The Silver Eagle

Chapter XXIII: The Rubicon

Ravenna, northern Italy, winter 50/49 BC

Fabiola shivered miserably and moved closer to the fire. Hot wine, thick clothes, underfloor heating — even staying in bed didn’t help. Nothing she did could get her warm. Snow lay thick on the ground outside and a biting north wind was rattling the red tiles on the roof, as it had all week. Fabiola’s lips tightened. The new year might have begun, but the weather gave little sign of improving. Neither did her mood.

Naturally, there was more to Fabiola’s bad humour than the cold. Yet there was much to be grateful for — she acknowledged that. She was still here, close to one of the men shaping the future of Rome. Despite this, she felt hollow inside.

Fabiola reflected on the two years which had passed since her reunion with Brutus. Her fond memory of falling into his arms would always be soured by what she had said at the feast a few hours later. The foolish gaffe had offended Caesar, shaken her confidence and deeply angered her lover. Brutus was extremely loyal to his general and it had taken Fabiola an age to repair the damage she had done. But, coaxed, pampered and tantalised, Brutus had eventually succumbed to her charms once more. Meanwhile, Fabiola determined never to repeat such a public embarrassment. After Caesar’s thinly veiled threat, she kept a low profile, placing her quest to discover her father’s identity on indefinite hold. In the security of Brutus’ quarters, she did not have to worry about Caesar or Scaevola, or anyone else. Confused and scared, Fabiola buried her head in the sand. For a time, that was enough.

Outside, though, events were moving on.

After Alesia, Gaul belonged to Rome in all but name, and in response to Caesar’s stunning victory, the Senate had voted twenty days of public thanksgiving. It also awarded him the rare privilege of standing for consul while still in Gaul, rather than being present in Rome as was the norm. Ushered in by Caesar’s allies, this new law crystallised the issue which most troubled Cato and the Optimates. If Caesar moved seamlessly from the proconsulship of Gaul — his current position — to the consulship of the Republic, he would at no stage be a private citizen, open to prosecution. While this concerned the adoring public not at all, it enraged Caesar’s enemies. Since the general’s illegal actions during his first term as consul, when intimidation and violence were used against his co-consul and other politicians, they had been waiting for their chance to strike. Now it was to be denied them. The intrigue thickened. Plots were hatched, deals struck and impassioned speeches made. One thing was for certain: Cato would not take this lying down. If it took him the rest of his life, Caesar would face justice in Rome.

Camped in Gaul, Caesar heard all the news from the capital. Frustrated, he could do little about it. War beckoned once more. Despite Vercingetorix’ overwhelming defeat at Alesia, some tribes had refused to submit to Roman rule. Twelve months of campaigning followed as the final reduction of Gaul took place. Accompanying Brutus and his general, Fabiola knew how angered Caesar was by the Optimates’ attempts to disgrace and punish him. Her curiosity and interest had been aroused as she listened nightly to her lover’s rants. Focusing again now on his arguments — although unassuming, Brutus was a convincing speaker — finally lifted Fabiola’s black mood.

Did the Senate not know what Caesar had done for Rome? Brutus had exclaimed. The dangers he had endured in its name? The glory he had heaped upon its people? Was he supposed just to lay down his command and walk into the lion’s den while Pompey retained all his legions? It was not surprising that Caesar refused to submit to the Optimates’ demands, thought Fabiola. Placed in the same situation, she would not. She doubted that Pompey, his rival, would either.

But like a dog shaking a rat, Cato had not given up. Months passed and session after session of the Senate was taken up with endless debates about Caesar’s command: the number of legions he should keep; how many legates he was to be allowed; when exactly he should give up his post. Many senators were won over to the Optimates by these arguments, but liberal donations of Caesar’s Gaulish gold ensured that an equal number remained loyal to him. Curio, Caesar’s paid-off and eloquent tribune, also vetoed every attempt to bring Caesar to bay in the Senate. With a dreadful inevitability, the house began to split down the middle. In the face of the Optimates’ increasingly bitter campaign, staying neutral had become well-nigh impossible. Yet, for his own reasons, Pompey managed to do just that, appearing to agree first with one side and then the other. Worked on relentlessly by Cato and his allies though, he finally gave in. His comments started as veiled threats, but over the months, became more hard-line.

