by Ben Kane
‘There were at least a dozen whorehouses,’ said Tarquinius. ‘You can’t search them all.’
Instinctively, Romulus looked up at the narrow band of sky that was visible between the closely built buildings. Nothing. Frustrated, he turned to Tarquinius. ‘We can’t just leave him.’
‘There’s no time,’ the haruspex muttered. ‘And Mustafa is master of his own fate. He’ll find a place on any vessel.’
Zebulon was showing no inclination to look for his crewmate either.
Romulus nodded jerkily. It was not as if they were leaving Brennus behind. And after five years of hell, the last thing he wanted was to be caught as a pirate. Yet if the olibanum taken from the coastal villages was discovered, that is precisely what would happen. Then they would all be executed. The knowledge gave Romulus extra speed, and he soon outstripped Zebulon and Tarquinius, pushing through the throng. At full tilt, they made their way through the maze of streets.
Raised voices and shouts were coming from the quay, where a large crowd had gathered. Like people the world over, the denizens of Cana were happy to relieve the daily boredom of making a living by watching someone else’s misfortune.
Halfway along the dock, Romulus saw the harbourmaster, accompanied by a number of officials and a group of heavily armed soldiers. The stout figure was gesticulating furiously at a man on a large ship tied up near the merchants’ stalls. At his signal, his men notched arrows to their bowstrings.
Unhappy at the prospect of being searched, the captain stood his ground.
The harbourmaster pointed angrily. At once, the bows were aimed at the sailors on the ship. Loud gasps rose from the crowd. Finally the captain spat into the sea, acknowledging defeat. With a furious wave, he beckoned the officials on board. Full of self-importance, the harbourmaster clambered down first. Several soldiers followed. Still covering the crew, the others watched.
‘Now’s our chance,’ Romulus urged. ‘While they’re busy with that one.’
Sauntering casually on to the quay, he began to weave his way between the onlookers. Tarquinius and Zebulon were close on his heels. Few people glanced at the trio as they passed by. The goings-on were far more interesting.
They found Ahmed uneasily pacing the dhow’s deck.
‘Seen any of the others?’ he barked.
Romulus and Tarquinius shook their heads.
‘Just the ones I sent back,’ said Zebulon. ‘And these two.’
‘Gods above!’ spat Ahmed. ‘Three are still missing.’
It was hardly the crewmembers’ fault, thought Romulus resentfully. They had been given permission to stay ashore until an hour before sunset. Zebulon had done well to find so many.
The stocky Nubian stamped up and down as the crew quietly prepared to leave. By the time the soldiers had finished checking the first vessel, he was growing increasingly nervous. Although there were two more ships to be searched before his own, Ahmed could take the pressure no longer. Losing three crewmembers was of less concern than the alternative.
‘Cast off!’
His muttered order was immediately obeyed by the worried pirates.
Romulus could not help himself. ‘What about Mustafa?’ he tried one more time.
‘He’s a fool,’ snapped Ahmed. ‘And so are the others. They can fend for themselves.’
Romulus looked away, still feeling quite guilty about leaving the long-haired hulk behind. He sent up a swift prayer to the gods, asking them to watch over Mustafa, who had been a comrade of sorts for over two years.
Then he glanced at the rows of heads on the battlements above. Eyeless, nearly fleshless and with grinning teeth, they resembled demons of the underworld. Once they had been men though. Lawbreakers. Criminals. Pirates. A whiff of rotting flesh reached Romulus’ nostrils. Stomach turning, he moved his gaze to the open sea.
Chapter XXIII: The Rubicon
Ravenna, northern Italy, winter 50/49 BC
Fabiola shivered miserably and moved closer to the fire. Hot wine, thick clothes, underfloor heating – even staying in bed didn’t help. Nothing she did could get her warm. Snow lay thick on the ground outside and a biting north wind was rattling the red tiles on the roof, as it had all week. Fabiola’s lips tightened. The new year might have begun, but the weather gave little sign of improving. Neither did her mood.
Naturally, there was more to Fabiola’s bad humour than the cold. Yet there was much to be grateful for – she acknowledged that. She was still here, close to one of the men shaping the future of Rome. Despite this, she felt hollow inside.
