by Ben Kane
But what was she supposed to do? One woman could not change the aggressive nature of the Roman Republic, or of one of its best generals. As usual, Fabiola’s practical side took control. The people of Gaul were beyond her aid. She would help those she could, such as her slaves. Furthermore, she resolved to locate the boy who had been pursued on to her land by Scaevola. The memory of what the fugitivarius had done to him afterwards still tortured her.
Fabiola had little time to dwell on it.
Beyond the devastated farmland lay even more graphic evidence of Caesar’s war. By the time they were within a few miles of Alesia, there were dead and dying Gauls lying all along the wayside, men who had fled the battle or been evacuated by their comrades and then left to die when they could no longer keep up. Thankfully, there was no sign of any able-bodied warriors, but the optio’s fears had grown so great that he refused to continue. Red-faced with determined embarrassment, he insisted that Fabiola and twenty men conceal themselves in a large copse several hundred paces from the road. She could only watch in frustration as he and the other legionaries headed off to find out what they could.
The optio was not gone for long.
‘It’s all over,’ he shouted jubilantly when within earshot. ‘Caesar has done it!’
Whispers of excitement passed between the hidden soldiers.
Fabiola breathed a long sigh of relief, while Secundus grinned from ear to ear. Impatient, they waited until the junior officer had reached them.
‘The battle finished yesterday, apparently. By all the gods, you should see it,’ he said, waving his arms with excitement. ‘Caesar’s legions have built miles of fortifications all around the town to prevent any break-out.’ He paused. ‘And another set facing outwards to stop any attempt at relieving the siege.’
Fabiola could not conceal her surprise. ‘They were being attacked by two armies?’
The optio nodded vigorously. ‘Caesar had ten legions, yet he must have been outnumbered by at least five to one. There are thousands of dead Gauls everywhere, but they say it’s even worse north-west of the battlefield.’
‘Is that where the battle was decided?’ asked Secundus, his face alight.
‘Yes. The enemy warriors almost broke through the defences there. Caesar sent reinforcements led by Decimus Brutus, but they were nearly overwhelmed.’
Fabiola blanched.
‘Then Caesar rallied the soldiers and turned the tide!’
‘You’re one of Pompey’s men, remember?’ joked Secundus.
‘I follow orders just like anyone,’ grumbled the optio. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a great general.’
‘Is Brutus alive?’ interrupted Fabiola.
‘Yes, lady. I asked.’
‘The gods be thanked,’ she cried. ‘And is it safe to continue?’
‘It is. I can guide you to him.’ He grimaced. ‘But we’ll need to travel straight across the battlefield.’
‘Lead on.’ Sure that she had seen the worst of it, Fabiola could wait no longer. She had to see Brutus.
The optio paused, unsure.
‘The danger is over,’ she snapped. ‘You said so yourself.’
The junior officer glanced at Secundus, who shrugged. He tried one more time. ‘It’s not a sight for women.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Used to her domineering nature by now, the optio snapped off a crisp salute. Signalling the men to follow, he led the way down to the road.
Over a small rise, the battlefield proper began. A strange, unquiet air hung over the whole area. It was in marked contrast to the frantic mayhem of the previous days, which Fabiola struggled to imagine. Clouds of ravens and crows swooped and dived overhead, their harsh cawing the only sound. Like a forest of small trees, countless spears jutted from the ground, any gaps in between filled by the smaller, feathered shapes of arrows.
But it was the number of dead that drew her eyes, again and again.
Fabiola was utterly horrified. Nothing could have prepared her for it, not even the bloodshed she had witnessed in the arena. The ground was littered with more bodies than seemed possible: this was death on an unreal scale. Here was a glut of food that even the flocks of birds could not deal with. And now the corpses were Roman as well as Gaulish. They were heaped in huge piles, draped over each other like sleeping drunks at a feast. There was blood everywhere – on the slack faces, oozing from the countless gaping wounds, on the discarded swords and spears. Pools of it lay clotted around soldiers who had bled to death. Underfoot, the grass had been trampled down from the passage of men, churned into a red, glutinous mud that stuck to the legionaries’ sandals. A faint buzzing sound permeated the still air, made by the clouds of flies that clustered on every exposed piece of flesh.
