The Road To Rome

Chapter XXVI: The Plot

Just over three months pass… The Capitoline Hill, Rome, spring 44 BC Romulus glanced sidelong at Tarquinius, trying to judge his mood. With Mattius in tow, they were climbing the Capitoline Hill, intent on visiting the enormous temple to Jupiter there. Numerous attempts by the haruspex to read the future in the Mithraeum had failed, frustrating them both. Something momentous was approaching, Tarquinius said over and over, but he wasn't sure what. Today, no effort would be spared. Still scarred by his own vision in Margiana, Romulus refused to consider the idea that he might try. Yet he needed to know so many things, and it felt as if time was running out. Recently, his suspicions had been roused by the knowledge that a large group of men were holding regular meetings in the Lupanar. Detailing Mattius to sit outside each day, Romulus had soon learned that scores of nobles were involved, including prominent politicians such as Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus. Tellingly, the urchin had not seen Decimus Brutus, Fabiola's lover, which told Romulus that he wasn't the only one to have reservations. This knowledge angered him even more.

He hadn't confronted Fabiola over it for two reasons. First was that she probably wouldn't admit any conspiracy, and secondly Romulus wasn't sure he trusted her any longer. If she actually was going through with her plan, then he was but a small obstacle in her path. Fabiola's original heavies had been replaced by brutal-looking men who looked well capable of killing their mistress's twin brother. None had been especially friendly, even when they'd known who he was, leading Romulus to conclude that he wasn't exactly flavour of the month at the Lupanar. Despite this, he felt loath to take the obvious and opposite path — that of betraying Fabiola and the other conspirators. What if he was wrong about her?

Even if he wasn't, Romulus couldn't bear the idea of his only living relation being permanently taken from him, for that would be the only fate awarded Fabiola if she were caught. Yet the consequences — Caesar's murder — were just as bad. It didn't help that Rome was awash with rumours of plans to assassinate the dictator. One moment it was Marcus Brutus, then another it was Dolabella, one of Caesar's long-term allies. Sometimes it was even purported to be Antonius, the dictator's most loyal follower. Riven by uncharacteristic indecision, Romulus had to know if the threat to Caesar was real, and if so, what he should do about it.

Then there was the thorny subject of Fabiola herself. Could he patch up his relationship with her? No matter how much Romulus wanted it, he could not see a reconciliation happening while his sister was planning to kill Caesar. This awareness further lessened his ties to Rome, but made him feel guilty as Hades. There must be a way to renew the intimacy of their childhood, when they each had only the other.

Only the gods knew the answer to this problem — if they could be persuaded to reveal it.

Romulus also burned to know if Brennus was still alive. He did not let the thrilling idea go to his head. Even if the big Gaul had beaten off the wounded elephant, there was nothing to say that he hadn't been killed immediately afterwards. The Forgotten Legion had been struggling against an overwhelming enemy force when Romulus and Tarquinius had fled, and its fate, like that of Brennus, was unknown. Since Thapsus, though, Romulus had not been able to stop wondering about the Gaul.

His desire to take part in Caesar's forthcoming campaign was fanned by the regular news which swept the city. Thousands of cavalrymen had been recruited from Gaul, Hispania and Germania, and were assembling in Brundisium, the main jumping-off point for voyages to the east. Caesar's legions were gathering too, marching from all over the Republic to the south of Italy, or taking ships there. Romulus knew that he could easily re-enlist in the Twenty-Eighth. There would be little difficulty winning Tarquinius a place either. Although he was older now, the haruspex could still fight, and his medical knowledge equalled, or exceeded, that of most army surgeons. There had been no direct statement about Parthia, but Romulus sensed a growing agitation in the haruspex. His own rootless feelings fed from this.

It made the lack of guidance from Mithras even more frustrating.

'Perhaps Tinia will be more forthcoming,' said Tarquinius.

Startled, Romulus grinned. 'Jupiter, Greatest and Best,' he replied, using the commonest title for the greatest god in Rome. As an Etruscan, the haruspex used his people's name for the deity. 'Let's hope he's in a good mood today.'

Soon after, they reached the vast temple complex that covered the top of the hill. Originally built by the Etruscans, it was the most important religious shrine in Rome. Pilgrims came from far and wide to worship here and to make their pleas of the god. In front of the gold-roofed temple, a huge statue of Jupiter gazed down over the city, looming, protecting and all-seeing.

