by Ben Kane
Romulus knew none of this. Kicking downwards, he cast his eyes left and right. Fortunately, the visibility was good, much better than on the surface. But he could see nothing. Long fronds of seaweed straggled up from the bottom, threatening to entangle him. Romulus searched fruitlessly for what seemed an age, when a thick rope appeared before him, leading diagonally downwards. It had to be the anchor cable for one the ships above. Romulus took a good hold of it and pulled himself even deeper. If he didn’t find the pirate soon, it would be too late.
Half a dozen heartbeats later, he reached an enormous stone anchor. Romulus was running out of air. Mithras, help me, he prayed desperately.
It was the braids of black hair that caught Romulus’ attention. Like the seaweed around them, they were swaying to and fro in the current. He swam forward, finding the big man within arm’s reach, flat on his back and completely motionless. Not a good sign, he thought. Grabbing hold of the long tresses with his left hand, Romulus placed his feet on the sandy bottom and bent his knees. Using the power of his muscular thighs, he pushed upwards with all his might. The surface seemed miles away, and the weight dragging down his left arm like a sack of lead. But he transferred his grip to the corsair’s chin and, stroke by slow stroke, they ascended.
When two heads broke through the scummy water, great cries of relief went up.
Tarquinius’ voice was among them.
With a sinking heart, Romulus saw that the haruspex had been disarmed and was surrounded by corsairs. But he had no time to think; although he could feel a pulse beneath his hand, the big man was limp in his grasp. His lungs could be full of water. Realising the same thing, his comrades quickly lowered a rope. Romulus tied it fast around the unconscious pirate’s chest and watched as he was pulled up to the dock. Lying the big man on his front, a swarthy figure delivered a few sharp blows to the back of his chest. Nothing happened, and Romulus’ heart sank. The procedure was repeated a number of times to no avail. Just when he thought his rescue attempt had been pointless, the hulk coughed violently before vomiting up a large amount of seawater.
His friends cheered with delight.
Again the rope was dropped, and Romulus eagerly swarmed up it, hand over hand. Surely he would be well received. After all, he had saved the man’s life.
As Romulus reached out to pull himself up on to the dock, a pair of calloused black feet stepped in his way. He looked up, into the eyes of the Nubian with gold earrings. This had to be the pirate captain – and there was a large, wide-bladed cutlass in his right hand.
‘Tell me why I shouldn’t cut this rope,’ the Nubian said in passable Parthian. ‘Before my men kill your friend.’
Chapter XXI: Reunion
Central Gaul, summer 52 BC
After a long time, Fabiola managed to pull herself together. Muttering reassuring words, Secundus moved her away from the druid’s body. Fabiola hardly noticed the gore any longer as the optio led his men towards the group of tents on a promontory overlooking the corpse-strewn ground. The terror of the previous few weeks had been overwhelming, and her encounter with the dying druid agonising. Fabiola shuddered. But with the aid of the gods, she had coped this far. Endured. She breathed deeply and imagined the reception she would get. Gradually Fabiola’s mood changed to that of nervous excitement. She was about to see Brutus again! Nothing could be done about Romulus for the moment, and her deep-held worries about Caesar faded into the background. Her perilous journey was nearly over, and at last she would be able to relax a little. The prospect filled her with relief.
They climbed the slope, reaching a number of checkpoints manned by exhausted-looking legionaries. Many had bandaged arms, legs or heads; their armour and shields were battered and blood-stained. To a man, though, their manner was alert and watchful. At each, Fabiola declared her status and her mission, which saw them ushered through with surprised but respectful salutes. As she passed, the soldiers’ heads turned in lust and awe at her beauty. But not one dared say a word within earshot. Who wished to incur the displeasure of Decimus Brutus, key right-hand man of Julius Caesar?
They came within range of the army’s command post: this was also where the senior officers’ quarters had been erected. Fabiola’s pulse quickened. As well as the usual force of guards, messengers and trumpeters, there were men in gilded armour standing outside the largest tent, with a lithe, energetic figure gesticulating in their midst. It could only be Caesar. And where he was, Brutus would not be far away. She smiled, imagining her lover’s response when he saw her.
