Terrified now, Fabiola bent towards him.
‘Before getting any ideas, you should know something. Your little quarrel with Scaevola is no secret to me.’ He smiled at her surprise. ‘Been wondering why things have quietened down on that front? It’s because I told him to back off.’
Fabiola looked at Antonius, dumbstruck. That’s why he’d had no guards with him.
‘The fugitivarius knows that I’d kill him if he touched a woman I was fucking,’ Antonius confided amiably. His expression hardened. ‘But if I was tired of her and thought she had ideas far above her station? He’d bite my hand off to be slipped from the leash!’
He did hear what I’d said, thought Fabiola. She could hardly breathe. Mithras, she prayed. Help me. There was no response, and her hopes fell away into a dark abyss from which there was no return. She was unsurprised. This was her punishment for all that she had done. In that instant, Fabiola knew also that she didn’t want to die. Not like this.
Antonius took her by the throat and squeezed. His blue eyes glittered cruelly, mocking Fabiola for her weakness. ‘Or I could just strangle you myself.’
Choking, she began to lose consciousness.
Abruptly Antonius relaxed his grip, and Fabiola staggered away. Feeling like a mouse injured by a cat, she waited to see what he’d do next.
‘I’d rather fuck you,’ he ordered. ‘Find a bed.’
Numbly, Fabiola led him away.
Docilosa had been right all along. Why hadn’t she listened? If she had, her servant would still be alive instead of lying cold on a table in the kitchen.
Antonius groped at Fabiola’s crotch, revolting her. Yet she made no effort to stop him.
This was her lot.
Seeing the priestess being thrown out of the Lupanar thoroughly confused Tarquinius. The guards looked most unhappy as their huge companion roughly pushed her away from the entrance. They quailed when she cursed the building and all its inhabitants to Hades. The haruspex was perturbed and intrigued by this. Few people would dare to treat one of Orcus’ followers in such a manner. For it to happen meant that someone – probably Fabiola, as she was in charge – was extremely confident of herself. Long after the priestess’s outline had vanished into the darkness, he sat pondering the significance of what had transpired.
Tarquinius’ conclusion came more from his powers of deduction than any sign from the wind or stars. All kinds of scenarios went through his head, but few made any sense. Docilosa wouldn’t throw her own daughter out in the middle of the night, especially when she had come with a warning. Neither would Jovina, for fear of her new mistress’s reaction. Why would Fabiola do it then? The haruspex dwelt the question for an age, and eventually reasoned that Docilosa had been the woman screaming earlier. Had she been hurt, or even killed? A portent of this might have brought her daughter hurrying over. Arriving too late, the priestess’s reaction would have been extreme, prompting Fabiola to have her thrown out.
Had Memor been the violent customer? What had happened to him?
Before there was any chance of finding answers to these questions, Tarquinius’ attention was drawn by the noise of footsteps. It sounded as if at least a dozen men were approaching the brothel, but only one man emerged into the arcs of light by the entrance. Weaving from side to side, he drew amused smiles from the guards, who didn’t appear to have noticed anything untoward. The newcomer’s companions stayed in the darkness, making Tarquinius very uneasy. Who were they? He was careful not to move from his position. Hopefully, they wouldn’t notice him.
‘Let me in!’ demanded the powerfully built man. ‘I want to see Fabiola.’
‘Marcus Antonius?’
‘Who else?’ he sneered.
At once the guards opened the portal, allowing the noble to enter.
Tarquinius’ interest in what was going on deepened. Fabiola had two lovers then: Decimus Brutus and the Master of the Horse. Given that he hadn’t seen Antonius visit the brothel before, the men probably didn’t know about each other. That meant Fabiola was playing a very dangerous game. Why? Again he scanned the sky, hoping for some information. Could he have been mistaken in his presumption that his disturbing dream involved his murder of Caelius? Perhaps it had happened tonight?
Tarquinius’ hunch became certainty a short time later. The two enormous doormen emerged, carrying a lumpen shape wrapped in a blanket. Fabiola stood by the open door, hurrying them on. Their burden was clearly a human body, and was in all likelihood the man who’d caused someone to scream earlier. Clever, thought the haruspex. Wait until everyone is in bed, and then get rid of the evidence. He was pleased. Fabiola was a woman of some ability.
