Romulus’ pulse rate shot up, but he didn’t interrupt.
Tarquinius became even more solemn. Placing the hen on the ground between Jupiter’s great feet, he slit open the thin skin of its belly, taking care not to damage the internal organs. Laying down his knife, he eased out the green ribbon-like intestines, examining them with great care. To Romulus’ relief, the haruspex seemed pleased by what he saw, but he revealed nothing. His lips moving faintly, he opened the bird’s abdomen completely and removed its small, dark-red liver. Romulus could tell from its rounded lobes and the even colour of its flesh that it was healthy and clear of parasites.
Holding up the liver in his left hand, Tarquinius turned his gaze to the sky, studying the cloud patterns and the direction of the wind. ‘Great Tinia, receive this offering today,’ he said at length. ‘Grant two humble devotees the blessing of your wisdom that we may seek out the best path.’
‘Three,’ interjected Mattius. ‘I also believe.’
Worried that this might break the spell, Romulus frowned.
Tarquinius reacted differently. ‘My apologies,’ he said to Mattius, inclining his head. He looked up at the statue. ‘Not forgetting our friend here, Great Tinia.’
Mattius settled back on his heels, satisfied.
Romulus felt a surge of admiration for the boy’s spirit. Few adults would dare to speak in such a situation.
Turning the liver this way and that, Tarquinius studied it for a long time. Looking dissatisfied, he moved on to the bird’s heart, slicing it open to look at the blood within. Next he scrutinised the hen’s entire body, from its beak to its vent. When he was finished, he sighed heavily.
Romulus could wait no longer. ‘What did you see?’
‘Not much.’
‘The blood ran east, though. The feathers flew that way too!’ Romulus cried, the first fingers of panic clutching at his guts.
‘Which is a good omen,’ replied Tarquinius.
‘Does it mean we should travel east?’
Tarquinius met his gaze squarely. ‘I don’t know. I saw nothing of Margiana.’
‘Anything about Caesar?’ muttered Romulus. ‘Or Fabiola?’
The haruspex shook his head in a resigned manner.
Romulus overcame his reservations and spent a few moments looking at the butchered hen for himself. He saw nothing. Fighting his disappointment, he glanced at Tarquinius again.
‘I saw nothing bad, which we should be grateful for.’
‘Nothing about my stepfather?’ Mattius asked nervously.
‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, managing to sound jovial. ‘But no guidance for me or Romulus either.’
Rallying his spirits, Romulus pushed forward the fawn kid. ‘There’s this still,’ he said.
Without a word, the haruspex cleaned up the mess of feathers and blood, shunting them all away from the statue. ‘Get rid of it,’ he ordered Mattius. As the boy scurried off with his hands full, Tarquinius took the kid from Romulus, subjecting it to a close examination. With a satisfied nod, he stood it where the hen had lain until a moment earlier. Scenting the blood, the animal bleated and made to jump off the stone plinth.
‘Quickly, before it gets too stressed,’ Romulus urged. He grabbed the kid and extended its neck forward. Jupiter, he begged silently. Hear our plea. We need your help.
Tarquinius wiped his knife clean on his tunic and muttered a quick prayer. Holding the animal’s neck to keep it steady, he drew the iron blade across the underside of its throat. ‘We thank you for your life,’ he whispered as a crimson tide gushed over his fingers and on to the ground. This time, the blood pooled rather than running away from him. ‘Shouldn’t matter,’ Tarquinius declared confidently as he flipped the kid on to its back. Following the same procedure as he had with the hen, he cut open the abdomen first.
‘Those look healthy,’ said Romulus as the first loops of pinkish intestine slithered out.
Tarquinius grunted. Silently, he sifted through the whole length from the back passage right up to the small set of stomachs. ‘Nothing,’ he announced. Catching Romulus’ worried look, he chuckled. ‘Courage. The liver and heart are usually far more revealing.’
Swallowing down the acid which kept climbing his throat, Romulus forced himself to calm down.
Using the point of the knife, Tarquinius freed the kid’s liver from its snug position against the diaphragm. A more purple colour than the hen’s, it was clear of blemishes or visible parasites. Again the haruspex held it skywards in his left hand and made a fervent appeal to Tinia. Romulus added his own request and waited with bated breath as Tarquinius prepared to begin his divination.
