The Road to Rome

  The sand beneath Romulus’ feet began to shake. The rhino loomed larger and larger in his vision. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run, to hide, to jump out of the way. He thought his heart was going to leap out of his chest, but somehow Romulus managed to keep his feet right where they were. If he moved prematurely, the rhino would turn and catch him. If he left it a heartbeat too late, it would smash every bone in his body against the wall behind.

  His entire world had shrunk to a tunnel directly in front of him.

  It was filled with the angry rhino.

  Romulus thought his muscles would remain frozen when the time came to move. Great Mithras, give me courage, he pleaded. An image of Brennus standing alone against the elephant flashed before his eyes. Then one of Petronius, buying him time. Romulus grimaced. That was enough. There was time for a last deep breath before the armoured beast hit him and ended this charade for ever.

  He took it.

  With the rhino no more than three steps away, he hurled himself to one side.

  There was an almighty crash as the creature collided with the heavy timber planks, breaking some and cracking others. Its momentum was such that its horns and the front half of its head drove through to the other side, trapping it. Flying splinters covered Romulus’ back as he landed face first in the sand. Fortunately he’d closed his eyes, so the yellow grains only filled his mouth. Above and behind him, he heard the furious rhino thrashing to free itself from the wooden prison around its massive neck. Angry bellows echoed through the planking as it pushed and pulled. Ominous creaking sounds told Romulus that he didn’t have long.

  Desperate, he got to his knees and faced his foe. He was so close that he could have reached out and touched its armoured brown hide. A kicking hind leg nearly brained Romulus as his right hand reached out, searching in the sand for the spear. Where was the damn thing? He began to panic. The rhino’s struggling was so dangerous that he couldn’t afford to look down. When his fingers closed on the wooden shaft, he gasped out loud with relief. Lifting the spear, Romulus studied the great expanse of leathery skin before him. It was just possible to make out the ribs. From his hunting experiences, he knew the heart’s position behind the left elbow. Yet the fore leg on this side was pawing about so much he couldn’t get a clear thrust in.

  A number of timbers broke at once and the rhino lurched backwards a step.

  Romulus cursed. If he didn’t act now, all his efforts would have been in vain. Trusting his skill, he shoved the spear into the rhino’s side with all his might. He felt the blade grate off a rib, slow down momentarily and then slide deep inside the chest cavity. Romulus ran the shaft in to the length of his forearm and more, twisting it to make sure. The sharp blade had to do many things: slice apart lung tissue, cut large blood vessels and penetrate the heart. It had to do all of those to bring down this leviathan.

  A deafening bellow left the rhino’s throat, and it broke free of the planking. Staggering backwards, it coughed up a fist-sized ball of bloody froth. To Romulus’ horror, its beady eyes fixed on him. They were still just a few paces apart. Good killing distance. I had my chance, thought Romulus, his hope turning to despair. I wasn’t good enough.

  The rhino took a step towards him, and then its front legs buckled and gave way. Its hindquarters followed suit, and it sank down with a groan. Torrents of pinkish fluid began to pour from its mouth, staining the sand. More was issuing from around the spear shaft, which was jutting from its chest. From the blood’s bright red colour, Romulus knew that he’d hit a major artery. He didn’t know how, but he’d delivered the rhino a mortal blow. Gratitude filled every pore of his being. Petronius had been honoured, and avenged. No doubt the archers would loose any moment, and end his life. But when he entered Elysium, Romulus knew that he could hold his head up high, even among heroes like Brennus and Petronius.

  He came back to the present as the rhino kicked a few more times. A moment later, the great horned head slumped forward and lay still.

  Silence covered the huge amphitheatre like a blanket.

  Romulus glanced up at the stunned and shocked faces of the audience. No one could believe what he’d done. It was unthinkable that an unarmed man could survive a bout against a creature as fearsome as the rhinoceros.

  A pair of hands began to clap. Slowly at first, but then the speed increased.

  When the crowd saw who was applauding, they hastily joined in. Cheers and shouts of congratulation replaced the vitriol which had fallen on Romulus’ ears only moments before. The hypocrisy of it was stupendous.

