The Road to Rome

  The elephant surged through the last of the Pompeians’ ranks, and directly into the middle of the Twenty-Eighth, which was close behind. Men flew screaming into the air as they were struck by its swinging trunk. Others were trampled into the sand, and an unlucky few were simply gored to death. In vain legionaries hacked at the beast with their gladii, wishing for the axes of the specially trained cohorts. Tarquinius and his deadly double-headed weapon popped into Romulus’ mind. In the same heartbeat, he remembered Brennus. Old guilt burst forth like the rotten fluid in the centre of an abscess, dragging Romulus’ spirits to the depths. No matter what hope there was of returning to Rome, how could he have left his blood brother to die?

  It was as if the elephant sensed his mental anguish. Lifting a screaming soldier on one of its tusks, it threw him high into the air before its piggy eyes settled on Romulus and his comrades. Swinging its trunk to and fro like a flail, it made straight for them. By this stage, the legionaries were so scared of the great beast that a path opened in front of it. Pushing and shoving, men scrambled out of the way. The sooner it could escape through their lines, the better.

  Romulus didn’t move. Instead he turned to face the elephant.

  ‘Come on,’ Sabinus shouted. ‘Let’s go.’

  In reply, Romulus threw his scutum to one side. He looked at his gladius, wishing it had the length of Brennus’ longsword. It would have to do, though. Who was he to run from the gods’ punishment? That was why the elephant was charging straight for him: it had to be. ‘Very well,’ Romulus muttered and took a step forward. He had no idea what to do when the creature reached him, but he was going to die facing it like a man. No more running, he thought, the agonising memory of Brennus’ last battle cry tearing at his soul.

  His ears filled with the elephant’s bugling, which was deafening at this range. Dimly, Romulus realised that he was not alone. He shot a glance to his right and was dismayed to see Sabinus there, his sword and shield ready. ‘Get out of here,’ he shouted. ‘This is my fate.’

  ‘Fool! I’m not leaving now,’ Sabinus retorted. ‘Imagine the abuse I’d get for deserting you.’

  Romulus had no time to reply. The elephant was only a few steps away. Raising his gladius, he lunged forward at it. To his surprise, it ignored him completely. Sidestepping neatly, it barged past, knocking him down in the process. Winded, Romulus was thrown backwards. He looked on in horror as the elephant grabbed Sabinus with its trunk and bore him aloft. Sabinus screamed in fear. With both arms held by his sides, he was as helpless as a swaddled baby.

  ‘You were supposed to take me!’ Romulus shrieked.

  Oblivious, the elephant swung Sabinus high and low, all the while trumpeting with anger.

  Romulus jumped to his feet. Thankfully, he hadn’t let go of his sword. Without thinking, he ran at the enormous creature. A slash at the nearest foreleg drew a furious squeal, but the animal didn’t release Sabinus. Instead it swung its head at Romulus, forcing him to dodge out of the way or be smashed asunder by the sheer weight of its bony skull. A fierce lunge with its tusks followed, and Romulus shuffled further away, trying not to lose his footing on the carpet of dead men and weapons. It was hopeless. The elephant was invulnerable to ordinary weapons. Soon it would kill him. Then he caught a glimpse of Sabinus’ face, distorted with sheer terror, as it shot past. New energy filled Romulus at his comrade’s plight. He couldn’t just give in.

  Raising his gladius, he ran in as the trunk went by yet again. Getting far nearer to its bulk than he felt comfortable with, Romulus slashed down with the iron blade. He made good contact with the trunk, cutting a long wound which made the elephant bugle in pain. Blood sprayed through the air as it went on the attack, lunging at Romulus with its head and tusks. He sensed that it was wary now, though, keeping Sabinus and its trunk raised in the air. Encouraged, he jumped up and hacked a chunk of flesh from the underside of the trunk. There was another deafening trumpet of distress. More blood showered over Romulus, covering him from head to toe. To his surprise, the elephant stopped dead in its tracks, lowering its wounded trunk. Sabinus moaned with fear, but Romulus redoubled his efforts. He had a chance! He chopped back and forth with his gladius, no longer watching to see what the beast did. His arm moved in a blur, delivering two, four, six cuts. His ears rang with the thunderous noise of the elephant’s pain, but he did not let up for a single heartbeat.

