by Ben Kane
Sudden shouts from the street made Fabiola’s face brighten. Rather than Scaevola or his thugs, it was the sound of excited, drunk citizens. Drawn by the prospect of Caesar’s games, thousands of people were already flooding the capital’s streets. To celebrate his recent victory over Pharnaces in Asia Minor, several weeks of entertainment had been laid on, beginning a couple of days prior. Brutus had been raving about the quality of gladiators who would be fighting. The resulting influx of visitors into the city had seemingly diluted the fugitivarius’ ability to affect Fabiola’s business, and in turn that was bringing in more customers. She glanced at the little altar in the corner. Perhaps Mithras or Fortuna might send her some of the nobles Antonius had mentioned.
What about Romulus? she thought guiltily. How could I forget him? Her resolute refusal to believe that her twin was dead had carried her through for years, culminating miraculously with a sight of him in Alexandria. Yet there had been no news of Romulus since. With a civil war in full flow, Caesar’s legions were constantly on the move, and it was proving hard to get any meaningful information from them. The quartermasters and senior officers whom Fabiola’s messengers had contacted were less than cooperative. Busy obtaining supplies and equipment, recruiting new men to replace their losses, and preparing for Caesar’s new campaigns, they had more on their plates than finding one ordinary soldier among thousands. It was not as if Romulus was an unusual name, one centurion had apparently scoffed.
Stuck in Rome, Fabiola had resigned herself to not seeing her brother again until the war was over and Caesar’s troops returned home. If he survived, of course. There was no guarantee that he would. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her. To Fabiola’s shame, resentment followed in its wake. Wasn’t she doing all she could? She still prayed daily for Romulus. Couriers armed with information had been dispatched to every legion in the army. She couldn’t help it if they found nothing. Was it so wrong for her to have some pleasure in the meantime? After all, she wasn’t a Vestal Virgin.
‘Mistress?’
The sound of Docilosa’s voice cut through Fabiola’s reverie. ‘You know not to call me that,’ she said for the thousandth time.
‘Sorry,’ Docilosa replied. ‘Old habits.’ Wearing a hooded cloak, she looked ready to go out.
‘Off to see Sabina?’ Fabiola enquired.
There was a shy grin. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Of course,’ Fabiola replied warmly. ‘Whenever you like.’ Docilosa’s joy over her reunion with Sabina warmed her heart. Pangs of sadness always gripped her at the same time, though. What might it have been like to see her own mother once more after so many years? She would never know. ‘Be careful. Keep your eyes peeled for Scaevola.’
Docilosa lifted her hood. ‘Don’t worry. Vettius won’t let me out until the street’s clear.’ Like all the brothel’s residents, she had grown used to blending into the crowd at once.
Fabiola nodded, her guilt about Romulus and desire to see Antonius returning with a vengeance. She was unaware of her grim expression.
Docilosa didn’t move from her position. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not been yourself in recent days.’
Fabiola forced an unconvincing smile. What was sparking Docilosa’s sudden interest? ‘It’s nothing,’ she muttered.
Her servant raised one eyebrow. ‘Expect me to believe that?’
‘There’s a lot on my mind,’ Fabiola offered. ‘Scaevola’s still about. Business isn’t increasing like it should. My coffers aren’t bottomless.’
‘We’re doing everything that can be done in those departments,’ Docilosa answered stolidly. She studied Fabiola’s face. ‘There’s more than that going on – I can see it in your eyes.’
Fabiola looked down, wishing that her servant would just leave. She was poor at concealing her emotions from Docilosa, and still wasn’t ready to reveal her plan to kill Caesar. Now she had two more dirty secrets – her pleasure in having an affair with Antonius, and her shameful resentment of Romulus. Suddenly these private thoughts seemed too much to bear on her own. Fabiola glanced at Docilosa. ‘I . . .’ she faltered.
‘Tell me,’ Docilosa urged. ‘I’m listening.’
I should explain, thought Fabiola. Every little detail. She’ll understand. She did when I couldn’t cope with the idea of Carrhae any longer. Fabiola’s memory of her meltdown on the very day Brutus had appeared with her manumissio was strong. It was Docilosa who had listened and calmed her, before sending Fabiola out to face her lover in what had proved to be the most important meeting of her life. ‘It’s about Caesar,’ she began. ‘And Romulus. And . . .’ Her voice dried up.
