by Unknown
Soon Fabiola had been joined by her followers. Her face perspiring from the climb, Docilosa was also red with indignation at her mistress’s rash behaviour. Nothing she said ever made any difference to Fabiola’s actions, so she scolded the guards mercilessly for falling behind. The nine muscle-bound men looked sheepish and shuffled their feet in the dirt. Even the new recruits had learned not to argue with her. Amused, Fabiola hurried towards her destination, confident that Docilosa was watching her back.
Dominating the open area before her was an immense marble statue of a naked Jupiter, his bearded face painted the traditional victor’s red. On triumphal days, a wooden scaffold had to be erected to daub his entire body with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. Today, apart from its crimson visage, the beautifully carved figure was a muted, more natural white colour. Its position, on the very edge of the top of the Capitoline Hill, had been very deliberately chosen. The main part of the city lay sprawled below, directly beneath Jupiter’s imperious gaze. In open spaces like the Forum Romanum and the Forum Boarium, citizens could look up and be reassured by his presence: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the all-seeing state-god of the Republic.
No less impressive was the huge gold-roofed temple that stood behind, its triangular portico of decorated terracotta supported by three rows of six painted columns, all the height of ten men. This was the airy anteroom to the triad of imposing cellae, or sacred rooms. Each one was dedicated to a single deity: Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. Of course Jupiter’s was in the centre.
Extending for some distance to the rear was an extensive complex of smaller shrines, teaching schools and priests’ quarters. Thousands of citizens came daily to worship in this, the most important religious centre in Rome. Fabiola revered it greatly and was sure that she could feel a distinct aura of power within the cellae. The long, narrow plastered rooms had originally been built by the Etruscans, the founders of the city. A people who had been crushed by the Romans.
Her nose twitched. The air was thick with the smells of incense and myrrh, and manure from the sacrificial animals on sale. The cries of hawkers and traders mixed with the incantations of haruspices performing divinations. Tethered lambs bleated plaintively, resigned hens packed into wicker cages stared beadily into the distance. Scantily clad prostitutes cast practised, seductive eyes at any man who glanced their way. Acrobats jumped and tumbled while snake charmers played flutes, tempting their charges out of clay vessels sitting in front of them. From small stalls, food vendors were offering bread, wine and hot sausages. Slaves wearing nothing but loincloths slouched beside their litters, sweat from the steep climb still coating their bodies. There would be time for a brief rest while their owners prayed. Children shrieked with laughter, getting under men’s feet as they chased each other through the throng.
Although more peaceful than the narrow streets below, an uneasy air hung over the area. It was the same throughout Rome. Upon their arrival, Fabiola had been struck by the palpable menace. There were few people about, fewer stalls with their goods spilling out on to the road, more shops securely boarded up. Even the beggars were not as plentiful. But the most obvious sign of trouble had been the large gangs of dangerous-looking men on many corners. They had to be the reason that no one was abroad. Instead of the usual clubs and knives, nearly all were wearing swords. Fabiola had also seen spears, bows and shields; many men were even wearing leather armour or chain mail. A good number had bandaged arms or legs, evidence of recent fighting. The city had always been full of criminals and thieves, but Fabiola had never seen them congregate in such numbers, in daylight. Armed like soldiers.
Compared to a rural town like Pompeii, the capital always felt a touch more dangerous. Today it was markedly different. This felt as if a war was about to break out. Her newly enlarged collection of nine bodyguards began to seem woefully inadequate, and Fabiola had lifted the hood of her cloak, determined not to attract attention. As they hurried past, she noticed that the various quarters seemed to be under the control of two distinct groups. She suspected they were those of Clodius and Milo, a renegade politician and a former tribune. Fortunately relations between the sides seemed poor, with colourful insults filling the air across the streets that demarcated the borders of their territory. A few fast-moving passers-by were of little immediate interest to either faction.
