The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  Docilosa took the opportunity to fade into the background.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Very handsome, my love,’ Fabiola murmured, moving to his side and cupping his groin.

  They had spent the entire afternoon coupling like rabbits, but Brutus’ response was instant.

  ‘Perhaps you could complain of a bad stomach,’ she suggested throatily.

  ‘Stop it,’ he laughed. ‘We can’t miss the feast.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to,’ Fabiola replied, kissing him on the lips.

  Blithely unaware of her motives, Brutus smiled proudly.

  Great Mithras, she prayed. Give me a sign. I need to know if Caesar is the one.

  A small guard of four legionaries and an optio brought them to Caesar’s massive tent.

  Sextus watched the pair go, a worried expression on his face. He did not like letting Fabiola out of his sight. Ever.

  A balding major-domo was waiting for them at the entrance. ‘Welcome,’ he said, bowing from the waist. ‘Please follow me.’

  Full of sudden apprehension, Fabiola froze. Was she mad? Even if her suspicion was correct, to dream of harming one of Rome’s most famous sons was tantamount to committing suicide. A wry smile twisted her lips. What did that matter? Although she had survived terrible dangers, her twin brother had endured far worse. Without Romulus, my survival is unimportant, thought Fabiola. Death is nothing to be afraid of.

  Brutus had not noticed her reaction; he eagerly entered after the slave. Steeling herself, Fabiola hurried in too.

  Normally where Caesar met daily with his officers, the spacious yet Spartan chamber had been redecorated with dining furniture. In customary fashion, a large reclining couch was placed on three sides of each table, with the fourth left open. The couple were only two of more than twenty guests for dinner. Legates, tribunes and senior staff officers relaxed in threes on each couch, while numerous serving slaves moved to and fro between them. There was no sign of Caesar himself yet, but the lively hum of conversation filled the air.

  Heads turned and appreciative murmurs were made as Brutus led Fabiola past the outer tables. He nodded and bowed to many of the officers, while Fabiola smiled hesitantly. Reaching the central table, Brutus greeted the four men who were already reclining around it. Fabiola was delighted. This was clearly where Caesar would sit and to be invited to dine here was an honour of the highest kind.

  ‘Marcus Antonius, Titus Labienus, Caius Trebonius and Gaius Fabius, good evening.’

  The quartet murmured courteous replies, but all their eyes were on Brutus’ companion.

  ‘May I present Fabiola, my lover? To my utter surprise, she has risked her life through the wilds of Gaul just to come and see me.’

  Antonius gave Fabiola a lingering, unpleasant stare, which she ignored.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ responded Labienus appreciatively. He was a thin, grey-haired man in late middle age. ‘You’re one of Caesar’s best officers. A fine catch.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, my love,’ Brutus demurred. ‘Along with Caesar and Fabius, this man won the final battle. And those two’ – he pointed at Antonius and Trebonius – ‘saved our skins the night before with their cavalry.’

  Antonius laughed at Brutus’ comment. ‘You did your bit,’ he drawled, rubbing a hand through his curly brown hair. ‘That’s why you’re here. Now sit.’

  Brutus flushed and guided Fabiola to her seat at the end of the right-hand couch. He took the middle space, meaning they were separated by a bolster, and both faced Caesar’s couch. It had been left empty for the general to occupy alone. Having learned the importance of the different places, Fabiola knew that only Labienus and Antonius were reclining in superior positions to her lover. Pride filled her, but she was also worried by the obvious animosity between Brutus and Antonius, Caesar’s best friend: a man with a wild and dangerous reputation.

  Glasses of mulsum were served at once, but Fabiola had scarcely swallowed a mouthful before loud cheering broke out. Officer after officer stood, and she realised that Caesar had entered the room.

  Getting to his feet, Brutus turned to Fabiola with a smile. ‘See how they love him?’

  She nodded.

  ‘The legionaries are the same,’ he said. ‘They would follow him to Hades and back.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, trying to understand.

