by Ben Kane
‘We have to regain access to our ships. And seizing Pharos Island will give us an advantage over the Egyptians,’ he replied, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘You know that I cannot disobey a direct order.’
Tread carefully, thought Fabiola. Although he had been deeply affected by her words after Pharsalus, Brutus still loved Caesar. ‘I’m worried about you.’ She was not lying. Hand-to-hand combat at night was very dangerous, and the Roman casualties had been heavy. Brutus was dear to her, but he was also her sponsor and protector. Without him, Fabiola would lose all the security in her life. Prostitution would beckon again. It might only be for one client, but the reality would be no different. Fabiola did not allow herself even to contemplate this option.
Brutus’ face softened. ‘Mars will protect me,’ he said. ‘He always does.’
‘And Mithras,’ replied Fabiola. She was gratified by his pleased nod.
‘Caesar plans to do more than just regain the harbour tonight. He’s sending me back to Rome so I can take counsel with Marcus Antonius, and assemble more reinforcements,’ Brutus revealed. A sudden scowl twisted his mouth. ‘He also ordered me to leave you here. Apparently you’ll distract me from my duties.’
Fabiola stared at him, aghast at that possibility. ‘What did you say?’
‘I stood up to him. Argued the point,’ answered Brutus stoutly. ‘Politely, of course.’
‘And?’
‘He wasn’t too happy,’ grinned Brutus. ‘But I’m one of his best officers, so he gave in eventually. Happy now?’
Surprised and delighted, Fabiola hugged him fiercely. She had had enough of this hot, foreign place.
And if Caesar survived, she would be waiting for him. In Rome.
By late afternoon, the caravan was encamped in a secure location by Lake Mareotis, which flowed right to the city walls. Donning their armour and weapons, the two friends readied themselves as best they could. They had made use of badly made shields and shoddy iron helmets while serving with Ahmed, but these had been left behind on the dhow.
‘I suppose we should be grateful,’ said Romulus, throwing a light woollen cloak over his shoulders. He felt naked at the prospect of meeting hostile troops without proper equipment. ‘No one will take a second look at us.’
‘Exactly. That’s the point,’ replied Tarquinius, who was wearing one as well. He pulled out a silver chain which always hung round his neck. On it was a small gold ring, which was finely decorated with a scarab beetle. For the first time that Romulus could remember, the haruspex put it on.
‘What’s that for?’
Tarquinius smiled. ‘It will bring us good luck.’
‘We need plenty of that,’ said Romulus, casting his eyes at the heavens. Now prepared to interpret what he saw, Romulus could read nothing, and his friend would answer no questions at all. Once again, he had to trust in the gods. It was a completely helpless feeling, but Romulus gritted his teeth and readied himself. There was no other way.
Calling down the blessings of his own deities, Hiero also provided them with a good description of the city layout. This would be invaluable. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ the old bestiarius counselled. ‘Find out what you can and come back here safely.’
‘We will,’ replied Tarquinius, his face impassive.
They all gripped forearms in the Roman manner.
It felt as if they would never see Hiero again, and Romulus could bear it no longer.
‘Have you ever had dealings with Roman merchants?’
The bestiarius looked surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve done business with them all. Noblemen, merchants, lanistae.’
‘Anyone called Gemellus?’
Hiero scratched his head. ‘My memory is not what it was.’
‘It’s important,’ said Romulus, leaning closer.
Curious, Hiero decided not to ask why. There was a fierce, intimidating look in the other’s eyes. He thought for a moment. ‘Gemellus . . .’
Romulus waited.
‘I remember,’ the bestiarius said at last. ‘From the Aventine?’
A pulse hammered in Romulus’ throat. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Like me.’
Tarquinius frowned.
‘A friend of yours?’ demanded Hiero.
‘Not exactly,’ Romulus replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Merely an old acquaintance.’
The bestiarius did not react to the obvious lie. It was nothing to him. ‘Gemellus, yes. He invested a third share in a venture of mine nearly ten years ago.’
