The Road To Rome

Chapter XIX: Four Triumphs

Near Ostia, late summer 46 BC The breeze strengthened, billowing the trireme's main sail and increasing its speed, forcing it through the water and raising a decent bow wave. The rate of the pounding drum on the rowing deck did not vary, however. The three banks of oars on each side continued to move in unison at the normal rate — about half the speed of a man's heartbeat. Graceful to look at, it was hot, cramped and backbreaking work for the oarsmen. Standing near the prow in just his belted tunic and caligae, Romulus gave thanks once more that he'd never had to serve in the navy. Although the rowers were free men, in his mind their job was far worse than being a legionary. Physically more demanding than the marching and fighting expected of soldiers, the career of a rower also offered the distinct possibility of drowning. Triremes were excellent vessels in the relative calm of waters close to land, but they were death-traps in bad weather or on the open ocean. Romulus could still remember the numerous ships lost on his voyage to Asia Minor with Crassus' army. Caesar's fleet had not been immune either.

That was all in the past, though. It was late summer, and the ten triremes had nearly reached Ostia, Rome's port. Joy filled Romulus. He was returning home, and as a citizen! It scarcely seemed possible, but he'd had time to let the reality sink in on the voyage from Africa. Taking a peek at the two gold phalerae lying in his pack helped too — after all, they were awards which only a citizen could receive. The second had been awarded after he'd saved Sabinus from the elephant. Romulus grinned at the memory of what Caesar had said as he'd pinned the decoration on his chest. 'Trying to win the war all on your own, comrade?'

Of course it hadn't been all Romulus' doing, but the campaign in Africa was over, ended in one day by the victory at Thapsus. After several months of cleaning up-operations, Caesar was returning to the capital to celebrate his conquests with not one, but four triumphs. In a massive propaganda stroke, one was to take place for each of his campaigns in Gaul, Egypt, Asia Minor and Africa. A grateful Senate had declared forty days of public thanksgiving for the dictator's latest victory while pretending that it had been over the Numidian king, not Scipio and a huge number of prominent Republicans. No mention was being made either of Caesar's first success over other Romans: Pharsalus, where his legions had thrashed twice their number under the command of Pompey.

Romulus stared excitedly at the coastline which was running along their starboard side, still amazed that he and Sabinus were accompanying Caesar back to Italy. Yet they were, along with a special century of legionaries. After Thapsus, the legates of all ten legions had each been asked to put forward eight soldiers. The eighty men were to form part of Caesar's honour guard for his triumphs, and were positions of the highest standing. Throughout the army the competition was fierce to win a place. As battle-hardened, frontline officers, the centurions and senior centurions were best placed to judge, and so the legates had referred the matter to them.

There had been plenty of witnesses to Romulus' incredible rescue of Sabinus and of course the pair had previously taken part in the attack on Petreius. Consequently Atilius fought hard to have both included as part of the Twenty-Eighth's quota. His stubbornness won the day, and along with four other legionaries, an optio and a signifer, the two friends were ordered to join the ships carrying Caesar back to Italy. Meanwhile, the majority of the army was embarking for Hispania, where Pompey's two sons were reputed to be raising a huge army among the discontented tribes.

That was where the honour guard would be heading after the triumphs. Caesar had told them so himself before they sailed from Africa. This would be a short visit to Italy then, with little free time to search for Fabiola or Gemellus. Romulus tried not to feel bitter about that. There was Sabinus, playing dice on the deck with three others, who would not see his family at all. Their comrades' stories were similar. Few men, if any, had seen their homes in years. Why should I be any different? thought Romulus. Catching sight of Caesar's red cloak on the deck of the lead trireme, he thought guiltily of the enormous honour he was being shown to be here. What right had he to expect anything other than a new military campaign when the celebrations were over? He was nothing but an ordinary legionary, and as such had to do what he was told until the day, if he survived, his service came to an end.

Romulus knew that there was more to his discontent than a simple desire to quit the legions. Guilt about his feat against the elephant ruled him entirely. Months had passed, and he still obsessed about it on a daily basis. The realisation that he could not only emerge unharmed from an encounter with such a beast, but save Sabinus as well, gnawed at Romulus' insides like a malignant parasite. It could never be proved, but Brennus might have done the same in India as he, Romulus, had at Thapsus. If only Tarquinius were here, Romulus wished. He might be able to glean some information from the wind or clouds. Even a hint would help. But who knew where the haruspex was? He sighed, unwilling since Margiana to make an attempt himself. Tarquinius was long gone, which meant that he had to live with the doubt about Brennus. That was worse than thinking his big friend was dead.