Fabiola reflected on the two years which had passed since her reunion with Brutus. Her fond memory of falling into his arms would always be soured by what she had said at the feast a few hours later. The foolish gaffe had offended Caesar, shaken her confidence and deeply angered her lover. Brutus was extremely loyal to his general and it had taken Fabiola an age to repair the damage she had done. But, coaxed, pampered and tantalised, Brutus had eventually succumbed to her charms once more. Meanwhile, Fabiola determined never to repeat such a public embarrassment. After Caesar’s thinly veiled threat, she kept a low profile, placing her quest to discover her father’s identity on indefinite hold. In the security of Brutus’ quarters, she did not have to worry about Caesar or Scaevola, or anyone else. Confused and scared, Fabiola buried her head in the sand. For a time, that was enough.
Outside, though, events were moving on.
After Alesia, Gaul belonged to Rome in all but name, and in response to Caesar’s stunning victory, the Senate had voted twenty days of public thanksgiving. It also awarded him the rare privilege of standing for consul while still in Gaul, rather than being present in Rome as was the norm. Ushered in by Caesar’s allies, this new law crystallised the issue which most troubled Cato and the Optimates. If Caesar moved seamlessly from the proconsulship of Gaul – his current position – to the consulship of the Republic, he would at no stage be a private citizen, open to prosecution. While this concerned the adoring public not at all, it enraged Caesar’s enemies. Since the general’s illegal actions during his first term as consul, when intimidation and violence were used against his co-consul and other politicians, they had been waiting for their chance to strike. Now it was to be denied them. The intrigue thickened. Plots were hatched, deals struck and impassioned speeches made. One thing was for certain: Cato would not take this lying down. If it took him the rest of his life, Caesar would face justice in Rome.
Camped in Gaul, Caesar heard all the news from the capital. Frustrated, he could do little about it. War beckoned once more. Despite Vercingetorix’ overwhelming defeat at Alesia, some tribes had refused to submit to Roman rule. Twelve months of campaigning followed as the final reduction of Gaul took place. Accompanying Brutus and his general, Fabiola knew how angered Caesar was by the Optimates’ attempts to disgrace and punish him. Her curiosity and interest had been aroused as she listened nightly to her lover’s rants. Focusing again now on his arguments – although unassuming, Brutus was a convincing speaker – finally lifted Fabiola’s black mood.
Did the Senate not know what Caesar had done for Rome? Brutus had exclaimed. The dangers he had endured in its name? The glory he had heaped upon its people? Was he supposed just to lay down his command and walk into the lion’s den while Pompey retained all his legions? It was not surprising that Caesar refused to submit to the Optimates’ demands, thought Fabiola. Placed in the same situation, she would not. She doubted that Pompey, his rival, would either.
But like a dog shaking a rat, Cato had not given up. Months passed and session after session of the Senate was taken up with endless debates about Caesar’s command: the number of legions he should keep; how many legates he was to be allowed; when exactly he should give up his post. Many senators were won over to the Optimates by these arguments, but liberal donations of Caesar’s Gaulish gold ensured that an equal number remained loyal to him. Curio, Caesar’s paid-off and eloquent tribune, also vetoed every attempt to bring Caesar to bay
in the Senate. With a dreadful inevitability, the house began to split down the middle. In the face of the Optimates’ increasingly bitter campaign, staying neutral had become well-nigh impossible. Yet, for his own reasons, Pompey managed to do just that, appearing to agree first with one side and then the other. Worked on relentlessly by Cato and his allies though, he finally gave in. His comments started as veiled threats, but over the months, became more hard-line.
Fabiola looked out at the flurries of snow scudding past the window, and a chill struck her heart. She had imagined this day, but never thought it would truly come to pass.
Over a month before, guided cleverly by Curio, the Senate had passed a motion decreeing that Pompey’s commands in Italy and Hispania should not be allowed to run on beyond those of Caesar. It was a neat example of skilled diplomacy in the face of looming conflict. And fair enough, thought Fabiola. But the unhappy extremists then succeeded in pressuring Pompey to declare his hand. Visited the very next day by one of the consuls, he was handed a sword and asked to march against Caesar to rescue the Republic. Whether they realised the significance of their actions or not, the Optimates were requesting the services of the only other man in Italy with a huge private army. And he had accepted. ‘I will do so,’ Pompey answered after a moment’s hesitation, ‘if no other way can be found.’ This inflammatory remark was followed by the immediate mobilisation of his troops.
