by Ben Kane
The Lupanar, Rome, spring 53 BC
In the lifetime that had gone by since Gemellus had sold Fabiola, she had grown into an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Sleek black hair fell in a mane to a narrow waist. Piercing blue eyes mesmerised anyone who gazed into them for more than a few heartbeats. A slightly aquiline nose added character to stunning looks. Her full breasts and sinuous figure reminded men of the goddess Venus.
Fabiola had not been in the Lupanar for long before word had spread of her incredible ability to please. After Brutus' first visit, Jovina decided to drop prices for the new girl only a fraction and it was a gamble that paid off richly. Despite her huge expense, she was soon the most popular prostitute.
The old madam began to earn a fortune from Fabiola alone. Within six months, her shrewd purchase from Gemellus had paid for itself many times over. In a rare gesture, Jovina even let Fabiola start keeping a slightly larger percentage than the other women. But her owner was still sharp as a blade. Fabiola was never allowed outside without company, nor was there any mention of manumission.
Her customers ranged from rich merchants to politicians and military officers – every part of the ruling class. Under her spell, many came to see Fabiola at least once a week and she was showered with expensive perfume, dresses and jewellery. Gifts were always welcome, particularly money, which was carefully locked away in an iron trunk. Every month, Benignus or Vettius escorted her to the Forum. There Fabiola deposited the cash with Greek moneylenders, where it earned a small amount of interest. The only way she could see of leaving the Lupanar was to accumulate wealth, and to leave was still her ambition. Fabiola rarely made a withdrawal, unless it was needed to buy information about Romulus.
Since the fateful night when Fabiola had missed seeing her twin outside the brothel, she had left no stone unturned in her search for him. But there seemed to be no sign of Romulus at all. Fabiola's only hope was based on the fact that she was unable to find out much about the inhabitants of the gladiator schools. There were just four in the city and only one of the lanistae, the owners of the ludi, was a regular visitor to the Lupanar. She was now sure that Romulus was not and had never been in the Ludus Dacicus. Its short, balding lanista was so infatuated with Fabiola that he had told her about practically every fighter that had entered the gates of his school. And although she knew it was likely that her brother had long since fled Rome, she longed to discover something – anything – about what had happened to him.
Fabiola learned the art of patience. No matter how long it took, she would wait until the opportunity arrived to discover her brother's fate.
Her climb to such popularity had made her surprisingly few enemies among the prostitutes. From the first day, Fabiola had made a deliberate policy of being friendly to the others – passing on customers, buying gifts, helping the girls who got sick. Some resented the beauty's meteoric rise to success, but they kept quiet. Doormen, cooks – even the madam – approved of Fabiola. She also struck up a quiet friendship with Docilosa, finding her loyal and discreet.
When one woman had several regulars, they were kept carefully apart. Where possible, visiting times were planned, so none even suspected a rival's existence. It was one of Jovina's strictest rules. Jealousy over popular girls had spilled over into bloodshed before and such things were very bad for business.
Sensing its obvious advantage, Fabiola kept rigidly to this arrangement. More than one client had appeared jealous at the mere idea that she saw other men. If they were to be used to the utmost, maximising her position of power, customers needed to relax the instant they walked through the Lupanar's door. Fabiola was not just a prostitute now. Aided by her natural intelligence, she had grown up fast. Sexual pleasure was only part of the experience. She was an expert at massaging tight muscles, washing off daily grime, feeding tasty morsels and making light conversation. While in her company, a customer felt like the most important man in the world. What he didn't realise was just how much information the beautiful young woman was gleaning from every visit.
Fabiola kept aware of current trends. All knowledge was power and a possible escape from the life she secretly detested. Bringing rich and powerful men under her influence could only help this. Learning how senators, members of the magistracy and army bargained and dealt with each other was fascinating. As a slave in Gemellus' house, Fabiola had had no idea of what went on in the world and how Rome was ruled. Now, after countless hours spent in the company of those who controlled the Republic, she understood it intimately.
For more than five years, Pompey, Crassus and Caesar had enjoyed a stranglehold on the reins of power. Each took his turn as consul and the best governorships were carefully shared. Corrupt equestrians took the rest. A small number of politicians, among them the senators Cato and Domitius, remained loyal to the Republic's original ideal – that no one man should have supreme power. But as a tiny minority, they rarely succeeded in slowing the inexorable decline of the Senate 's influence.
The triumvirate cleverly kept the ignorant masses happy with frequent munera – gladiator games and horse racing. Distributions of grain to those in need were made free. This resulted in massive influxes of the rural poor to Rome, creating an ever greater demand. Imports of wheat from Egypt soared, prices plummeted, Italian farms suffered. More landless peasants arrived in the cities, requiring more food and entertainment.
