The Road to Rome (23 page)

Antonius eyed her cleavage, and Fabiola felt a surge of desire. ‘I have to have you,’ he muttered. ‘Now.’

Fabiola wanted him too. Badly. She glanced at Docilosa, who took the hint.

‘I’ll go and find Jovina,’ she declared. ‘There’s something I need to ask her.’

Bless her, thought Fabiola, knowing that the madam would be kept out of the way. Despite what I do, Docilosa remains loyal. There’ll be no problem when I tell her about Caesar. Romulus will return one day too. My actions won’t interfere with that. She lost track of any further coherent thought as Antonius dragged her into a lingering kiss. At length, Fabiola managed to pull away from his roaming hands. ‘Not here,’ she scolded. ‘We’re practically in public view.’

‘All the better,’ Antonius growled. ‘I’d fuck you in front of all Rome.’

Pouting, Fabiola led him to the first bedroom, which she knew was empty. Quickly they stripped off their clothes, squeezing and caressing each other’s flesh in a tide of lust. Goose bumps rose on Fabiola’s skin as Antonius kissed her neck and ran his fingertips slowly down her back and
on to her buttocks. His hand paused for a moment before moving around to the front, and cupping Fabiola’s moist sex. She moved her thighs apart to allow him to insert a finger. He moved it in and out, bending to suck on her nipples at the same time. It wasn’t enough. Moaning, Fabiola pulled away and climbed on to the bed. On all fours, she looked back at him.

‘Well?’

Growling, Antonius leapt up to join her. With a great shove, he thrust his erect member deep inside her. ‘Gods above, you feel good,’ he cried, moving his hips. Fabiola encouraged him, reaching back with one hand to pull him further in. Driven by their lust, they moved faster and faster, losing all awareness of anything else. All that mattered was their overwhelming pleasure. Fabiola surrendered herself to her feelings. Sex had never felt like this before. As a prostitute, she had enjoyed it on a rare handful of occasions with young, attentive clients. With Brutus, it was nice; familiar even. Not once though had it been the same as this earth-moving sensation, which threatened to overcome her. Unconsciously, Fabiola’s right hand slipped between her legs, searching. Her fingers slipped on to the nub of flesh she used to tease herself and began to rub. She pushed back against Antonius even harder.

A moment later, there was a quiet knock on the door. Fabiola barely heard it.

Antonius certainly didn’t. Holding on to Fabiola’s waist, he was driving into her, oblivious.

The second rap was louder. A low voice joined it. ‘Mistress?’

Fabiola stopped moving. ‘Vettius?’ she said, astonished at the doorman’s gall.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

Even from the other side of the door, Fabiola could sense his embarrassment. Her annoyance subsided. It had to be serious for the doorman to interrupt her at a time like this. ‘Is something wrong?’

Vettius coughed awkwardly. ‘Brutus is coming down the street. He’s no more than a hundred paces away.’

‘You’re sure?’ cried Fabiola, her lustful thoughts vanishing into the ether. Brutus almost never visited the brothel. What did he want?

‘Yes, Mistress,’ came the reply. ‘I can delay him at the door, but not for long.’

‘Do it,’ she hissed, already turning to Antonius. ‘Stop!’

He was too far gone. With his face flushed a deep red, he came inside her.

Fabiola pulled away and rounded on him. ‘Didn’t you hear? Brutus will be here in a few moments.’

Antonius’ lip curled. ‘What do I care? You’re mine, not his. Let the dog in and I’ll soon put him right.’

‘No,’ Fabiola cried, seeing all her plans turning to dust. ‘He won’t stand for it.’

Antonius laughed and pointed at his
gladius
. ‘Will he not?’

Panic constricted Fabiola’s throat. Even naked, Antonius’ arrogance knew no bounds. Pulling on her dress, she racked her brains for a way to budge him. ‘What would Caesar say to all this?’ she finally demanded. ‘This is hardly fitting behaviour for his deputy.’

At once Antonius’ expression became surly.

