The Road to Rome

  Romulus had never seen the haruspex look sheepish before either. ‘Watching over Fabiola.’

  ‘Why?’

  Now embarrassment wrestled its way on to Tarquinius’ face. ‘Trying to make sense of a dream, and to atone for what I did to you.’

  Clambering to his feet, Romulus grabbed him in a bear hug. ‘Thank you.’

  Never one for physical contact, Tarquinius patted him awkwardly. ‘This is no time for pleasantries,’ he said.

  Romulus stepped back. ‘How many of the whoresons are there?’

  ‘I counted at least twenty, but there were more arriving.’

  At once Romulus thought of his comrades. A dozen veteran legionaries would be the equal of more than twice that number of scum. Then he remembered that his friends were in civilian dress and without their swords. They were probably all drunk by now too. Panic swelled in his chest. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘I was going for help,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘I know some ex-soldiers who live nearby. Followers of Mithras. They’ve no love for filth.’

  ‘Bring them as fast as you can,’ said Romulus. He beckoned to the urchin. ‘Can you take me back to the Lupanar? I’ll make it fifteen sestertii.’

  The boy bobbed up and down with excitement. ‘Of course.’

  Tarquinius frowned. ‘You’re in no fit state to fight.’

  ‘My sister needs me,’ Romulus replied fiercely. ‘Cerberus himself couldn’t stop me from doing what I can.’

  The haruspex didn’t argue. Shrugging off his cloak, he unslung his double-headed axe. The alleyway’s dim light couldn’t entirely dampen the shine of its oiled blades. ‘Take this.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Romulus gripped the well-worn shaft, taking strength from its solidity. If necessary, he could use it as a crutch on the way to the Lupanar.

  Standing over Gemellus’ body, they looked at each other for a long moment. There was so much they needed to talk about.

  ‘Go,’ ordered the haruspex. ‘The brothel’s walls are thick, but they had ladders too.’

  Romulus closed his eyes, imagining the result of the thugs dropping unexpectedly from the roof space. ‘The gods grant you speed.’ Letting the urchin lead the way, he headed for the Lupanar.

  Tarquinius hurried in the opposite direction, hoping against hope that his delay hadn’t cost Fabiola dearly.

  Chapter XXIII: Reunion

  Including herself, Fabiola had sixteen people left who could fight, but only ten of those were hired men. The rest were kitchen slaves, who by now looked terrified. The remainder weren’t so badly affected, although Fabiola had no idea how they would fight when it became clear defeat – and death – was imminent. She gave them all a short pep talk, promising more money to the guards, and manumission to the slaves if they fought well. This seemed to lift everyone’s spirits. It was all she had time for. The noises from above indicated that Scaevola’s thugs were already on the roof. Lifting the red clay tiles and gaining entry wouldn’t take long.

  Fabiola had her men gather the prostitutes and take them to the courtyard, which was dominated by fruit trees and a fountain. They locked all the rooms as they passed by – anything to slow down their attackers. In the open-aired square, she positioned three gladiators by one exit and the two doormen at the other. A quick head count of the weeping, terrified women revealed that one was missing. Jovina. Before Vettius or Benignus could object, Fabiola darted up the dimly lit corridor. Although she had little love for the old madam, she felt a duty to protect her. She found Jovina by her desk in the reception, grim-faced and with a dagger at the ready.

  ‘Come to the courtyard,’ Fabiola cried. ‘It’s the best place to defend.’

  ‘I’m staying here,’ Jovina replied, setting her jaw. Along with her usual jewellery and heavy layer of makeup, she was wearing her finest dress. She looked like a tiny, determined sparrow about to defend its nest. ‘This is where I’ve spent more than half my life, and no sewer rat is going to make me run away.’

  ‘Please,’ Fabiola pleaded. ‘They’ll kill you.’

  Jovina laughed knowingly. ‘And they won’t out there?’

  Fabiola had no answer to that.

  ‘Go,’ Jovina ordered her, reversing their positions. ‘Die with Benignus and Vettius. They’re your men – have been since the first day you won them over. Just make sure one of them ends it for you before that brute Scaevola gets too close.’

  Fabiola nodded. Bizarrely, tears were brimming in her eyes. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again,’ she whispered.

