by Ben Kane
Despite their heavy cloaks, Fabiola and Sextus were both drenched within a hundred paces of the domus. Underfoot, the unpaved surface had turned to a glutinous sludge which made swift passage impossible. It squelched over the sides of their sandals, covering their feet in a smelly layer of brown mud. Trying not to inhale, Fabiola did not look closely at it. The dung heaps in the flooded alleyways on either side would be running out to mix with this morass, and it would be the same wherever they went. Move on, she thought grimly. We can wash later.
The dreadful weather meant that the streets were almost empty. The open-fronted shops that formed the ground floors of most buildings were still open, but there were few customers within. The stallholders who normally occupied the spaces on each side of the narrow thoroughfares were nowhere to be seen. Soaking merchandise would not sell to anyone. The beggars, thieves and cripples were absent too, taking whatever shelter they could find under archways or in temple porticos. Like half-drowned rats, slaves on errands darted back and forth, ordered out by their masters despite the downpour. Patrolling sections of Antonius’ legionaries were also evident. Marching close together, they held their scuta in against their bodies, their best protection from the driving rain.
Like Brutus’ domus, their destination was situated on the Palatine Hill, which meant at least that their rain-soaked journey was short. Keeping their eyes peeled, Fabiola and Sextus soon reached a nondescript street not far from the Forum. Entering it, the air became cold and forbidding. Fabiola suspected it was because the empty lane was dominated by the temple. The buildings directly adjacent to it lay derelict, adding to the louring atmosphere. Their doors swung to and fro in the wind, and water poured down from roofs whose gutters were long rotted away.
It was usual for such venues to be thronged with salesmen, food vendors, acrobats, jugglers and soothsayers. Their customers – the worshippers – were absent today, though, so the traders had stayed at home. That suited Fabiola well. Sextus looked pleased too. It was far easier to assess a situation for danger when few people were about.
A plain altar carved from a large piece of granite occupied the central ground before the shrine itself, its surface covered in disquieting red-brown stains that no rain could wash away. Fabiola did not let her gaze linger on the stone slab, moving it to the carved columns that held up the triangular decorated portico. They were shorter and less grand than those of many other shrines, while the steps up to the entrance had not been cleaned in an age. Yet the depictions of demons and evil spirits sprang out from the faded paint above. There were sharp horns, probing tongues, mouths full of sharp teeth and outlandish weapons galore. Fabiola recognised Charon, the blue-skinned Etruscan demon of death, with his feathered wings and massive hammer. At gladiatorial games with Brutus, she had witnessed a living man play Charon’s part, entering the arena to mock screams from the audience. There his role was real, and gruesome. The memory of his hammer smashing the skulls of the fallen to ensure that they were dead still revolted Fabiola.
The figure over their heads looked fully capable of the same, but Charon paled into insignificance beside the painted representation of Orcus himself. Occupying the central part of the triangular portico, the god’s stern, bearded face was enormous, with a diameter at least twice the length of an ox cart. His dark eyes stared down fiercely, transfixing Fabiola. She could not bring herself to look at Orcus’ hair, which was a writhing mass of snakes. Ever since another prostitute had placed a venomous serpent in her bed, she had been terrified of the creatures.
She jumped as Sextus touched her elbow. ‘Let’s get inside, Mistress,’ he urged. ‘This rain will give us a fever.’
There was no point holding back now. Praying that her plan would not backfire, Fabiola climbed up the steps to the entrance, followed closely by her slave. Past the rows of fluted columns were two tall doors, their surfaces covered with strengthening iron strips. They were shut, and Fabiola quailed. Was Cerberus waiting to devour her on the other side? Come on, she thought angrily. I am alive, not dead. Rallying her courage, Fabiola stepped up to the portals and thumped on the wood with a balled fist.
Apart from the rain drumming off the ground behind them, there was silence.
She banged harder this time. ‘Open up! I wish to make an offering.’
A long pause followed, and Fabiola scowled. There were definitely people inside, she knew that. A temple complex such as this was no different to any other in Rome: it was where the priests and acolytes lived, ate, slept and worshipped. Apart from occasional sacred days – and today was not one – they were open to the public every day of the year. She raised her hand again, but as it fell, the door was pulled silently ajar. Startled, Fabiola lowered her arm and took a step backwards.