Caesar’s response to this illegal action was typically fast. Two legions were summoned from Gaul to Ravenna, just twenty-five miles from the frontier, the River Rubicon.
For the first time in two generations, the Republic was on the brink of civil war.
Fabiola found herself firmly in Caesar’s camp. As Brutus’ lover, it was not altogether surprising. Her old, deep-rooted suspicion and more recent fear of Caesar had been submerged beneath a wave of resentful admiration. A consummate military leader, he had also acted intelligently throughout the political storm which had raged since. Even now, at this late hour, Caesar was offering diplomatic solutions to his impasse with the Senate. But the Optimates were having none of it. An offer by Caesar to surrender Transalpine Gaul immediately and his other provinces on the day of his election to a second consulship was rejected. So was a revived proposal to disarm at the same time as Pompey. Even Cicero’s attempt to open negotiations had been stamped down. Three days before, a motion demanding that Caesar disband his legions by March or be considered a traitor had only been halted by the vetoes of Marcus Antonius and Cassius Longinus, the new tribunes. Both were Caesar’s men through and through.
As Brutus said, Caesar was being boxed in from all sides. It was a bad place to put such a skilled general.
Utilising her only resource, Fabiola prayed daily to Mithras, asking for protection for herself and Brutus. And although she found herself supporting Caesar, Fabiola could not include him in her requests for divine help. Part of her just held back. Was it because of the druid’s warning, which regularly returned to her? Fabiola wasn’t sure. Besides, the man acted as if he did not care what the gods thought. Caesar chose his own fate. Time would tell what that would be.
There was a clatter of hobnails along the corridor; then the door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air. And Brutus. His usually jovial face was thunderous.
‘My love,’ Fabiola exclaimed, rising to meet him. ‘What is it?’
‘The Optimates brought that damn motion before the Senate again,’ Brutus replied indignantly. ‘Demanding that Caesar relinquish his legions by March.’
Fabiola took his arm. ‘But Antonius and Longinus have their vetoes.’
He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘They weren’t there.’
Her brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘The bastards warned both tribunes not to attend, “for the good of their health”. They were forced to flee the city with Curio, disguised as slaves! The motion was passed without opposition.’ Brutus swelled with outrage. ‘And they accuse Caesar of acting illegally.’ He broke away and paced the room like a caged animal.
Fabiola watched him for a moment. ‘What will Caesar do?’ she asked, knowing the answer.
‘What do you think?’ Brutus snapped back.
Fabiola flinched, only half acting.
Instantly his face gentled. ‘I’m sorry, my love. But Caesar has been declared an enemy of the Republic. He is ordered to surrender to the Senate, and accept the consequences.’
‘He won’t do that, surely?’ she asked.
Brutus shook his head emphatically.
Fabiola hardly dared say it. ‘To the Rubicon then?’
‘Yes,’ cried Brutus. ‘Tonight! The Thirteenth Legion is already on the near bank. They only await Caesar’s arrival before crossing.’
‘So soon?’ Startled, Fabiola glanced at her lover. But he was not joking. ‘What about Pompey’s forces?’
His lips parted in a wolfish smile. ‘The fool has none in the area, and the garrisons of Ariminium and other nearby towns have been bribed well.’
Fabiola was relieved. There would be no immediate bloodshed. ‘What are his plans?’
‘You know Caesar,’ Brutus replied with a wink. ‘Never happy unless he goes for the jugular.’
She paled. ‘Rome?’
He grinned in acknowledgement.
Fabiola felt faint. This was far more than she had expected. Although it was not all here in Ravenna, Caesar’s battle-hardened army was the most powerful ever controlled by one man in the Republic’s history. Yet once assembled, Pompey’s would be far larger. The impending clash over which of the two had ultimate power boded ill for the future of democracy and the rights of the ordinary citizen. How had things come to such a pass? ‘And us?’ she asked.
‘This is when Caesar most needs support.’ He smiled fiercely. ‘We go with him.’