Tarquinius’ opinion of her was strengthened when a bleary-eyed Antonius appeared in the doorway. After challenging the doormen, he had a muffled conversation with Fabiola. Then, to Tarquinius’ surprise, he let them go. The door immediately closed, preventing any further insights. Drawing the conclusion that he had been guided to the Lupanar by his dream, the haruspex grinned. The gods wanted to show him that although there was danger in Rome, Fabiola for one was well able to look after herself.
There was no need for him to watch over her so closely.
Tarquinius had no idea how wrong he was.
Chapter XV: Ruspina
Several weeks go by . . .
The north African coast, winter 47/46 BC
The sea was calm now, a different creature to the monster that had battered Caesar’s ships on the three-day crossing from Lilybaeum in Sicily. Under a clear blue sky, gentle waves rolled in, rocking the two dozen or so anchored triremes and flat-bottomed transports that lined the shore. Soldiers disembarked, gratefully jumping down into the shallow water before being handed their kit by their comrades. Using special timber frames, horses were lifted from the holds and then lowered into the sea. Their riders then led them ashore. Sacks of foodstuffs, spare equipment and dismantled ballistae were passed hand over hand by chains of legionaries to the ground above the waterline. Under the close supervision of a quartermaster with a tally sheet, they were piled in neat stacks.
Further inland, the playing-card shape of a camp had been marked out; Caesar’s tent and the pavilion for the headquarters had been pitched first, their positions in the centre marked by a red vexillum. Hundreds of men were digging the first fossa, using the earth from their efforts to form the beginning of the defensive rampart. Centurions and optiones strode up and down, encouraging the toiling soldiers with alternating promises and threats. In a giant arc around them stood fully half the legionaries present, guarding against sudden attack by the enemy. In the midst of these was Romulus.
The scene was the picture of order, he thought proudly. The Roman army at its efficient best. He was only a small part of it, but he belonged now, which counted for so much. For the first time in his life, Romulus was somewhere that he wanted to be. He would be eternally grateful to Caesar for that. As a result, his dreams of seeing Fabiola and of killing Gemellus had been placed firmly on hold. He owed his freedom to Caesar and, in Romulus’ mind, that debt had to be paid back before he could contemplate pursuing his own path again. He would repay Caesar by being a loyal and brave soldier for however long was necessary. Romulus adopted a practical approach to the effect this had on his plans. Thus far, the gods had seen fit to protect Fabiola, and with their help, she would continue to be safe. Just as they were saving Gemellus’ miserable hide for him, he thought, gripping his pilum tightly. Every night, after his prayers for his sister’s wellbeing, Romulus asked for the fat merchant to be alive if he ever returned to Rome.
Of course there was no guarantee that he or his comrades would survive. The campaign had got off to a bad start, with Caesar already proving fallible. Setting sail against the advice of his soothsayers and without instructing his captains where to land, Caesar and his men had run into severe weather, which had broken up the fleet. In another seemingly bad omen, the dictator had stumbled and fallen that morning as he jumped from his ship into the surf. In a master
stroke, Caesar turned the ominous moment on its head by grabbing two big handfuls of shingle and shouting, ‘Africa, I have hold of you!’ Everyone present had been able to laugh off their superstitious reaction.
Yet their situation remained critical.
Although few men had been lost, only a fraction of the force which had set out from Lilybaeum was in this anchorage. Instead of six legions, Caesar had only 3,500 legionaries, mostly cohorts from different units. More worryingly, thought Romulus, the dictator had fewer than two hundred horsemen, while the Pompeian troops in the area were dominated by Numidian cavalry. Romulus knew all too well how dangerous that could be: Crassus had also retained insufficient horse. He trusted that Longinus, the grizzled officer who’d interrogated him on Caesar’s behalf, had passed on this critical detail. Unlike Crassus, Caesar trusted and relied on his subordinates, many of whom had served him for years.
