The Road to Rome (54 page)

‘Your own brother won’t get involved,’ Brutus said unhappily. ‘I can’t do it either then. Especially after all Caesar’s done for me.’

‘I’ll win him over,’ Fabiola ventured, lying through her teeth. ‘Caesar has to be stopped. He’s becoming a monster. You know it’s true.’

It was as if Brutus hadn’t heard her. ‘There must be another way.’

Fabiola felt the situation slipping from her grasp.

‘I’ll pay Caesar a visit,’ he declared. ‘Talk some sense into him.’

‘Have you gone mad?’ cried Fabiola, panicking. She didn’t want to lose Brutus for a second time. ‘Caesar’s veiled threats to Pontius Aquila went on for days. Who knows how he’d react to the person who crosses him next?’

‘True enough.’ Brutus ran a hand through his short brown hair, thinking. ‘I must consider the matter further. Make an offering at Mars’ temple, asking for guidance.’

‘There isn’t much time,’ Fabiola warned, frustrated by his indecision. ‘He’s talking about leaving Rome straight after the Ides of March.’

Brutus’ expression darkened at her pressure. ‘We’re talking about the murder of a man here. It’s not a matter to be taken lightly.’

‘I know, my love,’ Fabiola murmured reassuringly. ‘Of course you’re right.’

To her relief, he relaxed.

Fabiola considered the situation for a moment. I have enough names to go on, she realised. Euphoria filled her. While Brutus vacillated, she would press on. Invite the nobles he’d mentioned to the Lupanar one by one. Win them over, by whatever means necessary.

In time, Brutus would come to see that killing Caesar was the only option.

Even if he didn’t, the information he’d let slip gave Fabiola enough to act alone. Which was what she’d do. This was too good an opportunity to miss. If she didn’t act soon, there wouldn’t be another chance for years.

She was prepared to wait no longer.

Whatever the risk.

Just over three months pass . . .
The Capitoline Hill, Rome, spring 44
BC

R
omulus glanced sidelong at Tarquinius, trying to judge his mood. With Mattius in tow, they were climbing the Capitoline Hill, intent on visiting the enormous temple to Jupiter there. Numerous attempts by the haruspex to read the future in the Mithraeum had failed, frustrating them both. Something momentous was approaching, Tarquinius said over and over, but he wasn’t sure what. Today, no effort would be spared. Still scarred by his own vision in Margiana, Romulus refused to consider the idea that he might try. Yet he needed to know so many things, and it felt as if time was running out. Recently, his suspicions had been roused by the knowledge that a large group of men were holding regular meetings in the Lupanar. Detailing Mattius to sit outside each day, Romulus had soon learned that scores of nobles were involved, including prominent politicians such as Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus. Tellingly, the urchin had not seen Decimus Brutus, Fabiola’s lover, which told Romulus that he wasn’t the only one to have reservations. This knowledge angered him even more.

He hadn’t confronted Fabiola over it for two reasons. First was that she probably wouldn’t admit any conspiracy, and secondly Romulus wasn’t sure he trusted her any longer. If she actually was going through with her plan, then he was but a small obstacle in her path. Fabiola’s original heavies had been replaced by brutal-looking men who looked well capable of killing their mistress’s twin brother. None had been especially friendly, even when they’d known who he was, leading Romulus to conclude that he wasn’t exactly flavour of the month at the Lupanar. Despite this, he felt loath to
take the obvious and opposite path – that of betraying Fabiola and the other conspirators. What if he was wrong about her?

Even if he wasn’t, Romulus couldn’t bear the idea of his only living relation being permanently taken from him, for that would be the only fate awarded Fabiola if she were caught. Yet the consequences – Caesar’s murder – were just as bad. It didn’t help that Rome was awash with rumours of plans to assassinate the dictator. One moment it was Marcus Brutus, then another it was Dolabella, one of Caesar’s long-term allies. Sometimes it was even purported to be Antonius, the dictator’s most loyal follower. Riven by uncharacteristic indecision, Romulus had to know if the threat to Caesar was real, and if so, what he should do about it.

