Chapter VII: The Lupanar

The Lupanar Brothel, Rome, 56 BC

Fabiola gazed uncertainly at the bare walls. The small cell was where the madam had led her after Gemellus had been thrown on to the street. The huge man who ejected him had smiled toothlessly at the new girl in an effort to seem reassuring.

The attempt had not worked. One violent master appeared to have been replaced by another.

Apart from the low bed she was sitting on, the only furniture was an empty chest and a tiny statue of a naked Aphrodite in the corner. The room smelt musty, but the floor had been washed and the worn woollen bedclothes were clean.

Fabiola hunched up in a ball, hands round her feet, rocking backwards and forwards. The manner in which she and Romulus had been ripped from Velvinna had severely dented her usual confidence, usually not even affected by Gemellus' beatings. Fabiola was terrified to think that she would never see her family again. Romulus was in mortal danger, if not dead already. Gods alone knew what would become of their mother.

For a short time the grief became all consuming. She was alone, sold to a brothel, with no chance of escape and could only imagine what would happen to her now. Silent sobs racked her. Soon complete strangers would be paying to have sex with her. Bile rose in Fabiola's throat. She felt degraded already.

It was all because of Gemellus.

The thought helped the tears disappear and a spark flared deep inside.

No weakness, only strength. No grief, just revenge.

Gemellus.

Women's laughter echoed in the corridor and Fabiola listened intently as they passed by. She might learn something useful.

'. told him he was the best lover I had ever been with. The fool swelled with pride!'

'Get a tip?'

'An aureus, no less.' There was a loud cackle and the pair passed out of earshot.

Fabiola sat up on the bed, mind racing. There was money to be made here. The aureus was more than she'd ever held in her hand. And the Lupanar seemed to be full of beautiful women of every race, clad in robes and dresses that left nothing to the imagination. Flimsy garments, intricate head-dresses and exotic jewellery filled her with wonder. In all Fabiola's years at Gemellus' house, she had never owned more than one threadbare shift. It was a small consolation to have been sold into the best brothel in Rome. But that thought was followed immediately, guiltily, by the memory of the scene when Gemellus had dragged her away, only a short time before. When Velvinna had realised he intended to fulfil his promise of selling Fabiola as well, her distress had partially overcome her fear of the merchant.

'Please, Master. Leave me one child!'

'This little beauty is worth far more than the brat.' Gemellus leered at Fabiola's curves. 'I'd fuck her myself if it didn't halve the value.'

'I'll do anything,' Velvinna wailed. 'Even make noise when you take me.'

'As if I'd bother! Used-up old whore,' Gemellus sneered. 'The salt mines are the only place for you.'

The salt mines? There was a heartbeat's shock. She had nothing left to lose. Velvinna threw both arms around the merchant's legs, weeping hysterically.

'Get off, or I'll sell you today as well!' He viciously pried tight fingers loose, throwing Velvinna to the stone floor.

The slight figure lay prone, sobs racking her body.

Gemellus laughed.

It was Fabiola's last sight of her mother. She had been dragged from the room and hauled away to the Lupanar. More tears flowed. Life seemed cruel beyond belief. But the self-pity did not last very long. Fabiola's spirit burned too fiercely to succumb, and Velvinna's oft-repeated advice rang in her ears: Make the best of every situation. Always.

Calming herself, Fabiola clenched her fists into the coarse wool bedclothes and offered a fervent prayer to the gods.

Protect Mother and Romulus.

Just an hour before, Fabiola had been gazing with wide, frightened eyes at the walls in the brothel's lavish reception area. Satyrs, fat cupids, gods and goddesses returned her stare from a brightly coloured landscape covered in rivers, caves and forests. On another surface were numbered depictions of sexual positions that customers might desire. Fabiola had shuddered, imagining Gemellus forcing her to perform the more outlandish ones. In the centre of the mosaic floor was a life-size statue of a naked woman entwined with a swan.

'Eight thousand sestertii,' mused Gemellus. 'Not a bad price.'

'That's what we agreed.' Jovina, the old madam, pursed painted lips in disapproval. Beady eyes shone from the powdered whiteness of her face.

Gemellus, well pleased, clutched the leather purse tightly to his chest.

'I know. What a little beauty.' He reached over, allowing himself a good feel of Fabiola's small breasts. She flinched in horror, but did not dare move away.

The merchant's hand dropped lower, searching for the hem of her tunic.

'No touching. She 's mine now.'

He removed his hand resentfully.

Fabiola looked at the floor, cheeks burning.

Gemellus smirked. 'A few moments alone might be worth it,' he said, hefting the money bag.

'It will cost. She 's a virgin, you know.' Jovina revealed decaying teeth. After many years at the Lupanar, men like Gemellus were easy to spot. She twisted a ring on a thin finger, watching the ruby catch the light. The crone carried a fortune on both hands, presents from satisfied customers. Jovina's services — and her discretion — were famous.

Fabiola shuddered at the memory of the examination that had just been performed to confirm her virginal status. She felt ashamed and violated. The madam's prodding fingers still burned her skin.

'Of course I know!' Gemellus snapped. 'By Jupiter, I resisted the urge to take the vixen for long enough.' He licked moist lips. 'How much for a night?'

Jovina placed a claw-like hand on the girl's head. The slight pressure made Fabiola feel remarkably protected.

'Fifteen thousand sestertii.'

'Fifteen thousand?' The merchant's eyes bulged. 'Nearly twice what you just paid!'

