The Road to Rome (42 page)

Fabiola recognised some of them. During her years with Brutus, she’d met countless members of Rome’s military class. Raising the hood of her cloak, she was careful not to look in their direction. Like everyone else, the officers would have heard about their split, and she didn’t want anyone warning Brutus of her presence before she got a chance to talk to him. There was little need for her to worry, though. Everyone present was far too excited about Caesar’s impending arrival. Military messengers arrived regularly, updating the crowd on his progress through the city. Although it would be more than two hours until he reached the hilltop, all eyes were glued to the spot where the road ended.

Anxiety began creeping over Fabiola as the morning dragged by. Was she making a big mistake? Her unease rose sharply when, with his characteristic flair, Antonius arrived in a British war chariot. As his
lictores
cleared a large space for him right at the foot of the temple’s steps, he idly scanned the crowd. Her heart racing with fear, Fabiola turned away. She let long moments go by before daring to look at what Antonius was doing. She wasn’t surprised to see him chatting to the legionaries on guard. Fabiola’s dislike of Antonius intensified. He was a violent bully to her, but the Master of the Horse was a figure of adoration to almost the entire army. It was just another of the reasons why she was powerless before him.

Before she knew it, another hour had passed. There was still no sign of Brutus, and Fabiola’s hopes of seeing him began to wane. Her attention faltered as Benignus began asking questions about various security matters to do with the Lupanar. When she next studied the group of military officers, Brutus was in their midst. Fabiola’s heart fluttered at the sight of him. Pleasant-looking rather than handsome, Brutus cut a dash in full ceremonial
dress. Amused by something one of the others said, he smiled and laughed, increasing Fabiola’s sadness even more. Previously, that’s how he’d acted towards her. Maybe Brutus wasn’t just a means to an end, she thought. What had she done by carrying on with Antonius?

‘Wait here,’ she instructed Benignus. Leaving him protesting in her wake, Fabiola moved purposefully through the waiting throng. To her relief, Antonius was nowhere to be seen. Reaching the group of officers, she faltered. Then a dark-haired tribune with a brightly coloured sash around his waist turned to address the man beside him. Seeing Fabiola, his mouth opened. As a rich teenager, he’d been a frequent and enthusiastic client. Her manumission was the only reason that their trysts had stopped.

Fabiola cursed inwardly. This fool could ruin everything. Giving him a withering look, she brushed past to Brutus’ side. He was deep in conversation with a comrade and didn’t notice her immediately. Fabiola glanced back at the tribune to check he wasn’t following her. Thankfully, he wasn’t. Trembling, she reached out and tapped Brutus on the shoulder. He didn’t respond, so she did it again, harder. ‘Brutus.’

Recognising her voice, he turned, surprise and anger already twisting his features. ‘What are you doing here?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Come to fawn over Antonius?’

‘No,’ she protested.

‘Or Caesar?’ he said suspiciously. ‘He’s been asking for you. Wondering where you were. Why would that be?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Fabiola desperately, the news chilling her to the bone. She wished that she’d told Brutus of her near rape at Caesar’s hands three years before. If she mentioned it now of course, he wouldn’t believe her. She had to just plough on. ‘Can we talk?’

Brutus snorted. ‘Here? Now?’

She touched his arm lightly. ‘Please, my love. Give me a few moments.’

Some of the anger left his face, and he sighed. ‘Come this way.’ Beckoning, he led her past the goggling tribune to the back of the crowd. There was some space leading up to the very edge of the Capitoline Hill, and for a moment they stood in silence, looking down over Rome.

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ Fabiola began. Brutus said nothing, but she knew him well enough to see that he shared the same sentiment. The tiny ember of hope in her heart flared up a little. ‘Getting involved with
Antonius was such a mistake. The man’s a brute. He makes me . . .’ A sob rose in her throat at the indignities Antonius regularly forced on her. Her distress wasn’t acted, and Fabiola was heartened by Brutus’ response.

‘What does he do?’ he demanded, grabbing his sword hilt.

‘Pretty much anything and everything,’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘And she loves it!’

