The Silver Eagle (53 page)

Fabiola listened to the baying mob outside. Although the sound had grown familiar, it still chilled her blood.

Sextus gave a reassuring look, which helped a little.

Brutus also saw her glance at the shuttered window. ‘Don’t worry, my darling,’ he said. ‘There are four cohorts just outside. The rabble can’t get anywhere near us.’

Something inside Fabiola snapped. ‘No,’ she cried, ‘but we can’t go out either! We’re trapped like rats in a sewer because Caesar bit off more than he can damn well chew.’

‘Fabiola—’ Brutus began, his face strained.

‘I’m right, and you know it. Once he knew Pompey was dead, Caesar sauntered in here as if the place were his,’ she retorted hotly. ‘Is it any surprise that the Egyptians didn’t like it?’

Her lover fell silent. His general’s habit of acting so fast that his enemies were caught off-guard almost always worked. This time, Brutus had to admit, it had not.

Fabiola grew even more indignant. ‘And to let his
lictores
clear the path before him? Is Caesar the king of Egypt now?’

Docilosa looked worried. This was dangerous.

‘Lower your voice,’ Brutus ordered. ‘And calm down.’

Fabiola did as he said. Other senior officers were billeted nearby and might overhear. It was pointless losing control, she thought. A waste of energy.

Rather than take his entire army to Egypt, Caesar had split it into three unequal parts, sending the larger portions back to Italy and into Asia Minor, where their missions were to enforce the peace. Meanwhile, he himself was to pursue Pompey. This decision had not augured well for their arrival in Alexandria. And so it had proved. Sailing in not long after Pharsalus with about three thousand men, Caesar had ordered his ships to anchor safely offshore until he knew what type of reception the Egyptians would offer him. When a pilot vessel emerged a short time later, its crew was instructed to carry the news of his arrival to Alexandria’s ruling officials. Their reply was swift. As Caesar landed, he was greeted by a royal messenger who solemnly presented him with a package.

In it were Pompey’s signet ring, and his head.

Full of sorrow, Caesar promised revenge on those who had killed his former friend and ally. Ultimately, it might have served his purpose for Pompey to die, but Caesar was not the cold-blooded killer some Republicans made him out to be. His clemency towards the senior officers who had surrendered at Pharsalus had been remarkable. And his very public grief for Pompey was genuine. Perhaps it was this pain which led to his use of his
lictores
upon their arrival, thought Fabiola. But Caesar’s move went down badly with the locals, and things had grown worse from there. Although the quarrelling Ptolemy XIII and Cleopatra were both absent, the city was no walkover for an invading force. The local population did not take kindly to foreign soldiers invading their streets, or to their royalty’s palaces being seized. When Caesar had two of the ministers responsible for Pompey’s murder executed in public, the simmering resentment created by his arrogance flared into open anger. Aided by the Alexandrian mob, the Ptolemaic garrison began to launch daring attacks on the foreign troops. It started with barrages of rocks and broken pottery, but soon progressed to more deadly violence. Using their intimate knowledge of the city, the Egyptians cut off and annihilated a number of Roman patrols over the space of a few days. Almost overnight, the entire place turned into a no-go area. In a humiliating climb-down, Caesar was forced to withdraw his outnumbered legionaries into one of the royal palaces near the docks. There, with all the approaches blocked by barricades, they remained.

After two years of constant marching and fighting, their time in Alexandria was meant to be an opportunity to relax. Instead, confined by the unrest to their quarters, Fabiola had been brooding constantly about Caesar. In her mind, his sexual assault on her in Ravenna utterly proved his guilt. And her parentage. The latter discovery had not afforded her any of the joy that might be expected in such circumstances. In its place, Fabiola was filled with a dark, vicious satisfaction. After years of searching, she had been granted one of her most desired wishes. Now her revenge had to be plotted, but she wanted far more than to slip a sharp knife between Caesar’s ribs one night. It was not that Fabiola cared whether she died in the attempt. She did not. With Romulus in all likelihood dead, what purpose was there in living? No, her restraint was because Caesar did not deserve a swift end. Like her mother’s in the salt mines, his had to be a lingering death, full of suffering. Preferably at the hands of those he trusted most. Yet Fabiola had to be careful. Since Alesia, Caesar did not trust her and keeping Brutus happy in the face of his master’s disapproval was a task in itself.