  ‘I doubt it,’ cackled the old madam, showing more life than she had for months. ‘After all I’ve done, Hades is the only place for me.’

  ‘And me,’ replied Fabiola, remembering how she’d slain Pompeia, a prostitute who’d tried to murder her. While her motive had been self-preservation, she had done it in cold blood, just as she had ordered the doormen to kill Jovina. Her decision about that had only been reversed because Antonius made their affair public. Surely that was as bad as anything the old madam might have done? Biting back a sob of guilt, Fabiola lifted a hand in farewell.

  Jovina did the same.

  As she ran down the passageway, Fabiola could hear voices and the sound of breaking plaster emanating from many rooms. Loud thuds followed as the intruders jumped to the floor, and her pace increased to a sprint. She must not get caught here! Steps moved to the doors on either side and then the handles turned. Finding them locked, those within began to rain kicks and blows upon the flimsy timbers, quickly splintering them apart. Why did we even bother, thought Fabiola. It’s only delaying the inevitable. Resignation filled her every pore.

  She heard Jovina shout a shrill challenge. Unconsciously, Fabiola slowed down to listen. Scaevola’s men laughed contemptuously at the crone, but their attitude soon changed. Screaming at the top of her lungs, Jovina launched herself at the intruders. There was a cry of pain and then the sound of muffled blows carried down the corridor. At once Jovina fell silent. Fabiola closed her eyes. She had heard the sound of swords hacking into flesh before. Go well, she thought. For all her faults, Jovina had possessed a warrior’s heart. May the gods reward her courage.

  The two doormen reacted with surprise and respect when Fabiola recounted what had happened. ‘Who knows, she might have even killed one,’ muttered Vettius.

  For a while after that, Fabiola wondered if she was wrong about losing the battle. It was easy to defend a narrow corridor in which only one man could attack at a time, and her followers performed heroics to deny the fugitivarius’ heavies access to the courtyard. For the loss of only two men – both gladiators – Fabiola’s defenders had killed more than a dozen of the enemy. There were so many corpses piled in the passages that the attackers had a job to clamber over them, which made them easy targets.

  Scaevola was no fool, however. At length, he pulled back his thugs and barked a succession of orders, which Fabiola could not make out. Then silence fell.

  A new fear filled her: that of uncertainty. ‘Have they gone?’ She looked to Benignus.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What are they doing?’ Fabiola demanded, peering into the nearest corridor.

  He sighed deeply. ‘If I were in charge of those bastards, I’d get a few bowmen or spearmen. Attack from above.’

  Alarmed by his words, Fabiola scanned the roofs around the courtyard. To her relief, no one was visible, but Benignus’ words made sense. Soon they would be picked off one by one, unable to defend themselves. Like fish in a barrel, she thought disgustedly. ‘We’re all going to die,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s not looking good,’ agreed Benignus. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, though.’

  Beside him, Vettius growled in agreement.

  Fabiola’s mouth opened in surprise.

  ‘You’ve always treated us like people, not animals. That’s more than anyone else ever did.’ Benignus gave her a gentle smile, which made Fabiola feel twice as bad about what she was going to say next.

&n
bsp; ‘When the end comes . . .’ She paused, feeling sick. She realised that, despite everything, she didn’t want to die. How foolish it had been to wish such things on herself! Now, with the end fast approaching, Fabiola felt a new humility. ‘Scaevola came close to raping me once before. I don’t want the same to happen again.’ She looked at them both pleadingly. ‘I ask you as a friend. Will you kill me before I’m captured?’

  The pair’s faces twisted with sorrow and pain. They glanced at each other, and then back at Fabiola. She did not speak, could not speak. Incongruously, tears began rolling down the men’s cheeks. They were not cowards, though; they would not shirk from their duty. First Benignus, and then Vettius, nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, fighting her own emotions. She wanted to ask the other women if they wanted the same way out, but she never got a chance.

  Unseen until that moment, several of Scaevola’s men had crawled along the roof to the edge of the tiles overlooking the courtyard. Armed with spears and bows, they launched an immediate attack. They aimed solely at men, and at such close range, they could hardly miss. First, a broad-headed hunting spear struck Vettius in the middle of his broad back, driving down into the lower part of his chest cavity. He staggered to one side with the force of the impact, looking surprised. Fabiola stared in horror, seeing the outline of the spearhead straining against the front of his tunic. Cutting through lungs, diaphragm and his intestines, it had exited the doorman’s body over his belly. Vettius’ eyes bulged with surprise as his legs gave way beneath him.