Romulus muttered a prayer, just as he had as a boy. His daily appeal then had been to kill Gemellus. Although he had not carried through with this wish, he felt as if, aided by Orcus, the god had orchestrated his last confrontation with the cruel merchant. Today his need felt similarly urgent. What should he do about Fabiola and Caesar? Was journeying to Parthia again a good idea? Should he not resolve things with his sister first? From the corner of his eye, Romulus caught Tarquinius also muttering a request.

Both of them were in the same boat.

Shoving past the throngs of citizens, hawkers and entertainers, they climbed the steps to the entrance to the cellae, the sacred rooms which formed the main part of the shrine. There were three, one dedicated to each of the deities, Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. As the pre-eminent god in Rome, Jupiter's was the central chamber. Joining the end of the queue, the trio shuffled forward in silence. Inside, shaven-headed acolytes walked to and fro, swinging bronze vessels from long chains, and releasing the heavy scents of burning incense and myrrh.

Owing to the large numbers of devotees in the long, narrow cella, they were not afforded much time for contemplation. It was a case of bending their knees, placing their offerings — a pile of denarii, a miniature Etruscan bowl and two bronze asses from Mattius — and making a swift request from the forbidding carved stone face above the altar, before withdrawing.

Making their way outside, they blinked as their eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. At once the cella's calm was replaced by the noise of the crowds filling the open area between the temple and the statue of Jupiter. The cries of food vendors competed with acrobats, street performers and peddlers of tat. Here a mother scolded her wayward children, and there a bevy of painted whores stood, doing their best to encourage men down the nearest alley. Cripples, lepers and the diseased filled every available space, presenting a forest of outstretched palms for those kind enough to open their purses.

'What did you ask for?' Romulus asked Mattius.

'Nothing,' answered the urchin.

'Yet you wanted to come in with us.'

'To give thanks,' came the reply. 'And to fulfil my vow.'

Romulus gave him a quizzical look.

'You took me away from my stepfather. Jupiter must be responsible for that,' said Mattius seriously. 'I had been praying to him every night, asking for his help. Then you came along.'

'I see.' Romulus smiled indulgently, before realising that the boy's belief was no different to his. How else could one explain the removal of a huge obstacle from one's life? In his case, it had been the impossibilities of surviving Carrhae and returning to Rome, while in Mattius' it was escaping from the cruelty he suffered daily at home.

When he looked up, Tarquinius was already heading for the men who sold animals for sacrifice. Romulus hurried after him, buying a healthy-looking fawn-coloured kid that caught his eye. The haruspex settled for a plump black hen with bright eyes and clean plumage, and together they shouldered past the soothsayers who instantly converged, offering to reveal their wondrous futures. Mattius bobbed in their wake, amazed at the contempt his friends showed towards the robed augurs. He was even more flabbergasted a few moments later when Tarquinius found a spot right between Jupiter's feet.

'He's a soothsayer?' Mattius whispered.

Romulus nodded.

'Hold this.' Tarquinius handed the hen to Mattius, who accepted it with a nervous smile.

Clearing away the trinkets and small offerings left there by hopeful citizens, the haruspex eyed the paving slabs, which were covered in dark red smears. Romulus saw them too, and understood Tarquinius' purpose. The bloodstains told their own story.

Although he had never seen it done, other people had sacrificed here before.

Taking a deep breath, Tarquinius drew his dagger. 'Give me the bird,' he said in a deep voice. 'It is time.'

As Mattius obeyed, beads of nervous sweat broke out on Romulus' forehead.

Jupiter, Optimus Maximus, tell me what to do, he prayed. 'Welcome,' said Fabiola, inclining her head graciously at Caius Trebonius. 'All the others are here.'

'Good.' Trebonius smiled. A short, balding man in middle age, he still had the muscular physique of someone much younger. With shrewd brown eyes and high cheekbones, he was not dissimilar in appearance to Caesar. His height was the most noticeable difference, yet it did not detract from his presence. Like most of the Roman nobility, he carried himself with the utmost confidence. 'What of Brutus?'

Fabiola shook her head. 'He can't bring himself to join us yet.'

'A shame.' Trebonius sighed. 'Such a son of Rome would be a great addition to our number.' With a courteous bow, he headed to the largest of the bedchambers, which had been converted to a meeting room.

