The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  Once the mutineers had been dealt with, there was no further delay. Caesar headed into the capital to meet with the Master of the Horse and the Senate. The Sixth was demobbed for the moment, its soldiers beating an instant path to the local taverns and brothels. After a few days, they would go home to their families. The prisoners were disposed of the same day too. With a dozen soldiers as escort, the centurion who had pronounced sentence on the two friends led the group into the city.

  Petronius had never seen Rome before, and was amazed by the thick Servian walls, the sheer size of buildings and numbers of people. Romulus, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread as they walked the streets through which he had run errands as a boy. This was not how he wanted to return home. Even the sight of Jupiter’s massive temple atop the Capitoline Hill produced only a flicker of joy in his heart, and this small pleasure was drained away by passing the crossroads near Gemellus’ house. Despite the financial difficulties which Hiero had told him of, the merchant might still be living there. A dull resentment filled Romulus’ belly. He was only a hundred paces from the door of the man whom he’d dreamt for years of killing, and he was unable to do a thing about it.

  Finally they neared the Ludus Magnus, the main gladiator school, and old fear made Romulus’ heart skip a beat. It was from this place that he and Brennus had fled, unnecessarily as it turned out. It had been Tarquinius who killed the fiery nobleman, not Romulus. By now, his initial fury at the haruspex’ revelation had crumbled to a lingering bitterness at what might have been. It was hard to feel otherwise. Brennus could still have been alive if they hadn’t run, and they might both have earned the rudis. Yet Romulus was not naïve: underneath lay the knowledge that Tarquinius would have acted as he thought best – and according to the wind, or the stars. Had his accurate divinations not been a comfort through the ordeals of Carrhae and Margiana? After so long together, Romulus knew the haruspex well; he did not think Tarquinius was a man to act maliciously.

  The realisation helped him to square his shoulders as he read what was inscribed on the stone over the main gate: ‘Ludus Magnus’. The first time Romulus had seen them, as an illiterate thirteen-year-old, he’d only guessed the two words’ meaning. Thanks to Tarquinius, though, he could now read them. It was odd that they were here, thought Romulus. There were four ludi in Rome, yet here he was, outside his old training ground. An ironic smile flickered across his lips as the centurion demanded entry.

  A moment later, their hobnailed caligae echoed in the short corridor which led to the open square within the thick walls. It was mid-afternoon, and dozens of gladiators were engaged in physical training with each other and against the pali, the thick timber posts as tall as a man. Trainers armed with whips walked among them, pointing and shouting commands. With wicker shields and wooden weapons that were twice the weight of the real thing, the fighters danced around each other, thrusting and stabbing. Romulus recognised none of them, and his heart bled. Sextus, the little Spaniard, and Otho and Antonius, two other friendly gladiators, were probably all long dead. It was also likely to be true of Cotta, his trainer. He scanned the balconies for Astoria, Brennus’ Nubian lover, but there was no sign of her either, only the menacing shapes of the lanista’s archers, watching for any signs of trouble. It was not that surprising that Astoria wasn’t around, Romulus thought gloomily. Memor would have sold her to a brothel.

  Romulus’ attention was drawn back to the present by other familiar classes of fighter – Thracians with their square shields and curved swords, and murmillones in their distinctive fish-crested helmets. There were even two pairs of retiarii sparring against the same number of secutores, his own former category of hunter. He stopped for a moment to watch. Instantly, there was a sharp prod in his back. ‘Get a move on,’ snarled one of the legionaries, poking him again with his pilum. ‘Follow the centurion.’

  Romulus swallowed his anger and obeyed. Soon he and the others were lined up in front of a familiar figure, one whom he’d never thought to see again. Memor, the lanista. The years hadn’t changed him that much. Maybe his skin was a darker shade of brown, thought Romulus, and his shoulders slightly stooped, but the lanista’s mannerisms and the way he ordered the gladiators about were exactly the same as before. So was his sarcastic manner. Romulus’ stomach clenched. Would Memor recognise him?

  ‘What have we here?’ the lanista drawled. ‘Deserters?’

  ‘Cowards mostly,’ the centurion replied. ‘They ran away in the middle of a battle.’