'Virgins like her are hard to come by,' Jovina replied sarcastically. 'Noble customers pay well for the first time with such a beauty.'

Gemellus was purple with rage.

'Come back in a few weeks and the price will only be three or four thousand.' Jovina's lips twitched. 'Per hour, of course.'

'Old whore!' the merchant yelled, bunching his fists.

'Benignus!'

An enormous slave with thick gold bands round both wrists emerged from a side room. Gemellus took in the bulging muscles and metal-studded club.

'This gentleman is leaving.' Jovina pointed. 'Escort him to the door.'

Benignus towered over Gemellus. There was no doubt who was in authority here.

He paused, even now reluctant to obey a slave.

'Master.' The hulk had taken Gemellus' right arm in a grip of iron and he felt himself being propelled towards the entrance. A powerful shove landed the merchant in the dirt outside, at the feet of two of his waiting slaves. Quickly they helped him up, their faces studiously blank.

Benignus loomed over him like a Greek colossus. 'Next time, Madam will require evidence that you have sufficient funds to enter.'

The passers-by laughed at the carefully worded insult. They'd seen many people ejected from the arched doorway for the same reason.

Gemellus angrily brushed away the dirt and stalked off, his leather purse gripped tightly in one hand. It would keep the moneylenders at bay for a while.

Jovina knocked just once as she opened the door, startling Fabiola. The madam took in her reddened eyes at a glance. Many girls like this had entered the brothel. She walked in, still appraising her new purchase.

Fabiola met the look, chin trembling faintly.

'Forget the past, my dear,' Jovina said in a friendly but firm manner. 'Coming here saved you from Gemellus' advances at least. Life here can be good. It's simple. Learn how to work the customers well and satisfy them every time. Many powerful men visit the Lupanar. Senators, magistrates, tribunes. We 've even had consuls in here before.'

Fabiola nodded. It was important she learn quickly and make friends with the old woman.

Jovina paused for a moment. 'Is the fat man your father?'

'Gemellus?' Fabiola stared at the floor. 'No, Madam.'

Jovina did not hesitate. 'One of his other slaves then?'

She shook her head. Velvinna had always been adamant about their parentage. 'A woman knows these things,' she would mutter darkly. 'Mother was raped by a noble one evening as she came back from the Forum Olitorium.'

Jovina was unsurprised. 'And did Gemellus often lie with her?'

'Nearly every night.' Fabiola felt anger deep in her belly. Revenge on Gemellus would give a purpose to life in the brothel. That and trying to rescue her mother and Romulus. Best of all would be to discover the rapist's identity.

If it was possible.

Something to plan, while she pleasured men. Something to dilute the horror of her situation.

'See much of what happened?'

'No, though I did see him naked once when he was excited.' She recoiled at the memory of the merchant's erection.

'You've watched dogs in the street mating?'

'Yes.'

'Heard other slaves talking about sex?'

'Many times.'

'It's much the same as with animals, although you must know more positions.' Jovina quickly described those that most men preferred.

Fabiola struggled to control her surprise at the more outlandish ones. Gemellus knew only one.

'Make lots of noise. The customer must always think you are in ecstasy.'

'Yes, Madam,' she replied quickly.

'The first time a man penetrates you, it will really hurt. Probably be a fair amount of blood too. That's normal. After that, it often feels good.' She cackled. 'There is more for you to learn, but the others will instruct you. Make absolutely sure that you can give oral pleasure.'

Fabiola forced a smile, relieved that the lesson seemed to be over.

'The room is yours to do with as you will.' Jovina grinned, and the wrinkles on her whitened face became more pronounced. 'But no men are allowed back here. The chambers where customers are entertained lie at the front of the building. The doormen, Benignus and Vettius, are always nearby. Scream if you need them.'

'When do I start?'

'Tomorrow. I just paid out eight thousand sestertii so you've got to start earning. But I'll let you settle in today. Find your way about the place.'

Fabiola kept her voice calm. 'What about food?'

'Some more meat on those bones won't hurt business.' Jovina laughed at her own joke and gestured at the slave who had been standing behind, unseen. 'Docilosa will show you round. The clothes room is worth seeing. It's got a better selection than any bazaar in Rome.'

Fabiola's mouth opened.

'And make sure you dress seductively.'

A smile flitted across Docilosa's face.

'Yes, Madam.'

'Good. You will do well.' Jovina turned and was gone, leaving a strong smell of perfume.

Fabiola glanced at Docilosa, who was a similar age to her mother. Short, plain and clad in a simple smock, she had a kind face.

'Can I have something to eat?'

'Of course,' Docilosa nodded. 'Follow me.'

Soon Fabiola was seated by a rough wooden table in the kitchen, devouring a piece of bread and cheese. The ordeal had given her an enormous appetite, increased by the fabulous selection of foods on the shelves.

Gemellus had never given his slaves enough to eat, and her childhood had been dogged by hunger.

Slaves clad only in loincloths looked at the new girl curiously. Docilosa pointed them out one by one.

'That's Catus, the main cook. He's all right, but watch his temper.'

Unable to hear what was being said, the balding man chopping meat at a large wooden block smiled.

Fabiola soaked up the information. She wanted to know everyone in the Lupanar.

'The two tending the fire are Nepos and Tancinus. The girl sweeping the floor is Germanilla.'

The men sweating over the hot brick oven glanced over without interest. Though relatively young, both were quite overweight.

'Do they get extra food?'

'Of course not,' said Docilosa. 'They've been castrated.'

