The Road to Rome (55 page)

Trebonius had scowled. ‘So we’re supposed to swallow the lie that he’s not king, but Caesar. Pah! It’s laughable.’

He had gone on to describe why Caesar had to be stopped. It wasn’t the dictator’s manner or treatment of those who voiced their opposition to him, for in these cases Caesar continued to be mild-mannered and forgiving. Even the tribunes who had ordered the arrest of the man who’d first shouted ‘king’ had escaped with light punishments. Sulla would not have been so lenient, Trebonius admitted. Nor would other previous dictators. It was the absolute power that Caesar had gathered unto himself, eliminating virtually all the power of the Senate and elected magistrates. Half a millennium of democracy had been swept away in less than two years.

Fabiola had deployed the same tactic with the other prominent nobles whom Brutus had mentioned. Although she’d been prepared to sleep with all the men if she had to, that had not proved necessary, which helped her feel better about herself and her promise to Brutus. Thankfully, the tide of ill feeling against Caesar was running high, and all the disgruntled needed was the catalyst to bring them together. Fabiola had proved to be this medium, and in less than a week she had enlisted the help of Marcus Brutus, Cassius Longinus, Servius Galba and Lucius Basilus. Marcus Brutus was her lover’s cousin, and the son of Servilia, Caesar’s long-term lover. Despite this, he had taken the part of the Republicans and had fought with them at Pharsalus. Welcomed back into the fold afterwards thanks to Caesar’s magnanimity, he had secured the same pardon for Cassius Longinus, who had served Crassus in Parthia. It was no surprise, therefore, that both men joined the conspiracy together. Marcus Brutus’ reasons for taking part were simple. Like Trebonius, he felt aggrieved at the manner in which Caesar had assumed total power, reducing able men like himself to impotent bystanders. However, like Decimus Brutus, Fabiola’s lover, he
was also a member of the family who had reputedly deposed the last king of Rome five centuries before. In addition, he was the nephew of Cato, the Republican orator who, rather than live under Caesar’s rule, had committed suicide after Thapsus. This act had turned Cato into the epitome of Roman aristocratic virtue, and driven Marcus Brutus to write a pamphlet in his praise. Now he was showing his true colours and, in his eyes, his Roman honour, by taking part in the conspiracy.

Fabiola wanted more than five eminent men, however. Fame and public recognition did not guarantee success. Moreover, any attempt on the dictator’s life risked onlookers coming to his aid. Despite Caesar’s disbanding of his loyal Spanish bodyguards at the beginning of the year, the public and most senators still loved him dearly, and might intervene on his behalf. She could see it happening. More recruits were needed.

Fabiola’s prayers had been answered nearly four weeks before, during the Lupercalia, the ancient fertility festival. Watched by huge crowds, Antonius had publicly offered Caesar a royal diadem and asked him to become king. Caesar had demurred twice, ordering the crown to be taken instead to the temple of Jupiter. This clumsy attempt by the dictator to allay suspicions about his aspirations to the monarchy, had immediately been negated by a soothsayer’s prediction that Parthia could only be conquered by a king. Another soon followed it, alleging that the Senate would vote Caesar the kingship of everywhere except Italy.

These new threats were the final straw, and many new conspirators had joined the plotters in the subsequent days. Their arrival made Fabiola confident that she would soon be revenged on her mother’s rapist. There were almost sixty men in the large well-lit room at the end of the corridor, from all parties and factions within the Senate. Former consuls, tribunes and quaestors rubbed shoulders with ordinary politicians. It boded well for the success of their dark venture.

The most prominent absentee was Brutus, her lover, who had taken to spending much of his time at various temples. As well as praying, he consulted the augurs there over the best course of action to take. Typically, he received differing advice from every man whose palm he greased with silver, which increased his confusion. Sleep began to evade him, and he paced the corridors of his
domus
each night, asking Mithras and Mars for guidance. None was forthcoming, and he grew tired and irritable. Fully
aware that Fabiola was conducting large meetings in the Lupanar – she had given up subterfuge – Brutus did not ask her purpose. Yet he did not mention this suspicious activity to anyone either, which gave Fabiola hope that she would win him over before the end.

Reaching the meeting chamber a step behind Trebonius, Fabiola realised that despite her resolve to continue without Brutus, she wanted him by her side. With Romulus determined not to help, she keenly felt the need for some psychological support. The enormity of what they were about to do was becoming more real. Despite Fabiola wishing it were so, Caesar was not just her mother’s rapist. He was the greatest leader the Republic had ever seen, and his death would shake it to the core.

