The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  ‘Come now,’ he murmured. ‘I can see you want me.’

  A sound outside the room saved Fabiola from herself. Had that been a stifled cough? Raising a finger to her lips, she pointed. Antonius watched, smirking, as Fabiola darted to the door and threw it open. To her immense relief, there was no one in the corridor or reception area, but fingers of unease still tickled her spine. She beckoned urgently to Antonius. If someone – particularly Jovina – had eavesdropped on their conversation, Brutus would find out. Fabiola quaked at the thought of his reaction.

  ‘When can I see you?’ asked Antonius.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, still confused. Then, despite herself, she kissed him on the lips. ‘We can’t meet here.’

  ‘One of my properties will do. I’ll send a messenger telling you where to go.’ Antonius gave her a deep bow. Checking the street was clear, he ducked outside.

  As she watched him go, Fabiola’s heart was filled with a mixture of emotions: elation at the desire she’d felt, and sheer terror that someone had overheard what had gone on in her office. Despite this, she couldn’t halt the surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing Antonius again.

  Fabiola smiled as another thought struck.

  If she became Antonius’ lover, Scaevola wouldn’t dare to harm her.

  Chapter VIII: Rhodes

  The island of Rhodes, off Asia Minor

  Tarquinius walked up the narrow street from the harbour, old memories flooding back. He had been here decades before, as a young man. Of the many places he’d visited after Olenus’ death, Rhodes had been one of the most interesting. Before arriving here, he had been in the legions, fighting under both Lucullus and Pompey in Asia Minor. In marked contrast to Tarquinius’ quiet upbringing on a latifundium, his army career had provided the haruspex with comradeship, military experience and a means of seeing the world. His lips twisted upwards in a wry grin. For the most part, those four years had been a good time in his life. Although Tarquinius hated Rome for everything it had done to the Etruscans, his people, during that period he had come to feel a grudging admiration for its soldiers’ efficiency, courage and sheer determination. Even after his lucky escape from Caesar’s men in Alexandria, he felt it.

  Tarquinius muttered an instinctive prayer of thanks to Mithras. While the god had not permitted him to discover much of worth in the library, he had to be responsible for guiding his tiring legs down a street where a riot against the Romans was about to break out. Forgetting Tarquinius, their quarry, the chasing legionaries had joined their beleaguered comrades, allowing the haruspex to reach the port, and a ship to Rhodes. His escape had seemed heaven sent. Or were the gods just playing with him? A glance at the cloudless sky revealed nothing. It had been the same for weeks. The only thing he ever saw was a brooding sense of menace over Rome. If Tarquinius tried to see who might be at risk, his vision vanished. So he had no idea if he had to worry about Romulus, his sister Fabiola or someone else he knew in the capital. He’d had a recurring and unsettling nightmare about a murder in the area of the Lupanar, a bloody scuffle which ended with a man lying blood-covered and motionless while other indistinct figures shouted over it. Tarquinius took it to be his killing of Caelius, which told him nothing. Resigned, he shrugged. For whatever reason, he had reached Rhodes, another place of great learning. Maybe here he would find some answers.

  Reaching an open area dominated by a brightly painted Doric temple, Tarquinius stopped. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips. He’d climbed up from the main settlement, with its grid of parallel streets and residential blocks, to reach this: the Agora, the beating heart of the town. A bustling marketplace full of stalls, it was also the historic meeting place for the local citizens. A grand shrine to Apollo overlooked it; there were plentiful altars to other gods; and his destination, the Stoic school, was only a block away.

  Tarquinius could vividly remember the first time he had walked into the Agora. It hadn’t been that long after he’d run from the legions, when fear of discovery had been his constant companion. He’d deserted after facing up to the fact that joining the Roman army had been no more than a futile attempt to forget Olenus and his teaching. He’d realised that was no way to live his life. Thus, after a search of Lydia in Asia Minor had revealed little evidence of the Etruscans’ origins, he had come here, to Rhodes. The Stoic school in the city had been a centre of learning for centuries, the home of scholars such as Apollonius, and Posidonius, whom the haruspex had heard speak on a number of occasions. This was where rich young Romans came to learn rhetoric, philosophy and to hone their oratorical skills for the cut and thrust of the Senate. Sulla had been a pupil here; so too had Pompey and Caesar.

