Romulus was now the owner of a small farm near Capua, and he’d made a number of visits to it, each time calling in on Sabinus. Naturally, Mattius accompanied him on every trip. Even Tarquinius came along occasionally. Romulus’ former comrade was a mine of information about how to run an agricultural enterprise. A pattern soon evolved: they would lie around, talking and drinking too much while Octavia, Sabinus’ wife, muttered in the background and Mattius ran wild with the veteran’s children. Once they’d had enough, the men would travel by mule to Romulus’ property, which was situated on a south-facing slope fifteen miles from Capua. Mattius would stay behind with Octavia, usually at his request. To him, life on a farm, with playmates and regular meals thrown in, was like heaven on earth.
With Sabinus’ help, Romulus employed six local peasants as well as an overseer. Paying wages greatly increased his costs, but it went against everything in his nature to become the owner of servile labour. Next he bought mules and agricultural tools – a plough, scythes, axes, spades and rakes. The men were set to work restoring the half-collapsed farmhouse and sheds, and to ripping up the weeds that filled the disused fields. It was too early in the season to expect a crop, but the seeds could be sown. Later in the year, there would be wheat and barley. The vines, however, would take many months longer before they produced a yield. Sabinus stood with his hands on his hips, explaining the intricacies of growing, tending and harvesting. Romulus listened with half an ear, but his mind constantly wandered, making him wonder if he was really suited to being a farmer.
As a boy, he’d dreamed of becoming a new Spartacus, of rising up against the Republic and freeing the countless multitudes whose unpaid toil built its buildings and tended its farms. Returning to Italy had killed that idea, because Romulus now saw the task for what it was: an impossible dream. Slavery was too integral a part of the Republic, and the opposition to any uprising – Caesar’s battle-hardened legions – were a far cry from the conscript troops which Spartacus had defeated. They would have little difficulty in defeating whatever motley force of slaves he might muster.
Worrying about the change in his stance, Romulus assuaged his conscience by remembering two things. The first was his favourite of all Caesar’s new statutes: that at least one-third of the workforce on every latifundium in the south of Italy should be made up of citizens. While this law had been passed to increase employment, it also reduced the need for servile labour. The second was that while he might sympathise with the plight of slaves, he wasn’t responsible for their situation. He owed them nothing. His former comrades were a totally different proposition. If one of these needed help, Romulus would move heaven and earth to do so.
Unsurprisingly, the most prominent candidate in his mind was Brennus. Reminded of his friend at regular intervals – by the Pompeians’ elephants at Thapsus, his own battle with one, Caesar’s use of them in his last triumph and finally their depiction on the mosaic in Brutus’ garden – Romulus frequently wondered if the Gaul was still alive. Hearing that Caesar might be taking an army to Parthia was thrilling beyond belief. A hunger to revisit the land where he’d fought and been taken prisoner now gnawed daily at Romulus’ belly. Italy had not proved to be all that he’d hoped for. This was his second problem. He didn’t want to fight in the arena again, yet farming seemed positively pedestrian. Without the roots that men like Sabinus possessed, Romulus knew he could walk away from it all with ease. Discussing it with Tarquinius made things worse, for he could see the same desire to travel east in the haruspex’ eyes. Fabiola was his only reason not to leave.
Tarquinius wasn’t sure what his reason was but, anxious not to move prematurely, he stayed put.
To Romulus’ frustration, he’d heard nothing further about the proposed Parthian campaign since. All the news was of Caesar’s struggle in Hispania, where he was attempting to put down the rebellion against Cassius Longinus, his unpopular governor there. In a shrewd move, two of Pompey’s sons had used the opportunity to call on the tribes’ historic loyalty to their father. Raising a huge army, they were giving Caesar a real run for his money.
Nonetheless, Romulus kept his ear to the ground, keeping in touch with all the veterans he could. The dictator’s daring plan to avenge Crassus’ defeat was another reason to oppose Fabiola’s plan. If Caesar was killed, the invasion would not go ahead, and a huge chance to find out more about Brennus’ fate would be lost. Troubled that he was being selfish, Romulus was always brought back to his feud with Fabiola. Somehow he doubted if her position had budged.