Docilosa finished Fabiola’s sentence for her. ‘Marcus Antonius?’
She nodded, unable to miss the stern disapproval in Docilosa’s tone.
There was no time to continue the conversation. A customer had arrived. Speaking a few words to Vettius over his shoulder, he entered. A big, burly man in a plain cloak and tunic, he had a sheathed gladius hanging from a belt. It was the mark of a soldier, thought Fabiola. Then he turned towards her, and her stomach turned over. There was no mistaking the determined blue eyes, the long straight nose and the mop of curly brown hair. It was Marcus Antonius.
‘Surprise!’ He half bowed, sending a strong whiff of wine in her direction.
‘Antonius. What are you doing here?’ Fabiola hissed. Her nerves were unravelling fast. Jovina was in the kitchen, but could venture up the corridor at any moment. If the old madam saw him, she would put two and two together in the blink of an eye. ‘You’re drunk,’ she chided, taking his arm and trying to usher him towards the door.
Antonius wouldn’t budge. ‘Might have had a little wine,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
Fabiola hid her impatience. By now, she knew all about his excessive drinking. Antonius was a wild-living soldier who cared nothing for what others thought. He commonly attended political meetings while under the influence, and had even vomited in front of the entire Senate once. Now his bravado had brought him here, in broad daylight. ‘Are you alone?’ she demanded.
‘Of course.’ He sounded hurt. ‘No lictores, no guards. I even left my chariot at home.’ He tugged at his working man’s tunic. ‘Look. Just for you.’
Impressed, she touched his cheek. Antonius’ British war chariot was his pride and joy. So was his fondness for wearing military dress. ‘No one saw you coming in?’
‘I hid my face all the way here,’ he declared, lifting a fold of his cloak dramatically. ‘Only the doorman knows.’
‘Good,’ replied Fabiola, but her worries remained. Even without his coterie of followers, Antonius was recognisable to all. Despite his protestations, he would have been noticed. On the other hand, it was excellent that Scaevola and his men would have seen him enter the Lupanar. They might think twice before attacking it again. But Antonius’ visit was still a double-edged sword. Fabiola couldn’t afford for him to stay longer than the time it would take to be entertained by a prostitute. He’d also have to leave discreetly, or Brutus would hear that the Master of the Horse, his enemy, was frequenting the Lupanar.
Antonius eyed her cleavage, and Fabiola felt a surge of desire. ‘I have to have you,’ he muttered. ‘Now.’
Fabiola wanted him too. Badly. She glanced at Docilosa, who took the hint.
‘I’ll go and find Jovina,’ she declared. ‘There’s something I need to ask her.’
Bless her, thought Fabiola, knowing that the madam would be kept out of the way. Despite what I do, Docilosa remains loyal. There’ll be no problem when I tell her about Caesar. Romulus will return one day too. My actions won’t interfere with that. She lost track of any further coherent thought as Antonius dragged her into a lingering kiss. At length, Fabiola managed to pull away from his roaming hands. ‘Not here,’ she scolded. ‘We’re practically in public view.’
‘All the better,’ Antonius growled. ‘I’d fuck you in front of all Rome.’
Pouting, Fa
biola led him to the first bedroom, which she knew was empty. Quickly they stripped off their clothes, squeezing and caressing each other’s flesh in a tide of lust. Goose bumps rose on Fabiola’s skin as Antonius kissed her neck and ran his fingertips slowly down her back and on to her buttocks. His hand paused for a moment before moving around to the front, and cupping Fabiola’s moist sex. She moved her thighs apart to allow him to insert a finger. He moved it in and out, bending to suck on her nipples at the same time. It wasn’t enough. Moaning, Fabiola pulled away and climbed on to the bed. On all fours, she looked back at him.
‘Well?’
