by Ben Kane
With a disapproving sigh, Docilosa sat down on a stool by the bed. She made a few attempts to talk, whispering questions at Fabiola. Still annoyed and set on her decision, Fabiola studiously ignored her. Eventually Docilosa gave up. It wasn’t long before Fabiola actually surrendered to sleep. Running the Lupanar was draining work.
Despite the sleeping draughts which Brutus had made her drink, Fabiola’s nap was far from restful. Instead, she was plunged into a dark nightmare in which Antonius knew all about her secret plan. Dragging her before Caesar, he laughed as his master raped Fabiola. Brutus was nowhere to be seen. Tossing and turning, Fabiola could not stop the horrifying dream. When Caesar was finished, she was turned over to Scaevola. That was too much. Fabiola woke up in a cold sweat, both of her fists clenched in the blanket. The room was silent. Was she alone? Her eyes darted wildly to the stool where Docilosa had been sitting. In her place perched an unhappy-looking Vettius.
Seeing her distress, he jumped up. ‘Should I fetch a surgeon, Mistress?’
‘What?’ she cried, startled. ‘No, I’m feeling better.’ Physically she might be, but Fabiola’s mind was full of horrors. Damping them down as best she could, she sat up. ‘Where’s Docilosa?’
His gaze flickered away. ‘Gone to see her daughter.’
‘When?’
‘About three hours ago.’
‘She left me?’ cried Fabiola in disbelief. ‘When I was ill?’
‘She said that your fever had broken,’ Vettius muttered as if it were his fault. ‘Was she wrong?’
Fabiola considered what to say for a moment. There was no point making this bigger than it was already. ‘No,’ she sighed, throwing off the bedclothes. ‘It has gone. Go back to your post.’
Vettius beamed happily. Looking after his sick mistress made him most uneasy. Now that she was recovered, all was well with the world once more. Picking up his club, he bowed and left her.
Watching his massive back disappear down the corridor, Fabiola wished that her outlook on life was so simple.
A few dozen steps from the Lupanar, Tarquinius was squatting in much the same position he’d occupied for a time eight years before. The spot brought back mixed memories. Back then, he had been waiting for Rufus Caelius, the malevolent noble who had killed Olenus. Unsurprisingly, every moment of the mêlée outside the brothel was crystal clear. He tried to block out the recollection of his single knife thrust, which at the time had felt so right. Although the haruspex felt it was destiny that had guided his blade, he was still being tortured by the consequences of his action, and the look in Romulus’ eyes when he’d told him. Which was partly why Tarquinius found himself here once more, pretending to be a beggar.
It was strange how life worked in circles, he thought.
Fabricius had been as good as his word, taking Tarquinius down to the little fleet in Rhodes harbour. He’d insisted that his fellow devotee should travel on his own ship, the lead trireme. Tarquinius had accepted with alacrity. It seemed perfect: after Mithras’ intervention, a passage back to Italy in relative comfort, with possible access to the ancient documents and artefacts he needed. Soon after their departure, though, the haruspex had discovered that most of the items that he wished to look at were on the other vessels. In a stroke, half his plan came undone. He had hoped on the journey to spend as much time studying as possible. In the event, however, the cargo arrangements were a blessing in disguise. When an autumn storm struck the fleet off the island of Antikythera, it was the ships laden with precious goods which sank, not the one with Fabricius and Tarquinius on board. Not that their trireme escaped unscathed. Braving waves taller than a block of flats, and hours of terrifying thunder and lightning, it finally limped into Brundisium with only the stump of its main mast remaining. At least a dozen members of the crew had been washed overboard.
Unharmed against all the odds, the haruspex chose to interpret his good fortune as most would. A deity – Mithras – was guiding his way. Although Tarquinius no longer knew what his purpose was, here was clear evidence that he had one still. He was grateful for this. Rome was where he needed to be.
Fabricius was also thankful to the warrior god. Nonetheless, he made an offering at the temple to Neptune before they left Brundisium. ‘Got to keep them all happy, haven’t you?’ he muttered. Like the Etruscans, Romans commonly worshipped a number of divine beings, depending on their need. Tarquinius was no different.
