by Ben Kane
Eager to remain inconspicuous, Tarquinius stepped into a small open-fronted shop. Amphorae lay everywhere inside: on piles of straw, and stacked three and four high on top of each other. An old desk covered in rolls of parchment, inkpots and a marble abacus sat in the middle of the floor and a crude wooden bar ran partway along one wall. He could hear the proprietor moving around in the back.
The legionaries clattered past without as much as a sideways glance. A line of slaves and mules followed behind them. Tarquinius noted that all the beasts' saddlebags were empty. Suspicion flared in his mind, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the shopkeeper, who emerged from his storeroom carrying a small, dusty amphora with a heavy wax seal.
The last of the passing soldiers got an angry glare. 'Dirty whoresons,' he muttered in Greek.
'They are,' agreed Tarquinius fluently. 'For the most part anyway.'
Startled by the scarred stranger's sharp hearing, the shopkeeper paled. 'I meant no offence,' he stammered. 'I'm a loyal subject.'
Tarquinius raised his hands peaceably. 'You have nothing to fear from me,' he said. 'Can I buy a cup of wine?'
'Of course, of course. Nikolaos refuses no man a drink.' Visibly relieved, the shopkeeper set down his load. Producing a red earthenware jug and a pair of beakers, he placed them on the bar. Filling both, he offered one to Tarquinius. 'Are you here to study?'
Tarquinius took a long swallow and gave an approving nod. The wine was good. 'Something like that,' he replied.
'Better hope that what you're looking for isn't gone by tomorrow then.' Nikolaos pointed. 'Those bastards were heading to the Stoic school.'
Tarquinius almost choked on his second mouthful. 'What are they doing?'
'Taking everything of value that isn't nailed down,' lamented the other. 'If the remnants of the Colossus itself weren't too big to transport, they'd probably take those too.'
Tarquinius grimaced. Like all visitors to Rhodes, he had walked the site where the largest statue in the world had once stood. Although it had been knocked off its marble pedestal by an earthquake nearly two centuries before, giant pieces of the god Helios were still strewn on the ground to one side of the harbour. Even these were an impressive sight. Great bronze plates shaped into body parts lay surrounded by iron bars, filler stones and thousands of rivets. All gave testament to the Herculean toil which must have gone into the figure's construction. Now, though, they were good for nothing except scrap. Unlike the treasures in the school, which might hold the key to revealing his future.
Tarquinius couldn't believe it. Even this was to be denied him.
'You're sure?' he demanded in a thin, strained voice.
A little scared of his new customer, the shopkeeper nodded. 'It started yesterday. They say that Caesar wants plenty of riches to display in his triumphs. Statues, paintings, books — they're taking it all.'
'What right has the arrogant dog? He was fighting damn Romans at Pharsalus, not Greeks,' shouted Tarquinius. 'This is an already conquered land!'
Hearing the noise, a number of passers-by glanced in curiously.
Nikolaos looked most unhappy. Such talk was dangerous.
Tarquinius threw back the last of his wine and slapped down four silver coins. 'More,' he snapped.
The other's attitude changed at once. The money would pay for an amphora of good wine. With a greasy smile, he filled Tarquinius' cup to the brim.
Tarquinius studied the ruby liquid in his beaker for long moments before drinking the lot. As if the alcohol could help, he thought morosely. Why was he being thwarted like this at every turn? The gods' motives were infuriating — outrageous even — but he was helpless before them.
'Another?' asked Nikolaos solicitously.
He got a terse nod. 'And one for yourself.'
'My thanks.' Nikolaos bobbed his head, deciding that perhaps this customer wasn't so bad after all. 'Last year's vintage was a good one.'
There was no more chat, however. Ignoring the shopkeeper, Tarquinius stood at the counter, downing more and more wine. Its effects darkened his mood even further. He'd only just arrived, and already his journey to Rhodes had been a complete waste of time. With the school plundered of its valuables, what chance was there of finding information to help him decide what to do? He felt like a blind man feeling his way round a room, looking for a door that he would never find. Rome, his inner voice said. Return to Rome. He ignored it.
More than an hour passed. On the next occasion Tarquinius lifted the jug, it was empty.