Growling, Antonius leapt up to join her. With a great shove, he thrust his erect member deep inside her. ‘Gods above, you feel good,’ he cried, moving his hips. Fabiola encouraged him, reaching back with one hand to pull him further in. Driven by their lust, they moved faster and faster, losing all awareness of anything else. All that mattered was their overwhelming pleasure. Fabiola surrendered herself to her feelings. Sex had never felt like this before. As a prostitute, she had enjoyed it on a rare handful of occasions with young, attentive clients. With Brutus, it was nice; familiar even. Not once though had it been the same as this earth-moving sensation, which threatened to overcome her. Unconsciously, Fabiola’s right hand slipped between her legs, searching. Her fingers slipped on to the nub of flesh she used to tease herself and began to rub. She pushed back against Antonius even harder.
A moment later, there was a quiet knock on the door. Fabiola barely heard it.
Antonius certainly didn’t. Holding on to Fabiola’s waist, he was driving into her, oblivious.
The second rap was louder. A low voice joined it. ‘Mistress?’
Fabiola stopped moving. ‘Vettius?’ she said, astonished at the doorman’s gall.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
Even from the other side of the door, Fabiola could sense his embarrassment. Her annoyance subsided. It had to be serious for the doorman to interrupt her at a time like this. ‘Is something wrong?’
Vettius coughed awkwardly. ‘Brutus is coming down the street. He’s no more than a hundred paces away.’
‘You’re sure?’ cried Fabiola, her lustful thoughts vanishing into the ether. Brutus almost never visited the brothel. What did he want?
‘Yes, Mistress,’ came the reply. ‘I can delay him at the door, but not for long.’
‘Do it,’ she hissed, already turning to Antonius. ‘Stop!’
He was too far gone. With his face flushed a deep red, he came inside her.
Fabiola pulled away and rounded on him. ‘Didn’t you hear? Brutus will be here in a few moments.’
Antonius’ lip curled. ‘What do I care? You’re mine, not his. Let the dog in and I’ll soon put him right.’
‘No,’ Fabiola cried, seeing all her plans turning to dust. ‘He won’t stand for it.’
Antonius laughed and pointed at his gladius. ‘Will he not?’
Panic constricted Fabiola’s throat. Even naked, Antonius’ arrogance knew no bounds. Pulling on her dress, she racked her brains for a way to budge him. ‘What would Caesar say to all this?’ she finally demanded. ‘This is hardly fitting behaviour for his deputy.’
At once Antonius’ expression became surly.
Fabiola knew she had him. He looked like a boy called to book by his father. ‘Do you want to bring disgrace down on Caesar? He’s barely returned from Asia Minor, and you’re bringing his name into disrepute.’ She shoved Antonius’ tunic at him, and was relieved when he shrugged it over his shoulders. His licium followed, and then his belt. A few heartbeats later, Fabiola was pushing Antonius out into the reception area. ‘Go on,’ she said urgently. ‘Send a messenger next time.’
He pulled her in for a last kiss. ‘What’ll I say if Brutus sees me?’ he asked, all innocence now.
‘Tell him you’d been out drinking and heard about the new whores here. You wanted to try one out.’
He liked that. ‘I’ll say they’re well worth the money!’
Fabiola smiled. ‘Leave,’ she pleaded. ‘Or my life won’t be worth living.’
‘Can’t have that now, can we?’ Pinching her backside, Antonius bowed and was gone.
Fabiola took a couple of deep breaths. Calm down, she thought. On the narrow street Brutus could not miss Antonius; naturally, he would engage him in conversation. She had a little time. Darting into her office, Fabiola looked into the small bronze mirror on her desk. Her face was red and sweaty, and her normally immaculate hair had come undone. She looked dishevelled – like someone who had just been having sex. That had to change – fast. Fabiola reached for one of the little clay vessels on the desktop, dabbing some white lead on her cheeks. An expert at applying makeup, she soon changed her appearance to a more sickly one. Leaving her hair down, she wiped away some of the sweat, but not all. She wanted to appear feverish.
It wasn’t long before she heard Vettius talking to Brutus at the front door. True to his word, the huge doorman delayed him as long as possible. Fabiola panicked, suddenly unsure of her ability to deceive her lover yet again. Somehow, though, she had to.
‘Fabiola?’
Her reflexes took over. ‘Brutus?’ she said in a weak voice. ‘Is that you?’
