by Ben Kane
Fabiola knew from Corbulo that the days of citizen farmers working their own fields were disappearing fast, as cheap grain from Sicily and Egypt put them out of business. For more than a generation, farming had been confined to those rich enough to buy up land and work it with slaves. Fortunately for such people, the Republic’s war-like tendencies had provided no end of unfortunate souls from all corners of the world to generate them wealth. Gemellus’ former estate was no different.
Recently freed, Fabiola hated slavery. At first, being the owner of several hundred people — men, women and children — troubled her. Practically, though, she could do nothing. Freeing the Greeks, Libyans, Gauls and Numidians would achieve little other than bankrupting her new property. She resolved instead to consolidate her position as Brutus’ lover, cultivate noble friends if possible and try to discover her father’s identity. Perhaps in the future, with help from Romulus, she would be able to do more. Fabiola remembered how her twin brother had idolised Spartacus, the Thracian gladiator whose slave rebellion had shaken Rome to its core only a generation before.
That thought brought a smile to Fabiola’s face as she reached the large yard behind the villa. Here, the slaves’ miserable, damp living quarters were a stark comparison to the solidly built storage areas. Something would have to be done about their situation, she decided. There were also stables, a two-storey mill and numerous stone sheds. These last were built on brick stilts to allow continuous airflow underneath and to prevent rodent access. Some were filled to the ceiling with harvested grain and oats, while others contained the estate’s rich variety of produce. Resin-sealed jars of olive oil stood in well-balanced stacks. There were tubs of garum, a popular and strongly favoured fish paste, sitting beside barrels of salted mullet and clay vessels full of olives. Ready to be used over the winter, apples, quinces and pears were packed neatly in rows on beds of straw. Muddy bulbs of garlic were arranged in small pyramids. Dried hams hung from the rafters beside bunches of carrots, chicory and herbs: sage, fennel, mint and thyme.
Wine, one of the premium products, was prepared and stored in special cellars in yet another building. Firstly fermented in dolia, huge pitch-lined jars that were partially buried in the ground, the juice from the crushed grapes was then sealed in and left to age. Only the best vintages were decanted to amphorae and moved to the main house, where they were laid in a special depository in the roof space over one of the main hearths.
Fabiola was fond of checking each of the stores herself, still amazed that the food belonged to her. As a child, hunger had ruled her life. Now, she had enough to eat for a lifetime. The irony was not lost on her and she made sure that her slaves’ diet was adequate. Most landowners barely gave their slaves enough to live on, let alone survive beyond early middle age. She might not be setting them free, yet Fabiola was determined to be a humane mistress. The use of force might occasionally be necessary to ensure obedience, but not often.
The main labour for the year — sowing, tending and harvesting crops — was almost over. Today though, the yard was a hive of activity. Corbulo was stalking up and down, shouting orders. Fabiola saw men re-forging broken ploughs and repairing worn leather harness for the oxen. Alongside them, women and children emptied carts of the late ripening vegetables such as onions, beet and the famous Pompeian cabbage. Others worked in groups on the wool which had been shorn from the sheep during the summer. Now it was being combed out and washed, before being spun.
Corbulo bowed when he saw her. ‘Mistress.’
Fabiola inclined her head gravely, careful to maintain an air of unaccustomed command.
His brown hair shot with grey, the round-faced, stooped figure would scarcely attract a second glance. His clothes were nondescript. Only his long-handled whip and the lucky silver amulet dangling from a thong round his neck showed he was no mere agricultural slave. Seized as a child on the North African coast, Corbulo had lived his life since on the latifundium.
Having a youthful woman as his owner seemed to trouble the old vilicus little. Brutus had made it perfectly clear that in his absence, Fabiola was the mistress of the household. Corbulo was delighted just to have someone to tell him what to do to stop the estate falling into rack and ruin, as it had been for years.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Supervising this lot, Mistress,’ said Corbulo, indicating the nearby slaves. ‘Always plenty of routine jobs to keep them busy.’