‘That’s about right,’ agreed Romulus, feeling a pang of deep sadness. Fabiola had been there too, eavesdropping on Gemellus while he planned his involvement.
‘The whole affair was cursed from start to finish.’ Hiero scowled at the memory. ‘Many animals seemed to know where the traps were, and those we did catch were poor specimens. I lost dozens of men to strange fevers and afflictions. Then the Nile flooded on the way back, so it took twice the normal time to reach Alexandria.’ He paused for effect.
Romulus nodded in apparent sympathy. Inside, though, he was fuming. Even a few wild beasts would make a man’s fortune. No doubt Gemellus was still enjoying the proceeds.
‘That’s not all,’ sighed the old man. ‘Often I sell the animals on the dock at Alexandria, but Gemellus wrote demanding that we take them to Italy.’
Tarquinius sucked in a breath, feeling rather stupid. How could he have not realised before? A winter afternoon in Rome, eight years earlier. Gemellus, a merchant from the Aventine, desperately wanting a prophecy. The bad omens that resulted from it. Ships with their holds full of wild beasts, crossing the sea.
Romulus was so caught up in the bestiarius’ tale that he did not notice. ‘That makes perfect sense. You’d get a far better price there.’
Hiero nodded. ‘For that reason, I foolishly agreed to his request. Thank the gods that I travelled on a lightly laden liburnian, not one of the cargo vessels.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There were freak storms on the voyage across,’ revealed the bestiarius gloomily. ‘Every last transport sank and all the animals drowned. I lost an absolute fortune.’
Tarquinius brought back every possible detail of the merchant whom he had met outside Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline Hill. Ill-tempered, fat and depressed, Gemellus had been crushed by his revelations. The last of these had been the most powerful. One day there will be a knock on your door. At the time, there had been far more important things on the haruspex’ mind, and he had not really pondered the significance of what he had seen. An unknown stranger’s worries were of little concern to him. Now though, it made perfect sense. Gemellus had been Romulus’ owner.
Oblivious to Tarquinius, Romulus could barely conceal his exultation. ‘And Gemellus?’
Hiero shrugged. ‘The same. His investment of one hundred and twenty thousand sestertii is still lying on the bottom of the Mediterranean.’
‘Gemellus is ruined?’ Laughing aloud, Romulus clapped the bestiarius on the shoulder. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in years!’
‘Why?’ Hiero looked confused. ‘What’s it to you?’
Guilt suffused Tarquinius that he had not made the connection before, and told Romulus. It was a failing of his to focus entirely on grand issues when smaller ones, like this, could make such a difference. Yet he rarely told his protégé anything. I have become too secretive, he thought sadly. And I love him like a son. More remorse washed over Tarquinius. Deep down, the haruspex knew that his fear of revealing why he had fled Italy was the cause of his reticence. Wary of letting this information slip, he had deprived Romulus of a possible source of hope.
I have to tell him. Before it’s too late.
Hiero’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did Gemellus owe you money?’
‘Something like that,’ said Romulus evasively.
The old man waited to see if any more information would be forthcoming.
It was not, and the two friends prepared to leave.
The last piece of news had altered Romulus’ black mood for the better. Tarquinius was pleased by this. Whatever the night held in store would be better faced in good humour. Ill fortune and the gods’ displeasure were sometimes directed at those who entered dangerous situations fearing the worst. Chance and destiny favoured the bold, thought the haruspex.
Given what he had seen in the sky, it was the only way to think. More than twenty years after Olenus had done so, Tarquinius had read his own fate. If he was correct, the next few hours would reveal all.
And somehow he would find the right time to tell Romulus.
Night had finally fallen, and the temperature was dropping. Overhead, a clear sky promised at least some visibility in the dark streets. Wall-mounted torches illuminated the large, colonnaded courtyard, which was packed with four strengthened cohorts of legionaries. Caesar was committing almost half of his forces in Alexandria to this manoeuvre. The general had lost none of his daring.