Fabiola looked out at the flurries of snow scudding past the window, and a chill struck her heart. She had imagined this day, but never thought it would truly come to pass.

Over a month before, guided cleverly by Curio, the Senate had passed a motion decreeing that Pompey’s commands in Italy and Hispania should not be allowed to run on beyond those of Caesar. It was a neat example of skilled diplomacy in the face of looming conflict. And fair enough, thought Fabiola. But the unhappy extremists then succeeded in pressuring Pompey to declare his hand. Visited the very next day by one of the consuls, he was handed a sword and asked to march against Caesar to rescue the Republic. Whether they realised the significance of their actions or not, the Optimates were requesting the services of the only other man in Italy with a huge private army. And he had accepted. ‘I will do so,’ Pompey answered after a moment’s hesitation, ‘if no other way can be found.’ This inflammatory remark was followed by the immediate mobilisation of his troops.

Caesar’s response to this illegal action was typically fast. Two legions were summoned from Gaul to Ravenna, just twenty-five miles from the frontier, the River Rubicon.

For the first time in two generations, the Republic was on the brink of civil war.

Fabiola found herself firmly in Caesar’s camp. As Brutus’ lover, it was not altogether surprising. Her old, deep-rooted suspicion and more recent fear of Caesar had been submerged beneath a wave of resentful admiration. A consummate military leader, he had also acted intelligently throughout the political storm which had raged since. Even now, at this late hour, Caesar was offering diplomatic solutions to his impasse with the Senate. But the Optimates were having none of it. An offer by Caesar to surrender Transalpine Gaul immediately and his other provinces on the day of his election to a second consulship was rejected. So was a revived proposal to disarm at the same time as Pompey. Even Cicero’s attempt to open negotiations had been stamped down. Three days before, a motion demanding that Caesar disband his legions by March or be considered a traitor had only been halted by the vetoes of Marcus Antonius and Cassius Longinus, the new tribunes. Both were Caesar’s men through and through.

As Brutus said, Caesar was being boxed in from all sides. It was a bad place to put such a skilled general.

Utilising her only resource, Fabiola prayed daily to Mithras, asking for protection for herself and Brutus. And although she found herself supporting Caesar, Fabiola could not include him in her requests for divine help. Part of her just held back. Was it because of the druid’s warning, which regularly returned to her? Fabiola wasn’t sure. Besides, the man acted as if he did not care what the gods thought. Caesar chose his own fate. Time would tell what that would be.

There was a clatter of hobnails along the corridor; then the door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air. And Brutus. His usually jovial face was thunderous.

‘My love,’ Fabiola exclaimed, rising to meet him. ‘What is it?’

‘The Optimates brought that damn motion before the Senate again,’ Brutus replied indignantly. ‘Demanding that Caesar relinquish his legions by March.’

Fabiola took his arm. ‘But Antonius and Longinus have their vetoes.’

He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘They weren’t there.’

Her brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The bastards warned both tribunes not to attend, “for the good of their health”. They were forced to flee the city with Curio, disguised as slaves! The motion was passed without opposition.’ Brutus swelled with outrage. ‘And they accuse Caesar of acting illegally.’ He broke away and paced the room like a caged animal.

Fabiola watched him for a moment. ‘What will Caesar do?’ she asked, knowing the answer.

‘What do you think?’ Brutus snapped back.

Fabiola flinched, only half acting.

Instantly his face gentled. ‘I’m sorry, my love. But Caesar has been declared an enemy of the Republic. He is ordered to surrender to the Senate, and accept the consequences.’

‘He won’t do that, surely?’ she asked.

Brutus shook his head emphatically.

Fabiola hardly dared say it. ‘To the Rubicon then?’

‘Yes,’ cried Brutus. ‘Tonight! The Thirteenth Legion is already on the near bank. They only await Caesar’s arrival before crossing.’