Blanching, Fabiola spun to find a sneering Antonius not five paces away. To her utter horror, he was accompanied by none other than Scaevola. Dark malice glittered in the
fugitivarius
’ deep-set eyes. Terrified, she moved closer to Brutus.

‘What did you say?’ Brutus stared at Antonius with clear dislike.

‘You heard,’ replied Antonius icily. ‘Most of the time, it’s her who suggests the position. Or the other people.’

Scaevola chuckled.

Despite himself, Brutus looked scandalised. Orgies were not his style.

‘Men, women, it doesn’t really matter,’ Antonius went on, relishing the effect his words were having on Brutus. ‘I drew the line at the gladiators, though.’

‘No,’ Fabiola cried, looking at Brutus. ‘He’s lying.’

Antonius laughed. ‘Lie about a whore like you? Why would I bother?’

Brutus scowled and Fabiola felt the situation slipping from her grasp.

A loud fanfare from the trumpeters announced Caesar’s impending arrival, and Brutus’ face changed. ‘I have to go,’ he muttered, turning on his heel.

Fabiola reached out to him. ‘Will I see you later?’ she pleaded.

His lip curled. ‘After what’s been said? I don’t think so.’ Without another word, he strode off.

A black tide of despair swamped Fabiola. If Scaevola had stabbed her there and then, she wouldn’t have cared. Of course things were never that simple. The instant Brutus was lost to sight, Antonius moved in. She felt his hand caress her throat.

‘Getting tired of me?’ he demanded.

Fabiola looked from him to Scaevola, who was grinning delightedly. In spite of her fear, her temper flared. ‘More than that,’ she hissed. ‘I hate you. Touch me again, and I’ll . . .’ Her words were lost in a cacophony of blaring trumpets.

‘Shame you feel like that. It’s been fun. All good things come to an end, though.’ Antonius’ eyes glinted, reminding Fabiola of a snake which was about to strike. ‘I’d love to finish this, but Caesar will think it strange if his deputy isn’t there to greet him.’ He stepped away, giving Fabiola an unpleasant stare. ‘Scaevola can wrap up things for me. Permanently.’

The
fugitivarius
pressed forward, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. ‘Now?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Not here, you fool,’ Antonius snapped. ‘Half of Rome is watching. Later.’

Scaevola nodded sullenly and stepped back.

Fabiola took the opportunity to dart into the press of people a few steps away.

They let her go, which was even more frightening.

‘S
ure you don’t want to come with us?’ asked Sabinus. He jingled his purse. ‘We’ve got money to burn!’

The other legionaries cheered. On the last day of Caesar’s celebrations, he had awarded every single one of his foot soldiers the staggering sum of five thousand
denarii
. Even the poor had benefited from the dictator’s largesse, receiving wheat, olive oil and one hundred
denarii
each. The legionaries’ bonus was more than they’d each earn in a lifetime’s service with the legions, and royally repaid their dogged loyalty to him. Suddenly the frequent periods of hardship and death seemed worthwhile, and now, the next day, the men couldn’t wait to blow some of their riches. The triumphs had ended the night before, and all legionaries were off duty for a week.

The honour guard had been granted the surprise of an early discharge from the army. This was, Caesar had said, thanks to their outstanding contributions to his cause. Consequently, they were even more eager than the rest of the soldiers to rejoice. Dressed in just their belted tunics and
caligae
, Romulus’ comrades were in search of wine, women and song. He felt differently. After all the marching, the adulation and the excesses of the previous ten days, he wanted a break. While his early release meant that he had all the time in the world, it was time to look for Fabiola, and if he got the chance, Gemellus.

‘Well?’ demanded the
optio
from the Twenty-Eighth. ‘Make up your mind.’

There was an impatient rumble of agreement from the rest. They had walked together from their camp on the Campus Martius as far as the first major crossroads inside the city walls. Straight ahead lay the Forum, while on each side were streets leading to the Capitoline and Viminal Hills.
The smell of cooking sausages and garlic filled the afternoon air, and innkeepers shouted to encourage passers-by into their dingy, open-fronted establishments. Kohl-eyed prostitutes beckoned from the doorways that led to the cramped
insulae
above the shops. There was temptation everywhere for the newly enriched soldiers and they weren’t going to wait long.