Fabiola gasped.

'To make sure they leave the girls alone. You're valuable merchandise and Jovina guards her property closely.'

'What about Catus?'

'Catus only likes men.' Docilosa's tone was scornful. 'And Madam rarely buys any — they're too much trouble.'

'And the doormen?'

'They receive favours from many women and she tolerates that.'

'Why?'

'Some customers get violent.' She made a chopping motion. 'The boys sort them out.'

Fabiola made a mental note to make friends with Benignus and Vettius.

Docilosa filled a plain black and red earthenware jug from a tank in the corner. Like Gemellus' house, the Lupanar had running water and sanitation.

'You'll need this in your room.' She handed over a beaker as well, studying Fabiola closely. 'You remind me of my own daughter.' There was a brief smile before Docilosa gestured towards the door, all business again. 'I'll show you where the clothes are kept.'

Fabiola followed her guide out of the stone-flagged kitchen, down a corridor filled with the smell of burning incense. Alcoves along its length displayed Greek statues.

The room exceeded all Fabiola's expectations. Dozens of richly adorned costumes hung from iron hooks on its painted walls. Large bronze plates on stands acted as mirrors. Tables were covered in dozens of glass bowls, bottles and silver hand mirrors. Oblivious to the new arrivals, two women were trying on dresses at the far end.

Docilosa gazed at the display and sighed. 'I'll leave you to it. Get to know some of the others.'

Fabiola could see that both were years older than her. It was intimidating. Trying to remain calm, she walked further into the dressing room.

A buxom Germanic-looking prostitute had already half turned in her direction. She was holding up a mane of long blonde hair, admiring her reflection in the mirror. Fabiola stared, intrigued. The only person she had regularly seen naked was her mother. A scanty red robe barely covered this woman's generous breasts and a flat waist. At the top of creamy white thighs sat a small puff of hair. She was very beautiful.

'Who are you?'

'Fabiola.' She paused, then added unnecessarily, 'I'm new.'

The blonde was displeased. 'How many young ones is Jovina trying to pack in?'

'Ignore her.' The second woman's face was more friendly. 'She 's having a bad day. I'm Pompeia and that's Claudia.'

'I've never seen so many types of clothes.' Fabiola's mouth opened as she surveyed the selection.

'Wonderful, isn't it?' Pompeia giggled and Fabiola took an immediate liking to the tall redhead. With green eyes and an alabaster complexion, she was extremely striking. A tight stola, slit at the sides to the waist, and then above the belt to the shoulder, revealed tempting expanses of flesh.

'Wear whatever we like, too.'

'Jovina said I must dress seductively.'

'She would,' cackled Claudia.

Pompeia threw her a frown and cocked her head at Fabiola. 'How old are you?'

'Thirteen. Nearly fourteen.'

'Gods above. Still a virgin?'

Fabiola looked at the marble floor.

'Never mind, you're here now.' Pompeia strolled along the wall, trailing her fingers through the garments. 'Come with me.'

Fabiola followed slowly, touching the items with disbelief.

'Mustn't overdo it. The most important thing is that you're a virgin.' She produced a white robe of fine linen with a purple hem. 'Try this.'

Fabiola reached out eagerly. 'It's beautiful.'

'Only the best for Lupanar girls. Put it on.'

Fabiola lifted off her ragged smock and pulled on the crisp fabric. It felt luxurious against her skin, far better than anything she 'd ever worn. Fabiola smoothed the dress against her body. 'It's lovely,' she whispered.

Claudia snorted dismissively.

Fabiola found Pompeia appraising her keenly.

'Perfect. You look like a Vestal Virgin.'

'But you can buy this bitch!' said Claudia.

Pompeia spun round. 'It's sad that fool Metellus Celer has just died, but you'll soon find another rich client. Stop taking it out on her.'

'The master used to lie with my mother most nights.' Fabiola's voice was steady. 'I know what to expect.'

'He no longer owns you,' Claudia said unexpectedly. 'Forget him.'

Fabiola smiled at that thought.

'I saw the fat pig through the peephole.' Pompeia screwed up her face. 'Many customers here are far better looking. Play it smart and they'll become regulars.' She turned to Claudia for confirmation. 'Men love giving presents. Taking you out.'

'All you have to do is satisfy their every desire,' said the blonde.

A twitch of apprehension crossed Fabiola's features. Her only knowledge of sex had come from watching her mother, who had loathed Gemellus' visits.

Noticing, Pompeia took her hand. 'We will teach you lots of ways to do that, my girl. Come over here. Take a look in the mirror.'

Fabiola stared at the beaten bronze. Light shimmered from the tiny curves and dents across its surface. With a shock, she saw that the reflection was indeed pretty. Her confidence lifted slightly.

'How many. prostitutes work here?' The word still felt disgusting. But that is what she was now.

'Including us? About thirty. Varies a bit.' Pompeia dipped a brush into a bowl of ochre and applied a little to her cheeks. 'According to how many get sold or gain manumission.'

Fabiola's ears pricked up. 'Sold?'

'Sometimes a customer likes a girl so much that he buys her. Mostly they go off to a life of luxury. Villa in Pompeii or the like.' Pompeia looked wistful. 'Unlucky ones are got rid of when they are sick. Or too old.'

'So are those who disobey Jovina,' said the blonde ominously.

'Where to?'

'One of the cheaper brothels. To someone needing cheap labour.'

'Salt mines, latifundia, you know.' Claudia scowled. 'Got to remain popular and stay beautiful.'

