The Road to Rome (27 page)

‘My friend, sir.’

‘Him down there?’

‘No, sir. Another man – an Etruscan.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Romulus answered truthfully. ‘He disappeared in Alexandria after being wounded by an Egyptian sling stone.’ Responding to Caesar’s surprised look, he explained. ‘We were both forced to join the Twenty-Eighth.’

Caesar seemed amused. ‘You had no choice in the matter?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Innocent of all crimes, eh?’ Caesar tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

His legionaries tittered.

‘I am guilty of one charge, sir,’ Romulus butted in. He would pretend no longer.

‘Which is?’

‘When my friend and I ran from the
ludus
, we joined a mercenary cohort in Crassus’ army. Told them we were Gaulish tribesmen.’

‘This story gets taller and taller,’ scoffed Caesar. He glanced at Memor and saw him trying to conceal his reaction. His expression grew fierce. ‘Speak!’

‘I heard that rumour, sir,’ the
lanista
admitted reluctantly. ‘After the news of Carrhae, I never thought to see the whoreson again.’

‘There are few whoresons who can kill a rhinoceros single-handed,’ mused Caesar. ‘So you and the other prisoners were taken to Margiana?’

‘Yes, sir. Fifteen hundred miles from Seleucia, to the ends of the earth,’ said Romulus, staring into the general’s eyes. ‘The Forgotten Legion, we called ourselves.’

There was a small smile of acknowledgement. ‘Yet you escaped. That was well done. Did you have companions?’

‘One, sir. The same man who killed the nobleman,’ answered Romulus, starting to prune his story. There was no point stretching Caesar’s tolerance too far. ‘We reached Barbaricum and found passage to Egypt, but our ship was wrecked on the Ethiopian coast. Luckily we survived, and the gods continued to show us favour. A
bestiarius
took us on, and we travelled with him to Alexandria.’

‘Where you joined the Twenty-Eighth.’

Romulus nodded.

‘I’ve heard many tall stories, but this is the best yet,’ Caesar cried.

More hoots of amusement rang out from his followers, and Romulus realised that his fate was still most uncertain. Caesar’s next move was therefore most unexpected.

‘Longinus!’ the general called. ‘Where are you?’

A grizzled officer in an ill-fitting toga stood up. ‘Sir?’

‘Ask this slave about Carrhae. Questions that no one else but a veteran of the battle could answer.’

Longinus glared, his whole stance showing that
he
didn’t believe Romulus’ story. ‘How did Crassus’ son die?’ he demanded.

‘Publius led a combined charge of cavalry and mercenaries against the Parthians, sir,’ replied Romulus at once. ‘The enemy pretended to flee, but then they swept around his forces and slaughtered nearly every man. Only twenty mercenaries were allowed to return. Then the bastards cut off his head, and paraded it in front of the whole army.’

Longinus was too plain a man to conceal his surprise. ‘He’s right, sir.’

‘Keep asking.’

Obediently, the officer interrogated Romulus about Crassus’ whole campaign. All his answers were correct, and at last Longinus gave in. ‘He must have been there, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Or else he’s been talking to every survivor who made it home.’

‘I see.’ There was a long silence as Caesar considered his options.

Romulus looked out at the battered shape that was Petronius’ body. He’d probably be joining him very soon. So be it, he thought. I don’t care any longer. I have done my best.

‘I have seen many things as a general and a leader of men.’ Caesar’s voice was pitched to carry around the whole amphitheatre. ‘Never have I seen such bravery as these two
noxii
showed today, though. Unarmed and condemned to die, one was resourceful enough to steal a spear from a half-asleep guard. Disregarding his own safety, he tried to wound the rhinoceros in order to save his friend.’ Caesar looked around at the audience, which was hanging on his every word.

Romulus was stunned. Maybe I’m dreaming, or already dead, he thought.

‘The
noxius
failed, but then his comrade bought him some time with his own life. Even though the survivor was then armed with a spear, I thought that the beast would kill him. But it didn’t! Against all the odds, he slew a creature which had walked out of legend. Furthermore, he turned his back on me – the
editor
. Why? To honour his friend,’ Caesar shouted. ‘I say to you that this man is a true son of Rome. He may have been born a slave, and committed crimes. Today, however, I name him a citizen of the Republic.’

