by Ben Kane
‘You may approach,’ she said at last.
Romulus bowed and tossed in his piece of lead, along with several denarii. I have few desires in life, he thought. Orcus, grant me this one.
A curt nod from the priestess told him that his audience with the god was over. Romulus obediently moved on, walking behind those who had offered before him. He sighed, wondering if his request would bear fruit. It felt even more of an impossible quest than his search for Fabiola. What chance had he of finding a bankrupt merchant in such a large city? There was always divination, he supposed. After Tarquinius’ lessons, he’d attempted it a number of times, but the shock of being accurate had put Romulus off since. Facing death on a daily basis meant that life was better lived in uncertainty. That way, he wouldn’t spend his time worrying about things that were essentially beyond his ability to influence. Not yet, he thought. Let’s see what Orcus offers first.
The urchin was still waiting outside the temple. He looked enquiringly at Romulus, who gave away nothing. ‘The Forum Boarium,’ he ordered.
‘Follow me, sir.’ Eager to leave the shrine behind, the lad was off like a bolt from a ballista.
Owing to the number of devotees clogging the alleyway, their pace slowed as they neared the junction to the street they’d been on previously. Putting Gemellus from his mind, Romulus was already thinking of the inn where he’d meet Sabinus and the others. He was thirsty for a cup of wine. Perhaps there’d be women there too.
A little way ahead, someone stumbled and fell against the person in front. A loud curse was the instant response. Despite a profuse apology, the hapless individual was subjected to a tirade of abuse which only died down when those who were waiting to exit the alley began to complain. Romulus frowned as the outburst died away and the crowd began to move again. He could not see the speaker, but the voice was familiar. Like a lightning strike from on high, recognition hit. Although he hadn’t heard it since his first day in the ludus, Romulus recognised Gemellus’ sarcastic tone.
Full of awe, and a little terror, he looked back at Orcus’ temple. What devilry was at work for this to happen so fast? There was no time to ponder it, just to act. He elbowed the protesting urchin out of the way and muscled his way forward, desperate to catch the merchant. Romulus’ efforts earned him a chorus of protests, but no one had the courage to stand up to the vengeance in his eyes. Panting with anger, Romulus reached the street a few moments later. His head turned this way and that, searching, but the crowds here were even denser than in the alley. Gemellus had vanished.
‘Damn the whoreson to Hades!’ Romulus yelled. ‘He won’t escape for ever.’
His outburst elicited barely a glance from the passers-by. Rome was full of drunk soldiers shouting insults and causing trouble. Prudence was always the best option in such cases.
Worming his skinny frame alongside, the urchin glanced reproachfully at Romulus. ‘Trying to get away without paying me?’
‘What?’ Romulus snapped. ‘No, of course not. I just heard the voice of someone I’d dearly love to meet. I followed him, but he’s disappeared into the crowd.’ Then he smiled. ‘Want to earn ten sestertii?’
It was an enormous sum for a half-starved street child. ‘Tell me what to do,’ he clamoured.
Romulus made a stirrup of his hands. ‘Climb up,’ he ordered. ‘Look for a short, fat man with a red face. He sweats a lot.’
Quickly the urchin obeyed, placing his calloused feet on Romulus’ shoulders and balancing by resting one hand against the wall of the nearest building. Raising his other hand to his eyes, he peered up and down the street with quiet intensity.
Romulus could hardly bear the tension. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘I can’t see him,’ came the disappointed answer.
Romulus bit his lower lip until it bled. Curse Gemellus for evermore, he thought. I’ll never get a chance like that again. Gods don’t hand out such opportunities twice.
The other’s next words nearly stopped Romulus’ heart. ‘Wait,’ he said. Then his voice grew shrill. ‘That way! Sixty paces that way!’
With an urgency he’d never felt before, Romulus helped the boy down.
‘Follow me,’ he cried, heading left.
Romulus charged after him like a raging bull.
