by Ben Kane
She was prepared to wait no longer.
Whatever the risk.
Chapter XXVI: The Plot
Just over three months pass . . .
The Capitoline Hill, Rome, spring 44 BC
Romulus glanced sidelong at Tarquinius, trying to judge his mood. With Mattius in tow, they were climbing the Capitoline Hill, intent on visiting the enormous temple to Jupiter there. Numerous attempts by the haruspex to read the future in the Mithraeum had failed, frustrating them both. Something momentous was approaching, Tarquinius said over and over, but he wasn’t sure what. Today, no effort would be spared. Still scarred by his own vision in Margiana, Romulus refused to consider the idea that he might try. Yet he needed to know so many things, and it felt as if time was running out. Recently, his suspicions had been roused by the knowledge that a large group of men were holding regular meetings in the Lupanar. Detailing Mattius to sit outside each day, Romulus had soon learned that scores of nobles were involved, including prominent politicians such as Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus. Tellingly, the urchin had not seen Decimus Brutus, Fabiola’s lover, which told Romulus that he wasn’t the only one to have reservations. This knowledge angered him even more.
He hadn’t confronted Fabiola over it for two reasons. First was that she probably wouldn’t admit any conspiracy, and secondly Romulus wasn’t sure he trusted her any longer. If she actually was going through with her plan, then he was but a small obstacle in her path. Fabiola’s original heavies had been replaced by brutal-looking men who looked well capable of killing their mistress’s twin brother. None had been especially friendly, even when they’d known who he was, leading Romulus to conclude that he wasn’t exactly flavour of the month at the Lupanar. Despite this, he felt loath to take the obvious and opposite path – that of betraying Fabiola and the other conspirators. What if he was wrong about her?
Even if he wasn’t, Romulus couldn’t bear the idea of his only living relation being permanently taken from him, for that would be the only fate awarded Fabiola if she were caught. Yet the consequences – Caesar’s murder – were just as bad. It didn’t help that Rome was awash with rumours of plans to assassinate the dictator. One moment it was Marcus Brutus, then another it was Dolabella, one of Caesar’s long-term allies. Sometimes it was even purported to be Antonius, the dictator’s most loyal follower. Riven by uncharacteristic indecision, Romulus had to know if the threat to Caesar was real, and if so, what he should do about it.
Then there was the thorny subject of Fabiola herself. Could he patch up his relationship with her? No matter how much Romulus wanted it, he could not see a reconciliation happening while his sister was planning to kill Caesar. This awareness further lessened his ties to Rome, but made him feel guilty as Hades. There must be a way to renew the intimacy of their childhood, when they each had only the other.
Only the gods knew the answer to this problem – if they could be persuaded to reveal it.
Romulus also burned to know if Brennus was still alive. He did not let the thrilling idea go to his head. Even if the big Gaul had beaten off the wounded elephant, there was nothing to say that he hadn’t been killed immediately afterwards. The Forgotten Legion had been struggling against an overwhelming enemy force when Romulus and Tarquinius had fled, and its fate, like that of Brennus, was unknown. Since Thapsus, though, Romulus had not been able to stop wondering about the Gaul.
His desire to take part in Caesar’s forthcoming campaign was fanned by the regular news which swept the city. Thousands of cavalrymen had been recruited from Gaul, Hispania and Germania, and were assembling in Brundisium, the main jumping-off point for voyages to the east. Caesar’s legions were gathering too, marching from all over the Republic to the south of Italy, or taking ships there. Romulus knew that he could easily re-enlist in the Twenty-Eighth. There would be little difficulty winning Tarquinius a place either. Although he was older now, the haruspex could still fight, and his medical knowledge equalled, or exceeded, that of most army surgeons. There had been no direct statement about Parthia, but Romulus sensed a growing agitation in the haruspex. His own rootless feelings fed from this.
It made the lack of guidance from Mithras even more frustrating.
‘Perhaps Tinia will be more forthcoming,’ said Tarquinius.
