The Road to Rome (52 page)

Her face went pale. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Why ask then?’ he shot back.

She did not answer.

Disgusted, Romulus stalked from the courtyard.

More than five months pass . . .
The Lupanar, spring 45
BC

F
abiola sat in the reception area, fondly watching Benignus as he instructed a new doorman in his duties. Despite the horrific injuries he had sustained during the battle with Scaevola’s men, he had survived. With a host of new scars and a bad limp in one leg, he had insisted on returning to work a few weeks later. Benignus’ recovery was in no small part due to Tarquinius’ medical abilities, and the last remnants of dust from a little leather pouch, which the haruspex had scattered over the worst of his wounds.
Mantar
, he called it. Fabiola had no idea what was in the musty-smelling particles, but she would always be grateful to Tarquinius for its power. Without it, Benignus would have died. Without his intervention, so too would Romulus. Furthermore, if the haruspex hadn’t warned Secundus and Brutus of the danger she was in, they might never have come to the Lupanar. In turn, this meant that she and her lover might never have been reconciled, a prospect Fabiola dared not think about. For all these reasons, she retained a keen interest in Tarquinius.

Initially, she’d thought that his close friendship with Romulus might provide her with a way of breaking the ice with her brother. After their argument in Brutus’ garden, the twins had not seen each other for some time. Fabiola had been so angered by Romulus’ refusal to join her that she was not prepared to make the first move. As she had discovered, neither was he. Yet Tarquinius’ visits to care for Benignus meant that Fabiola saw the haruspex daily. Long conversations followed, during which she heard much of Romulus’ story, which of course she hadn’t had the chance to hear from his own lips. While she’d been told about the torturous campaign
into Parthia and the horrors of Carrhae, Fabiola had never heard it from someone who had stood by Romulus’ side. She wept at Tarquinius’ descriptions of the Parthian arrow storms, the arrow-riddled legionaries and of their defeat under the burning desert sun, and sat horror-struck by the details of Crassus’ execution, the Forgotten Legion’s march to Margiana, and their ordeals against the Sogdians, Scythians and Indians.

The haruspex’ account of that last battle was perhaps the most shocking revelation for Fabiola. Interrupting Tarquinius, she told him how she had crept into the underground Mithraeum and drunk a vial of an hallucinogenic liquid. Bizarrely, she had been transformed into a raven. Flying over a strange land, she’d been struck by powerful images of Romulus. Next she had seen an outnumbered Roman army facing a huge host with elephants in its midst. The notion that Mithras had revealed that her brother was alive only to show her the method of his destruction had been overwhelming, driving Fabiola to dive madly at one of the massive beasts.

When she mentioned this, Tarquinius’ mouth actually fell open.

‘A raven, you say?’

She nodded. ‘But Secundus woke me up before I could see what happened.’

‘I saw that bird,’ the haruspex muttered. ‘So did Romulus. It dropped like a stone from the sky, aiming straight for the lead elephant. I told the men that the raven was a sign from the gods!’

Goose bumps rose all over Fabiola’s body. ‘It was sent by Mithras himself,’ she whispered.

‘Like my vision in the Parthians’ Mithraeum,’ mused Tarquinius. ‘I’ve had perhaps six that clear in my whole life, and the last one was in Margiana. It feels as if I have lost my focus.’ He sighed.

Despite the haruspex’ pessimism, Fabiola’s interest was piqued. Unlike the charlatans she’d come across all her life, here was a soothsayer with real ability. If she could take Tarquinius into her confidence, he might be persuaded to divine for the success of her plot against Caesar. Yet it was not quite that simple. Before revealing her hand in such a bald manner, Fabiola wanted to know if she could trust Tarquinius. He might feel the same way about Caesar as her brother. She started by asking him to have a word with Romulus, but to her frustration, he wanted nothing to do with their feud. In fact, he turned her down flat. ‘I’ve done enough harm poking
my nose in other people’s business,’ he said. ‘You and your brother have to sort it out yourselves, like adults.’ The haruspex’ refusal prevented Fabiola from taking him into her confidence.