Fabiola thought of her mother and shuddered.

Mistaking the reaction for one of fear, Pompeia patted her arm. 'Don't worry! Jovina won't be selling a prize catch like you.'

'Do some girls gain their freedom?'

Pompeia smiled. 'Jovina lets us keep a tiny amount of the fees for our services. Regular clients will give you some money too. Save every last sestertius. Isn't that right?'

Claudia nodded vigorously, powdering her face with chalk and white lead.

'A little more — that's not pale enough. Don't forget a bit of antimony on your eyebrows.' Pompeia turned back to Fabiola. 'Keep on Jovina's good side. In a few years she might let you buy out of here.'

Claudia snorted. 'The old witch only says that to keep us happy. You know that. Can you name anyone who has bought their manumission since we arrived?'

Pompeia's face dropped, and Fabiola's heart went out to her. Life in the Lupanar was obviously not secure. She would have to work hard to survive.

The redhead saw her staring at the huge array of bottles and jars on the table. 'It's makeup. Lotions.'

'Can I try some on?'

'You're far too beautiful.'

'But you're both using it.'

Pompeia laughed. 'We 've been here for a long time! Have to keep looking good. You're as fresh as a flower.'

'Not even some ochre?'

'Perhaps a little. On your lips. Nothing else.'

Unsure what men who visited the Lupanar would want, Fabiola gazed into the big mirror.

'The clients will love you.' Pompeia gestured expansively as if talking to an audience. 'You might need some lead in a while, but for now you're the Vestal Virgin.'

'Pompeia's right.' Claudia's tone was slightly more friendly. 'Understatement's better. For you.' She laughed, indicating her own generous curves.

Fabiola smiled.

'We're forgetting ourselves. Must be nearly sundown!' Suddenly Pompeia was all business. 'Have a good soak and an early night. It's time for us to work. Customers will start arriving soon.'

Fabiola threw her new friend a grateful look. 'Thank you.'

'I'll come and fetch you in the morning. We can chat about how to make men groan and beg for more!'

'Or cry out!'

Pompeia rolled her eyes. 'That's Claudia's speciality.'

Fabiola left them to it and walked down the corridor, rubbing the linen fabric with secret pleasure. To her relief, she was the only person in the tiled bathing area apart from an old female slave, who silently provided olive oil and a strigil.

The experience was far better than she had imagined. Gemellus had only allowed slaves to wash in the back courtyard with a bucket of cold water. Being able to lie back in a heated pool, admiring colourful paintings through the steam, seemed like total bliss. Fabiola fantasised about a time when talented craftsmen would paint the walls of her villa with similar depictions of Neptune and mythological marine creatures.

Clean and relaxed, Fabiola retired to her room. She lay on the bedcovers, staring at flickering shadows cast by the torch. The grief at being parted from her family had abated a little with the discovery of a new friend and the Lupanar's soothing luxury. Pompeia would be a good ally, someone she might be able to trust. And she had something to aim for: to become the best prostitute in the brothel. With influential politicians and nobles as customers here, there was real power to be had by being good at her new profession. It gave her strength to know that rich men paying for sex might prove to be at her mercy.

Fabiola stayed awake for some time, trying to imagine what intercourse would be like, but she couldn't. Rest would be better than worrying over something beyond her control. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. There were no nightmares.

Pompeia arrived as promised early the next morning. Hearing the gentle knock, Fabiola threw back the covers and padded to the door, running a hand through her hair.

'Still sleeping? You weren't working half the night!' There were dark rings under Pompeia's eyes, but the vivacious redhead was full of energy. 'Let's go and wash. There's a lot you need to learn.'

Fabiola flushed with embarrassment at that prospect, but picked up a drying sheet and followed Pompeia down the corridor. A waft of warm, moist air accompanied by the noise of talking women met them at the door.

It felt decadent.

Suddenly an image of Romulus came to mind. The thought hit hard.

Seeing her brother being dragged away was something Fabiola doubted she could ever forget. All I have to do today is sit in a heated bath and learn how to pleasure a man, while Romulus learns to fight for his life. Guilt swept over her.

Inside, half a dozen prostitutes were washing and talking animatedly with each other. Conversation stopped when they saw the newcomers.

'This is Fabiola,' Pompeia announced. 'Girl I was telling you about.'

The majority nodded in a friendly enough manner and resumed chatting, glancing over occasionally. Pompeia stripped naked, indicating that Fabiola do the same. The redhead was full-bodied and curvaceous, her breasts larger than any the girl had seen before. Fabiola stared with fascination at Pompeia's bush of auburn pubic hair. Her milk-white skin contrasted sharply with the tall Nubian in the circular bath, who moved over so the two friends could enter and sit down.

Fabiola sat bolt upright in the warm water, smiling nervously.

Pompeia saw how ill at ease she was. 'Relax! We 're all family here and we all look out for each other. The only rule is that you never try and steal another woman's regular.'

For a good hour, Fabiola concentrated hard as Pompeia lectured her on the subjects of personal hygiene, the herbs to drink that prevented pregnancy, and how to make interesting conversation with a man. Every so often one of the others would chip in. Pompeia talked completely without embarrassment, and eventually Fabiola began to feel more at ease.

'Some men just want to lie in your arms and fall asleep.'

'Who cares as long as they pay?' interjected the Nubian, to shrieks of amusement.

'And then your twentieth customer arrives,' intoned another. 'A soldier returning from years on campaign. The bastards always want to go at it like Priapus himself!'