Startled, Romulus grinned. ‘Jupiter, Greatest and Best,’ he replied, using the commonest title for the greatest god in Rome. As an Etruscan, the haruspex used his people’s name for the deity. ‘Let’s hope he’s in a good mood today.’
Soon after, they reached the vast temple complex that covered the top of the hill. Originally built by the Etruscans, it was the most important religious shrine in Rome. Pilgrims came from far and wide to worship here and to make their pleas of the god. In front of the gold-roofed temple, a huge statue of Jupiter gazed down over the city, looming, protecting and all-seeing.
Romulus muttered a prayer, just as he had as a boy. His daily appeal then had been to kill Gemellus. Although he had not carried through with this wish, he felt as if, aided by Orcus, the god had orchestrated his last confrontation with the cruel merchant. Today his need felt similarly urgent. What should he do about Fabiola and Caesar? Was journeying to Parthia again a good idea? Should he not resolve things with his sister first? From the corner of his eye, Romulus caught Tarquinius also muttering a request.
Both of them were in the same boat.
Shoving past the throngs of citizens, hawkers and entertainers, they climbed the steps to the entrance to the cellae, the sacred rooms which formed the main part of the shrine. There were three, one dedicated to each of the deities, Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. As the pre-eminent god in Rome, Jupiter’s was the central chamber. Joining the end of the queue, the trio shuffled forward in silence. Inside, shaven-headed acolytes walked to and fro, swinging bronze vessels from long chains, and releasing the heavy scents of burning incense and myrrh.
Owing to the large numbers of devotees in the long, narrow cella, they were not afforded much time for contemplation. It was a case of bending their knees, placing their offerings – a pile of denarii, a miniature Etruscan bowl and two bronze asses from Mattius – and making a swift request from the forbidding carved stone face above the altar, before withdrawing.
Making their way outside, they blinked as their eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. At once the cella’s calm was replaced by the noise of the crowds filling the open area between the temple and the statue of Jupiter. The cries of food vendors competed with acrobats, street performers and peddlers of tat. Here a mother scolded her wayward children, and there a bevy of painted whores stood, doing their best to encourage men down the nearest alley. Cripples, lepers and the diseased filled every available space, presenting a forest of outstretched palms for those kind enough to open their purses.
‘What did you ask for?’ Romulus asked Mattius.
‘Nothing,’ answered the urchin.
‘Yet you wanted to come in with us.’
‘To give thanks,’ came the reply. ‘And to fulfil my vow.’
Romulus gave him a quizzical look.
‘You took me away from my stepfather. Jupiter must be responsible for that,’ said Mattius seriously. ‘I had been praying to him every night, asking for his help. Then you came along.’
‘I see.’ Romulus smiled indulgently, before realising that the boy’s belief was no different to his. How else could one explain the removal of a huge obstacle from one’s life? In his case, it had been the impossibilities of surviving Carrhae and returning to Rome, while in Mattius’ it was escaping from the cruelty he suffered daily at home.
When he looked up, Tarquinius was already heading for the men who sold animals for sacrifice. Romulus hurried after him, buying a healthy-looking fawn-coloured kid that caught his eye. The haruspex settled for a plump black hen with bright eyes and clean plumage, and together they shouldered past the soothsayers who instantly converged, offering to reveal their wondrous futures. Mattius bobbed in their wake, amazed at t
he contempt his friends showed towards the robed augurs. He was even more flabbergasted a few moments later when Tarquinius found a spot right between Jupiter’s feet.
‘He’s a soothsayer?’ Mattius whispered.
Romulus nodded.
‘Hold this.’ Tarquinius handed the hen to Mattius, who accepted it with a nervous smile.
Clearing away the trinkets and small offerings left there by hopeful citizens, the haruspex eyed the paving slabs, which were covered in dark red smears. Romulus saw them too, and understood Tarquinius’ purpose. The bloodstains told their own story.
Although he had never seen it done, other people had sacrificed here before.
Taking a deep breath, Tarquinius drew his dagger. ‘Give me the bird,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘It is time.’