Nikolaos rushed over. 'Let me refill that.'
'No. I've had enough,' replied Tarquinius brusquely. He wasn't so miserable that he wanted to end up unconscious, or worse. Bacchus was no god to see him into Hades.
'Will you go to the school now?'
Tarquinius barked a short, angry laugh. 'Not much point, is there?'
'I might be wrong about the soldiers,' the shopkeeper offered lamely. 'It was only rumour after all.'
'Those whoresons wouldn't march all the way up here with mules for nothing,' snarled Tarquinius. 'Would they?'
'I suppose not.' He dared not argue further. The stranger was too confident, and the double-headed axe poking out from under his cloak looked well used.
Tarquinius took a step towards the door, and then turned to stare at Nikolaos. 'This conversation never happened.' His dark eyes were mere pits in his battered face. 'Did it?'
'N-no,' replied the shopkeeper, swallowing. 'Of course not.'
'Good.' Without looking back, Tarquinius wove out on to the street. Which way? he wondered. Might as well visit what I came here for, he decided abruptly. See what's left, if there's anything of worth remaining in the place. Feeling more weary than he had in his entire life, the haruspex walked slowly across the Agora. In the busy crowd of shoppers, businessmen and sailors from the port, he was just another anonymous figure. Not that he cared.
Reaching the corner of the street which led to the Stoic school, Tarquinius' sandal caught on a discarded piece of clay tile. He pitched forward, badly grazing both of his knees on the rough ground. Cursing, he struggled to get up.
'Bit early to be legless, isn't it?'
Tarquinius looked up, bleary-eyed. Standing over him was a figure wearing a bronze helmet with a transverse crest of red and white feathers. Bright sunlight shining from above obscured the centurion's face. From his position, all Tarquinius could really make out were the ornate greaves protecting the officer's lower legs and his well-made caligae. 'It's a free world,' he muttered. 'And I'm not in the legions.'
'Look like you might have been one day, though.' A muscled arm reached down, offering him help. 'That's a handy-looking axe you have there.'
Tarquinius paused for a heartbeat and then accepted the grip. He wasn't going to fight what happened any more.
With a heave, the centurion pulled him to his feet. A solidly built man in middle age, he wore a long mail shirt, crossed decorative belts with a gladius and pugio, and a leather-bordered skirt. The webbing strapped to the front of his chest was covered with gold and silver phalerae.
The haruspex saw with alarm that the highly decorated officer wasn't alone. Behind him, in neat ranks, stood the soldiers he had seen earlier. At the very rear were the mules, now laden down. Contempt filled the watching faces, and Tarquinius looked down in shame. He was a proud man, unaccustomed to being laughed at by ordinary rank and filers.
The centurion was interested by this odd-looking fool with his scarred face, blond hair and single gold earring. He wasn't a run-of-the-mill Greek. 'What's your name?' he demanded.
The haruspex saw no point in lying any more. 'Tarquinius,' he muttered, anger swelling within him at what the Romans had just done.
'Where are you from?'
'Etruria.'
The centurion's eyebrows rose. The drunk was Italian. 'What brings you to Rhodes?'
Tarquinius pointed past the waiting soldiers. 'I wanted to study in the school, didn't I? You bloody lot have put paid
to that, though.'
Shocked growls rose from the legionaries at his nerve, but the centurion raised a hand for silence. 'You question Caesar's orders?' he asked icily.
The Romans do what they will. They always have, thought Tarquinius wearily. I cannot change that. Looking into the other's eyes, he saw death. There were worse ways to die, he reflected. A gladius thrust can't hurt that much.
'Answer me, by Mithras!'
The words struck Tarquinius like a lightning bolt, stripping away the drink-induced fog from his brain. For some reason, he remembered the raven which had attacked the lead Indian elephant by the Hydaspes. If that hadn't been a sign from the warrior god, then he was no haruspex. This had to be another. He was not to die now. 'Of course not, sir,' Tarquinius said in a loud voice. 'Caesar can do as he pleases.' He stuck out his right hand in the gesture only a Mithraic devotee would use.
The centurion looked down in disbelief. 'You follow the warrior god?' he whispered.