  Disapproving, Memor flicked his whip along the ground. ‘They’d be no damn good as gladiators then. Why weren’t the dogs crucified?’

  ‘The games celebrating Caesar’s recent victories are short of recruits,’ growled the centurion. ‘They are to be classed as noxii.’

  Memor’s lip curled. ‘Not my usual line of business, that.’

  Only because there’s no money in it for you, thought Romulus sourly.

  ‘Taking them on would be seen as a favour to Caesar himself,’ responded the other.

  At once Memor was all beams and smiles. ‘Why didn’t you say? It would be my honour to prepare the sons of whores for death. I might even be able to make them perform well.’ He gave the prisoners an unpleasant stare. Oddly, it stayed longest on Romulus and Petronius. ‘Why are those two here?’

  The centurion snorted. ‘One is a damn slave who had the cheek to join the legions.’

  Memor’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘And the other?’

  ‘His fool of a friend. Tried to defend the slave when he was exposed.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Memor, pacing before the chained men in an appraising manner. His whip trailed after him, its weighted tip drawing a line in the sand. He came alongside Petronius, staring at him like a leopard looks at its prey.

  The veteran met his gaze with contempt.

  ‘Still proud, eh?’ Memor grinned. ‘I can soon change that.’

  Petronius had the wisdom not to answer.

  Memor moved to stand before Romulus, who, keen not to be recognised, looked away. But the grizzled lanista grabbed his jaw and twisted his head around, making Romulus feel thirteen years old again. His deep blue eyes met the black pits that were Memor’s, and they stared at each other for a long moment. ‘Which is the slave?’ Memor asked abruptly.

  ‘The one you’re looking at,’ replied the centurion.

  A frown creased Memor’s lined forehead. ‘Big nose, blue eyes. You’re strong too.’ He let go of Romulus’ chin and pulled up the right sleeve of his russet military tunic. Where a slave brand might have been, there was a linear scar, partially obscured by a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull. To expert eyes, however, it was obvious that Romulus had been a slave once. Brennus’ excision had been that of a battlefield surgeon, quite unlike the skilled art of those who specialised in removing brands from wealthy freed slaves, and the tattoo Romulus had paid for in Barbaricum only sufficed to divert passing glances. Memor knew at once what he was seeing. Stepping back, he sized Romulus up. ‘By all the gods,’ he said, his face colouring with old anger. ‘Romulus? Isn’t that your name?’

  Resigned, he nodded.

  The centurion looked surprised. ‘You know him?’

  Memor spat a violent oath. ‘The scumbag belongs to me! Eight years ago, he and my best gladiator got out one night and murdered a noble. Of course the bastards ran away. Disappeared completely, although I heard a rumour they’d joined Crassus’ expeditionary force.’

  The centurion chuckled. ‘I don’t know about that, but he was certainly in one of Caesar’s legions.’

  ‘I was in Crassus’ army,’ muttered Romulus. ‘Thousands of us were taken captive after Carrhae. I managed to escape with a friend some months later.’

  Petronius’ and the centurion’s faces were the picture of shock. Apart from Cassius Longinus and the remnants of his command, no further survivors from the disaster in Parthia had returned to Rome.

  Memor spun back. ‘You and the big Gaul? Where is he?’
>
  ‘Not him,’ said Romulus heavily. ‘He’s dead.’

  Disappointment filled the lanista’s features.

  With his grief over Brennus’ death scraped raw once more, Romulus could still see Memor’s mind working. After all, he too had been an excellent gladiator – at only fourteen years old. Now he was a grown man, who had served in the army. An even better prospect. ‘Surely this one could return to me rather than being killed off?’ Memor asked. He paused, then couldn’t help himself. ‘He’s my property after all.’

  ‘Don’t try your luck. The whoreson joined the army as a slave, which means he’s under my jurisdiction until he dies,’ snapped the centurion. ‘I don’t care if he’s fucking Spartacus himself. He and his friend go into the arena and they don’t come out.’

  There was to be no way of making back the money he’d lost from Brennus’ and Romulus’ disappearance. Furious, Memor lifted his whip. ‘I’ll teach you,’ he hissed at Romulus.

  ‘Don’t damage them either,’ warned the centurion. ‘Caesar will be expecting a top-class spectacle, not just some cripples being mauled to death in double-quick time.’