‘Caesar is the best general Rome has ever had,’ Secundus declared. ‘This is a victory like no other!’
Remotely associated with Caesar through Fabiola and Brutus, Docilosa swelled with pride. After surviving great dangers and threats to their lives, this was just reward.
‘Look, lady.’
Secundus’ words dragged Fabiola from her reverie. Her gaze followed his pointing arm. It was no surprise that Caesar had moved to this spot, she thought. The whole battlefield was laid out below them, allowing an appreciation of the scale of his achievement and the size of the force which must have opposed his ten legions. The view to the north-west was obscured by the rock face, but the fortifications stretched as far as the eye could see to the south-east, facing both ways, with lethal killing grounds in front and behind. There were blocks of wood with iron hooks to drag at passing men’s feet and clothing, pits with sharpened stakes at the bottom and ditches filled with irregularly cut gravestones. Inside these were two deep trenches, one of which had been filled with water from a nearby river. Finally there was the palisade itself, which was reinforced by a layer of spiked branches poking forward below the battlements. Regular towers along it provided excellent fields of fire. Stores of pila were still stacked along the walkways, the last remnants of the thousands which must have been hurled at the Gauls as they advanced slowly through the death-traps. Fabiola could see that Caesar’s defences had been tested to their limit. Corpses covered the ground between the circumvallation and Alesia, as well as on the other side. Many of the dead were clearly Roman, slain in counter-attacks and missions to retrieve undamaged pila, but the vast majority were Gauls – warriors in the prime of life, younger men, youths and even a few old men. Whole tribes lay here.
Fabiola’s fearful admiration for Caesar soared. Her knowledge of warfare was limited, but no one could fail to appreciate the immensity of the struggle which must have gone on here. To win when so greatly outnumbered was incredible. Fabiola was glad that she had not decided to stay with Marcus Petreius. Even Pompey might not be capable of outwitting the general who had won this remarkable victory. If it came to it, was anyone? A tremor of fear ran through Fabiola. She suddenly felt very small and insignificant. Brutus had hitched his fate to a meteor, it seemed. And hers with it. Only time would tell if they both got burned.
‘Fabiola? Is that you?’
The sound of the familiar voice made her stomach turn over. Fabiola turned her head, and saw her lover walking towards them. Nervously, she raised a hand. ‘Brutus!’
With an excited cry, he broke into a run. Of average build, Brutus was clad in a typical senior officer’s gilded breastplate, red cloak and transverse crested helmet. He held on to the ornate hilt of his sword, but the studded leather straps which protected his groin and upper legs jingled to and fro as he ran.
Fabiola longed to race to her lover, but in an effort to keep her composure, she remained stationary. Smoothing down her plain dress, she wished there had been time to buy more clothes and some perfume. Stay calm, she thought. This is not Rome, or Pompeii. There are no luxuries when on campaign. I am here: that is enough.
‘By all the gods, it is you!’ shouted Brutus as he drew near.
Fabiola gave him a radiant smile, the one she knew he loved.
Petreius’ legionaries saluted and pulled apart smartly, forming a corridor.
Slowing, Brutus strode the last few paces, drinking in Fabiola’s beauty as a thirsty man drains
a cup of water. There was a tired grey sheen to his unshaven face, but he was unhurt. ‘How in the name of Hades?’ he demanded, beaming and frowning by turns. ‘What are you doing in this godforsaken spot?’
She pouted. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
He took her hands in his and squeezed them hard. ‘Yes! It’s as if Mars himself has answered my prayers.’
Fabiola leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Brutus met her passion with a burning intensity of his own, and enveloped her in his arms. Finally they parted, staring into each other’s eyes, needing to say nothing. It was luxury for both to feel the other’s body against their own. ‘Gods,’ Fabiola murmured at last. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
Boyishly, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘And I you, my darling. How many months has it been?’
‘Nearly nine,’ she replied sadly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Brutus said, clasping Fabiola’s fingers as if he thought she would disappear if he let go. ‘This campaign has been like no other. We’ve done nothing but march and fight since the damn rebellion started. I couldn’t leave Caesar’s side.’
‘Of course,’ said Fabiola understandingly. ‘I know.’
‘How is it at the latifundium?’ Seeing her expression change, Brutus frowned. ‘Has something happened?’