Cursing, Romulus walked away from the Lupanar – again. It was infuriating. During his years of exile, he had always imagined that a return to Rome would mean a happy ending – namely a joyful reunion with Fabiola.
Instead, fate kept putting obstacles in his way.
Spring moved into early summer, and news arrived in Rome of Caesar’s stunning victory at Munda. In a desperate struggle during which his legions had fought uphill against superior numbers, the dictator had prevailed yet again. At one stage in the battle, when his lines had been in real danger of collapsing, Caesar rushed to the spot and rallied his panicking men. Knowing that an heroic gesture was needed, he had charged alone at the enemy, ducking the pila and arrows which were being fired in his direction. Stirred by his courage, the nearby officers had joined him, followed by the legionaries, and in one moment of madness, the tide of battle was turned. In the ensuing slaughter, more than thirty thousand Pompeian troops were said to have been slain, for the loss of only a thousand Caesarean soldiers.
The announcements of victory were made for days from every crossroads in Rome. Furious, Fabiola busied herself with running the Lupanar and looking forward to Brutus’ return home. As the accolades poured in, a grateful Senate bestowed upon Caesar the extraordinary number of fifty days of thanksgiving. He was also given the title of ‘Liberator’, and the construction of a temple of Liberty was ordered. The honour of being called ‘Imperator’ permanently was also bestowed on the dictator – prior to this it had only been used to hail a victorious general in the aftermath of a triumph. So far Caesar had not returned to receive his awards, occupying himself in Hispania with mopping-up operations, and resettling the province.
Fabiola was bitterly disappointed that Caesar had not been killed or defeated at Munda. She wanted the pleasure of seeing him die a lingering death, but after so long without any success, she would look no gift horse in the mouth. Caesar’s victory denied her revenge yet again. To make matters worse, he was now the undisputed ruler of the Republic. There was no one left to fight. From Greece to Asia Minor, Egypt to Africa and Spain, any meaningful resistance had been crushed.
However, as Fabiola found out soon afterwards, reward comes from the most unpromising places. Whether it was because the civil war was now truly over, or because Caesar was still away, she would never know. To her absolute joy, murmurs of discontent about the dictator began to surface. First it was the number of thanksgiving days, the greatest amount ever awarded in Rome’s history. Then it was the title ‘Liberator’ – after all, who had he liberated? Lastly, it was the permanent designation of ‘Imperator’. As Fabiola heard on the street and from rich clients in the Lupanar, this would give Caesar ideas above his station. Was he not just an excellent general? Why did he need such grandiose titles? Nodding sagely, Fabiola said little, instead noting each person’s identity for future reference. The time was not ripe yet.
By late autumn, Fabiola’s rift with Romulus had been going on for nearly a year. They had met on a number of occasions, and been quite civil to each other, even taking a trip to Pompeii to visit her latifundium. In many ways, the twins were the same as they had been as children and their old easy relationship was revived when they spent time in one another’s company. However, the unresolved row over Caesar’s role in their parentage was always lurking beneath their genuine pleasure in seeing one another, and regularly flared up. They had a second argument, worse than the first, when Caesar returned to Rome from Hispa
nia. Once again, Romulus refused to have any part in Fabiola’s plan to murder the dictator. Torn by guilt, he began for the first time to wonder if he should tell anyone. However, the result of that – Fabiola’s likely execution – was too awful to contemplate. Convincing himself that she would never have the courage or the ability to actually carry out the threat, Romulus tried to bury his concerns in the recesses of his mind. He wanted to tell Tarquinius, but his worries about what the haruspex might divine in the light of such knowledge kept his lips sealed.
Fabiola’s feelings were similar to those of Romulus. Although she fretted that her brother would expose her, she could not bring herself to act against him. Her ruthlessness did not extend that far. Yet she would not give up on her idea, even if it meant that she was never to be friends with Romulus. Not that Fabiola wished for such an outcome – how could she? He was the beloved twin she had so longed to find again. Yet her determination was unshakeable. Her need for revenge defined her. Her enthusiasm increased as the details of Caesar’s latest triumph were announced. In a notable exception to his previous four victory parades, it was undoubtedly to commemorate his success against a Roman enemy. This was breaking tradition in the boldest of fashions, and guaranteed to anger many senators. Of course no one dared say a word. Remarkably, though, Pontius Aquila, one of the tribunes, refused to stand as Caesar passed by in his chariot. Incensed, the dictator had shouted that Aquila should try to take back the Republic from him. The tribune’s gesture was tiny, but spoke volumes to Fabiola.