Half running, half walking, they pushed and shoved their way into the mass of people moving along the street. Progress was slow, but the urchin was so thin and nimble that he fitted into spaces that Romulus never could. Climbing over amphorae of wine laid on beds of straw or piles of ironmongery, he thumbed his nose at the indignant shopkeepers and soon drew far ahead. His piping voice carried back, however, giving Romulus extra impetus. ‘Hurry! I can see him!’
Sick with nerves, Romulus ploughed on. By the time he’d reached a crossroads, he had closed the gap with the urchin to perhaps twenty paces.
‘Left!’ came the boy’s shout.
Romulus obeyed, using a small gap in the crowd to gain another six steps. He loosened his pugio in its sheath, wondering what part of Gemellus he’d cut off first. An ear? His greasy nose? He grimaced. Maybe he should castrate the bastard first.
A thin hand reached out to stop him.
Startled, Romulus took in the urchin by his side. ‘What is it?’
‘He’s gone in there.’
Romulus’ gaze followed the boy’s pointing arm down a narrow lane strewn with rubbish and broken pottery. A few paces in, a huge dung heap steamed gently. His nose wrinkled with disgust. ‘You’re sure?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, sir. A short fat man with a red face, like you said. He looks very poor.’
He’d have to be, thought Romulus, eyeing the alley with some satisfaction. Any insulae down there would be rat-infested, stinking hell-holes. ‘Come on,’ he said, leading the way.
Eager for his money, the urchin followed.
Keen not to tread in the stinking ooze from the dung heap, Romulus moved slowly at first. By the time he’d passed it, his eyes were acclimatised to the near darkness. The uneven ground was still treacherous underfoot, but all his attention was on the shambling male figure not twenty paces ahead of him. Certainly it was the right height and girth to be Gemellus, Romulus thought. Then the man stubbed a toe off a shard of pottery and cursed loudly. Romulus froze, feeling a childish tremor of fear. It was Gemellus. Few things could make him react like this, but the scars left on his soul by the merchant during his childhood were deep. That was then, this is now, Romulus told himself. He drew his dagger, causing the urchin to gasp. ‘Quiet!’ Romulus hissed.
In the same instant, the man ahead disappeared through a narrow doorway. There was a quiet click as it shut behind him. With his heart in his mouth, Romulus walked the last few steps. A succession of images flashed before his eyes, and he let them come. Gemellus forcing himself on his mother. Gemellus beating Fabiola. Beating him. Ranting to his bookkeeper about his ailing finances. The merchant’s gloating face as he had dragged Romulus away from his screaming mother and twin sister, and in the ludus, where he had boasted about how he’d sell them to the salt mines and a brothel respectively. Romulus bared his teeth with rage. Only the last memory gave him any pleasure: Hiero the bestiarius telling him how Gemellus had been ruined.
Romulus lifted his pugio to eye level, noting that his hand was trembling. Calm yourself, he thought. My prayers are about to be answered. Vengeance will be mine. At once the shaking stopped, and he readied himself to end it, once and for all.
Using the dagger’s hilt, he hammered on the door. ‘Open up!’
Chapter XXI: Danger
Since her attempt at reconciliation with Brutus and the follow-on confrontation with Antonius and the fugitivarius, Fabiola had hardly been sleeping. Over and over, she cursed her stupidity for taking up with the Master of the Horse. It had proved to be the worst decision she’d ever made. If only time could be turned back, she thought, but of course that was impossible. Now she had to live with the consequences of her actions. A bag of nerves compared to her n
ormal calm self, Fabiola had been bad-tempered with everyone. Benignus and Vettius, now her most trusted confidants, could not shift her black mood. Their lessons on defending herself with a sword and knife – which built on the basics that Sextus had taught her – did not help much. Nothing was right. Days dragged by without event and Fabiola grew more irritable, snapping at potential customers and losing good business which the brothel sorely needed. Furious at herself, she then shouted at the prostitutes for not pleasing their few clients enough. Toughest of them all, even Jovina was tiptoeing around her warily.
