The Road to Rome (13 page)

‘Abase yourselves,’ cried one of the officials.

Hastily Tarquinius went down on his knees, and then, responding to a sidelong glare from the prone Aristophanes, he leaned forward and placed his forehead on the tiled floor. He had only had a few heartbeats to study Cleopatra, but that was enough to take in her assured manner. Clad in a flowing cream linen gown hemmed with silver thread, the queen’s hair was tied up in braids. Long ringlets fell on either side of her pale-skinned face, and ringing her head was a uraeus crown, symbol of the Egyptian pharaohs. Made of solid gold, it was encrusted with jewels and featured a rearing cobra at the front. A string of massive pearls hung round Cleopatra’s neck; gold and silver jewellery winked from her wrists and fingers. Her big mouth and hooked nose were easily compensated for by a curvaceous and attractive figure. Full breasts moved enticingly under the see-through fabric of her dress, the well-cut folds of which clung to her belly and thighs. She was a riveting sight.

The official spoke again. ‘You may rise.’

Carefully averting his gaze from the nearby soldiers, Tarquinius got to his feet. He recognised no one, but there was no point tempting fate. It would only take a single challenge for him to be skewered by a
pilum
, or tied up like a hen for the pot and tortured. Aristophanes was now just a few steps from Cleopatra, and dared only to rise to his knees. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘You honour us with your presence.’

Cleopatra inclined her head. ‘I come seeking knowledge. It is important that I find what I am looking for. Apparently this is where the relevant scrolls are to be found.’ Her voice was deep and attractive, but there was no mistaking the threat within her words.

A cold sweat broke out on Aristophanes’ brow. ‘What type of information does Your Majesty require, exactly?’ he asked.

There was a long pause, which Tarquinius used to study Cleopatra sidelong. A jolt of energy shot through him as his eyes passed across her flat belly. She is pregnant, he thought, shocked as much by this as by the sudden return of his divinatory skills. Cleopatra is going to bear Caesar a child. He glanced again. A son. The man who is set on being the sole ruler of Rome is to have an heir. Cleopatra is here to find out what the future holds
for her and her offspring. Immediately he thought of Romulus. Was this the threat he’d sensed?

Cleopatra turned coy. ‘Not much,’ she purred. ‘Just the pattern of the stars over the next year or so. The outlook for each sign of the Zodiac as well.’

Aristophanes looked aghast. ‘Your Majesty, I am no expert in these matters,’ he stuttered.

Cleopatra smiled. ‘You only have to find the correct scrolls. These men will interpret the meanings for me.’ She indicated the robed figures behind her, every one of whom now looked terrified.

Aristophanes’ swallow of relief was very loud. ‘Of course, Your Majesty. If you would follow me?’ With a quavering arm, he pointed at the corridor behind Tarquinius.

The haruspex froze. He had anticipated none of this. All he could do was to try and remain calm. Any sudden move would bring down the most unwelcome attention.

‘Lead on,’ Cleopatra ordered Aristophanes.

The Egyptian guards parted at once, allowing the scribbler to scuttle away. Forming up in four files of five, with Cleopatra in the middle, they held their spears upright now. Half followed Aristophanes, then came the queen and the sweating scholars, followed by the remaining ten. The little column moved off the courtyard and on to the covered walkway where Tarquinius stood, rigid as a statue. The smell of sweat and oiled leather filled the air as they passed. Most barely gave him a second glance, just another badly dressed scholar.

Tarquinius bowed his head as Cleopatra went by, but his senses were on high alert. He felt a joyous air about her – a pride in her pregnancy. What a catch she has made for herself, he thought. No less a man than Julius Caesar. Of course her play was not that surprising. A shadow of their former selves, the Egyptian royal family had been reliant on Roman military power for some years. To first gain Caesar’s affections and then become pregnant by him, Cleopatra had shown her desire to remain ruler of her country, and more. The recent battles had left her teenage brother Ptolemy dead; with her sister Arsinoe a prisoner, she now had no real rivals.