Romulus’ mouth fell open. Instead of death, he was being offered life. Freedom.

Memor looked appalled, outraged even, but he kept his mouth shut.

To tumultuous applause, Caesar turned to Romulus and offered him his right hand. ‘What is your name?’

‘Romulus, sir,’ he replied, firmly taking the grip.

‘If all my soldiers were as brave as you, I’d only ever need one legion,’ joked Caesar.

Romulus was overcome by gratitude. ‘I offer you my service, Caesar,’ he said, dropping to one knee.

It was Caesar’s turn to look surprised. ‘You wish to be part of my army? Soon we will be shipping out for Africa, where much bloodshed awaits us.’

‘I can think of no greater honour, sir.’

‘A soldier like you will be welcome,’ replied Caesar in a pleased tone. ‘Which legion would you join?’

Romulus grinned. ‘The Twenty-Eighth!’

‘A good choice,’ smiled Caesar. ‘Very well. You shall have your wish.’ He beckoned to one of his officers. ‘Have this man – Romulus – taken to your camp and fitted out with an ordinary legionary’s kit. He can bunk in with your soldiers until next week, when I send new orders to the Twenty-Eighth. Then he is to accompany them to his old unit. Clear?’

‘Sir!’

Caesar turned away.

The officer jerked his head at Romulus. It was clear that the interview was over. Romulus struggled to overcome his intimidation and awe. I made a promise, he thought. ‘Sir?’

Caesar looked around. ‘What is it?’

‘Petronius – my comrade – served in the Twenty-Eighth,’ began Romulus.

‘So?’

‘He was a good soldier, sir. I promised him that he would receive a decent funeral, with all the proper rites.’

Caesar was taken aback. ‘Determined, aren’t you?’

‘He was my friend, sir,’ replied Romulus stolidly.

The surrounding officers and senators looked outraged by his audacity.

Caesar stared at Romulus long and hard. ‘Good enough,’ he said at length. ‘I’d do the same myself.’ He glanced at the centurion in charge of his guards. ‘See that it’s done.’

Romulus saluted. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Until we meet again,’ answered Caesar.

This time, Romulus felt his elbow being taken. His audience was over.

‘
Lanista
!’ Caesar’s voice was frosty. ‘A word, if you please.’

Romulus didn’t get to hear what the general had to say to Memor. Alternately sad and ecstatic at what had happened, he was led off by a lean soldier with a bad limp. ‘Caesar likes you,’ this man whispered as they left the amphitheatre. ‘But don’t go thinking you’re something special now. You’re not – you’re just a plain legionary, like me. Never again speak to an officer unless he addresses you first. Unless you want a good flogging, of course.’

Romulus nodded. No longer having to conceal his identity was worth any harsh discipline.

‘Don’t expect any special treatment from your comrades either. They won’t give a shit about what you did here today,’ the soldier went on. ‘All they’ll care about is how you fight against the fucking Republicans in Africa.’

Romulus caught the nervousness in the other’s voice. ‘How bad is it over there?’

There was a resigned shrug. ‘The usual when fighting for Caesar. By all accounts, we’ll be outnumbered two or three to one. The bastards also have vast numbers of Numidian cavalry, while we have next to none.’

Resigned, Romulus eyed the temple of Jupiter which loomed over the city. He couldn’t visit it just yet. Nor would he get to see Fabiola. Instead, more danger beckoned.

In Africa.

F
ussing like an old woman, Brutus put Fabiola to bed. Aided by Docilosa, he fetched warm blankets, watered-down wine and an assortment of herbal remedies. Guilt filled Fabiola. Unlike her ‘fever’, his solicitousness was natural and unfeigned. She had to continue with her charade, though, at least until that evening. Lying back, Fabiola closed her eyes and tried to put the image of unarmed men being killed by a horned, armoured beast from her mind. It was difficult, but the alternative – staring at Brutus’ worried features – was little better.

Jovina had stepped in to run things from the reception area while Docilosa hovered in the background, her face a neutral mask. Fabiola knew well that this was only for Brutus’ benefit. There were telltale signs that she could read: her servant’s flaring nostrils, and the way she slapped down the glass of wine on the bedside table. As soon as he’d left, Docilosa would vent her spleen. It was unsurprising, thought Fabiola. Her coupling with Antonius had been an uncharacteristic moment of madness, which could have left her out on the street. Despite the calamitous outcome that had been so narrowly avoided, Fabiola still felt a surreptitious pleasure at what she’d done. They hadn’t been caught, and that’s all there was to it. She was her own mistress, and would carry on her own affairs as she chose. Docilosa wasn’t going to tell her what to do. Who did her servant think she was anyway?