  Romulus had never been more grateful for the time he spent carefully sharpening the double-edged blade. The iron was usually sharp enough to shave the hairs off his forearm, and now it proved its worth for evermore. Sabinus dropped to the ground amid a mist of arterial blood and the elephant stepped back. Utterly consumed by the agony of its injuries, it swung around and charged whence it had come.

  Romulus grabbed Sabinus, whose face was as white as the fuller’s chalk used on togas. ‘Are you hurt?’ he demanded.

  Struck mute by terror, Sabinus shook his head.

  Grinning like a fool, Romulus helped him up. ‘It’s all right,’ he muttered. ‘You’re safe now.’

  When Sabinus’ voice returned, it was shaking. ‘Truly you must be blessed by the gods,’ he whispered. ‘Who else could injure a beast like that?’

  The enormity of what he had done suddenly hit Romulus. By driving off an elephant with just a gladius, he raised the question of what Brennus – who was far stronger than he – might have done with a longsword. At once Romulus’ relief at saving Sabinus was washed away beneath a renewed wave of bitterness and guilt.

  Was Brennus still alive?

  Chapter XIX: Four Triumphs

  Near Ostia, late summer 46 BC

  The breeze strengthened, billowing the trireme’s main sail and increasing its speed, forcing it through the water and raising a decent bow wave. The rate of the pounding drum on the rowing deck did not vary, however. The three banks of oars on each side continued to move in unison at the normal rate – about half the speed of a man’s heartbeat. Graceful to look at, it was hot, cramped and backbreaking work for the oarsmen. Standing near the prow in just his belted tunic and caligae, Romulus gave thanks once more that he’d never had to serve in the navy. Although the rowers were free men, in his mind their job was far worse than being a legionary. Physically more demanding than the marching and fighting expected of soldiers, the career of a rower also offered the distinct possibility of drowning. Triremes were excellent vessels in the relative calm of waters close to land, but they were death-traps in bad weather or on the open ocean. Romulus could still remember the numerous ships lost on his voyage to Asia Minor with Crassus’ army. Caesar’s fleet had not been immune either.

  That was all in the past, though. It was late summer, and the ten triremes had nearly reached Ostia, Rome’s port. Joy filled Romulus. He was returning home, and as a citizen! It scarcely seemed possible, but he’d had time to let the reality sink in on the voyage from Africa. Taking a peek at the two gold phalerae lying in his pack helped too – after all, they were awards which only a citizen could receive. The second had been awarded after he’d saved Sabinus from the elephant. Romulus grinned at the memory of what Caesar had said as he’d pinned the decoration on his chest. ‘Trying to win the war all on your own, comrade?’

  Of course it hadn’t been all Romulus’ doing, but the campaign in Africa was over, ended in one day by the victory at Thapsus. After several months of cleaning up-operations, Caesar was returning to the capital to celebrate his conquests with not one, but four triumphs. In a massive propaganda stroke, one was to take place for each of his campaigns in Gaul, Egypt, Asia Minor and Africa. A grateful Senate had declared forty days of public thanksgiving for the dictator’s latest victory while pretending that it had been over the Numidian king, not Scipio and a huge number of prominent Republicans. No mention was being made either of Caesar’s first success over other Romans: Pharsalus, where his legions had thrashed twice their number under the command of Pompey.

  Romulus stared excitedly at the coastline which was running alon
g their starboard side, still amazed that he and Sabinus were accompanying Caesar back to Italy. Yet they were, along with a special century of legionaries. After Thapsus, the legates of all ten legions had each been asked to put forward eight soldiers. The eighty men were to form part of Caesar’s honour guard for his triumphs, and were positions of the highest standing. Throughout the army the competition was fierce to win a place. As battle-hardened, frontline officers, the centurions and senior centurions were best placed to judge, and so the legates had referred the matter to them.