Fabiola followed, still not quite believing that someone else who had served the dictator so faithfully — Trebonius had been a suffect consul the year before — now wanted to kill him. Yet he had been one of the first to join her conspiracy. Responding promptly to her invitation, Trebonius had arrived at the brothel to be treated to a lingering massage by Fabiola herself. This was before three of her best-looking prostitutes had led him, unprotesting, away. 'Do anything he requests,' Fabiola had ordered the trio earlier. 'Absolutely anything.' They all nodded, eagerly eyeing the weighty purses she'd promised them afterwards.

A couple of hours later, Trebonius had been in the most affable of moods. Enjoying a cup of fine wine with Fabiola in the brothel's newly refurbished courtyard, he had been quick to offer his condemnation of Caesar. 'The man's lost the plot. Wearing those red calf-length boots like he's a king of Alba Longa. As for topping his costume off with a gilded laurel wreath, well…' He patted his thinning hair and smiled. 'What the gods give, the gods take away. It isn't for us to hide it under fancy headgear.'

Laughing at his joke, Fabiola had leaned over to refill his cup, making sure that her cleavage was on full display. 'Some of the people think he's a sovereign already,' she said, deliberately alluding to the recent episode when Caesar had been hailed with shouts of 'king' during a procession into the city. Reports of the incident had swept through Rome like wildfire.

Trebonius had scowled. 'So we're supposed to swallow the lie that he's not king, but Caesar. Pah! It's laughable.'

He had gone on to describe why Caesar had to be stopped. It wasn't the dictator's manner or treatment of those who voiced their opposition to him, for in these cases Caesar continued to be mild-mannered and forgiving. Even the tribunes who had ordered the arrest of the man who'd first shouted 'king' had escaped with light punishments. Sulla would not have been so lenient, Trebonius admitted. Nor would other previous dictators. It was the absolute power that Caesar had gathered unto himself, eliminating virtually all the power of the Senate and elected magistrates. Half a millennium of democracy had been swept away in less than two years.

Fabiola had deployed the same tactic with the other prominent nobles whom Brutus had mentioned. Although she'd been prepared to sleep with all the men if she had to, that had not proved necessary, which helped her feel better about herself and her promise to Brutus. Thankfully, the tide of ill feeling against Caesar was running high, and all the disgruntled needed was the catalyst to bring them together. Fabiola had proved to be this medium, and in less than a week she had enlisted the help of Marcus Brutus, Cassius Longinus, Servius Galba and Lucius Basilus. Marcus Brutus was her lover's cousin, and the son of Servilia, Caesar's long-term lover. Despite this, he had taken the part of the Republicans and had fought with them at Pharsalus. Welcomed back into the fold afterwards thanks to Caesar's magnanimity, he had secured the same pardon for Cassius Longinus, who had served Crassus in Parthia. It was no surprise, therefore, that both men joined the conspiracy together. Marcus Brutus' reasons for taking part were simple. Like Trebonius, he felt aggrieved at the manner in which Caesar had assumed total power, reducing able men like himself to impotent bystanders. However, like Decimus Brutus, Fabiola's lover, he was also a member of the family who had reputedly deposed the last king of Rome five centuries before. In addition, he was the nephew of Cato, the Republican orator who, rather than live under Caesar's rule, had committed suicide after Thapsus. This act had turned Cato into the epitome of Roman aristocratic virtue, and driven Marcus Brutus to write a pamphlet in his praise. Now he was showing his true colours and, in his eyes, his Roman honour, by taking part in the conspiracy.

Fabiola wanted more than five eminent men, however. Fame and public recognition did not guarantee success. Moreover, any attempt on the dictator's life risked onlookers coming to his aid. Despite Caesar's disbanding of his loyal Spanish bodyguards at the beginning of the year, the public and most senators still loved him dearly, and might intervene on his behalf. She could see it happening. More recruits were needed.

Fabiola's prayers had been answered nearly four weeks before, during the Lupercalia, the ancient fertility festival. Watched by huge crowds, Antonius had publicly offered Caesar a royal diadem and asked him to become king. Caesar had demurred twice, ordering the crown to be taken instead to the temple of Jupiter. This clumsy attempt by the dictator to allay suspicions about his aspirations to the monarchy, had immediately been negated by a soothsayer's prediction that Parthia could only be conquered by a king. Another soon followed it, alleging that the Senate would vote Caesar the kingship of everywhere except Italy.

These new threats were the final straw, and many new conspirators had joined the plotters in the subsequent days. Their arrival made Fabiola confident that she would soon be revenged on her mother's rapist. There were almost sixty men in the large well-lit room at the end of the corridor, from all parties and factions within the Senate. Former consuls, tribunes and quaestors rubbed shoulders with ordinary politicians. It boded well for the success of their dark venture.

