by Ben Kane
‘Scaevola,’ Fabiola answered. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she imagined what the young priestess might demand of Orcus. ‘Among other things, he’s a fugitivarius.’
‘I see.’ Sabina did not seem surprised. She turned to go, then stopped. ‘And my mother? When will she visit?’
‘Tomorrow,’ reassured Fabiola.
This produced a small, pleased smile.
In the event, it was not possible for Docilosa to visit the temple the next day.
Accompanied by twenty legionaries, Fabiola arrived at Brutus’ house with the unconscious Sextus carried alongside in her litter. Once she had settled him in a bedroom beside her own and deputised a number of slaves to care for their comrade, she went in search of Docilosa. Fabiola found her in bed, her broad cheeks flushed with fever. Her servant barely recognised her, and Fabiola decided not to mention Sabina. The time would be right when Docilosa was recovered, when she could immediately go to visit her long-lost daughter.
Upon his return, Brutus was shocked and incensed to hear what had happened. Fearing his reaction, Fabiola did not mention that the fugitivarius was responsible for Sextus’ injury. Fabiola wanted to unburden her worries about Scaevola, but she worried that Brutus would forbid her from taking over the brothel. Then there would be no chance of continuing with her plans. She’d have to mention the fugitivarius at some point, but also dilute the threat he posed. So she told Brutus that their assailant had been a dangerous lunatic, who had been overpowered by some acolytes. As ever, he believed her story.
Brutus was even more surprised when Fabiola sprang the Lupanar’s purchase on him, but in the throes of her expert all-over massage, soon came around. Fabiola’s explanation of how the prostitutes could wheedle information from clients, in order to discover those who still sympathised with the Republican cause, pleased him immensely. ‘Since Pharsalus, Caesar’s taken too many of the boot-licking bastards to his bosom,’ Brutus growled. ‘I don’t trust a single one of them.’ Just the type of men I want, thought Fabiola. Naturally, she did not admit a thing. She had planted the seeds of doubt in Brutus’ mind already, and would win him around in time.
It was time to mention Scaevola’s involvement with the other brothel. Brutus was horrified to hear that the fugitivarius was back on the scene. ‘I’ll just have a few squads of soldiers take the bastard out and execute him,’ he roared. Unsurprisingly, he calmed down when Fabiola told him of Scaevola’s involvement with Marcus Antonius. ‘Damn it,’ he said, rubbing his tired eyes. ‘That prick Antonius wouldn’t be happy if one of his henchmen was killed by my legionaries. I’m sorry, my love. We’ll have to think of another way.’
Fabiola had been expecting that response. It galled her immensely, but a different method to rid herself of Scaevola and his menaces would present itself at some stage. If she could stay alive that long. Fabiola’s hunch that Brutus would not want legionaries standing guard outside a whorehouse was correct, but he gave her permission to recruit as many guards as she pleased. ‘I don’t want you spending too much time at the Lupanar, though. It’s safest here,’ he said, his brow furrowed. ‘Street heavies aren’t the same as my trained soldiers.’ Fabiola gave her lover a lingering kiss and, lying through her teeth, assured him that she’d do as he said. After a brief visit to Sextus’ bedside, Brutus retired, leaving Fabiola to brood over the dying slave by the flickering glow of an oil lamp.
She had dosed him with plenty of papaverum, so he was unconscious most of the time now. His face had taken on the waxy grey colour of those near death, and on the rare occasion that he opened his unfocused eyes, Fabiola did not think Sextus saw much. He was in no pain, so she could do no more. Holding his calloused hand as she had never done in life, Fabiola considered her situation. It felt more dangerous than ever.
To set out on the most perilous of paths without Brutus being fully on board felt downright foolish. He was right about paid guards not being of the same quality or reliability as legionaries. The only dependable men Fabiola had were Benignus and Vettius. With at least a dozen thugs of his own, Scaevola was a lethally dangerous enemy to have. Making the Lupanar impregnable was almost impossible, which meant that her life would be in constant danger there. Fabiola clenched her teeth. Her original refusal to walk away from the purchase of the brothel was not going to change now. Caesar had raped her mother, and tried to do the same to her. How else could she recruit nobles to murder him other than in the Lupanar?