‘So soon?’ Startled, Fabiola glanced at her lover. But he was not joking. ‘What about Pompey’s forces?’

His lips parted in a wolfish smile. ‘The fool has none in the area, and the garrisons of Ariminium and other nearby towns have been bribed well.’

Fabiola was relieved. There would be no immediate bloodshed. ‘What are his plans?’

‘You know Caesar,’ Brutus replied with a wink. ‘Never happy unless he goes for the jugular.’

She paled. ‘Rome?’

He grinned in acknowledgement.

Fabiola felt faint. This was far more than she had expected. Although it was not all here in Ravenna, Caesar’s battle-hardened army was the most powerful ever controlled by one man in the Republic’s history. Yet once assembled, Pompey’s would be far larger. The impending clash over which of the two had ultimate power boded ill for the future of democracy and the rights of the ordinary citizen. How had things come to such a pass? ‘And us?’ she asked.

‘This is when Caesar most needs support.’ He smiled fiercely. ‘We go with him.’

Fabiola’s heart began to pound. Fear and dread blended with a strange excitement. She would witness a Roman leader commit the most treasonous act possible.

Crossing the Rubicon under arms.

Awe filled Fabiola. The druid had been right. If only he had revealed more about Romulus, she thought with a pang of anguish.

‘You’ll hear about it later,’ Brutus revealed.

Fabiola looked at him enquiringly.

‘Caesar’s holding a banquet. We’re invited.’

‘Is he not meeting with you and the other officers?’ she asked, confused.

‘Quite the opposite. Relaxation before a battle is the best policy,’ Brutus laughed. ‘Just remember not to ask him about Gergovia.’

Fabiola giggled, then her face turned serious. ‘Don’t worry, my love. I won’t ever let you down again like that.’

‘I know.’ Stepping closer, Brutus looked into her eyes. ‘You, I can rely on more than anyone else.’

This comment lit up Fabiola’s heart. It confirmed that Brutus was hers more than Caesar’s. An important battle had already been won.

To Fabiola, that was more important than any of the ones to follow.

Fabiola had long ago lost her embarrassment when being introduced to nobility. By now most, if not all, of Brutus’ colleagues knew her history. Unknown to her lover, one or two had even been clients in the Lupanar. Often, though, Romans were quite accepting of slaves who had been freed, which made her life much easier. As far as the military officers Fabiola encountered were concerned, she was a beautiful, intelligent young woman whom Brutus valued considerably. She suspected that many were somewhat jealous and would have liked her for themselves.

At the feast that night, Fabiola was grateful for her acquired poise when introduced to Longinus, one of the new tribunes. Meeting him made Fabiola so nervous that she wanted to vomit, yet she controlled herself adroitly. Together with Antonius and Curio, Longinus had brought the news of the Senate’s actions to Ravenna just a few hours before. But that was not what interested Fabiola most. This was the officer who had escaped from Carrhae with his honour and the survivors of his legion intact. He had also brought news of the terrible defeat to Rome. While it was like reopening an old wound, Fabiola could not help wanting to pick Longinus’ brains, asking him not about his role in the impending civil war but his experiences in Parthia. All her hopes about Romulus had resurfaced with a vengeance the instant he appeared.

Longinus was surprised. ‘Why would you want to know about that burning hell?’ he asked, his scarred face confused. ‘I try never to think about it.’

A quick glance over her shoulder told Fabiola that Brutus was not watching. She turned coy, a policy which rarely failed with men. ‘Don’t be modest, general,’ she purred. ‘I’m told that if you had been in charge at Carrhae, the outcome might have been quite different.’

Flattered, Longinus’ grizzled features softened. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he protested. ‘But Crassus certainly wouldn’t listen to my advice that day.’

She nodded understandingly. ‘How bad was it?’

