The Road to Rome (41 page)

If the gods wouldn’t help him, then he’d help himself.

Caesar’s first triumph was to celebrate his conquest of Gaul. Although Romulus and the men of the Twenty-Eighth had not taken part in that campaign, they were part of his honour guard and so were to accompany him anyway. The preparations for all four triumphs went on for several weeks after their arrival in Rome. Daily at dawn the honour guard, Caesar’s unprecedented seventy-two
lictores
and hundreds of legionaries from various legions assembled on the Campus Martius, the great plain to the northwest of the city. There an officious master of ceremonies drilled them for hours. The soldiers grumbled but did as they were told. Caesar wanted the event to go off well, and it wasn’t as if they were risking their lives any more.

Like his comrades, Romulus was not permitted to leave their camp outside the city, unless it was on official business. This afforded him no opportunity to slope off in search of Fabiola or Gemellus. Part of him was glad. Where would he even begin? Nearly a million people lived in Rome. Who was to say that his sister was here anyway? If Gemellus was ruined, he might no longer be living in the house where Romulus had grown up either. It was odd to feel so helpless now that his dream of returning home had been granted. His guilt about Brennus had eased somewhat, though, for which Romulus was grateful. It wasn’t pleasant, berating himself mentally every day.

The frenzied atmosphere in the city also made it easy enough to be absorbed by other things. Everywhere Romulus and his comrades went, they were greeted as heroes. Boys and girls ran alongside them, begging to hold their
gladii
or shields. Fruit, bread and cups of wine were shoved into their hands by grateful housewives while blessings rained down on their heads from old men and women. Romulus had never known anything like it. As a slave growing up in Rome, he’d been practically invisible to most people, a creature to be ordered about or kicked out of the way. Now he was a conquering hero, and it felt very good. Romulus ignored the niggles of unease which kept surfacing at this attitude. After years of hardship and danger, he was going to enjoy himself whenever possible.

Tens of thousands of peasants had flocked to Rome to see the triumphs, and were living in tents in any available open space. Caesar’s largesse knew no bounds, and on alternate days he was providing feasts that were open to all. Thousands of tables were set up in the
fora
, each one groaning under
the weight of fine food and wine. Each day the public could choose to watch athletic or sporting competitions, chariot racing or fights in Pompey’s amphitheatre. Hundreds of lions had been procured to appear in large-scale beast hunts. There was even talk of a naval battle taking place on a specially flooded lake which was fed by the River Tiber. Unsurprisingly, Romulus had mixed feelings about the gladiator contests. On the one hand, he felt a burning hatred for the
lanistae
who sent men in to die, and for the crowds who demanded the fighters’ blood. On the other, he had some nostalgic memories of his comradeship with Brennus in the
ludus
and of the incredible battles they’d survived in the arena. There was an added complication. When the time came for him to leave the army, he’d have to earn a living, and being a gladiator was all Romulus knew. That, and being a soldier. It hurt his head to think too much, so, like his concerns about finding Fabiola, he put his worries off for another day.

Romulus would remember the first triumph until the day he died. The procession assembled on the Campus Martius early in the morning. Preceded by his
lictores
– twenty-four for each of his three terms as dictator – Caesar rode in a magnificent chariot pulled by a quartet of horses. Wearing a gleaming white toga with a purple edge and with his face painted the red of victory, Caesar had a laurel wreath held over his head by a slave. He looked every part the conquering general. Romulus shouted himself hoarse with his comrades until the fussing master of ceremonies intervened.

Under Caesar’s approving gaze, the proud honour guard marched off first, their helmets, mail and shield bosses polished until they glittered like gold. Next were the veterans of Caesar’s campaign in Gaul, men who had tramped with him from the Alps to the northern sea, fighting scores of battles against terrible odds. These were the cream of his army, a selection from the soldiers of the Fifth, Tenth, Thirteenth and Fourteenth Legions, among others, who loved Caesar as a father and who would follow him to Hades if he asked it.

Then came the captives from the campaign, ten score Gauls picked from the hundreds of thousands captured by Caesar’s men. Leading them, with heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles, was Vercingetorix, the valiant chieftain who had led the defence of his land. After six years in captivity, he was a shadow of his former self, a tangle-haired, bearded wretch whose dead eyes spoke volumes about the suffering he’d endured. After the prisoners trundled the wagons of booty from Gaul. They contained swords, axes and
shields from the defeated tribes, as well as gold, silver and other precious items. Yet more carts displayed mounted paintings of Caesar’s exploits, and placards inscribed with the incredible statistics of his war: the number of enemy killed, the battles won, the size of the territory seized for Rome.

Enjoying the crowd’s tumultuous acclaim, Caesar rode at the rear.

It all made for a staggering spectacle.

Yet it didn’t entirely go according to plan. Shortly after Caesar had entered the city, an axle broke on his chariot, drawing superstitious cries from the watching throng. Caesar had remained calm, thrown large purses at everyone he could see, and called for a replacement vehicle. Romulus and his comrades had laughed when they heard how easily the crowd’s attention was diverted from this bad omen. Their own worries had been allayed by Caesar’s humility at the end of the triumphal march, which as always brought the victorious general to the temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill. To avert any ill fortune, Caesar had crawled up the shrine’s steps on his knees, with the cheers of his soldiers filling his ears. Once he had performed his devotions, prominent senators and high-ranking nobles had stood forth, heaping accolades upon Caesar in recognition of his stunning achievement in conquering Gaul. Finally, in an offering to the Republic’s state god, Vercingetorix had been ritually strangled.

