Authors: Ben Kane
‘Small loss she’ll be,’ shrugged Docilosa. She had as much reason as Fabiola, and more, to hate her former owner.
‘The old crone has no fight left in her,’ Fabiola went on, keen to relate her success. ‘I forced her to sell me the Lupanar – on my terms.’
Docilosa’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that the best way to move forward? When you escaped that world, you never wanted to return to it.’
‘This is different,’ replied Fabiola, trying to sound convincing. ‘I’m the owner now, not a whore. No one will be picking me out from the line.’
‘The fools will try,’ responded Docilosa tartly. ‘You’ll be the best-looking woman there.’
Fabiola smiled. ‘In that case, they’ll have Vettius and Benignus to deal with. And Sextus.’ An image of the
fugitivarius
popped into her mind and her face fell. Over-amorous politicians and merchants were going to be the least of her worries.
‘What’s wrong, then?’ Docilosa asked. ‘You look scared.’
Fabiola’s chin trembled. ‘Somebody came into the brothel while I was there.’
‘Who?’ Docilosa demanded. ‘Memor?’
Vettius growled low in his throat.
Fabiola shuddered. ‘Not him.’ The cold, scarred
lanista
had enjoyed her company on frequent occasions near the end of her time in the Lupanar. Of course the feeling had not been mutual; Memor’s only purpose in her life had been as a source of information, a function he had ultimately fulfilled by revealing some of Romulus’ story since the twins’ traumatic
parting. While coupling with the
lanista
had been unpleasant, it paled into insignificance beside what Scaevola would do to her. ‘Someone far worse,’ she whispered.
Docilosa’s brow furrowed. Who could instil such fear in her normally indomitable mistress? She took her time, studying Fabiola’s miserable face. ‘Is it Scaevola?’ she finally ventured.
Knowing nothing of what had gone on before, Vettius looked confused.
Unable to stop tears from welling in her eyes, Fabiola nodded. ‘He knows I’m the Lupanar’s new owner too.’
Scowling, Docilosa thought hard. ‘How many copies of the bill of sale are there?’
‘I’m no fool,’ replied Fabiola. ‘One, and I have it here.’
‘Is it notarised yet?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Tear it up,’ her servant crowed. ‘Burn the damn thing, or throw it in the sewer. Without proof, Jovina hasn’t a leg to stand on. The purchase will never have existed! Then you can stay here.’ She waved at the legionaries lounging around the courtyard. ‘Scaevola can’t harm you inside these walls.’
Fabiola did not reply. She was stung by the abject misery in Vettius’ eyes. If she didn’t buy the brothel, his and Benignus’ fate would again be uncertain. Leaving the doormen after her manumission had felt disloyal. Of course it had been because Jovina wouldn’t sell them, but to do it a second time would feel like betrayal. It would also mean giving up her greatest desire – because of Scaevola. Fabiola’s jaw set.
Docilosa read her emotions, and her face turned thunderous. ‘You want to press on regardless? Why?’
‘You don’t understand,’ answered Fabiola in a monotone. No one, not even Docilosa, could know of her plans to kill Caesar yet. ‘The Lupanar is part of my future.’
Vettius was overjoyed, but Docilosa scowled. Fabiola’s tears had gone, though, leaving only cold resolution on her face. Experience had taught her not to argue with her mistress at times like this. ‘If you’re sure,’ she muttered.
‘I am,’ said Fabiola, squaring her shoulders. ‘Tomorrow I will make a vow to Orcus. In return, I’ll ask for Scaevola’s death.’
Docilosa went a pale shade of grey. Such oaths were not lightly taken. Placing her thumb between the forefinger and index finger of her right hand, she made the sign against evil.
‘I do not ask you to follow me in this,’ said Fabiola, staring at her. ‘If you wish to leave my employ, I will release you without prejudice.’
‘No,’ Docilosa replied firmly. ‘If you’re this determined, the gods must be watching. I’m in too.’
‘Get me three pieces of lead then.’ Prayers and curses to gods were often written on small square sheets of the grey metal and then folded up. Accompanied by coins and other offerings, thousands were thrown daily into temple fountains all over Rome by citizens in need of divine aid. ‘You know where to go.’
Docilosa left without another word.