Her hopes continued to rise as a fawning Senate heaped honours and rights upon Caesar. His dictatorship was extended to ten years, and he was granted the right to the consulship, should he wish it. He was entirely in control of the Republic’s army, and the treasury. At formal meetings, Caesar sat on an ivory chair between the two consuls, while his statue was carried among those of the gods to the ceremonial openings of games. Other effigies of him were placed near those of Rome’s kings of old, and in the temple of Romulus.
Prominent former Pompeians such as Cicero now felt confident enough to make mildly sarcastic comments about these developments, but the vast majority of nobles and politicians remained quiet, or spoke in private. It didn’t matter to Fabiola. To her delight, Brutus was one of those who had begun to grumble. Her lover had realised that Caesar had no intention of returning total power to the Senate. In fact, almost no real debates took place there any longer. Instead the dictator and his advisers met behind closed doors, deciding what should be done about a particular issue. Once the matter had been settled, a decree was issued, purporting to be from the Senate. To Brutus’ outrage, it often contained a list of those who were supposed to have attended.
‘The damn war is over,’ he ranted to Fabiola one night near the turn of the year. ‘It’s time for the Senate to take control again. The Republic has been ruled well that way for hundreds of years. Who does Caesar think he is?’
Fabiola studied Brutus’ face intently. Was this finally her time to speak? She’d planted the first seed in his mind after the battle of Pharsalus, but had been unable to capitalise on it since. She had worried that it had withered away and died, but here was the first sign of growth.
‘There’s a rumour that his dictatorship is to be made permanent. So is his right to the censorship! And, as if all his titles weren’t enough, he is to be called “Father of the Country”. No ivory chair is good enough either – only a gold one will do now,’ Brutus sneered. ‘I should have known when he added the pediment and pillars to the front of his house. For Jupiter’s sake! Making it look like a temple doesn’t turn him into a god. Neither does creating a damn college of priests in his name.’
‘Didn’t men like Marius, Sulla and Pompey get honoured in this manner?’ Fabiola asked, probing the depth of Brutus’ anger.
Pure scorn twisted his face. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘They were humble in comparison to Caesar! It’s all thanks to the lickspittle senators whom he has appointed too. “Jump,” Caesar says, and they reply, “How high?” He respects no one any longer. Having exceeded anything ever awarded to a general, he didn’t even get to his feet when we came to tell him. It’s not right.’
Delight filled Fabiola. He’s really unhappy, she thought. Caesar’s recent refusal to stand when the senators arrived to offer him the exceptional honours had offended many. As dictator, Caesar was senior to the two consuls. Technically, therefore, he was not obliged to rise, but by not doing so, he had shown contempt towards the senators in general. This was the second or third time that Brutus had mentioned the incident, and although her stomach was a nervous pool of acid, Fabiola decided to act. If she didn’t make a move soon, the chance would be lost. In recent days, Caesar had been talking more and more of his intended campaign to Parthia. While the army of sixteen legions and ten thousand cavalry would take time to assemble, preparations were well in train. ‘Do you remember what I said to you once?’ she asked softly. ‘After Pharsalus.’
Brutus gave her a quizzical look.
‘Rome must beware of Caesar.’
His eyes widened as the memory returned. ‘Why did you say that?’
‘Because he’d won a battle that no one else could have.’ Fabiola laughed. ‘I had no idea! Gone much further than that, hasn’t he? Egypt, Asia Minor, Africa and Spain. Now all these extra powers. Where will it stop? On the banks of the Tigris or Euphrates?’
‘You said “Caesar will make himself king”,’ Brutus muttered.
‘He already is, in all but name,’ Fabiola retorted. ‘We are now his humble subjects.’