The women roared with laughter.

'At the Lupanar, it's rare to see more than two or three men a night,' said Pompeia reassuringly. 'One of the perks of working in an expensive brothel. But you have to learn to be an amazing lover.'

Claudia groaned loudly. 'Performer, more like.'

Pompeia smiled in acknowledgement. 'No man must ever leave unsatisfied, or you'll get a name for being frigid.'

'And Jovina will be at your throat before the customer is out the door,' said a plump, black-haired girl.

There was a chorus of agreement from those listening.

Pompeia began to explain various sexual positions and techniques to Fabiola, and the girl's eyes widened. It seemed that Jovina had only described a small number to her.

'Use my mouth and tongue?' Fabiola screwed up her face. 'Like that?'

'The Lupanar's signature act. Men love it. So get good at it quickly,' replied Pompeia in a serious voice. 'No whores in Rome are as good as we are.'

'Make sure he is clean first,' advised the Nubian with a wink.

'Washing him can be part of your technique.'

'Sounds revolting.'

'Better get used to the idea, my child.' Pompeia took Fabiola's hand. 'Your body is no longer your own. The Lupanar owns us completely.'

Fabiola met the other's gaze with some difficulty. 'It is a lot to take in.' She would have no choice about who paid for her time and someone like Gemellus might be her first customer. Fabiola instantly decided that sex would be her job and nothing else. A way to survive. It was the brutal reality of her new profession. She thought of Romulus training as a gladiator, risking his life with little or no chance of escape. If this new life was a success, she would be able to buy his freedom one day. It was up to her.

'You're clever and beautiful.' Pompeia grinned slyly. 'Learn to pleasure a man well and you could nab a nice old senator.'

'With a house on the Palatine Hill!' added Claudia.

Fabiola nodded firmly.

The redhead smiled and squeezed her hand.

'Tell me everything I need to know.'

Pompeia resumed Fabiola's education with more details of the physical act. This time the thirteen-year-old paid even more attention.

At last Pompeia lay back in the water, luxuriating in the heat. 'That's enough for one morning,' she said, closing her eyes. 'Get cleaned up. Jovina will want you available soon.'

Fabiola's heart quickened, but she obeyed.

Soon after, Pompeia took her to try on the linen robe again. She turned the young girl round in front of a bronze mirror, then wove some flowers through her thick black hair.

'Just need a hint of perfume.' She plucked a tiny glass phial from inside her dress and handed it to Fabiola. 'This will be delicate enough.'

Fabiola lifted the bottle to her nose. 'Lovely.'

'Rose-water. A Greek sells it in the market. I'll take you there soon. Dab some on your neck and hands.'

Fabiola obeyed, enjoying the beautiful smell.

'Worth every last sestertius.'

'I'm sorry!' She had applied a large amount without even thinking.

'Don't worry. You can look out for me when I need help,' said Pompeia warmly. 'Time to meet the customers. Jovina will be getting impatient.'

Fabiola took a deep breath. There was little point in prolonging the inevitable. She followed Pompeia down the corridor, head held high.

Chapter VIII: A Close Call


Rome, 56 BC

Tarquinius tossed a copper coin at the stallholder and turned away, tearing at the crust of the small loaf. It was early afternoon and the Etruscan had not eaten since dawn. Although his stomach grumbled for more, the fresh bread would suffice until later. Tarquinius had more on his mind than hunger. Finding Caelius. He had only been in the city for a week, and frustratingly there had been no sign of his former master at all. It seemed that nobody knew of a middle-aged, red-haired noble with a bad temper. Tarquinius' daily sacrifices had been equally unhelpful in revealing Caelius' whereabouts. It was the nature of haruspicy to be obscure from time to time and by now he was used to it. Without any guidance, plain footwork through the busy streets would have to do.

The Forum Romanum was as good a place as any to wait and watch. The most important open space in the city, it was thronged with citizens from sunrise until sunset every day. Here was the Senate, the centre of the democracy that had taken control of Italy after crushing the Etruscans' civilisation. Here were row upon row of shops in the basilicae where countless lawyers, scribes, merchants and bankers vied for business. The air was filled with shouts and cries as each competed with his neighbours. Limbless cripples held up begging cups, hoping for alms while moneylenders sat at coin-laden tables nearby. Rolls of parchment by their feet detailed the unfortunates who were in their power. Hard-faced armed men lounged behind them: security against theft and debt collectors rolled into one.

Finishing the loaf, Tarquinius pushed his way through the crowds, working his way towards the steps up to the temple of Castor. It was a good vantage point. His eyes constantly scrutinised the faces of those passing by. The haruspex was an expert at being unobtrusive, which was exactly what he wanted. And if noticed, Tarquinius appeared very unremarkable. A slight figure with long blond hair, he was wearing a typical thigh-length Roman tunic; sturdy sandals clad his dusty feet. Over one shoulder hung his pack, containing a few clothes and the golden-headed lituus. A cloak concealed the Etruscan battleaxe hanging on his back.

Tarquinius had discovered long ago that it drew attention — of the wrong kind. The small pouch hanging from a leather thong around his neck contained his two most valuable possessions: the ancient map and the ruby. The haruspex reached inside his tunic and rubbed the huge jewel absentmindedly, a comforting gesture he made when thinking.

