‘My lady, what is it?’
Some of her inner turmoil must have shown, Fabiola realised. She was about to lie, and then saw that there was no point. Longinus knew of her origins. ‘My brother was there,’ she said simply.
‘I see. Was he also a . . .’ Longinus paused, looking uncomfortable.
‘Slave? Yes, he was. And a gladiator,’ Fabiola answered, without batting an eyelid. ‘I think he joined a mercenary cohort as an ordinary soldier.’
Longinus failed to conceal his surprise. ‘Their recruitment policies are, shall we say, a little more relaxed than the legions. Yet most of them fought very well. At one stage during the battle, twenty brave mercenaries who had been isolated with Publius were allowed to return unharmed to our lines. Not that it did them much good, probably. Rome lost so many good soldiers that day.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘A few irregulars retreated to the Euphrates with my legion. Was your brother among them?’
Fabiola shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
He patted her arm.
‘Romulus survived though,’ she said stoutly.
Longinus gave her a disbelieving look.
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘I see. If he did, then . . .’ Longinus flashed a false grin. ‘Who knows?’
Fabiola smiled brightly at him. The grizzled tribune was trying to protect her from the brutal reality of the Roman survivors’ fates. But he had not seen what she had after drinking the homa. Nor heard the druid’s dying words. They had been cut short, which meant that there was still hope. While her fortunes continued to soar, Fabiola had to believe that those of Romulus stayed on an even keel at least. It was either that, or go mad.
‘Fabiola?’ It was Brutus’ voice. ‘Caesar has personally requested that we attend him.’
Longinus inclined his head and stood aside.
Murmuring her thanks, Fabiola followed Brutus, who seemed delighted. ‘What does he want?’ she asked nervously. Since Alesia, there had not been a private, face-to-face meeting. In public with other people around, yes. But like this, no.
‘He’s already done it with Antonius and a couple of the others,’ replied Brutus. ‘I think it’s to toast our good fortune in the days ahead.’
At the entrance to a side chamber stood four smartly turned-out, tough-looking veterans. As the couple drew near, they stiffened to attention. An optio, the most senior, slapped a fist off his mail shirt and saluted.
Brutus languidly acknowledged the gesture. They passed inside, into Caesar’s personal quarters. The man himself was alone, bent over a detailed map of Italy laid out on a nearby desk. Still unaware of their presence, he stabbed a finger down on to the parchment. ‘Rome,’ he muttered.
Brutus grinned.
Not for the first time, Fabiola was struck by how alike Caesar and Romulus were. She herself bore the same fair complexion, aquiline nose and piercing eyes. And while their stations in life were worlds apart, Fabiola felt the burning drive to succeed that she saw in Caesar. Here he was, unafraid to take on the entire institution of the Republic. A similar stubborn courage had burned in Romulus’ heart; it did in hers too. And while Fabiola’s task might be less ambitious than Caesar’s, she would not stop until she discovered who had raped her mother. And taken revenge upon him. Even if it is Caesar, thought Fabiola fiercely. I owe it to Mother. And Romulus. At once doubt filled her. Is he really my father? How in the name of all the gods can I know?
Finally Caesar sensed their presence. Straightening, he gave them both a warm smile. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ replied Brutus.
‘And mine.’ Fabiola bowed deeply.
He offered them both mulsum. ‘To a swift victory,’ said Caesar, raising his glass. ‘Or to the Senate seeing sense.’
Smiling, they drank.
‘This is a sad day for the Republic,’ commented Caesar. His voice changed, growing angry. ‘But they leave me no option. The most successful general in our history should not be treated like a dog.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ agreed Brutus indignantly. ‘Pompey will not lay down his commands or disband his legions, so why should you?’
Fabiola murmured in agreement.
‘Pompey is no raw recruit,’ warned Caesar. ‘I hope that he and the Optimates decide to negotiate, or this could be a long struggle.’
‘Gaul only took seven years, sir,’ said Brutus with a grin. ‘What’s another few?’
