The Road To Rome flc-3

by Ben Kane

  Ordering Jovina to cover the reception, Fabiola went in search of Docilosa. Outside, Tarquinius was considering how much longer he would wait before calling it a day. Little of interest had happened since Antonius' hurried departure and brief conversation with his fellow noble. He noted the middle-aged woman from the checkpoint enter the brothel, and marked her down for a servant or slave. She was too old and plain to be a prostitute in a place like the Lupanar, that was for sure. Tarquinius was surprised to feel a surge of energy as the woman disappeared through the arched doorway. The insight he got was so brief that he almost missed it. An old sadness had recently been washed away, to be replaced by a deep joy. Anger was also present, a resentment at someone who had ideas above her station. Irritated, Tarquinius did not try to see more. The emotions of a servant were not what he wanted to know about.

  Still, it was a start.

  He scanned the patch of sky that was visible in the narrow gap between the buildings for a clue. It had a typical autumn appearance: heavy cloud cover, with the promise of rain before nightfall. Little else. The haruspex looked away, and a gust of chill wind swept down, carrying with it the threat of bloodshed. Tarquinius stiffened; fingers of fear clutched at him. He focused his thoughts, trying to understand. A moment later, he felt certain. Danger was in the air. Here. Was this the threat he'd seen so many times?

  At once the haruspex' fingers fumbled under his cloak to the hilt of his gladius. He'd left the great two-headed axe in the veterans' house. It was guaranteed to attract unwanted attention. Thankfully, the solid feel of the sword calmed his racing heart. Tarquinius glanced up and down the darkening street, seeing nothing of concern. Somewhat reassured, he sat back, wondering if anything was about to happen. Did he need to worry about Fabiola's safety? It was a shock to realise how important it already felt to watch over her.

  Half an hour passed, and darkness fell. The brothel's doormen retreated to the arcs of light cast by the torches on either side of the front door. Tarquinius began to wonder if he'd been imagining the threat. He was growing stiff and cold, and his belly was grumbling. Yet experience had taught him not to rush things, so he gritted his teeth and stayed put.

  Some time later, the tramp of feet on the rutted ground drew Tarquinius' attention. Waking himself from a half-doze, he sat up. Illuminated by their torches, a large party was approaching the brothel from the other end of the street. The time of day made the number of guards unremarkable. Unless they were mad, anyone who ventured out after dark travelled like this. What did surprise Tarquinius as the group drew nearer was the fact that they were gladiators. He saw Thracians, murmillones and secutores, as well as a number of archers. Usually only a lanista used men like that as protection.

  Was this more than a visit in search of carnal pleasure?

  Tarquinius leaned forward, all his senses on high alert.

  The heavily armed party came to a halt by the entrance. Looking uneasily at each other, the Lupanar's doormen gripped their weapons. Sniggers of contempt rose from the gladiators, and a short, grizzled figure in a wool cloak pushed his way to the front. 'Is this the way you greet all your customers?' he demanded.

  An enormous slave with a wooden club shuffled forward. 'My apologies, sir. We're having some trouble at the moment. Got to be prepared at all times.'

  The lanista sniffed. 'Something to do with that rabble at the crossroads, no doubt. The bastards didn't want to let us through until I had my archers draw a bead on them. Then they opened up quicker than a whore's legs!'

  His men laughed dutifully.

  So he's not allied to that lot, thought Tarquinius with relief.

  'No one stops the lanista of the Ludus Magnus from going where he pleases,' Memor declared. 'Tonight, I want the best-looking whore in the Lupanar.'

  With a respectful bow, the big slave indicated that Memor should enter.

  'This visit is well overdue,' declared the lanista, swaggering inside. 'My balls are bursting.'

  More forced laughter from his gladiators.

  An afterthought struck Memor, and he looked around. 'Piss off back to the ludus,' he ordered. 'Come back tomorrow morning. I might have finished by then.'

  With relieved looks, his fighters did as they were told.

  On the other side of the street, excitement and dread filled Tarquinius. Romulus had fought for the Ludus Magnus, which made Memor his former owner. Had the lanista any idea who Fabiola was? Was that the real purpose of his visit? Of course not, he told himself. Memor will have forgotten Romulus long ago. He probably doesn't even know that Fabiola's running the place.