  ‘No!’ Fabiola screamed.

  Vettius tried to speak, but couldn’t. With a heavy sigh, he fell on to his side, dropping his club. Gouts of blood soaked his tunic and began to pool beneath him. Clutching weakly at the wooden shaft protruding from his back, he closed his eyes. Even a man as strong as he could not keep fighting with such a wound. It was a case of slowly bleeding to death instead.

  Panicking now, Fabiola scanned the courtyard. Scaevola’s thugs were wreaking havoc with their spears and arrows, still targeting those who could fight first. Not counting Vettius, three of her men were down, injured or killed. A number of the prostitutes had been hit by stray missiles too. Their screams of agony were adding to the general air of mayhem and terror. While Catus had picked up a spear and hurled it at a bearded ruffian, the other kitchen slaves were huddled together, weeping. Fabiola’s shouts of encouragement made no difference, which didn’t surprise her. After all, they barely knew how to hold a sword, let alone what to do with it. The courtyard had become a bloodbath, reminding her of the battlefields she’d seen. While it was tiny in resemblance, the heaps of arrow-riddled bodies and the amount of blood bore a horrifying resemblance to Alesia. All that was missing was the flies and the carrion crows.

  Give it time, Fabiola thought bitterly. By tomorrow, they would be here too.

  Only she, Benignus and three guards remained to keep up the fight. Yet, other than cower behind the fallen, there was almost nothing they could do against the rain of missiles from above. Occasionally, loose spears could be retrieved and thrown back, but there were never enough. There were already more than a dozen thugs on the roof, and she had lost another man. Fabiola could see the bodies in the corridor being pulled aside too. Soon shapes filled both doorways, quickly emerging into the courtyard.

  Directing the others to charge at this new threat, Benignus moved to Fabiola’s side. He looked unusually troubled. ‘Is it time?’ he asked.

  Fabiola’s mouth was bone dry, and she felt really cold. Looking down at Benignus’ club, she saw that the end was covered in matted hair, blood and brain matter. When she gave him the word, hers would be added to it. A wave of bile surged up her throat, and Fabiola was sick all over her sandals. Hating her weakness, she was about to speak when a strangled shout drew her attention. She turned towards the nearest doorway. The last of her guards there had just gone down with a sword blade buried in his spine. Scaevola, the man who’d killed him, was staring straight back at her. Before pulling his weapon free, he made a circle with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Licking his lips, he shoved the forefinger of his left hand in and out of the space in a clear gesture of what she could expect. ‘I’ve promised all my men a turn with you,’ he shouted. Fabiola couldn’t bear the fear any longer. Anything was better than having that monster force himself on her again, never mind his brutish followers. ‘Yes,’ she muttered. Her gladius dropped to the tiles. ‘Do it. Now.’

  Benignus looked at her long and hard, making sure that she was serious. Then he raised his club high. ‘Turn around, Mistress,’ he said quietly. ‘Close your eyes.’

  Fabiola obeyed, trying to block out what was about to happen. A succession of images flashed before her mind’s eye, most of them painful or sad. Her life had been nothing but a waste of time, she thought. Then a solitary picture of Romulus came to mind, her twin grinning proudly as he told her of the important message that Gemellus had entrusted him to deliver to Crassus’ house. One of only a few happy memories, it prompted tears to run unchecked down Fabiola’s cheeks. Mithras, grant that Romulus is still alive and well, she prayed. Give him a long life, and a better one than mine.

  There was a gasp from behind her and something heavy clattered to the ground. Shocked to be alive, Fabiola looked around. Benignus was still there, but an arrow now protruded from the biceps of his right arm. The noise had been his club falling from his useless fingers. ‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he gasped, stooping awkwardly to retrieve it with his left hand. Before he could, two well aimed shafts hissed through the air, striking him in the legs. Grunting in pain, the doorman managed to pick up his weapon. ‘Come closer,’ he muttered. ‘I can do it.’

  Wiping away her tears, Fabiola shuffled towards him.