Reaching Rome, the centurion had taken him to a large house on the Palatine Hill. ‘I can do no less,’ he had insisted. ‘It’s a place to rest your head.’ The building turned out to be the headquarters of a group of veterans, all followers of Mithras. There, in the underground Mithraeum, Fabricius introduced Tarquinius to Secundus, the Pater of the temple. Stunned by the presence of a Mithraic shrine in the heart of Rome, the haruspex had been even more astonished to recognise in Secundus the one-armed veteran he’d met outside the Lupanar years before. In contrast, the Pater had seemed unsurprised.
Meeting Fabricius and surviving the storm had substantially restored Tarquinius’ faith in the gods. Just when it seemed that the obstacles in his way were too immense to overcome, they were removed. During the journey, he’d continued to see occasional images of Rome under a stormy sky. Clouds the colour of blood told the haruspex that someone’s life was in danger, but he had no idea who. The vivid dream about the murder at the Lupanar did not go away either, and so the brothel was Tarquinius’ first destination once he’d had a night’s rest.
Recognising Fabiola soon after arriving, Tarquinius was surprised to discover that she was the Lupanar’s new owner. Why she had bought the brothel, no one knew, but the knowledge gave him somewhere to start. Had she something to do with his nightmare? He’d also discovered that Fabiola was the lover of Decimus Brutus, one of Caesar’s right-hand men.
The haruspex didn’t go bowling in to introduce himself as a friend of her brother, though. That wasn’t his style. Instead Tarquinius sat outside, watching who came and went, gaining an understanding of what was going on. Within a few hours, he knew that all was not well in the Lupanar. The brothel was renowned throughout the city for its prostitutes’ abilities, yet scarcely ten customers crossed its freshly painted threshold each day. It also seemed to have a disproportionately large number of armed guards, bullet-headed thugs armed with staves, knives and swords. These patrolled the almost empty street, eyeballing anyone bold enough to glance their way. To avoid their attention, Tarquinius had adopted the mien of a drooling, twitching simpleton. It worked nicely; the heavies gave him a wide berth.
This afforded him the time to consider what he was seeing. In Tarquinius’ mind, the guards’ strong-arm tactics weren’t enough to explain the Lupanar’s parlous state. They were there as a response to a threat, and those who wanted sex wouldn’t be put off so easily. Important men were still visiting the brothel too – he’d heard passers-by mentioning Marcus Antonius’ name as a burly figure had gone in that morning. Antonius’ must have been a brief encounter, Tarquinius concluded. Less than a quarter of an hour had elapsed before the grinning Master of the Horse emerged. No one had troubled him either, other than another noble. A pleasant-faced man of average build, he appeared most displeased to see Antonius. Could the danger he saw refer to either of them? Tarquinius wondered. What did it matter, unless it impacted on Fabiola? He felt frustrated and fascinated at the same time. If Romulus’ sister was in peril, though, he felt a duty to help.
More was revealed at midday as he hobbled away in search of some food. In the surrounding streets, the haruspex noticed different groups of armed ruffians standing around. Directed by a stocky, brown-haired man in a mail shirt, they formed checkpoints reducing, or preventing, access to the Lupanar. Only the most insistent pedestrians – such as a plain-faced woman in middle age he’d just seen – managed to get past. It wasn’t difficult to come to the conclusion that some kind of turf war was going on.
Tarquinius still wasn’t sure if he should get involved.
Best to wait and watch instead.
Morose, Fabiola was sitting at her desk in the reception area when Docilosa returned. It was near sunset, which meant that her servant had been gone for several hours. By the happy look on her face, the visit had gone well. Seeing Fabiola, her features stiffened.
‘You’ve recovered then?’ she asked with a show of concern.
The expert needling made Fabiola’s hackles rise. ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘No thanks to you.’
Docilosa made a small contemptuous sound and brushed past, into the corridor. ‘I’ll be out the back, washing clothes,’ she said.
Furious, Fabiola bit her tongue rather than respond further. The anteroom a few steps away was full of prostitutes who would be listening to every word. Jovina was lurking about somewhere too. The less said in public, the better. Yet the situation could not continue in this manner. It would have to be resolved one way or another, and soon. Fabiola’s nostrils flared. Docilosa’s friendship was valuable to her, but not under conditions like these.