It only took a moment for the haruspex’ body language to change. Stiffening with surprise, he sucked in a sharp breath. ‘This is why you and Fabiola are always caught up in the storm,’ he muttered. ‘The rumours are true.’
Horrified, Romulus was peering over Tarquinius’ shoulder before he realised it. ‘About Caesar?’ he said in a whisper. Few things caused more of a stir in Rome than an augur or a witness to a divination relating what he’d seen. The recent notion of Caesar moving the Republic’s capital to Alexandria had probably originated like that. Romulus had no wish to be responsible for potentially harmful gossip – but he had to know. ‘Tell me!’
‘They really are planning to kill him. Caesar is not a god after all,’ Tarquinius said. He gave Romulus a penetrating look. It mattered little to him if Caesar died, but his protégé was different. In more ways than one.
Romulus’ nausea grew worse, and he clenched his fists. ‘Who?’
The haruspex’ eyes gazed into the distance. ‘Olenus knew what he was talking about yet again. It’s incredible.’
‘Your mentor had a vision about Caesar?’ Romulus cried, amazed. ‘That was half a lifetime ago.’
Tarquinius fell back to examining the liver.
Romulus did not press his friend further. It was far more important that every last detail was gleaned from the dead kid.
‘A lot of men are involved,’ the haruspex said a moment later. ‘High-ranking nobles of all backgrounds – former Pompeians and some of Caesar’s oldest followers. More than fifty of them.’
Romulus’ heart sank. This would explain the meetings in the Lupanar which Mattius had reported. There was no mention of a woman, which gave him some hope. Was it possible that Fabiola didn’t know? How could it be, given the location? He bit a nail and tried to compose his emotions. ‘When will they strike?’ According to most reports, Caesar would leave for Dacia and Parthia within the week.
Tarquinius prodded the liver with a reddened forefinger before he answered. ‘Tomorrow, I think,’ he said at last. ‘The Ides of March.’
Romulus could feel waves of blood pounding in his ears. ‘So soon?’ he repeated. ‘Are you certain?’
Tarquinius looked again. ‘Yes.’
Romulus’ response was instant. ‘I have to warn him.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
Tarquinius’ dark eyes felt all-seeing and, not for the first time, Romulus wondered if Fabiola had told him of her conviction that Caesar was their father. Or had he seen it at another time? Indecision battered his resolve. Did the haruspex also know the truth of what had happened to his mother? Maybe Caesar was guilty of rape. Romulus couldn’t bring himself to ask this question. If the answer wasn’t what he expected, it might sway him from what his instinct was shouting. He had to act, or a gang of nobles would murder Caesar for their own ends. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I am.’
Tarquinius blinked, accepting his decision. ‘Go to Caesar’s house tomorrow morning then. Before he goes to the Senate.’
‘That’s where it will happen?’
The haruspex nodded.
Romulus’ fingers automatically fell to the dagger on his belt. He would need to dig out his gladius too. If necessary, he’d defend Caesar with his own life. He owed him no less.
‘There is more,’ said Tarquinius abruptly, sounding troubled. ‘
A woman is involved.’
Stricken, Romulus stared down at his friend. His lips framed the name Fabiola.
‘I’m sorry.’ The haruspex looked genuinely sad.
Romulus swallowed hard. Whether his sister would actually take part in the murder was uncertain, but all he could think of was her stabbing Caesar. Aghast, he took a step backwards.
At that moment, Mattius came skidding to a halt by their side. ‘What have I missed?’ he cried excitedly.
Romulus turned away, feeling worse than he ever had in his life. ‘Nothing of importance,’ he mumbled. Ignoring Tarquinius’ cries, he stumbled off into the crowd.
As usual, Fabiola played very little part in the discussions. In most, if not all, the conspirators’ minds, she was just a woman, albeit a clever and beautiful one. Killing was man’s work, one had whispered kindly to Fabiola once. Little do you know, she had thought. Nothing could quite remove the stain of former slavery either, especially when it came to murdering the foremost man in Rome. By this stage, though, Fabiola was content to take a back seat and watch as the plot developed.