  There had been plenty of witnesses to Romulus’ incredible rescue of Sabinus and of course the pair had previously taken part in the attack on Petreius. Consequently Atilius fought hard to have both included as part of the Twenty-Eighth’s quota. His stubbornness won the day, and along with four other legionaries, an optio and a signifer, the two friends were ordered to join the ships carrying Caesar back to Italy. Meanwhile, the majority of the army was embarking for Hispania, where Pompey’s two sons were reputed to be raising a huge army among the discontented tribes.

  That was where the honour guard would be heading after the triumphs. Caesar had told them so himself before they sailed from Africa. This would be a short visit to Italy then, with little free time to search for Fabiola or Gemellus. Romulus tried not to feel bitter about that. There was Sabinus, playing dice on the deck with three others, who would not see his family at all. Their comrades’ stories were similar. Few men, if any, had seen their homes in years. Why should I be any different? thought Romulus. Catching sight of Caesar’s red cloak on the deck of the lead trireme, he thought guiltily of the enormous honour he was being shown to be here. What right had he to expect anything other than a new military campaign when the celebrations were over? He was nothing but an ordinary legionary, and as such had to do what he was told until the day, if he survived, his service came to an end.

  Romulus knew that there was more to his discontent than a simple desire to quit the legions. Guilt about his feat against the elephant ruled him entirely. Months had passed, and he still obsessed about it on a daily basis. The realisation that he could not only emerge unharmed from an encounter with such a beast, but save Sabinus as well, gnawed at Romulus’ insides like a malignant parasite. It could never be proved, but Brennus might have done the same in India as he, Romulus, had at Thapsus. If only Tarquinius were here, Romulus wished. He might be able to glean some information from the wind or clouds. Even a hint would help. But who knew where the haruspex was? He sighed, unwilling since Margiana to make an attempt himself. Tarquinius was long gone, which meant that he had to live with the doubt about Brennus. That was worse than thinking his big friend was dead.

  As always, any thought of the haruspex was tinged with suspicion. Could he have known of Brennus’ potential to beat an elephant? Romulus wasn’t sure. Any time he and Tarquinius had talked about it, there had been no sense of the haruspex withholding information. Not that that meant a thing. Tarquinius was a master of concealment.

  Stop it, Romulus thought. Whatever the haruspex was, he wasn’t evil. The look on his face in Alexandria had convinced Romulus that he hadn’t actually known how his murder of Rufus Caelius would affect others. With his belief system that a man should decide his own fate, it would not have been for Tarquinius to stop Brennus facing his own death either. While Romulus’ guilt remained strong, he felt the same way about destiny.

  ‘Ostia ahoy!’ shouted the lookout.

  Romulus buried his worries for now.

  He was nearly home.

  Fabiola glared at the dead hen lying before her. Its throat had been cut, and its entrails carefully laid out on the ground for inspection. ‘Tell me again,’ she demanded.

  ‘Of course, Mistress,’ the soothsayer said, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down uneasily in his scrawny neck. Stoop-shouldered in his grubby robe, the soothsayer wore a typical blunt-peaked leather hat. A short knife with a bloody, rust-spotted blade dangled from his right hand. Pointing with it, he repeated his prophecy. ‘You will find a husband soon. A big man with brown hair. A soldier perhaps?’ The soothsayer shot a sly glance at Fabiola, trying to assess her response. ‘Or maybe he’s a noble.’ He smiled, revealing a mouthful of decay.

  ‘Liar!’ Fabiola spat. ‘Antonius will never marry me. What do you take me for – one of your usual gullible fools?’

  Startled, the soothsayer busied himself with the hen’s intestines again, poking a dirty fingernail here and there in search of wisdom. This was a consultation he was already wishing was over, but there would be no end to it until he came up with something convincing.

  Her nostrils flaring, Fabiola sat drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. They were alone in the courtyard of the Lupanar. She’d been recommended this idiot by a number of the brothel’s clients, and had summoned him here to avoid being seen seeking a divination in public. Her reason was simple, and stark. Her life had changed utterly since the night of Docilosa’s death, and it was down to one person. Raw terror filled Fabiola at the mere thought of Marcus Antonius. Why had she got involved with him? Her regular visits to the Mithraeum and to the temple of Jupiter made no difference at all; and, still full of shame over what had happened to Docilosa, she dared not go to Orcus’ shrine for fear of seeing Sabina. Fickle as ever, the gods had discarded her. Perhaps for ever, thought Fabiola, bitterness coursing through her veins.