Before she could do any more, a trio of wealthy merchants from Hispania rolled in the door. Fabiola stood up to welcome them. Well-oiled, they insisted on recounting their story. After a hard week of selling their goods, they’d celebrated by going to Caesar’s games that day. A drinking session followed that, and now, the Spaniards declared to Fabiola, they wanted the fuck of their lives. No street gangs were going to stop them visiting the Lupanar, which they’d heard of in their home country. ‘You’ve come to the right place, gentlemen,’ Fabiola purred, instantly spotting the heavy purses on their belts. Quite the madam now, she called the girls out to be inspected.
The inebriated merchants made their selection quickly and were led off to various bedrooms. Again Fabiola moved towards the corridor, but a pair of wide-eyed figures in working men’s tunics were next through the entrance. She wondered why Benignus had let them in until she saw the money clutched in their fists. Ordinary citizens, they had won a small fortune at the day’s games by making an outside bet on an ageing retiarius, the underdog in a gladiator duel. As they told Fabiola, it was a gamble which had paid off richly when the favourite, a murmillo from Apulia, slipped on a patch of bloody sand, allowing the fisherman to stab him in the belly with his trident and end the fight at a stroke. Unhappy at the unexpected result, the bookmaker tried to renege on the wager, but the angry crowd had swarmed in around the two friends and forced him to pay up. Now they were here in the Lupanar to spend their winnings.
Caesar’s games were certainly helping business, thought Fabiola as she watched the goggle-eyed pair disappear with their choice of girls. Maybe she should have gone to see them for herself?
No. Fabiola’s reaction was instant. Her pretence to Brutus that morning had not been entirely selfish. Her gorge rose at the thought of seeing men die for little more than the crowd’s pleasure. She would never be able to watch such spectacles without seeing Romulus on the circle of sand. Just imagining her brother made her heart ache. Where was he? How she wished to see him again! Although they’d both grown into adults since their last meeting, Fabiola had no doubt that they would get on famously. Twins, they’d been inseparable as children. What could be different now? Their bond was unbreakable. Feeling happier, Fabiola thought of Docilosa. Shame filled her. Her servant was almost as close as family. It was time to kiss and make up.
Ordering Jovina to cover the reception, Fabiola went in search of Docilosa.
Outside, Tarquinius was considering how much longer he would wait before calling it a day. Little of interest had happened since Antonius’ hurried departure and brief conversation with his fellow noble. He noted the middle-aged woman from the checkpoint enter the brothel, and marked her down for a servant or slave. She was too old and plain to be a prostitute in a place like the Lupanar, that was for sure. Tarquinius was surprised to feel a surge of energy as the woman disappeared through the arched doorway. The insight he got was so brief that he almost missed it. An old sadness had recently been washed away, to be replaced by a deep joy. Anger was also present, a resentment at someone who had ideas above her station. Irritated, Tarquinius did not try to see more. The emotions of a servant were not what he wanted to know about.
Still, it was a start.
He scanned the patch of sky that was visible in the narrow gap between the buildings for a clue. It had a typical autumn appearance: heavy cloud cover, with the promise of rain before nightfall. Little else. The haruspex looked away, and a gust of chill wind swept down, carrying with it the threat of bloodshed. Tarquinius stiffened; fingers of fear clutched at him. He focused his thoughts, trying to understand. A moment later, he felt certain. Danger was in the air. Here. Was this the threat he’d seen so many times?
At once the haruspex’ fingers fumbled under his cloak to the hilt of his gladius. He’d left the great two-headed axe in the veterans’ house. It was guaranteed to attract unwanted attention. Thankfully, the solid feel of the sword calmed his racing heart. Tarquinius glanced up and down the darkening street, seeing nothing of concern. Somewhat reassured, he sat back, wondering if anything was about to happen. Did he need to worry about Fabiola’s safety? It was a shock to realise how important it already felt to watch over her.