  Tarquinius’ first visit had gleaned him little insight into the Etruscans’ past, or his own future. He frowned, hoping that this occasion would be different. That his persistent dream would be explained. To have reached Rhodes for the second time, especially when he hadn’t expected it, felt most promising. Winded and desperate when he’d reached the merchants’ harbour in Alexandria, the haruspex had leapt on the first ship which would take a paying passenger. Fortunately he’d had enough money to pay the captain, a hard-nosed Phoenician. Yet once on board, despairing that he would never discover what to do next, Tarquinius had sunk into a depression that had lasted for days as the merchant vessel hogged the coast of Judaea and Asia Minor. However, then it had sailed in to Rhodes. Was it just a coincidence? Tarquinius wasn’t sure. As so often before, his attempts at divining had revealed little or nothing of use. Perhaps his coming here was a big joke on the part of the gods, to show him the futility of his life? He hoped it was not so. Surely his visions of Rome and of the Lupanar meant something?

  Since the trauma of his parting from Romulus had been added to by his flight from Alexandria, Tarquinius had been ravaged by self-doubt. This was unsurprising. Despite making a journey as remarkable as that of the Lion of Macedon, the haruspex hadn’t managed to discover where his mysterious people had come from. While his companions, two of the bravest men possible, had fallen by the wayside or disappeared, he had come full circle, unscathed except for his scars. He railed against the injustice of it. Brennus had chosen a hero’s death, fighting a berserk elephant so that his friends could escape. Romulus was alive, but he was a conscript in one of Caesar’s legions: facing death on a daily basis in the civil war, he would be lucky to survive. To Tarquinius, there increasingly seemed little point in living.

  Realising that his dark thoughts were dragging him into an abyss, the haruspex took control. It was not his fault that Brennus wasn’t here. The Gaul’s last stand had been fated to happen, predicted not just by Tarquinius, but by an Allobroge druid. In addition, the vision he’d had of Romulus entering Ostia, Rome’s port, had been one of the most powerful of his life. His protégé would return to the city of his birth one day. Tarquinius just hoped that Romulus’ homecoming turned out to be all that he wished.

  The haruspex had little desire to return to Italy. After all, he thought, what did it matter if, as his vision kept revealing, there was danger in Rome? It mattered if it affected someone dear to him, bit back his conscience. Despite himself, Tarquinius was beginning to wonder if the Republic’s capital wasn’t the best place for him to be. A visit to the brothel outside which he’d killed Caelius, and changed Romulus’ life for ever, might trigger the release of more information.

  The bark of shouted orders rang out behind him, and Tarquinius turned. Led by a centurion and a signifer, two files of legionaries came trotting up the street. They were at least a century strong, and dressed in full battle dress. Many of the locals looked unhappy at the sight. More than a century after their country’s acquisition by Rome, the Greeks still resented their masters. Tarquinius didn’t like seeing them in a place like this either.

  No doubt the soldiers were from the half-dozen triremes he’d seen tied up in the harbour. What they were doing here, Tarquinius had no idea. A peaceful place, Rhodes had long been under the Republ
ic’s influence. There were no pirates left hiding in the coves along its coast – Pompey had seen to that. Nor were any of his supporters to be seen; the island’s population was far too small to provide the numbers of recruits they needed to fight Caesar.

  Eager to remain inconspicuous, Tarquinius stepped into a small open-fronted shop. Amphorae lay everywhere inside: on piles of straw, and stacked three and four high on top of each other. An old desk covered in rolls of parchment, inkpots and a marble abacus sat in the middle of the floor and a crude wooden bar ran partway along one wall. He could hear the proprietor moving around in the back.

  The legionaries clattered past without as much as a sideways glance. A line of slaves and mules followed behind them. Tarquinius noted that all the beasts’ saddlebags were empty. Suspicion flared in his mind, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the shopkeeper, who emerged from his storeroom carrying a small, dusty amphora with a heavy wax seal.

  The last of the passing soldiers got an angry glare. ‘Dirty whoresons,’ he muttered in Greek.