A pleased murmur went up as Trebonius entered. Surrounded by nearly two dozen chairs, a long table occupied the centre of the crowded room. Jugs of watered-down wine and plates of bread, fruit and olives covered much of its polished surface. The seating wasn’t sufficient for all those present, so the most important members sat while the rest stood behind. Naturally, a chair had been reserved for Trebonius.
‘At last,’ said Marcus Brutus, tapping his fingers on the table top. ‘A word, if you will?’
Making his apologies to those he passed, Trebonius sat down beside Marcus Brutus, who immediately began muttering in his ear.
Fabiola turned away to hide her amusement. Although he had been one of the last to join, Brutus was now one of the main leaders and acted as if he had been all along. Nodding to Benignus, who would remain outside the door to ensure no one eavesdropped, Fabiola quietly shut the door. Glad of her discreet position, she scanned the assembled men. Servius Galba, a short man with protruding eyes, was sitting beside his main crony, Lucius Basilus, a broad-shouldered figure with a bull neck. Both men bore grudges against the dictator, which was why they’d been so quick to join up. Thanks to his association with Caesar, Galba had failed in his attempt to become consul just before the general had crossed the Rubicon, and Basilus had rightfully been denied a provincial command because of his murky business dealings. Fabiola liked neither of them, but their anger at Caesar justified their presence.
She’d first met Cassius Longinus, one of Crassus’ former deputies, at a banquet five years before. Fabiola had spoken with him about Carrhae, and heard the true horrors of what had befallen Crassus’ army. Hearing of Romulus’ involvement, the grizzled soldier had tried to soften the blow, which endeared him to Fabiola still. Catching Longinus’ eye, she smiled, and was rewarded with a courteous nod. I must introduce him to Romulus, she reflected. A pang of guilt clawed at her. If we ever make up. Fabiola shoved the disquieting thought away. Deal with that later. Concentrate on the moment.
The conspirators were now so numerous that Fabiola had high hopes of success. While few had the courage to strike the first blow, they would follow where others led. Like a pack of dogs turning on the weakest, she thought. Ugly, but effective. Fortunately, Caesar would be defenceless. In public, members of the nobility wore the toga and carried no weapons. The dictator was no exception. Alarmed by the dark rumours, Antonius and other close associates had asked Caesar to reform his Spanish bodyguards, but he had refused, stating that he had no wish to live in fear or under constant protection.
Contempt filled Fabiola. Whether Caesar’s refusal was driven by his arrogance, or his belief that, thanks to his restoration of the peace and raft of new reforms, no ill feeling against him remained, she did not know. Whatever the dictator’s reasons, he was now easy prey to a band of determined assassins.
‘Gentlemen.’ Marcus Brutus rapped on the table with his knuckles. ‘If we could begin?’
His words brought all the conversations to an end, and an expectant hush fell. Pent-up with tension, Fabiola waited. None of the nobles knew it, but she was more eager than any of them for Caesar’s death.
‘During our last meeting, we agreed that the best date would be the Ides of March,’ Marcus Brutus began.
‘The Ides? That’s tomorrow,’ said a portly senator, looking nervous.
‘Congratulations,’ replied Marcus Brutus in an acid tone. He glared around the table. ‘Time has moved fast, but we’ve committed ourselves now.’
A titter of nervous laughter moved around the room.
Satisfied, Marcus Brutus sat back in his chair. No one was trying to back out.
‘Caesar hasn’t been well for the last few days,’ another man chipped in. ‘He might not attend the Senate tomorrow.’
‘There are many important issues to be addressed before he departs for Dacia,’ Longinus demurred. ‘Caesar won’t want to miss those debates.’
‘The man is a demon for work,’ agreed Trebonius. ‘He’d need to be half dead not to come.’
‘Why not send someone to his house first thing to make sure?’ suggested Basilus.
‘Good idea,’ cried Marcus Brutus. ‘Any volunteers?’
Before anyone could answer, a familiar voice spoke in the corridor. ‘Where’s Fabiola?’
Fabiola’s stomach turned over.
She wasn’t the only one to recognise Brutus’ deep tones. Like small boys caught thieving, the nobles waited to see what would happen next.
