The Forgotten Legion

by Ben Kane

  Romulus breathed in cool desert air. He had grown quite used to his friend's tendency to only partially answer questions. Although Tarquinius' reticence was frustrating, most of his predictions had been correct so far, forcing the young man to start believing what he said. If the Nabataeans left, the army's only defence against the Parthians would be the irregular cavalry and each soldier's scutum, and both had already been shown to be ineffective. It was a sobering thought.

  He watched Tarquinius gaze silently at the stars, sure that the soothsayer knew what was going to happen.

  Increasingly Romulus thought he did as well.

  Chapter XXII: Politics

  Campus Martius, Rome, summer 53 BC

  While the nobles smiled and nodded, the crowd yelled with anticipation. Brutus' face stayed neutral. The wooden steps creaked as hobnailed caligae clattered up. Burly legionaries in full armour appeared, gazing round suspiciously. Satisfied there was no threat, one beckoned to the men at the foot of the stairs. Several senior military officers, resplendent in gilt breastplates and red cloaks, preceded Pompey. It was all designed to impress. Shouts of approval filled the arena as the tribunes acknowledged the people.

  'Pompey is on a mission,' whispered Brutus. 'To remain more popular than Caesar and Crassus. With all the unrest in the city, he 's plotting to become sole consul.'

  'Can he do that?'

  It was one of Rome's most sacred laws that power should always be shared between two men. And although the consulships had been monopolised by the triumvirate and their allies for years, no one had dared to promote any other change.

  Smiling at those around them, Brutus pressed his lips against her ear. 'Of course,' he said quietly. 'He 's deliberately letting the violence from the street gangs spiral out of control. Soon the Senate will have no option but to offer him power. With Crassus in the east, no one else has the soldiers.'

  Fabiola made a face. In her lover's eyes there was only one man to lead the Republic.

  Caesar. Who was stuck in Gaul, mopping up pockets of tribal resistance.

  There was a last clamour from the trumpets. Everyone waited in silence for the master of ceremonies to stand forth.

  'Citizens of Rome!'

  Loud cheers split the air.

  'I give you – the editor of these games! Pom-pey Mag-nus!'

  As the praise for Pompey went on and on, Brutus rolled his eyes.

  Yet the crude tactic worked. The audience went wild.

  A stocky man of medium height with a thick fringe of white hair emerged into the box. His round face was dominated by prominent eyes and a squashed, bulbous nose. Unlike his officers, Pompey wore a white purpleedged toga, mark of the equestrian class. It did not yet pay for leaders to appear in military dress in Rome.

  'But Pompey is a canny soldier,' added Brutus. 'It'll be a close match when he comes up against Caesar.'

  Fabiola turned to him. 'Civil war?' There had been rumours for months.

  'Be quiet!' hissed Brutus. 'Do not say those words in public.'

  Pompey moved to stand where all could see and raised his right arm, waving slowly to the citizens. When the rapturous applause died down, he took his seat on a purple cushion in the front row.

  Moments later, the final pair of gladiators walked on to the sand below. It was a long, skilful contest to the death between a secutor and a retiarius. Even Fabiola had to admire the lethal display of martial skill. While watching, she prayed silently that the big Gaul was still with her brother, would protect him from danger. Where they were, the gods only knew.

  Brutus explained their moves as the two well-matched men lunged and slashed at each other. To compensate for his lack of armour, the fisherman was more experienced than the secutor, who could defend himself against trident thrusts with his shield. The retiarius had only speed and agility to avoid his opponent's razor-sharp blade.

  Time passed and finally the fisherman drew first blood, a wily throw half covering the secutor with his weighted net. Instantly the trident swept forward, plunging deep into the other's right thigh.

  Thinking the end was near, the crowd roared.

  Desperately the hunter threw himself forward as the barbed prongs ripped clear of his flesh. Groaning in pain, he reached up with his sword and slashed the retiarius across the belly as he fell.

  His opponent also slumped to his knees.

  Blood dripped on to the sand from both men.

  There was a pause while the two wounded fighters dragged air into their chests, struggling for the energy to continue. People in the audience screamed encouragement, throwing pieces of bread and fruit at them. The secutor was first to stand, throwing off the net and raising his weapon. With a struggle, the retiarius also got up, holding his stomach with one hand, gory trident with the other.

  'It will be over soon,' said Brutus, pointing. Both were clearly badly hurt.

  Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining Romulus.

  The staff officer leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the portly man in front. 'Ten thousand sestertii on the retiarius, Fabius,' he said, his eyes glinting.