The most prominent absentee was Brutus, her lover, who had taken to spending much of his time at various temples. As well as praying, he consulted the augurs there over the best course of action to take. Typically, he received differing advice from every man whose palm he greased with silver, which increased his confusion. Sleep began to evade him, and he paced the corridors of his domus each night, asking Mithras and Mars for guidance. None was forthcoming, and he grew tired and irritable. Fully aware that Fabiola was conducting large meetings in the Lupanar — she had given up subterfuge — Brutus did not ask her purpose. Yet he did not mention this suspicious activity to anyone either, which gave Fabiola hope that she would win him over before the end.

Reaching the meeting chamber a step behind Trebonius, Fabiola realised that despite her resolve to continue without Brutus, she wanted him by her side. With Romulus determined not to help, she keenly felt the need for some psychological support. The enormity of what they were about to do was becoming more real. Despite Fabiola wishing it were so, Caesar was not just her mother's rapist. He was the greatest leader the Republic had ever seen, and his death would shake it to the core. Holding the black hen firmly by the head, Tarquinius laid it down on the stones. Raising his eyes to the statue of Jupiter looming over them, he prayed, 'Great Tinia, accept this sacrifice from a humble servant.' With a smooth movement of his blade, the haruspex sliced its head clean off. He quickly transferred his grip, holding the stump of the bird's neck and its body as gouts of arterial blood sprayed on to the ground. Its wings flapped to and fro in a frenzy of useless effort, before gradually relaxing. Holding the hen firmly, Tarquinius studied the pooling red fluid with an intense air of concentration.

Romulus watched agog, looking at the runnels of blood with more interest than he'd paid to a sacrifice in years. He made no effort to try and elicit any information. This was a matter best left to an expert. Beside him, Mattius had been struck dumb.

'East,' Tarquinius murmured after long moments of silence. 'It's flowing east.'

The haruspex' tone increased Romulus' interest at once. 'A good omen?' he breathed.

A slow smile spread across Tarquinius' face. 'Yes. The spirits that favour mankind dwell in the east. My people also came from there.'

'Margiana lies in that direction,' added Romulus, his nerves twitching with anticipation.

Tarquinius gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

'Where's that?' asked Mattius.

The haruspex did not answer. He was plucking feathers from the hen to expose its belly. Letting each handful go, he watched to see if they would travel anywhere. Most fell to the ground in a disorganised scatter, but others were caught by a light movement of air. Tarquinius' eyes focused on them like a hawk upon a mouse. Tumbling end over end, the black feathers moved a few steps away from the statue. Then a few more. For half a dozen heartbeats, they lay still, but eventually the breeze tugged them upwards, off the top of the hill and into the air over Rome. A few moments later, they were lost to sight as they disappeared eastwards.

Romulus' pulse rate shot up, but he didn't interrupt.

Tarquinius became even more solemn. Placing the hen on the ground between Jupiter's great feet, he slit open the thin skin of its belly, taking care not to damage the internal organs. Laying down his knife, he eased out the green ribbon-like intestines, examining them with great care. To Romulus' relief, the haruspex seemed pleased by what he saw, but he revealed nothing. His lips moving faintly, he opened the bird's abdomen completely and removed its small, dark-red liver. Romulus could tell from its rounded lobes and the even colour of its flesh that it was healthy and clear of parasites.

Holding up the liver in his left hand, Tarquinius turned his gaze to the sky, studying the cloud patterns and the direction of the wind. 'Great Tinia, receive this offering today,' he said at length. 'Grant two humble devotees the blessing of your wisdom that we may seek out the best path.'

'Three,' interjected Mattius. 'I also believe.'

Worried that this might break the spell, Romulus frowned.

Tarquinius reacted differently. 'My apologies,' he said to Mattius, inclining his head. He looked up at the statue. 'Not forgetting our friend here, Great Tinia.'

Mattius settled back on his heels, satisfied.

Romulus felt a surge of admiration for the boy's spirit. Few adults would dare to speak in such a situation.

Turning the liver this way and that, Tarquinius studied it for a long time. Looking dissatisfied, he moved on to the bird's heart, slicing it open to look at the blood within. Next he scrutinised the hen's entire body, from its beak to its vent. When he was finished, he sighed heavily.

