The Road to Rome (45 page)

Fabiola set off towards him at a brisk pace.

‘Where are you going, Mistress?’ Benignus called. ‘Fabiola?’

She didn’t answer, prompting the huge doorman to pelt after her, along with a trio of the others. The apothecary’s was only twenty paces from the brothel, but Benignus was taking no risks.

As Fabiola reached the open-fronted shop, the proprietor emerged, rubbing his hands on his stained apron. Seeing her, he bowed. ‘A pleasure to see you in person, lady. Need some more valerian to help you sleep?’

‘No, thank you.’ Fabiola indicated the nearly empty stands and tables. ‘Shutting up shop already?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted, avoiding her gaze. ‘My wife’s not well,’ he added hastily.

‘How terrible,’ Fabiola cried, the picture of solicitousness. Inside, the
suspicion she’d felt at the other two shops’ closure was increasing fast. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

The apothecary looked awkward. ‘She developed a fever during the night.’

‘You must have given her something for it,’ barked Fabiola.

‘Of course,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

The apothecary faltered, and Fabiola knew that he was lying. The Greek was a family man, and if his wife had really been ill, he wouldn’t have opened at all that day. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, stepping closer. ‘The potter’s gone too, you know. The whole damn street’s like a cemetery.’

He swallowed noisily.

‘Come now,’ Fabiola urged, taking his hand. ‘You can tell me. We’re all friends and neighbours here.’

He glanced up and down the street, seeming relieved that it was deserted. ‘You’re right. I should have warned you before, but he threatened my family.’ His voice cracked with emotion. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He?’ Fabiola’s stomach clenched, but she also felt a sense of relief. ‘Scaevola, you mean?’

His eyes darted about with fear. ‘Yes.’

‘What’s the dog planning?’ Fabiola wanted her suspicion confirmed by someone independent.

‘He didn’t say. Nothing good, I’m sure,’ the apothecary replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘All the shopkeepers have had the same warning – that it’d be best to disappear this afternoon.’

Fabiola nodded. The instruction to remove possible bystanders – and witnesses – from the street had probably originated from Antonius. Merciless beyond belief, Scaevola wouldn’t care how many people he killed, but the Master of the Horse would want a clean job done. ‘You’d best leave then,’ she said briskly. ‘Get home to your family.’

The apothecary looked embarrassed. Here he was, a man, running away while a woman stayed to fight. ‘Can I do anything?’ he asked.

Fabiola smiled warmly, easing his conscience. ‘Leave us a few bottles of
acetum
and
papaverum
. They might come in handy later.’

‘Of course.’ Scurrying inside his shop, he emerged a few moments later with his arms full. ‘This is all my stock,’ he said.

Fabiola began to protest, but the apothecary would have none of it. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he insisted. ‘May the gods protect you all.’

‘Thank you.’ Directing her men to carry the vital medicines, Fabiola headed back to the Lupanar.

They did not have long to wait.

Sweating, Tarquinius finally reached the top of the Capitoline Hill and the great complex dedicated to Jupiter. His head was throbbing and there was a foul taste in his dry mouth. He’d partaken of Caesar’s public feast the night before and was now heartily regretting it. What had been a good idea at the time seemed foolish, he thought, given his tardiness today. The best hour for visiting the great shrine was early in the morning before the crowds got there, or in the evening after they’d left. With the sun nearing its zenith, he would arrive to make a sacrifice just as half of Rome did. Hardly the ideal moment to expect a good divination.

The unfortunate truth was that since his return from the
latifundium
the haruspex had found sitting outside the Lupanar extremely dull. Little of interest happened from one day to the next, and his reasons for hurrying back now seemed unnecessary. Tarquinius could have introduced himself to Fabiola, but he still felt reticent about making such a move. Why would she welcome him – the man responsible for her brother’s flight from Rome? If Romulus never returned, she would blame him even more. No, it was better to stay in the background, gather information and pray for guidance. Tarquinius’ faith was being tested to the limit.