Desperate for employment, many joined the military, eager to comply with whatever their leaders ordered. Instead of answering to the Senate, legions were now loyal to generals like Caesar and Pompey. Romans were increasingly prepared to fight each other. It was a far cry from the days of farmers who had served the Republic's army each summer. The people's democracy, which had endured for half a millennium, was stealthily being eroded. If Fabiola's clients were right, it was only a matter of time before one of the triumvirate made a bid for absolute control. The balance of power swung this way and that, as deals and alliances between the three rivals were made and broken again.
Nobody knew who would emerge triumphant.
Although she was not lucky enough to have snared one of the triumvirate, there were several potential candidates for Fabiola's ultimate aim: a client to buy her freedom. As the mistress of a rich noble, she would have a real chance to pursue Gemellus and find out who her father was. Fabiola had not yet selected the unknowing customer. It was something that required careful planning. The decision would be life-changing in more ways than one.
One of the most likely was Decimus Brutus. As Julius Caesar's popularity grew with each passing year, so did that of his close allies. Tales of the general's outstanding tactics and victories against overwhelming odds filled Rome's bathhouses, markets and brothels with gossip. There were even stories about Brutus' victories against tribes such as the Veneti.
Fabiola was ecstatic.
Sent home by Caesar to canvass and maintain support among the equestrians and senators, the taker of Fabiola's virginity had returned permanently from Gaul two years later. Having made regular visits to the Lupanar each time he was in Rome, the staff officer had become totally infatuated with her. Every need and desire of his was slaked and the pillow talk he provided in return was worth more than that of all her other clients put together. It gave Fabiola a window on the thoughts of a military genius, the likes of whom had not been seen in generations.
'What a leader,' Brutus gushed. 'Alexander himself would have been proud to meet Julius Caesar.'
'Such devotion!' Fabiola raked his arm with long fingernails. 'And he deserves it all?'
'Of course.' Brutus' eyes shone with pride. 'You should have seen him last winter in Gaul. One night he slept amongst his men on the frozen ground, wrapped only in his cloak. The next morning, he turned a battle with the Eburones on its head. Sixty thousand tribesmen against seven thousand legionaries! Defeat was imminent until Caesar took a place in the front line. Covered himself in enemy blood. He rallied the men and rolled those savages back.'
Consummate a
t her job, Fabiola gasped with apparent amazement. She did not care for war and the suffering it caused. Brutus was so excited he did even not notice.
'What does he look like?' she asked idly, wondering if Caesar would ever visit the Lupanar. 'Not fat, like Pompey?'
Brutus laughed. 'Lean as a whippet!' He frowned and stared at her, concentrating. 'You have the same nose.'
'Really?' She batted her eyelashes.
The subject of their father had always been taboo. Just once, not long before Gemellus had sold them, Velvinna had hinted that she'd been raped by a noble. But when the twins had begun asking questions, she had clammed up. 'Not fit for children's ears. I'll tell you in a few years.' There would never be a chance to ask her mother about the rape now. Fabiola knew the merchant had sold Velvinna to the salt mines a few months later. Curse him.
'No patrician blood in me,' she sighed, giving nothing away.
Brutus took her hand and kissed it. 'You are the queen of my heart,' he replied. 'That makes you noble.'
This time, the smile was real. Fabiola was genuinely fond of the enthusiastic young staff officer. He was the best candidate, she suddenly decided. Her fingers trailed across firm chest muscles, straying towards his groin. 'Thank you, Master,' Fabiola said. Half-closed eyes looked at him seductively for a moment. Then she slid down, tugging off his licium.
Brutus moaned in anticipation.
I must see Caesar's face, she thought.
Some months later, Brutus finally persuaded her to attend a gladiator contest sponsored by Pompey. Terrified she would witness Romulus fighting, Fabiola had always refused invitations to the arena. But it seemed a good chance to see one of Rome's destiny-makers in person, so she agreed. Crassus was long gone to the east and Caesar had not visited Italy for nearly two years, prohibited as a general with a standing army. Pompey was, for the moment, the leading man in the city and he was making the most of it.
On a warm afternoon in early summer, Brutus' largest slaves carried a litter through crowded streets to Pompey's new auditorium on the Campus Martius. Fabiola and the staff officer sat inside, protected from the world by light curtains. A dozen armed guards paced around them, whipping the way clear of eager citizens. Thanks to charges of corruption against the two sitting consuls and the resulting disarray in the Senate, public unrest was on the increase. Brutus left nothing to chance and there was no equality in the manner of their entrance to the stands.
Soon they were sitting in the area reserved for nobles, protected from sunlight by the cloth velarium. Fabiola felt quite strange. Life as one of the ruling class was altogether different. Liberating. It strengthened her determination not to remain a slave for much longer.
Fabiola's lover sat on the cushioned wooden seat alongside, a broad grin on his handsome face. They had spent the previous night together. After a long bath, she had given him a lingering massage. Brutus felt like a god.
