The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  With a grateful nod, Tarquinius fell in beside the centurion. He was strangely relieved now that the threat of immediate death had gone. Of course the wine had fuelled his foolhardy bravado, he thought. Yet he’d only drunk it because of the Romans looting the school. Always expect the unexpected, he thought. Meeting the centurion was tangible evidence of Mithras’ favour.

  ‘They had the most incredible artefacts in the school,’ revealed his new friend. ‘Instruments and metal contraptions such as I’ve never seen. There’s a strange-looking one in a box with dials on the front and back. You wouldn’t believe it, but it has little arms which move around, showing the position of the sun, moon and the five planets. Incredible! On the other side is a face which can predict every eclipse. The old man in charge of it wept when I took it from him. Said it had been made in Syracuse, by a follower of Archimedes.’ He laughed.

  Tarquinius shoved down his throbbing resentment. There was little point being angry at the plundering, he thought. Fabricius was just following orders. Excitement bubbled up in him that the device Aristophanes had described was so near. Its origins were revolutionary too. Everyone knew of the amazing machines which Archimedes, the Greek mathematician, had built to defend his city against the Romans during the second Punic war. To discover that he might have influenced, or even designed, an even more incredible device was astonishing. ‘Is it here?’

  Fabricius jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s on one of the mules. Well wrapped up, of course, so the damn thing doesn’t break.’

  ‘You’re taking it all to Rome?’

  ‘For Caesar’s triumphs,’ answered the other proudly. ‘To show the people yet again what a leader he is.’

  The last of Tarquinius’ drunkenness fell away. On their own, the images of the capital under a louring sky and his nightmare about the Lupanar weren’t enough to make him journey back to the capital. This was very different, though. Out of nowhere, a possible solution had appeared. He couldn’t ignore it. ‘Is there room on the ships for another passenger?’

  ‘Want to get back to Italy? I would too.’ Fabricius gave him a nudge. ‘Be proud to have you on board.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With renewed energy, Tarquinius strode down to the harbour alongside the centurion. Mithras was guiding him to Rome, on the same ships that would carry off the contents of the Stoic school.

  Who was he to argue with a god?

  Chapter IX: Captivity

  Pontus, northern Asia Minor

  Petronius could only limp after Romulus as the gloating legionaries dragged him up to their camp, over the bodies of the Pontic dead. At the fortifications, the big soldier and his companions were prevented from immediately crucifying Romulus by the lack of wood. What few trees grew on the mountain had been cut down during the camp’s construction. Yet their anger was such that four of them found axes and went off in search of some. The others lolled about in the afternoon sunshine, drinking extra rations of acetum that they had wheedled from the quartermaster.

  Trussed up with ropes, Romulus was left to lie in the centre of the group. The sun’s rays beat down on his wound, turning his head into a throbbing mass of agony. His throat was parched, but of course no one gave him any water. He was barely aware of Petronius’ presence, and only reminded of the others by the occasional kick that they gave him. The irony of the situation was not totally lost on him, however. To have endured so much just to end up a candidate for crucifixion in a remote location like Zela seemed farcical. But that was the nature of fate, Romulus thought numbly. The gods could do whatever they liked.

  Tarquinius had been wrong. There would be no return to Rome.

  Soon afterwards, Romulus lapsed into unconsciousness.

  He was woken by angry shouting, and, confused by his concussion, took a few moments to work out what was going on. Standing on one side of him were the black-haired brute and his companions, their arms full of freshly chopped timber. On the other were Petronius, their optio from the Twenty-Eighth and an unfamiliar centurion. Threats and counter-threats filled the air between the veterans and Petronius, who still appeared to be on his own. Romulus’ heart filled to see his friend defend him against such odds.

  The optio did not seem inclined to intervene, but at length the centurion raised his hands for silence. At once the veterans obeyed. Senior officers could, and did, call down the harshest of punishment for any infraction of discipline.

  The centurion looked briefly satisfied. ‘I want to hear, from one man at a time, what in the name of Hades is going on here.’ He aimed his vine cane at Petronius. ‘You came crying to your optio about this, so you can start.’

