionate title we gave her. In my language, Al-kamilah means “the perfect one”. And she was perfect; her good nature and serenity were a miracle to behold, like a beautiful lake in the desert. She was indeed beloved, by all. To me, she was, and always will be, Al-kamilah. To see that drawing carved there, to hear about the way her life and her dignity were taken from her, this is almost more than I can bear.
Look at this sword – no, have no fear, Quintus – I do not blame you. This blade is fine steel of Damascus. I came here ready to plunge it into the neck of the man who had taken and shamed my sister. And left her to die, as I now know, in agony upon the cross. Had your brother been alive, Quintus, I would have taken his life. He robbed me of my sister, as he robbed her of her honour, and now Fate has robbed me of my revenge.
All of you are robbers, in this place, this den of theft and greed. This is an Empire of Thieves: all those stone columns looted from Africa, these spices wrenched out of Syria, slaves everywhere torn from their homes and forced to serve their thieving masters. The Empire is a monster, you said, Gaius. You have no idea.
You think this Empire will last forever. But it will crumble. The seeds of its end are already sown, in the thieving hearts of its citizens. Some other people will sweep it away – who knows, maybe even my Arabs will have their time of power. And Rome will be dust, and ruins, and all of us will be forgotten. For who will there be, to speak our names, when we are dead?
I run my fingers across these scratches in the wall; the crude likeness of my darling Al-kamilah, and the crude rendering into Latin of her beautiful name. She alone deserves to be remembered. The Perfect One.
My name is Gaius Pica; welcome to Puteoli, sir! You must be just off the galley from Tyre, though I can see you’re not a Syrian. Nor a Roman, neither; no offence intended, keep your secrets if you like; I’m just interested in people. All I’m saying is, you look like you need a guide. Well, don’t you worry. You just stick with me, and I’ll show you around, for a few coppers. There’s nothing I don’t know about this place.
You’re now standing in the great Macellum. If you have never been to Puteoli before, you probably won’t know what the Macellum is, so I’ll tell you. To you, sir, it’s a large complex of buildings, crowded with merchants, thieves, slaves and citizens, and rammed with all the food and drink of the Empire. To me, it’s my cradle and my school, my temple and my circus, my home, my life and my universe. I’ve been here all my life, and I’ll never leave. Why would I?
Right in front of you is the Tholos, that big dome in the middle of the courtyard, supported by columns of African marble. That’s where the moneychangers hang around; you’ll be needing their services, if you’ve brought foreign coins from Syria; they’ll change them into good Hadrians, or sesterces as you probably call them. Right down there at the far end is the Exedra, that semi-circular platform, where people sit and talk, worship, or wait for their wives to finish their shopping.
Round the edge, tucked in between the pillars of the arcade, are all the tabernae, where you can buy bread, wine, cheeses, pungent spices, aromatic herbs, meat, fish, vegetables and fruits of so many kinds, nobody can even name all of them. Well, I probably could. All the smells and flavours of the world are here. The Empire is a monster, and this is its belly. Funny how it’s always the fish that you smell first, though.
Some of these merchants have worked here all their lives, and they inherited their tabernae from their fathers. Many of these shops have been in the same family for four generations. The spice merchant over there? The previous owner died quite recently, and guess who’s running it now? His younger brother. Yes, I know how he died. I know everything round here. It’s rather a strange story actually…
His name was Licinius, a respected merchant, with contacts in Alexandria and all up the coast of Palestine and Syria. One morning he was found by his brother Quintus, lying dead in a pool of his own blood, at the back of the taberna. They said it was suicide, but I think he was murdered. The only clue was a drawing that he carved into the back wall of the taberna, presumably while he was bleeding to death. He carved a name too, a woman’s name. I think whoever she was, she stabbed him and ran away, leaving the knife behind, and so he wrote her name on the wall, so she would be caught. Oh, you want to see it? Well, I suppose that would be possible, if Quintus agrees; let’s go in and ask him.
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I am Quintus, brother of Licinius. Yes, I will gladly show you where my brother was found; it was I that found him. It was right here, sir, as young Gaius Pica may have told you. Licinius lay slumped against the back wall here, behind these crates, his bare chest covered in wounds. There on the wall is the graffito he carved with the same knife. His own blood was in those scratches. You see it is a drawing of a human figure, a female one, suffering the torment known as crucifixion. Just above it, he scratched the name “Alkimila”. I showed all this to the Vigiles and the other officials of the Praetorium, who investigate all suspicious deaths. And I told them exactly what I’m telling you, now.