  Still gripped by uncertainty, Tarquinius prayed. Guide me, great Mithras. Should I go inside? In the night sky above, the stars were almost completely obscured. The glimpses he was granted through momentary breaks in the clouds were far too short to ascertain anything. The presence of danger which had been so strong was gone. Tarquinius felt the gods were mocking him, and forced himself to relax. Yet he also felt compelled to stay where he was. Docilosa wasn't in the baths or the kitchen. Fabiola found her in the courtyard at the back of the brothel, washing bedclothes. Hardly a task to fulfil by torchlight; her servant was obviously avoiding her. They had time to exchange frosty looks before Catus, the main cook, distracted Fabiola with a query about the amount of food and drink that the extra doormen were going through. Leading her to the storerooms off the kitchen, he pointed in outrage at the empty shelves. 'I'm using over a modius of grain a day making bread, Mistress,' he whinged. 'Then there's the cheese and vegetables. And the wine! Even watered down, the dogs are finishing an amphora every few days.'

  Catus' list of complaints was long, but Fabiola had been putting off talking to him about it for some time. The balding slave was a hard worker, so she stood and listened, deciding what was to be done about each and directing him accordingly. While this was happening, she was aware of Docilosa creeping past her into the corridor that led to the front of the brothel. Damn it, she's acting like a child, thought Fabiola. As I was earlier. That's not like her. I wonder if Sabina's planting ideas in her mind? It was hard to concentrate. Warming to his theme now, Catus was droning on about the price of vegetables in the Forum Olitorium compared to what local farmers charged if bought from directly. 'I tell you, it's a complete rip-off,' he moaned. 'The price in the Forum is three or even four times what the stuff costs wholesale.'

  Fabiola could take no more. 'Fine,' she snapped. 'Find an honest farmer and offer him a contract to supply all our food.'

  Catus quailed before her anger.

  Fabiola gentled. He'd never been given this degree of responsibility before. 'The doormen will be here for the foreseeable future,' she explained. 'We have to feed them. Getting our supplies direct is an excellent idea, and one you're well capable of sorting out.'

  His chin lifted. 'Thank you,' he muttered.

  'Come to me when you've found the right man,' said Fabiola. 'I'll have the lawyers draw up the correct paperwork.' Leaving Catus grinning like a fool, she hurried off in search of Docilosa. It was good to sort out minor problems like this, but the sense of real urgency that had been tugging away at her would now not be denied.

  Fabiola would always wonder how the situation might have unfolded if the cook had not accosted her when he did. As she entered the long corridor, she heard a woman screaming. The noise was not like the ecstatic cries that some of the prostitutes used to encourage their clients. No, thought Fabiola in alarm, it was the sound of someone who was absolutely terrified, and in fear of her life. She broke into a trot. 'Vettius! Benignus!'

  Ahead of her, Fabiola could see Docilosa, only a few steps from the reception area. Nearer to the source of the screams. Her servant's head was turning from side to side, searching for the right room. Finding it, she moved to its door.

  Fabiola cursed. It was the one commonly used by Vicana, the new British slave with red hair and fair complexion. To her horror, Docilosa's hand reached out to lift the iron latch. 'No,' screamed Fabiola. This was not what
should happen. 'Wait for the doormen!'

  Ignoring her, Docilosa pushed wide the door. 'Stop it,' she cried at once. 'Let her go.'

  The volume of the screams grew deafening. Above them, Fabiola could hear a man cursing. 'Bitch,' he cried. 'Just do what I tell you.' There was a loud slap, and the woman's cries stopped abruptly.

  Docilosa took a step inside. 'Leave the poor girl alone,' she muttered, her voice shaking. 'Don't hurt her.'

  'Mind your own damn business, you ugly old cow,' snarled the man.

  Docilosa entered the room completely. 'Stop it!'

  There was a chilling laugh. 'Want a piece of this, do you?'

  Terrified herself now, Fabiola sprinted towards the doorway. As she did, the doormen appeared round the corner from the reception.

  Too late. They were all too late.

  There was a choked cry, such as someone makes when they trip unexpectedly. It was followed by the sound of a body falling to the floor, and then the air filled with screams once more. 'Shut up, you little slut,' cried the man. 'Or you'll get the same.'