Fabiola no longer cared. As far as she was concerned, her life was sliding into oblivion. She still had no potential allies for her plot to kill Caesar. The size and grandeur of the dictator’s four triumphs had sent any enemies he might have even deeper into the woodwork. So where did owning a brothel get her? thought Fabiola in frustration. Without Brutus, nowhere. There had been no further contact from her former lover either, which meant that he probably believed the lies Antonius had told. For the moment, she dared not try to contact Brutus again. Let the dust settle, she thought. He might come around. The other silence she was enduring – from the Master of the Horse – was far more chilling. From visiting Fabiola on average more than once a day, Antonius had cut her off completely.
In contrast, Scaevola’s presence had become altogether more threatening. After long months spent in the shadows, it was as if he wanted the pressure on Fabiola to build to an unbearable intensity. It was a clever, and successful, tactic. More of his heavies than ever before appeared to man the blockades around the Lupanar. If spotted, its known customers were beaten up, while ordinary passers-by were harassed and intimidated. A small group of Fabiola’s men who had gone to buy food were set upon and killed, reducing her forces. The merchants who provided the brothel with food were threatened, and to prevent her supplies from completely running out, Fabiola was forced to pay them extortionate prices. This further depleted the money Brutus had given her, which was already going fast thanks to her extra guards. Benignus had managed to hire an additional four but Fabiola wanted to hire even more. Thanks to the huge numbers of fighters required for the celebratory games, though, few were available. In one way, it was just as well. While she might need them, she couldn’t really afford more men. At her current rates of expenditure, Fabiola knew she’d have to sell the Lupanar in one to two years. Not that she cared about that. She’d be lucky to live that long.
It was the dull ache of expectation that kept Fabiola awake at night. Antonius had decided that she was expendable, but he was no fool. Even if he was not ‘directly’ responsible, it was common knowledge throughout the city that Scaevola was in his employ. A bloodbath during Caesar’s riotous celebrations would not go down well with his master. No, she thought, any attack would come after the last of the triumphs had been held. This realisation provided only momentary relief. Fabiola did not care that much about herself any longer, but she felt a duty of care for those she owned and employed. Benignus, Vettius, the prostitutes and guards were all innocent victims of her rash behaviour. None of them deserved to be injured or killed because of it.
Night after night, Fabiola tossed about on her bed, worrying. Other than walking away from the Lupanar, what could she do? If she left, she would be homeless. In the brothel, at least she had a roof over her head. Gradually, Fabiola became aware that she had not quite given up hope. She could not just abandon her business and those who worked there, despite the grave danger she was placing them all in. She wondered if this was how a general might feel before a battle – worrying whether his cause was worth the price of his soldiers’ lives. Naturally, her dilemma brought Romulus to mind. Fabiola couldn’t imagine him backing away from a challenge this important. Or was she just being selfish, justifying an arrogant decision?
On the night of Caesar’s last triumph, there were hardly any customers. Despite the massive numbers of citizens on the streets, Scaevola’s blockade was tightening. Fabiola’s terror became all-consuming. Although only the gods knew what would transpire, the waiting would soon be over. She could feel it in her bones. If she died during Scaevola’s attack, then all her worries would vanish, in the process denying her both revenge upon Caesar and a meeting with Romulus. Fabiola thought this the most likely outcome. Since Scaevola’s attack in Orcus’ temple, all the deities she prayed to – Jupiter, Mithras and the god of the underworld – had shown her virtually no favour.
If by some divine chance she was spared, then her purpose would remain the same. She would make another attempt to approach Brutus. If that didn’t work, she decided she would start taking on new clients of her own, using the wiles that had won her such adoration in the past. A mountainous and distasteful task, yet she did not baulk at it. To stoke her levels of anger, Fabiola flagellated herself mentally remembering her mother’s story of how she’d been raped by a nobleman while on an evening errand for Gemellus.