Half an hour passed, and darkness fell. The brothel’s doormen retreated to the arcs of light cast by the torches on either side of the front door. Tarquinius began to wonder if he’d been imagining the threat. He was growing stiff and cold, and his belly was grumbling. Yet experience had taught him not to rush things, so he gritted his teeth and stayed put.
Some time later, the tramp of feet on the rutted ground drew Tarquinius’ attention. Waking himself from a half-doze, he sat up. Illuminated by their torches, a large party was approaching the brothel from the other end of the street. The time of day made the number of guards unremarkable. Unless they were mad, anyone who ventured out after dark travelled like this. What did surprise Tarquinius as the group drew nearer was the fact that they were gladiators. He saw Thracians, murmillones and secutores, as well as a number of archers. Usually only a lanista used men like that as protection.
Was this more than a visit in search of carnal pleasure?
Tarquinius leaned forward, all his senses on high alert.
The heavily armed party came to a halt by the entrance. Looking uneasily at each other, the Lupanar’s doormen gripped their weapons. Sniggers of contempt rose from the gladiators, and a short, grizzled figure in a wool cloak pushed his way to the front. ‘Is this the way you greet all your customers?’ he demanded.
An enormous slave with a wooden club shuffled forward. ‘My apologies, sir. We’re having some trouble at the moment. Got to be prepared at all times.’
The lanista sniffed. ‘Something to do with that rabble at the crossroads, no doubt. The bastards didn’t want to let us through until I had my archers draw a bead on them. Then they opened up quicker than a whore’s legs!’
His men laughed dutifully.
So he’s not allied to that lot, thought Tarquinius with relief.
‘No one stops the lanista of the Ludus Magnus from going where he pleases,’ Memor declared. ‘Tonight, I want the best-looking whore in the Lupanar.’
With a respectful bow, the big slave indicated that Memor should enter.
‘This visit is well overdue,’ declared the lanista, swaggering inside. ‘My balls are bursting.’
More forced laughter from his gladiators.
An afterthought struck Memor, and he looked around. ‘Piss off back to the ludus,’ he ordered. ‘Come back tomorrow morning. I might have finished by then.’
With relieved looks, his fighters did as they were told.
On the other side of the street, excitement and dread filled Tarquinius. Romulus had fought for the Ludus Magnus, which made Memor his former owner. Had the lanista any idea who Fabiola was? Was that the real purpose of his visit? Of course not, he told himself. Memor will have forgotten Romulus long ago. He probably doesn’t even kno
w that Fabiola’s running the place.
Still gripped by uncertainty, Tarquinius prayed. Guide me, great Mithras. Should I go inside? In the night sky above, the stars were almost completely obscured. The glimpses he was granted through momentary breaks in the clouds were far too short to ascertain anything. The presence of danger which had been so strong was gone. Tarquinius felt the gods were mocking him, and forced himself to relax. Yet he also felt compelled to stay where he was.
Docilosa wasn’t in the baths or the kitchen. Fabiola found her in the courtyard at the back of the brothel, washing bedclothes. Hardly a task to fulfil by torchlight; her servant was obviously avoiding her. They had time to exchange frosty looks before Catus, the main cook, distracted Fabiola with a query about the amount of food and drink that the extra doormen were going through. Leading her to the storerooms off the kitchen, he pointed in outrage at the empty shelves. ‘I’m using over a modius of grain a day making bread, Mistress,’ he whinged. ‘Then there’s the cheese and vegetables. And the wine! Even watered down, the dogs are finishing an amphora every few days.’
Catus’ list of complaints was long, but Fabiola had been putting off talking to him about it for some time. The balding slave was a hard worker, so she stood and listened, deciding what was to be done about each and directing him accordingly. While this was happening, she was aware of Docilosa creeping past her into the corridor that led to the front of the brothel. Damn it, she’s acting like a child, thought Fabiola. As I was earlier. That’s not like her. I wonder if Sabina’s planting ideas in her mind? It was hard to concentrate. Warming to his theme now, Catus was droning on about the price of vegetables in the Forum Olitorium compared to what local farmers charged if bought from directly. ‘I tell you, it’s a complete rip-off,’ he moaned. ‘The price in the Forum is three or even four times what the stuff costs wholesale.’