The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  Tarquinius stood up. He had reached the shallows.

  Shouts rang out from the frustrated slingers. Reloading their weapons, they redoubled their efforts to bring down the trio. Hastily released stones pattered down harmlessly behind them.

  Romulus pushed his caligae downwards, feeling mud squelch underfoot. Petronius let out a great sigh of relief. Two more strokes and he too was able to stand. The veteran released his grip and thumped Romulus across the shoulders. ‘My thanks, lad. I owe you one.’

  Romulus indicated the main force of Egyptians, which was massing for a full frontal attack along the Heptastadion. ‘There’ll be plenty of opportunity to repay me.’

  ‘Get over here!’ screamed a centurion, right on cue. ‘Every sword matters.’

  ‘Best do as he said,’ advised Tarquinius.

  They were the last words he spoke.

  With a hypnotic whirring sound, a rock flashed through the air between Romulus and Petronius. It smashed into the left side of Tarquinius’ face, audibly breaking his cheekbone. His mouth opened in a silent scream of agony and, spun to one side by the force of the impact, he dropped backwards into the waist-deep water. Half-conscious, he sank immediately.

  Chapter II: Jovina

  Near Rome, winter 48 BC

  ‘Fabiola!’ Brutus’ voice broke the silence. ‘We’ll be there soon.’ Docilosa lifted the fabric side so that her mistress could look out of the litter. Dawn was fast approaching, but the party had already been on the road for more than two hours. Neither woman had complained at having to rise so early. They were both keen to reach Rome, their destination. So was Decimus Brutus, Fabiola’s lover. He was on an urgent mission from his master Julius Caesar to confer with Marcus Antonius, the Master of the Horse. More troops were required in Egypt, to lift the blockade from which Fabiola and Brutus had only recently broken free. The enemy barricade still held Caesar and his few thousand soldiers captive within Alexandria.

  Between the tall cypress trees which lined the road, Fabiola could make out plentiful brick-built tombs. Her pulse quickened at the sight. Only those who could afford it built such cenotaphs on the approaches to Rome. They were prominent sites which could not be missed by passers-by, thereby preserving the otherwise fragile memory of the dead. Brutus was correct: they were very close. The Via Appia, the road to the south, had the most mausoleums, mile after mile of them, but all routes into the capital were dotted with them. This, the road from Ostia, Rome’s port, was no different. Decorated with painted statues of the gods and the ancestors of the deceased, the tombs were the dwelling places of cut-throats and cheap whores. Few dared to pass them at night. Even the dim pre-dawn light did not reduce the threat from the whispering trees and looming structures. Fabiola was glad of their heavy escort: a half-century of crack legionaries, and Sextus, her faithful bodyguard.

  ‘You’ll be able to have that bath at last,’ said Brutus, riding closer.

  ‘Thank the gods,’ replied Fabiola. Her travelling clothes felt sticky against her skin.

  ‘The messenger I sent ahead yesterday will ensure that everything is ready in the domus.’

  ‘You’re so thoughtful, my love.’ She bestowed a beaming smile on Brutus.

  Looking suitably pleased, he urged his horse into a trot and headed to the front of the column. Like Caesar, Brutus was not a man to lead from the rear.

  Fabiola recoiled as the unmistakable reek of human waste carried to her nostrils. Thick and unpleasant, it was as familiar, but far less appealing, than that of freshly baked bread. It was Rome’s predominant aroma, though, one which she had grown up smelling, and it had reappeared the instant their party had come within a mile of the walls. It was because countless thousands of plebeians in this teeming metropolis had no access to sewerage. The contrast with the cleanliness of Alexandria could not be more stark. She had not missed this aspect of life in the capital. While the light morning breeze made the odour less objectionable than during the sultry days of summer, it was already omnipresent.