Then there was the thorny subject of Fabiola herself. Could he patch up his relationship with her? No matter how much Romulus wanted it, he could not see a reconciliation happening while his sister was planning to kill Caesar. This awareness further lessened his ties to Rome, but made him feel guilty as Hades. There must be a way to renew the intimacy of their childhood, when they each had only the other.

Only the gods knew the answer to this problem – if they could be persuaded to reveal it.

Romulus also burned to know if Brennus was still alive. He did not let the thrilling idea go to his head. Even if the big Gaul had beaten off the wounded elephant, there was nothing to say that he hadn’t been killed immediately afterwards. The Forgotten Legion had been struggling against an overwhelming enemy force when Romulus and Tarquinius had fled, and its fate, like that of Brennus, was unknown. Since Thapsus, though, Romulus had not been able to stop wondering about the Gaul.

His desire to take part in Caesar’s forthcoming campaign was fanned by the regular news which swept the city. Thousands of cavalrymen had been recruited from Gaul, Hispania and Germania, and were assembling in Brundisium, the main jumping-off point for voyages to the east. Caesar’s legions were gathering too, marching from all over the Republic to the south of Italy, or taking ships there. Romulus knew that he could easily re-enlist in the Twenty-Eighth. There would be little difficulty winning Tarquinius a place either. Although he was older now, the haruspex could still fight, and his medical knowledge equalled, or exceeded, that of most army surgeons. There had been no direct statement about Parthia, but
Romulus sensed a growing agitation in the haruspex. His own rootless feelings fed from this.

It made the lack of guidance from Mithras even more frustrating.

‘Perhaps Tinia will be more forthcoming,’ said Tarquinius.

Startled, Romulus grinned. ‘Jupiter, Greatest and Best,’ he replied, using the commonest title for the greatest god in Rome. As an Etruscan, the haruspex used his people’s name for the deity. ‘Let’s hope he’s in a good mood today.’

Soon after, they reached the vast temple complex that covered the top of the hill. Originally built by the Etruscans, it was the most important religious shrine in Rome. Pilgrims came from far and wide to worship here and to make their pleas of the god. In front of the gold-roofed temple, a huge statue of Jupiter gazed down over the city, looming, protecting and all-seeing.

Romulus muttered a prayer, just as he had as a boy. His daily appeal then had been to kill Gemellus. Although he had not carried through with this wish, he felt as if, aided by Orcus, the god had orchestrated his last confrontation with the cruel merchant. Today his need felt similarly urgent. What should he do about Fabiola and Caesar? Was journeying to Parthia again a good idea? Should he not resolve things with his sister first? From the corner of his eye, Romulus caught Tarquinius also muttering a request.

Both of them were in the same boat.

Shoving past the throngs of citizens, hawkers and entertainers, they climbed the steps to the entrance to the
cellae
, the sacred rooms which formed the main part of the shrine. There were three, one dedicated to each of the deities, Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. As the pre-eminent god in Rome, Jupiter’s was the central chamber. Joining the end of the queue, the trio shuffled forward in silence. Inside, shaven-headed acolytes walked to and fro, swinging bronze vessels from long chains, and releasing the heavy scents of burning incense and myrrh.

Owing to the large numbers of devotees in the long, narrow
cella
, they were not afforded much time for contemplation. It was a case of bending their knees, placing their offerings – a pile of
denarii
, a miniature Etruscan bowl and two bronze
asses
from Mattius – and making a swift request from the forbidding carved stone face above the altar, before withdrawing.

Making their way outside, they blinked as their eyes adjusted to the
bright sunlight. At once the
cella
’s calm was replaced by the noise of the crowds filling the open area between the temple and the statue of Jupiter. The cries of food vendors competed with acrobats, street performers and peddlers of tat. Here a mother scolded her wayward children, and there a bevy of painted whores stood, doing their best to encourage men down the nearest alley. Cripples, lepers and the diseased filled every available space, presenting a forest of outstretched palms for those kind enough to open their purses.

‘What did you ask for?’ Romulus asked Mattius.