Fabiola was intrigued by daily life on the latifundium. She could not imagine her former master feeling the same way. ‘Did Gemellus have any real interest in this place?’
‘When he first bought it, yes,’ Corbulo answered. ‘Used to come down here every few months.’
Fabiola concealed her surprise.
‘He brought in the new olive trees from Greece and had the fish pools constructed,’ the vilicus revealed. ‘Even picked which hillsides to grow the vines on.’
Fabiola disliked the thought of her former master having a creative side. He had only ever shown brutality at the house in Rome where she and Romulus had grown up. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.
There was a shrug. ‘His businesses started to do badly. It started with goods from Egypt. I can still remember hearing the news.’ Corbulo’s lined face grew anguished. ‘Twelve ships sank on the way here from Egypt. Can you believe that, Mistress?’
Fabiola sighed expressively, showing her apparent empathy. In reality she was trying to understand how a man such as Corbulo could care if his master’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. She had been delighted when Brutus revealed the circumstances that had led to Gemellus’ sale of the latifundium. Yet it was inevitable for slaves to identify with their owners in some way, she supposed. Fabiola could recall how proud Romulus had been about safely bringing back a note from Crassus’ to Gemellus’ house, dodging the moneylenders’ men who were always lounging opposite the front door. Yet her twin had hated Gemellus as much as she did. Even those with no freedom had some pride in their lives. So she should not judge Corbulo on that alone. Although he had worked for Gemellus for over twenty years, the vilicus had thus far proved loyal, reliable and hardworking.
Almost on cue, Corbulo barked at a male slave who was sharpening a scythe with slow, indifferent strokes. ‘Put a proper edge on that, fool!’ He tapped the whip hanging from his belt. ‘Or you’ll feel this across your back.’
Hastily the slave bent over the curved iron blade, running an oilstone back and forth along its entire length.
Fabiola smiled approvingly. While not a brutal man, Corbulo wasn’t scared of using force either. It was a good sign that the threat was enough. ‘I thought his fortune was huge,’ she said, probing for more information.
‘It was.’ Corbulo sighed. ‘But the gods turned their faces away. Soon, everything the master did turned to dust. He began to borrow money, with no means of repaying it.’
She could remember the heavies waiting outside Gemellus’ domus day and night and the rumours in the kitchen where the slaves gathered to gossip. ‘Brutus mentioned a venture with animals for the arena being the final straw.’
Corbulo nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, Mistress. It should have made Gemellus a king’s ransom. He had a third share in a expedition to capture wild beasts in southern Egypt.’bestiarius’
Fabiola felt a pang of nostalgia: her brother had often pretended to be a bestiarius. Grief quickly dissolved her happiness. Instead, Romulus had become a gladiator. Yet no emotion showed on her face. The Lupanar had endowed her with the ability to conceal her feelings from everyone, even Brutus.
Suddenly an old memory surfaced. Not long before they were sold, she and Romulus had overheard Gemellus and his bookkeeper having a conversation. It had concerned the capture of animals for the circus, a venture with the potential for huge profit. The twins had been shocked that the merchant could not afford the initial outlay. As poor household slaves, his wealth always seemed immeasurable. ‘That should have cleared his debts,’ she said calmly.
‘All of them?’
‘Every last one,’ replied the vilicus grimly. ‘A freak storm.’
Fabiola gasped. ‘Bad luck indeed.’
‘It was more than that. The soothsayers said Neptune himself was angry.’ Corbulo swore violently, then his face coloured as he remembered whom he was speaking to. ‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he muttered.
Fabiola abruptly decided to show her authority in front of the slaves. It was something she had seen Brutus do on a regular basis, ensuring that he was feared as well as respected. ‘Remember who I am!’ she snapped.
Corbulo bowed his neck and waited to be punished. Perhaps his new young mistress was no different to Gemellus.
In fact Fabiola had heard far worse in the Lupanar, but Corbulo had no knowledge of that. She was still learning to give orders, so his response gave her confidence. ‘Continue,’ Fabiola said in a more gentle tone.