Crazed with bloodlust, the crowd went wild with excitement.

Romulus’ stomach had churned at the sight. In his mind, a warrior deserved a better death than that which Vercingetorix had endured. He couldn’t put the chieftain’s bulging, terrified eyes or his purple face and swollen tongue from his mind. In an effort to forget the ghastly images, that night Romulus got drunker than he had ever been. He, Sabinus and the others from the honour guard took full advantage of Caesar’s bounty and commandeered a corner of the Forum Olitorium as their own. There, a score of tables covered with enough bread, meat, olives and drink to satisfy eighty men for one evening awaited them. While the wine was watered down in the Roman fashion, it still got a man drunk if he consumed enough of it. At last able to give in to the relief of being safely back in Italy alive and unharmed, the legionaries let their hair down, tearing into joints of meat with their teeth and quaffing straight from the clay jugs. Romulus did too.

It wasn’t just food and drink which was on offer. The women of the
city descended on Caesar’s men like Furies, giving their bodies freely and unasked for. Nothing was too much for the soldiers who had earned part of the glory for Rome. In a drunken haze, Romulus had taken a good-looking girl of his own age down an alleyway and coupled with her in a sweat-soaked frenzy. Most of his comrades showed less reserve, humping women over the tables to hoots of encouragement from the others. It went on for much of the night, until one by one the legionaries collapsed to sleep it off amid the mess of broken cups, spilled wine and scraps of food.

The next morning every one of the honour guard had a thumping headache. The centurion in charge – a crusty veteran of the Tenth – let them be. Strict army discipline was relaxed at such times. There was also a rest day before the men’s services were required again at the next triumph. Romulus was grateful for the breathing space this granted him. Bleary-eyed and nauseous, he could hold down little more than a sip of water at a time. Losing count of the number of times he’d vomited, he slumped miserably on a bench, bitterly regretting the amount of wine he’d downed the night before.

‘Cheer up!’ Similarly hung over, Sabinus clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Why?’ Romulus groaned.

‘Only another three to go! Think of the food and wine we’ll get. And no one to fight for it.’

Romulus grimaced, wishing that the celebrations were already over.

‘There’ll be women to fuck too!’ Sabinus thumped him none too gently. ‘I saw you sneak off with that beauty last night.’

An image of his encounter with the brown-skinned girl surfaced in Romulus’ foggy mind, and he grinned. Long years of warfare had left precious little time for sex – apart from rape, which he loathed because of what had happened to his mother. In the face of such famine, Romulus’ libido often felt like a chained up, raging beast. Perhaps there were more willing women to be had in the days ahead. That prospect he could look forward to. Romulus raised his head, willing away the pain. ‘Is there any wine left?’

Sabinus beamed. ‘That’s the spirit! Nothing like a hair from the dog that bit you.’

At dawn three days later, Fabiola took Benignus and five other bodyguards and set out for the Capitoline Hill. As she’d hoped, Scaevola and his men were nowhere to be seen. They didn’t generally appear near the Lupanar until about midday, the hour when customers began arriving. Mingling with the already heavy crowds, she felt confident of remaining anonymous. The
fugitivarius
didn’t even know she’d left the brothel. Returning there might be a different matter, but they could always leave it until dark. Whatever danger that might pose was of less importance than Fabiola’s desire to see Brutus again and to regain his favour.

She deliberately hadn’t attended Caesar’s first triumph, which celebrated his victories in Gaul. Brutus had played a role in many of the battles there, so he would have been taking part in the procession and therefore unable to speak to her – even if he’d wanted to. Fabiola chose the next triumph, which was to mark Caesar’s decisive win over Ptolemy, the teenage Egyptian king. Fabiola had been there for part of it, arriving in Alexandria just after the killing of Pompey by the orders of the king’s courtiers. Their effort to curry favour with Caesar had failed in spectacular fashion, as he immediately seized power. His bravado had nearly been his undoing, but yet again Caesar had emerged victorious. Much as she despised him, Fabiola had to admit that his feat had been nothing short of incredible. She’d seen the pressure his troops were under in Alexandria’s harbour. Jupiter, grant that Romulus is alive, she prayed, remembering the bloody stories that had reached Rome shortly after she had. Seven hundred legionaries had died that night, and her twin could easily have been among them. She wasn’t the only one to risk mortal danger, Fabiola realised. Romulus’ fate was out of her hands, though; she’d done her best to find him. If the gods decided to show her favour once more, he would return home one day. Her efforts to find Gemellus had also failed, leaving Caesar as her sole target.

Annexing Egypt, the Republic’s bread basket, was immensely popular, explaining the extra heavy throngs on the streets. Thanks to her heavies’ ability to force a path through, Fabiola still arrived at the base of the Capitoline Hill in good time. The legionaries on duty there were supposed to prevent ordinary citizens from ascending to the temple but she got her little group through with a combination of flirting, flattery and liberal use of the silver in her purse. Plenty of space was available in the open area before the enormous shrine, which was free of the normal crowd of
food-sellers, hawkers of trinkets, soothsayers and prostitutes. The senators and grandees of Rome were just beginning to arrive, bowing reverently to the immense statue of Jupiter which stood before the gold-roofed temple. Following ancient custom for a triumphal day, the god’s entire body had just been painted with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. It gave Jupiter an even more regal presence, and Fabiola was careful to whisper another prayer. Then she picked a spot near where she thought Brutus might stand. Groups of senior army officers were already in place, joking and laughing with each other in the easy manner of men who’d lived and fought with each other for years.