Wrapped in a warm, hooded cloak, Fabiola stared at the silver eagle. She had rarely been so close to one before, and was deeply stirred by it. Since her homa-induced vision, the metal bird had come to represent not just Rome, but the last of her hopes that Romulus was still alive. Tears pricked the corners of Fabiola’s eyes, but she wiped them away. This was her private grief and she had no wish to share it again with Brutus. Thankfully, her lover was out of earshot, conferring with Caesar and another staff officer.
It was not long until they were ready. To light their way, every fourth man had been issued with a pitch-soaked torch. Marching in darkness might have attracted less attention, but soldiers needed to see enemies to kill them. Seeing each other’s faces also helped to keep up morale. Caesar was well aware that the setbacks of the previous weeks had dented his legionaries’ usual confidence. He gave a short but stirring speech, invoking Mars and Jupiter, and reminding his men how they had defeated far greater armies than faced them here.
A cheer rose into the air, but was instantly quelled by the centurions.
Without further ado, the gates were opened, and two cohorts marched out to clear the barricades on each side of the entrance. Following the blast from an officer’s whistle to sound the all-clear, the third unit emerged, led by the aquilifer carrying the eagle. This was followed by Caesar, Brutus and Fabiola, the senior officers and a hand-picked century of veterans. Also in their midst were Docilosa and the faithful Sextus. The fourth cohort was last to exit. At once the doors slammed shut behind them.
Fabiola felt a tremor of fear. They were on their own.
Beside her, Brutus’ eyes were glinting in the dim light. Seeing her apprehension, he kissed her cheek reassuringly. ‘Courage, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll be at sea within the hour.’
She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the silver eagle. Torchlight bounced and reflected off its polished wings, giving it a distinctly forbidding air. It was a powerful talisman, and Fabiola took strength from it. From the fervent looks being thrown in the eagle’s direction, it was clear that many of the men did too. Even Docilosa was muttering a prayer to it.
In close formation, the legionaries headed towards the harbour. Thanks to Alexandria’s wide avenues, they were able to move at double pace. Impressive buildings passed by on either side: temples and government offices. They were constructed on a massive scale, greater than most similar structures in Rome. Rows of thick stone columns formed their porticoes, each the height of many men. Even the doorways were enormous. The walls were inscribed with hieroglyphs from floor to ceiling: dramatic representations recounting the country’s glorious past. Immense painted statues of the half-human, half-animal Egyptian gods stood before many buildings, their dark eyes blankly watching the passing soldiers. Fountains pattered to themselves and the palm trees moved in a gentle breeze.
Not a person was to be seen. All was silent.
It felt too good to be true.
It was.
Rounding a corner on to the quayside, they found their path had been blocked by waiting lines of heavily armed enemy soldiers.
Many were dressed similarly to Caesar’s men, which felt disconcerting to Fabiola. Yet the reason was simple, according to Brutus, her adviser on all things military. After a series of humiliating defeats a century before, Egypt had stopped using its Macedonian-like hoplites in favour of troops trained like legionaries. In addition, a Roman force which had arrived in Alexandria seven years before had largely gone native. This meant that recent confrontations between the two sides were often evenly matched. If anything, it was the Egyptian soldiers who had had the advantage, fighting as they were to dislodge the Romans from their own city. And tonight, even more forces had been gathered. Behind the enemy legionaries stood rank upon rank of slingers, archers and Nubian light skirmishers, their weapons ready. This was to be a crushing defeat upon the invaders.
Caesar’s lead cohort ground to a sudden halt, forcing the units behind to stop.
Fabiola’s first view was across the water to the lighthouse. It was a dramatic sight, one which never failed to impress. Built on a projecting spur of Pharos Island, the immense white marble tower was awe-inspiring. A single-storey complex surrounded its great base, which was square. Statues of the Greek gods and mythical sea creatures decorated the whole outer surface of this building. Entrance to the lighthouse itself was gained by a wide ramp, which was visible above the outer complex. Even now, Fabiola could see laden mules toiling up it, carrying firewood for the huge fire which burned high above. Many floors up, the second section was octagonal, with the final part being circular. The room at the very apex was formed by supportive pillars, and contained vast polished bronze mirrors. These reflected sunlight during the day and flames at night. On the roof of this chamber was a large statue of Zeus, greatest of the Greek deities.
