The Road to Rome (37 page)

Dexter grunted irritably. ‘You a friend of his?’

‘No,’ the haruspex replied. ‘I grew up in the area.’

The
vilicus
stared at him, frowning.

Tarquinius waited, interested to see if Dexter would recognise him.

‘I can’t place you,’ he admitted. ‘You’re about the same age as me though.’

‘Younger,’ the haruspex corrected. His greying hair and scars always made people think he was older than he was. ‘Tarquinius is my name.’

Finally a look of recognition crossed Dexter’s face. ‘Mars above,’ he breathed. ‘I never thought to see you again. Owe me some fresh meat, don’t you?’

Tarquinius had to smile at that. ‘You have a good memory.’

‘Some things are still working,’ the
vilicus
answered with a scowl. He eyed the slaves for a moment, checking their work was satisfactory. ‘Why did you run and leave the old man after I warned you?’

Tarquinius sighed. ‘He wouldn’t have it any other way.’

Dexter looked unsurprised. ‘I didn’t have you down as a coward.’ His expression turned crafty. ‘What did you do with his valuables?’

Tarquinius had prepared himself for this exact question and kept his face blank. As Caelius’ strongman, the
vilicus
had often been party to his plans. The whole point of selling Olenus out had been to steal the sword of Tarquin, the last Etruscan king of Rome, and the bronze liver, a model for soothsayers to learn their art. ‘Was Crassus unhappy?’ he asked by way of answer. ‘Turns out he could have done with their help.’

‘Damn your eyes,’ Dexter snarled. ‘What happened to them?’

‘They were already missing when I got up there,’ Tarquinius said regretfully. ‘Olenus wouldn’t tell me where.’

They stared at each other without speaking.

It was the
vilicus
who looked away first, perturbed by the dark, bottomless pits that were Tarquinius’ eyes. ‘It’s of no matter now,’ he muttered uneasily. ‘Both Caelius and Crassus are long gone.’

‘They are,’ the haruspex replied. ‘To whatever place they deserve.’

They exchanged another long look.

Dexter broke the silence. ‘What brings you back?’

‘I’d like to visit my parents’ graves. The major-domo told me to ask you where they were.’

Dexter gave an awkward cough. ‘Workers only get a wooden marker. This long after, there’s usually nothing left.’

‘Nonetheless, I thought you might remember where they were buried,’ said Tarquinius, his voice turning silky.

‘Perhaps.’

Tarquinius stood aside, leaving the track back to the villa and the graveyard beyond open.

Unsettled, Dexter barked an order at the slaves and then led the way up the hill. Reaching the rough quadrangle that served as the burial ground for slaves and indentured workers, Tarquinius was pleasantly surprised when the
vilicus
led him straight to a spot which looked up towards Falerii. It wouldn’t have been a deliberate choice on the part of those charged with digging the graves, but it pleased him all the same.

‘Here.’ Dexter pointed with the toe of one of his worn out
caligae
. ‘They were buried in the same hole.’

It would have been done to save space, but Tarquinius was still gratified by what felt like a small gesture on the part of the gods. Looking down at the unmarked sod, he remembered his mother and father as they had been in his youth on the family farm. Smiling, vital and proud. It was how they would want to live on in his memory. Sadness filled him as he thought of the manner of their parting, and that he had never seen them living again. Closing his eyes, he let their images fill his mind for long moments.

Dexter shifted from foot to foot, unhappy but no longer sure what to say.

Doubtless he would feel the same grief when he climbed up to the cave and visited Olenus’ burial place, thought Tarquinius. What had it all been for? he wondered wearily. After all his wanderings, he was still the last haruspex. He’d discovered little about the Etruscans. Some of the knowledge Olenus had drummed into him had been passed on to Romulus, but if the gods didn’t clear the way for them to meet again and be reconciled, it would all have been for nothing.

No, not for nothing, Tarquinius thought, dragging together the shreds of his belief. Tinia and Mithras know best, and their will is divine. It is not for me to question them, and they have not forgotten me. I am needed
in Rome. Why else would I have been drawn back to the Lupanar? Fabiola appears to be safe, but the unspecified danger and the storm over the city must signify something. With luck, I will be granted a sign at the cave.

