The Road to Rome (19 page)

Realising that his dark thoughts were dragging him into an abyss, the haruspex took control. It was not his fault that Brennus wasn’t here. The Gaul’s last stand had been fated to happen, predicted not just by Tarquinius, but by an Allobroge druid. In addition, the vision he’d had of Romulus entering Ostia, Rome’s port, had been one of the most powerful of his life. His protégé
would
return to the city of his birth one day. Tarquinius just hoped that Romulus’ homecoming turned out to be all that he wished.

The haruspex had little desire to return to Italy. After all, he thought, what did it matter if, as his vision kept revealing, there was danger in Rome? It mattered if it affected someone dear to him, bit back his conscience. Despite himself, Tarquinius was beginning to wonder if the Republic’s capital wasn’t the best place for him to be. A visit to the brothel outside which he’d killed Caelius, and changed Romulus’ life for ever, might trigger the release of more information.

The bark of shouted orders rang out behind him, and Tarquinius turned. Led by a centurion and a
signifer
, two files of legionaries came trotting up the street. They were at least a century strong, and dressed in full battle
dress. Many of the locals looked unhappy at the sight. More than a century after their country’s acquisition by Rome, the Greeks still resented their masters. Tarquinius didn’t like seeing them in a place like this either.

No doubt the soldiers were from the half-dozen triremes he’d seen tied up in the harbour. What they were doing here, Tarquinius had no idea. A peaceful place, Rhodes had long been under the Republic’s influence. There were no pirates left hiding in the coves along its coast – Pompey had seen to that. Nor were any of his supporters to be seen; the island’s population was far too small to provide the numbers of recruits they needed to fight Caesar.

Eager to remain inconspicuous, Tarquinius stepped into a small open-fronted shop. Amphorae lay everywhere inside: on piles of straw, and stacked three and four high on top of each other. An old desk covered in rolls of parchment, inkpots and a marble abacus sat in the middle of the floor and a crude wooden bar ran partway along one wall. He could hear the proprietor moving around in the back.

The legionaries clattered past without as much as a sideways glance. A line of slaves and mules followed behind them. Tarquinius noted that all the beasts’ saddlebags were empty. Suspicion flared in his mind, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the shopkeeper, who emerged from his storeroom carrying a small, dusty amphora with a heavy wax seal.

The last of the passing soldiers got an angry glare. ‘Dirty whoresons,’ he muttered in Greek.

‘They are,’ agreed Tarquinius fluently. ‘For the most part anyway.’

Startled by the scarred stranger’s sharp hearing, the shopkeeper paled. ‘I meant no offence,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a loyal subject.’

Tarquinius raised his hands peaceably. ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he said. ‘Can I buy a cup of wine?’

‘Of course, of course. Nikolaos refuses no man a drink.’ Visibly relieved, the shopkeeper set down his load. Producing a red earthenware jug and a pair of beakers, he placed them on the bar. Filling both, he offered one to Tarquinius. ‘Are you here to study?’

Tarquinius took a long swallow and gave an approving nod. The wine was good. ‘Something like that,’ he replied.

‘Better hope that what you’re looking for isn’t gone by tomorrow then.’ Nikolaos pointed. ‘Those bastards were heading to the Stoic school.’

Tarquinius almost choked on his second mouthful. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Taking everything of value that isn’t nailed down,’ lamented the other. ‘If the remnants of the Colossus itself weren’t too big to transport, they’d probably take those too.’

Tarquinius grimaced. Like all visitors to Rhodes, he had walked the site where the largest statue in the world had once stood. Although it had been knocked off its marble pedestal by an earthquake nearly two centuries before, giant pieces of the god Helios were still strewn on the ground to one side of the harbour. Even these were an impressive sight. Great bronze plates shaped into body parts lay surrounded by iron bars, filler stones and thousands of rivets. All gave testament to the Herculean toil which must have gone into the figure’s construction. Now, though, they were good for nothing except scrap. Unlike the treasures in the school, which might hold the key to revealing his future.

Tarquinius couldn’t believe it. Even this was to be denied him.

‘You’re sure?’ he demanded in a thin, strained voice.

A little scared of his new customer, the shopkeeper nodded. ‘It started yesterday. They say that Caesar wants plenty of riches to display in his triumphs. Statues, paintings, books – they’re taking it all.’