Holding the black hen firmly by the head, Tarquinius laid it down on the stones. Raising his eyes to the statue of Jupiter looming over them, he prayed, ‘Great Tinia, accept this sacrifice from a humble servant.’ With a smooth movement of his blade, the haruspex sliced its head clean off. He quickly transferred his grip, holding the stump of the bird’s neck and its body as gouts of arterial blood sprayed on to the ground. Its wings flapped to and fro in a frenzy of useless effort, before gradually relaxing. Holding the hen firmly, Tarquinius studied the pooling red fluid with an intense air of concentration.

Romulus watched agog, looking at the runnels of blood with more interest than he’d paid to a sacrifice in years. He made no effort to try and elicit any information. This was a matter best left to an expert. Beside him, Mattius had been struck dumb.

‘East,’ Tarquinius murmured after long moments of silence. ‘It’s flowing east.’

The haruspex’ tone increased Romulus’ interest at once. ‘A good omen?’ he breathed.

A slow smile spread across Tarquinius’ face. ‘Yes. The spirits that favour mankind dwell in the east. My people also came from there.’

‘Margiana lies in that direction,’ added Romulus, his nerves twitching with anticipation.

Tarquinius gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

‘Where’s that?’ asked Mattius.

The haruspex did not answer. He was plucking feathers from the hen
to expose its belly. Letting each handful go, he watched to see if they would travel anywhere. Most fell to the ground in a disorganised scatter, but others were caught by a light movement of air. Tarquinius’ eyes focused on them like a hawk upon a mouse. Tumbling end over end, the black feathers moved a few steps away from the statue. Then a few more. For half a dozen heartbeats, they lay still, but eventually the breeze tugged them upwards, off the top of the hill and into the air over Rome. A few moments later, they were lost to sight as they disappeared eastwards.

Romulus’ pulse rate shot up, but he didn’t interrupt.

Tarquinius became even more solemn. Placing the hen on the ground between Jupiter’s great feet, he slit open the thin skin of its belly, taking care not to damage the internal organs. Laying down his knife, he eased out the green ribbon-like intestines, examining them with great care. To Romulus’ relief, the haruspex seemed pleased by what he saw, but he revealed nothing. His lips moving faintly, he opened the bird’s abdomen completely and removed its small, dark-red liver. Romulus could tell from its rounded lobes and the even colour of its flesh that it was healthy and clear of parasites.

Holding up the liver in his left hand, Tarquinius turned his gaze to the sky, studying the cloud patterns and the direction of the wind. ‘Great Tinia, receive this offering today,’ he said at length. ‘Grant two humble devotees the blessing of your wisdom that we may seek out the best path.’

‘Three,’ interjected Mattius. ‘I also believe.’

Worried that this might break the spell, Romulus frowned.

Tarquinius reacted differently. ‘My apologies,’ he said to Mattius, inclining his head. He looked up at the statue. ‘Not forgetting our friend here, Great Tinia.’

Mattius settled back on his heels, satisfied.

Romulus felt a surge of admiration for the boy’s spirit. Few adults would dare to speak in such a situation.

Turning the liver this way and that, Tarquinius studied it for a long time. Looking dissatisfied, he moved on to the bird’s heart, slicing it open to look at the blood within. Next he scrutinised the hen’s entire body, from its beak to its vent. When he was finished, he sighed heavily.

Romulus could wait no longer. ‘What did you see?’

‘Not much.’

‘The blood ran east, though. The feathers flew that way too!’ Romulus cried, the first fingers of panic clutching at his guts.

‘Which is a good omen,’ replied Tarquinius.

‘Does it mean we should travel east?’

Tarquinius met his gaze squarely. ‘I don’t know. I saw nothing of Margiana.’

‘Anything about Caesar?’ muttered Romulus. ‘Or Fabiola?’

The haruspex shook his head in a resigned manner.

Romulus overcame his reservations and spent a few moments looking at the butchered hen for himself. He saw nothing. Fighting his disappointment, he glanced at Tarquinius again.

‘I saw nothing bad, which we should be grateful for.’

‘Nothing about my stepfather?’ Mattius asked nervously.

‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, managing to sound jovial. ‘But no guidance for me or Romulus either.’

Rallying his spirits, Romulus pushed forward the fawn kid. ‘There’s this still,’ he said.

