The Road to Rome (36 page)

Romulus looked around. All he could see was snarling faces pressing in from all sides.

Where was Sabinus?

A
t the junction, Tarquinius stopped. The northern Italian countryside had been growing more familiar since before dawn, but he knew this spot better than anywhere in the world. It was where, twenty-four years before, he had looked back one last time towards the
latifundium
he’d called home. It felt very strange to be standing here once more. How much had he seen and done since then? Suddenly Tarquinius felt old, and tired.

He was relieved a moment later to feel an unusual surge of happiness. He had had many good times in the area. His parents had farmed not ten miles away. High on the cloud-covered mountain above, he’d learned the skills of haruspicy from Olenus. The ruins of Falerii, an ancient Etruscan city, also lay nearby. Tarquinius had been drawn back by vivid memories of it, and a desire to visit the peak – the same which dominated the landscape for miles around – one more time. Perhaps in the sacred cave where he had completed his training the gods would reveal their purpose to him at last. Fabiola seemed to be safe with Antonius, and certainly wasn’t scared of the priestess of Orcus. There was no sign of Romulus either. Given that he was still seeing storm clouds over the capital, the haruspex had decided to act on his impulse.

After a week’s journey, here he was.

Lake Vadimon sat on one side of the road, and the low walls of an estate ran along the other. Through the empty fields and olive groves Tarquinius could make out the shape of a large villa. Behind it were the wretched slave quarters and the marginally better buildings which housed indentured workers. Although he had long reconciled himself to the inevitability of time, the haruspex couldn’t help wondering if his father and mother might still live there. It was a comforting thought, but he knew it for a wishful
fantasy. At the rate Sergius, his father, had been drinking, Tarquinius doubted he would have survived long after he’d left. Thanks to a lifetime of heavy labour, Fulvia, his mother, had been a virtual cripple. Almost certainly the pair lay in the unmarked graveyard situated on some rocky ground not far from the estate buildings. As pure-bred Etruscans, they would have preferred to have been interred in the streets of tombs outside the ruins of Falerii, but Tarquinius doubted anyone would have shown them that honour. Besides, few locals were prepared to climb the mountain and risk the evil spirits which were reputed to live there.

The haruspex had decided to disinter their bones and carry them up to the city of the dead himself – if he could find their graves. That necessitated approaching the villa and making some enquiries. Tarquinius knew that Rufus Caelius was dead – he could remember the exact moment that his knife slipped into the noble’s chest – but a spasm of old anxiety still struck him as he took the road that led to the estate’s entrance. As a young man, he’d been wary of the brutal redhead. Rightfully so, as it turned out. There was some justice in the world, though, the haruspex reflected. While Caelius might have been responsible for Olenus’ death, the money he’d earned from his treachery had not saved him from losing his
latifundium
. Or his life. As ever, Tarquinius’ guilt over Romulus being blamed for the killing was his first feeling, but he still felt a dark satisfaction over the deed. Because of it, he, Romulus and Brennus had all become comrades. Acknowledging his sentiment as selfish, the haruspex could console himself with the fact that his visions at that time had been accurate, which meant that the gods had laid out their paths. Therefore, and despite what Romulus might think, murdering Caelius had been the right thing to do.

That didn’t stop Tarquinius’ heart aching at the memory of the shock on Romulus’ face as he’d told him.

According to neighbouring farmers and the fat proprietor of a hostelry five miles back down the road, Caelius’ estate was now owned by a retired soldier, a centurion who’d served with Caesar in Gaul. ‘A pleasant enough type,’ the ruddy-cheeked innkeeper had muttered over a cup of wine bought by Tarquinius. ‘All he wants to do is reminisce about the army. If you can listen to him drone on about that, he’ll probably offer you a meal and a bed for the night.’

Tarquinius’ lips twitched at the idea of enjoying the luxury of Caelius’ former home while the man himself rotted in Hades.