At the foot of the imposing carved steps to the shrine was a group of soothsayers wearing distinctive blunt-peaked hats and long robes. Their kind were to be found everywhere in Rome, feeding on people's superstitions and desires. Tarquinius often found himself sitting near such men, partly so he could smile at their fraudulent claims and partly because it comforted him to see an art practised that he himself seldom did in public. If he was near enough, it was possible for him to divine from the fraudsters' sacrifices, a habit that amused Tarquinius greatly.

The Etruscan's mind ranged back to the last time he had seen his mentor, fourteen years before. Incredibly, Olenus had been at peace with his destiny, content that his knowledge had been safely passed on. It had been much more difficult for Tarquinius, who had battled with himself all the way to the latifundium, the liver and other artefacts weighing him down. Only his love and respect for Olenus had prevented Tarquinius from climbing back up the mountain to fight Rufus Caelius and the legionaries. But it would have been wrong to have interfered. One of the cornerstones of the old haruspex' teaching had been that each man's fate was his own.

Tarquinius knew now that the whole experience had been part of Olenus' final lesson to him. Returning two days later to prepare a funeral pyre for the man he had loved as a father had changed him for ever. It had made him utterly determined to carry out Olenus' wishes to the letter. He was the last Etruscan haruspex.

On his final, grief-stricken return from the mountain, Tarquinius had prised the ruby from the hilt of the ancient sword and buried the weapon and the liver in a grove near Caelius' villa. This was partly because he preferred to fight with an Etruscan battleaxe and partly because the fine blade would have attracted too much attention. He was sure that Olenus would have understood. The gem had been worn against his heart ever since.

In deep gloom, he filled a pack and said goodbye to his mother, knowing he would never see her again. Fulvia understood instantly when he mentioned that Olenus had predicted this road for him; nearby his father was lying in a drunken stupor. The young man kissed Sergius' brow and whispered in his ear, 'The Etruscans will not be forgotten.' The sleeping figure rolled over, smiling gently. It lifted Tarquinius' spirits as he walked along the dusty track that led to the nearest road.

A good place to start, Rome had drawn him south. Tarquinius had never visited the capital before and its great buildings did not fail to impress him. He was immediately drawn to the great temple of Jupiter, where he witnessed the priests as they emerged from a reading of the Etruscan libri. The young haruspex burned with rage while watching the Roman augurs pronounce their interpretation of the winds and clouds that day. And it was incorrect. The sacred books stolen from Etruscan cities were in the keeping of charlatans. It crossed his mind to steal the libri, but there was little point. Where would he take them? Copies had already been made and stored elsewhere and if he were caught, the lictores would sew Tarquinius in a sack and drop him in the Tiber.

In the event a week in the city had been enough. The Etruscan had not known anyone there and lodgings were filthy and expensive. Slightly at a loss, Tarquinius headed south on the Via Appia. Ten miles from the city, he paused by a roadside well to slake his thirst. A group of legionaries were resting under some trees, their javelins and shields stacked nearby. Soldiers were a common sight on the roads, marching to join their units, being sent on engineering duties or heading to war. Despite his training, Tarquinius still struggled not to hate their very existence and what they stood for. It was such legionaries who had crushed the Etruscans centuries before. But his emotions were well hidden as he leaned back against a thick trunk, chewing on a piece of bread and cheese.

Seeing Tarquinius' wiry build and the axe he had unslung from his back, the centurion strolled up and asked him to enlist. Rome was always on the lookout for men who could fight. With a smile, the Etruscan had complied. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to join the force which had been responsible for the subjugation of his people. He had been expecting it.

After two months of hard training, the legions took Tarquinius to Asia Minor and the third war between Rome and Mithridates, the King of Pontus. There the general Lucullus, a former right-hand man of Sulla's, had been fighting for three years. By the time the haruspex arrived, Lucullus had successfully vanquished Mithridates, forcing the king into neighbouring Armenia, where he licked his wounds under the protection of its ruler, Tigranes. Mithridates was still a free man. And as Rome knew from previous bitter experience, this meant the conflict was not over.

Rebuffing all offers of friendship, Tigranes refused to hand over Mithridates, which made him fair game in the general's eyes. Without hesitation, Lucullus led Tarquinius and his legions into Armenia. Battle was joined near the capital city of Tigranocerta. Although vastly outnumbered, Lucullus had crushed the Armenian forces, winning one of the most stunning victories in the Republic's history. Tens of thousands of the enemy were killed. Tarquinius fought with great distinction, helping to turn the enemy flank at a crucial stage in the battle. Using the Roman gladius when in formation, the young soldier switched to his battleaxe when pursuing the Armenians from the field. Nearby legionaries watched in awe as its iron blades flashed through the air, carving men in two. Tarquinius' reward was a promotion to tesserarius, the junior officer in charge of the guard in each century.

He smiled at the memory. Once Tarquinius' centurion had realised that the new tesserarius was capable of filling in the complex duty rosters on his own, he had offloaded large amounts of paperwork on to him. Soon Tarquinius was requisitioning supplies, calculating the men's pay and ordering new equipment.

Meanwhile, Mithridates had escaped yet again. Returning to Pontus, he raised new armies and defeated the local Roman forces there. Bogged down in Armenia, where he was now fighting a guerrilla war, Lucullus had been powerless to respond. To make matters worse, mutiny broke out among his own troops, who by now had been on campaign with him for six long years. Like all legionaries, they had endured harsh discipline and constant danger for little pay. During another long, cold winter under canvas, rumours arose about the generous treatment that Pompey's veterans had received. Despite the efforts of Tarquinius and the other officers, they swept through the legions. And fuelling the discontent was an arrogant and disgruntled young patrician called Clodius Pulcher. He was Lucullus' brother-in-law and Tarquinius had disliked him on sight. Sending his troublesome relation packing, Lucullus dragged his mutinous army to Pontus by sheer force of will, but was no longer able to trust it in combat against Mithridates.

