The Crossroads Brotherhood(4)

‘Well done lads, such a pretty gift for the meeting later. Lock ’em them up safely until this afternoon and then get the altar ready for the morning sacrifice.’

Marius visibly swelled with pride at the praise and he and Sextus, who was still chuckling fiercely, hauled the terrified boys to their feet and dragged them away.

Magnus turned to Servius. ‘Have the invitations gone out?’

‘Yes Brother, and all the replies are back in. All five of the surrounding Patroniae will be there an hour before sunset.’


THE SUN WAS slipping behind the Aventine Hill throwing the raked-sand track of the Circus Maximus into shadow and bathing the stepped-stone seating and the colonnades that soared above in a warm evening glow.

Magnus stood, in a freshly chalk-dusted white toga, at the end of the spina, the central barrier that ran down the middle of the track, facing the massive wooden gates that opened out onto the Forum Boarium. Servius, flanked by Marius and Sextus, waited behind him – they too sported gleaming togas, worn with pride by the free and freed citizens of Rome, however lowly, and worn today as custom decreed at a meeting of Crossroads Patroniae. Four other similar groups of a Patronus, his counsellor and two bodyguards, stood around the edge of the track, two to Magnus’ left and two to the right, all keeping a good distance between each other as they awaited the final arrival. A light breeze, blowing along the length of the track of the eerily silent stadium, played with the folds of their togas.

‘Fucking typical of Sempronius to keep us waiting so that he can make a grand entrance,’ Magnus muttered over his shoulder to Servius.

‘A futile gesture, Brother; you will all be equal in the middle, no matter who arrived last.’

Magnus grunted. A moment later a small door to the left of the main gates swung open to reveal the missing party led by a tall, blond-haired, young man. As he started to walk forward, Magnus and the other four Patroniae, followed by their entourages, did the same, coming to a halt in a circle exactly halfway between the spina and the gates; one of the few public places in the crowded city of Rome where a private conversation could be held without fear of eavesdroppers.

‘Greetings Brothers,’ Magnus said looking each of his counterparts in the eye. ‘I, Marcus Salvius Magnus, of the South Quirinal called this meeting to deal with an issue that has arisen between us and the West Viminal Brotherhood.’

Sempronius pursed his lips, pulled his broad shoulders back and glared at Magnus with cold, piercing, sapphire-blue eyes; the jaw muscles beneath the tight flesh of his cheeks twitched rapidly. His counsellor, equally young and equally handsome but dark-haired, leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Sempronius nodded, never once taking his eyes off Magnus.

‘I wish to settle this issue now,’ Magnus continued, ‘in front of witnesses, in order to avoid it escalating into a war. None of us here would wish to see that, as we all know from past experience just how damaging for business that can be.’

Sempronius looked down at his left arm, held rigid across his stomach, supporting the folds of his toga, and stared at it for a few moments as if examining in fine detail the blond hairs on the back of his hand. His eyes suddenly flicked back up to Magnus. ‘We had nothing to do with the raid on the whore-boy house.’

‘I am not saying that you did; yet you know about it.’

‘I know of it,’ Sempronius corrected, ‘but not much about it. As I said: it was not done by us.’

‘No, but it was done by people from your area; Albanian clients of yours, who you would be honour-bound to avenge if we exacted the correct price for their actions.’

‘And what would you consider that price to be?’ Sempronius asked slowly, one side of his face curled up in a sneer.

‘Death. And not a quick one.’

Sempronius smiled mirthlessly. ‘That would be grievous mistake.’

‘No Brother, that would be justice, but I’m not naive enough to think that we both have the same sense of justice so, in order to maintain the peace between us, I offer this compromise.’ Magnus put two fingers in his mouth a whistled shrilly. A couple of his lads led two small figures out of one of the entrance tunnels in the rows of seating; knives were held across their throats.

Sempronius regarded them for a few moments and then shrugged. ‘More whore-boys; what are they to me?’

‘They’re nothing to you, but they’re worth quite a bit to their Albanian owners – in the condition that they’re in at the moment, that is. Unfortunately their condition is worsening.’ Magnus raised a hand and brought it down quickly. A knife flashed golden in the evening sun; there was a screech and blood started to flow down the face of one of the boys. ‘That was just a small cut across the top of his forehead; nothing too disfiguring so it won’t reduce his value that much.’