  Cheated of even this, Memor stepped back. ‘Shouldn’t be ungrateful, I suppose. It’ll be a pleasure to see you die,’ he said with a cruel smile. ‘I believe that the bestiarii have a fine selection available at the moment. Tigers, lions, bears and the like. Apparently there are even more exotic creatures too.’

  The other prisoners gave one another fearful looks. Even Petronius shuffled his caligae to and fro. Romulus managed to keep his face blank. He was also scared, but he was damned if Memor would get to see it.

  ‘I’ll leave that decision up to you,’ offered the centurion, tossing the keys for the padlocks to Memor. ‘They’re on in two days.’ With a curt nod, he led the legionaries out of the yard.

  ‘Unchain them.’ Memor handed the keys to one of his men, a skinny Judaean with buck teeth and a scraggly beard. ‘Then find the worst cell you can. Tell the cook they are to get no food.’ Still in a bad mood, he stalked off.

  Rubbing their skin where the neck rings had chafed, the prisoners followed the Judaean to a dank, windowless chamber with mould growing on the walls. It was barely big enough for two or three of them to sleep side by side, let alone eight. There were no bunks or blankets either. Smirking, Memor’s man walked off.

  The two friends moved away from the doorway. There was no point spending any more time in the cell than they had to. Leaning back against the wall, they watched the gladiators, who, with the excitement over, had gone back to their training.

  ‘Two days until we go to Hades,’ muttered Petronius. ‘Not long.’

  Fighting despair once more, Romulus nodded grimly.

  Petronius thumped one fist into the other. ‘Why did that black-haired bastard have to interfere? If it hadn’t been for him, . . .’ he sighed.

  ‘We cannot understand the gods’ purpose,’ said Romulus. Even to his ears, the words sounded hollow.

  ‘Spare me your piety.’ Clearing his throat, Petronius spat on the sand. ‘We don’t deserve a fate like this.’

  Romulus’ spirits hit a new low.

  They were damned.

  Chapter X: Caesar’s Games

  Two days later. . .

  Scowling, Fabiola totted up the figures on her parchment again. It made no difference: they were as depressing as the first time she’d calculated them. Time had passed since her takeover of the Lupanar, and business was still not improving. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been busy, she thought angrily. The brothel had been redecorated from top to bottom and the baths refilled. Fifteen heavies recruited by Vettius lounged around the entrance and the street, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Unless one had a very large force, attacking the premises now would be tantamount to suicide. Thanks to some well-placed bribes at the slave market, Fabiola was the owner of a bevy of new prostitutes: dark-eyed, brown-skinned Judaeans, Illyrians with raven tresses and pitch-black Nubians. There was even a girl from Britannia with red hair and a cream complexion that Fabiola could have wished for herself.

  Posters advertising the Lupanar’s revamp had been put up all over Rome too, aimed at attracting both new custom and old. A common method of raising public awareness, this should have resulted in a flood of men through the door. Instead, it had been a mere trickle. Fabiola sighed. She had underestimated Scaevola’s ability to affect her business. There could be no doubt that the brothel’s failure to take off was thanks to the fugitivarius, whose blockade of the Lupanar had begun the day after Antonius’ visit. Her hopes that Scaevola would find out about her affair with the Master of the Horse and just disappear had proved fruitless. While Fabiola didn’t think Antonius knew of her feud, she hadn’t dared mention it to him yet either. Any time she ever thought about it, her new lover seemed to mention the fugitivarius – in glowing terms.

  Scaevola’s initial tactics had been blatant: open intimidation of potential customers by his thugs right outside the brothel. Incensed, Fabiola had sent Vettius and his men out to deal with them. After a pitched battle and a handful of casualties, the fugitivarius had withdrawn his forces to the surrounding streets. The situation had then settled into an uneasy peace, broken by the occasional bloody skirmish. While the fighting was bad for business, the damage done by Scaevola’s ever-present heavies was even worse. It was impossible to stop them too. Fabiola’s guards could not protect the Lupanar and also stand on every street corner day and night.