Caesar threw back his head and laughed before regarding Brutus steadily. ‘My success has a lot to do with good men like you,’ he said. ‘I do not forget these things.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Brutus.
Fabiola was delighted by this show of affection.
They made polite conversation for some time. Then Caesar reached into a drawer on his desk. ‘I need you to do something important for me,’ he said conspiratorially to Brutus. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘Anything, sir.’ Brutus looked eager.
A rolled parchment appeared in Caesar’s hand. ‘These are fresh orders for the troops in Ariminium.’ He saw Fabiola’s confusion and explained. ‘I sent some there yesterday, dressed in civilian clothing.’
‘You want me to travel on ahead, sir?’ asked Brutus.
‘No. Just deliver it to the optio who’s waiting outside by my carriage. He knows where to go.’
Taking the parchment, Brutus hurried from the room.
Left alone with Caesar, Fabiola smiled uneasily. Had this been planned? For a short time, her worries seemed unfounded as Caesar asked solicitously about her wellbeing and hopes for the future.
‘Will you bear him children?’ he asked.
Fabiola coloured. ‘If the gods will it, yes.’ Using her knowledge of herbs from the Lupanar, she had avoided pregnancy this far. Consolidating her new position was far more important. Naturally, Brutus knew nothing of this. Trying not to look nervous, she fiddled with one of her gold and carnelian earrings.
Seemingly satisfied, Caesar took Fabiola into another chamber, where he showed off his gilded breastplate and red general’s cloak. ‘That’s what I’ll be wearing later,’ he said. ‘At the Rubicon.’
‘You will look magnificent,’ gushed Fabiola, listening out anxiously for Brutus. What was taking him so long? ‘Quite the conquering hero.’
‘You certainly know how to compliment a man,’ said Caesar, leaning in close. ‘Brutus is very lucky to have a woman like you.’
‘Thank you, general.’ There was a soft clunk, and Fabiola looked down. Something glittered in the carpet. It was her earring, which had now fallen off. Fabiola bent to pick it up, revealing rather more cleavage than she intended. When she stood, Caesar was eyeing her flesh greedily. Terrified, Fabiola froze.
‘So young,’ he murmured. ‘So perfect.’
There was a new, predatory look in Caesar’s eyes which made Fabiola feel very uncomfortable. She backed away a step, her fist clenching on the earring until it hurt.
He followed silently.
Retreating further, scared now, Fabiola collided with the wall. There was nowhere else to go. She tried not to panic. Where was Brutus?
Caesar stepped forward. Wine fumes filled her nostrils. ‘You’re a real beauty.’
Fabiola looked down, praying that he would go away. Instead he reached out and cupped her breasts. Next he began to lick her neck. Terrified and disgusted, Fabiola did not dare react. This was one of the two most important men in the Republic, while she was just a nobleman’s mistress. A nobody.
At length, Caesar paused. ‘You were a slave before.’
She nodded.
‘Then you should be used to this,’ Caesar hissed, lifting her dress.
Silent tears of fury ran down Fabiola’s cheeks.
Breathing heavily, he pulled aside her underclothes and fumbled with her.
Mithras and Jupiter, she thought. Help me! But there was no divine intervention. Nor any sign of Brutus.
Caesar’s efforts gre
w more frantic, and Fabiola felt his erection pressing forward against her thigh. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Please!’
One of the legionaries outside laughed, instantly arousing Fabiola’s suspicions. Perhaps this was not the first time Caesar had assaulted a woman?
Hearing the noise, he stopped for a moment, listening.
Fabiola’s heart leapt, but it was a false alarm. Instead of releasing her, Caesar twisted Fabiola’s arm and forced her on to her knees with him. She moaned with fear.
‘Be quiet, or I’ll hurt you.’
Fabiola was unsure why, but the words struck a deep chord. Suddenly she knew. She just knew. Caesar was the rapist. He was her father.
‘Take off your dress,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to fuck you on the floor.’
An image of Velvinna flashed before her eyes. Naked. Helpless. Alone. Twenty-one years before, this man had done the same thing to her mother. Burning fury consumed Fabiola. ‘No,’ she snarled. ‘I won’t.’