As always, any thought of the haruspex was tinged with suspicion. Could he have known of Brennus' potential to beat an elephant? Romulus wasn't sure. Any time he and Tarquinius had talked about it, there had been no sense of the haruspex withholding information. Not that that meant a thing. Tarquinius was a master of concealment.

Stop it, Romulus thought. Whatever the haruspex was, he wasn't evil. The look on his face in Alexandria had convinced Romulus that he hadn't actually known how his murder of Rufus Caelius would affect others. With his belief system that a man should decide his own fate, it would not have been for Tarquinius to stop Brennus facing his own death either. While Romulus' guilt remained strong, he felt the same way about destiny.

'Ostia ahoy!' shouted the lookout.

Romulus buried his worries for now.

He was nearly home. Fabiola glared at the dead hen lying before her. Its throat had been cut, and its entrails carefully laid out on the ground for inspection. 'Tell me again,' she demanded.

'Of course, Mistress,' the soothsayer said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down uneasily in his scrawny neck. Stoop-shouldered in his grubby robe, the soothsayer wore a typical blunt-peaked leather hat. A short knife with a bloody, rust-spotted blade dangled from his right hand. Pointing with it, he repeated his prophecy. 'You will find a husband soon. A big man with brown hair. A soldier perhaps?' The soothsayer shot a sly glance at Fabiola, trying to assess her response. 'Or maybe he's a noble.' He smiled, revealing a mouthful of decay.

'Liar!' Fabiola spat. 'Antonius will never marry me. What do you take me for — one of your usual gullible fools?'

Startled, the soothsayer busied himself with the hen's intestines again, poking a dirty fingernail here and there in search of wisdom. This was a consultation he was already wishing was over, but there would be no end to it until he came up with something convincing.

Her nostrils flaring, Fabiola sat drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. They were alone in the courtyard of the Lupanar. She'd been recommended this idiot by a number of the brothel's clients, and had summoned him here to avoid being seen seeking a divination in public. Her reason was simple, and stark. Her life had changed utterly since the night of Docilosa's death, and it was down to one person. Raw terror filled Fabiola at the mere thought of Marcus Antonius. Why had she got involved with him? Her regular visits to the Mithraeum and to the temple of Jupiter made no difference at all; and, still full of shame over what had happened to Docilosa, she dared not go to Orcus' shrine for fear of seeing Sabina. Fickle as ever, the gods had discarded her. Perhaps for ever, thought Fabiola, bitterness coursing through her veins.

She scowled. Brutus' reaction to her affair stung her conscience even now. 'Once a whore, always a whore,' he'd said. Fabiola's purpose hadn't changed, however. Nothing but death would stop her wanting to kill Caesar, yet her lover's departure had scuppered her best chances of recruiting conspirators. Customers who were willing to profess a hatred of the dictator were proving to be non-existent. Despite Caesar's leniency towards his former enemies, the fear of reprisal was too great in men's minds. So here I am, Fabiola thought angrily, waiting for a conman to fill my head with false promises, when what I really need is a way back into Brutus' good books. Or a new, powerful lover who hates Caesar. As if this fraudster can tell me how to do that. 'Well?' she snapped.

His face twitching with nerves, the soothsayer looked up. He'd done his homework on Fabiola before coming to the brothel, knew about her affair with Antonius and her break-up with Brutus. If she didn't desire the obvious thing that most women in her situation would want — marriage to Antonius — what did she want? 'An old lover comes back to you,' he said, taking a desperate guess.

Fabiola's head jerked up, and she fixed him with an icy gaze. 'Go on,' she demanded harshly.

Pleased by this small advance, the soothsayer decided to wax lyrical. 'Once you are reunited, everything will be as it was. Your lover will rise even higher in Caesar's regard, and your future will be secured for ever. There will be children…'

'Stop!' Fabiola screamed. 'Do you think that promising everything you think I want will make me happy?'

'Mistress, I…' he began.

'Charlatan.' Fabiola's voice dripped with contempt. 'Get out.'

Bowing and scraping, the soothsayer bundled the butchered hen into a dirty leather bag. It would do for his dinner that night. When he'd finished, he risked a glance at Fabiola. 'My fee?'