Fabiola wasn’t ready to try mending her relationship with her twin either. Stubbornly, she wanted him to come to her first, and when he didn’t, she was even more aggrieved. Although Fabiola knew that he was probably feeling the same way, she felt unable to budge from her position. She was right about Caesar being their mother’s rapist. Romulus would come to see that one day, she knew it. Nor was Fabiola deterred from her planning by Tarquinius’ refusal to help. She would press on regardless, with or without evidence of divine approval. Or her brother’s assistance.

Fabiola’s first major advancement had been her reconciliation with Brutus. Overwrought by her ordeal and the manner of Romulus’ departure, she had still noted the speed of Brutus’ arrival in the Lupanar. Knowing that this was her great chance to win her lover back, Fabiola had used every weapon in her considerable armoury. Sobbing like a child, she had thanked Brutus for coming to her aid. After taking up with Antonius, she didn’t deserve anything other than contempt from him. Secretly delighted by his magnanimous response, Fabiola had gradually turned kitten-like, telling Brutus how proud she was of him, and how much she’d missed his kindness and attention. Light caresses of his chest had drawn an instant response, giving Fabiola much needed encouragement to continue. If he was good enough to take her back, she promised, she would lavish all her attention on him for the rest of her days.

Fabiola’s ploy was only partly an act. She was hugely relieved to be rid of Antonius and Scaevola, his malevolent sidekick and she had genuinely missed Brutus’ pleasant company. However, her main need was still to enrol him in her conspiracy. Naturally, Brutus had no knowledge of this, yet, won over by Fabiola’s abject penitence and smouldering sexuality, he had drawn her into a lingering embrace. That night she had used every trick in the book to drive Brutus wild with lust, and their coupling had been nothing short of animal.

She’d kept up the tactic, focusing entirely on him in the days and weeks that followed. In the aftermath of Caesar’s triumphs, and with no immediate prospect of fighting anywhere else, Brutus was happy to relax. Years of conflict in Gaul had been replaced by the civil war, and while he hadn’t
fought in all of its campaigns, he had constantly been performing high-level duties for Caesar. Enjoying each other’s company like new lovers, they had holidayed on the coast, visited the theatre and circus, and entertained Brutus’ friends and allies. Fabiola took extreme care to say nothing but positive things about Caesar. Her rash behaviour with Antonius had nearly been the ruin of her, and she needed to be sure of Brutus’ complete devotion once more before mentioning such an inflammatory topic. When Brutus was ordered to Hispania, she kept up the pretence, knowing that the right moment would make itself known.

Until then, she would bide her time.

For a second time, Romulus walked by the turn-off that would lead him to the Lupanar. Mattius darted back and forth impatiently, but had the sense not to speak. It was not for him to question his sponsor’s actions. He knew it was something to do with Romulus’ sister, but nothing more. To the urchin, it didn’t really matter. Having someone so hero-like to follow and learn from was enough for him. After Romulus’ dire threats to his stepfather, Mattius no longer had to worry about spending all his time away from home. His sister was no longer selling her prepubescent body either; instead she sold bread for a local baker, a veteran whom Romulus had approached. Their mother, a scrawny ill-fed woman, was now installed in a clean two-room
cenacula
, along with Mattius and his sister. Her features, which had been pale and gaunt from giving most of her food to her children, were now a more healthy colour. Romulus had never seen himself as a sponsor of the poor – after all, he’d been a slave until recently – but once he’d started helping Mattius, it felt wrong not to extend the same gesture to his family. In many ways, they were no different to him a decade previously. It felt good being wealthy enough to help ease their misery, and it almost took his mind off his own predicament.

Romulus had been drawn back to this spot with monotonous regularity ever since his argument with Fabiola, but he never allowed himself to go any closer to the brothel. Today was no different. Damn her eyes, he thought. Can’t she reach out first? Why does it have to be me? By now, he knew that Tarquinius had told Fabiola much of what had happened to him since their parting, that she had wept at the worst parts of it and rejoiced at the best. She obviously cared for him. Just as I do for her, he
reflected. Yet I can’t go along with her plan to murder the man who freed me from slavery.