‘What right has the arrogant dog? He was fighting damn Romans at Pharsalus, not Greeks,’ shouted Tarquinius. ‘This is an already conquered land!’

Hearing the noise, a number of passers-by glanced in curiously.

Nikolaos looked most unhappy. Such talk was dangerous.

Tarquinius threw back the last of his wine and slapped down four silver coins. ‘More,’ he snapped.

The other’s attitude changed at once. The money would pay for an amphora of good wine. With a greasy smile, he filled Tarquinius’ cup to the brim.

Tarquinius studied the ruby liquid in his beaker for long moments before drinking the lot. As if the alcohol could help, he thought morosely. Why was he being thwarted like this at every turn? The gods’ motives were infuriating – outrageous even – but he was helpless before them.

‘Another?’ asked Nikolaos solicitously.

He got a terse nod. ‘And one for yourself.’

‘My thanks.’ Nikolaos bobbed his head, deciding that perhaps this customer wasn’t so bad after all. ‘Last year’s vintage was a good one.’

There was no more chat, however. Ignoring the shopkeeper, Tarquinius stood at the counter, downing more and more wine. Its effects darkened his mood even further. He’d only just arrived, and already his journey to Rhodes had been a complete waste of time. With the school plundered of its valuables, what chance was there of finding information to help him decide what to do? He felt like a blind man feeling his way round a room, looking for a door that he would never find. Rome, his inner voice said. Return to Rome. He ignored it.

More than an hour passed. On the next occasion Tarquinius lifted the jug, it was empty.

Nikolaos rushed over. ‘Let me refill that.’

‘No. I’ve had enough,’ replied Tarquinius brusquely. He wasn’t so miserable that he wanted to end up unconscious, or worse. Bacchus was no god to see him into Hades.

‘Will you go to the school now?’

Tarquinius barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Not much point, is there?’

‘I might be wrong about the soldiers,’ the shopkeeper offered lamely. ‘It was only rumour after all.’

‘Those whoresons wouldn’t march all the way up here with mules for nothing,’ snarled Tarquinius. ‘Would they?’

‘I suppose not.’ He dared not argue further. The stranger was too confident, and the double-headed axe poking out from under his cloak looked well used.

Tarquinius took a step towards the door, and then turned to stare at Nikolaos. ‘This conversation never happened.’ His dark eyes were mere pits in his battered face. ‘Did it?’

‘N-no,’ replied the shopkeeper, swallowing. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’ Without looking back, Tarquinius wove out on to the street. Which way? he wondered. Might as well visit what I came here for, he decided abruptly. See what’s left, if there’s anything of worth remaining in the place. Feeling more weary than he had in his entire life, the haruspex walked slowly across the Agora. In the busy crowd of shoppers, businessmen and sailors from the port, he was just another anonymous figure. Not that he cared.

Reaching the corner of the street which led to the Stoic school, Tarquinius’ sandal caught on a discarded piece of clay tile. He pitched forward, badly grazing both of his knees on the rough ground. Cursing, he struggled to get up.

‘Bit early to be legless, isn’t it?’

Tarquinius looked up, bleary-eyed. Standing over him was a figure wearing a bronze helmet with a transverse crest of red and white feathers. Bright sunlight shining from above obscured the centurion’s face. From his position, all Tarquinius could really make out were the ornate greaves protecting the officer’s lower legs and his well-made
caligae
. ‘It’s a free world,’ he muttered. ‘And I’m not in the legions.’

‘Look like you might have been one day, though.’ A muscled arm reached down, offering him help. ‘That’s a handy-looking axe you have there.’

Tarquinius paused for a heartbeat and then accepted the grip. He wasn’t going to fight what happened any more.

With a heave, the centurion pulled him to his feet. A solidly built man in middle age, he wore a long mail shirt, crossed decorative belts with a
gladius
and
pugio
, and a leather-bordered skirt. The webbing strapped to the front of his chest was covered with gold and silver
phalerae
.

The haruspex saw with alarm that the highly decorated officer wasn’t alone. Behind him, in neat ranks, stood the soldiers he had seen earlier. At the very rear were the mules, now laden down. Contempt filled the watching faces, and Tarquinius looked down in shame. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to being laughed at by ordinary rank and filers.