Longinus scowled. ‘Beyond your imagination, lady. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. Temperatures hotter than Hades. Scant food and no water.’ He sighed. ‘And the damn Parthians. Little men for the most part, but by all the gods, they can ride and shoot arrows. Ordinary legionaries just can’t fight them.’ His face darkened. ‘And thanks to the treachery of our so-called Nabataean allies, we had precious few cavalry.’

‘They say that was Crassus’ greatest mistake,’ Fabiola threw in. ‘Not having reliable cavalry.’ She was pleased to see respect appear in his face. Longinus did not know it, but the sentiment was one Fabiola had heard Brutus utter before.

‘True enough,’ Longinus agreed. ‘When our Gaulish horsemen were killed with Publius, Crassus’ son, the rest simply fled. There we were on a flat, burning plain: thirty thousand infantry facing ten thousand horse, most of them mounted archers with an unlimited supply of arrows. You can imagine what happened next.’ He fell into a grim silence.

While Fabiola had heard plenty of snippets and gossip about Carrhae, Longinus had painted a far more terrifying picture. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Romulus being there. The horror was incalculable. Fabiola swallowed, taking consolation from her vision in the Mithraeum. To be present at the battle she had seen, her brother had somehow survived the devastation of Crassus’ army. It had to be the gods who had saved Romulus, Fabiola thought desperately. And they would continue to look after him.

‘My lady, what is it?’

Some of her inner turmoil must have shown, Fabiola realised. She was about to lie, and then saw that there was no point. Longinus knew of her origins. ‘My brother was there,’ she said simply.

‘I see. Was he also a. ’ Longinus paused, looking uncomfortable.

‘Slave? Yes, he was. And a gladiator,’ Fabiola answered, without batting an eyelid. ‘I think he joined a mercenary cohort as an ordinary soldier.’

Longinus failed to conceal his surprise. ‘Their recruitment policies are, shall we say, a little more relaxed than the legions. Yet most of them fought very well. At one stage during the battle, twenty brave mercenaries who had been isolated with Publius were allowed to return unharmed to our lines. Not that it did them much good, probably. Rome lost so many good soldiers that day.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘A few irregulars retreated to the Euphrates with my legion. Was your brother among them?’

Fabiola shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

He patted her arm.

‘Romulus survived though,’ she said stoutly.

Longinus gave her a disbelieving look.

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘I see. If he did, then. ’ Longinus flashed a false grin. ‘Who knows?’

Fabiola smiled brightly at him. The grizzled tribune was trying to protect her from the brutal reality of the Roman survivors’ fates. But he had not seen what she had after drinking the homa. Nor heard the druid’s dying words. They had been cut short, which meant that there was still hope. While her fortunes continued to soar, Fabiola had to believe that those of Romulus stayed on an even keel at least. It was either that, or go mad.

‘Fabiola?’ It was Brutus’ voice. ‘Caesar has personally requested that we attend him.’

Longinus inclined his head and stood aside.

Murmuring her thanks, Fabiola followed Brutus, who seemed delighted. ‘What does he want?’ she asked nervously. Since Alesia, there had not been a private, face-to-face meeting. In public with other people around, yes. But like this, no.

‘He’s already done it with Antonius and a couple of the others,’ replied Brutus. ‘I think it’s to toast our good fortune in the days ahead.’

At the entrance to a side chamber stood four smartly turned-out, tough-looking veterans. As the couple drew near, they stiffened to attention. An optio, the most senior, slapped a fist off his mail shirt and saluted.

Brutus languidly acknowledged the gesture. They passed inside, into Caesar’s personal quarters. The man himself was alone, bent over a detailed map of Italy laid out on a nearby desk. Still unaware of their presence, he stabbed a finger down on to the parchment. ‘Rome,’ he muttered.

Brutus grinned.

Not for the first time, Fabiola was struck by how alike Caesar and Romulus were. She herself bore the same fair complexion, aquiline nose and piercing eyes. And while their stations in life were worlds apart, Fabiola felt the burning drive to succeed that she saw in Caesar. Here he was, unafraid to take on the entire institution of the Republic. A similar stubborn courage had burned in Romulus’ heart; it did in hers too. And while Fabiola’s task might be less ambitious than Caesar’s, she would not stop until she discovered who had raped her mother. And taken revenge upon him. Even if it is Caesar, thought Fabiola fiercely. I owe it to Mother. And Romulus. At once doubt filled her. Is he really my father? How in the name of all the gods can I know?