At once tears formed in the corners of Fabiola’s eyes. Poor Corbulo, she thought guiltily. He died because of my rash behaviour. So did the gladiators I hired. My slaves have been sold off to the highest bidder. And that poor boy, castrated just to satisfy Scaevola’s pique.
Brutus gazed into her eyes, full of concern. ‘Tell me,’ he said gently.
It all poured out in a torrent of words. The runaway. Scaevola and his fugitivarii. Her humiliation of him. How her slaves had appeared in the nick of time.
‘Crossing the fugitivarius was not very wise perhaps,’ said Brutus. ‘But I know how overbearing men like him can be.’
Nodding, Fabiola went on, relating how two slaves had been murdered in the fields. This had hastened her decision to travel to Rome, where she had met Secundus. She indicated the veteran to Brutus. No details were spared about Clodius Pulcher’s death, the ensuing riots and the dramatic burning of the Senate.
‘We heard about that even here. Where’s the respect for proper order gone?’ muttered Brutus darkly. ‘Plebeian scum! They need the point of a sword shoved where it hurts.’
‘That’s probably already happened,’ said Fabiola, inclining her head towards the legionaries around them. ‘One of Pompey’s legions will have reached Rome by now.’
The optio grinned proudly.
Understanding, Brutus did not ask more. ‘Thank Mars that you weren’t there for that,’ he replied. ‘Go on.’
Without mentioning Scaevola’s powerful backer, Fabiola related the story of his street ambush and of what the fugitivarius had done to Corbulo and the others on the latifundium. Brutus’ eyes bulged with anger, but he let her continue without interrupting. Upon hearing of Fabiola’s near rape however, he swelled with outrage. ‘What’s his name again?’
‘Scaevola.’ To deliver the thunderbolt, Fabiola placed her lips by Brutus’ ear. ‘Apparently he’s on Pompey’s payroll. And we’re not the first supporters of Caesar to be targeted.’
Brutus went icy calm. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, he needs to be made an example of. Finding an arrogant son of a whore like that shouldn’t be much problem. Scaevola will pay for what he has done. Slowly, too.’
Relief filled Fabiola. Already the malevolent fugitivarius felt like less of a threat. To be sure though, she would have to stay by Brutus’ side. ‘Are you finished . . . ?’ she began.
‘Here?’ Brutus indicated the heaped bodies below them. ‘Perhaps. Vercingetorix is in chains and we have taken tens of thousands of his men as slaves.’ He frowned. ‘Many tribes may continue fighting though. But we will not stop until Gaul is truly part of the Republic. Until Caesar has won completely.’ He raised his voice. ‘Victory to Julius Caesar!’
The nearest of Caesar’s legionaries cheered when they heard, while the soldiers who had accompanied Fabiola north looked distinctly uneasy.
Brutus turned next to Docilosa, bestowing a broad smile on her. ‘Looking after your mistress well?’
‘She’s a godsend,’ interrupted Fabiola. ‘I’d have been lost without her.’
Docilosa’s face went beetroot with pride.
‘Your fealty will be rewarded,’ said Brutus kindly. ‘And who is this man here?’
‘Sextus, Master,’ the slave replied, bowing low. ‘The last of the mistress’ bodyguards.’
‘He has the heart of a lion,’ Fabiola declared. ‘And fights like one too.’
‘You have my thanks.’ Brutus clapped Sextus on the shoulder.
‘Master.’
‘And this is Secundus?’ asked Brutus.
‘I am, sir.’ Secundus clenched his fist and thumped it off his chest in salute. ‘A veteran of thirteen years’ service.’
‘He and his comrades saved us from Scaevola,’ said Fabiola. ‘They gave us shelter and then guided us on our journey.’
Sextus nodded emphatically.
Brutus threw a grateful look at Secundus. ‘Are these your men?’ he asked with some confusion.
Secundus’ face turned sad. ‘No, sir. My comrades were all killed by the fugitivarii. Two weeks or so north of Rome, they ambushed us again. Caught us napping like raw recruits.’
‘No,’ cried Fabiola. ‘With Mithras’ help, you got us out of there. No one else could have.’