Groups of legionaries could be seen moving methodically through the dead, stripping them of weapons and valuables. Occasionally enemy warriors were found alive, but none were being spared. By now, the only ones to remain living on the field were those who could not flee. Badly injured, the Gauls were therefore of no use as slaves. From time to time swords flashed in the sun, and short choking cries bubbled away into nothing.
The number of bodies soon made it impossible for the slaves carrying the litter to continue. Alighting, Fabiola raised a hand to her nose, vainly trying not to inhale. The cloying smell of rotting flesh was already sticking in the back of her throat. She could imagine how bad it would be after two or three more days under the hot sun.
Hastily, the optio directed a number of men to march in front of Fabiola, clearing the way. The walk was still like having to traverse the underworld, but she wasn’t going to stop now. Finally, Brutus was within reach. She would be safe once more.
The Roman circumvallation came into sight, dragging Fabiola’s eyes away from the carnage around her. No one could fail to be impressed by the scale of the engineering And all these features had been constructed in duplicate, on the other side.
Fabiola was astonished by Caesar’s sheer determination. He truly was the amazing general that Brutus had described. A dangerous man. A rapist?
On a large plateau above the fortifications, stood the object of Caesar’s attention: Alesia.
Trying to break through from either direction would have been a suicidal task, Fabiola thought. And defending the ramparts, utterly terrifying.
The optio had not been exaggerating about the scale of the slaughter. It was far greater here than what they had left behind. Her gorge rose, and she struggled not to vomit. Is this what Hades looked like? Had Carrhae been this bad?
Cries of pain drew her attention away from one horror to another.
A short distance away, a group of legionaries was gathered around a moaning, prone figure: an old man, in a robe.
Fabiola watched, horrified, as they drew nearer. He was unarmed, and probably just unfortunate enough to have strayed within their reach.
Javelin tips probed forward, drawing blood and fresh screams. Studded army sandals stamped down on unprotected flesh. Fabiola was sure she heard one of his arms snap. Turning her head made no difference. Cruel laughter filled her ears. Again and again her attention was drawn back to the dreadful scene. The torture went on until the soldiers grew bored. First one man drew his gladius, then another.
Fabiola was moving before she even realised it. Pushing past her surprised legionaries, she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop it!’
‘Come back,’ shouted Secundus from behind her. ‘You cannot intervene.’
She ignored him, unwilling to watch such a summary execution. It reminded her too much of what might have happened to Romulus. Fabiola also had a powerful feeling that she should get involved.
Her screams had the desired effect. A couple of the legionaries stopped what they were doing and looked around. Leering unpleasantly, they nudged their comrades.
Ignoring their lustful reactions, Fabiola stalked closer.
Intimidated by her confident manner, the nearest men moved back.
But the ringleader, a hardbitten-looking soldier with rusty chain mail and a battered bronze helmet topped by a simple horsehair crest, did not budge one step. Instead, he licked his lips suggestively at the beautiful young woman who had interrupted their sport.
Fabiola went straight on the offensive. Perhaps shame could help. ‘How brave you are to torture an old man like this,’ she hissed. ‘Have you not seen enough killing?’
Laughs of derision met this question.
Scanning the tough, scarred faces around her, Fabiola realised these were some of Caesar’s veterans. After six years of constant campaigning in Gaul, war and death was all they knew.
Secundus arrived, followed closely by Sextus and the optio. All three were careful to keep their hands away from their weapons.
‘Who the fuck are you to order us about?’ demanded the ringleader. ‘And what business of yours is it anyway?’
His comrades grinned and, as if to prove a point, one of them kicked their victim.
‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’ screamed Fabiola. ‘I will have you all flogged!’