There was something else in the energy surrounding her. Tarquinius
closed his eyes, using all his ability to discern what it was. The shock of it rocked him back on his heels. While Cleopatra would move to Rome for a number of years, she would not rule by Caesar’s side. Their son would die young. Violently, too. Murdered by the order of . . . a thin young noble Tarquinius did not recognise. Why? The haruspex could see that this man loved Caesar, yet he was responsible for the killing of his son. Which meant that he would hold no love for Romulus either. Rome is at the centre of all this, the haruspex thought. Should I go back there?

‘You!’ demanded one of the legionaries. A dark-skinned veteran with heavy stubble covering his jaw, he glowered at Tarquinius’ ragged appearance. ‘What’s your business here?’

Too late, the haruspex realised he’d been muttering to himself. ‘I’m studying the ancient Assyrian civilisation, sir,’ he answered obsequiously, proffering his scroll in evidence.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed.

Tarquinius’ heart stopped. Worried about Romulus and startled by the command, he had answered in fluent Latin rather than the more common Greek. Which was not a crime, but with most scholars in the library being Greek, it was a trifle unusual.

The legionary thought so too. ‘Are you Italian?’ he demanded, moving a few steps closer. He lowered his
pilum
until the pyramidal iron head pointed straight at Tarquinius’ breastbone. ‘Answer me!’

The haruspex had no wish to start justifying who he was and why he wasn’t in the army. ‘I’m from Greece,’ he lied. ‘But I spent some years in Italy as a tutor. Sometimes Latin seems like my native tongue.’

‘A tutor?’ The other’s expression turned sly, and he poked his
pilum
tip at Tarquinius’ scarred, caved-in left cheek. ‘Explain those injuries then.’

‘The Cilician pirates raided the town where I lived,’ he replied, his mind racing. ‘They tortured me before selling me as a slave on Rhodes. Eventually I escaped and made my way here, where I’ve made a living as a scribe since.’

The veteran considered his words for a moment. Until Pompey had crushed them twenty years before, the bloodthirsty Cilicians had been the scourge of the entire Mediterranean. Once, they had even had the gall to sack Ostia, Rome’s port, thereby threatening grain supplies to the capital.
The legionary had heard the tale from his father and plainly this pathetic figure was old enough to have been around then.

They heard Cleopatra’s raised voice coming back down the corridor. Aristophanes had found the texts she required. The soldier’s attention turned away, and Tarquinius breathed a long sigh of relief.

Surrounded by her guards, the queen emerged, her cheeks aglow with excitement. Hurrying behind came Aristophanes, his arms full of tightly rolled scrolls, which were giving off a fine cloud of dust. Last came the learned men, now looking frankly petrified. With the correct texts found, the full weight of Cleopatra’s expectation would soon be on them.

On the other hand, Aristophanes was jubilant. Catching sight of Tarquinius, his face lit up. ‘Guess what I also found, my Etruscan friend?’ he called out in Latin. ‘That text from Nineveh which you gave up looking for weeks ago.’

In slow motion, Tarquinius’ gaze moved to the swarthy legionary.

It only took a moment for the scribbler’s words to sink in.

‘Etruscan?’ snarled the soldier, wheeling towards the haruspex. ‘You lying bastard. Probably a Republican agent then, aren’t you?’

Too late, Aristophanes realised what he’d done. His mouth opened in an ‘O’ of shock as Tarquinius dropped the scroll he was holding and ran for his life.

‘Spy!’ screamed the legionary at his comrades. ‘Spy!’

Tarquinius ran as if Cerberus and all the demons in Hades were after him, but the heavily armed men in pursuit were younger and fitter than he was. Despite his small head start, he had little chance of reaching the main entrance, let alone the streets outside. He cursed the lapse of concentration that had made him speak in Latin. Dread filled him as he pounded through the gardens, drawing startled looks from the slaves tending the plants. His claim of being a scribe would not bear up to any scrutiny, so the legionaries really would take him for a spy.