  Romulus looked up, and saw that it was Julius Caesar himself who was leading the ovation. A great lump of pride filled his throat, and tears pricked his eyes. At least one person present could see his bravery. Somehow this recognition eased the pain of Petronius’ death.

  ‘Who is this man?’ cried Caesar. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

  The master of ceremonies scurried over to a furious-looking Memor and whispered in his ear. The impotent rage twisting the lanista’s face quickly disappeared and he set off down the nearest set of stairs. The thunderous applause continued, and Romulus took the opportunity to honour Petronius’ body. He hadn’t been afforded this luxury with Brennus, which made it all the more important. Turning his back on Caesar, Romulus crouched down and clasped the veteran’s bloodied right hand in his. ‘Thank you, comrade. I will ask that the proper rites are performed. That you have a decent grave,’ he whispered. Unlike Brennus, whose body was probably picked over by birds of carrion. Tears ran down Romulus’ cheeks as he gently closed Petronius’ staring eyes. ‘Go well.’

  When he stood, there were four of Memor’s men pointing spears at his chest. The lanista was just behind them. There was a grudging respect in all of their gazes, except for Memor, who looked like a snake deprived of its prey. Romulus didn’t care. Greater people were now involved, and the lanista would no longer decide his fate. In a tight phalanx, the five forced him back under the seating, past the cages and outside again. They entered the spectators’ part of the arena, a novel experience for Romulus. It was too much to take in. He was still reeling from the shock of Petronius’ death and the enormity of what he’d done.

  Emerging from the dark into bright sunlight again, Romulus squinted. He was now in the dignitaries’ box, surrounded by legionaries, high-ranking officers and senators. In their eyes he saw a mixture of emotions: respect, amazement and fear; and, in a few, revulsion and jealousy. Awe filled his own heart as he was shoved forward to stand before Caesar. Although Romulus had seen the general numerous times when in the Twenty-Eighth, he’d never been this close. In late middle age, with thinning grey hair, prominent nose and high cheekbones, Caesar was nothing special to look at. Despite this, his self-confidence was obvious and there was a palpable aura of command about him. Instinctively Romulus bowed from the waist.

  ‘Leave us,’ Caesar ordered Memor’s men. He jabbed a finger at the lanista’s chest. ‘You stay.’

  Bowing and scraping, the guards vanished.

  ‘I understand that this slave was to die as a noxius for illegally joining the legions?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Caesar frowned. ‘And the other?’

  ‘His comrade, sir. Apparently the idiot tried to defend him when he was exposed.’

  ‘Someone also tells me that you used to own this slave. Is that true?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I bought him as a boy. He was trained to be a secutor,’ replied Memor in an unctuous tone. ‘But he ran away more than eight years ago. Murdered a noble, you see.’

  Caesar’s gaze fell on Romulus. ‘Two capital offences,’ he said softly.

  What have I to lose, thought Romulus. ‘I didn’t kill the nobleman, sir,’ he protested.

  ‘He would say that, sir,’ Memor interjected.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ snapped Caesar, his dislike of the lanista obvious. ‘If you didn’t, who did?’ he asked Romulus.

  ‘My friend, sir.’

  ‘Him d
own there?’

  ‘No, sir. Another man – an Etruscan.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Romulus answered truthfully. ‘He disappeared in Alexandria after being wounded by an Egyptian sling stone.’ Responding to Caesar’s surprised look, he explained. ‘We were both forced to join the Twenty-Eighth.’

  Caesar seemed amused. ‘You had no choice in the matter?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Innocent of all crimes, eh?’ Caesar tapped a fingernail against his teeth. ‘That’s what everyone says.’

  His legionaries tittered.

  ‘I am guilty of one charge, sir,’ Romulus butted in. He would pretend no longer.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘When my friend and I ran from the ludus, we joined a mercenary cohort in Crassus’ army. Told them we were Gaulish tribesmen.’

  ‘This story gets taller and taller,’ scoffed Caesar. He glanced at Memor and saw him trying to conceal his reaction. His expression grew fierce. ‘Speak!’

  ‘I heard that rumour, sir,’ the lanista admitted reluctantly. ‘After the news of Carrhae, I never thought to see the whoreson again.’