Caesar drew back his hand to strike her.
And she prepared to fight back with all her strength.
‘Fabiola?’ Brutus’ voice was not far away. ‘Caesar? Where are they?’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Answer me!’ Brutus shouted.
‘In the other room,’ one of the sentries reluctantly muttered.
‘Stand aside!’
Caesar cursed under his breath. Hastily rearranging his clothing, he got to his feet.
Fabiola was quick to do so as well. Brutus must not suspect anything. She knew his temper. Brutus was liable to lash out at anyone who had assaulted Fabiola in such a manner, even Caesar, his general. The consequences if he did that were far too grave to even consider. For both of them. She had to act as if everything were normal. Inspiration hit, and Fabiola opened the throbbing palm of her right hand. On it lay her gold and carnelian earring, now crushed. Overcome by terror, she had been unaware of her actions until that moment.
Brutus appeared in the doorway. ‘There you are,’ he said, relieved. His brow creased at the sight of Caesar and his lover standing so close together. ‘What’s going on?’
Caesar self-consciously cleared his throat.
‘Nothing, my darling. The general was showing me his armour. Then I lost this,’ answered Fabiola brightly, holding out her hand. Lamplight flashed off the mangled piece of jewellery, and she prayed he would not peer too closely at it. ‘We were just looking for it.’
‘I see,’ Brutus answered, looking suspicious. ‘The optio has left, sir.’
‘Good. Time to make my excuses to the guests,’ Caesar announced briskly. ‘You should do so too. We need to reach the Rubicon by dawn at the latest.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Brutus replied.
‘Until the next time.’ Caesar bowed to Fabiola, an arrogant half-smile curving his lips at the double meaning only they understood. His secret was safe with her. A former slave, Fabiola would never dare say anything to Brutus. And if she did, he would simply deny it.
Fabiola graciously inclined her head in response, but her thoughts were all of bloody revenge.
Brutus led her outside. ‘You look tired, my love,’ he said, stroking her arm. ‘You can sleep on the journey. I’ll wake you when we get to the ford.’
Barely able to conceal her anger, Fabiola nodded.
‘Rome awaits us,’ called Caesar from behind them. ‘The die has been cast.’
‘And may Fortuna grant that it falls on a six,’ answered Brutus, grinning.
Fabiola wasn’t listening. You would even rape your own daughter, she thought furiously. Filthy bastard. A boiling rage consumed her, renewing all her energy. She would not rest again until Caesar had paid for his crime. And whether he knew it or not, Brutus would be the tool. Fabiola would work on the flash of suspicion that she had seen until it was a roaring flame of resentment and jealousy. And she would take her time.
Mithras, she prayed fervently. And Jupiter, Greatest and Best. Grant me just one more thing in my life.
The death of my father.
Chapter XXIV: The Erythraean Sea
Nearly eighteen months pass . . .
Off the Arabian coast, summer 48 BC
Ahmed and his pirates survived because they lived carefully. The Nubian captain kept the dhow in the waters around the horn of Arabia, which all ships rounded on the way to and from India. By day, they sailed along the coastline, searching for vessels that were small enough to overwhelm easily. Then, before dark every evening, Ahmed would seek out secluded coves and bays to anchor in. Wary since Cana of his crew being recognised as corsairs, he avoided any inlets with villages or towns unless absolutely necessary. In quiet anchorages, no prying eyes could watch them. And there they found brackish water in shallow streams, trickling down from the mountains that formed the backbone of southern Arabia.
The pirates’ solitary lifestyle meant that for much of the time, their diet consisted solely of fish caught with hand lines. This was monotonous in the extreme, and at every opportunity, Romulus would go hunting with his bow, often returning with a small desert antelope. His comrades were delighted by his skills. They won no favours with Ahmed, however. From the first day on board, neither party had trusted the other in the slightest, but it suited both for the relationship to continue: Tarquinius had the Periplus, the ancient map which guided their voyage, and Romulus could fight like three men. Meanwhile, Ahmed kept sailing west, which took the friends closer to Egypt.