His real story was too fantastical; he also had to keep his divining abilities secret. Which meant there would be only one outcome. Death, by torture. The haruspex’ lips twisted with bitterness. So the return of his abilities had been a cruel joke by the gods, devised to let him know that he could do nothing further to help Romulus, whose life he had ruined.

Then, perhaps fifteen paces away, Tarquinius saw the open door in the
wall. Beside it stood a terrified-looking scribe, who was beckoning frantically. If he got through it, there was the smallest chance that the portal could be closed before the legionaries saw where he’d gone.

Pumping his arms and legs until he thought his heart would burst, Tarquinius sprinted towards it.

Pontus, northern Asia Minor

I
t was a severe offence for an ordinary soldier to shout orders, but Romulus knew that if someone didn’t, he and the men all around him would die. The trio of chariots was going to smash their part of the line apart. Throwing back his head, he roared, ‘Aim short! Loose
pila
!’

The surrounding legionaries responded to the order instantly. Doing this was better than just staring death in the eyes. Lunging over their
scuta
, they hurled their javelins in unison. Dozens of the wooden shafts shot forward at the enemy chariots. At almost point-blank range, it was hard to miss. Barbed metal points punched through the horses’ armour, running deep into their chests, necks and backs, while others transfixed two of the drivers, throwing them backwards on to the hard ground. Staggering and bucking with pain, their injured steeds were now out of control. They had reached such a momentum, though, that they continued moving forward. Running slightly to the rear of the others, one charioteer and his team remained unhurt. Screaming at the top of his voice, he shook his traces to encourage his horses onwards.

The first two chariots collided with the closely packed Roman lines. Romulus watched in horror as the wounded steeds smashed into the shield wall nearby, still pulling their chariots with their deadly spinning blades. Some of the men directly in their path were crushed against the soldiers behind, while others were knocked down and trampled. It was the legionaries a few steps further out who suffered the worst fate, though. This was the moment when the scythed weapons played their part. Screams of terror rose as they struck, and blood sprayed everywhere as limbs were chopped off indiscriminately.

Romulus managed to drag his attention back to the last chariot. His eyes widened. It was no more than ten steps away. The horses were going to hit the soldiers two or three over from Petronius, who was on his right. Army mounts, they were trained to ride men down. Romulus’ knuckles whitened on the shaft of his remaining
pilum
, which felt utterly useless. The scythes on this side were going to strike Petronius, and him.

Cries of terror rose from the legionaries. A few threw
pila
, but their shots were poorly aimed, and flew over the chariot bearing down on them. Complete panic threatened to paralyse Romulus, and he felt his gorge rise. His muscles were locked rigid. This is what it feels like to see death approaching, he thought.

‘Lie down,’ shouted Petronius. ‘Now!’

Romulus obeyed. It was no time to worry about the men behind. Throwing his
scutum
forward, he flattened himself on to the stone-covered ground. Alongside, he heard Petronius doing the same. Some men copied them, while others, panicking, turned to flee. It was too late for that. Romulus cringed; the cheek piece of his helmet bit into the side of his face. The pain helped him focus. Mithras, he prayed frantically. Don’t let me end my life like this: cut in two by a fucking scythed chariot. Beneath his ear, the earth was reverberating with the thunder of pounding hooves. It scared him even more.

With a terrible whirring noise, Romulus heard one and then the other set of blades go over his body. Screams of agony rang out as the legionaries to their rear took the brunt of the chariot’s impact. Beside him, Petronius lay motionless, and Romulus’ mouth went dry. He must be dead, he thought, sorrow filling him. Petronius has saved my life, like Brennus did – by giving his own in return. An instant later, the chariot had gone. Incredulous, Romulus twitched his fingers and toes. They were all still there and his heart leaped first with joy, and then with guilt that he was alive while Petronius was not.

Someone gave him an almighty shove. ‘That should pay you back for saving my skin in Alexandria!’ The horsehair crest on Petronius’ helmet had been neatly cut off, but beneath it the veteran’s face was grinning and unhurt.