The Crossroads Brotherhood by Robert Fabbri

 
    Rome
     
    December AD 25
     
    ‘M ARCUS S ALVIUS M AGNUS , I’ve come to you as my patron in the hope that you will right the wrong that is being done to me. In the three years that you have been the Patronus of the Crossroads Brotherhood, here in the South Quirinal district, you have seen that I’ve always paid the not inconsiderable dues owed for your continuing protection in full and on time. I have always provided you with information on my clients, when you have asked for it. I have always offered you free use of my establishment, although you have never availed yourself of that, as my goods are not, I believe, to your taste.’
    Magnus sat – leaning back in his chair with his elbows resting on the arms, his hands steepled, his forefingers pressed to his lips – and looked intently at the slight, auburn-haired man standing on the other side of the table as he continued to list examples of his loyalty to the Crossroads Brotherhood, under whose protection lived every trader and resident on the southern slope of the Quirinal Hill. Wearing a tunic of fine linen, outrageously unbelted, and with long, abundant hair tied back in a ponytail, he was of outlandish appearance, but not unattractive – if you liked that sort of thing. Although in his late thirties, his skin was as smooth as a young woman’s, clinging tightly to his fine-boned cheeks and jaw. His sea-grey eyes, lined with traces of kohl, sparkled in the soft lamplight and watered slightly in reaction to the smoky fug produced by the charcoal brazier in the small, low-ceilinged room that Magnus used to transact business with the more important of his many clients. Through the closed door behind him came the muffled shouts and laughter of the well-fuelled drinkers in the tavern beyond. 
    Magnus had no need to hear of the man’s commitment to him and his brothers, he already knew him to be trustworthy. What interested him was the fact that he felt compelled to affirm it at such length. He was evidently, Magnus surmised, building up to ask a very large favour.
    Next to Magnus, his counsellor and second-in-command, Servius, shifted impatiently in his chair and scratched his balding grey hair. Magnus shot him a displeased glance and he settled, stroking the wrinkled skin sagging at his throat with a gnarled hand. Servius knew full well that a supplicant had the right to fully state his claim – however long-winded – to the protection of the only organization in Rome that would look after the interests of his class.
    ‘And finally, I am always at your disposal to help repel incursions from the neighbouring Brotherhoods,’ the man eventually concluded, causing Magnus to smile inwardly at the thought of such an effeminate in a street fight, ‘should they try to take what is rightfully ours – as they did, not one hour ago.’
    Magnus raised his eyebrows, concern seeping onto his battered, ex-boxer’s face – this was unwelcome news. ‘You’ve been robbed, Terentius? By whom?’
    Terentius pursed his lips and almost spat on the floor before remembering where he was. ‘Rivals from the Vicus Patricius on the Viminal.’
    ‘What did they take?’
    ‘Two boys, and they cut up two others; one very, very badly.’ Terentius looked down and indicated to his groin. ‘You understand?’
    Magnus winced and then nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I take your meaning. You did right to come to me. Who are these rivals?’
    ‘They aren’t citizens – they came from the East a few years back.’
    Magnus looked at Servius in the hope that his counsellor’s long lifetime’s supply of knowledge of the Roman underworld would extend to these Easterners.
    ‘They’re Albanii,’ Servius informed them, ‘from the kingdom of Albania in the south-east Caucasus between Armenia and Parthia on the shores of the Caspian Sea. Like a lot of eastern barbarians they’re inordinately fond of boys.’
    Magnus grinned. ‘Well, there’s a big market for them here as well. I can