No doubt, Gaius has spun you lurid tales of murder and mystery – he is an imaginative youth. Be on your guard, sir, for he has something of a reputation about the Macellum as a pickpocket – look to your purse. Don’t make that face, Pica, you dare not deny it. The truth is, sir, there was no murder, no mystery. My brother took his own life, slashing his own chest and arms until he bled to death. Ever since the episode with that slave girl of Tyre, he was never the same. He took to drinking – I often found him down here, lying in a pool of wine; I never thought to find him in a pool of blood, though. I knew he cut himself, sometimes, and tried to hide it from us. I think he hated himself.
The girl, yes, she was a slave he purchased in Tyre on one of his business trips, though I’m sure she was not Tyrian. She was a great beauty, olive-skinned, black-haired and dark-eyed. He was besotted with her, for a while. Brought her back here to Puteoli. No, Gaius, he didn’t bring her to the Macellum; her duties kept her at my brother’s house. They had some disagreement, or he tired of her, I don’t know. And she was accused of some crime, and sentenced to the cross. She was a slave. It happens.
Yes, I saw it. She was stripped, and her back was scourged – you can see Licinius drew the whip-marks across her flesh right here in his drawing. I remember she begged for mercy, or for a quick death, and uttered desperate cries in a foreign tongue, not Aramaic, something else. She was placed facing the cross, and nailed there, her arms outstretched. Her legs were bent, and her heels nailed one on each side of the upright, not far above the ground. And then that awful dance began, where she had to push herself up, screaming, to be able to breathe, and would then sink back again in exhaustion, blood seeping from her wrists and feet. It looked as if she was having sexual relations with the cross, as it was designed to do. All the time the girl was gasping and crying; I could not stand to watch for long. As I left, a couple of legionaries were preparing to abuse her tortured body still further, as if she was not suffering enough. I saw them divesting themselves of their uniforms, and laughing, and I turned away. My brother stayed, standing bolt upright, watching but I think not really seeing. His eyes had a faraway look, and, like I said, he was a changed man afterwards. I think he had loved her, and he could probably have saved her from this terrible end, if he had wanted to. I used to find him down here, sometimes, drinking himself into oblivion, occasionally mumbling her name.
But, sir, I see you are very moved by this tale. Please, I do not mean to upset you. Gaius, make room on that bench, that our visitor may sit down. Sir, are you unwell? What has affected you so?
********************************************************************
My name is Hasan. I come from the land you know as Arabia, far beyond the reach of your consuls and praetors. Alkimila was my beloved sister. How she was abducted, I do not know, but I followed her trail, joining one of the slave caravans that winds its way across the desert to the coast. I followed clues and faint hopes, threatening or bribing various traders, as the occasion demanded, and the trail led me to Tyre, where I heard that my sister had fallen into the hands of one Licinius of Puteoli, a spice merchant. As soon as I was able, I took ship for Italy, and now here I am, guided by this young thief, to the very place where that same Licinius met his end.
But too late! Too late for my dear Alkimila. That was our pet name for her, an affectionate title we gave her. In my language, Al-kamilah means “the perfect one”. And she was perfect; her good nature and serenity were a miracle to behold, like a beautiful lake in the desert. She was indeed beloved, by all. To me, she was, and always will be, Al-kamilah. To see that drawing carved there, to hear about the way her life and her dignity were taken from her, this is almost more than I can bear.
Look at this sword – no, have no fear, Quintus – I do not blame you. This blade is fine steel of Damascus. I came here ready to plunge it into the neck of the man who had taken and shamed my sister. And left her to die, as I now know, in agony upon the cross. Had your brother been alive, Quintus, I would have taken his life. He robbed me of my sister, as he robbed her of her honour, and now Fate has robbed me of my revenge.
All of you are robbers, in this place, this den of theft and greed. This is an Empire of Thieves: all those stone columns looted from Africa, these spices wrenched out of Syria, slaves everywhere torn from their homes and forced to serve their thieving masters. The Empire is a monster, you said, Gaius. You have no idea.
You think this Empire will last forever. But it will crumble. The seeds of its end are already sown, in the thieving hearts of its citizens. Some other people will sweep it away – who knows, maybe even my Arabs will have their time of power. And Rome will be dust, and ruins, and all of us will be forgotten. For who will there be, to speak our names, when we are dead?
I run my fingers across these scratches in the wall; the crude likeness of my darling Al-kamilah, and the crude rendering into Latin of her beautiful name. She alone deserves to be remembered. The Perfect One.
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