Part of Fabiola knew that she was overreacting, but Docilosa’s self-righteousness wound her up so much that she felt it impossible to let go. There would be no unburdening of her worries and guilt today, she realised. Best to get a good rest – she could always do with more sleep – and settle things with Docilosa tomorrow. Slowing her breathing down, she pretended to doze off. Satisfied by this, Brutus issued a string of orders to Docilosa and left. He was still keen to see the Ethiopian bull.

With a disapproving sigh, Docilosa sat down on a stool by the bed. She made a few attempts to talk, whispering questions at Fabiola. Still annoyed and set on her decision, Fabiola studiously ignored her. Eventually Docilosa gave up. It wasn’t long before Fabiola actually surrendered to sleep. Running the Lupanar was draining work.

Despite the sleeping draughts which Brutus had made her drink, Fabiola’s nap was far from restful. Instead, she was plunged into a dark nightmare in which Antonius knew all about her secret plan. Dragging her before Caesar, he laughed as his master raped Fabiola. Brutus was nowhere to be seen. Tossing and turning, Fabiola could not stop the horrifying dream. When Caesar was finished, she was turned over to Scaevola. That was too much. Fabiola woke up in a cold sweat, both of her fists clenched in the blanket. The room was silent. Was she alone? Her eyes darted wildly to the stool where Docilosa had been sitting. In her place perched an unhappy-looking Vettius.

Seeing her distress, he jumped up. ‘Should I fetch a surgeon, Mistress?’

‘What?’ she cried, startled. ‘No, I’m feeling better.’ Physically she might be, but Fabiola’s mind was full of horrors. Damping them down as best she could, she sat up. ‘Where’s Docilosa?’

His gaze flickered away. ‘Gone to see her daughter.’

‘When?’

‘About three hours ago.’

‘She left me?’ cried Fabiola in disbelief. ‘When I was ill?’

‘She said that your fever had broken,’ Vettius muttered as if it were his fault. ‘Was she wrong?’

Fabiola considered what to say for a moment. There was no point making this bigger than it was already. ‘No,’ she sighed, throwing off the bedclothes. ‘It has gone. Go back to your post.’

Vettius beamed happily. Looking after his sick mistress made him most uneasy. Now that she was recovered, all was well with the world once more. Picking up his club, he bowed and left her.

Watching his massive back disappear down the corridor, Fabiola wished that her outlook on life was so simple.

A few dozen steps from the Lupanar, Tarquinius was squatting in much the same position he’d occupied for a time eight years before. The spot
brought back mixed memories. Back then, he had been waiting for Rufus Caelius, the malevolent noble who had killed Olenus. Unsurprisingly, every moment of the mêlée outside the brothel was crystal clear. He tried to block out the recollection of his single knife thrust, which at the time had felt so right. Although the haruspex felt it was destiny that had guided his blade, he was still being tortured by the consequences of his action, and the look in Romulus’ eyes when he’d told him. Which was partly why Tarquinius found himself here once more, pretending to be a beggar.

It was strange how life worked in circles, he thought.

Fabricius had been as good as his word, taking Tarquinius down to the little fleet in Rhodes harbour. He’d insisted that his fellow devotee should travel on his own ship, the lead trireme. Tarquinius had accepted with alacrity. It seemed perfect: after Mithras’ intervention, a passage back to Italy in relative comfort, with possible access to the ancient documents and artefacts he needed. Soon after their departure, though, the haruspex had discovered that most of the items that he wished to look at were on the other vessels. In a stroke, half his plan came undone. He had hoped on the journey to spend as much time studying as possible. In the event, however, the cargo arrangements were a blessing in disguise. When an autumn storm struck the fleet off the island of Antikythera, it was the ships laden with precious goods which sank, not the one with Fabricius and Tarquinius on board. Not that their trireme escaped unscathed. Braving waves taller than a block of flats, and hours of terrifying thunder and lightning, it finally limped into Brundisium with only the stump of its main mast remaining. At least a dozen members of the crew had been washed overboard.