  ‘There are few whoresons who can kill a rhinoceros single-handed,’ mused Caesar. ‘So you and the other prisoners were taken to Margiana?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Fifteen hundred miles from Seleucia, to the ends of the earth,’ said Romulus, staring into the general’s eyes. ‘The Forgotten Legion, we called ourselves.’

  There was a small smile of acknowledgement. ‘Yet you escaped. That was well done. Did you have companions?’

  ‘One, sir. The same man who killed the nobleman,’ answered Romulus, starting to prune his story. There was no point stretching Caesar’s tolerance too far. ‘We reached Barbaricum and found passage to Egypt, but our ship was wrecked on the Ethiopian coast. Luckily we survived, and the gods continued to show us favour. A bestiarius took us on, and we travelled with him to Alexandria.’

  ‘Where you joined the Twenty-Eighth.’

  Romulus nodded.

  ‘I’ve heard many tall stories, but this is the best yet,’ Caesar cried.

  More hoots of amusement rang out from his followers, and Romulus realised that his fate was still most uncertain. Caesar’s next move was therefore most unexpected.

  ‘Longinus!’ the general called. ‘Where are you?’

  A grizzled officer in an ill-fitting toga stood up. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ask this slave about Carrhae. Questions that no one else but a veteran of the battle could answer.’

  Longinus glared, his whole stance showing that he didn’t believe Romulus’ story. ‘How did Crassus’ son die?’ he demanded.

  ‘Publius led a combined charge of cavalry and mercenaries against the Parthians, sir,’ replied Romulus at once. ‘The enemy pretended to flee, but then they swept around his forces and slaughtered nearly every man. Only twenty mercenaries were allowed to return. Then the bastards cut off his head, and paraded it in front of the whole army.’

  Longinus was too plain a man to conceal his surprise. ‘He’s right, sir.’

  ‘Keep asking.’

  Obediently, the officer interrogated Romulus about Crassus’ whole campaign. All his answers were correct, and at last Longinus gave in. ‘He must have been there, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Or else he’s been talking to every survivor who made it home.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a long silence as Caesar considered his options.

  Romulus looked out at the battered shape that was Petronius’ body. He’d probably be joining him very soon. So be it, he thought. I don’t care any longer. I have done my best.

  ‘I have seen many things as a general and a leader of men.’ Caesar’s voice was pitched to carry around the whole amphitheatre. ‘Never have I seen such bravery as these two noxii showed today, though. Unarmed and condemned to die, one was resourceful enough to steal a spear from a half-asleep guard. Disregarding his own safety, he tried to wound the rhinoceros in order to save his friend.’ Caesar looked around at the audience, which was hanging on his every word.

  Romulus was stunned. Maybe I’m dreaming, or already dead, he thought.

  ‘The noxius failed, but then his comrade bought him some time with his own life. Even though the survivor was then armed with a spear, I thought that the beast would kill him. But it didn’t! Against all the odds, he slew a creature which had walked out of legend. Furthermore, he turned his back on me – the editor. Why? To honour his friend,’ Caesar shouted. ‘I say to you that this man is a true son of Rome. He may have been born a slave, and committed crimes. Today, however, I name him a citizen of the Republic.’

  Romulus’ mouth fell open. Instead of death, he was being offered life. Freedom.

  Memor looked appalled, outraged even, but he kept his mouth shut.

  To tumultuous applause, Caesar turned to Romulus and offered him his right hand. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Romulus, sir,’ he replied, firmly taking the grip.

  ‘If all my soldiers were as brave as you, I’d only ever need one legion,’ joked Caesar.

  Romulus was overcome by gratitude. ‘I offer you my service, Caesar,’ he said, dropping to one knee.

  It was Caesar’s turn to look surprised. ‘You wish to be part of my army? Soon we will be shipping out for Africa, where much bloodshed awaits us.’

  ‘I can think of no greater honour, sir.’

  ‘A soldier like you will be welcome,’ replied Caesar in a pleased tone. ‘Which legion would you join?’

  Romulus grinned. ‘The Twenty-Eighth!’