Romulus could wait no longer. 'What did you see?'

'Not much.'

'The blood ran east, though. The feathers flew that way too!' Romulus cried, the first fingers of panic clutching at his guts.

'Which is a good omen,' replied Tarquinius.

'Does it mean we should travel east?'

Tarquinius met his gaze squarely. 'I don't know. I saw nothing of Margiana.'

'Anything about Caesar?' muttered Romulus. 'Or Fabiola?'

The haruspex shook his head in a resigned manner.

Romulus overcame his reservations and spent a few moments looking at the butchered hen for himself. He saw nothing. Fighting his disappointment, he glanced at Tarquinius again.

'I saw nothing bad, which we should be grateful for.'

'Nothing about my stepfather?' Mattius asked nervously.

'No,' Tarquinius answered, managing to sound jovial. 'But no guidance for me or Romulus either.'

Rallying his spirits, Romulus pushed forward the fawn kid. 'There's this still,' he said.

Without a word, the haruspex cleaned up the mess of feathers and blood, shunting them all away from the statue. 'Get rid of it,' he ordered Mattius. As the boy scurried off with his hands full, Tarquinius took the kid from Romulus, subjecting it to a close examination. With a satisfied nod, he stood it where the hen had lain until a moment earlier. Scenting the blood, the animal bleated and made to jump off the stone plinth.

'Quickly, before it gets too stressed,' Romulus urged. He grabbed the kid and extended its neck forward. Jupiter, he begged silently. Hear our plea. We need your help.

Tarquinius wiped his knife clean on his tunic and muttered a quick prayer. Holding the animal's neck to keep it steady, he drew the iron blade across the underside of its throat. 'We thank you for your life,' he whispered as a crimson tide gushed over his fingers and on to the ground. This time, the blood pooled rather than running away from him. 'Shouldn't matter,' Tarquinius declared confidently as he flipped the kid on to its back. Following the same procedure as he had with the hen, he cut open the abdomen first.

'Those look healthy,' said Romulus as the first loops of pinkish intestine slithered out.

Tarquinius grunted. Silently, he sifted through the whole length from the back passage right up to the small set of stomachs. 'Nothing,' he announced. Catching Romulus' worried look, he chuckled. 'Courage. The liver and heart are usually far more revealing.'

Swallowing down the acid which kept climbing his throat, Romulus forced himself to calm down.

Using the point of the knife, Tarquinius freed the kid's liver from its snug position against the diaphragm. A more purple colour than the hen's, it was clear of blemishes or visible parasites. Again the haruspex held it skywards in his left hand and made a fervent appeal to Tinia. Romulus added his own request and waited with bated breath as Tarquinius prepared to begin his divination.

It only took a moment for the haruspex' body language to change. Stiffening with surprise, he sucked in a sharp breath. 'This is why you and Fabiola are always caught up in the storm,' he muttered. 'The rumours are true.'

Horrified, Romulus was peering over Tarquinius' shoulder before he realised it. 'About Caesar?' he said in a whisper. Few things caused more of a stir in Rome than an augur or a witness to a divination relating what he'd seen. The recent notion of Caesar moving the Republic's capital to Alexandria had probably originated like that. Romulus had no wish to be responsible for potentially harmful gossip — but he had to know. 'Tell me!'

'They really are planning to kill him. Caesar is not a god after all,' Tarquinius said. He gave Romulus a penetrating look. It mattered little to him if Caesar died, but his protege was different. In more ways than one.

Romulus' nausea grew worse, and he clenched his fists. 'Who?'

The haruspex' eyes gazed into the distance. 'Olenus knew what he was talking about yet again. It's incredible.'

'Your mentor had a vision about Caesar?' Romulus cried, amazed. 'That was half a lifetime ago.'

Tarquinius fell back to examining the liver.

Romulus did not press his friend further. It was far more important that every last detail was gleaned from the dead kid.

'A lot of men are involved,' the haruspex said a moment later. 'High-ranking nobles of all backgrounds — former Pompeians and some of Caesar's oldest followers. More than fifty of them.'

Romulus' heart sank. This would explain the meetings in the Lupanar which Mattius had reported. There was no mention of a woman, which gave him some hope. Was it possible that Fabiola didn't know? How could it be, given the location? He bit a nail and tried to compose his emotions. 'When will they strike?' According to most reports, Caesar would leave for Dacia and Parthia within the week.

