by Ben Kane
‘I’m sure that my friend here will be up to the task,’ Tarquinius announced.
Romulus’ stomach turned over with shock. He had never operated on an injury this severe. What is he thinking? He threw an angry glance at Tarquinius.
‘Excellent,’ said Hiero, now looking expectant. ‘I’ll gather a dozen men.’
Chapter XXVII: Alexandria
Three months pass . . .
Lake Mareotis, near Alexandria, winter 48 BC
Hiero was ecstatic. The long, difficult journey from Ethiopia was drawing to an end. All that remained was a relatively short voyage to Italy, and then he would be able to sell every last damn animal in his caravan. Another year of hard work was almost over, and the bestiarius would be heartily relieved when it was and his purse was bulging. After being trapped, the beasts had been transported hundreds of miles, by ship and in cages on wagons drawn by mules. The process had not been without its problems. It was simply not possible to capture so many creatures and confine them without some losses.
One of the giraffes had broken a hind leg in the bars of its enclosure and had to be killed. A number of antelope died without any apparent cause. Hiero knew from long experience that stress was the probable reason. It was the loss of a valuable bull elephant which pained the bestiarius most though. Panicking when his men tried to herd it on to one of the open, flat-bottomed transports, it had jumped into the sea, attracting attention of the worst kind. Even close to shore, there were always plenty of sharks about – hammerheads and other large types. Hiero had grown used to their constant presence at certain times of the year. Everyone had watched in awe as one daring shark had swum in and attacked the elephant. Feeling the first bite, the trumpeting bull became even more terrified and swam out further. It was a fatal mistake. Attracted by the blood staining the sea, more sharks soon arrived. By the end there were more than twenty, but it still took an age to kill the enormous creature. The piteous noises it made tore even at Hiero’s jaded heart. Eventually the elephant had succumbed though, a small grey island that bobbed back and forth in the reddened water.
But there were still reasons to be content, thought the bestiarius. Thanks to Romulus’ ministrations, the lion with the terrible leg wound had completely recovered. Many other animals, as well as injured slaves, had benefited from his and Tarquinius’ treatment. In truth, the expedition had been a resounding success. He had dozens of the more common animals like antelope and buffalo. As well as the big male, there were several other lions, four leopards, a giraffe and three elephants. But the greatest prize of all was a great armoured beast with a horn on its nose, something that Hiero had only ever heard of before. The rhinoceros had short legs for its size but could run faster than a man. Its immensely thick skin resembled metal plates, making it almost invulnerable. Possessed of poor eyesight but a keen sense of smell, the bad-tempered creature had gored two of his slaves to death when being captured. Others had been severely injured since.
That did not concern the bestiarius in the slightest. Such minor losses were all factored into his costs. If the gods continued to smile on him as they had up till now, his arrival at Alexandria would make him an even wealthier man. One or two more trips like this and he would be able to retire. Hiero stared surreptitiously at Romulus. Appearing out of the wilderness so unexpectedly, the young man and his quiet, scarred companion had been useful additions to his party. He had spent weeks trying to persuade them to stay on in his employ. While the pair had professed interest, the wily bestiarius had gathered that reaching Italy was their main aim. Still, he couldn’t complain. The work they had done had more than paid for their food and transport costs.
‘Well?’ he asked, stepping on to the shore. ‘What do you think of that?’
Romulus could scarcely believe his eyes. Beyond the far edge of the lake, the great walls stretched for miles. This, the capital founded almost three centuries earlier by Alexander of Macedon, was absolutely vast.
It had been so long since Romulus had seen a large city. The last had been Barbaricum, and before that, Seleucia. Yet the metropolis which sprawled from east to west dwarfed both. Even Rome, the heart of the mighty Republic, could not compare.
Tarquinius was lost for words. For him, reaching Alexandria was the culmination of a lifetime’s expectations. All those years before, Olenus had been correct. It was overwhelming – and frightening. Tarquinius felt as if fate were rushing in on him.