Fabiola laughed. 'Benignus,' she called.

The massive doorman emerged instantly from his waiting place just behind the door into the house. As always, his metal-studded club hung from one hand. There was also a dagger shoved casually into his wide leather belt. 'You require something, Mistress?'

The soothsayer's eyes bulged with fear, but he didn't move. Benignus was blocking the exit.

'Throw this fool out.'

Benignus shuffled forward and took a firm hold of the man's arm. 'Come quietly and I won't hurt you,' he growled. 'It's your choice.'

The soothsayer nodded. Further protests would result in broken bones, or worse. Meek as a lamb, he disappeared with Benignus.

Brooding, Fabiola looked down at the smears of blood left on the flag-stones. The prophecy had clearly been false, but it had still upset her. She wanted no happy reunion with Brutus if she couldn't convert him to her cause. No happy family life unless Caesar paid for his crime. Her mother had to be avenged.

She sat motionless for a long time. The shadows grew long in the courtyard as the sun went down. The temperature began to drop, and eventually Fabiola shivered. Feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. Perhaps the soothsayer had been partly right. If she stopped seeing Antonius, maybe Brutus would come back to her. A spark of hope lit in Fabiola's tired heart, but her throat closed with fear at what the Master of the Horse might do if she spurned him. Nonetheless, she steeled her resolve. If things continued as they were, her life wasn't worth living. It wasn't as if she hadn't existed under the constant risk of death before and survived to tell the tale.

Her spirits lifted a fraction.

She would go to one of Caesar's triumphs and seek out Brutus. In a public place, he couldn't avoid her and, by begging, she might engineer a reconciliation. Antonius would be there, but with the gods' help, she could avoid him. For the moment. Fabiola did not allow herself to dwell on the matter further. It was time to think happy thoughts. Maybe she'd meet a soldier at the triumph who knew Romulus. It was a pleasing fantasy, and Fabiola took comfort from it. Tarquinius saw the soothsayer being ejected from the brothel. Flying through the doorway in a tangle of limbs, he landed on the hard-packed dirt with a bone-crunching thump.

Smiling, one of the massive doormen emerged after him. 'Don't come back,' he warned.

Picking up his scuffed leather bag, the lank-haired augur scuttled off.

Tarquinius grimaced, feeling like a fraud too. His visit to the mountain had not achieved nearly as much as he'd hoped for. Still, it had been worthwhile. Moving his parents' bones to a tomb befitting pure-bred Etruscans had been poignant but satisfying, and spending a day by Olenus' burial mound had eased his reawakened sorrow somewhat. While his old mentor had died violently, he'd walked to meet it with both eyes open, a decision that pained Tarquinius but which he had to respect. In the cave, he'd been dismayed to find the amazing battle chariot smashed into little pieces, probably by the legionaries who had accompanied Caelius. The inspirational paintings of Etruscan life had been defaced too — with the exception of that depicting Charon. Even the Romans respected the demon of the underworld. All the same, the deliberate damage brought home to Tarquinius the utter finality of Etruria's decline into oblivion. His people's civilisation was gone for ever, which gave him the sensation of being very alone. He longed to see Romulus again, which had brought him back to the purpose of his visit.

The haruspex had dug up the bronze liver and carried it up the mountain, hoping that it would help him with a divination. Yet again, though, he had been frustrated. Not a thing had been revealed in the entrails or the liver of the plump lamb he'd caught on his ascent. In an unusual loss of self-control, Tarquinius had railed and ranted at the cloudy sky and the few vultures hanging in it. Of course his outburst had done nothing except make him feel foolish. It was only when he'd calmed down that the sole revelation of his climb became clear.

The haruspex saw a clear picture of himself in Rome, and of Caesar standing alone. Ominous storm clouds were building overhead. Then, in close succession, he'd seen Romulus and Fabiola. His suspicions about their parentage hardened into certainty. Neither looked happy either, which worried Tarquinius. Were both of them in danger? From Caesar? Why? At once he had known that he still needed to be in the capital. Making the time first to rebury the liver beside Tarquin's ornate gladius, he had taken his leave of Caecilius and the latifundium. The lump of bronze was too bulky to carry about and the sword would attract too much attention. What a man like Caesar would do to possess such a weapon, he thought bitterly. Perhaps Tarquinius would reveal their location to someone in the future. He hoped so. On the road south, he knew that this had been his final visit home.

