The Road to Rome

by Ben Kane

  The realisation brought a sardonic smile to Romulus’ face, and he glanced at the tattoo on his upper right arm. Maybe I’m not such a good follower of Mithras after all, he thought. Yet there was no way he was going to reconsider his decision. Backing out would feel too much like leaving Brennus to face an elephant alone.

  For some time, Romulus watched senators arriving for the morning’s session. Eager to know what his task would be, Mattius never left his side. Suspiciously, Romulus studied each toga-clad man in turn, trying to determine any glimmer of evil intent. To his frustration, he could see none. Clutching their long stylus boxes, the politicians alighted from their litters, calling greetings to those they knew. Romulus recognised few of them. Strolling to and fro, he did his best to listen to their conversations, but it was difficult to do so without being obvious. Most of what he heard was idle gossip or concerned Longinus’ son, who was to assume the toga of a man that morning. Despite himself, Romulus relaxed a fraction.

  It was interesting to see the man who had served Crassus once more. He had only seen Longinus from a distance on the Parthian campaign, but he’d been grilled by the grizzled former soldier just before he’d received his manumission from Caesar. He felt a degree of kinship with Longinus, and seeing him unsettled Romulus. Why would he keep being reminded of Parthia if it wasn’t something to do with Caesar’s upcoming campaign? This fuelled Romulus’ slim hope that Tarquinius might be wrong about the assassination.

  By late morning, Romulus was growing optimistic that Decimus Brutus had succeeded where he’d failed, convincing Caesar to stay away. Within the temple, the morning’s proceedings had started. Despite the blustery weather, which threatened rain, there were still plenty of senators outside. None of that mattered if Caesar didn’t turn up, thought Romulus.

  His heart sank, therefore, when a richly decorated litter approached through the inevitable crowd of citizens, who gathered to see the rich and famous, or to plead for their intervention in a business deal gone wrong. Borne by four strapping slaves in loincloths, it was preceded by another bearing a long stick with which to clear the way. Romulus could see no sign of guards or soldiers. Hearing the lead slave crying Caesar’s name, he jumped to his feet.

  ‘It’s time,’ he muttered to Mattius. ‘The lictores would never let me past, but you might be able to worm your way inside. Can you manage that?’

  His face filled with childish determination, Mattius nodded. ‘What should I do then?’

  ‘Don’t take your eyes off Caesar for a single moment,’ Romulus warned. ‘At the slightest sign of trouble, call me. I’ll stay as near to the entrance as I can.’

  ‘It might be too late by then,’ said the boy solemnly. ‘Especially if the lictores try to stop you entering.’

  ‘What else can I do?’ asked Romulus, raising his hands in a helpless gesture.

  A moment later, the haruspex appeared from the crowd. ‘Fabiola is here,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Where?’ Romulus demanded, simultaneously shocked and unsurprised.

  Tarquinius pointed to a hooded and cloaked figure standing half concealed by a pillar near the temple’s entrance. It was slight enough to be a woman.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Romulus didn’t want to believe his eyes.

  Tarquinius’ smile was mirthless. ‘Do you think she’d miss this?’

  Romulus’ mouth filled with a harsh, dry feeling. Tarquinius’ divination was about to come true. Why else would Fabiola be here? A strong urge to confront his sister took hold, and his eyes darted from her to Caesar’s litter, which had stopped by the bottom of the steps. A large party of senators was waiting for the dictator, and Romulus began to panic. He saw Longinus there, and Marcus Brutus. Although Marcus Antonius, Caesar’s most loyal supporter, was also present, the assassins might still strike immediately.

  He wouldn’t have time to run up to Fabiola and then back down before Caesar alighted. Cursing, he shouldered his way through the eager crowd, towards the dictator’s litter. Mattius made to follow him, but Romulus jerked his head and the boy remembered. With a grin, he darted up the huge carved staircase, coming to a halt right beside the entrance. The guards ignored him, just another excited spectator trying to get the best view. They were doing the same themselves. Acting with casual aplomb, Mattius sloped inside and out of sight. Romulus’ lips twitched with satisfaction. At least one thing was going according to plan. It remained doubtful whether anything else would. Loosening his gladius in its sheath, he muttered maybe his last prayer to Jupiter and Mithras, asking for their protection and help.