The vilicus bobbed his head in gratitude. ‘Gemellus was never one for prophecies, but there was one he mentioned just before those ships were lost.’
Her lip curled. ‘Haruspices tell nothing but lies.’ Hoping for a sign of release from their awful existence, many girls in the brothel spent large amounts of their meagre savings on readings from soothsayers. Fabiola had seen precious few predictions borne out. Those that had come true had been of minor significance, strengthening her determination to rely on no one but herself. And on the god Jupiter, who had finally answered her prayer for freedom.
‘Indeed, Mistress,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘Gemellus said the same himself. But this one was not made by one of the usual shysters hanging around the great temple. It came from a stranger with a gladius, who only agreed to do a reading on sufferance.’ There was a deliberate pause. ‘And virtually all of it came true.’
Her curiosity was aroused. Soothsayers did not carry weapons. ‘Explain,’ she ordered.
‘He predicted that Crassus would leave Rome and never return.’
Fabiola’s eyes widened. It had been common knowledge that the third member of the triumvirate wanted military success to win public approval. Crassus’ choice of the governorship of Syria had been little more than an opportunity to invade Parthia. Yet few could have predicted that his trip abroad would be his last — except a genuine soothsayer. Someone who therefore might have knowledge of Romulus. ‘What else did he say?’ she hissed.
The vilicus swallowed. ‘That a storm at sea would sink the ships, drowning the animals.’
‘Is that all?’
Corbulo’s eyes flickered from side to side. ‘There was one other thing,’ he admitted nervously. ‘Gemellus only mentioned it once, the last time I saw him.’
Fabiola pounced like a hawk on its prey. ‘What was it?’
‘The haruspex told him that one day a man would knock on his door.’
She tensed. Romulus?
‘He seemed haunted by the thought,’ Corbulo finished.
‘Not a gladiator?’
‘No, Mistress.’
Her spirits plunged.
‘A soldier.’
And rose again from the depths.
Confused by her interest, Corbulo glanced at her for approval.
The vilicus got a perfunctory smile instead. Fabiola would give away nothing.
Not a gladiator, she thought triumphantly. A soldier, which is what her brother had become after fleeing Rome. Gemellus knew how much Romulus hated him: the prospect of seeing him again one day would have been terrifying. Now the journey to the temple of Jupiter had two important purposes. If she could find this mysterious soothsayer, she might be able to discover if Romulus was alive. It was a wild hope, but Fabiola had learned never to give up.
Dogged faith, and the desire for revenge, was what had kept her alive.
A deep baying sound suddenly rose from beyond the courtyard walls. It was a noise that Fabiola had heard occasionally since arriving in Pompeii, but always at a distance. As it grew louder, she could see fear growing in her slaves’ faces. ‘What’s that?’
‘Dogs. And fugitivarii, Mistress.’ Seeing her blank response, Corbulo explained. ‘Bounty hunters. They’ll be after a runaway.’
Fabiola’s pulse increased, but she did not panic. I am free, she thought firmly. Nobody is pursuing me.
Searching for the sound’s source, they walked a little way out into the large, open fields which surrounded the villa. Stone walls, bare trees and low hedges separated each from its neighbour. This was flat, fertile land, most of it fallow at this time of year. Two weeks earlier, the soil had been tilled, leaving it to breathe before it was planted with seeds in the spring. Only the winter wheat remained, small green shoots poking a hand span from the earth.
Normally, Fabiola liked to stand and take it all in. At this time of year the landscape was stark, but she loved the noisy jackdaws flying to their nesting spots, the crisp air, the absence of people. Rome’s streets were always thronged; inside the busy Lupanar had been little different. The latifundium had come to mean seclusion from the brutal realities of the world.
Until this.
Corbulo spotted the movement first. ‘There!’ He pointed.
Between the gaps in a hedge some two hundred paces away, Fabiola spotted a running figure. Corbulo had been correct. It was a young man, wearing little more than rags. A slave. Clearly exhausted, with his lower body covered in a thick layer of mud, his face was a picture of desperation.
‘He probably tried to give them the slip by hiding in the river,’ announced the vilicus.