Sextus died during the night, slipping away while Fabiola dozed alongside. When she opened her eyes in the cold light of dawn and saw his unmoving form, she felt enormous guilt at not being awake at the moment of his passing. Yet, she reflected wryly, it was Sextus’ manner to die as he had lived: in the most unassuming of ways. Still, Fabiola’s heart ached now that he was gone. Since the dark day they had fought side by side for their lives, the one-eyed slave had been a pillar of support to her. In the weeks ahead, Fabiola would sorely miss his skill with a sword. Picturing Scaevola’s malevolent face as he attacked them in the temple, fresh fear filled her. Had buying the Lupanar been a good idea?
Then Fabiola looked down at Sextus’ body.
To walk away now might mean she was safe – but the victory would be Scaevola’s. Furthermore, her loyal slave’s death would mean nothing. ‘I will avenge you, Sextus,’ she whispered. ‘At any cost.’
Once burial arrangements had been put in train for Sextus, Fabiola set about completing her purchase of the Lupanar. Accompanied by a squad of legionaries, she first made a quick journey to the basilicae, the covered markets in the Forum. Among the moneylenders, scribes and soothsayers there, she found a portly lawyer recommended by Brutus. Fabiola was delighted to hear from him that the bill of sale penned by Jovina was legally binding. After a greasy-haired scribe had penned two notarised copies – one for each of them – Fabiola deposited the original in a nearby bank.
In these plush premises, replete with fountains, Greek statues and urns, she also presented the parchment which Brutus had gifted her. It granted up to 175,000 denarii in credit. The teller’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he read the amount. This fortune, to a woman? Of course, he dared say nothing, instead checking with a superior that Brutus’ seal was genuine before silently composing the document which the confident young beauty demanded.
When it was finished, Fabiola scanned the close-written text herself. It was made out to Jovina for seventy-five thousand denarii – half the money she’d agreed to pay the old hag. Even this was an absolute fortune, a sum which only a few years ago she would not have been able to comprehend. Yet it was only part of the money which Brutus had freely given her. He’d offered even more, but, keen to show him that she was not greedy, Fabiola had refused. There was plenty here for her to buy the services of gladiators, street toughs, members of the collegia – whoever Benignus and Vettius could round up to defend the Lupanar.
‘I need cash as well,’ she said to the clerk.
‘How much, madam?’ he asked.
‘Twenty thousand denarii should do it,’ Fabiola replied, thinking trips here were probably best left to a minimum. The sturdy legionaries outside wouldn’t always be present, and it was a long journey back to the Lupanar. She might not be able to make it too often. ‘Give me half of it in sestertii.’
The teller blinked. In this respectable establishment, it was more usual for customers to use credit notes like the one he’d just written. ‘If madam doesn’t mind waiting,’ he said. ‘It will take a few moments to count out such a large amount.’
‘I’ll be back for it in an hour,’ Fabiola answered. Being so close to Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline Hill, a quick visit was called for. She needed help more than ever, and Rome’s greatest god had helped her on many occasions before. So too had Mithras. After her bad fortune with Orcus, perhaps she could renew her loyalties to these two deities.
Fabiola had no idea whether the requests that she had made of the god of the underworld were void because of what had ha
ppened. She had little stomach to return to his shrine and find out either. It was hard not to believe that her visit there had been a big mistake. Stop it, Fabiola chided herself. You met Sabina there. Docilosa will be so pleased when she finds out. Her conscience bit back at once. Sextus is dead, and it’s your fault.
To that, Fabiola had no answer.
The next two days passed in a blur of activity, and Docilosa’s fever raged on, obviating the need to tell her about her daughter. Keen to avoid possible trouble from Sabina, Fabiola made sure to send an explanatory note to Orcus’ temple. Hopefully that would suffice. Despite the expense, Sextus was buried in a small plot on the Via Appia, and a carved stone tablet placed at the head of his grave. It read simply: ‘Sextus: brave heart and faithful slave’. Fabiola did not attend the burial; she had too much on her plate. Scaevola was still lying low to avoid the lictores, but who knew how long that would last? She had to maximise the breathing space this granted her. Fabiola tried to bury her intense guilt about missing Sextus’ funeral under the myriad of things she had to do. It didn’t work.