Reaching Rome, the haruspex had immediately returned to the Lupanar to see if anything had changed. Seeing the soothsayer's dramatic exit on his first morning was more reward than he'd expected. Fabiola was also seeking guidance of some kind, and not just the usual rubbish spouted by such conmen. As this realisation sank home, Tarquinius got to his feet. Barely remembering to act the simpleton, he hurried after the charlatan. A soothing word in the man's ear and a coin or two would secure some much needed information about Romulus' sister.

If the gods wouldn't help him, then he'd help himself.

Caesar's first triumph was to celebrate his conquest of Gaul. Although Romulus and the men of the Twenty-Eighth had not taken part in that campaign, they were part of his honour guard and so were to accompany him anyway. The preparations for all four triumphs went on for several weeks after their arrival in Rome. Daily at dawn the honour guard, Caesar's unprecedented seventy-two lictores and hundreds of legionaries from various legions assembled on the Campus Martius, the great plain to the northwest of the city. There an officious master of ceremonies drilled them for hours. The soldiers grumbled but did as they were told. Caesar wanted the event to go off well, and it wasn't as if they were risking their lives any more.

Like his comrades, Romulus was not permitted to leave their camp outside the city, unless it was on official business. This afforded him no opportunity to slope off in search of Fabiola or Gemellus. Part of him was glad. Where would he even begin? Nearly a million people lived in Rome. Who was to say that his sister was here anyway? If Gemellus was ruined, he might no longer be living in the house where Romulus had grown up either. It was odd to feel so helpless now that his dream of returning home had been granted. His guilt about Brennus had eased somewhat, though, for which Romulus was grateful. It wasn't pleasant, berating himself mentally every day.

The frenzied atmosphere in the city also made it easy enough to be absorbed by other things. Everywhere Romulus and his comrades went, they were greeted as heroes. Boys and girls ran alongside them, begging to hold their gladii or shields. Fruit, bread and cups of wine were shoved into their hands by grateful housewives while blessings rained down on their heads from old men and women. Romulus had never known anything like it. As a slave growing up in Rome, he'd been practically invisible to most people, a creature to be ordered about or kicked out of the way. Now he was a conquering hero, and it felt very good. Romulus ignored the niggles of unease which kept surfacing at this attitude. After years of hardship and danger, he was going to enjoy himself whenever possible.

Tens of thousands of peasants had flocked to Rome to see the triumphs, and were living in tents in any available open space. Caesar's largesse knew no bounds, and on alternate days he was providing feasts that were open to all. Thousands of tables were set up in the fora, each one groaning under the weight of fine food and wine. Each day the public could choose to watch athletic or sporting competitions, chariot racing or fights in Pompey's amphitheatre. Hundreds of lions had been procured to appear in large-scale beast hunts. There was even talk of a naval battle taking place on a specially flooded lake which was fed by the River Tiber. Unsurprisingly, Romulus had mixed feelings about the gladiator contests. On the one hand, he felt a burning hatred for the lanistae who sent men in to die, and for the crowds who demanded the fighters' blood. On the other, he had some nostalgic memories of his comradeship with Brennus in the ludus and of the incredible battles they'd survived in the arena. There was an added complication. When the time came for him to leave the army, he'd have to earn a living, and being a gladiator was all Romulus knew. That, and being a soldier. It hurt his head to think too much, so, like his concerns about finding Fabiola, he put his worries off for another day.

Romulus would remember the first triumph until the day he died. The procession assembled on the Campus Martius early in the morning. Preceded by his lictores — twenty-four for each of his three terms as dictator — Caesar rode in a magnificent chariot pulled by a quartet of horses. Wearing a gleaming white toga with a purple edge and with his face painted the red of victory, Caesar had a laurel wreath held over his head by a slave. He looked every part the conquering general. Romulus shouted himself hoarse with his comrades until the fussing master of ceremonies intervened.

Under Caesar's approving gaze, the proud honour guard marched off first, their helmets, mail and shield bosses polished until they glittered like gold. Next were the veterans of Caesar's campaign in Gaul, men who had tramped with him from the Alps to the northern sea, fighting scores of battles against terrible odds. These were the cream of his army, a selection from the soldiers of the Fifth, Tenth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, among others, who loved Caesar as a father and who would follow him to Hades if he asked it.