‘What are you doing in here?’ He stood framed in the office doorway. ‘Gods, you look terrible. Are you ill?’
With relief flooding through her, Fabiola nodded. ‘I think I’ve got Docilosa’s fever,’ she said.
Moving to Fabiola’s side, Brutus lifted her chin. Studying her pale complexion and the bags she had carefully painted under her eyes, he swore. ‘Why are you even up?’ he demanded in a worried voice. ‘You need a surgeon.’
‘I’m all right,’ Fabiola protested. ‘A day in bed and I’ll be back to normal.’
‘Jovina should be looking after the front of the shop,’ he muttered.
‘I know,’ said Fabiola. ‘I’m sorry.’
His face softened. ‘No need to apologise, my love. But you’re in no shape to be working.’
Fabiola sat down on the edge of the desk with a sigh. ‘That’s better,’ she sighed. There would be no rest until she discovered his purpose. ‘What brings you to the Lupanar so early in the morning?’
‘I could say the same of Antonius,’ Brutus answered with a flash of anger. ‘What in the name of Hades did he want here?’
Careful, thought Fabiola. Remember what you told Antonius to say. ‘You know what he’s like. He’d been on an all-night drinking session, and came in on impulse. Our advertisements about the new whores must be working.’ She smiled broadly.
Brutus scowled. ‘The prick should go somewhere else.’
‘He will,’ murmured Fabiola. ‘A man like him rarely ploughs the same furrow twice.’ The truth of her own words shocked her. Why was she risking everything with such a rake?
Brutus grimaced. ‘True enough.’ Then he grinned, becoming the person Fabiola was so fond of. ‘I came to see if you would accompany me to Caesar’s games this morning, but with you being ill, it’s out of the question, obviously.’
Fabiola’s ears pricked up. Even though Romulus was no longer a gladiator, she thought of him every time the arena was mentioned. ‘Is there something special on?’
‘This morning, you mean?’ Brutus looked pleased with himself. ‘Yes. There’s a beast appearing that they call the Ethiopian bull. It’s half the size of an elephant, but with two horns and an armoured hide. Impossible to kill, apparently. I thought you’d like to see it.’
Fabiola knew the animal wouldn’t just be walking around to be admired. ‘Who’s fighting it?’
Brutus shrugged. ‘A pair of noxii. Deserters from one of Caesar’s legions, I think. No loss, in other words.’
His casual manner made Fabiola feel nauseous. Who deserved to die like that? ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘But I couldn’t.’
Chapter XI: The Ethiopian Bull
One hour later. . .
It was only mid-morning, but the amphi
theatre was already full. Above Romulus’ head, the crowd was shouting with anticipation. All the prisoners knew why too, and fear stalked among them, increasing their unease. As a consequence of the street gossip which had swept into the ludus the previous afternoon, few had slept well. Memor had relished delivering the news himself, watching each man closely for signs of terror. Petronius had stared at the wall, refusing to meet the lanista’s gaze, but Romulus had been forced to. Two strapping gladiators had pinioned his arms while another pulled his head around to hear Memor reel off the host of fanged and toothed creatures they might be pitted against. In the face of such cruelty, he had managed to keep his composure – just.
Apparently Caesar had paid astronomical sums for the most exotic animals available. Some had never been seen in Rome before. Consequently, wildly inaccurate descriptions were rife. Waxing lyrical, Memor mentioned them all. Even the most common beasts to be used were enough to send men witless. Lions, tigers, leopards and bears were all lethal predators. Just as dangerous were elephants and wild bulls. Old memories had been triggered in Romulus’ mind at the lanista’s gruesome descriptions. He had witnessed a contest between venatores and big cats once before. Not one man had survived the brutal display, and the injuries they sustained before dying had been horrendous. Thankfully he’d concealed his distress from Memor, but his mind was filled all night with the images of the young venator who had endured only to be executed for his anger at the crowd’s cruelty towards him. It was crushing to know that even if, by some miracle, he survived, there was virtually no chance of mercy. By dawn, Romulus’ eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and fear. What he would have given to have had Brennus or Tarquinius by his side. But they were gone, long gone, and now he faced his own journey to Hades. Petronius’ presence helped, but only a little.