Tarquinius prodded the liver with a reddened forefinger before he answered. 'Tomorrow, I think,' he said at last. 'The Ides of March.'

Romulus could feel waves of blood pounding in his ears. 'So soon?' he repeated. 'Are you certain?'

Tarquinius looked again. 'Yes.'

Romulus' response was instant. 'I have to warn him.'

'You're sure about that?'

Tarquinius' dark eyes felt all-seeing and, not for the first time, Romulus wondered if Fabiola had told him of her conviction that Caesar was their father. Or had he seen it at another time? Indecision battered his resolve. Did the haruspex also know the truth of what had happened to his mother? Maybe Caesar was guilty of rape. Romulus couldn't bring himself to ask this question. If the answer wasn't what he expected, it might sway him from what his instinct was shouting. He had to act, or a gang of nobles would murder Caesar for their own ends. 'Yes,' he said simply. 'I am.'

Tarquinius blinked, accepting his decision. 'Go to Caesar's house tomorrow morning then. Before he goes to the Senate.'

'That's where it will happen?'

The haruspex nodded.

Romulus' fingers automatically fell to the dagger on his belt. He would need to dig out his gladius too. If necessary, he'd defend Caesar with his own life. He owed him no less.

'There is more,' said Tarquinius abruptly, sounding troubled. 'A woman is involved.'

Stricken, Romulus stared down at his friend. His lips framed the name Fabiola.

'I'm sorry.' The haruspex looked genuinely sad.

Romulus swallowed hard. Whether his sister would actually take part in the murder was uncertain, but all he could think of was her stabbing Caesar. Aghast, he took a step backwards.

At that moment, Mattius came skidding to a halt by their side. 'What have I missed?' he cried excitedly.

Romulus turned away, feeling worse than he ever had in his life. 'Nothing of importance,' he mumbled. Ignoring Tarquinius' cries, he stumbled off into the crowd. As usual, Fabiola played very little part in the discussions. In most, if not all, the conspirators' minds, she was just a woman, albeit a clever and beautiful one. Killing was man's work, one had whispered kindly to Fabiola once. Little do you know, she had thought. Nothing could quite remove the stain of former slavery either, especially when it came to murdering the foremost man in Rome. By this stage, though, Fabiola was content to take a back seat and watch as the plot developed.

A pleased murmur went up as Trebonius entered. Surrounded by nearly two dozen chairs, a long table occupied the centre of the crowded room. Jugs of watered-down wine and plates of bread, fruit and olives covered much of its polished surface. The seating wasn't sufficient for all those present, so the most important members sat while the rest stood behind. Naturally, a chair had been reserved for Trebonius.

'At last,' said Marcus Brutus, tapping his fingers on the table top. 'A word, if you will?'

Making his apologies to those he passed, Trebonius sat down beside Marcus Brutus, who immediately began muttering in his ear.

Fabiola turned away to hide her amusement. Although he had been one of the last to join, Brutus was now one of the main leaders and acted as if he had been all along. Nodding to Benignus, who would remain outside the door to ensure no one eavesdropped, Fabiola quietly shut the door. Glad of her discreet position, she scanned the assembled men. Servius Galba, a short man with protruding eyes, was sitting beside his main crony, Lucius Basilus, a broad-shouldered figure with a bull neck. Both men bore grudges against the dictator, which was why they'd been so quick to join up. Thanks to his association with Caesar, Galba had failed in his attempt to become consul just before the general had crossed the Rubicon, and Basilus had rightfully been denied a provincial command because of his murky business dealings. Fabiola liked neither of them, but their anger at Caesar justified their presence.

She'd first met Cassius Longinus, one of Crassus' former deputies, at a banquet five years before. Fabiola had spoken with him about Carrhae, and heard the true horrors of what had befallen Crassus' army. Hearing of Romulus' involvement, the grizzled soldier had tried to soften the blow, which endeared him to Fabiola still. Catching Longinus' eye, she smiled, and was rewarded with a courteous nod. I must introduce him to Romulus, she reflected. A pang of guilt clawed at her. If we ever make up. Fabiola shoved the disquieting thought away. Deal with that later. Concentrate on the moment.

The conspirators were now so numerous that Fabiola had high hopes of success. While few had the courage to strike the first blow, they would follow where others led. Like a pack of dogs turning on the weakest, she thought. Ugly, but effective. Fortunately, Caesar would be defenceless. In public, members of the nobility wore the toga and carried no weapons. The dictator was no exception. Alarmed by the dark rumours, Antonius and other close associates had asked Caesar to reform his Spanish bodyguards, but he had refused, stating that he had no wish to live in fear or under constant protection.