The area had proved to have plenty of passing ships, the majority heading west. Plying the lucrative route to the towns far to the north, most were large and carrying well-armed crew. These the Nubian steered well clear of: there was no benefit in pointlessly wasting his valuable men. From time to time though, they would come across smaller, vulnerable merchantmen. Then they would strike.
The corsairs’ tactics were simple. When a prospective prey was sighted, they would sail as close to it as possible. Pretending they had not noticed, the crew busied themselves about the deck with the old fishing nets kept for this purpose. Ahmed relied on the fact that his double-ended dhow with its triangular sail looked like any other off Arabia and Persia. Of course every captain knew that pirates were nearly as numerous as fishermen, and his approach rarely worked for long. Their victims would set off on a different course, keeping plenty of distance between them and the dhow.
As soon as their ruse began to fail, Ahmed would roar for the specially fitted oars to be manned. With ten men rowing on each side, the dhow could quickly catch slower merchant vessels over a short distance. After a short but bloody battle, the corsairs were inevitably victorious. Unless fresh crewmembers were needed, they took no prisoners. Romulus and Tarquinius took part in the attacks – they had to – but left the executions to other pirates. This restraint went unnoticed, thanks to their comrades’ bloodthirsty natures.
After more than a year, they had taken a dozen ships, and the hold was bulging with the proceeds, even though only the smallest, most valuable goods were kept – mostly indigo, tortoiseshell and spices. What was now below decks was worth a huge fortune. In addition, they captured a number of unfortunate slave women, whom Ahmed ordered left alive to service the men’s physical needs. On such a long voyage, it was important to keep morale high. Romulus found it very hard to ignore the abused women’s constant weeping, but there was little he could do.
Inevitably perhaps, the Nubian began to get edgy. Journeying so far from India was an experiment that had paid off, royally. It had been done thanks to his daring, and Tarquinius’ map. And the gods had been smiling upon his dhow. Like most men, Ahmed believed that the latter was something that would not last forever. He began to talk about sailing home.
It was an alarming development. Egypt was so near, and yet still so far.
The friends’ worries about Ahmed’s desire to return to India grew considerably in the days that followed. Bizarrely, fewer small ships seemed to be travelling through. Three weeks went by without a success
ful attack. In frustration, the pirate captain led his men on an assault on a large dhow with two large lateen sails like their own. But the merchant ship’s crew were tough, experienced Egyptians who fought like men possessed, and the empty-handed corsairs limped away from the engagement with four dead and several wounded. Tarquinius was lucky not to lose an eye when an enemy arrow grazed his left cheekbone and glanced away into the sea. While he laughed it off, Romulus saw it as a sign of the haruspex’ mortality. And the losses greatly reduced Ahmed’s ability to attack any vessel at all.
The captain’s foul temper was not helped by the discovery a day later of a minor leak in the hold, which had ruined some of the olibanum. This was the final straw.
‘The gods are angry!’ Ahmed said, pacing up and down like a caged beast. ‘We must be grateful that the damn wind will change soon. It’s time to set sail for India.’
The crew looked pleased. After this long away from their base, they were thoroughly homesick. Only Romulus and Tarquinius were dismayed by the captain’s decision, and all their attempts to convince the Nubian to change his mind failed miserably.
They were beginning to contemplate deserting the dhow when Mithras smiled on them once more. Anchoring for supplies at a tiny, fly-ridden settlement, the Nubian heard exciting news. Adulis and Ptolemais, a pair of towns on the opposite shore of the Erythraean Sea, were good places to buy ivory. It was from these locations that the Egyptians set out to hunt elephants and other wild creatures. This fortunate discovery rekindled Ahmed’s greed. There was still a short time before the south-west monsoon began, and it might as well be spent in pursuit of more riches.
Following his orders, the dhow turned and set sail on a westward course. A day later, it negotiated the passage into the narrow waterway which divided Arabia from Africa. In the cool light of dusk, Romulus saw the Ethiopian coast for the first time.