  Fabius half turned, an amazed look on his red face. 'His guts are about to fall out, Brutus!'

  'Scared to lose?'

  'You're on,' laughed Fabius and the pair gripped forearms.

  Fabiola pouted and caressed Brutus' neck. 'You're wasting money,' she whispered in his ear.

  He winked. 'Never underestimate a fisherman – especially a wounded one.'

  Although the secutor could not move fast, he was still armed with sword and shield. Shuffling after the retiarius, he cut and slashed rapidly, parrying occasional trident thrusts with little difficulty. The fisherman made sporadic attempts to retrieve his net but was blocked every time. He seemed quite weak, barely fending off the hunter's aggressive efforts.

  Different sections of the crowd shouted their support for each man. Typically, most were backing the fighter who seemed more likely to win.

  The secutor.

  Watching intently, Brutus stayed quiet amidst the clamour. Fabiola held on to his arm, wishing she could stop the barbaric display and save a man's life.

  Weakened by his injury, the retiarius slowed even further and the hunter redoubled his efforts, trying to get in a mortal blow. Tiring himself out, he paused for a moment, confident the other would not attack. The fisherman groaned and blood oozed from between his fingers.

  Silence fell on the arena.

  The audience held its breath as the secutor prepared to end the fight.

  Suddenly the retiarius gasped and looked over his enemy's shoulder. Confused, the hunter's gaze turned away for a single heartbeat.

  It was enough.

  The armoured fighter spun back, eyes widening in horror as the trident drove deep into his throat. Hanging off the sharp tines, he made a loud choking noise and dropped both sword and shield. The fisherman quickly released his weapon and let the dead man fall to the sand. Swaying gently, he received the crowd's approval with glazed eyes before collapsing on top of his opponent.

  Brutus was delighted. 'The oldest trick in the book,' he crowed, poking Fabius in the back.

  The fat noble grimaced at the unexpected turn of events. 'A slave will bring you the money in the morning,' he muttered with poor grace before turning back to his companions.

  Fabiola's eyes were drawn to the retiarius, who was still lying across the dead secutor. No one else even gave him a glance. He was a slave. 'Will he live?' she asked anxiously.

  'Of course,' replied Brutus, patting her arm. 'Only army surgeons are better than those in the gladiator schools. He 'll need dozens of stitches in the muscle and skin, but within two months that fisherman will be back in the arena, good as new.'

  Fabiola smiled, but inside she was boiling with rage. One brave man had just died and another had been badly wounded. For what? The mob's amusement, nothing more. And when he recovered, the survivor would have to endure it all over again. As Romulus must have until he fled after the fight
outside the brothel.

  Never let the savages catch you alive, brother, she prayed. There is no mercy in Rome.

  Afterwards, Brutus took her to the house of a political ally on the Palatine hill. Gracchus Maximus, a senator with close links to Caesar, had invited him to a feast.

  On the journey from the Campus Martius, Fabiola brought up the subject of the triumvirate again. Away from other nobles, Brutus seemed more at ease.

  'Since the death of Julia, Pompey's wife, relations have become very strained.' He frowned. 'It was a tragedy.'

  The death of a woman during childbirth was all too common and that of Caesar's only daughter had weakened the strong bond between him and Pompey.

  'The loss of a child is hard to bear,' said Fabiola, thinking of her mother.

  'Because he is not in the city, Caesar needs Pompey to fight his corner here. Fortunately the general still respects their agreement enough to do that. But it won't be for ever.'

  'Surely the revolt in Gaul will keep Caesar completely tied up?' News had reached Rome that the previously localised unrest was spreading. A young chieftain named Vercingetorix was rallying the tribes under one banner.

  'Not for long,' replied Brutus briskly. 'And it keeps his legions battleready while most of Pompey's do nothing but play dice in Greece and Hispania.'

  Fabiola concealed her surprise. She had not known it had come to this already. Men were preparing for civil war.

  The litter came to a halt, ending the conversation.

  Apart from Brutus' villa and Gemellus' domus, Fabiola had not been in any large houses. As befitted an extremely wealthy man, Gracchus Maximus' residence was enormous. A high, plain wall guarded its exterior, the only entrance a pair of wooden doors strengthened with iron studs. One of Brutus' guards rapped on the portal with his sword hilt. The demand was answered immediately and they alighted, leaving their slaves outside. Entering a grand atrium, Brutus and Fabiola were welcomed by the shaven-headed majordomo, who bowed and guided them into the house proper.