While there was little actual resistance left in the area, no complete victory had been obtained. In situations like this, Rome was merciless.

Pompey Magnus was immediately dispatched to the rescue with the largest force ever sent to the east. Upon the newcomer's arrival, Tarquinius watched with the rest of the soldiers as Pompey stripped Lucullus of both his command and his legions, reducing him to a private citizen. It was a demeaning end for the able general.

Pompey swiftly mopped up the last pockets of resistance, driving Mithridates into the hills, a broken man. Armenia became a new Roman province, Tigranes a mere client king. Peace was restored to Asia Minor and the wily Pompey took all the credit. By this time, Tarquinius had spent four years in the legions. It had been a surprise to find that military life suited him. The camaraderie, the foreign languages and cultures, even the fighting provided the young Etruscan with much more than his former life on the latifundium. Or so he had thought. Since joining up, he had avoided the few chances to perform divinations that had come along, even choosing not to study the weather patterns.

First he had tried to explain it as a way of keeping a low profile, but finally Tarquinius realised that it had all been an attempt to forget his grief, to pretend that Olenus had not gone for ever. This revelation had made the Etruscan desert the army, determined to rediscover himself. Leaving his unit without permission was a crime punishable by death, and had instantly made Tarquinius a fugitive. This knowledge did not trouble him. As long as he did not draw attention to himself, the haruspex knew that he could pass virtually anywhere without being detected. His disappearance would cause little fuss: he had been just another of the rank and file in Rome's legions.

And so Tarquinius visited the temples of nearby Lydia, seeking evidence of links with the Rasenna, his people. He found little more than the occasional shrine to Tinia and a few crumbling tombs. This was enough to prove that the Etruscans had lived there, but not whether they had previously come from somewhere else. Unable to draw himself away from the Mediterranean yet, the young haruspex journeyed to Rhodes and encountered the great philosopher Posidonius, whose opinion on the ascendancy of Rome had interested him greatly. Visits to North Africa and the ruins of Carthage followed, then Hispania and Gaul. Always he took great care to avoid military camps and the men who populated them. Rome sent its soldiers all over the known world, and even in far-flung outposts it was remotely possible he might encounter someone who knew him as a deserter.

It did not matter where Tarquinius laid his head. Every night he was haunted by images of Caelius, his former master.

Eventually Rome draws you back. A desire for revenge.

Olenus had been correct. More than a decade after he had left Italy, Tarquinius returned, bent on one thing. Retribution. A price had to be exacted for the death of his mentor.

Deep in thought, Tarquinius did not hear the loud voice until it was practically upon him.

'Make way!' cried a huge bodyguard stalking in front of an imposing litter borne by four muscular slaves. Liberal strokes of a cane whipped the shoulders of anyone slow to obey him. 'Make way for Crassus, the conqueror of Spartacus!'

'I thought that was Pompey,' quipped a man nearby.

There were roars of amusement from those who heard. Crassus was still famously angry at the manner in which his rival Pompey had stolen the credit for crushing the slave rebellion fifteen years previously.

Drawing his gladius with a scowl, the bodyguard swung round to see who had made the insolent remark. Used to shouting insults, the citizen ducked his head, making himself anonymous in the crowd. While they had little say in what went on in their name, the people of Rome were free to make their opinions known. Politicians had to live with such taunts and the graphic, poorly spelt graffiti that was often daubed on the walls of public buildings or their own homes. The perpetrators were rarely caught. Venting his fury, the guard reached out and slapped the flat of his blade across the nearest street urchin's back. The loud yelp this produced brought a sour smile to his face.

Tarquinius watched keenly as the litter came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Inside was the man who had paid Caelius a fortune for the information about the bronze liver and Tarquin's sword. He was therefore indirectly responsible for Olenus' death. Those around the Etruscan also craned their heads to see. Crassus was one of the most prominent nobles in Rome and although less popular than Pompey, he was so rich that everyone at least admired him. Or envied him.

Lifting the cloth of the litter's side, the bodyguard indicated to his master that they had arrived. There was a brief pause and then a short, greyhaired man wearing a fine toga emerged. He stood to acknowledge the crowd for a moment, his piercing gaze judging their mood. Public approval was important to all those who wished to achieve high office. And Crassus did. Everyone knew that. The stranglehold that he, Pompey and Julius Caesar had on the reins of power was growing ever tighter. While the rivalry between the members of the triumvirate remained behind the scenes, the city was constantly awash with rumours. It seemed that each man wanted sole power. At virtually any cost.

'People of Rome,' Crassus began dramatically. 'I have come to the temple of great Castor to seek his blessing.'

There was a sigh of anticipation.

'I wish the great horseman himself to give me a sign,' announced Crassus. 'A divine seal of approval.'

He waited.

Tarquinius looked around, seeing the tension rise in men's faces. Crassus is learning to work the mob, he thought.

'For what, Master?' It was the man who had cracked the joke about Pompey. Even he wanted to know why Crassus had come to pay homage.

Pleased by the question, Crassus rubbed his beaked nose. 'A sign that I will gain great glory for Rome!'

This produced an instant cheer.

'As governor of Syria, I will expand the Republic's borders to the east,' said Crassus boldly. 'Crush the savages who mock us. Who threaten our civilised ways!'