The tactic had a dramatic effect. Fabiola found herself clutching the knife she kept under her pillow, imagining the pleasure of plunging it into Caesar’s flesh herself while telling him her reason why. She wondered how Romulus might react to the knowledge of their parenthood. No doubt it would be with an even greater fury. How thrilling it would feel to have her twin join her cause, she thought. With Romulus by her side, things would be so much easier. He might even want to kill Caesar himself. With this happy notion, Fabiola fell asleep, slipping into a vivid world in which the dictator was dead, she and Romulus were reunited and Brutus cared for her again.
It was the best night’s rest she had had in months.
She finally emerged into the reception area at midday the following day.
Jovina nodded cautiously at her. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Yes, thank you. Morpheus remembered me at last,’ smiled Fabiola, remembering her dream. ‘Any customers yet?’
‘No,’ the old madam replied. ‘We won’t see any until much later. They’ll all have massive hangovers thanks to Caesar’s munificence.’
Fabiola scowled. Word had swept through the city about the twenty-two thousand tables of food and wine that were to be supplied by Caesar on the night of his last triumph. His popularity continued to grow with each passing day. Curse him, she thought. The bastard can do no wrong.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jovina chirped, misinterpreting her reaction. ‘The amount of money he gave away will bring his soldiers through the doors in droves. After all those years on campaign, half of them probably look like Priapus.’ Chortling, she indicated the painting on the wall. As always, the god of gardens, fields and fertility was depicted with a huge, erect penis. ‘Scaevola’s men won’t dare try and stop them!’
Despite herself, Fabiola smiled. ‘Who’s outside?’
‘Vettius,’ Jovina replied. ‘Been out there since dawn. Nothing doing, he said. Scaevola’s lot probably joined in the festivities last night. No man likes to fight with a pounding head.’
‘Hmm.’ When he picked his moment, the fugitivarius would make sure his men were ready, free wine or no. Pursing her lips, Fabiola headed out to see for herself.
Vettius was leaning against the wall by the entrance, dozing in a patch of sunlight which reached down to the street. His club rested by his right hand. Eight or nine of the guards were also present, either playing knuckle-bones or watching the few passers-by. Hearing Fabiola emerge, Vettius opened his eyes. He jerked upright with a start. ‘Mistress.’
‘I’ve told you not to call me that,’ chided Fabiola.
He bobbed his great shaven head, still awkward around her. ‘Fabiola.’
‘Any sign of Scaevola or his lot?’
‘Not so much as a whisker.’
‘Stay on your guard anyway.’ She beckoned him closer and whispered. ‘Make sure all the men are ready to fight. Now that Caesar’s triumphs are over, I think the danger is even greater.’
Vettius picked up his club and slapped it across the palm of his left hand. ‘If the bastard does arrive, he’d better b
e ready for a good fight.’
Fabiola took some reassurance from his confident manner.
As it turned out, Scaevola came prepared for a war.
Later that day.
Fabiola’s first inkling that something was up came when she ventured out to check on the guards early in the afternoon. To her surprise, the lane was completely deserted. No noisy children playing; no housewives gossiping over their shopping or dirty washing. The few beggars who plied their trade near the brothel were nowhere to be seen. Even the shutters on the windows of the insulae in the block opposite were shut.
‘How long’s it been like this?’ she asked Benignus, who had replaced Vettius.
He rubbed his jaw, thinking. ‘About an hour or so. I didn’t pass much comment, because the streets beyond aren’t much busier.’
Her nostrils flaring, Fabiola stared at the nearest businesses: a bakery, a potter’s workshop and an apothecary’s. The bakery was shut, which wasn’t surprising. It opened well before sunrise each day, baking the loaves which were a staple of most citizens’ diet. The entire stock was usually gone by mid-morning, and the baker closed soon afterwards to catch up on his sleep. Unusually, the potter’s was also boarded up, when in normal circumstances it would have been open until dark. Fabiola frowned as she saw the apothecary, a stout balding Greek, tidying away his display, a host of jars containing the treatment or cure for every disease and malady known to man. Her prostitutes frequented this shop on a daily basis, buying everything from tinctures and doses that prevented pregnancy and disease to love potions for their favourite clients. In fact, the Greek relied on the Lupanar for most of his business. Why then was he closing early?