Currently, however, the most likely risk was that an Egyptian rabble would tear them all to pieces. For someone who wanted to engineer a man’s death with precision, it was immensely frustrating. Here Fabiola could do nothing other than work on Brutus, and her resentment was reaching critical levels.

Fierce street battles were still raging daily. While a type of status quo had been reached, Caesar and his small force were cut off from his triremes, their only way out of the situation.

‘Help is on its way from Pergamum and Judaea,’ offered Brutus. ‘It will arrive in a matter of weeks.’

‘Really?’ cried Fabiola. ‘That can’t be certain, or there’d be no need for this pointless attack on the harbour.’

‘We have to regain access to our ships. And seizing Pharos Island will give us an advantage over the Egyptians,’ he replied, the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘You know that I cannot disobey a direct order.’

Tread carefully, thought Fabiola. Although he had been deeply affected by her words after Pharsalus, Brutus still loved Caesar. ‘I’m worried about you.’ She was not lying. Hand-to-hand combat at night was very dangerous, and the Roman casualties had been heavy. Brutus was dear to her, but he was also her sponsor and protector. Without him, Fabiola would lose all the security in her life. Prostitution would beckon again. It might only be for one client, but the reality would be no different. Fabiola did not allow herself even to contemplate this option.

Brutus’ face softened. ‘Mars will protect me,’ he said. ‘He always does.’

‘And Mithras,’ replied Fabiola. She was gratified by his pleased nod.

‘Caesar plans to do more than just regain the harbour tonight. He’s sending me back to Rome so I can take counsel with Marcus Antonius, and assemble more reinforcements,’ Brutus revealed. A sudden scowl twisted his mouth. ‘He also ordered me to leave you here. Apparently you’ll distract me from my duties.’

Fabiola stared at him, aghast at that possibility. ‘What did you say?’

‘I stood up to him. Argued the point,’ answered Brutus stoutly. ‘Politely, of course.’

‘And?’

‘He wasn’t too happy,’ grinned Brutus. ‘But I’m one of his best officers, so he gave in eventually. Happy now?’

Surprised and delighted, Fabiola hugged him fiercely. She had had enough of this hot, foreign place.

And if Caesar survived, she would be waiting for him. In Rome.

By late afternoon, the caravan was encamped in a secure location by Lake Mareotis, which flowed right to the city walls. Donning their armour and weapons, the two friends readied themselves as best they could. They had made use of badly made shields and shoddy iron helmets while serving with Ahmed, but these had been left behind on the dhow.

‘I suppose we should be grateful,’ said Romulus, throwing a light woollen cloak over his shoulders. He felt naked at the prospect of meeting hostile troops without proper equipment. ‘No one will take a second look at us.’

‘Exactly. That’s the point,’ replied Tarquinius, who was wearing one as well. He pulled out a silver chain which always hung round his neck. On it was a small gold ring, which was finely decorated with a scarab beetle. For the first time that Romulus could remember, the haruspex put it on.

‘What’s that for?’

Tarquinius smiled. ‘It will bring us good luck.’

‘We need plenty of that,’ said Romulus, casting his eyes at the heavens. Now prepared to interpret what he saw, Romulus could read nothing, and his friend would answer no questions at all. Once again, he had to trust in the gods. It was a completely helpless feeling, but Romulus gritted his teeth and readied himself. There was no other way.

Calling down the blessings of his own deities, Hiero also provided them with a good description of the city layout. This would be invaluable. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ the old
bestiarius
counselled. ‘Find out what you can and come back here safely.’

‘We will,’ replied Tarquinius, his face impassive.

They all gripped forearms in the Roman manner.