She’d quickly realised that it wasn’t just the competition that had dragged down the brothel’s business. The place was run down and shabby, with cracks in the plaster and damp running down the walls in many rooms. The worn, dirty bedclothes were in need of replacing, the floors were covered in dust, and Fabiola’s stomach turned when she saw the heated baths. Previously it had been her favourite room. Now mould was growing in the tiny cracks between the tiles, and the green-tinged water obviously hadn’t been changed in months. Even the remaining girls didn’t look attractive. Old, worn out, diseased or simply uncaring of their appearance, they had barely registered Fabiola’s arrival until Benignus had announced who she was. After a brief pep talk in which she told them exactly how things were going to change, Fabiola left them to absorb her orders. Half of them would be sold as kitchen slaves. The remaining prostitutes would improve their act or the same would happen to them. It was tough, but Fabiola could see no other way to do it. There was no point worrying about the parlous state of the brothel either. The best thing to do was close it down for a week and refurbish it from top to bottom. Then, after recruiting some heavies, she would need a coterie of the best-looking women available in the slave market.
When Fabiola finished her initial tour she understood why Jovina had been so delighted at her reappearance with half the money. ‘It just needs a lick of paint,’ the old madam simpered as they went into her old office, which was just off the reception area. It was a large room with a desk, several battered chairs and an altar covered in candle stumps. In one corner sat the repository for the brothel’s takings, a large iron-clad trunk with several padlocks.
‘The place has gone to rack and ruin,’ Fabiola replied drily.
‘I haven’t been well,’ Jovina muttered, clutching her copy of the bill of sale tightly. ‘Things got on top of me.’
‘I can see that. You can cope with getting it cleaned, I presume?’
‘Of course.’ Jovina smiled, revealing her few remaining pegs.
‘The girls won’t have anything to do while the brothel is closed, so they can all pitch in. The domestic slaves too. I want it finished by tonight, because the builders will be arriving at dawn,’ announced Fabiola, her face lighting up as she pictured the Lupanar restored to its former glory. ‘Is that clear?’
Jovina didn’t argue. Part of her was glad to see new blood in charge. ‘It is,’ she said, a grudging respect creeping into her voice.
I don’t deserve that yet, thought Fabiola. Maybe when the customers return – if Scaevola hasn’t burned the building down around our ears by then. But she wasn’t going to let her worries ruin everything. She smiled at Jovina, pleased that someone who had ruled her life for years was acknowledging her ability. ‘Good. Benignus!’
He came running from his position by the door. A broad grin had been permanently plastered on both the doormen’s faces since Fabiola’s arrival. She looked after them as Jovina never had. ‘Mistress?’
Lifting a small leather pouch from the desk, Fabiola tossed it to him.
Surprised by its weight, his eyebrows rose.
‘Find me men who can fight. Try the ludi. Go to the slave market too. If you have no luck there, then round up some citizens,’ she ordered. ‘Tough-looking ones.’
Benignus was delighted. ‘How many?’
‘At least a dozen, but more if you can find them. Big, small, old, young – I don’t care. Just make sure that they can handle themselves. They are to live here and defend the Lupanar from that vile piece of work Scaevola. Offer them fifteen denarii a month.’ Fabiola’s jaw hardened. ‘For that kind of money, I expect them to fight. And die, if necessary.’
Lifting his club in anticipation of bloodshed, Benignus nodded eagerly.
‘You and Vettius will be in charge,’ she went on. ‘Feel free to knock heads together whenever you want. Make sure that they know not to touch any of the girls. Warn them that the first one who does will be killed.’
Benignus was beaming from ear to ear now. This was what he and his comrade had been wishing for.
‘Off you go,’ said Fabiola. ‘It might take a while.’
Bobbing his head, the shaven-headed doorman hurried out of the door.
