The Silver Eagle (10 page)

Chapter IV: Fabiola and Secundus

Rome, winter 53/52
BC

F
abiola’s pulse quickened as she raced up the last few steps to the top of the Capitoline Hill, nearing the enormous complex. She had not worshipped here for months and had missed it keenly. Sheer excitement had made her run ahead of Docilosa and the bodyguards, but this was now replaced by anxiety at what she might find. It might be nothing at all.

An appreciative wolf whistle from a passer-by dragged her thoughts down to earth.

Fabiola’s common sense kicked in, and she slowed down. It was not wise for a woman to venture out alone in any part of Rome. Particularly not for her. Scaevola’s threat had been no idle one – only a day after the incident with the fugitive, two of her slaves had been randomly killed in the fields. There were no witnesses, but the
fugitivarii
had to be the main suspects. The threat accelerated Fabiola’s departure. She had hurriedly managed to recruit a dozen gladiators from the local
ludus
, leaving six to defend the
latifundium
with Corbulo. Joining her original three bodyguards, the rest had come with her to Rome. But that did not mean that the danger was gone. And like a foolish child playing hide-and-seek, she had just left her protection behind.

Already Fabiola could feel the stares of several unsavoury types who were loitering nearby. None looked like Scaevola, but a flutter of fear rose from her stomach all the same. Now was not the time to let something foolish happen. Retracing her steps, Fabiola steadied her nerves. Perhaps too it had been foolish to pin her hopes on finding the mysterious soothsayer. Yet the revelation about Gemellus’ last divination had to be more than coincidence. On the voyage north, her mind had raced constantly with the possibilities of the stranger at Gemellus’ door being Romulus.

Soon Fabiola had been joined by her followers. Her face perspiring from the climb, Docilosa was also red with indignation at her mistress’s rash behaviour. Nothing she said ever made any difference to Fabiola’s actions, so she scolded the guards mercilessly for falling behind. The nine muscle-bound men looked sheepish and shuffled their feet in the dirt. Even the new recruits had learned not to argue with her. Amused, Fabiola hurried towards her destination, confident that Docilosa was watching her back.

Dominating the open area before her was an immense marble statue of a naked Jupiter, his bearded face painted the traditional victor’s red. On triumphal days, a wooden scaffold had to be erected to daub his entire body with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. Today, apart from its crimson visage, the beautifully carved figure was a muted, more natural white colour. Its position, on the very edge of the top of the Capitoline Hill, had been very deliberately chosen. The main part of the city lay sprawled below, directly beneath Jupiter’s imperious gaze. In open spaces like the Forum Romanum and the Forum Boarium, citizens could look up and be reassured by his presence: Jupiter
Optimus Maximus
, the all-seeing state-god of the Republic.

No less impressive was the huge gold-roofed temple that stood behind, its triangular portico of decorated terracotta supported by three rows of six painted columns, all the height of ten men. This was the airy anteroom to the triad of imposing
cellae
, or sacred rooms. Each one was dedicated to a single deity: Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. Of course Jupiter’s was in the centre.

Extending for some distance to the rear was an extensive complex of smaller shrines, teaching schools and priests’ quarters. Thousands of citizens came daily to worship in this, the most important religious centre in Rome. Fabiola revered it greatly and was sure that she could feel a distinct aura of power within the
cellae
. The long, narrow plastered rooms had originally been built by the Etruscans, the founders of the city. A people who had been crushed by the Romans.

Her nose twitched. The air was thick with the smells of incense and myrrh, and manure from the sacrificial animals on sale. The cries of hawkers and traders mixed with the incantations of haruspices performing divinations. Tethered lambs bleated plaintively, resigned hens packed into wicker cages stared beadily into the distance. Scantily clad prostitutes cast practised, seductive eyes at any man who glanced their way. Acrobats jumped and tumbled while snake charmers played flutes, tempting their charges out of clay vessels sitting in front of them. From small stalls, food vendors were offering bread, wine and hot sausages. Slaves wearing nothing but loincloths slouched beside their litters, sweat from the steep climb still coating their bodies. There would be time for a brief rest while their owners prayed. Children shrieked with laughter, getting under men’s feet as they chased each other through the throng.

Although more peaceful than the narrow streets below, an uneasy air hung over the area. It was the same throughout Rome. Upon their arrival, Fabiola had been struck by the palpable menace. There were few people about, fewer stalls with their goods spilling out on to the road, more shops securely boarded up. Even the beggars were not as plentiful. But the most obvious sign of trouble had been the large gangs of dangerous-looking men on many corners. They had to be the reason that no one was abroad. Instead of the usual clubs and knives, nearly all were wearing swords. Fabiola had also seen spears, bows and shields; many men were even wearing leather armour or chain mail. A good number had bandaged arms or legs, evidence of recent fighting. The city had always been full of criminals and thieves, but Fabiola had never seen them congregate in such numbers, in daylight. Armed like soldiers.

Compared to a rural town like Pompeii, the capital always felt a touch more dangerous. Today it was markedly different. This felt as if a war was about to break out. Her newly enlarged collection of nine bodyguards began to seem woefully inadequate, and Fabiola had lifted the hood of her cloak, determined not to attract attention. As they hurried past, she noticed that the various quarters seemed to be under the control of two distinct groups. She suspected they were those of Clodius and Milo, a renegade politician and a former tribune. Fortunately relations between the sides seemed poor, with colourful insults filling the air across the streets that demarcated the borders of their territory. A few fast-moving passers-by were of little immediate interest to either faction.