It felt as if they would never see Hiero again, and Romulus could bear it no longer.

‘Have you ever had dealings with Roman merchants?’

The
bestiarius
looked surprised. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve done business with them all. Noblemen, merchants,
lanistae
.’

‘Anyone called Gemellus?’

Hiero scratched his head. ‘My memory is not what it was.’

‘It’s important,’ said Romulus, leaning closer.

Curious, Hiero decided not to ask why. There was a fierce, intimidating look in the other’s eyes. He thought for a moment. ‘Gemellus . . .’

Romulus waited.

‘I remember,’ the
bestiarius
said at last. ‘From the Aventine?’

A pulse hammered in Romulus’ throat. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Like me.’

Tarquinius frowned.

‘A friend of yours?’ demanded Hiero.

‘Not exactly,’ Romulus replied, keeping his tone neutral. ‘Merely an old acquaintance.’

The
bestiarius
did not react to the obvious lie. It was nothing to him. ‘Gemellus, yes. He invested a third share in a venture of mine nearly ten years ago.’

‘That’s about right,’ agreed Romulus, feeling a pang of deep sadness. Fabiola had been there too, eavesdropping on Gemellus while he planned his involvement.

‘The whole affair was cursed from start to finish.’ Hiero scowled at the memory. ‘Many animals seemed to know where the traps were, and those we did catch were poor specimens. I lost dozens of men to strange fevers and afflictions. Then the Nile flooded on the way back, so it took twice the normal time to reach Alexandria.’ He paused for effect.

Romulus nodded in apparent sympathy. Inside, though, he was fuming. Even a few wild beasts would make a man’s fortune. No doubt Gemellus was still enjoying the proceeds.

‘That’s not all,’ sighed the old man. ‘Often I sell the animals on the dock at Alexandria, but Gemellus wrote demanding that we take them to Italy.’

Tarquinius sucked in a breath, feeling rather stupid. How could he have not realised before? A winter afternoon in Rome, eight years earlier. Gemellus, a merchant from the Aventine, desperately wanting a prophecy. The bad omens that resulted from it. Ships with their holds full of wild beasts, crossing the sea.

Romulus was so caught up in the
bestiarius
’ tale that he did not notice. ‘That makes perfect sense. You’d get a far better price there.’

Hiero nodded. ‘For that reason, I foolishly agreed to his request. Thank the gods that I travelled on a lightly laden liburnian, not one of the cargo vessels.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There were freak storms on the voyage across,’ revealed the
bestiarius
gloomily. ‘Every last transport sank and all the animals drowned. I lost an absolute fortune.’

Tarquinius brought back every possible detail of the merchant whom he had met outside Jupiter’s temple on the Capitoline Hill. Ill-tempered, fat and depressed, Gemellus had been crushed by his revelations. The last of these had been the most powerful.
One day there will be a knock on your door.
At the time, there had been far more important things on the haruspex’ mind, and he had not really pondered the significance of what he had seen. An unknown stranger’s worries were of little concern to him. Now though, it made perfect sense. Gemellus had been Romulus’ owner.

Oblivious to Tarquinius, Romulus could barely conceal his exultation. ‘And Gemellus?’

Hiero shrugged. ‘The same. His investment of one hundred and twenty thousand
sestertii
is still lying on the bottom of the Mediterranean.’

‘Gemellus is ruined?’ Laughing aloud, Romulus clapped the
bestiarius
on the shoulder. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had in years!’

‘Why?’ Hiero looked confused. ‘What’s it to you?’

Guilt suffused Tarquinius that he had not made the connection before, and told Romulus. It was a failing of his to focus entirely on grand issues when smaller ones, like this, could make such a difference. Yet he rarely told his protégé anything. I have become too secretive, he thought sadly. And I love him like a son. More remorse washed over Tarquinius. Deep down, the haruspex knew that his fear of revealing why he had fled Italy was the cause of his reticence. Wary of letting this information slip, he had deprived Romulus of a possible source of hope.