  She scowled. Brutus’ reaction to her affair stung her conscience even now. ‘Once a whore, always a whore,’ he’d said. Fabiola’s purpose hadn’t changed, however. Nothing but death would stop her wanting to kill Caesar, yet her lover’s departure had scuppered her best chances of recruiting conspirators. Customers who were willing to profess a hatred of the dictator were proving to be non-existent. Despite Caesar’s leniency towards his former enemies, the fear of reprisal was too great in men’s minds. So here I am, Fabiola thought angrily, waiting for a conman to fill my head with false promises, when what I really need is a way back into Brutus’ good books. Or a new, powerful lover who hates Caesar. As if this fraudster can tell me how to do that. ‘Well?’ she snapped.

  His face twitching with nerves, the soothsayer looked up. He’d done his homework on Fabiola before coming to the brothel, knew about her affair with Antonius and her break-up with Brutus. If she didn’t desire the obvious thing that most women in her situation would want – marriage to Antonius – what did she want? ‘An old lover comes back to you,’ he said, taking a desperate guess.

  Fabiola’s head jerked up, and she fixed him with an icy gaze. ‘Go on,’ she demanded harshly.

  Pleased by this small advance, the soothsayer decided to wax lyrical. ‘Once you are reunited, everything will be as it was. Your lover will rise even higher in Caesar’s regard, and your future will be secured for ever. There will be children . . .’

  ‘Stop!’ Fabiola screamed. ‘Do you think that promising everything you think I want will make me happy?’

  ‘Mistress, I . . .’ he began.

  ‘Charlatan.’ Fabiola’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Get out.’

  Bowing and scraping, the soothsayer bundled the butchered hen into a dirty leather bag. It would do for his dinner that night. When he’d finished, he risked a glance at Fabiola. ‘My fee?’

  Fabiola laughed. ‘Benignus,’ she called.

  The massive doorman emerged instantly from his waiting place just behind the door into the house. As always, his metal-studded club hung from one hand. There was also a dagger shoved casually into his wide leather belt. ‘You require something, Mistress?’

  The soothsayer’s eyes bulged with fear, but he didn’t move. Benignus was blocking the exit.

  ‘Throw this fool out.’

  Benignus shuffled forward and took a firm hold of the man’s arm. ‘Come quietly and I won’t hurt you,’ he growled. ‘It’s your choice.’

  The soothsayer nodded. Further protests would result in broken bones, or worse. Meek as a lamb, he disappeared with Benignus.


  Brooding, Fabiola looked down at the smears of blood left on the flag-stones. The prophecy had clearly been false, but it had still upset her. She wanted no happy reunion with Brutus if she couldn’t convert him to her cause. No happy family life unless Caesar paid for his crime. Her mother had to be avenged.

  She sat motionless for a long time. The shadows grew long in the courtyard as the sun went down. The temperature began to drop, and eventually Fabiola shivered. Feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. Perhaps the soothsayer had been partly right. If she stopped seeing Antonius, maybe Brutus would come back to her. A spark of hope lit in Fabiola’s tired heart, but her throat closed with fear at what the Master of the Horse might do if she spurned him. Nonetheless, she steeled her resolve. If things continued as they were, her life wasn’t worth living. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t existed under the constant risk of death before and survived to tell the tale.

  Her spirits lifted a fraction.

  She would go to one of Caesar’s triumphs and seek out Brutus. In a public place, he couldn’t avoid her and, by begging, she might engineer a reconciliation. Antonius would be there, but with the gods’ help, she could avoid him. For the moment. Fabiola did not allow herself to dwell on the matter further. It was time to think happy thoughts. Maybe she’d meet a soldier at the triumph who knew Romulus. It was a pleasing fantasy, and Fabiola took comfort from it.

  Tarquinius saw the soothsayer being ejected from the brothel. Flying through the doorway in a tangle of limbs, he landed on the hard-packed dirt with a bone-crunching thump.

  Smiling, one of the massive doormen emerged after him. ‘Don’t come back,’ he warned.