  Fabiola slid to a halt in the doorway and her stomach turned over at the sight inside. 'No,' she whispered. 'Please, no.' Docilosa was lying quite still on the floor, her back to Fabiola. Blood was already pooling around her — damning evidence. Over her stood a naked man holding a reddened dagger, his grizzled features contorted in rage. Cowering on the other side of the bed was a sobbing Vicana, her tear-stained face white with fear.

  At first, the man didn't even notice Fabiola. He seemed crazed, or drugged. 'That'll teach you,' he muttered, poking a foot at Docilosa. 'Interrupting my fun like that.'

  A towering fury took hold of Fabiola. She knew this creature, had slept with him on many occasions in the past. It was Memor, the lanista of the Ludus Magnus, from whom she'd wheedled information about Romulus. 'You whoreson,' she hissed, her nostrils flaring. 'What have you done?'

  Memor looked up, and his eyes cleared. 'By all the gods,' he said appraisingly. 'You're a real beauty. Why weren't you out there to be picked from? I'd have chosen you first anytime.'

  Fabiola didn't answer. Although all her instincts screamed at her to run, she moved towards Docilosa. She couldn't stop herself, nor could she help her temper. 'A shame my brother didn't kill you when he had the chance, you piece of filth,' she cried.

  His eyes narrowed. 'What are you talking about?'

  'Romulus,' she threw at the lanista. 'The one who ran away. You told me about him.' Confusion twisted Memor's face, but then Fabiola saw the realisation hit. 'By Mercury,' he breathed. 'I've fucked you before.'

  Fabiola hawked and spat in his face. 'I hated every moment.'

  His lips peeled back with anger. 'You told me that Romulus was your cousin!'

  'I lied. The same as when I told you that you were a stallion,' she sneered. 'Limp-pricked old goat.' Fabiola's heart lurched as the words left her mouth. She was only a few paces from Memor and his knife, and the doormen hadn't yet arrived. Should have kept my mouth shut, Fabiola thought.

  She was right.

  'You whore,' screamed the lanista, lunging forward with his blade.

  Chapter XIV: Sabina

  Panicking, Fabiola dodged backwards. Memor's dagger whistled past, coming within a fraction of gutting her. She glanced back at the door. It was too far for her to reach. Where were Benignus and Vettius?

  'Prepare yourself for Hades, because that's where you're going,' muttered Memor, his eyes staring madly. 'Like this ugly bitch.' He kicked Docilosa in the belly. She gave a faint groan.

  Fabiola could not take her eyes off his blade, which was covered in her servant's blood.

  The lanista edged forward, leering. He wasn't watching the floor, wasn't prepared for Docilosa's hand to reach out and grab weakly at his ankle. Memor stumbled. Then his other foot landed in the pool of blood, and he skidded. Losing his balance, he fell awkwardly to one knee. Furious, he stabbed Docilosa a number of times in the back and belly.

  Vicana screamed at the top of her voice.

  Hating herself, Fabiola retreated to the doorway. An instant later, she was manhandled into the corridor by the two doormen. Bundling into the room like a pair of raging bulls, Benignus and Vettius laid into the lanista with their metal-studded clubs. One of the blows alone would have crushed his skull, and the enraged pair landed more than half a dozen each before Fabiola managed to stop them. 'That's enough,' she screamed. 'Stop it!'

  Breathing heavily, and spattered in blood and grey brain matter, they stood back.

  'He's dead,' Fabiola shouted, looking down at the smeared mess of hair, flesh and bone fragments that was Memor's head. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  Vettius was surprised by her reaction. 'Of course he is.'

  'I wanted to grill the bastard about Romulus,' Fabiola sobbed. 'He used to be his owner.'

  A rattling breath from Docilosa attracted everyone's attention.

  Overcome with remorse, Fabiola dropped to her knees by her servant's side. Docilosa was alive — barely. Fabiola ripped open her dress, cringing at the first bloody, open-lipped entry point she saw. It was small, yet had caused so much damage. Memor's knife thrust had been expert, entering her chest on the left side, just below the breast. Puncturing one lung, it had probably pierced the heart as well. A mortal wound. His other blows would have killed too, albeit more slowly. For now, they just increased the blood loss. Fabiola didn't think that one person could have so much in them. Docilosa's dress was drenched in it, and so was the floor around her. Her eyes were stretched wide, and staring into nothing. Her mouth gasped open and shut like a fish out of water, trying — and failing — to get enough air in.