  At first Fabiola had been delighted about returning. Four years away from the city of her birth was a long time. The most recent of her temporary homes – Egypt – was an alien place, whose people hated their Roman would-be masters. Her resentment had vanished at the unexpected sight of Romulus on the battle-torn docks the very night she had left Alexandria. Naturally, Fabiola had wanted to stay and help him. Her twin was alive, and in the Roman army! To her immense consternation, Brutus had refused to delay their departure. The situation had been too desperate. In the face of Fabiola’s distress, he was apologetic but resolute. She had had little choice but to defer to his judgement. The gods had seen fit to preserve Romulus’ life this far, and with their help, she would meet him again one day. If only she’d understood his shouted words. His cry had been lost in the pandemonium of the trireme’s departure; she could only assume he had been trying to tell her which unit he was serving in. Despite this, the encounter had given Fabiola a powerful new zest for life.

  Now, after more than a week of hard travel, their journey was nearly over and, despite the thick fabric covering the litter, the air inside already smelt of shit.

  Fabiola’s stomach churned at the memory of the filth-encrusted bucket she and the other slaves had had to use in Gemellus’ house. Never again, she thought proudly. How far I have come since that day. Even the brothel into which the merchant had sold her had possessed reasonably clean toilets. Yet this small improvement hardly counted against the degradation of strangers using her body for sex. The harsh reality of life in the Lupanar broke most women’s spirit, but not Fabiola’s. I survived because I had to, she reflected. Bent on revenge against Gemellus, and discovering the identity of her and Romulus’ father, she had determined to escape her new career – somehow.

  The list of rich men who frequented the whorehouse had been its most redeeming feature. Advised by a friendly whore to win over a suitable noble, Fabiola had cast her net far and wide, using her considerable charms to ensnare a number of unsuspecting candidates.

  She lifted the heavy fabric and peered surreptitiously at Brutus, who was riding alongside the litter once more. Sextus too was within arm’s reach; it was virtually his permanent position during daylight hours. At night, he slept right outside her door. Fabiola inclined her head, glad as always to have her bodyguard nearby. Then Brutus noticed her; a broad grin immediately split his face. Fabiola blew him a kiss. A career soldier and loyal follower of Caesar, Brutus was courageous and likeable. After a number of visits to the Lupanar, he had fallen utterly into her thrall. Not that she had decided on him for that reason, of course.

  It was Brutus’ close links to Caesar which had helped Fabiola to make the final decision. Had it been her gut instinct? To this day, Fabiola was not sure. Thankfully, her gamble on Brutus as the best candidate had paid off richly. Five years before, he had bought her from the brothel, establishing her as the mistress of his new latifundium, or estate, near Pompeii.

  The property’s former owner had been no less than Gemellus! Fabiola’s lips curved upwards in triumph. To this day, knowing he’d been ruined felt like sweet revenge. Not that she’d pass up an opportunity to kill the whoreson if she got a chance. Several attempts to locate him had failed miserably and, like much of Fabiola’s past, Gemellus had faded into obscurity. She still had vivid memories of her short stay on his former latifundium, though. Fabiola’s guts twisted with fear, and she looked up and down the road.

  This close to the city, other travellers were plentiful, moving in both directions. Traders pulled along mules laden with goods; farmers headed for the busy markets. There were children herding goats and sheep to pasture, lepers hobbling on home-made crutches and demobbed veterans marching home together. An irritable-looking priest with a gaggle of shaven-headed acolytes in tow stalked past, lecturing on some religious point. A line of slaves in neck chains miserably followed a muscular figure wearing a leather jerkin and carrying a long-handled whip. Armed guards paced either side of th
e column, security against the captives’ flight. The sight was unremarkable; after all, the need for slaves in Rome was huge. Nonetheless, Fabiola shrank back into the litter as it passed the shuffling, downcast men and women. Bile rose in her throat. More than four years later, the thought of Scaevola – a vicious slave catcher whom she had run afoul of – still terrified her.

  She would not let it stop her, though.

  Until she had seen Romulus in Alexandria, Fabiola’s greatest discovery had been that Caesar was their father. Just once, she had been left alone with the general, who bore a striking resemblance to her brother. Seizing the opportunity, he had tried to rape her. It was not just the lustful look in Caesar’s eyes that had convinced Fabiola of his guilt. His harsh words – ‘Be quiet or I’ll hurt you’ – reverberated through her yet. Somehow, on hearing them, she had known he had used them before. With proof in her heart, she had waited and watched since. Her opportunity for revenge would come one day.