Clearly the situation had deteriorated badly since her departure just four months before, when Brutus had been worried enough to take her away from Rome. It had begun with a political vacuum that formed after the scandals that had seen elections postponed and numerous politicians indicted for corruption. Clodius Pulcher, the disreputable noble turned plebeian, had been quick to take advantage. Gathering his street gangs together, he started to take control of the city. Unimpressed, his old rival Milo had responded in kind, recruiting gladiators to give himself the military advantage. Skirmishes were soon taking place, intimidating the nobles and terrifying the city’s ordinary residents. Fearful rumours had even reached as far as Pompeii. They centred on one word.
Anarchy.
Fabiola had paid little attention to the gossip. Safe on the latifundium, it had seemed unreal. Here in Rome, it was impossible to deny the truth. Brutus had been completely correct. With Crassus dead and Caesar far away in Gaul, there were few prominent figures to take a stand against the growing social unrest. Cato, the politician and outstanding orator, might have been one, but he had no troops to back him up. Cicero, another powerful senator, had long been rendered powerless by intimidation. When he had spoken out against the gangs’ brutality, Clodius had been quick to put Cicero in his place, erecting notices across the Palatine that listed his crimes against the Republic. The citizens loved such public shaming, and Clodius’ status grew even higher. Politicians would not be able to bring this situation under control. Rome needed an iron fist – someone not scared of using martial force.
It needed Caesar or Pompey.
But Caesar was stuck in Gaul. Meanwhile, Pompey was cleverly biding his time, letting the situation spiral out of control until asked to help by the Senate. The Republic’s most famous general craved constant popularity and saving the city from the bloodthirsty gangs would give him unprecedented kudos. So the rumours on the street went.
To remain safe, Fabiola realised that she would need more protection than the hulks lumbering in her wake. Two men instantly came to mind. Benignus and Vettius, the Lupanar’s doormen, would be an ideal nucleus for her force. They were tough, skilled street fighters and, thanks to her previous hard work, fiercely loyal to her already. Jovina, the brothel’s owner, had refused to sell the pair before, but she would find a way to win the old crone over. Perhaps something would be revealed at the temple.
Disappointingly, the soothsayers clustered outside the shrine seemed to be the usual group of liars and charlatans. Fabiola could pick them out from a hundred paces away. Dressed in ragged robes, often deliberately unkempt and with blunt-peaked leather hats jammed on their greasy heads, the men relied on just a few clever ruses. Long silences, meaningful stares into the entrails of the animals they sacrificed and shrewd judgement of their clients’ wishes worked like a dream. Over the years she had watched countless people being taken in, promised everything they asked for and relieved of their meagre savings in moments. Desperate for a sign of divine approval, few seemed to realise what had happened. In the current economic climate, jobs were rare, food expensive and opportunities to better oneself few and far between. While Caesar grew immensely wealthy from the proceeds of his campaigns and Pompey could never spend all that he had plundered, the existence of the average citizen was sufficiently miserable to ensure ripe pickings for the soothsayers.
Fabiola did not trust such men. She had learned to rely only on herself, and on Jupiter, the father of Rome. To find out that there was a genuine haruspex, someone who could predict the future, had been news indeed. Hoping against hope that she might find the armed stranger whom Corbulo had mentioned, Fabiola moved through the group, asking
questions, smiling and dropping coins into palms.
Her search was fruitless. None of those she asked had any knowledge of the man she sought. Keen for business from an obviously wealthy lady, most denied ever having seen him. Tiring of their offered divinations, Fabiola moved to the temple steps, where she sat miserably for some time, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd. Her guards stood nearby, chewing on meat and bread Docilosa had bought. To keep them happy, she had purchased each a small cup of watered-down wine as well. Docilosa made a good mistress, thought Fabiola. She shouted when necessary and rewarded regularly.
‘Not going inside to make an offering, lady?’