  Then things began to happen very fast. Armed figures appeared behind Benignus, raining a flurry of blows on him with their spears and swords. In slow motion, and with an apologetic expression on his broad, unshaven face, he slid to the ground. Defenceless, Fabiola froze as she took in the rest of the scene. All her men were down, and more than fifteen of Scaevola’s gang filled the courtyard. While the kitchen slaves watched helplessly, they were ripping the prostitutes’ clothes off. The screams and wails this elicited seemed to increase the thugs’ frenzy. Cuffing or threatening their captives into submission, most were soon thrusting away between the legs of a shrieking woman. Fabiola’s stomach wrenched again, but she had nothing left to bring up. Dimly, she was aware of two men before her, those who had killed Benignus. Lust twisted both their faces and, uselessly, Fabiola raised a hand to push them away. They laughed and stepped closer.

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘She’s mine.’

  In slow motion, they moved aside to reveal Scaevola, who looked delighted with himself. ‘This time there’ll be no escape,’ he snarled. ‘You’re going to suffer for hours. By the end, you’ll be begging me to kill you.’

  Suddenly lightheaded, Fabiola felt her knees fold beneath her. She toppled sideways in a faint, landing on Benignus. The last thing she heard was the fugitivarius’ voice. ‘Carry her inside to a bed. Might as well fuck her in comfort.’

  Then blackness took her.

  Romulus’ journey back to the Lupanar felt longer than any march he’d ever had to make. Struggling with the pain radiating through his head and the press of the crowd, he kept his fuzzy mind focused on just one person. Fabiola. After ten long years of separation, he finally knew where his twin sister was, and she needed him. Urgently. The knowledge gave Romulus the energy he needed, although Tarquinius’ axe was a useful crutch. Every time the urchin stopped, Romulus waved him on impatiently. Mithras, let me get there in time, he prayed, forcing one leg in front of the other. Please. He was even more grateful that he had spared Gemellus’ life now. It was an example to the warrior god that he was an honourable man. Whether Mithras chose to help, of course, was another matter, which sent fresh waves of panic coursing through him. Breathe, Romulus thought. Br
eathe deeply. Remembering the method taught him by Cotta, his trainer, he slowly filled his chest with air, counting his heartbeat at the same time. One. Two. Three. Four. Hold for a moment. Start to exhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Over and over he repeated the process, using it to restrain the swelling panic in his breast.

  Gradually they drew nearer, using tiny alleyways to dodge the thugs’ blockades. At last they reached the street in which the Lupanar was situated. Five ladders were placed against the high wall, showing how the attackers had gained entry. Bodies were plainly visible all around the front door, which lay ajar, but there was no sign of anyone living. Romulus’ heart sank. Tarquinius and the veterans weren’t here yet. Ahead of him, the urchin broke into a run. By sheer force of will, Romulus forced himself into a shambling trot. He took a short breather when he reached the first bloody corpses, knowing that he would need every scrap of strength in his body once they got inside. The brief pause afforded him an opportunity to study the slain. It was hard to tell the difference between the two sides. Apart from a couple of gladiators, they looked like typical lowlifes.

  ‘They’re all dead,’ piped the boy, already rifling for valuables.

  ‘Good,’ muttered Romulus, heading for the door. He sensed the urchin at his back. ‘Stay outside,’ he ordered. ‘When my friend arrives, tell him to hurry.’

  The voice behind him rose to a squeak. ‘You’re going in alone?’

  ‘I have to,’ Romulus replied, gripping the axe’s broad shaft with both hands. ‘My sister’s in there.’

  ‘They’ll kill you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ answered Romulus grimly. ‘I can’t just stand outside like a fool, though.’ Pushing the door inwards, he entered. The reception area was much like those he’d seen in brothels in other parts of the world: garishly decorated, with erotic paintings and statues everywhere. The heavy furniture that had been shoved against the door by the defenders was piled up to one side, and bloodstains covered the mosaic floor. Apart from the bodies of a small thug with a sword and an old woman, which lay entwined by a desk, the room was abandoned. Covered in hack wounds, the crone’s hands still reached towards the dagger which protruded from the other’s chest. Romulus’ eyebrows rose. If everyone in the brothel fought like this, there was still hope.