Confused looks met this outburst.
‘Why wouldn’t we kill him?’ asked a thin soldier.
Peering closer, Fabiola took in what, in her rage, she had not noticed before. Although the old man’s robe was threadbare, there was a sickle slung from his rope belt. A worn leather pouch had been opened and its contents scattered on the ground. Dried herbs lay on small stones polished by long use; beside these were the tiny bones of a mouse. A short dagger with bloodstains on its rusty blade provided the final piece of evidence. Now Fabiola understood why the soldiers were acting so cruelly.
Few figures provoked more fear in Roman hearts than the Gaulish druids. Members of a powerful group learned in ancient lore, they were revered and hated in equal measure by their own people. It was said that Vercingetorix himself relied on one to provide him with predictions of the future.
‘See?’ said the thin legionary. ‘He’s a damn druid.’
‘Not for much longer, he isn’t,’ quipped their ringleader.
There was more laughter.
Moving forward, Fabiola saw that while most of the old man’s wounds were superficial, one was not. Through his clutching fingers, large amounts of blood had soaked through his robe over his belly. Her intervention had come too late. It was a death wound.
And gazing at the druid, she saw that he knew it too.
Bizarrely, he smiled. ‘Some of my visions were true, then,’ he said to himself. ‘A beautiful, black-haired woman who seeks revenge.’
Fabiola’s eyes widened.
Behind her, Secundus was paying keen attention.
No one spoke for a moment.
‘You are close to one beloved of Caesar,’ he rasped suddenly.
The watching legionaries exchanged worried glances. Fabiola’s threat had not just been an empty one. Without further protest, they let her kneel by the druid’s side.
Horrified by the whole situation, Fabiola was also intrigued. Here was a man with more power than any of the charlatans to be found at Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Yet he was dying. She had to find out what else he knew before it was too late.
The druid beckoned to her. ‘Do you still grieve as before?’ he whispered.
An involuntary sob rose in Fabiola’s throat, and she nodded. Mother. Romulus.
He grunted with pain, and Fabiola instinctively reached out to grip one of his gnarled, bloody hands. There was little else she could do.
His next words rocked her world.
‘You had a brother. A soldier who went to the east.’
It was all Fabiola could do not to break down completely. ‘Have you seen him?’
He nodded. ‘On a great battlefield, fighting against a mighty host with massive grey monsters in its midst.’
Romulus was in my vision! Fabiola glanced around at Secundus.
Unsurprisingly, he was beaming. Mithras had spoken through her.
Exultant, Fabiola calmed herself. ‘Is he still alive?’
Her words hung in the sultry air.
‘Rome must beware of Caesar.’
Angry snarls met this comment, and the legionaries pressed forward with ready swords. But the old man’s expression had already gone glazed, his eyes unfocused.
‘Is Romulus alive?’ Fabiola squeezed his fingers, to no avail.
A last rattling breath escaped the druid’s lips, and then his body went limp.
‘Good riddance,’ growled the ringleader. ‘Our general is the only man fit to lead the Republic.’ He hawked and spat, before skulking off. His comrades did likewise. There was no sport left here, and by leaving quickly, they would escape punishment. Finding nondescript legionaries like them amidst an army was almost impossible.
Uncaring, Fabiola sagged down, drained of all energy.
There would be no revelation about Romulus.
How was she to bear it?
Chapter XX: Barbaricum
Barbaricum, on the Indian Ocean, summer 52 BC
Squatting by the edge of the rough-hewn wooden dock, Romulus spat angrily into the sea. The journey south had aged him. There were dark rings of exhaustion under his blue eyes and a light growth of stubble covered his jaw. His black hair had grown longer. Although he did not know it, Romulus was now an imposing sight. His military tunic might be ragged and dirty, but his height, heavily muscled arms and legs and sheathed gladius marked him out as a man not to cross.
Tarquinius’ gaze fell away from the men he had been watching. He took in Romulus’ mood at a glance. ‘Brennus chose his own fate,’ he said quietly. ‘You could not stop him.’