'Yes,' Tarquinius replied, touching the blade-shaped scar on his left cheek. 'I received this in his service.' It wasn't so far from the truth. Again he shoved forward his hand.
With an oath, the officer grabbed it with his own and shook it hard. 'Caldus Fabricius, First Centurion, Second Cohort, Sixth Legion,' he said. 'I had you for a troublemaker.'
'Not at all,' Tarquinius smiled. 'Mithras must have guided me to you.'
'Or Bacchus!' Fabricius grinned. 'Well met, comrade. I'd love to talk, but I'm in a real hurry this morning. Will you walk with me?'
With a grateful nod, Tarquinius fell in beside the centurion. He was strangely relieved now that the threat of immediate death had gone. Of course the wine had fuelled his foolhardy bravado, he thought. Yet he'd only drunk it because of the Romans looting the school. Always expect the unexpected, he thought. Meeting the centurion was tangible evidence of Mithras' favour.
'They had the most incredible artefacts in the school,' revealed his new friend. 'Instruments and metal contraptions such as I've never seen. There's a strange-looking one in a box with dials on the front and back. You wouldn't believe it, but it has little arms which move around, showing the position of the sun, moon and the five planets. Incredible! On the other side is a face which can predict every eclipse. The old man in charge of it wept when I took it from him. Said it had been made in Syracuse, by a follower of Archimedes.' He laughed.
Tarquinius shoved down his throbbing resentment. There was little point being angry at the plundering, he thought. Fabricius was just following orders. Excitement bubbled up in him that the device Aristophanes had described was so near. Its origins were revolutionary too. Everyone knew of the amazing machines which Archimedes, the Greek mathematician, had built to defend his city against the Romans during the second Punic war. To discover that he might have influenced, or even designed, an even more incredible device was astonishing. 'Is it here?'
Fabricius jerked a thumb over his shoulder. 'It's on one of the mules. Well wrapped up, of course, so the damn thing doesn't break.'
'You're taking it all to Rome?'
'For Caesar's triumphs,' answered the other proudly. 'To show the people yet again what a leader he is.'
The last of Tarquinius' drunkenness fell away. On their own, the images of the capital under a louring sky and his nightmare about the Lupanar weren't enough to make him journey back to the capital. This was very different, though. Out of nowhere, a possible solution had appeared. He couldn't ignore it. 'Is there room on the ships for another passenger?'
'Want to get back to Italy? I would too.' Fabricius gave him a nudge. 'Be proud to have you on board.'
'Thank you.' With renewed energy, Tarquinius strode down to the harbour alongside the centurion. Mithras was guiding him to Rome, on the same ships that would carry off the contents of the Stoic school.
Who was he to argue with a god?
Chapter IX: Captivity
Pontus, northern Asia Minor Petronius could only limp after Romulus as the gloating legionaries dragged him up to their camp, over the bodies of the Pontic dead. At the fortifications, the big soldier and his companions were prevented from immediately crucifying Romulus by the lack of wood. What few trees grew on the mountain had been cut down during the camp's construction. Yet their anger was such that four of them found axes and went off in search of some. The others lolled about in the afternoon sunshine, drinking extra rations of acetum that they had wheedled from the quartermaster.
Trussed up with ropes, Romulus was left to lie in the centre of the group. The sun's rays beat down on his wound, turning his head into a throbbing mass of agony. His throat was parched, but of course no one gave him any water. He was barely aware of Petronius' presence, and only reminded of the others by the occasional kick that they gave him. The irony of the situation was not totally lost on him, however. To have endured so much just to end up a candidate for crucifixion in a remote location like Zela seemed farcical. But that was the nature of fate, Romulus thought numbly. The gods could do whatever they liked.
Tarquinius had been wrong. There would be no return to Rome.
Soon afterwards, Romulus lapsed into unconsciousness.
He was woken by angry shouting, and, confused by his concussion, took a few moments to work out what was going on. Standing on one side of him were the black-haired brute and his companions, their arms full of freshly chopped timber. On the other were Petronius, their optio from the Twenty-Eighth and an unfamiliar centurion. Threats and counter-threats filled the air between the veterans and Petronius, who still appeared to be on his own. Romulus' heart filled to see his friend defend him against such odds.