Then came the captives from the campaign, ten score Gauls picked from the hundreds of thousands captured by Caesar's men. Leading them, with heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles, was Vercingetorix, the valiant chieftain who had led the defence of his land. After six years in captivity, he was a shadow of his former self, a tangle-haired, bearded wretch whose dead eyes spoke volumes about the suffering he'd endured. After the prisoners trundled the wagons of booty from Gaul. They contained swords, axes and shields from the defeated tribes, as well as gold, silver and other precious items. Yet more carts displayed mounted paintings of Caesar's exploits, and placards inscribed with the incredible statistics of his war: the number of enemy killed, the battles won, the size of the territory seized for Rome.

Enjoying the crowd's tumultuous acclaim, Caesar rode at the rear.

It all made for a staggering spectacle.

Yet it didn't entirely go according to plan. Shortly after Caesar had entered the city, an axle broke on his chariot, drawing superstitious cries from the watching throng. Caesar had remained calm, thrown large purses at everyone he could see, and called for a replacement vehicle. Romulus and his comrades had laughed when they heard how easily the crowd's attention was diverted from this bad omen. Their own worries had been allayed by Caesar's humility at the end of the triumphal march, which as always brought the victorious general to the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. To avert any ill fortune, Caesar had crawled up the shrine's steps on his knees, with the cheers of his soldiers filling his ears. Once he had performed his devotions, prominent senators and high-ranking nobles had stood forth, heaping accolades upon Caesar in recognition of his stunning achievement in conquering Gaul. Finally, in an offering to the Republic's state god, Vercingetorix had been ritually strangled.

Crazed with bloodlust, the crowd went wild with excitement.

Romulus' stomach had churned at the sight. In his mind, a warrior deserved a better death than that which Vercingetorix had endured. He couldn't put the chieftain's bulging, terrified eyes or his purple face and swollen tongue from his mind. In an effort to forget the ghastly images, that night Romulus got drunker than he had ever been. He, Sabinus and the others from the honour guard took full advantage of Caesar's bounty and commandeered a corner of the Forum Olitorium as their own. There, a score of tables covered with enough bread, meat, olives and drink to satisfy eighty men for one evening awaited them. While the wine was watered down in the Roman fashion, it still got a man drunk if he consumed enough of it. At last able to give in to the relief of being safely back in Italy alive and unharmed, the legionaries let their hair down, tearing into joints of meat with their teeth and quaffing straight from the clay jugs. Romulus did too.

It wasn't just food and drink which was on offer. The women of the city descended on Caesar's men like Furies, giving their bodies freely and unasked for. Nothing was too much for the soldiers who had earned part of the glory for Rome. In a drunken haze, Romulus had taken a good-looking girl of his own age down an alleyway and coupled with her in a sweat-soaked frenzy. Most of his comrades showed less reserve, humping women over the tables to hoots of encouragement from the others. It went on for much of the night, until one by one the legionaries collapsed to sleep it off amid the mess of broken cups, spilled wine and scraps of food.

The next morning every one of the honour guard had a thumping headache. The centurion in charge — a crusty veteran of the Tenth — let them be. Strict army discipline was relaxed at such times. There was also a rest day before the men's services were required again at the next triumph. Romulus was grateful for the breathing space this granted him. Bleary-eyed and nauseous, he could hold down little more than a sip of water at a time. Losing count of the number of times he'd vomited, he slumped miserably on a bench, bitterly regretting the amount of wine he'd downed the night before.

'Cheer up!' Similarly hung over, Sabinus clapped him on the shoulder.

'Why?' Romulus groaned.

'Only another three to go! Think of the food and wine we'll get. And no one to fight for it.'

Romulus grimaced, wishing that the celebrations were already over.

'There'll be women to fuck too!' Sabinus thumped him none too gently. 'I saw you sneak off with that beauty last night.'

An image of his encounter with the brown-skinned girl surfaced in Romulus' foggy mind, and he grinned. Long years of warfare had left precious little time for sex — apart from rape, which he loathed because of what had happened to his mother. In the face of such famine, Romulus' libido often felt like a chained up, raging beast. Perhaps there were more willing women to be had in the days ahead. That prospect he could look forward to. Romulus raised his head, willing away the pain. 'Is there any wine left?'

Sabinus beamed. 'That's the spirit! Nothing like a hair from the dog that bit you.'