Fabiola dismissed Vettius a moment later, promising the delighted doorman that she would see him at the brothel soon. The moment she was alone, Fabiola fell into a deep reverie. Her curse on Scaevola would have to be carefully thought out. Malevolent deities such as Orcus were known for twisting vows and promises back on themselves. She had no wish to see the
fugitivarius
dead and then suffer some dreadful punishment as a result.
A heavy covering of low-lying cloud the next dawn promised rain in plenty. The gods did not fail to deliver. By the time Fabiola was ready to leave, water was falling from the skies in torrents, drenching anyone foolish enough to venture outdoors. The open-air courtyard in the centre of the house soon resembled a swimming pool. Although it was early morning, the poor light made it feel like sunset. Thunder was grumbling overhead too, firing out occasional lightning bolts to illuminate the dull, grey streets. Summertime had vanished.
‘You’ll catch your death,’ Docilosa protested as she helped Fabiola into a hooded military cloak commandeered from one of Brutus’ legionaries. ‘Or fall into the Tiber and drown.’
‘Stop fussing,’ said Fabiola, touched by her servant’s concern.
Dressed similarly to Fabiola, Sextus was already set. Today he was armed to the teeth, wearing two daggers as well as his sword. Fabiola was not without protection herself. Under her cloak, a leather strap was slung over
her left shoulder, and from it hung a plain but serviceable sheathed
pugio
. She was proficient in its use, having ordered Sextus to teach her long ago. Anyone who attacks me needs to be prepared to die in the attempt, thought Fabiola fiercely. I will choose my own fate, and being mistress of the Lupanar is part of that path. They were brave ideas, but her stomach still clenched with fear every time Scaevola came to mind. The
optio
in charge of Brutus’ men had offered her an escort, but like the day before, she had refused it. Her visit to Orcus’ temple was a private matter, and Fabiola wanted no gossip about why she was visiting such an ill-omened place. With Brutus absent on business, the
optio
had accepted her decision. Naturally enough, his soldiers looked relieved. Who went out in such weather unless ordered to do so?
‘I’m coming too,’ Docilosa declared, taking her own cloak from an iron hook on the wall.
‘No,’ said Fabiola firmly. ‘You’ll stay in the
domus
. This is for me to deal with. No one else.’ She saw the pain in Docilosa’s eyes, and her tone softened. ‘No harm will come to us out there. Neptune will protect us!’
‘The ocean has certainly come to Rome today,’ Docilosa conceded with a reluctant smile. She gave Fabiola a fierce hug, before pushing her awkwardly away. ‘Go on,’ she muttered, her voice catching. ‘The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll be back.’
‘Yes.’ Swallowing the lump in her own throat, Fabiola followed Sextus to the entrance. The legionary on duty there peered out into the deluge before giving them the all-clear. The instant they had emerged, the postern gate slammed shut behind them. To Fabiola, it sounded like the doors of Hades closing. She clenched her fists, trying to shake her superstitious feelings.
Despite their heavy cloaks, Fabiola and Sextus were both drenched within a hundred paces of the
domus
. Underfoot, the unpaved surface had turned to a glutinous sludge which made swift passage impossible. It squelched over the sides of their sandals, covering their feet in a smelly layer of brown mud. Trying not to inhale, Fabiola did not look closely at it. The dung heaps in the flooded alleyways on either side would be running out to mix with this morass, and it would be the same wherever they went. Move on, she thought grimly. We can wash later.
The dreadful weather meant that the streets were almost empty.
The open-fronted shops that formed the ground floors of most buildings were still open, but there were few customers within. The stallholders who normally occupied the spaces on each side of the narrow thoroughfares were nowhere to be seen. Soaking merchandise would not sell to anyone. The beggars, thieves and cripples were absent too, taking whatever shelter they could find under archways or in temple porticos. Like half-drowned rats, slaves on errands darted back and forth, ordered out by their masters despite the downpour. Patrolling sections of Antonius’ legionaries were also evident. Marching close together, they held their
scuta
in against their bodies, their best protection from the driving rain.
Like Brutus’
domus
, their destination was situated on the Palatine Hill, which meant at least that their rain-soaked journey was short. Keeping their eyes peeled, Fabiola and Sextus soon reached a nondescript street not far from the Forum. Entering it, the air became cold and forbidding. Fabiola suspected it was because the empty lane was dominated by the temple. The buildings directly adjacent to it lay derelict, adding to the louring atmosphere. Their doors swung to and fro in the wind, and water poured down from roofs whose gutters were long rotted away.