Secundus dipped his head in acknowledgement.
‘Mithras, you say?’ asked Brutus sharply.
‘Yes,’ Fabiola answered. ‘Secundus and his men follow the path.’ For the moment, she said nothing about her own involvement.
At once Brutus leaned forward. With a laugh, Secundus did the same and they shook hands firmly.
It was Fabiola’s turn to be surprised. ‘You worship Mithras too?’
‘For the last few months. A senior centurion who served in Asia Minor introduced me to the religion,’ Brutus explained with glee. ‘And now, under Secundus’ protection, the god has brought you to me. This calls for a generous sacrifice!’
Fabiola was delighted.
‘So these legionaries . . .’ began Brutus. ‘Whose are they?’
‘We got them thanks to Mithras too, sir,’ said Secundus in a low voice. ‘The fugitivarii fled when we encountered a Pompeian legion on its way to Rome. It was under the command of Marcus Petreius, who turned out to be a believer too.’
Fabiola beamed at him, overjoyed that a plausible explanation had been provided. She had been troubled about bypassing her involvement with Petreius since leaving the legate’s camp.
Brutus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Mithras has truly blessed you, my love. Fortuna too, I think.’
If only you knew it all, Fabiola thought, thinking of her homa-induced vision. But that is best told in private. Except for what happened in Petreius’ bedchamber.
‘Fabiola has been safely delivered,’ Brutus said to the optio. ‘It was a job well done. Now you’ll need to be getting back to your unit, I expect. But all of you deserve a good rest before setting off.’ He whistled at the nearest of his men. ‘Take these soldiers down to the camp. Find them some hot food and a bed for the night. Quickly!’
There were pleased grins all round as the optio and his half-century were led away. Secundus accompanied them but Sextus stayed by Fabiola’s side.
‘Let’s walk to my tent,’ said Brutus, taking Fabiola by the arm. ‘You can relax there. Tonight, a feast to celebrate our victory is being held, and I’m sure Caesar would want you present. He’s heard all about you.’
The moment that Fabiola had desired for an age was nearly here – and it was almost too terrifying to contemplate. During all that she had endured, she had never actually dared to imagine it. But, thanks to Mithras, it would come to pass, in the unlikely setting of a battlefield in Gaul. ‘Won
derful,’ Fabiola, concealing her jangling nerves. ‘I will be honoured to meet your general at last.’
Helped by Docilosa, Fabiola was dressing for the evening. A table, mirrors, some jewellery and bottles of makeup and perfume had been produced from Alesia, as had a selection of dresses. Fabiola knew better than to ask where they came from. The clothing fitted her so well it could have been for her double, which felt poignant. Fabiola made a silent request of Mithras to protect the clothing’s owner, whoever she was.
‘You look stunning,’ said Brutus, regarding Fabiola admiringly. He moved closer, caressing her shoulders with the tips of his fingers. ‘Not trying to impress Caesar, are you?’
Docilosa pursed her lips with disapproval.
‘If I do, it’s for your benefit,’ Fabiola reproached. ‘You know that.’
‘Of course,’ Brutus replied, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry.’
If only you knew what I really want.
‘Do you want me to change it?’
Brutus eyed her low cut silk stola, which exposed large amounts of creamy skin. ‘No,’ he said with a lustful grin. ‘It looks good.’
Mollified, Fabiola sat down in front of the small bronze mirror on her table. Docilosa fussed behind her, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ears while Fabiola applied the finishing touches to her makeup. A small amount of ochre on her cheeks and the faintest dusting of antimony did the trick. By religiously keeping out of the sun, Fabiola had so far avoided the need to whiten her complexion with lead. She had decided to feel pleased about meeting Caesar at the feast. No doubt his attention would be taken up by his officers, allowing Fabiola to study him at her leisure. The men she met would also be potential sources of information about the shrewd general. Once more, Fabiola determined to use all her wiles in her quest for her father.
She looked Brutus up and down with a practised eye. Her lover had shed his military dress and caligae for soft leather shoes and a brilliant white toga of the finest wool. Never happy, his vestiplicus, whose job it was to arrange the garment’s complex folds, fussed and bothered around him. Finally Brutus could take no more and dismissed the fawning slave.