However, there was little Caesar, or anyone, could do about this glaring weakness for the moment. The rest of the army had been carried off by the strong winds and heavy seas, and only the gods knew where they were now. Ships had been dispatched to scour the coast, but their quest could take days. Days in which the enemy could well discover their position.
Romulus grimaced. That eventuality did not bear thinking about. Caesar would cope. They all would – somehow. In the meantime, it was time to dig in and pray that their reinforcements arrived soon.
A week passed by without event. Most of the scattered fleet was rounded up and brought to join the small force that had disembarked with Caesar. While still severely outnumbered, his army had also been blessed with good fortune. The local Pompeian forces – more than ten legions strong – proved to be widely dispersed along the coastline. Led by Metellus Scipio, they had been caught napping by Caesar’s arrival in the middle of winter. It was only a few days into the new year – hardly the time to start a campaign. Typically, that is just what Caesar had done. Now his enemies needed time to gather their strength, which afforded the dictator crucial breathing space.
The realisation that Caesar had probably expected this lag phase helped increase Romulus’ admiration for his leader. The man knew that most soldiers thought in a regimented fashion, only ever fighting in daylight and waging war when it was supposed to happen – in the summer. So he did the opposite. Yet Caesar’s lightning-fast tactic had brought a major problem of its own: that of providing the legions with supplies. The empty transport ships were already on their way to Sicily and Sardinia, their mission being to bring back the grain for which there had been no space on the voyage over. In the meantime, though, Caesar’s main business was not seeking battle with the enemy, but rather finding food for his men. For a number of reasons, this task was proving more difficult than anticipated.
Romulus had been pondering the problem himself. Stuck on sentry duty much of the time, there was little else to do. Caesar’s army could not forage far inland for fear of being cut off from the coast and the reinforcements, which were landing daily. Several veteran legions had yet to arrive, and their presence in a set-piece battle would be crucial. Like the Twenty-Eighth – Romulus’ unit – most of Caesar’s legions had been formed during the civil war, and were relatively inexperienced.
They still needed food, though. Lots of it.
Unfortunately, local agriculture had been disrupted in a major way. As well as gathering all the food they could find, the Pompeians had conscripted large numbers of peasants into their army. The farms in the fertile landscape were thus largely empty, forcing Caesar’s men to harvest any remaining crops for themselves. Inevitably, these did not last for long, and so the dictator had led his legions to the nearby town of Hadrumentum. The Pompeian garrison there barred the gates and refused to surrender. Caesar had neither the time nor the equipment to put a siege in place, so marched on to Ruspina, where he established his main base. Leptis, another local settlement, soon opened its gates to the Caesarean forces, but neither Leptis nor its neighbour were capable of supplying thousands of soldiers for more than one or two days.
The cavalry’s horses were in even worse straits, until some veterans had the brainwave of harvesting seaweed from the shore. Washed in fresh water and dried in the sun, it supplied enough nutrients to keep the mounts alive if not well fed. Such ideas were thin on the ground, though, and the soldiers needed more than seaweed to be able to march – and fight. They had been on two-thirds of their normal rations since arriving, and that could not continue.
Hence the major foraging party, thought Romulus, looking over his shoulder at the long column behind him and the dust cloud hanging over it. He was grateful that the Twenty-Eighth had been given the honour of taking the lead, thus avoiding the choking powder thrown up by the passage of so many men. Led by Caesar himself, the patrol was thirty cohorts strong, and mostly made up of soldiers from his less experienced legions. They had set out less than an hour before, marching without their equipment and prepared for battle. Their main purpose was to spot fields of unharvested crops. Travelling south, they kept to the dirt road which led to Uzitta. Wheat was the preferred foodstuff, but Romulus and his comrades were no longer picky. Barley, oats and whatever other foods could be scavenged would fill their bellies. Yet they had come across precious little so far.