‘A magnificent sight, eh?’ cried Hiero. ‘Practically every street is wider than the biggest in Rome, and the buildings are made of white marble. And then there’s the lighthouse. Ten times taller than any house you’ve ever seen, yet it was built over two hundred years ago.’
‘Don’t forget the library,’ said the haruspex. ‘It’s the largest in the world.’
‘And?’ The bestiarius waved a dismissive hand. ‘What do I need with all that ancient learning?’
Tarquinius laughed. ‘You might not read it, but others do. Scholars come from far and wide to study here. There are books on mathematics, medicine and geography which cannot be found anywhere else.’
Hiero’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The slight, blond-haired man was constantly revealing new qualities. He and Romulus were obviously well educated, which had made their company far more appealing than that of Gracchus or any of his other employees. It was part of the reason that the bestiarius found himself discussing what to do with two strangers. They had spent long hours together on the journey, during which a certain level of trust had developed between them. Hiero had also come to fear Tarquinius a little, although he could not explain why.
‘Look,’ said Romulus.
A fine stream of smoke was rising into the air above the centre of the city.
‘That’s no household fire,’ breathed the bestiarius. ‘A large funeral pyre, perhaps?’
‘No,’ answered Tarquinius. ‘There’s a battle going on.’
Romulus stared in shock. This was most unexpected.
‘How could you know?’ Hiero demanded. He had seen no need to mention the civil war between Ptolemy and his sister Cleopatra, and his slaves knew little of such affairs.
‘It is written in the sky overhead,’ said the haruspex.
Unusually bereft of words, the old man’s mouth opened and closed.
Romulus hid a smile.
‘You’re a soothsayer?’
Tarquinius inclined his head.
Hiero looked aggrieved. ‘You never mentioned it before.’
Tarquinius’ dark eyes bored into the bestiarius. ‘I saw no need.’
Hiero swallowed noisily. ‘As you say.’
‘Who’s fighting?’ asked Romulus.
‘There’s been trouble recently between the king and his sister,’ interrupted Hiero, anxious to retain control. ‘It’s probably just some rioting. Nothing to worry about.’
Romulus studied the sky over the city. There was something there. A different air, was it? He wasn’t sure, but a bad feeling entered his mind and he looked away.
‘But foreign troops are involved,’ said Tarquinius.
‘Greek or Judaean mercenaries,’ Hiero responded triumphantly. ‘They’re commonly used in Egypt.’
‘No.’
Cowed by the haruspex’ ominous tone, Hiero fell silent.
‘I see legionaries, thousands of them.’
His countrymen, here? Romulus wanted to shout out loud with joy. ‘Romans fighting Egyptians?’ he cried.
Tarquinius nodded. ‘They are hard pressed, too. Badly outnumbered.’
Romulus was amazed by the strong urge to help that overcame him. Before, he would not have particularly cared what happened to Rome’s citizens, or its troops. After all, they cared little for slaves. But life had changed him. He was an adult now, bound to no one. Surviving constant and bloody combat as a gladiator, soldier and pirate had given Romulus an unshakeable belief in himself.
And helped me realise what I am, he thought proudly. I am a Roman. Not a slave. And
my father is a nobleman.
Beside him, unnoticed, Tarquinius looked on in approval.
Romulus sighed. It was pointless thinking like that. Without proof of his status as a citizen, he would always be open to the charge of being a slave. The tattoo of Mithras on his upper right arm could not entirely conceal the scar where his brand had been. All it would take was an accusation from someone like Novius. No doubt there would be plenty of men like him among the beleaguered soldiers within the city. Romulus’ new-found confidence soured. ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked.
‘Could the Roman civil war have spread this far?’ the bestiarius asked, stroking his beard.
‘Possibly,’ replied the haruspex. ‘But there is no wind, so the smoke is rising in a straight line. I cannot tell much.’
There was a long silence as they pondered the significance of Tarquinius’ words. Naturally, Hiero was very unhappy. It was he who stood to lose out if normal port business had been affected by any trouble in the city. Yet the presence of Roman soldiers in Alexandria affected them all. Romulus and Tarquinius needed a vessel that would carry them to Italy. They didn’t want to attract any untoward attention.