  There was a loud cheer as Caesar clambered down from his litter. Despite the unhappiness of some politicians, his popularity with the ordinary citizens was huge. The dictator’s piercing gaze scanned the throng and, seeing no danger, he acknowledged the acclaim with nods and smiles. Behind him, a brown-haired man emerged. To Romulus’ astonishment, it was Decimus Brutus. Did this mean that Fabiola’s lover was also one of the conspirators? Or, like Romulus, had he failed to persuade Caesar to stay away? He couldn’t be sure. Edging to the front of the crowd, Romulus saw that the waiting senators had formed up in two lines, offering Caesar a clear path up to the shrine. Effusive greetings filled the air. He could take the tension no longer, and darted forward to the dictator’s side.

  ‘Legionary Romulus. Good to see you again.’ Caesar placed his foot on the first step. ‘I’ll call on you shortly.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Romulus saluted, before muttering from the side of his mouth, ‘Please let me accompany you inside.’

  Caesar smiled. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Raising his arms, he indicated the senators. ‘I have these good men to guide me in.’

  ‘But, sir,’ Romulus objected. ‘My friend said—’

  ‘That’ll be all, soldier,’ Caesar said curtly.

  His protest dying in his throat, Romulus stood back. He was aware of the senators giving him disapproving looks, but he didn’t care. A combination of terror and sheer adrenalin was in control. Seeing no immediate threat, Romulus came to the decision that the attack would take place inside. Working his way to the side of the gathering, he pounded up the steps to the entrance. To have any chance of saving Caesar, he had to be as close as possible. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of Decimus Brutus greeting Antonius in a jovial fashion. His suspicions aroused by this, Romulus glanced back. Fabiola had told him that the two men hated each other, yet here was Brutus throwing his arm over Antonius’ shoulders. The former Master of the Horse looked annoyed at first, but as Brutus kept talking, a slow smile spread over his broad, handsome face.

  Caesar began to climb the staircase, leaving Antonius and Brutus behind, deep in conversation. Realisation struck Romulus like a blow from Vulcan’s hammer. It was all part of the plan. The conspirators only wanted to kill Caesar, so they would delay his greatest supporter outside. Romulus wanted to scream out loud. Could no one else see it? Stay calm, he thought. All was not lost – yet. How would they kill Caesar? Togas were not the kind of garment that facilitated the concealment of weapons. Was there a secret stash inside? He discounted that theory at once. Too many other people – priests, acolytes and devotees – had access to the temple.

  Then Romulus’ eyes were drawn to the stylus cases in each senator’s hand, and his stomach lurched. The elegant wooden boxes were just the right size to hold a knife. His mind reeled at the simplicity, and the lethality, of it. Despairing, Romulus’ gaze drifted up from the ascending group. There, across the width of the steps, at his level he saw Fabiola. They locked eyes, staring at each other with an unbearable intensity. After a moment that seemed to last for ever but in reality was probably no more than several heartbeats, Fabiola’s mouth opened.

  Before she could speak, though, Caesar had reached them. Surrounded by the mass of senators, he was talking about Longinus’ son’s great day. Assuming the toga of a man was one of life’s most important events. Antonius was still at the bottom of the steps talking to Decimus Brutus. Romulus felt m
ore weary than he had in his life. He was just a helpless observer.

  ‘I am here,’ said Tarquinius from behind him.

  Romulus could have almost cried with relief. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course. That’s what comrades are for,’ the haruspex replied, unslinging his double-headed battleaxe.

  ‘We might be killed,’ said Romulus, eyeing the six guards, all of whose attention was on Caesar.

  ‘How many times have I heard that?’ Tarquinius smiled. ‘Still doesn’t mean I can leave you to go in alone.’

  Romulus turned away from the crowd and drew his gladius. He shot a glance at Fabiola, but she was too busy watching the dictator. A mixture of emotions twisted her beautiful face, and Romulus thought of their mother. What if his twin was correct? he asked himself again, despairingly. His gut instinct answered at once. Even if she was, Caesar did not deserve to be killed like a sheep surrounded by a pack of starving wolves. So he wasn’t going to back away now.