Keeping this to the front of his mind, the haruspex looked up the mountain slope. If he hurried, there was time to visit it and return safely before dark. Then, after dinner with Caecilius, he could creep out to check that the sword and liver were still undisturbed in the olive grove where he’d buried them.

It was as if Dexter had read his mind. ‘You know damn well where the artefacts are,’ he suddenly growled.

Tarquinius’ fingers caressed the hilt of his
gladius
. ‘Even if I did, who would you tell?’

They eyed each other in silence. Dexter had been the scourge of every slave on the estate for decades, and had beaten men to death on many occasions. The last time he’d seen Tarquinius, he would easily have done the same. Now, there was an air of deadly confidence about the long-haired Etruscan. It was more than that, though, thought the
vilicus
. There was something in the other’s eyes which put the fear of Hades into him. It was as if Tarquinius was looking into his soul, and passing judgement on it.

Suddenly Dexter felt old and beaten. ‘Nobody at all,’ he whispered.

With a brief smile of satisfaction, the haruspex brushed past.

It was time to honour Olenus and, for the thousandth time, to ask for guidance.

‘R
omulus!’

He turned his head, searching for Sabinus’ voice. Incredibly, his comrade was on the back of a horse beyond the nearest Numidians. How Sabinus had got there, Romulus had no idea, but he’d never been more pleased. Slashing at another rider, he managed to barge around one mount and then another. Sabinus’ last spear took down a further warrior, creating terror in the enemy ranks. There were so many angry Numidians trying to get at Romulus that all was chaos, but within four or five heartbeats, he was by Sabinus’ side. Spurred on by pure adrenalin, he took the legionary’s outstretched arm and leapt up behind him.

Urging the horse on with his knees, Sabinus directed it around the side of the milling Numidians. They headed straight for the Twenty-Eighth. Most of the enemy cavalrymen had yet to realise what had gone on. However, four of Petreius’ party gave chase, and Romulus’ hopes, which had soared, fell again. A horse carrying two could never outrun those with single riders. The dun-coloured beast labouring beneath them was worthy enough, but it wasn’t Pegasus. Sabinus cursed and drummed his heels against its ribs – to no avail.

The chasing Numidians drew closer and closer, shouting insults as they came. A spear flew lazily through the air, landing just behind them. It was followed by another, which shot past to impale itself in the sand ten steps in front. Romulus glanced back, and his mouth opened in horror as a third javelin scudded in, striking their mount in the rump. Its head went up in shock, and its gait altered, slowing almost to a walk.

Sabinus knew instantly what had happened. Throwing his right leg over, he dismounted. ‘Come on!’ he shouted.

Romulus didn’t need any prompting. Half climbing, half falling, he got
down. The horse stumbled off, the javelin still protruding from its hip. Romulus had no time to pity it. The Numidians were closing in fast, throwing spears at the ready. Perhaps fifty paces separated them.

The pair looked at each other. ‘Run for it, or fight?’ Romulus asked.

‘They’d ride us down like dogs,’ snarled Sabinus. ‘We fight!’

Pleased by his comrade’s reaction, Romulus nodded.

They moved to stand side by side, and prepared to die.

Two spears whistled by, but missed. That left four Numidians, each of whom had one or two shafts left. The enemy riders were expert shots from close range, and Romulus knew that, without shields, the chances of not being injured or killed in the next few moments were slim to none.

That was until he heard the strident clamour of
bucinae
ring out behind him.

The Numidians saw what was happening before Romulus did. Their faces creased with anger, and they pulled up. One threw a spear in a last futile gesture, and then the four horsemen turned and fled.

Romulus looked around and saw a wedge of legionaries charging towards them, their shields raised high. In their midst was Atilius. He gasped with delight. The senior centurion must have been watching to see how they got on. There could be no other explanation for their rescue. Followed by Sabinus, Romulus trotted over.

‘Didn’t know you could ride,’ he muttered.