A grey-robed priestess stood framed in the entrance. She was young, perhaps the same age as Fabiola. Short, with long brown hair pinned up behind her head, she had a wide face with a short nose. Piercing green eyes studied Fabiola, disconcerting her.
‘Enter.’ She moved aside.
Fabiola was reminded of someone, but was so wound up that she gave it no further thought. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she crossed the threshold with a mental prayer to Mithras for his protection. Fabiola felt no qualms about this; it was not unusual to ask things of many gods.
The corridor within ran from side to side away from the doors and was even dimmer than the street. Occasional small oil lamps hung from brackets, casting long, flickering shadows on a bare, stone-flagged floor. Grotesque paintings of gods and demons covered the walls, their limbs cleverly moving in the guttering light cast by the lamps. The threatening atmosphere was a deliberate construct, Fabiola realised, generating anxiety in visitors’ hearts the instant they set foot inside. Yet this was the temple of Orcus, the god of the underworld. It was right to be scared here. Despite herself, Fabiola shivered. Do not forget your purpose, she thought, shoving down her rising dread. ‘I wish to make a request of the god. In private,’ she said, opening her clenched fingers. On her palm lay three neatly folded pieces of lead. She had spent hours composing the curses inscribed within them. With the threat from Scaevola more immediate, all referred to him, requesting his death in the most terrible of ways. For now, Caesar came second.
The priestess was unsurprised. People came here for every reason under the sun: twisted with hatred, seeking retribution for wrongs done to them, asking for revenge on enemies, lovers and superiors. Extreme weather did not remove such needs, nor did it affect the desire of certain devotees not to be seen by others. ‘Follow me.’ She walked off, her bare feet slapping off the floor.
Nervously, Fabiola and Sextus followed. In silence, they passed a succession of doors, all of which were closed. Fabiola wondered who might be in the chambers beyond. From one came the low sound of men chanting. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tune was slow and mournful and did little to calm her jangling nerves.
The priestess came to a halt at last. Producing a key from within her robes, she unlocked the door before them, which opened noiselessly, adding to the air of pressure. Inside was a large windowless chamber, its plastered surfaces painted an ominous, dark red colour. As in the hallway, the only light came from a few oil-burning lamps on the walls. There was barely any furniture, apart from a plain cement furnace on a square platform of bricks, situated at the back of the room. Staring in, Fabiola felt a warm current of air bathing her cheeks. A strong smell of incense also carried through the doorway. A deep red glow in the oven’s opening revealed the source of the intense heat. To one side of it lay a pile of fuel, and on the other sat a small altar decorated with a statue of Orcus.
‘You may make your offering here,’ said the young priestess. ‘Without interruption.’
Fabiola’s grip on the lead squares grew so tight that she felt them begin to bend at the edges. She stopped, worried that any damage might affect her requests of the god. Nothing must go wrong. Her very life depended on it. Nodding firmly, Fabiola walked in, tailed by Sext
us.
The priestess also entered, shutting the door. Moving to the altar, she bent her head in prayer. Unsure what to do next, Fabiola did the same. Compared to the cool of the corridor and the rain-soaked streets, this room was like a caldarium, the hottest place in a bathing complex. Thanks to the incense which was burning, the atmosphere was heavy and intense. Despite her soaked clothing, Fabiola felt sweat break out all over her body. She was used to the fuggy warmth of a full Mithraeum, but this was different. Some temples had fires to throw small offerings on, but not this roaring furnace, which reminded Fabiola of what Hades might be like. Fresh fear gripped her, yet she forced herself to stay calm. Orcus was no ordinary god. Gifts to him were cast in their entirety into the flames, there to be consumed. Hence the need for the oven.
Orcus, Fabiola thought, raising her eyes to the statue. Implacable, it stared right back. Mighty god of the underworld, hear me, she entreated. Once again, my life is in danger from Scaevola. He is an evil man and a murderer who will stop at nothing. I have no real means of stopping him without your help. Rid me of this whoreson, and I’ll be in your debt for ever. I will erect an altar to you, and there a goat will be sacrificed once a year for the rest of my days. As an extra incentive, Fabiola leaned forward and placed a stack of silver coins before the figurine. A sharp intake of breath from the priestess proved that the amount was impressive.