Fabiola followed him, tailed by Jovina, her new shadow. She was keen to decide how the reception area could be improved. Apart from the bedrooms where the prostitutes entertained the customers, this was the most important room in the building, the one which gave a good or bad first impression. Making it look elegant and classy once more would be an important part of the Lupanar’s facelift.
Fabiola was still musing over the details when she became aware of a conversation going on between Vettius and someone just outside the entrance.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the business is closed for refurbishment,’ said Vettius politely. ‘We reopen in a week’s time.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ growled the man in a deep, cultured voice.
Vettius coughed awkwardly. ‘The Master of the Horse, sir.’
Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth. What was Marcus Antonius doing here?
‘Exactly,’ declared the other. ‘Now stand aside.’
Pursing her lips, Fabiola stalked to the door, determined to see off this unwelcome visitor. Antonius was Scaevola’s employer, and while he probably knew nothing of her feud with the fugitivarius, she wanted nothing to do with him. He was Caesar’s most loyal follower.
Bumping into the cloaked figure that strode across the portal, she nearly fell. Quickly Antonius stooped and grasped her arm, preventing her from doing so. Fabiola found herself face to face with the second most powerful man in Rome and her breath caught in her throat. This close, his animal magnetism was overpowering. ‘Marcus Antonius,’ she stuttered, taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’
He smiled, discomfiting her further. ‘I might ask the same thing of you. No one told me that Venus herself had come to live in the Lupanar.’
Fabiola flushed, and her heart hammered in her chest.
‘Do you work here?’ Antonius asked.
‘No. I’m the owner,’ she answered.
He eyed Jovina, who instantly affected not to notice. ‘Since when?’
‘A few days ago,’ Fabiola replied, angry that he had her so utterly on the back foot. ‘It’s a new business venture.’
‘And you have experience in the field?’
There was a titter from Jovina, hastily converted to a cough.
Fabiola stared daggers at the old madam. ‘Some.’ She wasn’t going to go into more detail.
‘I missed meeting you before then,’ murmured Antonius. ‘Shame.’
Fabiola ignored his comment. What was less easy to disregard were his roving eyes, which were busily undressing her. In return, she couldn’t help but admire his burly physique and bulging muscles. Jupiter, he had presence. ‘My apologies, but we’re closed until next week, sir,’ she said, trying to keep
her voice from quivering. ‘Perhaps you could come back then?’
‘You don’t understand.’ He gave her the full weight of his penetrating stare. ‘I haven’t had a woman in two days.’
‘In that case, I’m sure something can be arranged,’ Fabiola whispered, not sure what she even meant. ‘Go and get the cleaning started,’ she barked at Jovina.
With a disappointed look, Jovina disappeared up the corridor. No longer the madam, she had to obey.
At once Fabiola led Antonius into her office. ‘Sit down and have some wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll fetch my best lookers in a moment.’
He shrugged off his cloak, revealing a plain military tunic. An ornate pugio hung from his leather belt. ‘Have we met before?’
‘In Gaul. After Alesia,’ Fabiola replied, blushing like a girl. How could she not have noticed his easy grace then? She had been too relieved to see Brutus again.
‘Ah yes. Decimus Brutus’ lover.’ The corners of his lips tugged upward. ‘I remember your beauty now – and your naïveté in front of Caesar.’
Fabiola’s cheeks burned at the memory. ‘I’d had too much wine,’ she muttered.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Fabiola was at a loss for words. After all the men she’d unwillingly had sex with, she had never really thought to desire one. Yet every fibre of her being wanted Antonius. Right now. ‘I’ll fetch those girls,’ she faltered.
It was as if he knew. Standing, Antonius paced towards her on the balls of his feet. ‘No need,’ he murmured. ‘What I want is right here.’
‘I’m the owner,’ Fabiola protested weakly. ‘Not a whore.’
Ignoring her, Antonius pulled her close, fondling her full breasts and kissing her neck.
Fabiola revelled in his touch, and shoved him away with great difficulty. What was going on, she thought, panicking. I never lose control.