He’d learned some useful information from the soothsayer, though. Fabiola’s former lover was Decimus Brutus, but she was currently involved with Marcus Antonius. This explained what Tarquinius had seen when he followed her to this very spot a few days previously. Despite the thronged streets, he had managed to stay close, watching Fabiola as she tried to speak to Brutus, only to be interrupted by Antonius and the leader of the thugs on the blockades. The two noblemen’s hostile body language spoke volumes. He hadn’t heard what was said, but Brutus’ anger, Antonius’ triumph and Fabiola’s dejected expression told their own tale. At one stroke, she had been deprived of the men’s favour, while the ruffian looked set on doing her harm. Things were not going well for Romulus’ sister.

The haruspex felt quite helpless before Fabiola’s problems. He had no wealth, political influence or power. Apart from watching over the Lupanar, what could he do? Tempted to walk into the brothel two days before, he had resisted the urge thanks to a flare-up of his gut instinct. It was not the time. Still nothing much happened, and by the final night of Caesar’s triumphs, Tarquinius needed a break. Practically every street in the city had been lined with tables groaning under the weight of Caesar’s generosity. Everyone was in festive mood, friendly to even the most taciturn and scarred of strangers like Tarquinius. Before he knew it, the haruspex had drunk half a dozen cups of wine pressed on him by other merrymakers. After that, he’d done well to find his miserable rented room in the attic of a rundown
cenacula
by the Tiber.

Tarquinius’ intention of visiting the Capitoline Hill was forgotten until it came crashing back late the following morning when he woke in a cold sweat. Hence his hurry now. Although he felt guilty about it, taking a break to visit the huge temple was more appealing than sitting by the Lupanar for yet another day, pretending to be a simpleton.

An hour later, the haruspex felt differently. He’d bought a hen and sacrificed it in the proper manner, but seen nothing in its liver or entrails. Frustrated, Tarquinius had purchased another bird and repeated the process to no avail. Ignoring the curious stares of some worshippers, and the requests for divination from others, he had contemplated the results of his work for long, silent moments. Nothing came to him. Praying to Jupiter’s statue and visiting the long, dark
cella
produced nothing more than another memory of his nightmare about a murder at the Lupanar. His senses dulled by his pounding head, the haruspex neglected to take note that this time more than one person had been killed.

He gave up and bought several beakers of fruit juice to quench his raging thirst. Glancing in annoyance at the enormous figure of Jupiter, he decided to return to his post at the Lupanar. There at least he could nurse away his hangover. Tarquinius had to negotiate the usual blockades on his journey. They appeared tighter than normal. It was then that he felt the first tickles of unease. His usual drooling idiot routine worked well, though, getting him past the thugs with just the usual insults and cruel laughter. His pace quickened as soon as he was out of their sight, and he reached the brothel without further event. Easing himself to the ground in his usual
spot, he took a long swig from his water gourd. Perhaps now his thumping headache would ease.

A few moments later, the haruspex was alarmed to see a large party of heavies enter the other end of the street. He stiffened, noting the poorly hidden weapons under their cloaks. Striding past the other businesses on the lane, they made a beeline for the Lupanar. Tarquinius counted more than twenty, which was enough proof for him. At long last, his recurrent nightmare made sense. Why hadn’t he realised at Jupiter’s temple? Cursing his decision to drink the night before, he headed towards the Mithraeum as fast as his shuffling feet would take him. With luck, Secundus and his men could be persuaded to help.

Adrenalin surged through the haruspex when he saw the thugs’ leader and another group carrying ladders. He broke into a run. The gods had finally decided to show their hand.

Tarquinius prayed that their revelation had not come too late for Fabiola.

Scaevola’s attack came about an hour after Fabiola had spoken to the apothecary. She felt an immediate sense of relief, which diluted her fear. Not knowing when it might happen had sapped her energy more than she knew. It was time to end this feud one way or another. She’d already prepared the brothel for a siege. There was enough food for more than a week, while a well supplied their water. Just inside the entrance were all the spare weapons her men possessed: axes, clubs, swords and a few spears. The front door’s locking bar was to be augmented by large pieces of heavy furniture once they’d retreated inside, preventing entry by battering ram. Buckets of water had been placed throughout the building in case of fire. The prostitutes were safely in their rooms at the back, but Jovina remained at her post in the reception, a dagger clutched in her frail hands.