  It was all rather depressing, thought Fabiola morosely. Brutus’ funds weren’t limitless, and the place wasn’t making any money. While she didn’t mind spending most of her time in the brothel, the poor trade meant that she was having little luck in discovering anyone of senior rank who was prepared to join a conspiracy against Caesar. Every one of her prostitutes had been drilled to repeat the smallest detail let slip by a client about the political situation. Thus armed, Fabiola planned to focus her attention on those who spoke badly of Caesar in any way. Information, though, like customers, was proving to be thin on the ground. She could only suppose that, eager to avoid trouble, most people were keeping their lips sealed.

  For weeks Fabiola sat in the Lupanar, brooding. Even Brutus, who was working from dawn till dusk on official matters, had noticed her ill humour. ‘Buying the damn fleapit was a bad idea from the start,’ he cried during one of their now regular arguments. Alarmed by the volatility of Brutus’ reaction, she had turned on a charm offensive to allay his concerns. It had worked – for the moment. Now Fabiola was careful to be at home before he was, ready to pay him the attention he was used to. She could not afford to upset Brutus too much, especially now that Marcus Antonius had become a regular lover.

  That impulsive move had made her life far more complicated, and dangerous. By this stage, however, Fabiola could not help herself. It had all begun with a simple plan: that in the Master of the Horse she would have a safety net in case Brutus ever abandoned her, or that Antonius would prove to be another possible ally against Caesar. Of course it was all an exercise in self-deception. Antonius was known throughout Rome for philandering with senators’ wives, so he wasn’t about to lose his heart to Fabiola, or to favour her above all others. He was also Caesar’s most ardent supporter, threatening bloody murder to anyone he thought harboured the smallest disloyal thought about the Republic’s dictator. If he learned of Fabiola’s plans for Caesar, she might as well write her own death warrant. The best thing she could have done was to end the affair after the first occasion.

  Fabiola had known all this within a few days of encountering Antonius, and yet here she was, still meeting him whenever he demanded it. Guilt about her infidelity to Brutus ravaged her, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. The fact that Brutus did not deserve it wasn’t adequate either. Fabiola hated her weakness, but did nothing about it. Deep down, she knew why. The reason she was involved with Antonius was that she was enthralled by his animal magnetism, his brooding presence, and his confident manner. The
Master of the Horse was an alpha male from his head to his toes, while Brutus, a decent man through and through, was not. In Antonius’ presence, Fabiola wasn’t always the one in charge. It was a most unusual situation for her and, after so many years of controlling men, she liked it. She relished too how Antonius undressed her with his eyes, the way he ran his hands over her naked body and the feeling when he was deep inside her.

  Fabiola dreaded Brutus’ reaction if he discovered her illicit relationship. He didn’t like the Master of the Horse at the best of times and, when aroused, his temper was ferocious. So Fabiola took the most elaborate precautions when meeting Antonius. Smuggling herself out of the brothel with only Vettius or Benignus as protection, she would meet him in discreet inns just outside Rome, or at one of his private residences in the city. Jovina suspected something was going on, but knew better than to ask. Now that she was no longer in charge, none of the slaves or whores would tell her a thing, which cut off her eyes and ears at a stroke. Fabiola was aware how easy it would be for one slave to gossip with another, or a customer. Scandal like her affair would spread faster than the plague, hence the meetings off the brothel’s premises. Docilosa and the two doormen were the only ones who knew the truth. Benignus and Vettius adored Fabiola so much that they did not care what she did, and while Docilosa disapproved, her mind was wholly taken up by Sabina, with whom she had been reunited after her fever abated.

  Although Antonius did not talk much about official business during their trysts, inevitably he let the occasional snippet fall. Fabiola pounced on these gems like a magpie and now knew of more than half a dozen men who were suspected of plotting against Caesar. Many, like Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus, were former Republicans who had been pardoned by Caesar after Pharsalus. Their names filled Fabiola’s mind day and night, frustrating her hugely. How could she meet them in private and win them over? By virtue of her sex and former status, Fabiola did not socialise with the nobility that much. Of course Brutus took her to plays, and to feasts, but these were hardly the places for her to foment high treason. What she needed was for those who hated Caesar to walk through the brothel’s door. She scowled. There was little chance of that happening with Scaevola’s blockade in place. It was endlessly frustrating – a vicious circle which had gone on for months. To break it, she would have to broach the subject of the fugitivarius with Antonius.