  Romulus watched tensely as the dictator passed out of view. To his delight, four of the guards also entered, leaving only two at the doors, which remained open.

  Now it was down to Mattius.

  He took a couple of steps towards the entrance, and Tarquinius followed suit. Talking to each other, with half an eye on the proceedings within, neither guard noticed for a moment. Romulus slid his caligae across the stone, getting a few paces nearer.

  ‘Romulus!’

  Fabiola’s shout was like the crack of a whip in a confined space.

  Romulus stared at her, aware that the guards had seen him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she screamed.

  An image of Velvinna’s suffering burned every part of Romulus’ mind. It was followed by one of Caesar smiling as he granted him his manumission in the arena not three hundred paces away. Torn, he glanced at Tarquinius.

  ‘Your path is your own,’ whispered the haruspex. ‘Only you can decide it.’

  ‘You two!’ yelled one of the guards. ‘Drop your weapons!’ Calling for help, he and his comrade advanced with lowered pila.

  They were stopped by an animal cry of pain from inside the temple.

  ‘Casca, you idiot, what are you doing?’ Caesar demanded.

  ‘Help me,’ shouted a voice. ‘Kill the tyrant!’

  ‘Romulus!’ screamed Mattius. ‘Come quickly!’

  A baying sound of anger rose and Romulus heard the muffled sound of blows landing. Fury consumed him. Raising his gladius, he leapt forward at the two guards.

  The gods were smiling down at that moment. Distracted by the commotion inside, both their heads were half turned away. Romulus was grateful for this – he had no desire to hurt them unnecessarily. Reversing his gladius, he brought down the hilt hard on the back of the nearest man’s skull. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tarquinius using the metal-tipped butt of his axe to do the same with the other sentry. Jumping over the falling men, they sprinted inside.

  Fortunately, the remaining guards had been totally distracted by what was going on, so their path was clear. Romulus’ eyes opened wide at the splendour of the long, high-roofed chamber, which was well lit thanks to the number of small glass-paned windows high on the walls. Of course his attention did not remain on the decor, or the ranks of toga-clad senators who were on their feet, shouting and pointing. Clearly most of the six hundred had known nothing about the attempted assassination. Romulus felt disgust that none had tried to intervene. On he ran, to the central area where the consuls’ chairs and that of Caesar stood. He could make out a cluster of men there. All were carrying knives, and many already had bloody robes. Their faces had the empty, shocked look of those who have just grasped the enormity of what they’ve done.

  I’m too late, Romulus thought, anguish tearing at him like the claws of a ravening beast. As I thought I would be. Screaming his fiercest battle cry, he charged straight at the assassins. Tarquinius loped alongside, lean and grey-haired but terrifying-looking with his raised axe. Romulus was dimly aware of Mattius pelting along to his rear, adding his childish voice to the clamour. To his surprise, their cries had the most dramatic effect. Scattering like a flock of birds attacked by a cat, the assassins broke and ran, stampeding up into the tiers of seating. Their fear was infectious, and within a few heartbeats, the entire body of senators was fleeing along the sides of the chamber and out of the doors. Their departure revealed the most bloody of scenes.

  Beneath a large statue of Pompey, Caesar lay in an expanding pool of his own blood. His entire toga was covered in damning red stains, each one the mark of a knife’s entry point. His chest, belly, groin and legs had all been wounded. The white woollen garment had been ripped off his left shoulder, and there too Romulus could see multiple stab and slash marks. Caesar resembled a badly butchered side of pork. No one could survive that many injuries. Skidding to a halt, Romulus dropped to his knees by the dictator’s side. His eyelids were closed. Shallow, shuddering breaths shook his chest and his skin had already assumed the grey pallor of those near death.

  ‘What have they done?’ Romulus wailed. An all-consuming grief flooded him that Caesar’s life should end like this.

  Shocked by the bloodshed, Mattius hung back.

  ‘Romulus?’

  Startled, he looked down at Caesar, whose eyes had opened. ‘Sir?’

  ‘It is you . . .’ Caesar’s breath rattled in his chest.