  'I'm sorry.' Fabiola grasped one of Docilosa's reddened hands in both of her own. 'You were right. I should know better.' She looked beseechingly at her servant. 'This is my fault too. If we hadn't argued, you wouldn't have been in the corridor when Vicana screamed.'

  A stream of fine bloody bubbles dribbled from Docilosa's lips on to the tile floor.

  Fabiola squeezed her hand, praying for a response. Some proof of forgiveness, to give her hope.

  There was none.

  Docilosa's entire body gave a heaving shudder, and then relaxed.

  Fabiola threw herself down to catch her servant's last breath. Then she gave into her grief entirely. Tears ran unchecked down her face, mixing with Docilosa's blood. Fabiola didn't care. The only person who had shown her real friendship and kindness through the worst years of her life was dead. Their unresolved quarrel doubled her feelings of guilt. She would never be able to change that now. Time could not be turned back. Yet Docilosa had tripped Memor; had saved her, even as she died.

  Paralysed by her grief, Fabiola lay there, ignoring the doormen's pleas for her to get up. Jovina tried to help too, but to no avail. The old madam soon hurried back to the reception. 'Customers could come in at any time,' she muttered. Fabiola was oblivious to all of this. She wanted to die, longed for the floor to open up and carry them both off to oblivion. Even that thought was tainted by bitterness. Docilosa wouldn't be going where she was headed: Hades. Where else did she deserve? First Sextus had died, and now her blameless servant. No matter how hard Fabiola wished it, though, nothing happened. She thought vaguely of picking up Memor's dagger and using it to open the veins in her wrists. Death wouldn't take long that way. Then there would be no more pain, no more suffering. But she didn't. A short while later, when her nightmare of earlier returned to haunt her, Fabiola knew why.

  She had a purpose in life which was greater than her own misery.

  Her mother Velvinna had always been vague about her rape, but she'd been insistent that a noble was responsible. While Caesar had never actually raped Fabiola, he had tried to. His words then had, in her mind and heart, proved that he was the man who'd violated her mother. Deep down, however, Fabiola had to admit that this was no more than her strongly held suspicion, building on his strange resemblance to Romulus. Caesar was only one of a thousand possible suspects. Yet
he was also similar to the countless noblemen who had paid to use Fabiola's body, plenty of whom had seen the fear and reluctance in her thirteen-year-old eyes and carried on regardless. Fabiola needed someone to blame for that degradation, which had been repeated innumerable times. Her hatred of such men festered within her; punishing a guilty party would give her some ease, and thanks to his assault on her, Caesar fitted the bill perfectly. Telling herself that he was her father helped to focus Fabiola's rage. If she committed suicide, he would escape her vengeance.

  Fabiola pushed herself upright.

  The doormen gasped.

  She looked down at herself. Their reaction wasn't surprising: her dress was saturated in blood. Her hands and arms were also covered in it. 'I look as if I've been stabbed,' said Fabiola.

  Benignus made the sign against evil. 'Don't say that,' he muttered.

  Vettius helped her to get up. 'No point bringing more bad luck on yourself,' he agreed.

  Fabiola grimaced. 'Hard to see how I could do that.'

  Neither man answered.

  'Best prepare a table in the kitchen,' she said, forcing herself to remain calm. 'We must lay out Docilosa, and clean her up. Put on her best dress. Vicana can get the hot water ready.'

  Taking the shivering British girl by one hand, Vettius disappeared.

  Benignus pointed at Memor's body. 'What'll we do with this piece of shit?'

  'Wrap him up in an old blanket. Then wait until all the customers have gone,' said Fabiola. 'Carry him to the nearest sewer and drop the son of a whore in it. Let the rats feed on him. It's no more than he did for plenty of others. Tomorrow you can visit his second-in-command. I've heard that he's eager for promotion. Now his chance has come. A fat purse should help him forget all about Memor.'