Half of her men were outside with Benignus, while Vettius and the others stood ready in the reception. Fabiola was determined to defend the street, at least for a while. Hiding away in the brothel would make Scaevola think she was scared, or already beaten, and she wasn’t having that. This was her turf, not his, and it would be defended. Her forces weren’t immense, though. Including Benignus and Vettius, she had eighteen men. Most of them were slaves or
collegia
toughs whose quality and courage was uncertain, but five were gladiators, professional fighters who, with the two
doormen, would form the heart of her little army. Wearing a selection of armour according to their gladiator class, the quintet were being paid twice as much as any of the others. Although Catus and the kitchen slaves were untrained in the use of weapons, they had also been armed, which brought the potential number of defenders up to twenty-three. Twenty-four, Fabiola thought. Discarding convention, she had strapped on a belt and
gladius
herself. After all, she was a follower of Mithras, the warrior god, so she would fight like one.

Despite her bravado, there was a sinking feeling in Fabiola’s gut.

Soon after, it began.

‘Look lively, boys,’ shouted Benignus from outside. ‘Trouble!’

Fabiola rushed to the door, which was ajar. Sauntering up the street came a gang of at least twenty thugs. She could not see Scaevola, but her stomach still clenched into a knot. Wearing cloaks to conceal their weapons, the nonchalant newcomers were acting as if they were on a morning stroll. A short distance to their rear walked a solitary figure, a well-built black-haired man in a soldier’s red tunic. Fabiola frowned. Their leader? No, she decided: he looked out of place. She had no time to study him further. Realising that their cover was blown, the heavies threw back their cloaks and produced a fearsome selection of axes, clubs and swords. Screaming blue murder, they charged straight for the Lupanar.

‘You know what to do,’ Fabiola shouted at Benignus.

‘Kill as many of the bastards as possible, and then retreat inside,’ came the answer.

‘Mithras protect you all,’ she called back, her heart thumping against her ribs in a combination of fear and excitement.

Benignus gave Fabiola a grim nod before joining his men, who had formed a tight defensive arc around the entrance. Preparing to take the brunt of the attack, he and the five gladiators formed the centre. Like a line of legionaries, they moved shoulder to shoulder. Neither side were using shields, which meant that casualties would come thick and fast.

First blood went to Fabiola’s fighters. A burly man with a long-handled axe who fancied himself against Benignus came screaming in a few steps ahead of his companions with his weapon raised high. Fabiola flinched; the curved blade would fatally injure or remove a limb with ease. She needn’t have worried. Holding his club by the ends, Benignus lifted his
arms and used it to meet the swingeing blow full on. Sparks flew into the air as the iron axe struck the profusion of metal studs on the club’s surface. Instead of cutting Benignus’ head in two, it bit two fingers’ depth into the wood. Frantic, the axeman tried in vain to pull his weapon loose. With an evil smile, Benignus used his club to yank his struggling opponent closer before delivering a huge kick to the groin. The screaming thug dropped to the ground in a heap, whereupon the doorman ripped the axe free. Grasping his club with both hands, he brought it down with all his strength.

Fabiola had seen joints of meat split open with a cleaver many times before. Until that moment, though, she’d never seen a man’s skull opened so easily. When Charon came into the arena to check that all the fallen gladiators were dead, she always looked away. Now, she was rapt. With a sickening crunch, Benignus’ club smashed his enemy’s head apart. A fine red mist sprayed into the air and small lumps of gelatinous brain matter flew everywhere. A number splattered off the doorframe by Fabiola’s head. She wished they had been from Scaevola.

The remainder of his heavies crashed into her defenders’ line an instant later. The confined space of the laneway magnified the clash of weapons and screams to that of thunder. Swords bit deep into flesh and men tussled with each other, punching, wrestling and even biting if the opportunity presented itself. Fabiola danced from foot to foot, unconsciously mimicking her men’s movements. She had already drawn her
gladius
, and only Vettius’ restraining arm was preventing her from joining the fray. ‘You’re not to go out there,’ he muttered firmly. ‘That’s our job.’ Fabiola obeyed, knowing he was right.

To her horror, things started to go badly almost at once. First to go was the defensive arc around the doorway. Although Fabiola’s men had cut down five more of their enemies, they had lost three of their own. No one was left to fill the gaps, and in a heartbeat a pair of thugs had wriggled inside the half circle, throwing themselves straight at the doorway. If that could be taken, the battle was won. Locked in their own struggles for survival, Benignus and his comrades could do nothing about it.