  While Caesar might currently face the direst of threats in Alexandria, Fabiola did not want him to meet his end there. Dying at the hands of a foreign mob would frustrate her desire for an orchestrated revenge. Yet once Caesar was free to leave Egypt, more wars beckoned. In Africa and Hispania, Republican forces were still strong. Returning to Rome at this time provided Fabiola with the perfect opportunity to plot; to recruit the men who would kill Caesar if he returned. She would unearth plenty of conspirators by telling them, as she had told Brutus, how the general planned to become the new king of Rome.

  The very idea of this was anathema to every living citizen. Brutus’ domus was not the place to scheme, however; smiling, Fabiola trusted in the gods to help her find a better base.

  Many weeks passed before Fabiola felt confident enough to venture out unaccompanied by Brutus. Entering Rome had brought back her fear of Scaevola with a vengeance. Sheer panic engulfed Fabiola if she went out alone. Consequently, she found herself content to stay in the domus. There was plenty to do: keeping the household in order; hosting feasts for Brutus’ friends; and doing the lessons set her by the Greek tutor she had employed. Fabiola also learned to read and write, which boosted her confidence enormously. She devoured every manuscript she could lay her hands on. It was easy to understand why Jovina had kept her prostitutes illiterate, she realised. Ignorance kept them more malleable. Returning home exhausted every day, Brutus was impressed by her probing questions about politics, philosophy and history.

  Since delivering the news of Caesar’s predicament to Marcus Antonius, Caesar’s official deputy, Brutus had been engaged in running the Republic with Antonius and other main supporters of the dictator. There was to be no let-up either: Rome was more troubled than ever. Unsettled by the lack of information about Caesar – until Brutus’ reappearance, his whereabouts had been unknown for more than three months – the populace had been demonstrating. Encouraged by a few power-hungry politicians, unhappy nobles who were heavily in debt were demanding total recompense from Caesar, making a mockery of his earlier law to partially abolish their liabilities. Dissatisfied, some had even declared for the Republicans. To make matters even worse, hundreds of veterans from Caesar’s favourite legion, the Tenth, had been sent back to Italy and were adding to the unrest. Infuriated by the delay in providing their retirement settlements of money and land, they were demonstrating on a regular basis.

  Marcus Antonius’ response had been typically heavy-handed: troops were brought in to disperse the first sets of troublemakers, and soon after blood had been spilled on the streets. The treatment was reminiscent of that meted out to rebellious Gauls rather than to Roman citizens, Brutus ranted to Fabiola. While the issue of rebellion by Pompeian supporters had subsided, Antonius had done little to reassure the veterans. His token attempt at placation had backfired badly. More diplomatic by nature than the fiery Master of the Horse, Brutus had been to meet the Tenth’s ringleaders, and had appeased them for the time being. Yet much remained to be done before the situation was stabilised.

  By early summer, Fabiola was content that Brutus was occupied with other matters, and that there had been no sign of Scaevola. An outrageous idea had come to mind and she finally decided to visit the Lupanar, the brothel that had been her home during her prostitution. Brutus was to be left in the dark, though. For the moment, the less her lover knew, the better. Unfortunately, keeping her destination secret meant that none of Brutus’ legionaries could escort her. Fear bubbled in Fabiola’s throat at the thought of walking the streets accompanied only by Sextus, but she managed to quell it. She could not remain confined behind the house’s thick walls for ever, nor did she wish always to rely on squads of soldiers to go out in the world.

  Secrecy was paramount.

  So, ignoring her servant Docilosa’s pursed lips and the muttered complaints of the optio in charge of Brutus’ men, she and Sextus headed out into the Palatine. The suburb was mostly inhabited by the wealthy but, like all parts of Rome, there were plenty of insulae, the tall wooden blocks of tenement flats in which the vast majority of the population lived. With open-fronted shops occupying the ground floors, the insulae were three, four and even five storeys high. Poorly lit, rat-infested, without sanitation and heated only by braziers, they were death-traps. Disease lurked within them, flaring into frequent outbreaks of cholera, dysentery or smallpox. It was commonplace too for insulae to collapse, or to go up in flames, burning to death all the inhabitants. Their close proximity to each other meant that little light penetrated down to the narrow, crowded and muddy streets. Only the largest thoroughfares in the capital were surfaced; even fewer were more than ten steps wide. All were thronged daily by citizens, traders, slaves and thieves, adding to the claustrophobic atmosphere.