  Quickly Petronius recounted how they had gone to wash in the river after the battle, and how the veterans had struck up a conversation over Romulus’ wound. ‘It’s all a mistake, sir. Look at him – he’s half-stunned. Probably wouldn’t know who he just fought, never mind where he got an old scar on his leg from. Silly bastard never fought a Goth.’

  Studying Romulus’ bloody, dazed appearance, the centurion smiled. ‘That sounds plausible, but the accusation of slavery is a serious one all the same.’ He looked at the black-haired legionary. ‘What have you got to say?’

  ‘The dog’s not that badly hurt,’ he said furiously. ‘And he admitted that the wound had been made by a Goth, sir. In a ludus! How much evidence does a man need?’

  Angry mutters of agreement rose from his companions, but none dared to challenge their superior officer directly.

  With a frown, the centurion turned to the optio, a squint-eyed Campanian whom Romulus had never taken to. ‘Is he any kind of soldier?’

  ‘He is, sir. A good one,’ replied the optio, raising Romulus’ spirits for a moment. ‘But he did join the legion in strange circumstances.’

  Interested, the centurion indicated he should continue.

  ‘It was during the night battle in Alexandria, sir. Me and my section were guarding the Heptastadion when he and another dodgy-looking type appeared from nowhere. They were Italian and well armed, so I press-ganged the pair of them on the spot.’

  He got an approving nod for that. ‘Where had they come from?’

  ‘Said they’d been working for a bestiarius, in the south of Egypt, sir.’

  ‘And is this the other one?’ demanded the centurion, pointing at Petronius.

  The optio scowled. ‘No, sir. He disappeared the same night. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice the whoreson was gone until the battle was over. Couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere.’

  ‘Suspicious,’ muttered the centurion. ‘Very suspicious.’ He nudged Romulus with his foot. ‘Are you an escaped slave?’

  Romulus focused on his accuser with difficulty. After a moment, his gaze flickered around the other watching faces. All but Petronius’ were filled with hatred or indifference. Utter weariness filled him. What was the point of carrying on? ‘Yes, sir,’ he said slowly. ‘But Petronius, my comrade, had no idea.’

  Despite Romulus’ get-out clause for him, Petronius looked devastated.

  ‘See, sir?’ cried the black-haired soldier, his outrage resurgent. ‘I was right. Can we crucify the bastard now?’

  ‘No. I’ve a better idea,’ snapped the centurion. ‘Caesar intends to hold massive celebratory games when he returns to Rome. There’ll be a need for more bodies than the schools or the prisons hold. This scum might have escaped the arena once, but he won’t manage it twice. Clap them in chains. Both can be used as noxii.’

  Mollified by this, the veterans grinned.

  Scarcely believing his ears, Petronius’ fists bunched. Being condemned to die fighting wild beasts or criminals and murderers was a degrading fate. Then he saw their captors’ gloating faces. If he tried to fight, he’d be dead in a heartbeat. Life was still precious. Petronius unclenched his hands, and he did not resist when two legionaries tied him up with a length of rope.

  ‘No, sir,’ croaked Romulus, struggling against his own bonds. ‘Petronius has done nothing wrong!’

/>   ‘What?’ sneered the centurion. ‘The fool made a comrade of a slave. He deserves the same miserable death as you.’

  ‘How was he supposed to know?’ shouted Romulus. ‘Leave him be!’

  The centurion’s response was to stamp down on his head with the studded sole of one of his caligae.

  Darkness took Romulus.

  Probing fingers in his wound woke him. Romulus opened his eyes, finding himself in the camp’s valetudinarium, a series of large tents near the headquarters. It was near sunset, he was still tied up, and a sallow-skinned surgeon in a bloody apron was examining him. There was no sign of Petronius, just a bored-looking legionary standing guard nearby. Despairing, Romulus closed his eyes again.

  Soon the Greek pronounced the absence of a fracture. He cleaned the wound with acetum and placed a neat line of metal clamps in the skin to close it. Each one delivered a stabbing pain as it was inserted. After this, a rough linen bandage was wrapped around Romulus’ head. Dressed in an old tunic, he was discharged from the valetudinarium. There were countless other casualties who needed the surgeon’s care more than he did. Pulling Romulus to his feet, the legionary frogmarched him to the camp gaol, a wooden stockade by the main entrance. There he was flung inside. As he sprawled to the floor, the door slammed shut. Romulus lay motionless for a moment, letting the misery of what had happened wash over him.