  Romulus found himself clutching one of the dictator’s bloody hands. ‘Don’t say anything, sir,’ he said frantically. ‘We’ll soon get a surgeon to fix you up.’

  Caesar’s lips turned upwards. ‘You’re a poor liar, legionary,’ he whispered. ‘I should have listened to you about coming here.’

  Romulus hung his head, trying to hide his tears. All his efforts had been in vain. A moment later, he felt his hand being squeezed.

  ‘You’re a fine soldier, Romulus,’ Caesar gasped. ‘Remind me . . . of myself when I was younger.’

  Romulus’ instant feeling of pride at this enormous compliment lasted no longer than two heartbeats. Beads of clammy sweat broke out on his forehead, and he pulled away his hand. Raging doubt filled his mind.

  Caesar looked confused. Trying to sit up, he started off a fresh bout of bleeding from his wounds. It was too much for him, and he sagged back on to the marble floor. His eyes took on the distant stare of those who can see Elysium, or Hades.

  Romulus thought of Fabiola, and the reason she wanted Caesar dead. Stemming his grief, he took a deep breath. Only moments remained before it was too late. ‘Twenty-six years ago, a pretty slave girl was raped by a noble one night near the Forum,’ he whispered in Caesar’s ear. Checking the dictator’s expression, Romulus was satisfied that his words had been heard. He let them sink in for a moment, and then leaned in close for a second time. ‘Was it you?’ He watched closely to judge Caesar’s reaction.

  There was none. A moment later, Romulus had to place a dampened fingertip over Caesar’s mouth and nostrils to feel any movement of air. The faintest chill on his wet skin told him that there was still some life in the slashed and blood-spattered body beside him. Jupiter, Romulus prayed with all his might. Don’t let him die, leaving me ignorant of the truth. He bent over the dictator, willing him to look up once more. Nothing happened. ‘Are you my father?’ he said, forcing the words out.

  Caesar’s eyelids jerked open and his body went rigid.

  Romulus gazed deep into the other’s eyes, and saw the naked truth. ‘By all the gods, you did rape my mother,’ he breathed, feeling the weight of the revelation come crashing down on his shoulders. Fabiola had been right all along. Looking like Caesar was no coincidence – he was his son.

  Where did that leave him? Had his love for Caesar been more than that of a devoted soldier? Romulus didn’t know. In his mind, all was confusion. A moment later, he saw that the dictator was dead. Romulus felt an immediate sense of grief, which he tried to reject. How could he feel sad? The bastard had violated his mother. New tea
rs flowed as this old wound was reopened.

  ‘He was not all bad,’ said Tarquinius suddenly. ‘Granting your manumission proved that.’

  Romulus felt the haruspex’ hand on his shoulder. The human touch was most welcome. ‘Did you know?’ he asked.

  ‘I suspected for a long time,’ Tarquinius replied. ‘More recently, my feelings grew stronger.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ Romulus cried.

  Tarquinius sighed. ‘I’ve harmed you too much before, and I couldn’t see the benefit of telling you. Caesar’s children will be in danger in the days to come too. In any case, would you have joined Fabiola if you’d known?’

  Looking down at Caesar’s supine form, Romulus considered his friend’s question long and hard. Years of his life had been spent wondering what he’d do if he ever met his father. His ideas had usually involved long torture sessions like those he’d planned for Gemellus. Yet when he’d had the merchant at his mercy, things had seemed very different. ‘No,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Rape is a terrible crime, but it doesn’t warrant this,’ Romulus answered sorrowfully. He touched Caesar’s mutilated corpse. ‘Taking part in his killing wouldn’t bring Mother back either.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Fabiola.

  He turned to find his sister beside him. They exchanged a wary glance, before Romulus took the plunge. He had to. ‘You were right,’ he admitted.

  Fabiola’s face lit up, and she touched his arm. ‘He confessed to raping Mother?’

  ‘I asked him,’ Romulus revealed, ‘and the look in his eyes when he heard the question . . . he was guilty. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Fabiola crowed. She looked down at Caesar’s bloodied body and laughed. ‘The whoreson has paid the price. Praise all the gods!’

  Romulus hung his head, feeling guilt that his emotions didn’t mirror Fabiola’s.