Roars of agreement rose into the air.

This was a common theme. If Rome considered herself in peril, then woe betide those who were perceived to be responsible. The mightiest power on the Mediterranean in an age, Carthage had dared to wage war against the Republic two centuries before. It had taken three long wars, but eventually its cities had been ground into dust by the legions.

Tarquinius had to respect the casual arrogance of even the lowliest citizen. They were scared of nothing. And though most had no understanding of why Crassus craved the leadership of Syria, the idea of military glory appealed to all. It did not matter that there had actually been no insults made, no envoys killed in the east. Romans instinctively respected war. Since deepest antiquity, its people had fought for it every year, returning to their farms each autumn.

'And when I come back,' Crassus continued, 'I will double the distribution of grain!'

This produced an even better response. Thanks to the precipitous decline in the price of agricultural goods, most of the population were now landless and dependent on congiaria, handouts of food and money, for their survival. The current amount of grain allowed was not enough for a family to survive for a year and any promise to increase it would be met with instant approval.

Crassus smiled with satisfaction and mounted the steps to the entrance, the cries sweeping behind him in a great wave of sound. At the top, a grovelling priest waited to usher him inside. The clamour was gradually replaced by excited muttering as the crowd discussed what they had just witnessed.

Tarquinius understood exactly what was going on. The visit to the temple had been completely staged. This was the busiest time of day in the Forum. If Crassus had wished to say his prayers in private, he would only have needed to arrive a few hours earlier or later. The ante was obviously upping in the struggle for dominance. Keen to emulate the military successes of his rivals, Crassus was beginning to reveal his hand. Tarquinius lifted his eyes upwards, squinting in the bright sunshine. A fair breeze. Few clouds. Soon the air would change, bringing rain.

Crassus will travel east with an army, he thought. To Parthia and beyond.

And I will go with him.

'Tarquinius!'

He was so unused to hearing his own name that for a moment the haruspex did not react.

'Tesserarius!' cried the same voice.

Tarquinius stiffened and his eyes quickly focused on a familiar figure shoving his way through the onlookers. The unshaven man was about thirty-five, of average height, with hair close cut in the military style. A drink-stained tunic failed to conceal the wiry muscle of his arms and legs, while a belt with a short dagger proved the newcomer was a soldier. The Etruscan spun on his heel, but already his left arm had been taken in a firm grip.

'Forgotten all your old comrades?' sneered the man.

Feigning surprise, Tarquinius turned back. 'Legionary Marcus Gallo,' he said calmly, cursing his decision to remain inconspicuous. It meant that his own knife was out of reach in his pack. 'Finally been thrown out of the army for drunkenness?'

Gallo's lip curled. 'I'm on official leave. Deserter scum,' he hissed. 'Remember what they do to men like you? I'm sure the centurion would be delighted to demonstrate.' He glanced around blearily, clearly looking for his drinking companions.

They were nowhere to be seen — yet. But with so many people in the vicinity, attention had immediately been drawn by the accusation. Tarquinius' pulse quickened. He took a deep breath, asking for the gods' forgiveness. The Etruscan had little choice. Gallo's grip was like a vice on his arm. If he did nothing, he would be hanging on a cross by sunset, an example to all.

'You drunken fool!' Tarquinius cried, smiling broadly. 'Have you forgotten how I saved your miserable life in Pontus?'

The swift, humorous response was exactly what was needed. Frowns were replaced by laughs and most of those nearby looked away. Gallo scowled and opened his mouth to rebut Tarquinius' comment.

Before he could say a word, the haruspex stepped in close and drew the other's dagger with his right hand. Pretending that they were embracing like old friends, Tarquinius shoved the blade between Gallo's ribs, straight into his heart. The legionary's eyes bulged with surprise and his mouth gaped like a fish out of water. Tarquinius kissed him on the cheek as Gallo's grip fell away, allowing him to hold the mortally injured man upright with his left arm. In the close-packed throng, no one saw what was happening.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Gallo's features went slack and a dribble of spit ran from his lips.

The haruspex twisted the dagger to make sure.

There was a burst of laughter from the crowd as a ripe tomato flew through the air to hit Crassus' bodyguard in the face. It was followed by a hail of red fruit. Intent on revenge, the bruised street urchin had returned with plenty of reinforcements. Wearing little more than rags, the gang of filthy children screamed with glee as they hurled their stolen tomatoes at the guard. He cursed and swept his blade at them, but they easily dodged his half-blinded attempts. Men smiled and pointed, shouting encouragement at both sides. Nobody was paying attention to the two soldiers any longer.

It was the perfect opportunity for Tarquinius. Gently he lowered Gallo to the ground, turning him face down so that the red stain on his chest wasn't visible. Then he plunged into the crowd, taking a direct line towards the nearest street off the Forum. Within two dozen paces, he would no longer be discernible to those on the temple steps. Even if the fools noticed, they wouldn't be able to catch him.

But the chance encounter with Gallo had been a close escape. It must not happen again. Tarquinius stepped into an alleyway and took off his bloody cloak, wrapping it around the axe. He would have to be even more cautious and from now on, the distinctive weapon would stay in his lodgings. No one must suspect who the Etruscan was and why he was in Rome.

The smell of cooking pork from a nearby stall reached Tarquinius' nostrils and his stomach rumbled in response. Reaching into his purse, the haruspex walked calmly towards the tantalising odour. A smile played across his lips.

Parthia. Olenus had been right yet again.

Загрузка...