Startled at being addressed, Fabiola looked down to see a one-armed man regarding her from the bottom step. It was a place well situated to ask devotees for a coin as they passed inside the temple. Middle-aged, stocky and with close-cropped hair, he wore a ragged military tunic. A solitary bronze phalera on his chest was a proud reminder of the cripple’s service in the legions. From a strap over his right shoulder hung a knife in a worn leather sheath. Everyone in Rome needed to be able to defend themselves. His gaze was direct and admiring, but not threatening. ‘Perhaps,’ Fabiola replied. ‘I was hoping to find a real soothsayer first. There are none in Pompeii.’
The veteran barked with laughter. ‘You’ll not find any round here either!’
Noticing the interaction, one of Fabiola’s men moved forward, reaching for his sword. Tersely, she waved him off. There was no danger in passing the time of day. ‘Obviously,’ she sighed. It had been a vain hope to think that someone whom Gemellus had briefly encountered several years before would still be here. ‘Probably no such thing.’
‘Best to rely on no one, lady,’ advised the cripple with a wink. ‘Even the gods are fickle. They’ve certainly deserted the Republic in recent days.’
‘You speak the truth, friend,’ moaned a fat man in a grubby tunic, sweating as he climbed the steps. ‘We honest citizens are being robbed on a daily basis. Something has to be done!’
Hearing his words, other passers-by muttered in angry agreement. Well-dressed or in rags, they all seemed of the same mind. Fabiola took note. The situation in Rome was as serious as it seemed. These people looked genuinely worried. Troubled, she turned back to the veteran.
‘As for me, I didn’t miss one of Mars’ feast days for ten years. Still lost this!’ He waggled his stump at her.
Fabiola clicked her tongue. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Fighting Mithridates in Armenia,’ came the proud reply. Abruptly his face turned sad. ‘And now I beg for enough to eat each day.’
Immediately she reached for her purse.
‘Save your money, lady,’ the man muttered. ‘It must be hard enough earned.’
Fabiola frowned. The comment had been made as if he knew her history. ‘Explain yourself,’ she snapped.
His face went puce with embarrassment and there was silence for a moment as Fabiola glared at him.
‘Not many customers tip, do they?’ he ventured eventually.
Fabiola went cold. It was inevitable that she would be recognised by some in Rome, but she had not expected it this soon. And low-ranking veterans were uncommon clients in the brothel. They could not usually afford the high prices. So how did he know her? ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded harshly.
The cripple looked down. ‘I used to sit opposite the Lupanar, before the area got too dangerous. Watched you come out many times with that huge doorman. Benignus, is that his name?’
‘I see.’ She could not deny it.
‘It was impossible to miss your beauty, lady.’
‘I’m a free woman now,’ Fabiola said in a low voice. ‘A citizen.’
‘The gods favour you then,’ he said approvingly. ‘Few escape Jovina’s claws.’
‘You know her?’
He grinned. ‘Of course. She got to recognise me, too. Yet the old bitch never dropped a single as into my lap.’
It was Fabiola’s turn to colour. ‘Neither did I.’
‘That’s all right, lady. People don’t notice me nowadays.’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Lost my sword arm for nothing.’
Sympathy filled her at his plight. The legions stood for everything that she despised, protecting a state which was founded on slavery and warfare. Although this man had served many years in their ranks, he had also paid a heavy price. Fabiola found it impossible to hate him. She felt the opposite. With luck, Romulus might have had similar comrades. ‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘Take this.’
Gold glittered in her outstretched hand and his eyes opened wide with shock. The offered aureus was worth more than a legionary earned in a month. ‘Lady, I . . .’ he muttered.
Fabiola placed the coin in the veteran’s palm and closed his fingers over it. There was no resistance. She found it sad how extreme poverty could even grind down the pride of a brave soldier.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, no longer able to meet her gaze.
Satisfied, Fabiola had turned to go when intuition made her pause. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked softly.
‘Secundus, lady,’ he replied. ‘Gaius Secundus.’
‘You probably know my name,’ she said, probing.
Secundus grinned in response. ‘Fabiola.’