Fabiola had taken pleasant walks along the waterway that separated her property from the estate belonging to her nearest neighbour. It would never seem the same again.
Corbulo grimaced. ‘It never works. The fugitivarii always check under the banks with long poles. If that doesn’t work, the dogs will catch their scent.’
Fabiola could not take her eyes off the fugitive, who was casting terrified glances over his shoulder as he ran. ‘Why is he being hunted?’ she asked dully, knowing the answer.
‘Because he ran away,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And a slave is his master’s property.’
Fabiola was intimately acquainted with this cruel reality. It was the same reason that had allowed Gemellus to repeatedly rape her mother. To sell her and Romulus. To execute Juba, the giant Nubian who had trained her brother to use a sword. Owners had the ultimate power over their slaves: that of life and death. Starkly reinforcing this, in the Roman legal system, the pride of the Republic, there was no retribution for the torture or killing of a slave.
A pack of large dogs burst from the cover of the nearest grove, their noses alternately sniffing the ground and the air for their quarry’s scent.
Fabiola heard the young man wail with terror. It was an awful sound.
She and Corbulo watched in silence.
A group of heavily armed men emerged from the trees, urging the hounds on with shouts and whistles. Cheers went up as they caught sight of the slave, whose energy looked almost spent.
‘Where’s he from?’
The vilicus shrugged. ‘Who knows? The fool could have been running for days,’ he said. ‘He’s young and strong. I’ve known the chase take more than a week.’ Corbulo looked almost sympathetic. ‘But those bastards never give up. And a man can’t run for ever on an empty belly.’
Fabiola sighed. Nobody would give food or help to a fugitive. Why would they? Rome was a state based on foundations of war and slavery. Its citizens had no reason to aid those who had fled captivity. Brutal punishments, terrible living conditions and a poor diet concerned them not at all. Of course, not every slave was treated this badly, but they were still the beating pulse of the Republic, the labour which built its magnificent buildings, toiled in its workshops and grew its foodstuffs. Rome needed its slaves. There was little that other slaves could do either, Fabiola thought bitterly. The punishment for helping an escapee was death. And who wanted to die by crucifixio
n?
The drama was about to reach its climax. Having staggered to within fifty paces of them, the young man fell to his knees in the damp earth. He raised his arms in silent supplication and Fabiola had to close her eyes. Coming between a runaway and the men legally sent to catch him would not be a good idea. Without risking a lawsuit from the slave’s owner, there was nothing she could do anyway.
Then the pack reached him.
Screams filled the air as the trained dogs began to savage the fugitive like a child’s doll. Fabiola watched in horror. She thanked the gods a few moments later when the lead huntsman whipped them off. Gradually the rest of the fugitivarii arrived, more than a dozen tough-looking types clad in dull colours and armed with bows, spears and swords. From under their wool cloaks, the dull glimmer of mail could be made out. They gathered around, laughing at the deep bite wounds on the slave’s arms and legs. This was part of their sport.
Fabiola held herself back. What could she do?
Engrossed with their capture, the fugitivarii seemed oblivious to their audience. Their brindle dogs had flopped down close by, red tongues hanging from wide, powerful jaws. Similar animals roamed around Fabiola’s villa at night, used as protection against bandits and criminals. These heavily muscled creatures looked even more vicious.
Encircled now, the slave had rolled into a foetal position. He was moaning softly and only crying out when struck by his captors. Then something changed. The nearest thug finally noticed Fabiola and Corbulo. Seeing her rich clothing and jewellery, he did not speak, but muttered a few words to the stocky man in charge. Rather than respond, though, the figure delivered a huge kick to the slave’s chest.
A muffled scream reached them.
Fabiola stared in horror. The blow had been enough to break ribs. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted. ‘He’s badly injured!’
Beside her, Corbulo coughed uneasily.
An opening appeared in the circle, hard, unforgiving faces turning towards the stunning woman and her vilicus. As they took in her beauty, leers distorted their features and lewd suggestions were made, albeit in whispers. The rich were still people to be respected.