There was a loud crackling sound and flames belched up inside the furnace. Startled, Fabiola craned her head to see. Neither Sextus nor the priestess had done anything, but the fire was now roaring as if a smith was working a pair of bellows on it. She looked around, expecting to spot a demon hard at work, but all she could see were the four crimson walls, pressing in on her like a tomb. Long yellow-orange flames licked at the oven’s opening, making it seem like the glowing maw of a ravening mythical beast. Terror overcame Fabiola at last and she froze.
‘This is a propitious moment,’ intoned the priestess. ‘Make your offering.’
Her voice nearly made Fabiola jump out of her skin. She looked round at the grey-robed girl and nodded, jerkily. Did she seem vaguely familiar? There was no time to ponder. With the priestess urging her forwards, Fabiola opened her hand. There, on her palm, the three lead squares lay, inert and innocuous-looking. Like the hatred in her heart, though, they were far from that.
‘Throw them in as deep as you can,’ ordered the priestess.
Stepping as close as she could bear, Fabiola drew back her arm and flung the pieces of metal into the fire. They were lost to sight in the blink of an eye. She sighed. It was almost done, but what remained was critically important. Fabiola had no wish to bring down divine retribution upon herself for this act. As other Romans did, she made her offering on specified conditions. She was so wound up about this that she began whispering out loud instead of praying silently. ‘Keep me safe from harm, great Orcus,’ she muttered, staring into the bright blaze. ‘And those who are important to me. Romulus. Brutus. Sextus. Benignus and Vettius. Docilosa.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from behind her, and Fabiola realised that her request had not been internal after all. She glanced around at the priestess, whose face had gone white and pinched-looking.
‘Who is Docilosa?’
‘My servant,’ replied Fabiola, startled. ‘Why?’
Visibly disappointed, the priestess answered with another question. ‘Not a slave?’
‘She used to be,’ admitted Fabiola, avoiding any mention of her own origins. She felt a little discomfited now. ‘But she has been a freedwoman for nearly six years now.’
Hope filled the other’s face. ‘What age is she?’
A tremor of suspicion tickled Fabiola’s memory. ‘I don’t know, exactly. Probably about forty.’
The priestess’s composure cracked now, leaving the grief of a young girl in its place. ‘Who was her owner?’
‘Jovina,’ said Fabiola. ‘The owner of the Lupanar.’
‘Orcus be praised,’ gasped the priestess. ‘Mother is still alive!’
It was Fabiola’s turn to be shocked. ‘Sabina?’
The priestess stiffened. ‘You know my name?’
‘Docilosa has mentioned you many times,’ explained Fabiola, smiling. ‘She has grieved every day since your parting, and searched for you in countless temples. She never gave up hope of seeing you again.’
There was a flicker of a smile. ‘Where is she?’
‘In my house,’ said Fabiola. ‘It’s not far.’
Sabina’s expression softened for a heartbeat, and then grew hard once more. ‘Why are you her mistress? Is Jovina dead?’
Fabiola bit back her instinctive retort to the interrogation. Under normal circumstances, she would not tolerate this level of rudeness from anybody. This was not a typical situation, though, and Docilosa was very dear to her. Moreover, Sextus already knew of her past. ‘Jovina is still alive, although only the gods know for how much longer. She used to own us both.’
‘You weren’t a domestic slave like my mother, I take it,’ Sabina snorted.
Fabiola’s nostrils flared at her presumption. An ordinary household slave was worth far less than a good-looking virgin, so Gemellus had sold her as a whore. It wasn’t as if she’d had any choice in the matter. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I wasn’t.’
Sabina’s top lip curled with disdain.
‘If you’d been more of a looker, that might have been your fate,’ said Fabiola, riled by her arrogance. ‘Thank the gods it was not.’
A retort sprang to Sabina’s lips, but she bit it back. ‘Who bought you, then?’
Fabiola took a deep breath. ‘My lover saw fit to buy my manumission and, because I asked him, that of your mother also.’