Unsurprised at his mind being read, Romulus did not answer. Instead he watched the mixture of objects floating in the water with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. Typical of any large port, there were rotting fish heads, broken pieces of timber, small pieces of discarded fishing net and over-ripe fruit bobbing about between the wooden hulls of the moored ships.
The shouts and cries of merchants, stallholders, slave-dealers and their prospective customers filled the warm, salty air. Just a hundred paces away was part of the immense market which formed the basis for Barbaricum’s existence. Despite the oppressive temperatures and high humidity, the place was thronged. Bearded traders in turbans were selling indigo, different varieties of pepper and other spices from open sacks. Naked except for their chains, scores of men, women and children stood miserably on blocks, waiting like so many cattle. Neat piles of tortoiseshell were stacked higher than a man. Polished tusks lying in pairs were mute evidence that not every elephant became a beast of war. Trestle tables were covered in pieces of turquoise, lapis lazuli, agate and other semi-precious stones. There was silk yarn and cloth, cotton in bales and sheets of finely woven muslin. It was a veritable cornucopia.
But the ships that would carry all these goods away were of more interest to Romulus and Tarquinius. Tied up in their dozens, shallow-draughted fishing boats with small single masts knocked gently against larger merchant vessels with neatly reefed sails. Many of the craft were of unfamiliar shape to Romulus, but the haruspex had mentioned feluccas and native galleys. Here and there he saw sharp-prowed, lateen-rigged ships, their armed, unsavoury-looking crews eyeing each other warily. These were not honest traders. Without a bronze ram or banks of oars, the dhows still reminded him of Roman triremes. Of fighting ships.
It was a group of men from one of these that Tarquinius was studying intently.
But what did it matter anyway? Once more, Romulus’ misery settled over him like a cloak. He briefly considered letting himself fall in, to sink beneath the slick, greasy surface. Then his guilt might end.
‘It is not your fault that he died,’ said the haruspex softly.
The words sprang to Romulus’ lips unbidden. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘It’s yours.’
Tarquinius recoiled as if struck.
‘You knew,’ shouted Romulus, uncaring that men’s heads were turning in their direc
tion. ‘Since that night after Carrhae. Didn’t you?’
‘I—’ the haruspex began, but it did not stop Romulus’ flow of rage. It had been pent up since the battle – since leaving Brennus to face an elephant on his own.
‘We could have gone with Longinus and marched back to the Euphrates.’ Romulus pressed his fists against his head, wishing that were the truth. ‘At least they had a chance of escaping. But you said that we should stay. So we did.’
Tarquinius’ dark eyes grew sad.
‘And then Brennus died, when he did not need to.’ Romulus closed his eyes and his voice tailed away into a whisper. ‘He could have escaped.’
‘And left you?’ Tarquinius’ voice was low but incredulous. ‘Brennus would never have done that.’
There was a long silence, during which the onlookers grew bored and turned away.
Even that was probably part of Tarquinius’ plans, Romulus thought bitterly. Avoiding attention was always a good idea. At that very moment, however, he did not care who saw or heard their conversation.
Several weeks had passed since their journey from the battlefield, yet now, as then, Romulus was consumed by one thing. Had the haruspex known about, or planned, their whole experience since joining Crassus’ army? Had he and Brennus been nothing more than unknowing pawns, acting out an already written script? It was a question that Tarquinius repeatedly refused to answer. Overcome with grief after Brennus’ heroic sacrifice, Romulus had simply gone along with him. Swimming across the Hydaspes was an ordeal in itself, and the passage south that had followed was even more arduous. Without helmets, chain mail or shields, with only their gladii and Tarquinius’ battleaxe for protection, the two weary soldiers had been forced to travel mainly by night. Otherwise their pale skins and inability to speak the local languages would have marked them out as foreigners, easy prey for even the ignorant villagers whose land they passed. Strangers such as they might carry money or riches.