Fabiola shifted irritably under her bed covers. Several goblets of wine and a dose of valerian had made little difference to her agitated mental state. She’d pulled the heavy curtains on the windows fully closed and doused all the oil lamps, but sleep still evaded her. The reason for her restlessness was simple. Weeks before, Antonius had begun visiting the Lupanar whenever he pleased. He was no longer prepared to be discreet. Naturally, all Fabiola’s pleasure in their coupling had vanished since the night of Docilosa’s murder, yet she was too scared to do anything. The unspoken threat of Scaevola always hung in the air when Antonius was around. Regrettably, that wasn’t the worst of it. Although Fabiola’s slaves were under pain of death to speak to no one, news of her involvement with the arrogant Master of the Horse was commonplace in the city. Brutus must have heard the rumours by this stage. Why hadn’t he confronted her? Fabiola’s anxiety had been growing by the day. Now it was virtually all she could think about – a permanent knot of tension in her belly.

She was grateful therefore not to have seen much of Brutus recently; her days at the Lupanar and his long hours at the Senate didn’t afford them much free time. On the rare occasions they were together, Brutus had given away nothing. His manner had changed imperceptibly, though, becoming more neutral than Fabiola had ever known. He’d made no physical advances for a while either, and had pleaded exhaustion if she dared to try. This made Fabiola even more nervous. Brutus wasn’t one for playing games, yet she had the distinct impression that he was withholding something from her. Why else would he be acting so strangely? Terrified, she had said nothing for days, watching for any sign that he knew but too frightened to bring it up herself. She scuttled to bed first at night and pretended to be asleep when he joined her. On the rare occasions Brutus was home before Fabiola, she waited until the sound of his snoring filled the air before creeping under the sheets.

Tonight was not one of those last instances. Brutus had been gone for the whole day, with no sign of his returning thus far. Her mind awash with sad memories of Docilosa, Fabiola had retired early, hoping to find some relief in sleep. Even this was to be denied her, she thought bitterly.
Her favourite methods of lying still, deep breathing and trying to keep her mind blank made no difference. Hours had passed and she was still wide awake.

The familiar thump of the postern gate shutting was therefore most unwelcome. This late, it could only be Brutus returning. Quickly Fabiola rolled on to her side and faced the wall, slowing her respirations to a convincingly slow rate. Some time went by before Brutus appeared, leading her to suppose that he might have work to finish. It wasn’t uncommon for him to spend several hours poring over documents in his office. Good, she thought. He’ll be too tired to talk.

The instant she heard him fumble with the door latch, Fabiola knew that her presumption was incorrect. A loud curse was followed by a belch, confirming her suspicions. Brutus had been drinking. That in itself was unusual, for he was a temperate man. Panic flooded Fabiola’s every pore, forcing a cold sweat on to her forehead. She barely had time to wipe it away and resume her position before Brutus entered the room. Jupiter and Mithras above, she prayed silently. Just let him fall on the bed and pass out. Please.

She had no such luck. There was a prolonged pause during which Fabiola heard Brutus breathing heavily and muttering to himself. Then he came around to her side to see if she was awake. Fabiola kept her eyes firmly shut, and after a few heart-stopping moments, he weaved away again. Next he sat down on the bed with a groan. Making no attempt to remove his
caligae
and his clothes, he remained in the same position for an age. Fabiola dared do nothing other than continue her pretence of being dead to the world. Soon she judged that nearly a quarter of an hour had passed. He must have fallen asleep, she thought.

‘Fabiola?’

Somehow Fabiola managed not to react. What’s he been doing, she wondered in alarm. Sitting there watching me?

‘Fabiola.’ His voice was louder this time.

Let him want sex, Jupiter, Fabiola pleaded. I beg you.

He leaned over and grabbed her shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

‘Huh?’ she mumbled. ‘Brutus?’ She rolled over and looked up at him in the sleepy kittenish manner she knew he loved. He didn’t return her smile, and Fabiola’s heart sank. She didn’t give up, though. ‘Come here,’ she murmured, reaching out both her arms.

He pulled away. ‘Why did you do it?’