His cheeks suffused with fury, and she knew that her barb had run deep. ‘You are a wise woman,’ he sighed.
Little do you know my reasons, thought Fabiola. I have Mithras to thank for that insight.
‘What would you do about it?’
She looked at him calmly. ‘There is only one thing to do. Rid Rome of the tyrant before he departs for Parthia.’
There was a long silence, during which Fabiola began to worry that she had overstepped the mark. But she had burned her bridges, so trying to calm her pounding heart, she waited.
‘Tyrant? I’d never thought of him like that,’ Brutus admitted. ‘Yet that’s what he’s become. It’s not as if we can just ask him to retire either. Caesar’s not like Sulla: he lives for war.’
Fabiola’s hopes slowly began to rise.
There was another pause before Brutus spoke again. ‘I can’t see any other course of action,’ he said heavily. ‘It needs to be done in Rome too. No one can touch Caesar in the bosom of his army, and the Parthian campaign will take three years or more.’
Thank you, Mithras, thought Fabiola exultantly. I’ve convinced him.
‘I’ll need help. Not to say that I would be scared of acting alone,’ he added.
‘You don’t have to prove your courage to anyone,’ Fabiola reassured him.
He gave her a grateful smile. ‘Sadly, I already know whom to approach. Servius Galba and Lucius Basilus are both unhappy at the moment. They feel that they’ve been overlooked while everyone else gets rewarded for their service to Caesar. Caius Trebonius has been complaining too.’
Fabiola felt a thrill of excitement. Two of those mentioned, Galba and Trebonius, had been legates in Caesar’s army during the prolonged campaign in Gaul. If they were ready to turn on their master, then it was likely that others would be too. Brutus’ next words confirmed this.
‘My cousin, Marcus Junius Brutus, would be interested. Not to mention Cassius Longinus.’
Fabiola’s spirits soared.
‘Have you told Romulus about this?’
Fabiola’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Yes . . . I mean . . . no,’ she stuttered.
Brutus frowned. ‘Which is it?’
‘I might have mentioned it once, in passing,’ she muttered, unable to meet his stare.
‘And what did he say?’ he asked, reaching out to clasp her arm. ‘Tell me!’
Fabiola dragged her gaze up to his. S
he quailed before the look in his eyes. ‘He wanted nothing to do with it,’ she admitted.
‘Your own brother won’t get involved,’ Brutus said unhappily. ‘I can’t do it either then. Especially after all Caesar’s done for me.’
‘I’ll win him over,’ Fabiola ventured, lying through her teeth. ‘Caesar has to be stopped. He’s becoming a monster. You know it’s true.’
It was as if Brutus hadn’t heard her. ‘There must be another way.’
Fabiola felt the situation slipping from her grasp.
‘I’ll pay Caesar a visit,’ he declared. ‘Talk some sense into him.’
‘Have you gone mad?’ cried Fabiola, panicking. She didn’t want to lose Brutus for a second time. ‘Caesar’s veiled threats to Pontius Aquila went on for days. Who knows how he’d react to the person who crosses him next?’
‘True enough.’ Brutus ran a hand through his short brown hair, thinking. ‘I must consider the matter further. Make an offering at Mars’ temple, asking for guidance.’
‘There isn’t much time,’ Fabiola warned, frustrated by his indecision. ‘He’s talking about leaving Rome straight after the Ides of March.’
Brutus’ expression darkened at her pressure. ‘We’re talking about the murder of a man here. It’s not a matter to be taken lightly.’
‘I know, my love,’ Fabiola murmured reassuringly. ‘Of course you’re right.’
To her relief, he relaxed.
Fabiola considered the situation for a moment. I have enough names to go on, she realised. Euphoria filled her. While Brutus vacillated, she would press on. Invite the nobles he’d mentioned to the Lupanar one by one. Win them over, by whatever means necessary.
In time, Brutus would come to see that killing Caesar was the only option.
Even if he didn’t, the information he’d let slip gave Fabiola enough to act alone. Which was what she’d do. This was too good an opportunity to miss. If she didn’t act soon, there wouldn’t be another chance for years.