Finally Caesar sensed their presence. Straightening, he gave them both a warm smile. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ replied Brutus.

‘And mine.’ Fabiola bowed deeply.

He offered them both mulsum. ‘To a swift victory,’ said Caesar, raising his glass. ‘Or to the Senate seeing sense.’

Smiling, they drank.

‘This is a sad day for the Republic,’ commented Caesar. His voice changed, growing angry. ‘But they leave me no option. The most successful general in our history should not be treated like a dog.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ agreed Brutus indignantly. ‘Pompey will not lay down his commands or disband his legions, so why should you?’

Fabiola murmured in agreement.

‘Pompey is no raw recruit,’ warned Caesar. ‘I hope that he and the Optimates decide to negotiate, or this could be a long struggle.’

‘Gaul only took seven years, sir,’ said Brutus with a grin. ‘What’s another few?’

Caesar threw back his head and laughed before regarding Brutus steadily. ‘My success has a lot to do with good men like you,’ he said. ‘I do not forget these things.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Brutus.

Fabiola was delighted by this show of affection.

They made polite conversation for some time. Then Caesar reached into a drawer on his desk. ‘I need you to do something important for me,’ he said conspiratorially to Brutus. ‘It won’t take long.’

‘Anything, sir.’ Brutus looked eager.

A rolled parchment appeared in Caesar’s hand. ‘These are fresh orders for the troops in Ariminium.’ He saw Fabiola’s confusion and explained. ‘I sent some there yesterday, dressed in civilian clothing.’

‘You want me to travel on ahead, sir?’ asked Brutus.

‘No. Just deliver it to the optio who’s waiting outside by my carriage. He knows where to go.’

Taking the parchment, Brutus hurried from the room.

Left alone with Caesar, Fabiola smiled uneasily. Had this been planned? For a short time, her worries seemed unfounded as Caesar asked solicitously about her wellbeing and hopes for the future.

‘Will you bear him children?’ he asked.

Fabiola coloured. ‘If the gods will it, yes.’ Using her knowledge of herbs from the Lupanar, she had avoided pregnancy this far. Consolidating her new position was far more important. Naturally, Brutus knew nothing of this. Trying not to look nervous, she fiddled with one of her gold and carnelian earrings.

Seemingly satisfied, Caesar took Fabiola into another chamber, where he showed off his gilded breastplate and red general’s cloak. ‘That’s what I’ll be wearing later,’ he said. ‘At the Rubicon.’

‘You will look magnificent,’ gushed Fabiola, listening out anxiously for Brutus. What was taking him so long? ‘Quite the conquering hero.’

‘You certainly know how to compliment a man,’ said Caesar, leaning in close. ‘Brutus is very lucky to have a woman like you.’

‘Thank you, general.’ There was a soft clunk, and Fabiola looked down. Something glittered in the carpet. It was her earring, which had now fallen off. Fabiola bent to pick it up, revealing rather more cleavage than she intended. When she stood, Caesar was eyeing her flesh greedily. Terrified, Fabiola froze.

‘So young,’ he murmured. ‘So perfect.’

There was a new, predatory look in Caesar’s eyes which made Fabiola feel very uncomfortable. She backed away a step, her fist clenching on the earring until it hurt.

He followed silently.

Retreating further, scared now, Fabiola collided with the wall. There was nowhere else to go. She tried not to panic. Where was Brutus?

Caesar stepped forward. Wine fumes filled her nostrils. ‘You’re a real beauty.’

Fabiola looked down, praying that he would go away. Instead he reached out and cupped her breasts. Next he began to lick her neck. Terrified and disgusted, Fabiola did not dare react. This was one of the two most important men in the Republic, while she was just a nobleman’s mistress. A nobody.

At length, Caesar paused. ‘You were a slave before.’