At dawn three days later, Fabiola took Benignus and five other bodyguards and set out for the Capitoline Hill. As she'd hoped, Scaevola and his men were nowhere to be seen. They didn't generally appear near the Lupanar until about midday, the hour when customers began arriving. Mingling with the already heavy crowds, she felt confident of remaining anonymous. The fugitivarius didn't even know she'd left the brothel. Returning there might be a different matter, but they could always leave it until dark. Whatever danger that might pose was of less importance than Fabiola's desire to see Brutus again and to regain his favour.

She deliberately hadn't attended Caesar's first triumph, which celebrated his victories in Gaul. Brutus had played a role in many of the battles there, so he would have been taking part in the procession and therefore unable to speak to her — even if he'd wanted to. Fabiola chose the next triumph, which was to mark Caesar's decisive win over Ptolemy, the teenage Egyptian king. Fabiola had been there for part of it, arriving in Alexandria just after the killing of Pompey by the orders of the king's courtiers. Their effort to curry favour with Caesar had failed in spectacular fashion, as he immediately seized power. His bravado had nearly been his undoing, but yet again Caesar had emerged victorious. Much as she despised him, Fabiola had to admit that his feat had been nothing short of incredible. She'd seen the pressure his troops were under in Alexandria's harbour. Jupiter, grant that Romulus is alive, she prayed, remembering the bloody stories that had reached Rome shortly after she had. Seven hundred legionaries had died that night, and her twin could easily have been among them. She wasn't the only one to risk mortal danger, Fabiola realised. Romulus' fate was out of her hands, though; she'd done her best to find him. If the gods decided to show her favour once more, he would return home one day. Her efforts to find Gemellus had also failed, leaving Caesar as her sole target.

Annexing Egypt, the Republic's bread basket, was immensely popular, explaining the extra heavy throngs on the streets. Thanks to her heavies' ability to force a path through, Fabiola still arrived at the base of the Capitoline Hill in good time. The legionaries on duty there were supposed to prevent ordinary citizens from ascending to the temple but she got her little group through with a combination of flirting, flattery and liberal use of the silver in her purse. Plenty of space was available in the open area before the enormous shrine, which was free of the normal crowd of food-sellers, hawkers of trinkets, soothsayers and prostitutes. The senators and grandees of Rome were just beginning to arrive, bowing reverently to the immense statue of Jupiter which stood before the gold-roofed temple. Following ancient custom for a triumphal day, the god's entire body had just been painted with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. It gave Jupiter an even more regal presence, and Fabiola was careful to whisper another prayer. Then she picked a spot near where she thought Brutus might stand. Groups of senior army officers were already in place, joking and laughing with each other in the easy manner of men who'd lived and fought with each other for years.

Fabiola recognised some of them. During her years with Brutus, she'd met countless members of Rome's military class. Raising the hood of her cloak, she was careful not to look in their direction. Like everyone else, the officers would have heard about their split, and she didn't want anyone warning Brutus of her presence before she got a chance to talk to him. There was little need for her to worry, though. Everyone present was far too excited about Caesar's impending arrival. Military messengers arrived regularly, updating the crowd on his progress through the city. Although it would be more than two hours until he reached the hilltop, all eyes were glued to the spot where the road ended.

Anxiety began creeping over Fabiola as the morning dragged by. Was she making a big mistake? Her unease rose sharply when, with his characteristic flair, Antonius arrived in a British war chariot. As his lictores cleared a large space for him right at the foot of the temple's steps, he idly scanned the crowd. Her heart racing with fear, Fabiola turned away. She let long moments go by before daring to look at what Antonius was doing. She wasn't surprised to see him chatting to the legionaries on guard. Fabiola's dislike of Antonius intensified. He was a violent bully to her, but the Master of the Horse was a figure of adoration to almost the entire army. It was just another of the reasons why she was powerless before him.

Before she knew it, another hour had passed. There was still no sign of Brutus, and Fabiola's hopes of seeing him began to wane. Her attention faltered as Benignus began asking questions about various security matters to do with the Lupanar. When she next studied the group of military officers, Brutus was in their midst. Fabiola's heart fluttered at the sight of him. Pleasant-looking rather than handsome, Brutus cut a dash in full ceremonial dress. Amused by something one of the others said, he smiled and laughed, increasing Fabiola's sadness even more. Previously, that's how he'd acted towards her. Maybe Brutus wasn't just a means to an end, she thought. What had she done by carrying on with Antonius?