Fabiola knew she had him. He looked like a boy called to book by his father. ‘Do you want to bring disgrace down on Caesar? He’s barely returned from Asia Minor, and you’re bringing his name into disrepute.’ She shoved Antonius’ tunic at him, and was relieved when he shrugged it over his shoulders. His
licium
followed, and then his belt. A few heartbeats later, Fabiola was pushing Antonius out into the reception area. ‘Go on,’ she said urgently. ‘Send a messenger next time.’

He pulled her in for a last kiss. ‘What’ll I say if Brutus sees me?’ he asked, all innocence now.

‘Tell him you’d been out drinking and heard about the new whores here. You wanted to try one out.’

He liked that. ‘I’ll say they’re well worth the money!’

Fabiola smiled. ‘Leave,’ she pleaded. ‘Or my life won’t be worth living.’

‘Can’t have that now, can we?’ Pinching her backside, Antonius bowed and was gone.

Fabiola took a couple of deep breaths. Calm down, she thought. On the narrow street Brutus could not miss Antonius; naturally, he would engage him in conversation. She had a little time. Darting into her office, Fabiola looked into the small bronze mirror on her desk. Her face was red and sweaty, and her normally immaculate hair had come undone. She looked dishevelled – like someone who had just been having sex. That had to
change – fast. Fabiola reached for one of the little clay vessels on the desktop, dabbing some white lead on her cheeks. An expert at applying makeup, she soon changed her appearance to a more sickly one. Leaving her hair down, she wiped away some of the sweat, but not all. She wanted to appear feverish.

It wasn’t long before she heard Vettius talking to Brutus at the front door. True to his word, the huge doorman delayed him as long as possible. Fabiola panicked, suddenly unsure of her ability to deceive her lover yet again. Somehow, though, she had to.

‘Fabiola?’

Her reflexes took over. ‘Brutus?’ she said in a weak voice. ‘Is that you?’

‘What are you doing in here?’ He stood framed in the office doorway. ‘Gods, you look terrible. Are you ill?’

With relief flooding through her, Fabiola nodded. ‘I think I’ve got Docilosa’s fever,’ she said.

Moving to Fabiola’s side, Brutus lifted her chin. Studying her pale complexion and the bags she had carefully painted under her eyes, he swore. ‘Why are you even up?’ he demanded in a worried voice. ‘You need a surgeon.’

‘I’m all right,’ Fabiola protested. ‘A day in bed and I’ll be back to normal.’

‘Jovina should be looking after the front of the shop,’ he muttered.

‘I know,’ said Fabiola. ‘I’m sorry.’

His face softened. ‘No need to apologise, my love. But you’re in no shape to be working.’

Fabiola sat down on the edge of the desk with a sigh. ‘That’s better,’ she sighed. There would be no rest until she discovered his purpose. ‘What brings you to the Lupanar so early in the morning?’

‘I could say the same of Antonius,’ Brutus answered with a flash of anger. ‘What in the name of Hades did he want here?’

Careful, thought Fabiola. Remember what you told Antonius to say. ‘You know what he’s like. He’d been on an all-night drinking session, and came in on impulse. Our advertisements about the new whores must be working.’ She smiled broadly.

Brutus scowled. ‘The prick should go somewhere else.’

‘He will,’ murmured Fabiola. ‘A man like him rarely ploughs the same furrow twice.’ The truth of her own words shocked her. Why was she risking everything with such a rake?

Brutus grimaced. ‘True enough.’ Then he grinned, becoming the person Fabiola was so fond of. ‘I came to see if you would accompany me to Caesar’s games this morning, but with you being ill, it’s out of the question, obviously.’

Fabiola’s ears pricked up. Even though Romulus was no longer a gladiator, she thought of him every time the arena was mentioned. ‘Is there something special on?’

‘This morning, you mean?’ Brutus looked pleased with himself. ‘Yes. There’s a beast appearing that they call the Ethiopian bull. It’s half the size of an elephant, but with two horns and an armoured hide. Impossible to kill, apparently. I thought you’d like to see it.’

Fabiola knew the animal wouldn’t just be walking around to be admired. ‘Who’s fighting it?’

Brutus shrugged. ‘A pair of
noxii
. Deserters from one of Caesar’s legions, I think. No loss, in other words.’

His casual manner made Fabiola feel nauseous. Who deserved to die like that? ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘But I couldn’t.’