As Mattius obeyed, beads of nervous sweat broke out on Romulus’ forehead.
Jupiter, Optimus Maximus, tell me what to do, he prayed.
‘Welcome,’ said Fabiola, inclining her head graciously at Caius Trebonius. ‘All the others are here.’
‘Good.’ Trebonius smiled. A short, balding man in middle age, he still had the muscular physique of someone much younger. With shrewd brown eyes and high cheekbones, he was not dissimilar in appearance to Caesar. His height was the most noticeable difference, yet it did not detract from his presence. Like most of the Roman nobility, he carried himself with the utmost confidence. ‘What of Brutus?’
Fabiola shook her head. ‘He can’t bring himself to join us yet.’
‘A shame.’ Trebonius sighed. ‘Such a son of Rome would be a great addition to our number.’ With a courteous bow, he headed to the largest of the bedchambers, which had been converted to a meeting room.
Fabiola followed, still not quite believing that someone else who had served the dictator so faithfully – Trebonius had been a suffect consul the year before – now wanted to kill him. Yet he had been one of the first to join her conspiracy. Responding promptly to her invitation, Trebonius had arrived at the brothel to be treated to a lingering massage by Fabiola herself. This was before three of her best-looking prostitutes had led him, unprotesting, away. ‘Do anything he requests,’ Fabiola had ordered the trio earlier. ‘Absolutely anything.’ They all nodded, eagerly eyeing the weighty purses she’d promised them afterwards.
A couple of hours later, Trebonius had been in the most affable of moods. Enjoying a cup of fine wine with Fabiola in the brothel’s newly refurbished courtyard, he had been quick to offer his condemnation of Caesar. ‘The man’s lost the plot. Wearing those red calf-length boots like he’s a king of Alba Longa. As for topping his costume off with a gilded laurel wreath, well . . .’ He patted his thinning hair and smiled. ‘What the gods give, the gods take away. It isn’t for us to hide it under fancy headgear.’
Laughing at his joke, Fabiola had leaned over to refill his cup, making sure that her cleavage was on full display. ‘Some of the people think he’s a sovereign already,’ she said, deliberately alluding to the recent episode when Caesar had been hailed with shouts of ‘king’ during a procession into the city. Reports of the incident had swept through Rome like wildfire.
Trebonius had scowled. ‘So we’re supposed to swallow the lie that he’s not king, but Caesar. Pah! It’s laughable.’
He had gone on to describe why Caesar had to be stopped. It wasn’t the dictator’s manner or treatment of those who voiced their opposition to him, for in these cases Caesar continued to be mild-mannered and forgiving. Even the tribunes who had ordered the arrest of the man who’d first shouted ‘king’ had escaped with light punishments. Sulla would not have been so lenient, Trebonius admitted. Nor would other previous dictators. It was the absolute power that Caesar had gathered unto himself, eliminating virtually all the power of the Senate and elected magistrates. Half a millennium of democracy had been swept away in less than two years.
Fabiola had deployed the same tactic with the other prominent nobles whom Brutus had mentioned. Although she’d been prepared to sleep with all the men if she had to, that had not proved necessary, which helped her feel better about herself and her promise to Brutus. Thankfully, the tide of ill feeling against Caesar was running high, and all the disgruntled needed was the catalyst to bring them together. Fabiola had proved to be this medium, and in less than a week she had enlisted the help of Marcus Brutus, Cassius Longinus, Servius Galba and Lucius Basilus. Marcus Brutus was her lover’s cousin, and the son of Servilia, Caesar’s long-term lover. Despite this, he had taken the part of the Republicans and had fought with them at Pharsalus. Welcomed back into the fold afterwards thanks to Caesar’s magnanimity, he had secured the same pardon for Cassius Longinus, who had served Crassus in Parthia. It was no surprise, therefore, that both men joined the conspiracy together. Marcus Brutus’ reasons for taking part were simple. Like Trebonius, he felt aggrieved at the manner in which Caesar had assumed total power, reducing able men like himself to impotent bystanders. However, like Decimus Brutus, Fabiola’s lover, he was also a member of the family who had reputedly deposed the last king of Rome five centuries before. In addition, he was the nephew of Cato, the Republican orator who, rather than live under Caesar’s rule, had committed suicide after Thapsus. This act had turned Cato into the epitome of Roman aristocratic virtue, and driven Marcus Brutus to write a pamphlet in his praise. Now he was showing his true colours and, in his eyes, his Roman honour, by taking part in the conspiracy.