It was possible that Brutus was talking of something else, Fabiola told herself. ‘What, my love?’ she asked, putting all her effort into sounding confused.

He scowled with fury. ‘Don’t play it coy with me.’

Shame filled Fabiola and she looked down, afraid to say a word.

‘I could live with the infidelity,’ he spat. ‘You’re only human after all, and I haven’t been around much. But with that fucking creature? I can’t abide Antonius. You know that.’

Although Fabiola’s eyes had filled with tears, she dragged her gaze up to his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘So it’s true?’

She nodded miserably. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, though.’

‘Really?’ His lip curled. ‘Imagine how I felt when he boasted of your exploits together to my face then. In front of a dozen others!’ His wine-flushed face twisted with embarrassment and pain. ‘I’ve ignored the street gossip as malicious rumour until now, but there’s not much to say when the Master of the Horse reveals in public that he’s cuckolding you.’

Finally a sob escaped Fabiola’s lips. ‘I’m so sorry, Brutus,’ she cried. ‘Please forgive me.’

He gave her a contemptuous look. ‘So you can do it again the instant my back is turned?’

‘Of course not,’ she protested. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

His response was instant. ‘Once a whore, always a whore.’

Fabiola flushed and hung her head. Inside, she cursed her reckless behaviour with Antonius. All her plans for the future were about to be washed away. Without Brutus’ backing, she was a complete nobody. If he wanted, he could easily wrest the ownership of the Lupanar from her, and reclaim what was left of his money.

Brutus read her fear and scorn filled his eyes. ‘You can keep the damn brothel. The cash too. I don’t want it.’

Fabiola gave him a grateful look. ‘I’ll gather my things. Leave at dawn,’ she said.

‘Fine. Do not return. I don’t ever want to see you again.’ Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Brutus lurched from the room. He didn’t look back.

In the depths of despair, Fabiola sank down on to the bed.

What had she done?

Thankfully the information given Tarquinius about Caecilius, the owner of the
latifundium
, was correct. Posing as a merchant who’d grown up in the area, he was welcomed into the villa’s warm kitchen by the friendly major-domo, also a veteran. Over a plate of food and a cup of
acetum
, the haruspex was able to confirm that his father and mother were both dead – Sergius before Caecilius had even bought the place, and Fulvia two years later.

‘Relations of yours?’ asked the major-domo.

Tarquinius made an indifferent gesture. ‘An aunt and uncle.’

Draining his beaker, the other wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Fulvia wasn’t up to much by the end. Poor old creature. Some would throw such a person out on their ear, but Caecilius isn’t like that. “She’s worked here for long enough,” he said. “It’s not as if she eats much either.”’

‘He has my thanks,’ said Tarquinius, genuinely touched. ‘I would like to pay my respects.’

‘He should be back by this evening,’ said the major-domo. ‘You can tell him over dinner.’

‘Excellent,’ Tarquinius smiled. ‘Does anyone know where my relations are buried?’ he asked casually. ‘It would be good to visit their graves.’

The major-domo thought for a moment. ‘The
vilicus
would be the best one to ask,’ he said. ‘He’s been here the best part of thirty years.’

Tarquinius hid his surprise.

‘Dexter’s his name,’ said the other. ‘Another ex-soldier. Half the man he was, according to most, but still able to keep the slaves in line. You’ll find him in the yard or the fields around the house.’

Murmuring his thanks, the haruspex went in search of Dexter: the man who’d warned him about Caelius’ plans for Olenus. He found the
vilicus
hobbling up and down the edge of a large field, shouting orders at the slaves who were picking weeds from the hand-high winter wheat. He was still an imposing figure. The injuries that he’d picked up in the legions were slowing him down, but his back was straight and his eyes were bright.

Tarquinius could tell that he was being sized up from the instant he had come into view. He didn’t care. His only crime in vanishing had been to
break the terms of his indentured labour. Scarcely something to be concerned about half a lifetime later. ‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘The major-domo said I’d find you out here.’