She inclined her head graciously, and another man came into her thrall. ‘May we meet again.’
Secundus watched reverently as Fabiola climbed the steps towards the cellae. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she had given him enough money to live well for weeks. The gods were smiling today.
‘Perhaps Jupiter will answer my prayers,’ she offered over one shoulder.
‘I hope so, lady,’ Secundus called out. ‘Or Mithras,’ he added in a whisper.
The poorly lit cella was jammed with people wishing to ask a favour of the preeminent deity in Rome. After each new arrival had made an offering, shaven-headed acolytes directed them where to kneel. Priests filled the air with low chanting. Small oil lamps dangled from brackets, their guttering flames creating a forbidding atmosphere. High on the back wall hung an image of Jupiter, a great circular piece of sculpted, painted stone with a diameter twice the length of a man. The god had a beaked nose and full, sardonic lips. His unsmiling face stared impassively at the worshippers, heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Below the carving ran a long, flat altar, covered with gifts. Hens and lambs lay side by side, blood still dripping from the fresh cuts in their necks. Tiny, crudely made statues of Jupiter huddled together in twos and threes. There were copper coins, silver denarii, signet rings, necklaces and loaves of bread. Little replica clay vessels contrasted with the occasional piece of ornate glass. Rich or poor, plebeian or patrician, all gave something. All had a request of the god.
Fabiola moved quietly to the altar. Finding a place to stack a small pile of aurei, she knelt down nearby. But it was hard to concentrate on her prayers. Distracted by the loud muttering from the eager citizens around her, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine her lover. Gradually the noise diminished as her concentration improved. Brutus was of average build, but his clean-shaven, tanned face was pleasant and his smile natural. Fabiola had not seen him for months and was constantly surprised by how much she missed him. Especially recently. Holding his picture bright in her mind, she begged Jupiter for a sign. Anything that could help Brutus, and Caesar, to overcome the Gaulish rebellion. And protect them both from Scaevola’s menaces.
Her hopes were in vain. Fabiola saw and heard nothing but the other people in the tightly packed room.
Despite her best efforts, thoughts of Romulus began to replace those of Brutus. Perhaps it was because she had met Secundus? Fabiola found the images impossible to ignore. It had been nearly four years since she had seen her brother. Romulus would have grown into a man. He would be strong, as Secundus must have been, before he lost his arm. It was pleasing to think of her twin standing straight and tall in his chain mail, wearing a horsehair-crested helm
et. Then her imagination faltered. How could Romulus be alive? Crassus’ defeat had been total, shaking the Republic to its core. Fabiola scowled, unwilling still to give up hope. In turn, that meant conceding that Romulus was a prisoner of the Parthians, sent to the ends of the earth. To Margiana, a place without hope. In mental agony, Fabiola remembered her own personal journey to Hades. She had not fought physical battles or risked her life in the legions. Instead she had been forced into prostitution.
And she had endured. Somehow Romulus would too. Fabiola was sure of it.
She got to her feet and made her way to the door. Docilosa and her guards were waiting outside, but disappointingly there was no sign of Secundus. His place on the bottom step had been taken by a leper covered in filthy, weeping bandages. Although Fabiola hadn’t realised it at the time, the veteran had given her hope. There had been no sign of the mysterious soothsayer, and she had not been given proof of her twin’s survival, or of Caesar’s future. But her journey to Rome had not been without reward. Now it was time to return to Brutus’ residence in the city, a large, comfortable domus on the Palatine Hill. There she could gather her thoughts and find ways of helping Brutus, and dealing with Scaevola. Perhaps there would even be time to begin the search for Romulus? Caught up in its own troubles, the Republic would not be sending an army to retaliate against Parthia in the foreseeable future. Yet merchants journeyed to the east regularly, attracted by the valuable goods they could resell in Rome. For the right price, one might be persuaded to ask questions on his travels.
The idea was enough to make Fabiola forget her worries for a short time.