'Wait here,' she instructed Benignus. Leaving him protesting in her wake, Fabiola moved purposefully through the waiting throng. To her relief, Antonius was nowhere to be seen. Reaching the group of officers, she faltered. Then a dark-haired tribune with a brightly coloured sash around his waist turned to address the man beside him. Seeing Fabiola, his mouth opened. As a rich teenager, he'd been a frequent and enthusiastic client. Her manumission was the only reason that their trysts had stopped.

Fabiola cursed inwardly. This fool could ruin everything. Giving him a withering look, she brushed past to Brutus' side. He was deep in conversation with a comrade and didn't notice her immediately. Fabiola glanced back at the tribune to check he wasn't following her. Thankfully, he wasn't. Trembling, she reached out and tapped Brutus on the shoulder. He didn't respond, so she did it again, harder. 'Brutus.'

Recognising her voice, he turned, surprise and anger already twisting his features. 'What are you doing here?' He lowered his voice. 'Come to fawn over Antonius?'

'No,' she protested.

'Or Caesar?' he said suspiciously. 'He's been asking for you. Wondering where you were. Why would that be?'

'I don't know,' replied Fabiola desperately, the news chilling her to the bone. She wished that she'd told Brutus of her near rape at Caesar's hands three years before. If she mentioned it now of course, he wouldn't believe her. She had to just plough on. 'Can we talk?'

Brutus snorted. 'Here? Now?'

She touched his arm lightly. 'Please, my love. Give me a few moments.'

Some of the anger left his face, and he sighed. 'Come this way.' Beckoning, he led her past the goggling tribune to the back of the crowd. There was some space leading up to the very edge of the Capitoline Hill, and for a moment they stood in silence, looking down over Rome.

'I've missed you so much,' Fabiola began. Brutus said nothing, but she knew him well enough to see that he shared the same sentiment. The tiny ember of hope in her heart flared up a little. 'Getting involved with Antonius was such a mistake. The man's a brute. He makes me…' A sob rose in her throat at the indignities Antonius regularly forced on her. Her distress wasn't acted, and Fabiola was heartened by Brutus' response.

'What does he do?' he demanded, grabbing his sword hilt.

'Pretty much anything and everything,' boomed a familiar voice. 'And she loves it!'

Blanching, Fabiola spun to find a sneering Antonius not five paces away. To her utter horror, he was accompanied by none other than Scaevola. Dark malice glittered in the fugitivarius' deep-set eyes. Terrified, she moved closer to Brutus.

'What did you say?' Brutus stared at Antonius with clear dislike.

'You heard,' replied Antonius icily. 'Most of the time, it's her who suggests the position. Or the other people.'

Scaevola chuckled.

Despite himself, Brutus looked scandalised. Orgies were not his style.

'Men, women, it doesn't really matter,' Antonius went on, relishing the effect his words were having on Brutus. 'I drew the line at the gladiators, though.'

'No,' Fabiola cried, looking at Brutus. 'He's lying.'

Antonius laughed. 'Lie about a whore like you? Why would I bother?'

Brutus scowled and Fabiola felt the situation slipping from her grasp.

A loud fanfare from the trumpeters announced Caesar's impending arrival, and Brutus' face changed. 'I have to go,' he muttered, turning on his heel.

Fabiola reached out to him. 'Will I see you later?' she pleaded.

His lip curled. 'After what's been said? I don't think so.' Without another word, he strode off.

A black tide of despair swamped Fabiola. If Scaevola had stabbed her there and then, she wouldn't have cared. Of course things were never that simple. The instant Brutus was lost to sight, Antonius moved in. She felt his hand caress her throat.

'Getting tired of me?' he demanded.

Fabiola looked from him to Scaevola, who was grinning delightedly. In spite of her fear, her temper flared. 'More than that,' she hissed. 'I hate you. Touch me again, and I'll…' Her words were lost in a cacophony of blaring trumpets.

'Shame you feel like that. It's been fun. All good things come to an end, though.' Antonius' eyes glinted, reminding Fabiola of a snake which was about to strike. 'I'd love to finish this, but Caesar will think it strange if his deputy isn't there to greet him.' He stepped away, giving Fabiola an unpleasant stare. 'Scaevola can wrap up things for me. Permanently.'

The fugitivarius pressed forward, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. 'Now?' he asked eagerly.

'Not here, you fool,' Antonius snapped. 'Half of Rome is watching. Later.'

Scaevola nodded sullenly and stepped back.

Fabiola took the opportunity to dart into the press of people a few steps away.

They let her go, which was even more frightening.