  ‘They are,’ agreed Tarquinius fluently. ‘For the most part anyway.’

  Startled by the scarred stranger’s sharp hearing, the shopkeeper paled. ‘I meant no offence,’ he stammered. ‘I’m a loyal subject.’

  Tarquinius raised his hands peaceably. ‘You have nothing to fear from me,’ he said. ‘Can I buy a cup of wine?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Nikolaos refuses no man a drink.’ Visibly relieved, the shopkeeper set down his load. Producing a red earthenware jug and a pair of beakers, he placed them on the bar. Filling both, he offered one to Tarquinius. ‘Are you here to study?’

  Tarquinius took a long swallow and gave an approving nod. The wine was good. ‘Something like that,’ he replied.

  ‘Better hope that what you’re looking for isn’t gone by tomorrow then.’ Nikolaos pointed. ‘Those bastards were heading to the Stoic school.’

  Tarquinius almost choked on his second mouthful. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Taking everything of value that isn’t nailed down,’ lamented the other. ‘If the remnants of the Colossus itself weren’t too big to transport, they’d probably take those too.’

  Tarquinius grimaced. Like all visitors to Rhodes, he had walked the site where the largest statue in the world had once stood. Although it had been knocked off its marble pedestal by an earthquake nearly two centuries before, giant pieces of the god Helios were still strewn on the ground to one side of the harbour. Even these were an impressive sight. Great bronze plates shaped into body parts lay surrounded by iron bars, filler stones and thousands of rivets. All gave testament to the Herculean toil which must have gone into the figure’s construction. Now, though, they were good for nothing except scrap. Unlike the treasures in the school, which might hold the key to revealing his future.

  Tarquinius couldn’t believe it. Even this was to be denied him.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he demanded in a thin, strained voice.

  A little scared of his new customer, the shopkeeper nodded. ‘It started yesterday. They say that Caesar wants plenty of riches to display in his triumphs. Statues, paintings, books – they’re taking it all.’

  ‘What right has the arrogant dog? He was fighting damn Romans at Pharsalus, not Greeks,’ shouted Tarquinius. ‘This is an already conquered land!’

  Hearing the noise, a number of passers-by glanced in curiously.

  Nikolaos looked most unhappy. Such talk was dangerous.

  Tarquinius threw back the last of his wine and slapped down four silver coins. ‘More,’ he snapped.

  The other’s attitude changed at once. The money would pay for an amphora of good wine. With a greasy smile, he filled Tarquinius’ cup to the brim.

  Tarquinius studied the ruby liquid in his beaker for long moments before drinking the lot. As if the alcohol could help, he thought morosely. Why was he being thwarted like this at every turn? The gods’ motives were infuriating – outrageous even – but he was helpless before them.

  ‘Another?’ asked Nikolaos solicitously.

  He got a terse nod. ‘And one for yourself.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Nikolaos bobbed his head, deciding that perhaps this customer wasn’t so bad after all. ‘Last year’s vintage was a good one.’

  There was no more chat, however. Ignoring the shopkeeper, Tarquinius stood at the counter, downing more and more wine. Its effects darkened his mood even further. He’d only just arrived, and already his journey to Rhodes had been a complete waste of time. With the school plundered of its valuables, what chance was there of finding information to help him decide what to do? He felt like a blind man feeling his way round a room, looking for a door that he would never find. Rome, his inner voice said. Return to Rome. He ignored it.

  More than an hour passed. On the next occasion Tarquinius lifted the jug, it was empty.

  Nikolaos rushed over. ‘Let me refill that.’

  ‘No. I’ve had enough,’ replied Tarquinius brusquely. He wasn’t so miserable that he wanted to end up unconscious, or worse. Bacchus was no god to see him into Hades.

  ‘Will you go to the school now?’

  Tarquinius barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Not much point, is there?’

  ‘I might be wrong about the soldiers,’ the shopkeeper offered lamely. ‘It was only rumour after all.’

  ‘Those whoresons wouldn’t march all the way up here with mules for nothing,’ snarled Tarquinius. ‘Would they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He dared not argue further. The stranger was too confident, and the double-headed axe poking out from under his cloak looked well used.