  ‘A good choice,’ smiled Caesar. ‘Very well. You shall have your wish.’ He beckoned to one of his officers. ‘Have this man – Romulus – taken to your camp and fitted out with an ordinary legionary’s kit. He can bunk in with your soldiers until next week, when I send new orders to the Twenty-Eighth. Then he is to accompany them to his old unit. Clear?’

  ‘Sir!’

  Caesar turned away.

  The officer jerked his head at Romulus. It was clear that the interview was over. Romulus struggled to overcome his intimidation and awe. I made a promise, he thought. ‘Sir?’

  Caesar looked around. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Petronius – my comrade – served in the Twenty-Eighth,’ began Romulus.

  ‘So?’

  ‘He was a good soldier, sir. I promised him that he would receive a decent funeral, with all the proper rites.’

  Caesar was taken aback. ‘Determined, aren’t you?’

  ‘He was my friend, sir,’ replied Romulus stolidly.

  The surrounding officers and senators looked outraged by his audacity.

  Caesar stared at Romulus long and hard. ‘Good enough,’ he said at length. ‘I’d do the same myself.’ He glanced at the centurion in charge of his guards. ‘See that it’s done.’

  Romulus saluted. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Until we meet again,’ answered Caesar.

  This time, Romulus felt his elbow being taken. His audience was over.

  ‘Lanista!’ Caesar’s voice was frosty. ‘A word, if you please.’

  Romulus didn’t get to hear what the general had to say to Memor. Alternately sad and ecstatic at what had happened, he was led off by a lean soldier with a bad limp. ‘Caesar likes you,’ this man whispered as they left the amphitheatre. ‘But don’t go thinking you’re something special now. You’re not – you’re just a plain legionary, like me. Never again speak to an officer unless he addresses you first. Unless you want a good flogging, of course.’

  Romulus nodded. No longer having to conceal his identity was worth any harsh discipline.

  ‘Don’t expect any special treatment from your comrades either. They won’t give a shit about what you did here today,’ the soldier went on. ‘All they’ll care about is how you fight against the fucking Republicans in Africa.’

  Romulus caught the nervousness in the other’s voice. ‘How bad is it over there?’

  There was a
resigned shrug. ‘The usual when fighting for Caesar. By all accounts, we’ll be outnumbered two or three to one. The bastards also have vast numbers of Numidian cavalry, while we have next to none.’

  Resigned, Romulus eyed the temple of Jupiter which loomed over the city. He couldn’t visit it just yet. Nor would he get to see Fabiola. Instead, more danger beckoned.

  In Africa.

  Chapter XIII: Strands of Fate

  Fussing like an old woman, Brutus put Fabiola to bed. Aided by Docilosa, he fetched warm blankets, watered-down wine and an assortment of herbal remedies. Guilt filled Fabiola. Unlike her ‘fever’, his solicitousness was natural and unfeigned. She had to continue with her charade, though, at least until that evening. Lying back, Fabiola closed her eyes and tried to put the image of unarmed men being killed by a horned, armoured beast from her mind. It was difficult, but the alternative – staring at Brutus’ worried features – was little better.

  Jovina had stepped in to run things from the reception area while Docilosa hovered in the background, her face a neutral mask. Fabiola knew well that this was only for Brutus’ benefit. There were telltale signs that she could read: her servant’s flaring nostrils, and the way she slapped down the glass of wine on the bedside table. As soon as he’d left, Docilosa would vent her spleen. It was unsurprising, thought Fabiola. Her coupling with Antonius had been an uncharacteristic moment of madness, which could have left her out on the street. Despite the calamitous outcome that had been so narrowly avoided, Fabiola still felt a surreptitious pleasure at what she’d done. They hadn’t been caught, and that’s all there was to it. She was her own mistress, and would carry on her own affairs as she chose. Docilosa wasn’t going to tell her what to do. Who did her servant think she was anyway?

  Part of Fabiola knew that she was overreacting, but Docilosa’s self-righteousness wound her up so much that she felt it impossible to let go. There would be no unburdening of her worries and guilt today, she realised. Best to get a good rest – she could always do with more sleep – and settle things with Docilosa tomorrow. Slowing her breathing down, she pretended to doze off. Satisfied by this, Brutus issued a string of orders to Docilosa and left. He was still keen to see the Ethiopian bull.