  Each room that followed was more magnificent than the last. Gold candelabras held hosts of burning candles, illuminating graceful statues in alcoves along the painted walls. Beautiful mosaics were laid out everywhere, even in the hallways. Fountains in the garden murmured gently through open doors.

  Reaching the palatial banqueting hall, Fabiola's eyes momentarily widened. Its floor consisted of one huge image, decorated in a circular fashion with scenes from Greek mythology. Hundreds of thousands of tiny clay pieces had been laid in intricate patterns to form a richly coloured picture. Surrounded by lesser gods, Zeus occupied the centre of the design. It was a more stunning piece of art than anything Fabiola had ever seen. Perhaps the villa she dreamt of could look like this.

  The room was crowded with nobles mingling, and slaves serving food and drink. Loud conversation filled the air. If the chance presented itself, this would be a good situation to meet potential clients. Great care would have to be taken to avoid Brutus noticing. As the major-domo led them towards Maximus, Fabiola's eye was caught by a large statue on a plinth occupying a prominent position near the entrance.

  Brutus followed her gaze. 'Julius Caesar – my general,' he stated proudly.

  Carved from white marble, the figure was taller than a man. Caesar was regally depicted in a toga, a thick sweep of cloth covering the right arm. The hair was cut short in military style, the jaw shaven. The face blankly watching the guests was long and thin, the nose aquiline.

  'I've never seen a better likeness,' said Brutus with pleasure. 'He could be here in the room.'

  Fabiola was lost for words. Before them was an older version of Romulus, in stone. Since Brutus' casual comment months before, she had spent hours gazing into the mirror, wondering about her half-theory.

  Could Caesar be their father?

  'What is it?'

  'Nothing at all,' laughed Fabiola brightly. 'Please introduce me to Maximus. I want to meet everyone who knows the great man.'

  He took her arm and they threaded their way through the crowd. Fabiola's beauty turned heads every step of the way. Brutus nodded and smiled, exchanging handshakes and cordial words with the nobles and senators they passed. It was at such times that much of Rome's political business was conducted. She could see that Brutus was an adept at it.

  Fabiola's mind was in complete turmoil. Could one of the triumvirate have raped her mother seventeen years before?

  Maximus beckoned when he saw Brutus, who proudly introduced her as his lover. There was no mention of the Lupanar. Although their distinguished-looking host probably knew her background, he inclined his head graciously at Fabiola. She rewarded him with a radiant smile, aware that he had been more respectful to a prostitute than most would be. It was a sign of Brutus' stature.

  Fabiola breathed deeply, returning the bows from passing guests. It was taking considerable self-control to remain calm and she was glad when Brutus began muttering in Maximus' ear. No doubt this was the main reason for the day's outing. Like Pompey, Caesar's men were busy plotting the future of Rome.

  She let the room's noise wash over her.

  Somehow I will find out if Caesar is the one, Fabiola thought. And the gods help him if he is.

  A week later . . .

  Memor moaned.

  Pompeia had been good at her job, but this new girl was incredible. He had been getting bored with the redhead. When Fabiola had joined them unasked in the baths a few weeks previously, the lanista had been pleased. Presumably it was a gift from Jovina. Occasionally the shrewd madam gave regular customers a treat. It was good business.

  The theory was completely wrong.

  Mad with lust, he shoved upwards, trying to get the teasing mouth to take his jutting penis inside.

  Fabiola looked up carefully. Memor's eyes were closed, his wiry body relaxed. She licked the tip of his shaft and a groan emanated from the top of the bed.

  'Don't stop!'

  Obediently she bobbed her head up and down, prolonging the pleasure.

  Memor writhed on the sweat-stained covers, gasping with ecstasy.

  It had taken months of persuasion for Pompeia to give up the best customer she had gained in years. Despite having been in the brothel longer, the redhead had far fewer regulars than Fabiola. Although Pompeia tried hard, it was difficult not to be jealous. Fully aware of this, Fabiola took care of her as if she were family. The borrowed perfume had been replaced a dozen times; jewellery and little gifts of money regularly appeared in her room. Troublesome customers vanished, helped discreetly by the doormen.

  Pompeia agreed to Fabiola's initial requests, asking Memor about young boys sold into the ludus. Frustratingly, the answers were never more than vague. It seemed the lanista did not talk business with prostitutes. But Fabiola became fixated with the idea that he knew something. Leads from other clients since her arrival had all proved fruitless. It seemed Romulus had vanished without trace after the brawl outside the brothel.

  Memor was her only chance. After all, he ran the largest gladiator school in Rome.