One hour later
. . .

I
t was only mid-morning, but the amphitheatre was already full. Above Romulus’ head, the crowd was shouting with anticipation. All the prisoners knew why too, and fear stalked among them, increasing their unease. As a consequence of the street gossip which had swept into the
ludus
the previous afternoon, few had slept well. Memor had relished delivering the news himself, watching each man closely for signs of terror. Petronius had stared at the wall, refusing to meet the
lanista
’s gaze, but Romulus had been forced to. Two strapping gladiators had pinioned his arms while another pulled his head around to hear Memor reel off the host of fanged and toothed creatures they might be pitted against. In the face of such cruelty, he had managed to keep his composure – just.

Apparently Caesar had paid astronomical sums for the most exotic animals available. Some had never been seen in Rome before. Consequently, wildly inaccurate descriptions were rife. Waxing lyrical, Memor mentioned them all. Even the most common beasts to be used were enough to send men witless. Lions, tigers, leopards and bears were all lethal predators. Just as dangerous were elephants and wild bulls. Old memories had been triggered in Romulus’ mind at the
lanista
’s gruesome descriptions. He had witnessed a contest between
venatores
and big cats once before. Not one man had survived the brutal display, and the injuries they sustained before dying had been horrendous. Thankfully he’d concealed his distress from Memor, but his mind was filled all night with the images of the young
venator
who had endured only to be executed for his anger at the crowd’s cruelty towards him. It was crushing to know that even if, by some miracle, he survived, there was virtually no chance of mercy. By dawn, Romulus’
eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and fear. What he would have given to have had Brennus or Tarquinius by his side. But they were gone, long gone, and now he faced his own journey to Hades. Petronius’ presence helped, but only a little.

During the march from the
ludus
, the guards had done nothing to stop their charges from being abused by the crowd. The degradation reminded Romulus of the walk he’d made through the streets of Seleucia before Crassus’ execution. This felt even worse, though. Rather than being Parthian, his attackers were of his own nationality, and today he understood all the insults. Covered in spit, rotten fruit and vegetables, he and his companions had finally arrived at Pompey’s magnificent complex on the Campus Martius, the plain of Mars. It was a place that Romulus had fought in before, but, hurried to the cells below the audience’s seats, he did not get to appreciate its grandeur. With its people’s theatre, temple to Venus and chamber for the Senate, it was a monument to extravagance that had cost Pompey an absolute fortune to construct. Despite this, it had won him little popularity with the masses. His opulent house nearby stood empty now, its pattering fountains and graceful statues mocking Pompey’s fall from grace.

At least the general’s end in Egypt had been quick, thought Romulus. Infinitely better than what awaited him and the other men in the barred chamber. He tried not to think about what a lion’s claws might feel like as they ripped apart his flesh. The pain as a bull gored him to death. Or having his head ripped off by an elephant – that was how he had seen Vahram, the cruel
primus pilus
of the Forgotten Legion, die. It was impossible now not to imagine these terrible fates. Romulus paced up and down, swallowing the bitter-tasting bile that kept rising from his stomach. His urge to vomit was overwhelming, but he would not let himself. Some prisoners were praying to their gods, while others just sat, staring into space. Petronius was furiously doing press-ups. As if that would help, thought Romulus. He said nothing, though. Each man faced death in his own manner, and it was not for him to laugh at it.

He and his companions were in an iron-barred cell beneath where the spectators sat. Theirs was just one of a line of similar cages, designed to hold gladiators,
venatores
and lowly
noxii
. Along the back of the pens ran a long passageway, with regular corridors down to the arena. Apart from
the guards, there was no one else around. The gladiators who would fight later hadn’t arrived yet, and the animals were kept in a separate area, which was even more secure. They could tell where it was from the cacophony of roars, snarls and bugling. Promising death in multiple ways, the noises chilled the blood.

It wasn’t long before Memor reappeared, looking smug. Half a dozen guards with spears and bows were with him. Romulus knew where the
lanista
had been: settling the running order with the master of ceremonies. Deciding all of their fates. Nausea washed over him anew, and his knees wobbled. Locking them was the only way he could stay upright.