The centurion was interested by this odd-looking fool with his scarred face, blond hair and single gold earring. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill Greek. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

The haruspex saw no point in lying any more. ‘Tarquinius,’ he muttered, anger swelling within him at what the Romans had just done.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Etruria.’

The centurion’s eyebrows rose. The drunk was Italian. ‘What brings you to Rhodes?’

Tarquinius pointed past the waiting soldiers. ‘I wanted to study in the school, didn’t I? You bloody lot have put paid to that, though.’

Shocked growls rose from the legionaries at his nerve, but the centurion
raised a hand for silence. ‘You question Caesar’s orders?’ he asked icily.

The Romans do what they will. They always have, thought Tarquinius wearily. I cannot change that. Looking into the other’s eyes, he saw death. There were worse ways to die, he reflected. A
gladius
thrust can’t hurt that much.

‘Answer me, by Mithras!’

The words struck Tarquinius like a lightning bolt, stripping away the drink-induced fog from his brain. For some reason, he remembered the raven which had attacked the lead Indian elephant by the Hydaspes. If that hadn’t been a sign from the warrior god, then he was no haruspex. This
had
to be another. He was not to die now. ‘Of course not, sir,’ Tarquinius said in a loud voice. ‘Caesar can do as he pleases.’ He stuck out his right hand in the gesture only a Mithraic devotee would use.

The centurion looked down in disbelief. ‘You follow the warrior god?’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Tarquinius replied, touching the blade-shaped scar on his left cheek. ‘I received this in his service.’ It wasn’t so far from the truth. Again he shoved forward his hand.

With an oath, the officer grabbed it with his own and shook it hard. ‘Caldus Fabricius, First Centurion, Second Cohort, Sixth Legion,’ he said. ‘I had you for a troublemaker.’

‘Not at all,’ Tarquinius smiled. ‘Mithras must have guided me to you.’

‘Or Bacchus!’ Fabricius grinned. ‘Well met, comrade. I’d love to talk, but I’m in a real hurry this morning. Will you walk with me?’

With a grateful nod, Tarquinius fell in beside the centurion. He was strangely relieved now that the threat of immediate death had gone. Of course the wine had fuelled his foolhardy bravado, he thought. Yet he’d only drunk it because of the Romans looting the school. Always expect the unexpected, he thought. Meeting the centurion was tangible evidence of Mithras’ favour.

‘They had the most incredible artefacts in the school,’ revealed his new friend. ‘Instruments and metal contraptions such as I’ve never seen. There’s a strange-looking one in a box with dials on the front and back. You wouldn’t believe it, but it has little arms which move around, showing the position of the sun, moon and the five planets. Incredible! On the other side is a
face which can predict every eclipse. The old man in charge of it wept when I took it from him. Said it had been made in Syracuse, by a follower of Archimedes.’ He laughed.

Tarquinius shoved down his throbbing resentment. There was little point being angry at the plundering, he thought. Fabricius was just following orders. Excitement bubbled up in him that the device Aristophanes had described was so near. Its origins were revolutionary too. Everyone knew of the amazing machines which Archimedes, the Greek mathematician, had built to defend his city against the Romans during the second Punic war. To discover that he might have influenced, or even designed, an even more incredible device was astonishing. ‘Is it here?’

Fabricius jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s on one of the mules. Well wrapped up, of course, so the damn thing doesn’t break.’

‘You’re taking it all to Rome?’

‘For Caesar’s triumphs,’ answered the other proudly. ‘To show the people yet again what a leader he is.’

The last of Tarquinius’ drunkenness fell away. On their own, the images of the capital under a louring sky and his nightmare about the Lupanar weren’t enough to make him journey back to the capital. This was very different, though. Out of nowhere, a possible solution had appeared. He couldn’t ignore it. ‘Is there room on the ships for another passenger?’

‘Want to get back to Italy? I would too.’ Fabricius gave him a nudge. ‘Be proud to have you on board.’

‘Thank you.’ With renewed energy, Tarquinius strode down to the harbour alongside the centurion. Mithras was guiding him to Rome, on the same ships that would carry off the contents of the Stoic school.

Who was he to argue with a god?