As the soldiers passed through tiny villages full of mud-brick houses, they were watched by the terrified locals, mainly women, children and the old. Under strict orders from Caesar, no looting took place. It was bad enough that they were taking the peasants’ food, he said, without stealing what few valuables they had too. For once, it wasn’t difficult for his hungry men to obey the order. They only had eyes for the fields around each settlement that contained the crops. Naturally, everything edible this near to Ruspina had already been harvested and hidden by the locals, or previously commandeered by Caesarean troops.
At least they had plenty to drink, thought Romulus. Thanks to the deep wells in Ruspina, every man’s leather water bag was full. Marching was much easier when every drop of fluid didn’t have to be treated as if it were gold. The fact that it was winter meant that the temperatures were nothing like the cauldron of the Parthian desert either. Romulus had terrible memories of the raging thirst he’d suffered while travelling through that alien landscape with Brennus and Tarquinius.
The thought of the haruspex now made Romulus feel sad, nostalgic even. The passage of time had diluted his anger over what Tarquinius had done. He’d admitted to himself that Caesar’s grant of manumission might never have occurred if events hadn’t happened the way they did. Yet it was hard not to wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t had to flee Rome with Brennus. His life could still have been a success. I might have won my freedom in the arena by earning the coveted rudis. Or died instead, he reflected. Who knows? Romulus had not quite reached the point of forgiving Tarquinius, but he no longer felt the burning fury towards his mentor that he had in Alexandria. It had become a matter that they could discuss and sort out, man to man. If they ever met, that was.
Romulus sighed. What chance was there of that? Precious little. Best not to think about Tarquinius too much. No point worrying about things he couldn’t change. Better to concentrate on the matters to hand, such as finding some food. With all the fields empty, that tactic didn’t work for long. Thinking about winning the war worked no better – the Pompeians were so numerous that, despite Caesar’s unparalleled leadership, success was by no means certain. Only time would tell. Romulus tried another method, tuning into the song being bawled out by someone in the rank ahead. As was often the case, it was about Caesar himself. Each lurid verse featured one of the many noblewomen he had conducted affairs with, while the chorus advised the men of Rome to lock up their wives when the ‘bald-headed lecher’ returned to the city for good. Romulus joined in with gusto. The first time he’d heard the mocking chant, he had been shocked by Caesar’s tolerance of it. Later, he’d come to see that it showed the huge affection in which the general was held by his men, and Caesar kne
w that.
‘Halt!’ bellowed Atilius, their senior centurion. ‘Halt!’
The order was repeated at once by the unit’s trumpeter, who marched beside Atilius.
Wondering what was going on, Romulus peered into the distance. His comrades did likewise. Their German and Gaulish cavalry still only numbered four hundred or so, and a quarter of these were scouting the terrain before them. The eagle-eyed Atilius must have spotted some of the tribesmen returning. An instant later, Romulus’ suspicion was confirmed by the sight of a small dust cloud, which preceded the arrival of a troop of horsemen. The Gauls had soon galloped in, passing the Twenty-Eighth. Riding with only small shields for protection, the pigtailed, lightly armed warriors ignored the questions thrown their way by the curious legionaries. Caesar, who had led them through the conquest of Gaul, was the only man they would speak to. As the commander, he was in the usual position halfway along the column.
Still nothing could be seen. The countryside was relatively flat with few trees, which meant that it was possible to see for up to a mile in front of the patrol’s position. The legionaries began to relax, grounding their shields and taking sips of water from their carriers. Their officers didn’t interfere. With no enemy in sight, there was no harm in this behaviour.
A short while later, most of the Gauls came trotting back past the Twenty-Eighth.
‘Look,’ said Romulus, spotting a familiar red cloak. ‘Caesar is with them!’
Even Atilius turned his head and stared. ‘They must want to show him something,’ he growled. Like many officers in the Twenty-Eighth, Atilius was a veteran of the Tenth, Caesar’s favourite legion. He and his comrades had ostensibly been drafted in to form a nucleus from which the less experienced soldiers could learn backbone and discipline. In some circles, though, it was whispered that they were the mutineers who had marched on Rome just a few months before, posted out of their original unit to prevent more trouble. Either way, Atilius was a fine soldier and reminded Romulus of Bassius, the old centurion who had led him in Parthia.