Without a word, the haruspex cleaned up the mess of feathers and blood, shunting them all away from the statue. ‘Get rid of it,’ he ordered Mattius. As the boy scurried off with his hands full, Tarquinius took the kid from Romulus, subjecting it to a close examination. With a satisfied nod, he stood it where the hen had lain until a moment earlier. Scenting the blood, the animal bleated and made to jump off the stone plinth.

‘Quickly, before it gets too stressed,’ Romulus urged. He grabbed the kid and extended its neck forward. Jupiter, he begged silently. Hear our plea. We need your help.

Tarquinius wiped his knife clean on his tunic and muttered a quick prayer. Holding the animal’s neck to keep it steady, he drew the iron blade across the underside of its throat. ‘We thank you for your life,’ he whispered as a crimson tide gushed over his fingers and on to the ground. This time, the blood pooled rather than running away from him. ‘Shouldn’t matter,’ Tarquinius declared confidently as he flipped the kid on to its back. Following the same procedure as he had with the hen, he cut open the abdomen first.

‘Those look healthy,’ said Romulus as the first loops of pinkish intestine slithered out.

Tarquinius grunted. Silently, he sifted through the whole length from the back passage right up to the small set of stomachs. ‘Nothing,’ he announced. Catching Romulus’ worried look, he chuckled. ‘Courage. The liver and heart are usually far more revealing.’

Swallowing down the acid which kept climbing his throat, Romulus forced himself to calm down.

Using the point of the knife, Tarquinius freed the kid’s liver from its snug position against the diaphragm. A more purple colour than the hen’s, it was clear of blemishes or visible parasites. Again the haruspex held it skywards in his left hand and made a fervent appeal to Tinia. Romulus added his own request and waited with bated breath as Tarquinius prepared to begin his divination.

It only took a moment for the haruspex’ body language to change. Stiffening with surprise, he sucked in a sharp breath. ‘This is why you and Fabiola are always caught up in the storm,’ he muttered. ‘The rumours are true.’

Horrified, Romulus was peering over Tarquinius’ shoulder before he realised it. ‘About Caesar?’ he said in a whisper. Few things caused more of a stir in Rome than an augur or a witness to a divination relating what he’d seen. The recent notion of Caesar moving the Republic’s capital to Alexandria had probably originated like that. Romulus had no wish to be responsible for potentially harmful gossip – but he had to know. ‘Tell me!’

‘They really are planning to kill him. Caesar is not a god after all,’ Tarquinius said. He gave Romulus a penetrating look. It mattered little to him if Caesar died, but his protégé was different. In more ways than one.

Romulus’ nausea grew worse, and he clenched his fists. ‘Who?’

The haruspex’ eyes gazed into the distance. ‘Olenus knew what he was talking about yet again. It’s incredible.’

‘Your mentor had a vision about Caesar?’ Romulus cried, amazed. ‘That was half a lifetime ago.’

Tarquinius fell back to examining the liver.

Romulus did not press his friend further. It was far more important that every last detail was gleaned from the dead kid.

‘A lot of men are involved,’ the haruspex said a moment later. ‘High-ranking nobles of all backgrounds – former Pompeians and some of Caesar’s oldest followers. More than fifty of them.’

Romulus’ heart sank. This would explain the meetings in the Lupanar which Mattius had reported. There was no mention of a woman, which gave him some hope. Was it possible that Fabiola didn’t know? How could it be, given the location? He bit a nail and tried to compose his emotions. ‘When will they strike?’ According to most reports, Caesar would leave for Dacia and Parthia within the week.

Tarquinius prodded the liver with a reddened forefinger before he answered. ‘Tomorrow, I think,’ he said at last. ‘The Ides of March.’

Romulus could feel waves of blood pounding in his ears. ‘So soon?’ he repeated. ‘Are you certain?’

Tarquinius looked again. ‘Yes.’

Romulus’ response was instant. ‘I have to warn him.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

Tarquinius’ dark eyes felt all-seeing and, not for the first time, Romulus wondered if Fabiola had told him of her conviction that Caesar was their father. Or had he seen it at another time? Indecision battered his resolve. Did the haruspex also know the truth of what had happened to his mother? Maybe Caesar
was
guilty of rape. Romulus couldn’t bring himself to ask this question. If the answer wasn’t what he expected, it might sway him from what his instinct was shouting. He
had
to act, or a gang of nobles would murder Caesar for their own ends. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I am.’