Contempt filled Fabiola. Whether Caesar's refusal was driven by his arrogance, or his belief that, thanks to his restoration of the peace and raft of new reforms, no ill feeling against him remained, she did not know. Whatever the dictator's reasons, he was now easy prey to a band of determined assassins.

'Gentlemen.' Marcus Brutus rapped on the table with his knuckles. 'If we could begin?'

His words brought all the conversations to an end, and an expectant hush fell. Pent-up with tension, Fabiola waited. None of the nobles knew it, but she was more eager than any of them for Caesar's death.

'During our last meeting, we agreed that the best date would be the Ides of March,' Marcus Brutus began.

'The Ides? That's tomorrow,' said a portly senator, looking nervous.

'Congratulations,' replied Marcus Brutus in an acid tone. He glared around the table. 'Time has moved fast, but we've committed ourselves now.'

A titter of nervous laughter moved around the room.

Satisfied, Marcus Brutus sat back in his chair. No one was trying to back out.

'Caesar hasn't been well for the last few days,' another man chipped in. 'He might not attend the Senate tomorrow.'

'There are many important issues to be addressed before he departs for Dacia,' Longinus demurred. 'Caesar won't want to miss those debates.'

'The man is a demon for work,' agreed Trebonius. 'He'd need to be half dead not to come.'

'Why not send someone to his house first thing to make sure?' suggested Basilus.

'Good idea,' cried Marcus Brutus. 'Any volunteers?'

Before anyone could answer, a familiar voice spoke in the corridor. 'Where's Fabiola?'

Fabiola's stomach turned over.

She wasn't the only one to recognise Brutus' deep tones. Like small boys caught thieving, the nobles waited to see what would happen next.

Benignus cleared his throat uneasily. 'Sir?'

'Is she in there?' Brutus demanded. 'Answer me!'

'Yes, sir,' mumbled the huge slave, crumbling before Brutus' temper.

'Stand aside.'

Fabiola moved away from the door, which opened a heartbeat later. Brutus entered, scowling. Fabiola and he locked eyes. 'Dearest,' she said lamely, unsure what else to say. 'What a surprise.' Without answering, Brutus looked around the room. His mouth opened with astonishment at the number of men present, and their identity. Many would not meet his gaze, but Marcus Brutus, Longinus and Trebonius did.

'Well met, cousin,' said Marcus Brutus. 'We have missed your company.'

'What's all this about?' cried Brutus, looking at Fabiola.

'I think you know,' said Trebonius, intervening.

Brutus flushed. 'You're intending to murder Caesar?'

'Rid the Republic of a despot, more like,' Longinus butted in. 'And make things how they were again.'

There was a loud rumble of agreement.

Brutus scanned the nobles' faces for several heartbeats. 'I see,' he said heavily.

'Look how many men are present, cousin,' said Marcus Brutus gently. 'This is not just a collection of lunatics. All shades of opinion are represented here. What unites us is our hatred of tyranny.'

Brutus stared into his cousin's eyes. 'Tyranny?' he whispered.

The conflict in his voice made Fabiola's heart bleed. Much as she wanted him to join them, the pain he was suffering tore at her conscience.

'Yes,' Marcus Brutus replied emphatically. 'That is how Caesar rules the Republic. What is the Senate but an empty vessel? What are we now, but his puppets?'

Angry mutters met this comment.

Brutus sighed.

Mithras above, Fabiola thought. Convince him, please. She moved to her lover's side. 'You know it's true,' she said. 'All that power has gone to Caesar's head.'

'The augurs are giving bad omens for tomorrow, while on every corner the people are calling him king,' he whispered. 'King of Rome.'

'Will you join us?' asked Trebonius.

Brutus chewed his lip. Beside him, Fabiola scarcely dared breathe.

Marcus Brutus pushed back his chair and stood. 'Our ancestors rid this city of its last tyrant. Now the time has come to repeat that painful task. It is our duty to be part of it,' he declared.

There was a long silence.

Fabiola burned to say something, to persuade Brutus of their righteousness, but she held back. Much as she wanted him on board, this was his decision alone. The others knew that too — she could feel it — but would her lover's strong moral sense win out over his fierce loyalty to Caesar?

Marcus Brutus extended his right hand. 'What do you say?'