Fabiola’s heart began to pound. Fear and dread blended with a strange excitement. She would witness a Roman leader commit the most treasonous act possible.
Crossing the Rubicon under arms.
Awe filled Fabiola. The druid had been right. If only he had revealed more about Romulus, she thought with a pang of anguish.
‘You’ll hear about it later,’ Brutus revealed.
Fabiola looked at him enquiringly.
‘Caesar’s holding a banquet. We’re invited.’
‘Is he not meeting with you and the other officers?’ she asked, confused.
‘Quite the opposite. Relaxation before a battle is the best policy,’ Brutus laughed. ‘Just remember not to ask him about Gergovia.’
Fabiola giggled, then her face turned serious. ‘Don’t worry, my love. I won’t ever let you down again like that.’
‘I know.’ Stepping closer, Brutus looked into her eyes. ‘You, I can rely on more than anyone else.’
This comment lit up Fabiola’s heart. It confirmed that Brutus was hers more than Caesar’s. An important battle had already been won.
To Fabiola, that was more important than any of the ones to follow.
Fabiola had long ago lost her embarrassment when being introduced to nobility. By now most, if not all, of Brutus’ colleagues knew her history. Unknown to her lover, one or two had even been clients in the Lupanar. Often, though, Romans were quite accepting of slaves who had been freed, which made her life much easier. As far as the military officers Fabiola encountered were concerned, she was a beautiful, intelligent young woman whom Brutus valued considerably. She suspected that many were somewhat jealous and would have liked her for themselves.
At the feast that night, Fabiola was grateful for her acquired poise when introduced to Longinus, one of the new tribunes. Meeting him made Fabiola so nervous that she wanted to vomit, yet she controlled herself adroitly. Together with Antonius and Curio, Longinus had brought the news of the Senate’s actions to Ravenna just a few hours before. But that was not what interested Fabiola most. This was the officer who had escaped from Carrhae with his honour and the survivors of his legion intact. He had also
brought news of the terrible defeat to Rome. While it was like reopening an old wound, Fabiola could not help wanting to pick Longinus’ brains, asking him not about his role in the impending civil war but his experiences in Parthia. All her hopes about Romulus had resurfaced with a vengeance the instant he appeared.
Longinus was surprised. ‘Why would you want to know about that burning hell?’ he asked, his scarred face confused. ‘I try never to think about it.’
A quick glance over her shoulder told Fabiola that Brutus was not watching. She turned coy, a policy which rarely failed with men. ‘Don’t be modest, general,’ she purred. ‘I’m told that if you had been in charge at Carrhae, the outcome might have been quite different.’
Flattered, Longinus’ grizzled features softened. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he protested. ‘But Crassus certainly wouldn’t listen to my advice that day.’
She nodded understandingly. ‘How bad was it?’
Longinus scowled. ‘Beyond your imagination, lady. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. Temperatures hotter than Hades. Scant food and no water.’ He sighed. ‘And the damn Parthians. Little men for the most part, but by all the gods, they can ride and shoot arrows. Ordinary legionaries just can’t fight them.’ His face darkened. ‘And thanks to the treachery of our so-called Nabataean allies, we had precious few cavalry.’
‘They say that was Crassus’ greatest mistake,’ Fabiola threw in. ‘Not having reliable cavalry.’ She was pleased to see respect appear in his face. Longinus did not know it, but the sentiment was one Fabiola had heard Brutus utter before.
‘True enough,’ Longinus agreed. ‘When our Gaulish horsemen were killed with Publius, Crassus’ son, the rest simply fled. There we were on a flat, burning plain: thirty thousand infantry facing ten thousand horse, most of them mounted archers with an unlimited supply of arrows. You can imagine what happened next.’ He fell into a grim silence.
While Fabiola had heard plenty of snippets and gossip about Carrhae, Longinus had painted a far more terrifying picture. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Romulus being there. The horror was incalculable. Fabiola swallowed, taking consolation from her vision in the Mithraeum. To be present at the battle she had seen, her brother had somehow survived the devastation of Crassus’ army. It had to be the gods who had saved Romulus, Fabiola thought desperately. And they would continue to look after him.