Fabiola wanted more than five eminent men, however. Fame and public recognition did not guarantee success. Moreover, any attempt on the dictator’s life risked onlookers coming to his aid. Despite Caesar’s disbanding of his loyal Spanish bodyguards at the beginning of the year, the public and most senators still loved him dearly, and might intervene on his behalf. She could see it happening. More recruits were needed.
Fabiola’s prayers had been answered nearly four weeks before, during the Lupercalia, the ancient fertility festival. Watched by huge crowds, Antonius had publicly offered Caesar a royal diadem and asked him to become king. Caesar had demurred twice, ordering the crown to be taken instead to the temple of Jupiter. This clumsy attempt by the dictator to allay suspicions about his aspirations to the monarchy, had immediately been negated by a soothsayer’s prediction that Parthia could only be conquered by a king. Another soon followed it, alleging that the Senate would vote Caesar the kingship of everywhere except Italy.
These new threats were the final straw, and many new conspirators had joined the plotters in the subsequent days. Their arrival made Fabiola confident that she would soon be revenged on her mother’s rapist. There were almost sixty men in the large well-lit room at the end of the corridor, from all parties and factions within the Senate. Former consuls, tribunes and quaestors rubbed shoulders with ordinary politicians. It boded well for the success of their dark venture.
The most prominent absentee was Brutus, her lover, who had taken to spending much of his time at various temples. As well as praying, he consulted the augurs there over the best course of action to take. Typically, he received differing advice from every man whose palm he greased with silver, which increased his confusion. Sleep began to evade him, and he paced the corridors of his domus each night, asking Mithras and Mars for guidance. None was forthcoming, and he grew tired and irritable. Fully aware that Fabiola was conducting large meetings in the Lupanar – she had given up subterfuge – Brutus did not ask her purpose. Yet he did not mention this suspicious activity to anyone either, which gave Fabiola hope that she would win him over before the end.
Reaching the meeting chamber a step behind Trebonius, Fabiola realised that despite her resolve to continue without Brutus, she wanted him by her side. With Romulus determined not to help, she keenly felt the need for some psychological support. The enormity of what they were about to do was becoming more real. Despite Fabiola wishing it were so, Caesar was not just her mother’s rapist. He was the greatest leader the Republic had ever seen, and his death would shake it to the core.
Romulus watched agog, looking at the runnels of blood with more interest than he’d paid to a sacrifice in years. He made no effort to try and elicit any information. This was a matter best left to an expert. Beside him, Mattius had been struck dumb.
‘East,’ Tarquinius murmured after long moments of silence. ‘It’s flowing east.’
The haruspex’ tone increased Romulus’ interest at once. ‘A good omen?’ he breathed.
A slow smile spread across Tarquinius’ face. ‘Yes. The spirits that favour mankind dwell in the east. My people also came from there.’
‘Margiana lies in that direction,’ added Romulus, his nerves twitching with anticipation.
Tarquinius gave him a tiny nod of acknowledgement.
‘Where’s that?’ asked Mattius.
The haruspex did not answer. He was plucking feathers from the hen to expose its belly. Letting each handful go, he watched to see if they would travel anywhere. Most fell to the ground in a disorganised scatter, but others were caught by a light movement of air. Tarquinius’ eyes focused on them like a hawk upon a mouse. Tumbling end over end, the black feathers moved a few steps away from the statue. Then a few more. For half a dozen heartbeats, they lay still, but eventually the breeze tugged them upwards, off the top of the hill and into the air over Rome. A few moments later, they were lost to sight as they disappeared eastwards.