  ‘Caesar always rewards his soldiers’ bravery. For example, every single one who fought here at Alesia is to receive a slave as bounty,’ whispered Brutus. ‘But it’s not just that. Caesar is also courageous, so they greatly respect him. Whenever necessary, he leads from the front. Vercingetorix’ warriors were very close to winning yesterday, but Caesar rode out from the palisade with our cavalry reserve and smashed into their rear.’ He thumped one fist into the other. ‘All along the line our men were hard-pressed and about to break, but when they saw Caesar in his red cloak galloping up and down, they counter-attacked. The Gauls panicked and fled, and the battle was won!’

  Soon the cheering and clapping had reached deafening proportions. The nearest officers parted, revealing Caesar for the first time. A lean whippet of a man, he had short, thinning hair, a narrow face with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. While not traditionally handsome, something about him demanded attention. Fabiola could not put her finger on it. She noted that the toga Caesar was wearing had a narrow purple border. This was the mark of censors, magistrates and dictators. Few could doubt which category Caesar fell into, she thought in admiration. But was he responsible for raping her mother? A striking resemblance to Romulus provided new fuel for her suspicions.

  ‘Welcome, sir,’ said Antonius expansively. ‘You grace us with your presence.’

  Caesar nodded at each of them in turn. He lingered most on Fabiola, who flushed and looked down at her shoes. Meeting one of the most powerful men in the Republic was intimidating.

  Brutus clicked his fingers and a delicate goblet was placed in his general’s hand.

  ‘This must be the beautiful Fabiola,’ said Caesar. His gaze was piercing and charismatic. ‘At last we meet.’

  ‘Sir.’ She bowed deeply in response. ‘I am honoured to be here, at your victory feast.’

  He smiled, putting Fabiola more at ease. ‘Please be seated.’

  They all obeyed, and Fabiola looked on politely as the men became engrossed in a lively discussion. Naturally enough, they talked first about the battle. Fabiola’s interest was aroused and soon she was listening to every word.

  Caesar led the conversation, analysing every angle of their campaign. There was much to consider. His struggle against Vercingetorix might have ended at the walled city of Alesia, but the conflict had lasted for many months. It had begun with the besieging of a number of towns loyal to the rebel chieftain, including Cenabum and Avaricum.

  ‘I’ve heard of Cenabum before,’ said Fabiola.

  ‘Probably because the townspeople massacred Roman traders who were living there,’ explained Caesar. ‘Of course we wanted revenge, so the siege did not take long.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Fabiola.

  ‘My forces set fire to the gates, burst into the town and sacked it.’ He smiled thinly at her horror. ‘Soldiers are wolves. They need the thrill of the hunt to stay keen.’

  Fabiola nodded, remembering the adrenalin running through her veins as she fought alongside Sextus. She could also imagine the terror of the civilians inside Cenabum when the legionaries swarmed in.

  ‘Besieging Avaricum was harder though. It was winter still and we ran very short of food,’ continued Brutus. ‘Foraging parties were sent out daily, but the Gaulish cavalry played havoc with them.’

  ‘A dark few days,’ agreed Antonius.

  ‘So I gave my legions the option of lifting the siege . . .’ said Caesar.

  ‘Did they take it?’ asked Fabiola curiously.

  ‘They refused to a man,’ he replied proudly. ‘Said it would be a disgrace not to finish what they had started. So, with no corn left
to make bread, my legionaries lived on beef and nothing else for several days.’

  ‘At the same time, they were building an enormous embankment to fill the gully which protected the only way into the town,’ Brutus went on, his face alight. ‘And the Gauls were hurling sharpened stakes, massive rocks and boiling pitch down on us all the while.’

  ‘Even when the timber base of the embankment itself was set on fire, the men did not lose heart,’ said Caesar. ‘The next day, despite heavy rain, they took the walls and then the town.’

  Fabiola gasped admiringly. With mulsum coursing through her, she became more and more involved in the animated conversation between Caesar and his officers. Her desire to find out if he was her father became submerged beneath her fascination with the awe-inspiring details of the campaign. Losing her inhibitions, Fabiola even began asking detailed questions of Caesar himself. Alarmed, Brutus threw her an admonishing glance, but his general, appearing amused, tolerated this for some time.