Despite his reservations, Romulus still worried that Fabiola might be correct. Maybe Caesar
had
raped their mother. The idea revolted him. It was so at odds with all his regard for the dictator, and left him feeling guilty about his manumission, which in turn angered him. No matter how he tried, Romulus could not resolve the issue. All he knew was that killing Caesar – guilty or not – would make him as bad as Gemellus, and that was not what he wanted. Fabiola could make her own decision, but he did not want to be part of it.

Romulus couldn’t ignore Caesar and his accomplishments either. After a decade of unrest and bloodshed, he had brought peace to the Republic. Without him, the spectre of civil war would undoubtedly raise its ugly head again. How many thousands of innocent people would die in that conflict?

The dictator’s abilities were proving to be far more than leadership on the battlefield. Rather than rest on his laurels in the new-found calm, Caesar had been very busy. Rafts of far-seeing legislation had been passed, most of which had been universally welcomed. Rome’s population of poor had been reduced by tens of thousands – mostly to found new colonies in Gaul, Africa and Hispania. Generous allocations of land there would allow them to provide for their families rather than rely on the state for everything. Large-scale works had been started in the capital too, both on the Campus Martius and on Caesar’s massive new Forum complex. These provided employment for a vast number of citizens, allowing the dictator to reduce the number of people who received free grain by more than a hundred thousand.

Caesar’s soldiers and supporters had not been forgotten either. At last his veterans were receiving the plots of land that they had been promised for so long. His tribunes and centurions were particularly well looked after. Nothing made a general more popular than these two gestures, as Caesar knew well. Pompey’s enormous popularity with his legions had been in no small part due to his generous retirement settlements for his old soldiers. While Romulus and his comrades in the honour guard had not all served for the minimum period required to earn an allocation of land, Caesar still chose to include them with those who had. Furthermore, he’d granted them properties in Italy, naturally the most sought-after location.

Romulus was now the owner of a small farm near Capua, and he’d made a number of visits to it, each time calling in on Sabinus. Naturally, Mattius accompanied him on every trip. Even Tarquinius came along occasionally. Romulus’ former comrade was a mine of information about how to run an agricultural enterprise. A pattern soon evolved: they would lie around, talking and drinking too much while Octavia, Sabinus’ wife, muttered in the background and Mattius ran wild with the veteran’s children. Once they’d had enough, the men would travel by mule to Romulus’ property, which was situated on a south-facing slope fifteen miles from Capua. Mattius would stay behind with Octavia, usually at his request. To him, life on a farm, with playmates and regular meals thrown in, was like heaven on earth.

With Sabinus’ help, Romulus employed six local peasants as well as an overseer. Paying wages greatly increased his costs, but it went against everything in his nature to become the owner of servile labour. Next he bought mules and agricultural tools – a plough, scythes, axes, spades and rakes. The men were set to work restoring the half-collapsed farmhouse and sheds, and to ripping up the weeds that filled the disused fields. It was too early in the season to expect a crop, but the seeds could be sown. Later in the year, there would be wheat and barley. The vines, however, would take many months longer before they produced a yield. Sabinus stood with his hands on his hips, explaining the intricacies of growing, tending and harvesting. Romulus listened with half an ear, but his mind constantly wandered, making him wonder if he was really suited to being a farmer.

As a boy, he’d dreamed of becoming a new Spartacus, of rising up against the Republic and freeing the countless multitudes whose unpaid toil built its buildings and tended its farms. Returning to Italy had killed that idea, because Romulus now saw the task for what it was: an impossible dream. Slavery was too integral a part of the Republic, and the opposition to any uprising – Caesar’s battle-hardened legions – were a far cry from the conscript troops which Spartacus had defeated. They would have little difficulty in defeating whatever motley force of slaves he might muster.