Clearly the situation had deteriorated badly since her departure just four months before, when Brutus had been worried enough to take her away from Rome. It had begun with a political vacuum that formed after the scandals that had seen elections postponed and numerous politicians indicted for corruption. Clodius Pulcher, the disreputable noble turned plebeian, had been quick to take advantage. Gathering his street gangs together, he started to take control of the city. Unimpressed, his old rival Milo had responded in kind, recruiting gladiators to give himself the military advantage. Skirmishes were soon taking place, intimidating the nobles and terrifying the city’s ordinary residents. Fearful rumours had even reached as far as Pompeii. They centred on one word.

Anarchy.

Fabiola had paid little attention to the gossip. Safe on the
latifundium
, it had seemed unreal. Here in Rome, it was impossible to deny the truth. Brutus had been completely correct. With Crassus dead and Caesar far away in Gaul, there were few prominent figures to take a stand against the growing social unrest. Cato, the politician and outstanding orator, might have been one, but he had no troops to back him up. Cicero, another powerful senator, had long been rendered powerless by intimidation. When he had spoken out against the gangs’ brutality, Clodius had been quick to put Cicero in his place, erecting notices across the Palatine that listed his crimes against the Republic. The citizens loved such public shaming, and Clodius’ status grew even higher. Politicians would not be able to bring this situation under control. Rome needed an iron fist – someone not scared of using martial force.

It needed Caesar or Pompey.

But Caesar was stuck in Gaul. Meanwhile, Pompey was cleverly biding his time, letting the situation spiral out of control until asked to help by the Senate. The Republic’s most famous general craved constant popularity and saving the city from the bloodthirsty gangs would give him unprecedented kudos. So the rumours on the street went.

To remain safe, Fabiola realised that she would need more protection than the hulks lumbering in her wake. Two men instantly came to mind. Benignus and Vettius, the Lupanar’s doormen, would be an ideal nucleus for her force. They were tough, skilled street fighters and, thanks to her previous hard work, fiercely loyal to her already. Jovina, the brothel’s owner, had refused to sell the pair before, but she would find a way to win the old crone over. Perhaps something would be revealed at the temple.

Disappointingly, the soothsayers clustered outside the shrine seemed to be the usual group of liars and charlatans. Fabiola could pick them out from a hundred paces away. Dressed in ragged robes, often deliberately unkempt and with blunt-peaked leather hats jammed on their greasy heads, the men relied on just a few clever ruses. Long silences, meaningful stares into the entrails of the animals they sacrificed and shrewd judgement of their clients’ wishes worked like a dream. Over the years she had watched countless people being taken in, promised everything they asked for and relieved of their meagre savings in moments. Desperate for a sign of divine approval, few seemed to realise what had happened. In the current economic climate, jobs were rare, food expensive and opportunities to better oneself few and far between. While Caesar grew immensely wealthy from the proceeds of his campaigns and Pompey could never spend all that he had plundered, the existence of the average citizen was sufficiently miserable to ensure ripe pickings for the soothsayers.

Fabiola did not trust such men. She had learned to rely only on herself, and on Jupiter, the father of Rome. To find out that there was a genuine haruspex, someone who could predict the future, had been news indeed. Hoping against hope that she might find the armed stranger whom Corbulo had mentioned, Fabiola moved through the group, asking questions, smiling and dropping coins into palms.

Her search was fruitless. None of those she asked had any knowledge of the man she sought. Keen for business from an obviously wealthy lady, most denied ever having seen him. Tiring of their offered divinations, Fabiola moved to the temple steps, where she sat miserably for some time, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd. Her guards stood nearby, chewing on meat and bread Docilosa had bought. To keep them happy, she had purchased each a small cup of watered-down wine as well. Docilosa made a good mistress, thought Fabiola. She shouted when necessary and rewarded regularly.

‘Not going inside to make an offering, lady?’

Startled at being addressed, Fabiola looked down to see a one-armed man regarding her from the bottom step. It was a place well situated to ask devotees for a coin as they passed inside the temple. Middle-aged, stocky and with close-cropped hair, he wore a ragged military tunic. A solitary bronze
phalera
on his chest was a proud reminder of the cripple’s service in the legions. From a strap over his right shoulder hung a knife in a worn leather sheath. Everyone in Rome needed to be able to defend themselves. His gaze was direct and admiring, but not threatening. ‘Perhaps,’ Fabiola replied. ‘I was hoping to find a real soothsayer first. There are none in Pompeii.’

The veteran barked with laughter. ‘You’ll not find any round here either!’

Noticing the interaction, one of Fabiola’s men moved forward, reaching for his sword. Tersely, she waved him off. There was no danger in passing the time of day. ‘Obviously,’ she sighed. It had been a vain hope to think that someone whom Gemellus had briefly encountered several years before would still be here. ‘Probably no such thing.’

‘Best to rely on no one, lady,’ advised the cripple with a wink. ‘Even the gods are fickle. They’ve certainly deserted the Republic in recent days.’

‘You speak the truth, friend,’ moaned a fat man in a grubby tunic, sweating as he climbed the steps. ‘We honest citizens are being robbed on a daily basis. Something has to be done!’

Hearing his words, other passers-by muttered in angry agreement. Well-dressed or in rags, they all seemed of the same mind. Fabiola took note. The situation in Rome
was
as serious as it seemed. These people looked genuinely worried. Troubled, she turned back to the veteran.