  ‘Romulus?’ Petronius’ voice was very close.

  Romulus managed to roll on to his chest and look around. There were seven soldiers in the prison, but his friend was the only one who’d come over. Petronius ushered him to a corner away from the rest. They sat down on the hard-packed dirt together.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Romulus in a low voice. ‘You shouldn’t be here. It’s all my fault.’

  Petronius sighed heavily. ‘I can’t say that I wasn’t angry when it happened.’

  Romulus began to speak, but the other raised his hand.

  ‘The way those bastards turned on me like a pack of dogs disgusted me. Made me think, because I was like that once,’ said Petronius ruefully. ‘Yet I’m a citizen just like them. How was I supposed to know that you were a slave? Didn’t seem to matter a damn, though. Not one cared that you’ve proved your courage to me and the whole Twenty-Eighth. Slaves have fought for Rome before too, against Hannibal.’ He sighed again. ‘No longer, obviously.’

  Romulus waited.

  Petronius locked eyes with him. ‘I owe you – my comrade – more than I owe either those bastards from the Sixth or that centurion.’

  This acceptance negated all the rejection Romulus had received earlier. He and Petronius were blood brothers; they had the same bond as he and Brennus. Overcome with emotion, he could do no more than extend his right arm. Petronius reached out and they gripped forearms in the military manner.

  ‘Do you know what happens next?’ Romulus asked.

  ‘Caesar and the Sixth will be shipping out to the coast as soon as the mopping up is over, and taking us with them,’ replied Petronius with a scowl. ‘Apparently there’s unrest in Italy. Veterans unhappy with their lot, according to our new comrades.’ He jerked his head at the other men.

  ‘What did they do?’ asked Romulus.

  ‘Broke and ran during the battle,’ said Petronius disgustedly.

  ‘Surprising they haven’t been crucified.’

  ‘I guess Caesar needs plenty of fodder for his games,’ Petronius answered.

  They exchanged a look of dread.

  A month or so later, Romulus, Petronius and the other prisoners travelled to the southwest of Asia Minor, where Caesar’s fleet was waiting. Forced to march in chains behind the wagon train, their treatment on the way was brutal. As well as eating the dirt left in the air by the Sixth’s passage, they were given hardly any rations or water. If any of them so much as looked at one of the guards, a merciless beating followed. It paid to lay low and say nothing, which is what the two friends did. They shunned their companions, preferring their own company to that of cowards who had fled the battlefield. Impossible to ignore, however, were the visits of the black-haired veteran and his comrades. Every day without fail, insults and derogatory comments filled the air. The ordeals lasted until their tormentors grew bored and left, or the officer on duty sent them on their way.

  Fortunately for Romulus, his concussion had improved quickly. His wound had healed well too. After ten days, the surgeon visited the stockade to remove the metal clips, leaving only a long red scar which was visible through Romulus’ close-cut hair. It would serve as a permanent reminder of a rhomphaia. Not that his life would be long, he thought bitterly, staring at the fleet of triremes that would carry them to Italy. Thus far, the routine of marching and pitching camp had maintained a weird air of normality to their existence. The ships brought reality hammering home. So too did the lack of any communication from Fabiola. Even if she had heard his shout and sent word to him, he knew that no one would bother to search the noxii for one man called Romulus. Their sighting of each other in Alexandria now seemed cruel.

  He and Petronius had not been denying their fate, though. In addition to the twenty miles they’d had to travel each day, both had done as much exercise as they could, running on the spot, press ups and wrestling with each other. As soldiers, their fitness, or lack of it, could mean life or death. Yet their hard work was a futile gesture, because in their new vocation, that of the noxius, everyone died. It was the whole premise of their presence in the arena. Despite this, the friends were determined to prepare themselves as well as possible.