At this, Sabina grew a fraction less surly. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
‘Because Docilosa has been a good friend to me,’ Fabiola replied. ‘She’ll want to come and see you at once. Is that permitted?’
‘Visitors are not encouraged, but there are ways around it,’ Sabina said craftily. ‘We can use a room like this to meet. The best time is mid-morning, when the temple is busy. None of the priests will notice then.’
‘Good,’ Fabiola declared briskly, concealing her dislike. ‘I’ll tell her.’ She turned to go.
Sabina wasn’t finished. ‘You must have an urgent need to visit in such weather,’ she said, probing.
‘My business for being here is my own,’ Fabiola retorted. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘You forget yourself,’ snapped Sabina. ‘I am a senior priestess here and, as such, privy to the god’s thoughts and wishes.’
Furious, Fabiola nonetheless forced her expression to become humble. To have achieved such a position from slavery while so young, Sabina must be a woman of immense ability. In addition, by angering one of Orcus’ important disciples, she herself risked losing any chance of her request being granted. ‘Forgive me,’ she muttered from between clenched teeth. ‘It’s nothing much. Just some trouble from a business rival.’
‘You work in the Lupanar still?’
‘No,’ replied Fabiola quickly. She grimaced at her instinctive denial. ‘Yes. I bought the place from Jovina yesterday.’
Sabina’s eyes narrowed. ‘I see. Why?’
Fabiola did not like this unhealthy interest in her affairs. What was behind it? Placed on the back foot by her fear of Orcus and Sabina’s confidence, though, she had no easy answer. There was no harm in telling some of the truth, she supposed. ‘My lover is in Caesar’s army, and I’ve been on campaign with him for over two years,’ she replied. ‘I’ve had enough. I want to stay here in Rome, and running the Lupanar is something that comes naturally to me.’
‘It would,’ said Sabina haughtily.
Fabiola wanted to claw her eyes out, but she dared do nothing. They exchanged a frosty glance. Sabina could see her anger, she thought, and was revelling in it. Unless Docilosa could bring some influence to bear, here was a potential enemy.
The next question came. ‘Who’s your lover?’
‘Decimus Brutus.’
Sabina’s eyebrows rose. ‘One of Caesar’s right-hand men? You must be very . . . persuasive.’
Fabiola fought the colour that rose to her cheeks and lost. Damn the girl, she thought. Where does the venom come from? Docilosa’s not like this. Then she glanced at the statue on the altar beside her, and was shocked back to where she was. Orcus was not the jovial Bacchus, nor the caring Aesculapius. Even the powerful triad of Jupiter, Minerva and Juno were less dread-inspiring than the god of the underworld. While they were all powerful, they did not take a person’s soul for eternity. What could it have been like for Sabina, sold here as a six-year-old acolyte? Fabiola wondered. There was a hardness to the other’s mien that perhaps she had not noticed before. Maybe being sold into a brothel was not the only way to Hades?
‘As you say,’ she murmured, moving towards the exit. Sextus gave her a reassuring look, and she managed a small grin in reply. With luck, the grilling was over. More importantly, Fabiola hoped that Orcus had not been angered by her clash with one of his priestesses. Extra prayers would have to be offered up to Jupiter and Mithras, asking for their intervention with their brother deity.
They reached the door without hearing Sabina speak again. Turning the iron handle, Fabiola glanced around. With her back to them, the priestess was on her knees before the altar. It was as obvious a sign of dismissal as Fabiola had ever been given, and her heart sank. She could think of nothing else to say, so she just closed the door behind her.
Deep in her misery, Fabiola paid little attention as they walked back to the entrance. Who knew what malevolent influence Sabina could bring to bear? Afterwards, she would blame herself for not concentrating, but in reality there was little she could have done to prevent what happened next.
As Fabiola drew alongside one of the many doors in the passageway, it opened. Still wishing to remain anonymous, she didn’t turn her head. There was an angry gasp from Sextus, though, and Fabiola heard his gladius snickering from its scabbard. She came back to reality with a bang. What was he doing? Drawing a weapon inside a temple would draw down the wrath of any deity, let alone Orcus. Turning, Fabiola’s mouth opened in rebuke. She was just in time to see a stocky man plunging a sword deep into Sextus’ side.