The optio did not seem inclined to intervene, but at length the centurion raised his hands for silence. At once the veterans obeyed. Senior officers could, and did, call down the harshest of punishment for any infraction of discipline.
The centurion looked briefly satisfied. 'I want to hear, from one man at a time, what in the name of Hades is going on here.' He aimed his vine cane at Petronius. 'You came crying to your optio about this, so you can start.'
Quickly Petronius recounted how they had gone to wash in the river after the battle, and how the veterans had struck up a conversation over Romulus' wound. 'It's all a mistake, sir. Look at him — he's half-stunned. Probably wouldn't know who he just fought, never mind where he got an old scar on his leg from. Silly bastard never fought a Goth.'
Studying Romulus' bloody, dazed appearance, the centurion smiled. 'That sounds plausible, but the accusation of slavery is a serious one all the same.' He looked at the black-haired legionary. 'What have you got to say?'
'The dog's not that badly hurt,' he said furiously. 'And he admitted that the wound had been made by a Goth, sir. In a ludus! How much evidence does a man need?'
Angry mutters of agreement rose from his companions, but none dared to challenge their superior officer directly.
With a frown, the centurion turned to the optio, a squint-eyed Campanian whom Romulus had never taken to. 'Is he any kind of soldier?'
'He is, sir. A good one,' replied the optio, raising Romulus' spirits for a moment. 'But he did join the legion in strange circumstances.'
Interested, the centurion indicated he should continue.
'It was during the night battle in Alexandria, sir. Me and my section were guarding the Heptastadion when he and another dodgy-looking type appeared from nowhere. They were Italian and well armed, so I press-ganged the pair of them on the spot.'
He got an approving nod for that. 'Where had they come from?'
'Said they'd been working for a bestiarius, in the south of Egypt, sir.'
'And is this the other one?' demanded the centurion, pointing at Petronius.
The optio scowled. 'No, sir. He disappeared the same night. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the whoreson was gone until the battle was over. Couldn't find a trace of him anywhere.'
'Suspicious,' muttered the centurion. 'Very suspicious.' He nudged Romulus with his foot. 'Are you an esc
aped slave?'
Romulus focused on his accuser with difficulty. After a moment, his gaze flickered around the other watching faces. All but Petronius' were filled with hatred or indifference. Utter weariness filled him. What was the point of carrying on? 'Yes, sir,' he said slowly. 'But Petronius, my comrade, had no idea.'
Despite Romulus' get-out clause for him, Petronius looked devastated.
'See, sir?' cried the black-haired soldier, his outrage resurgent. 'I was right. Can we crucify the bastard now?'
'No. I've a better idea,' snapped the centurion. 'Caesar intends to hold massive celebratory games when he returns to Rome. There'll be a need for more bodies than the schools or the prisons hold. This scum might have escaped the arena once, but he won't manage it twice. Clap them in chains. Both can be used as noxii.'
Mollified by this, the veterans grinned.
Scarcely believing his ears, Petronius' fists bunched. Being condemned to die fighting wild beasts or criminals and murderers was a degrading fate. Then he saw their captors' gloating faces. If he tried to fight, he'd be dead in a heartbeat. Life was still precious. Petronius unclenched his hands, and he did not resist when two legionaries tied him up with a length of rope.
'No, sir,' croaked Romulus, struggling against his own bonds. 'Petronius has done nothing wrong!'
'What?' sneered the centurion. 'The fool made a comrade of a slave. He deserves the same miserable death as you.'
'How was he supposed to know?' shouted Romulus. 'Leave him be!'
The centurion's response was to stamp down on his head with the studded sole of one of his caligae.
Darkness took Romulus.
Probing fingers in his wound woke him. Romulus opened his eyes, finding himself in the camp's valetudinarium, a series of large tents near the headquarters. It was near sunset, he was still tied up, and a sallow-skinned surgeon in a bloody apron was examining him. There was no sign of Petronius, just a bored-looking legionary standing guard nearby. Despairing, Romulus closed his eyes again.