Romulus shook his head. ‘There’s some business I need to take care of.’

‘Come on,’ Sabinus urged. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

‘Why so mysterious?’ asked Sabinus, his brow wrinkling.

‘I’ll tell you another time,’ replied Romulus tersely. Without realising it, he touched the sheathed
pugio
on his belt. If his military haircut and russet tunic weren’t enough, it was a giveaway sign that he was a soldier.

Sharp-eyed, Sabinus noticed the movement. ‘Want me to tag along?’

Romulus gave him a brief smile. ‘No thanks.’

‘You’re your own master.’ Sabinus stepped away. The group was already drifting off, and he would have difficulty finding them if he got separated. ‘You know where to look if you need us. That big inn by the Forum Boarium.’

Romulus raised his hand in farewell, wondering where he should start his search for Fabiola. He’d put off thinking about it until now. Remembering her in Alexandria helped. She’d been well dressed, and her mere presence there hinted at a relationship with a senior army officer. Romulus had wondered at the time if it was Caesar, but discovered since that, unlike some of his officers, his general didn’t take women on campaign. That left a host of other nobles, many of whom might not even live in Rome. Even if they did, how would he find Fabiola among them? Unless he wanted a flogging – or worse – he couldn’t as an ordinary soldier go about asking personal questions regarding their mistresses. Romulus began to despair before he’d even started. Stop it, he thought. Think. He stood for a moment, letting the crowd push by. While Caesar’s triumphs might have ended, the festivities had not, and the streets were even more packed than ever. The legionaries weren’t the only ones in search of a good time. Unbidden, an image of the brothel outside which the fight had taken place came to mind. What had it been called? Romulus racked his brains. The Lupanar, that was it.

Disgust filled him at the idea that Fabiola might still be a prostitute.
Tarquinius had said that she’d left the brothel, though, and he couldn’t think of a better place to start. He pulled at the arm of a passing urchin. ‘Where’s the Lupanar?’

The filthy child gaped, then recovered his poise. ‘No need to go that far, sir.’ He pointed at the nearest doorway, where a half-naked girl of no more than sixteen stood, touching herself in an attempt to look seductive. ‘My sister. She’s clean. Only costs ten
sestertii
. If she doesn’t take your fancy, there are others inside.’

Romulus glanced over. In the shadows behind the child-woman lurked an old man in a grubby robe. Seeing Romulus stare, he whispered in her ear. She slipped down the top of her robe and lasciviously caressed her tiny breasts. Romulus felt sick. At least the women he’d had in the previous few days had been willing. ‘I want the Lupanar,’ he said, striding off.

Promising every kind of pleasure, the dark-haired boy kept pace with Romulus, doing his best while his master watched.

As soon as the old man was out of sight, Romulus produced a
sestertius
. ‘Well?’ he asked.

The other’s thin face lit up. The silver coin was far more than the paltry amount he’d get for guiding customers towards the nearby doorway. ‘It’s up that lane,’ he offered eagerly. ‘Take the second right and then the first left.’

Romulus flipped him the
sestertius
and walked off, ignoring the urchin’s promises of more information. Shrugging, the boy pocketed his reward and returned to his post. His directions were accurate, though, and it didn’t take Romulus long to reach a narrow street dominated by an arched doorway with a painted, erect penis on either side. Outside stood a number of doormen, their swords and clubs in plain view. The sight stopped Romulus in his tracks. Old memories surged back. His flight from the inn with Brennus. The Gaul offering to pay for a prostitute for him. Their collision at the brothel’s entrance with a drunk, red-haired noble whose arrogant attitude had sparked the fight. Deciding to make a run for it. Hearing the shouts of ‘Murder’ behind them as they ran. Gods, thought Romulus, how my life has changed since that night. For the better. A feeling of calm acceptance, which he’d never allowed to emerge before, settled over him. He was back in Rome, a free man. His anger at Tarquinius faded away; his old guilt about Brennus suddenly felt weaker too. The Gaul had walked
the path of his destiny willingly, and it was not for Romulus to stand in the way of that.