His mind working overtime, the bestiarius spoke first. ‘Are they Pompey’s men, or Caesar’s?’
Tarquinius frowned. ‘Somehow I sense the presence of both men in the city. The struggle is not over yet.’
‘Who cares?’ remarked Romulus angrily. ‘Let’s wait here until it all calms down. We have supplies, and water. There’s no need to rush in and get ourselves killed. Normal trading will resume as soon as the dust has settled.’ With plenty of maritime experience, the friends would have little problem finding a ship home. The fact that they had been part of the bestiarius’ expedition would make them even more valuable as crew to any captain with intentions of carrying wild animals. And by concealing their armour and weapons, it would be easy enough to avoid unwanted scrutiny.
At this, Hiero grew agitated. ‘I can’t sit here like a fool. Do you have any idea of how much food those beasts consume every day?’ he demanded. ‘If Tarquinius is correct, the best policy might be to move on. Journey to another port.’
‘There is another option,’ said Tarquinius.
They both turned to him.
‘Wait until it gets dark and then check it out for ourselves.’
Romulus began to feel uneasy, but Hiero’s face grew eager.
‘We could reconnoitre the situation. Talk to the locals.’
‘That sounds risky,’ challenged Romulus. Relations between him and Tarquinius were still strained thanks to the haruspex’ repeated refusals to explain why he had left Italy.
‘For seven years we have lived and breathed constant danger,’ Tarquinius answered calmly. ‘And yet here we are.’
Romulus feared the faraway look in Tarquinius’ eyes. ‘Carrhae and Margiana just happened though,’ he cried. ‘We had to deal with those situations as they happened. This can be avoided!’
‘My destiny is to enter Alexandria, Romulus,’ said Tarquinius solemnly. ‘I cannot turn away now.’
Hiero’s gaze switched eagerly from one to the other, fascinated.
Romulus felt unhappy at the prospect of walking into an unfamiliar city that was at war. And the air currents he had seen over Alexandria were full of dark possibilities. He stared at Tarquinius, whose face was set. It was futile to argue with him. Unwilling to look again at the sky over the city himself, Romulus hung his head. Mithras, protect us, he prayed. Jupiter, do not forget your faithful servants.
Hiero was oblivious to the deep emotions flowing between them. ‘Good,’ he proclaimed. ‘I can think of no better men for the job.’
Neither Tarquinius nor Romulus replied. The former had fallen deep into thought. The latter was struggling to control his fears.
Alexandria awaited.
The couple’s rooms were large and airy, the floors covered with thick carpets, the furniture made of ebony and inlaid with silver. Long, column-filled and painted corridors led to a succession of similar chambers interspersed with courtyards and gardens. These last were filled with fountains and statues of the bizarre Egyptian gods. Everywhere the windows afforded stunning views of the Pharos, the lighthouse. Even these could not make Fabiola like Alexandria. Egypt was an alien place, full of strange people and customs. The pale-skinned servants who bowed and scraped obsequiously were driving her to distraction. And luxurious surroundings could only do so much to dispel her claustrophobia. After weeks of being cooped up indoors, she was struggling not to despair. Nor could she go on avoiding Caesar for ever.
Fabiola listened to the baying mob outside. Although the sound had grown familiar, it still chilled her blood.
Sextus gave a reassuring look, which helped a little.
Brutus also saw her glance at the shuttered window. ‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ he said. ‘There are four cohorts just outside. The rabble can’t get anywhere near us.’
Something inside Fabiola snapped. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘but we can’t go out either! We’re trapped like rats in a sewer because Caesar bit off more than he can damn well chew.’
‘Fabiola—’ Brutus began, his face strained.
‘I’m right, and you know it. Once he knew Pompey was dead, Caesar sauntered in here as if the place were his,’ she retorted hotly. ‘Is it any surprise that the Egyptians didn’t like it?’
Her lover fell silent. His general’s habit of acting so fast that his enemies were caught off-guard almost always worked. This time, Brutus had to admit, it had not.