‘Nothing,’ answered the urchin.

‘Yet you wanted to come in with us.’

‘To give thanks,’ came the reply. ‘And to fulfil my vow.’

Romulus gave him a quizzical look.

‘You took me away from my stepfather. Jupiter
must
be responsible for that,’ said Mattius seriously. ‘I had been praying to him every night, asking for his help. Then you came along.’

‘I see.’ Romulus smiled indulgently, before realising that the boy’s belief was no different to his. How else could one explain the removal of a huge obstacle from one’s life? In his case, it had been the impossibilities of surviving Carrhae and returning to Rome, while in Mattius’ it was escaping from the cruelty he suffered daily at home.

When he looked up, Tarquinius was already heading for the men who sold animals for sacrifice. Romulus hurried after him, buying a healthy-looking fawn-coloured kid that caught his eye. The haruspex settled for a plump black hen with bright eyes and clean plumage, and together they shouldered past the soothsayers who instantly converged, offering to reveal their wondrous futures. Mattius bobbed in their wake, amazed at the contempt his friends showed towards the robed augurs. He was even more flabbergasted a few moments later when Tarquinius found a spot right between Jupiter’s feet.

‘He’s a soothsayer?’ Mattius whispered.

Romulus nodded.

‘Hold this.’ Tarquinius handed the hen to Mattius, who accepted it with a nervous smile.

Clearing away the trinkets and small offerings left there by hopeful citizens, the haruspex eyed the paving slabs, which were covered in dark red
smears. Romulus saw them too, and understood Tarquinius’ purpose. The bloodstains told their own story.

Although he had never seen it done, other people had sacrificed here before.

Taking a deep breath, Tarquinius drew his dagger. ‘Give me the bird,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘It is time.’

As Mattius obeyed, beads of nervous sweat broke out on Romulus’ forehead.

Jupiter,
Optimus Maximus
, tell me what to do, he prayed.

‘Welcome,’ said Fabiola, inclining her head graciously at Caius Trebonius. ‘All the others are here.’

‘Good.’ Trebonius smiled. A short, balding man in middle age, he still had the muscular physique of someone much younger. With shrewd brown eyes and high cheekbones, he was not dissimilar in appearance to Caesar. His height was the most noticeable difference, yet it did not detract from his presence. Like most of the Roman nobility, he carried himself with the utmost confidence. ‘What of Brutus?’

Fabiola shook her head. ‘He can’t bring himself to join us yet.’

‘A shame.’ Trebonius sighed. ‘Such a son of Rome would be a great addition to our number.’ With a courteous bow, he headed to the largest of the bedchambers, which had been converted to a meeting room.

Fabiola followed, still not quite believing that someone else who had served the dictator so faithfully – Trebonius had been a suffect consul the year before – now wanted to kill him. Yet he had been one of the first to join her conspiracy. Responding promptly to her invitation, Trebonius had arrived at the brothel to be treated to a lingering massage by Fabiola herself. This was before three of her best-looking prostitutes had led him, unprotesting, away. ‘Do anything he requests,’ Fabiola had ordered the trio earlier. ‘Absolutely anything.’ They all nodded, eagerly eyeing the weighty purses she’d promised them afterwards.

A couple of hours later, Trebonius had been in the most affable of moods. Enjoying a cup of fine wine with Fabiola in the brothel’s newly refurbished courtyard, he had been quick to offer his condemnation of Caesar. ‘The man’s lost the plot. Wearing those red calf-length boots like he’s a king of Alba Longa. As for topping his costume off with a gilded
laurel wreath, well . . .’ He patted his thinning hair and smiled. ‘What the gods give, the gods take away. It isn’t for us to hide it under fancy headgear.’

Laughing at his joke, Fabiola had leaned over to refill his cup, making sure that her cleavage was on full display. ‘Some of the people think he’s a sovereign already,’ she said, deliberately alluding to the recent episode when Caesar had been hailed with shouts of ‘king’ during a procession into the city. Reports of the incident had swept through Rome like wildfire.