Fabiola eventually tore her eyes away. The blaze at the top of the Pharos illuminated the main harbour quite well. Grand buildings and warehouses lined the quayside. A dense forest of masts clustered together, belonging to the Egyptian fleet which had been ferrying soldiers into the city. The water was so deep that even the largest vessel could moor here. Groups of sailors filled the ships’ decks, shouting and gesticulating at the confrontation about to be played out before them.
Craning his head from side to side, Brutus cursed loudly and vigorously.
The Egyptians had chosen the site for their ambush well. Thanks to a high curtain wall on the right-hand side, there was only room for two cohorts on the dock. The others were trapped in the wide thoroughfare which opened on to the harbour. The instant that these men came to a halt, loud battle cries filled the air. From the rear came the familiar hissing sound of arrows, followed immediately by the screams of those who had been hit.
‘The bastards must have been hiding in the side streets, sir,’ shouted Brutus.
‘To prevent us withdrawing,’ said Caesar calmly. ‘The fools. As if I would run away!’
‘What shall we do, sir?’
Before he could answer, guttural orders from the Egyptian officers rang out. A volley of stones flew into the night sky, causing heavy casualties among the unprepared legionaries. Following close behind came a shower of javelins, invisibly arcing up and then scything down in a second torrent of death. Scores of men were hit, many fatally. Others had an eye taken out, or were simply knocked to the ground, wounded or concussed.
Ten steps from Fabiola, a centurion collapsed. He kicked spasmodically and then lay still.
She stared at him in horror.
The officer had just taken off his horsehair-crested helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow. Now an egg-shaped depression visible through his short hair was leaking a mixture of blood and clear fluid. His skull had been smashed.
‘Shields up!’ roared Caesar.
Grabbing a discarded Brutus darted to Fabiola’s side and drew her to him. With it over her head, she was able to witness the Roman legions in action at first hand. Although the volleys of missiles had caused many casualtie
s, the other soldiers did not panic. The gaps in the ranks closed swiftly, and the next stream of stones and javelins clattered down harmlessly on their shields.scutum,
‘We can’t stay here like this,’ said Fabiola. ‘They’ll slaughter us.’
‘Wait.’ Brutus smiled. ‘Watch.’
‘Those with torches, hand them to the men behind. To the second cohort,’ ordered Caesar. ‘Quickly!’
His command was obeyed at once.
‘Front ranks,’ Caesar shouted. ‘Ready your pila! Aim long!’
Hundreds of men drew their right arms back.
‘Loose!’
The Roman response rose up in a steep trajectory, flying high over the Egyptian legionaries. As Fabiola watched, the metal-tipped rain landed among the unarmoured slingers and skirmishers, striking them down in great swathes. Distracted by the screams of their comrades to the rear, the enemy troops’ front ranks visibly wavered. They were given no chance to recover.
‘First cohort, CHARGE!’ Caesar’s order rang out crisp and clear. ‘Loose pila at will!’
His men had followed their general for years, through thick and thin. From Gaul to Germania, Britannia to Hispania and Greece, he had never failed them.
A swelling roar of anger left their throats and the front ranks swarmed forward at the Egyptians. Javelins were hurled as they ran, lodging in enemy scuta and injuring scores more soldiers.
Caesar was not finished. ‘Those in the second cohort, ready your torches.’
Still Fabiola did not understand, but a huge smile was spreading across Brutus’ face.
‘Aim at the ships! I want their sails to catch fire!’
Caesar’s men bellowed their approval.
‘Loose!’
Turning end over end in graceful, golden cartwheels of flame, dozens of torches flew through the darkness. It was one of the most beautiful things Fabiola had ever seen. And the most destructive. Loud screams rose from the ships and gilded barges as sailors were struck by the burning pieces of wood. There were muffled thumps as some torches landed on the vessels’ decks and hissing sounds as others fell into the water.