She nodded.

‘Then you should be used to this,’ Caesar hissed, lifting her dress.

Silent tears of fury ran down Fabiola’s cheeks.

Breathing heavily, he pulled aside her underclothes and fumbled with her.

Mithras and Jupiter, she thought. Help me! But there was no divine intervention. Nor any sign of Brutus.

Caesar’s efforts grew more frantic, and Fabiola felt his erection pressing forward against her thigh. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Please!’

One of the legionaries outside laughed, instantly arousing Fabiola’s suspicions. Perhaps this was not the first time Caesar had assaulted a woman?

Hearing the noise, he stopped for a moment, listening.

Fabiola’s heart leapt, but it was a false alarm. Instead of releasing her, Caesar twisted Fabiola’s arm and forced her on to her knees with him. She moaned with fear.

‘Be quiet, or I’ll hurt you.’

Fabiola was unsure why, but the words struck a deep chord. Suddenly she knew. She just knew. Caesar was the rapist. He was her father.

‘Take off your dress,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to fuck you on the floor.’

An image of Velvinna flashed before her eyes. Naked. Helpless. Alone. Twenty-one years before, this man had done the same thing to her mother. Burning fury consumed Fabiola. ‘No,’ she snarled. ‘I won’t.’

Caesar drew back his hand to strike her.

And she prepared to fight back with all her strength.

‘Fabiola?’ Brutus’ voice was not far away. ‘Caesar? Where are they?’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Answer me!’ Brutus shouted.

‘In the other room,’ one of the sentries reluctantly muttered.

‘Stand aside!’

Caesar cursed under his breath. Hastily rearranging his clothing, he got to his feet.

Fabiola was quick to do so as well. Brutus must not suspect anything. She knew his temper. Brutus was liable to lash out at anyone who had assaulted Fabiola in such a manner, even Caesar, his general. The consequences if he did that were far too grave to even consider. For both of them. She had to act as if everything were normal. Inspiration hit, and Fabiola opened the throbbing palm of her right hand. On it lay her gold and carnelian earring, now crushed. Overcome by terror, she had been unaware of her actions until that moment.

Brutus appeared in the doorway. ‘There you are,’ he said, relieved. His brow creased at the sight of Caesar and his lover standing so close together. ‘What’s going on?’

Caesar self-consciously cleared his throat.

‘Nothing, my darling. The general was showing me his armour. Then I lost this,’ answered Fabiola brightly, holding out her hand. Lamplight flashed off the mangled piece of jewellery, and she prayed he would not peer too closely at it. ‘We were just looking for it.’

‘I see,’ Brutus answered, looking suspicious. ‘The optio has left, sir.’

‘Good. Time to make my excuses to the guests,’ Caesar announced briskly. ‘You should do so too. We need to reach the Rubicon by dawn at the latest.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Brutus replied.

‘Until the next time.’ Caesar bowed to Fabiola, an arrogant half-smile curving his lips at the double meaning only they understood. His secret was safe with her. A former slave, Fabiola would never dare say anything to Brutus. And if she did, he would simply deny it.

Fabiola graciously inclined her head in response, but her thoughts were all of bloody revenge.

Brutus led her outside. ‘You look tired, my love,’ he said, stroking her arm. ‘You can sleep on the journey. I’ll wake you when we get to the ford.’

Barely able to conceal her anger, Fabiola nodded.

‘Rome awaits us,’ called Caesar from behind them. ‘The die has been cast.’

‘And may Fortuna grant that it falls on a six,’ answered Brutus, grinning.

Fabiola wasn’t listening. You would even rape your own daughter, she thought furiously. Filthy bastard. A boiling rage consumed her, renewing all her energy. She would not rest again until Caesar had paid for his crime. And whether he knew it or not, Brutus would be the tool. Fabiola would work on the flash of suspicion that she had seen until it was a roaring flame of resentment and jealousy. And she would take her time.

Mithras, she prayed fervently. And Jupiter, Greatest and Best. Grant me just one more thing in my life.

The death of my father.