  Tarquinius took a step towards the door, and then turned to stare at Nikolaos. ‘This conversation never happened.’ His dark eyes were mere pits in his battered face. ‘Did it?’

  ‘N-no,’ replied the shopkeeper, swallowing. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good.’ Without looking back, Tarquinius wove out on to the street. Which way? he wondered. Might as well visit what I came here for, he decided abruptly. See what’s left, if there’s anything of worth remaining in the place. Feeling more weary than he had in his entire life, the haruspex walked slowly across the Agora. In the busy crowd of shoppers, businessmen and sailors from the port, he was just another anonymous figure. Not that he cared.

  Reaching the corner of the street which led to the Stoic school, Tarquinius’ sandal caught on a discarded piece of clay tile. He pitched forward, badly grazing both of his knees on the rough ground. Cursing, he struggled to get up.

  ‘Bit early to be legless, isn’t it?’

  Tarquinius looked up, bleary-eyed. Standing over him was a figure wearing a bronze helmet with a transverse crest of red and white feathers. Bright sunlight shining from above obscured the centurion’s face. From his position, all Tarquinius could really make out were the ornate greaves protecting the officer’s lower legs and his well-made caligae. ‘It’s a free world,’ he muttered. ‘And I’m not in the legions.’

  ‘Look like you might have been one day, though.’ A muscled arm reached down, offering him help. ‘That’s a handy-looking axe you have there.’

  Tarquinius paused for a heartbeat and then accepted the grip. He wasn’t going to fight what happened any more.

  With a heave, the centurion pulled him to his feet. A solidly built man in middle age, he wore a long mail shirt, crossed decorative belts with a gladius and pugio, and a leather-bordered skirt. The webbing strapped to the front of his chest was covered with gold and silver phalerae.

  The haruspex saw with alarm that the highly decorated officer wasn’t alone. Behind him, in neat ranks, stood the soldiers he had seen earlier. At the very rear were the mules, now laden down. Contempt filled the watching faces, and Tarquinius looked down in shame. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to being laughed at by ordinary rank and filers.

  The centurion was interested by this odd-looking fool with his scarred face, blond hair and single gold earring. He wasn’t a run-of-the-mill Gree
k. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  The haruspex saw no point in lying any more. ‘Tarquinius,’ he muttered, anger swelling within him at what the Romans had just done.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Etruria.’

  The centurion’s eyebrows rose. The drunk was Italian. ‘What brings you to Rhodes?’

  Tarquinius pointed past the waiting soldiers. ‘I wanted to study in the school, didn’t I? You bloody lot have put paid to that, though.’

  Shocked growls rose from the legionaries at his nerve, but the centurion raised a hand for silence. ‘You question Caesar’s orders?’ he asked icily.

  The Romans do what they will. They always have, thought Tarquinius wearily. I cannot change that. Looking into the other’s eyes, he saw death. There were worse ways to die, he reflected. A gladius thrust can’t hurt that much.

  ‘Answer me, by Mithras!’

  The words struck Tarquinius like a lightning bolt, stripping away the drink-induced fog from his brain. For some reason, he remembered the raven which had attacked the lead Indian elephant by the Hydaspes. If that hadn’t been a sign from the warrior god, then he was no haruspex. This had to be another. He was not to die now. ‘Of course not, sir,’ Tarquinius said in a loud voice. ‘Caesar can do as he pleases.’ He stuck out his right hand in the gesture only a Mithraic devotee would use.

  The centurion looked down in disbelief. ‘You follow the warrior god?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Tarquinius replied, touching the blade-shaped scar on his left cheek. ‘I received this in his service.’ It wasn’t so far from the truth. Again he shoved forward his hand.

  With an oath, the officer grabbed it with his own and shook it hard. ‘Caldus Fabricius, First Centurion, Second Cohort, Sixth Legion,’ he said. ‘I had you for a troublemaker.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Tarquinius smiled. ‘Mithras must have guided me to you.’

  ‘Or Bacchus!’ Fabricius grinned. ‘Well met, comrade. I’d love to talk, but I’m in a real hurry this morning. Will you walk with me?’