  With her cheeks aglow, Fabiola did not notice when Caesar began to appear impatient. Brutus was reaching over to whisper in her ear when she made an uncharacteristic mistake. ‘If your men are so valiant, what went wrong at Gergovia?’ she asked forcefully.

  A shocked silence fell across the table. Caesar’s face froze.

  ‘Well?’ Fabiola asked again.

  No one answered her.

  ‘Fabiola!’ hissed Brutus. ‘You exceed yourself.’ She had never seen him so angry.

  Suddenly Fabiola felt very sober. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s none of my business – a mere woman.’ What have I said? Her mind was in complete turmoil. Discretion and stealth were her watchwords. Asking Caesar about a defeat – however rare – that he had suffered was downright foolish. Mithras, Fabiola prayed, forgive me. Do not let this affect Brutus’ friendship with his general.

  There was a quiet chuckle.

  The sound was so unexpected that for a heartbeat Fabiola did not recognise it. Looking up, she saw Caesar was watching her, and laughing. It was unnerving. Fabiola felt like a mouse caught between the front paws of a cat.

  ‘What happened was that the men taking part in the surprise attack did not answer my recall,’ revealed Caesar coldly. ‘While some scaled Gergovia’s walls, others pressed home to the gates. Seeing the legionaries were isolated from my main force, the Gauls inside and out regrouped and enveloped them completely.’

  ‘You soon came to the rescue with the Tenth, sir,’ said Brutus hurriedly.

  ‘Not before we’d lost seven hundred men,’ replied Caesar. The regret in his voice was obvious. ‘And forty-six centurions.’

  Fabiola bent her head, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow her. It didn’t.

  Brutus tried to make some small talk, but his attempt failed miserably. Sitting on the same couch, the three others began talking among themselves. It left Brutus and Fabiola facing Caesar, which was unnerving.

  ‘Your young lover is blessed with an enquiring mind,’ said Caesar loudly a few moments later. ‘An intelligent one for a former slave. And whore.’

  Their companions looked suitably surprised by this revelation.

  Brutus clenched his jaw, but refrained from speaking.

  Fabiola burned with embarrassment and shame. Yet it was to be expected that Caesar knew everything about her. She waited, wishing with all her heart that time could be turned back.

  ‘Such ability is sometimes a good thing,’ Caesar went on. ‘But often it is not. Combined with such beauty, a woman might achieve much. Gain influence over powerful people.’

  ‘I see, sir,’ Brutus replied, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Keep the girl on a close leash,’ Caesar said sourly. He turned his piercing gaze on Fabiola.

  She quailed, but did not look away.

  ‘Or I might be forced to.’ With this, he fell silent. His granite-hard expression revealed more than any words could.

  ‘Rome must beware of Caesar,’ the druid had warned.

  So must she.

  Chapter XXII: News

  More than two years pass . . .

  Cana, on the Arabian coast, winter 50 BC

  The pirates were in pensive mood as the ship slipped between a pair of imposing towers and into Cana’s imposing stone-walled harbour. The olibanum and tortoise shells they had plundered were hidden in the hold, and their weapons were concealed underneath rolls of spare canvas on the deck. Anything more than a cursory search, however, would discover their status. Although well able to fight, the thirty corsairs were vastly outnumbered by the soldiers patrolling the battlements above.

  Eyeing the vigilant sentries, Romulus also felt uneasy. His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that, with one exception, neither he nor Tarquinius trusted a single one of their comrades. Mustafa, the greasy-haired giant who had nearly drowned by the dock in Barbaricum, was now his devoted follower, but the rest were hard-bitten sailors or murderous ex-slaves from India and the shores of the Erythraean Sea, every shade of brown and black under the sun. The toughest and most treacherous of them all was Ahmed, the Nubian captain. Unfortunately, he also held their fate in his hands. Yet, through a combination of guile and luck, they had survived this far.

  Tarquinius nudged Romulus as they glided past the towers and anxious muttering rippled among the crew. They all had good reason to be concerned: a row of men’s heads, bloodied and decaying, was prominently displayed on spikes above the nearby battlements. It was a very pointed warning by the ruling powers of Cana to all those who entered the port.