  A city-dweller from birth, Fabiola had grown to love the open spaces around her latifundium. She had assumed that she was still used to crowds – until she and Sextus had left the domus a hundred paces behind them. Hemmed in on all sides, an image of Scaevola instantly came to mind. Try as she might, Fabiola could not throw it off. Her feet began to drag and she fell behind.

  Seeing her pinched face, Sextus laid a hand to his gladius. ‘What is it, Mistress?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, pulling the hood of her cloak closer. ‘It’s just bad memories.’

  He reached up to touch his empty eye socket, his own memento of Scaevola’s ambush. ‘I know, Mistress,’ he growled. ‘Best to keep moving, though. Avoid attention.’

  Determined not to let dread rule her any longer, Fabiola followed him. It was mid-morning after all, the safest time of the day, when ordinary people got their business done. Women and slaves shopped for food among the bakers, butchers and vegetable merchants. Wine-sellers boasted and lied about the quality of their produce, offering a taste to anyone who would listen. Blacksmiths toiled over their anvils while neighbouring carpenters and potters exchanged idle banter over a cup of acetum. The stink from the nearby tanneries and fullers’ workshops laced the air. Money-changers sat at low tables, glaring at the cripples who were greedily eyeing their neat piles of coins. Snot-nosed urchins ran through the crowds, chasing each other and stealing what they could. Nothing looked different to any other day in Rome.

  Except for the plentiful numbers of Antonius’ legionaries, of course, thought Fabiola. The old law denying entry to the city to soldiers had been set aside by Caesar himself. With the threat of rioting constant, there were more of them about than ever. The knowledge gave her strength. In addition to Sextus’ presence, they would ensure nothing happened to her. Fabiola stuck out her chin. The Lupanar wasn’t far. ‘Come on,’ she declared.

  Sextus grinned, used to her determination.

  A short while later, they had reached a street that Fabiola knew better than any in Rome. Close to the Forum, it was home to the Lupanar. Again her feet slowed, but this time her fear was under better control. Today, she was no terrified thirteen-year-old dragged here to be sold. Soon Fabiola’s nervousness had been replaced by excitement. She began to outstr
ip Sextus.

  ‘Mistress!’

  She ignored his cry. The crowds finally parted a few steps from the entrance and Fabiola’s mouth fell open. Nothing had changed. A brightly painted, erect stone penis still jutted forth on either side of the arched doorway, graphic evidence of the business’s nature. Outside stood a shaven-headed hulk, clutching a metal-studded club. ‘Vettius,’ she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

  The huge man did not react.

  Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Fabiola moved closer. ‘Vettius.’ The doorman’s brow wrinkled at being called by name and he glanced around.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ she asked. ‘Have I changed that much?’

  ‘Fabiola?’ he stuttered. ‘Is it you?’

  With tears of happiness filling her eyes, she nodded. Here was one of the most loyal friends she had ever had. When Brutus had bought Fabiola’s freedom, she had been desperate for him to free the two doormen also. Wily to the last, however, Jovina had refused all offers. The pair were simply too valuable to her business. Leaving them behind had torn a deep wound in Fabiola’s heart.

  Vettius rushed to give her a hug, but stopped short.

  Sextus had shot in front of Fabiola. Dwarfed by the other, he nonetheless drew his sword. ‘Stay back,’ he snarled.

  In a heartbeat, Vettius’ face went from surprised to angry, but before he could respond Fabiola had laid a hand on Sextus’ arm. ‘He’s a friend,’ she explained, ignoring her bodyguard’s confused expression. With a scowl, Sextus stood aside, allowing Fabiola and Vettius to gaze at each other. ‘It’s been too long,’ she said warmly.