  Embarking on to the triremes in balmy summer weather, they had an uneventful voyage to Brundisium. During it, Romulus thought often of Brennus and Tarquinius. He and the Gaul had first met the haruspex on the reverse of this very passage, when they had been sailing to war with Crassus’ army. How full of hope he’d been then, and what incredible things he’d seen since. Now here he was, returning by the same route, in chains. It felt lonely and unreal – and hopeless. There would be no lingering revenge on Gemellus. No joyful reunion with Fabiola when he reached Rome, just a terrible death before a baying mob. Tarquinius had been right. His road would take him to Rome – but to a miserable end.

  Only the presence of Petronius, sturdy and somehow cheerful, had made it possible for Romulus not to withdraw completely into himself. Reaching Italy also helped to lift his spirits a fraction. Hearing Latin spoken all around for the first time in eight years was a joy, as were the familiar sights of Roman towns. Romulus even took pleasure from the sight of the autumn countryside filled with its latifundia. What was less welcome was people’s reaction to the pair and their companions. While the veterans of the Sixth received rapturous applause and garlands of flowers wherever they went, the prisoners were reviled and spat upon.

  After several weeks of this, Romulus was glad to see the walls of Rome at last. Instead of being instantly disposed of, the prisoners were thrown into a stockade for the night while the Sixth prepared itself for trouble. Caesar had a welcoming party to deal with. Rebellious veterans from, among others, the Ninth and Tenth Legions were camped outside the city walls in their thousands. Gossip about the troublemakers had swept the column as it marched north from Brundisium, even reaching the captives. After Pharsalus, a number of legions had been sent back to Italy, where their promised pensions failed to materialise. Disgruntled, they had soon begun to demonstrate, and threatened worse. Caesar would need them to carry the campaign against the Republicans to Africa and they knew it, so the officers sent by Marcus Antonius to quell the mutiny had been stoned from their camps. Even Sallust, a charismatic ally of Caesar’s, could not bring the rebels to heel. He had been lucky to escape from them with his life.

  Uncaring that Caesar had returned, the veterans marched on Rome to demand their rights. Armed to the teeth, they were a brooding threat to the Republic’s stability. Nonetheless, Caesar had taken the Sixth to within a mile of their position and set up his own encampment. Knowing that they were greatly outnumbered had f
illed the Sixth with unease, but nothing happened on the first night. Although his own death was near, Romulus couldn’t help wondering what the general would do. Incredibly, by mid morning the next day it was all over. The delighted guards told Romulus and the others all about it.

  Accompanied only by a few men, Caesar had entered the rebels’ tent lines in the cold of an autumn dawn. Inside, he had climbed the podium outside the headquarters. As news of his presence spread, a great crowd of mutineers gathered to hear what he had to say. According to the stunned men who’d been with him, Caesar had simply asked them what they wanted. A long list of grievances followed, culminating with the demand that all the veterans be discharged. In a neat manoeuvre that totally disarmed them, Caesar promised to release every man from service at once, and to honour their rewards in time. Crucially, he addressed the rebels as ‘citizens’ rather than ‘comrades’, showing them that they were no longer part of his army.

  At once the shocked legionaries had begged their general to have them back, to help win the struggle in Africa. Caesar repeatedly demurred, even starting to leave, but their pleas grew more frantic. Promises were made that he would need no other troops to achieve victory. With masterful reluctance, he had accepted the service of all except the men of the Tenth. It, Caesar’s most favoured and rewarded legion, had disappointed him most, so its soldiers had to be let go. With their huge pride in their unit called into question, the Tenth’s veterans had demanded that Caesar decimate them, as long as they were taken back into his army. In a final gesture of magnanimity, he had given in, welcoming the Tenth to his bosom like wayward children, and ending the rebellion at a stroke.

  When he heard the story, Romulus’ admiration for Caesar soared. For months, Petronius had filled his ears with talk of Alesia, Pharsalus and other victories. In Pontus, he’d seen with his own eyes what Caesar could do, but this quality made him unique. Not only could Caesar lead armies into battle against terrible odds and win, he could lead men like no other. Crassus had been the polar opposite of this, commanding in an impersonal and uncharismatic manner. Even though he had only served under Caesar for a short time, Romulus was glad he had had that experience before he died.