‘I grew up on a farm,’ explained Sabinus. ‘We always had a few nags about the place.’

Romulus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I owe you one.’

‘My pleasure.’ Sabinus grinned, and Romulus knew he’d made a comrade for life.

Atilius halted his men as the two pounded in. ‘Get inside,’ he ordered, shoving legionaries aside. ‘There’s no time to waste.’

Gratefully they obeyed, and the wedge did a swift about-turn. Romulus glanced at the Numidian lines. To his surprise, the enemy cavalrymen were not trying to attack. Instead, they were milling around, shouting at each other. A few had even galloped off to the south. It didn’t take much for fear to spread, thought Romulus. It was like watching the ripples in a pool after a stone went in. Riders looked at the ones who’d gone, and then followed. Then a few more did the same. Before the wedge had rejoined
their comrades, the entire mounted force had disappeared in a great cloud of dust.

‘You killed Petreius then?’ asked Atilius.

Romulus flushed. ‘No, sir, just wounded him.’

‘It was a good enough effort. He must have fled the field,’ the senior centurion said with a satisfied grin. ‘Look! The whoresons have lost their taste for a fight.’

Romulus stared at the Numidian infantry, who were fleeing en masse from the centre. The cavalry on the far flank wouldn’t stay and fight now, when all their companions were running away. With daylight fading, it meant that they had won the vital respite Caesar’s cohorts needed to retreat safely. Romulus let out a gusty sigh, realising that he was exhausted. Yet his satisfaction over what he and his comrades had managed was far stronger than his aching muscles.

‘It was well done.’

Romulus looked up to find Atilius’ gaze upon him. ‘A joint effort, sir. I couldn’t have done it without Sabinus here, and Paullus too.’

‘Is Paullus dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Many good legionaries have fallen today,’ said Atilius sadly. After a moment, though, his face cleared. ‘Thanks to you both, many will live to fight again. Caesar will hear of this.’

Romulus thought his heart would burst with pride.

The Pompeian forces soon called it a day and pulled back to their camp. With night fast approaching, the battle could no longer be conducted effectively. Labienus had failed to annihilate the foraging party, and missed a golden chance to capture or kill the Pompeians’ greatest enemy: Caesar.

As a result, the journey back to Ruspina was uneventful. In good order, Caesar’s men marched and sang, aware that they’d had a lucky escape. Romulus couldn’t get over Caesar’s tactics, which had been both stubborn and courageous. Few leaders would have had the self-belief to continue fighting in such a desperate situation with fearful, inexperienced troops. Making his cohorts face different ways had been improvisation of the finest quality, as had the decision to launch a last ditch counter-attack. Crassus,
the only other Roman whom Romulus had served under, had possessed little of the ability which shone from practically every action of Caesar’s.

The next day, he and Sabinus were ordered to Caesar’s headquarters and Romulus’ excitement reached fever pitch. Atilius had been as good as his word, commending them both for bravery, and Romulus a second time for his initiative and effort in wounding Petreius. The senior centurion told them both about it just before they’d turned in, which meant that neither man slept well. They rose long before dawn, cleaning and polishing the kit they’d stripped from dead legionaries the previous evening. The battlefield had been littered with corpses, so it hadn’t been hard to find mail shirts and helmets which fitted.

‘What do you think he’ll say to us?’ asked Sabinus, combing out the horsehair crest on his helmet.

‘How should I know?’ Romulus retorted with a grin.

‘You’ve met him before.’

Romulus didn’t talk about receiving his manumission, but, like everyone else, Sabinus would have heard the story. All the same, his comrade’s awe came as a slight shock to him. It wasn’t that surprising, though, he supposed. Very few ordinary soldiers ever met Caesar directly. It wasn’t as if the general went about the camp every night, swapping stories over a few cups of
acetum
. Caesar held a status not far short of divine among the ordinary rank and file, so to have held a conversation with him was unusual. Romulus felt a surge of pride at this. ‘Caesar’s a soldier,’ he said. ‘So he appreciates courage. I imagine he’ll say that and give us each a
phalera
.’