Benignus cleared his throat uneasily. ‘Sir?’
‘Is she in there?’ Brutus demanded. ‘Answer me!’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled the huge slave, crumbling before Brutus’ temper.
‘Stand aside.’
Fabiola moved away from the door, which opened a heartbeat later. Brutus entered, scowling. Fabiola and he locked eyes. ‘Dearest,’ she said lamely, unsure what else to say. ‘What a surprise.’ Without answering, Brutus looked around the room. His mouth opened with astonishment at the number of men present, and their identity. Many would not meet his gaze, but Marcus Brutus, Longinus and Trebonius did.
‘Well met, cousin,’ said Marcus Brutus. ‘We have missed your company.’
‘What’s all this about?’ cried Brutus, looking at Fabiola.
‘I think you know,’ said Trebonius, intervening.
Brutus flushed. ‘You’re intending to murder Caesar?’
‘Rid the Republic of a despot, more like,’ Longinus butted in. ‘And make things how they were again.’
There was a loud rumble of agreement.
Brutus scanned the nobles’ faces for several heartbeats. ‘I see,’ he said heavily.
‘Look how many men are present, cousin,’ said Marcus Brutus gently. ‘This is not just a collection of lunatics. All shades of opinion are represented here. What unites us is our hatred of tyranny.’
Brutus stared into his cousin’s eyes. ‘Tyranny?’ he whispered.
The conflict in his voice made Fabiola’s heart bleed. Much as she wanted him to join them, the pain he was suffering tore at her conscience.
‘Yes,’ Marcus Brutus replied emphatically. ‘That is how Caesar rules the Republic. What is the Senate but an empty vessel? What are we now, but his puppets?’
Angry mutters met this comment.
Brutus sighed.
Mithras above, Fabiola thought. Convince him, please. She moved to her lover’s side. ‘You know it’s true,’ she said. ‘All that power has gone to Caesar’s head.’
‘The augurs are giving bad omens for tomorrow, while on every corner the people are calling him king,’ he whispered. ‘King of Rome.’
‘Will you join us?’ asked Trebonius.
Brutus chewed his lip. Beside him, Fabiola scarcely dared breathe.
Marcus Brutus pushed back his chair and stood. ‘Our ancestors rid this city of its last tyrant. Now the time has come to repeat that painful
task. It is our duty to be part of it,’ he declared.
There was a long silence.
Fabiola burned to say something, to persuade Brutus of their righteousness, but she held back. Much as she wanted him on board, this was his decision alone. The others knew that too – she could feel it – but would her lover’s strong moral sense win out over his fierce loyalty to Caesar?
Marcus Brutus extended his right hand. ‘What do you say?’
There was the slightest pause, and then Brutus took his cousin’s grip. ‘Count me in. For the good of the Republic.’
A combined sigh of relief filled the air. Fabiola’s was loudest of all. At this late stage, the conspirators could not allow their cover to be blown. If he’d refused, Brutus would have signed his own death warrant.
‘When is it to happen?’ Brutus enquired.
‘Tomorrow,’ replied Marcus Brutus. ‘Where the Senate meets.’
To his credit, Brutus barely blinked. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Caesar is ill, though. Are you sure he’ll attend?’
‘He might need some convincing,’ admitted Longinus. ‘We were just wondering who could visit him in the morning.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Brutus offered.
‘You’re sure?’
He nodded firmly.
‘Good,’ said Marcus Brutus with a smile. ‘The rest of us will assemble at the Senate early. We’ve got a good reason too – Longinus’ son is to assume the toga tomorrow.’
‘Should we attack him the moment he arrives?’ mused Basilus.
‘I think not. We don’t want members of the public to see it happen,’ interjected Longinus. ‘Let the tyrant descend from his litter and make his way inside.’
‘I’ll go in close,’ volunteered Cimber, a former Republican. ‘Request he allow my brother back to Italy.’
‘We can surround him, all pleading the same case,’ added Marcus Brutus. ‘Allay any suspicions he might have.’
‘Then produce our weapons,’ said Longinus with an evil grin. Opening the long wooden case for his stylus, he produced an ivory-handled dagger and thrust it forward viciously. ‘Finish the job.’