Other nobles had watched them arrive, nodding at Brutus and eyeing Fabiola curiously. Some had seen her before, but many had not. Excursions tended to be outside the city, to Brutus' villa at Capua. As usual in such situations, men's glances were admiring, women's disapproving. Fabiola ignored both, staring round the arena proudly. One day she would be free. Equal to those who sneered, more than a mere prostitute.
'No sport watching animals being slaughtered,' Brutus said. He had delayed coming until the earlier, boring contests had already finished. Trumpets were now announcing the imminent entrance of gladiators. 'Might as well see some skill.'
Suddenly Fabiola felt worried. What if Romulus appeared in the arena? Jupiter, Greatest and Best. Keep my brother safe from harm. The prayer had become a personal mantra over the last three years. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to be calm. If Jupiter was merciful, Romulus would not be one of today's fighters.
The appeal was answered. None of the armoured men who maimed and killed each other in the hour that followed looked remotely like Romulus, but the bloody spectacle was still distressing. Although she fantasised about revenge on Gemellus and the man who had raped her mother, Fabiola did not like violence. The crowd's roars of approval at more brutal moments were sickening. Images of Romulus bleeding on the sand came frequently to mind, images that she had managed to keep from her mind till now. But for all she knew, her twin brother might already be dead. When the display came to an end, Fabiola felt a real sense of relief. There would be a break before two of the most popular gladiators in the city took each other on.
Brutus was chattering on about technique and the skills of various types of fighters.
Fabiola listened vaguely, nodding at regular intervals as if interested. She was having trouble controlling the grief bubbling inside her.
'Course there hasn't been a decent champion since that Gaul disappeared.'
She pricked her ears. 'Who?'
'Brennus, his name was. Size of two men, but skilful with it.' Brutus' face lit up. 'With a legion of soldiers like that Gaul, Caesar could conquer the world.'
'What happened to him?'
'Got ideas above his station. He and another gladiator killed a noble outside the Lupanar about a year ago,' said Brutus.
Fabiola's stomach clenched. Romulus! He might still be alive.
'Remember that? Stocky redhead called Caelius, I think.'
'Oh yes,' she said, feigning surprise. 'Broke the doorman's nose too.'
'Complete waste,' sighed Brutus. 'If either shows his face in Rome again, he'll be crucified.'
Fabiola was about to ask more, but a loud fanfare interrupted.
Pompey had arrived.
Chapter XX: Invasion
The Euphrates, Mesopotamia, summer 53 BC
Like all Roman leaders, Crassus consulted soothsayers before momentous occasions and the invasion had begun with sacrifices to the gods. A good omen for crossing the river was crucial.
Just before dawn, an old priest had led a large bull into the open space before Crassus' command tent. Dressed in a plain white robe and surrounded by acolytes, he had watched the unconcerned beast chew some hay. Hundreds of soldiers gradually assembled, picked from every cohort in the army to witness that the campaign had been sanctioned by the gods. Having persuaded Bassius to let them attend, Tarquinius and Romulus stood in their midst.
There was a sigh of expectation when Crassus appeared at the doorway of his tent. The guards snapped to attention, their weapons and armour polished even brighter than usual. The general was a short, grey-haired man in his early sixties with a beaked nose and piercing gaze, clad in a gilded breastplate, red cloak and horsehair-crested helmet. Studded leather straps protected Crassus' groin and upper legs and an ornate sword hung from his belt.
Unlike Pompey and Caesar, his two partners in the triumvirate, Crassus did not have vast military experience. But he was the man who had defeated Spartacus. The unprecedented slave rebellion a generation before had almost brought the Republic to its knees. Only Crassus – and to a lesser extent Pompey – had saved it from ruin.
The general was flanked by Publius and the legates commanding each of the army's seven legions, the officers dressed similarly to their leader.
Remembering Julia's scar, Romulus angrily nudged the Etruscan when he saw Publius.
Concentrating hard, Tarquinius frowned. 'Be quiet and watch.'
The priest looked at Crassus, who nodded once.
Muttering incantations, he approached the bull, which was still chewing contentedly. Two acolytes grabbed the rope around its head, while others pressed in close, preventing escape. Realising far too late that something was wrong, it bellowed angrily. Despite its huge strength, the men extended the bull's head forward, exposing the neck.
From inside his robe, the priest produced a wicked-looking blade. With a quick slash, he cut the throat, releasing a fountain of blood on to the sand. A silver bowl was swiftly placed under the stream, which filled it to the brim. The helpers let go and the bull collapsed, kicking spasmodically. Standing back, the old man peered
into the red liquid.
Everyone present held their breath as the contents were studied. Even Crassus remained quiet. The Etruscan stood motionless, his lips moving faintly and Romulus felt a shiver of unease.