It was usual for such venues to be thronged with salesmen, food vendors, acrobats, jugglers and soothsayers. Their customers – the worshippers – were absent today, though, so the traders had stayed at home. That suited Fabiola well. Sextus looked pleased too. It was far easier to assess a situation for danger when few people were about.
A plain altar carved from a large piece of granite occupied the central ground before the shrine itself, its surface covered in disquieting red-brown stains that no rain could wash away. Fabiola did not let her gaze linger on the stone slab, moving it to the carved columns that held up the triangular decorated portico. They were shorter and less grand than those of many other shrines, while the steps up to the entrance had not been cleaned in an age. Yet the depictions of demons and evil spirits sprang out from the faded paint above. There were sharp horns, probing tongues, mouths full of sharp teeth and outlandish weapons galore. Fabiola recognised Charon, the blue-skinned Etruscan demon of death, with his feathered wings and massive hammer. At gladiatorial games with Brutus, she had witnessed a living man play Charon’s part, entering the arena to mock screams from the audience. There his role was real, and gruesome. The memory of his
hammer smashing the skulls of the fallen to ensure that they were dead still revolted Fabiola.
The figure over their heads looked fully capable of the same, but Charon paled into insignificance beside the painted representation of Orcus himself. Occupying the central part of the triangular portico, the god’s stern, bearded face was enormous, with a diameter at least twice the length of an ox cart. His dark eyes stared down fiercely, transfixing Fabiola. She could not bring herself to look at Orcus’ hair, which was a writhing mass of snakes. Ever since another prostitute had placed a venomous serpent in her bed, she had been terrified of the creatures.
She jumped as Sextus touched her elbow. ‘Let’s get inside, Mistress,’ he urged. ‘This rain will give us a fever.’
There was no point holding back now. Praying that her plan would not backfire, Fabiola climbed up the steps to the entrance, followed closely by her slave. Past the rows of fluted columns were two tall doors, their surfaces covered with strengthening iron strips. They were shut, and Fabiola quailed. Was Cerberus waiting to devour her on the other side? Come on, she thought angrily. I am alive, not dead. Rallying her courage, Fabiola stepped up to the portals and thumped on the wood with a balled fist.
Apart from the rain drumming off the ground behind them, there was silence.
She banged harder this time. ‘Open up! I wish to make an offering.’
A long pause followed, and Fabiola scowled. There were definitely people inside, she knew that. A temple complex such as this was no different to any other in Rome: it was where the priests and acolytes lived, ate, slept and worshipped. Apart from occasional sacred days – and today was not one – they were open to the public every day of the year. She raised her hand again, but as it fell, the door was pulled silently ajar. Startled, Fabiola lowered her arm and took a step backwards.
A grey-robed priestess stood framed in the entrance. She was young, perhaps the same age as Fabiola. Short, with long brown hair pinned up behind her head, she had a wide face with a short nose. Piercing green eyes studied Fabiola, disconcerting her.
‘Enter.’ She moved aside.
Fabiola was reminded of someone, but was so wound up that she gave it no further thought. Pushing back the hood of her cloak, she crossed the
threshold with a mental prayer to Mithras for his protection. Fabiola felt no qualms about this; it was not unusual to ask things of many gods.
The corridor within ran from side to side away from the doors and was even dimmer than the street. Occasional small oil lamps hung from brackets, casting long, flickering shadows on a bare, stone-flagged floor. Grotesque paintings of gods and demons covered the walls, their limbs cleverly moving in the guttering light cast by the lamps. The threatening atmosphere was a deliberate construct, Fabiola realised, generating anxiety in visitors’ hearts the instant they set foot inside. Yet this was the temple of Orcus, the god of the underworld. It was right to be scared here. Despite herself, Fabiola shivered. Do not forget your purpose, she thought, shoving down her rising dread. ‘I wish to make a request of the god. In private,’ she said, opening her clenched fingers. On her palm lay three neatly folded pieces of lead. She had spent hours composing the curses inscribed within them. With the threat from Scaevola more immediate, all referred to him, requesting his death in the most terrible of ways. For now, Caesar came second.
The priestess was unsurprised. People came here for every reason under the sun: twisted with hatred, seeking retribution for wrongs done to them, asking for revenge on enemies, lovers and superiors. Extreme weather did not remove such needs, nor did it affect the desire of certain devotees not to be seen by others. ‘Follow me.’ She walked off, her bare feet slapping off the floor.