There was the slightest pause, and then Brutus took his cousin's grip. 'Count me in. For the good of the Republic.'

A combined sigh of relief filled the air. Fabiola's was loudest of all. At this late stage, the conspirators could not allow their cover to be blown. If he'd refused, Brutus would have signed his own death warrant.

'When is it to happen?' Brutus enquired.

'Tomorrow,' replied Marcus Brutus. 'Where the Senate meets.'

To his credit, Brutus barely blinked. 'I see,' he said. 'Caesar is ill, though. Are you sure he'll attend?'

'He might need some convincing,' admitted Longinus. 'We were just wondering who could visit him in the morning.'

'I'll do it,' Brutus offered.

'You're sure?'

He nodded firmly.

'Good,' said Marcus Brutus with a smile. 'The rest of us will assemble at the Senate early. We've got a good reason too — Longinus' son is to assume the toga tomorrow.'

'Should we attack him the moment he arrives?' mused Basilus.

'I think not. We don't want members of the public to see it happen,' interjected Longinus. 'Let the tyrant descend from his litter and make his way inside.'

'I'll go in close,' volunteered Cimber, a former Republican. 'Request he allow my brother back to Italy.'

'We can surround him, all pleading the same case,' added Marcus Brutus. 'Allay any suspicions he might have.'

'Then produce our weapons,' said Longinus with an evil grin. Opening the long wooden case for his stylus, he produced an ivory-handled dagger and thrust it forward viciously. 'Finish the job.'

Everyone's gaze was drawn to the oiled blade, but not one man spoke against their intended course.

'What about Antonius?' asked Brutus a moment later. 'He's not likely to stand by while Caesar is slaughtered. Should we kill him too?'

Longinus' eyes narrowed. 'Why not? He's such an arrogant bastard.'

'Good idea,' agreed Galba. 'Gods know how he'll respond if we don't.' Antonius' fierce temper was renowned throughout Italy.

Thank you Mithras, thought Fabiola, delight filling her. I will be rid of two monsters at one stroke.

'No,' declared Marcus Brutus loudly. 'We are not a band of common thieves. This is being done for the Republic. Once Caesar is dead, free elections can be held and the Senate will be able to run matters as it always has. Antonius will not argue with that.' He glanced around the room, daring anyone to challenge him. Few had the willpower to hold his gaze for long.

'If you're sure,' said Longinus, looking doubtful.

'I am,' growled Marcus Brutus. 'So we need someone to distract Antonius — detain him outside maybe.'

'I can do that too,' Brutus offered.

'You don't want to be in on the act itself?' asked Marcus Brutus.

'Killing Caesar might be the best thing to do, but that doesn't mean I actually want to stick a knife in him,' said Brutus.

'No,' his cousin agreed. 'Fair enough.'

'Hold on,' frowned Trebonius. 'You and Antonius hate each other's guts.'

'Exactly,' Brutus retorted with a smug look. 'It's time to kiss and make up.'

Longinus swore. 'Antonius will never forgive you when he discovers why you did it.'

Brutus laughed sourly. 'Do I care? He'll have to live knowing that he might have saved Caesar if I hadn't stopped him.'

Fabiola suddenly realised the damage that her dalliance with Antonius had done to her lover. He was good at hiding it, except at moments like this. She moved her hand to touch his. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

Brutus gave her a small nod, which eased Fabiola's pain a fraction. Expert at reading his emotions, she could see that he was still torn by his decision to join the conspirators. His anger at Antonius was in part a knee-jerk reaction to this. Things were moving too fast for him to stop and think, though.

'It is agreed then. My cousin will persuade Caesar to attend the Senate, and then he'll also distract Antonius,' said Marcus Brutus, pressing on. 'When the tyrant enters, Cimber will approach him first, imploring clemency for his brother. The rest of us will close in, adding to the clamour.'

'What signal should we use for it to begin?' asked Longinus. 'A special word, perhaps?'

'I'll pull his toga off his shoulder,' announced Casca, a stout man with a red face. 'To give us more of a target.'

Growls of approval left the nobles' throats. Euphoric that her long-held dream was about to be realised, Fabiola closed her eyes and thanked Mithras and Jupiter from the bottom of her heart. Mother will be avenged. Tomorrow.

What of Romulus, her inner voice suddenly asked. What if he's right and you're not?

Ruthlessly, Fabiola shoved the thought away. She would countenance only one possibility: Caesar was the guilty one, and tomorrow he would pay.