  ‘Pirates probably,’ said the haruspex in a low voice.

  ‘Us, in other words,’ replied Romulus, glancing his friend up and down and imagining how he must look himself. The burning hot sun had turned any exposed skin a deep mahogany colour. Like the rest of the crew, Romulus went about the deck in nothing but a loincloth, his feet hard and calloused. His hair had grown long and unkempt and lay in thick black waves, framing his handsome face, which was largely covered by a beard. He was now a fully grown, mature man of twenty. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his dark skin, revealing the scars of battle. On Romulus’ upper right arm, covering the mark where his slave brand had been, was a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull.

  During their time aboard, Tarquinius had revealed many details about the warrior religion. Its tenets of courage, honour and truth appealed immensely to Romulus, as did the equality between devotees. He had taken to Mithraicism with gusto, finding it helped with his grief for Brennus. Romulus prayed daily now; having the tattoo was another way of showing his devotion. And if they ever reached Rome, it would hide the irregularly healed scar that had caused so much trouble in Margiana.

  Rome, he thought longingly.

  ‘We need to keep a low profile here,’ said Tarquinius grimly, bringing Romulus back to Cana.

  Ahmed also looked concerned, but weeks of sailing off the barren Arabian coast meant that their stocks of food and water were running low. The risk they were taking was a necessary one.

  Dozens of dhows similar to their own were tied up side by side with larger merchant ships. Their sterns moved gently as they pulled on the anchors holding them to the sandy harbour floor. On a long quay, men scurried to and fro with bulging sacks, helping to load the vessels. Noises carried across the water: shouted orders from merchants; a woman laughing; mules braying with indignation.

  Sitting at one end of the harbour was a menacing fortress, bigger than any they had seen since Barbaricum. Its walls were patrolled by even more soldiers in conical helmets and armed with spears and recurved bows.

  ‘There must be plenty to protect here,’ said Ahmed, jerking his head at the imposing structure. His gold earrings shook with the movement. The broad-nosed, full-lipped Nubian had a muscular build, and his ebony skin was covered with a fine latticework of whitened scars. A wide-bladed cutlass was shoved into his belt, its blade spotted with rust and darker stains.

  ‘Cana is one of the main towns in southern Arabia,’ re
plied Tarquinius. ‘The olibanum grown for miles around is carried in by camel. Once sold, it is transported to Egypt.’

  Egypt! Romulus struggled to contain the excitement bubbling up inside him. Reaching this port felt like a real milestone. They were nearer Rome now than at any time since Carrhae.

  The Nubian’s face also lit up. ‘Plenty of vessels to take west of here, then.’

  Tarquinius’ dark eyes glinted with satisfaction at Ahmed’s enthusiasm for continuing the voyage. Thank you, Mithras. You have brought us this far, he thought. Let our journey continue without mishap.

  Offered the chance to join the pirates after Romulus’ rescue of Mustafa, the two friends had accepted with alacrity. It had seemed like a ticket home, and compared to the other option – execution – had not been difficult to accept. But the reality of life aboard the dhow had been very different, and its range extremely confined. While the merchantmen, their prey, sailed hundreds of miles to and from India, the corsairs preferred not to stray far from their base, a swampy island in the Indus delta. Generally there was no need, with well-laden ships plying the seas around Barbaricum on a constant basis. After two long years, Ahmed had only sailed west with the monsoon because the pickings near Barbaricum had grown lean.

  Romulus had been secretly ecstatic, and even the reticent Tarquinius was pleased.

  As they drew close to the jetty, a stout man clad in clean white robes took notice and began shouting in their direction. Clutching a tablet and stylus in his hands, he impatiently waved the dhow into a mooring place.

  ‘The harbourmaster,’ said Tarquinius. ‘A good source of information.’

  ‘And lies,’ advised Ahmed as they tied up alongside a broad-bellied merchant vessel. ‘Watch what you say in this town. That goes for all of you.’ He glared.

  The crew nodded. They had already seen the summary justice on offer here.

  ‘Once the harbour dues have been paid, the ship must be reprovisioned,’ said Ahmed. ‘I need six men for that.’