Fabiola grew even more indignant. ‘And to let his lictores clear the path before him? Is Caesar the king of Egypt now?’
Docilosa looked worried. This was dangerous.
‘Lower your voice,’ Brutus ordered. ‘And calm down.’
Fabiola did as he said. Other senior officers were billeted nearby and might overhear. It was pointless losing control, she thought. A waste of energy.
Rather than take his entire army to Egypt, Caesar had split it into three unequal parts, sending the larger portions back to Italy and into Asia Minor, where their missions were to enforce the peace. Meanwhile, he himself was to pursue Pompey. This decision had not augured well for their arrival in Alexandria. And so it had proved. Sailing in not long after Pharsalus with about three thousand men, Caesar had ordered his ships to anchor safely offshore until he knew what type of reception the Egyptians would offer him. When a pilot vessel emerged a short time later, its crew was instructed to carry the news of his arrival to Alexandria’s ruling officials. Their reply was swift. As Caesar landed, he was greeted by a royal messenger who solemnly presented him with a package.
In it were Pompey’s signet ring, and his head.
Full of sorrow, Caesar promised revenge on those who had killed his former friend and ally. Ultimately, it might have served his purpose for Pompey to die, but Caesar was not the cold-blooded killer some Republicans made him out to be. His clemency towards the senior officers who had surrendered at Pharsalus had been remarkable. And his very public grief for Pompey was genuine. Perhaps it was this pain which led to his use of his lictores upon their arrival, thought Fabiola. But Caesar’s move went down badly with the locals, and things had grown worse from there. Although the quarrelling Ptolemy XIII and Cleopatra were both absent, the city was no walkover for an invading force. The local population did not take kindly to foreign soldiers invading their streets, or to their royalty’s palaces being seized. When Caesar had two of the ministers responsible for Pompey’s murder executed in public, the simmering resentment created by his arrogance flared into open anger. Aided by the Alexandrian mob, the Ptolemaic garrison began to launch daring attacks on the foreign troops. It started with barrages of rocks and broken pottery, but soon progressed to more deadly violence. Using their intimate knowledge of the city, the Egyptians cut off and annihilated a number of Roman patrols over the space of a few days. Almost overnight, the entire place turned into a no-go area. In a humil
iating climb-down, Caesar was forced to withdraw his outnumbered legionaries into one of the royal palaces near the docks. There, with all the approaches blocked by barricades, they remained.
After two years of constant marching and fighting, their time in Alexandria was meant to be an opportunity to relax. Instead, confined by the unrest to their quarters, Fabiola had been brooding constantly about Caesar. In her mind, his sexual assault on her in Ravenna utterly proved his guilt. And her parentage. The latter discovery had not afforded her any of the joy that might be expected in such circumstances. In its place, Fabiola was filled with a dark, vicious satisfaction. After years of searching, she had been granted one of her most desired wishes. Now her revenge had to be plotted, but she wanted far more than to slip a sharp knife between Caesar’s ribs one night. It was not that Fabiola cared whether she died in the attempt. She did not. With Romulus in all likelihood dead, what purpose was there in living? No, her restraint was because Caesar did not deserve a swift end. Like her mother’s in the salt mines, his had to be a lingering death, full of suffering. Preferably at the hands of those he trusted most. Yet Fabiola had to be careful. Since Alesia, Caesar did not trust her and keeping Brutus happy in the face of his master’s disapproval was a task in itself.
Currently, however, the most likely risk was that an Egyptian rabble would tear them all to pieces. For someone who wanted to engineer a man’s death with precision, it was immensely frustrating. Here Fabiola could do nothing other than work on Brutus, and her resentment was reaching critical levels.
Fierce street battles were still raging daily. While a type of status quo had been reached, Caesar and his small force were cut off from his triremes, their only way out of the situation.
‘Help is on its way from Pergamum and Judaea,’ offered Brutus. ‘It will arrive in a matter of weeks.’
‘Really?’ cried Fabiola. ‘That can’t be certain, or there’d be no need for this pointless attack on the harbour.’