potential enemy.
The next question came. 'Who's your lover?'
'Decimus Brutus.'
Sabina's eyebrows rose. 'One of Caesar's right-hand men? You must be very… persuasive.'
Fabiola fought the colour that rose to her cheeks and lost. Damn the girl, she thought. Where does the venom come from? Docilosa's not like this. Then she glanced at the statue on the altar beside her, and was shocked back to where she was. Orcus was not the jovial Bacchus, nor the caring Aesculapius. Even the powerful triad of Jupiter, Minerva and Juno were less dread-inspiring than the god of the underworld. While they were all powerful, they did not take a person's soul for eternity. What could it have been like for Sabina, sold here as a six- year-old acolyte? Fabiola wondered. There was a hardness to the other's mien that perhaps she had not noticed before. Maybe being sold into a brothel was not the only way to Hades?
'As you say,' she murmured, moving towards the exit. Sextus gave her a reassuring look, and she managed a small grin in reply. With luck, the grilling was over. More importantly, Fabiola hoped that Orcus had not been angered by her clash with one of his priestesses. Extra prayers would have to be offered up to Jupiter and Mithras, asking for their intervention with their brother deity.
They reached the door without hearing Sabina speak again. Turning the iron handle, Fabiola glanced around. With her back to them, the priestess was on her knees before the altar. It was as obvious a sign of dismissal as Fabiola had ever been given, and her heart sank. She could think of nothing else to say, so she just closed the door behind her.
Deep in her misery, Fabiola paid little attention as they walked back to the entrance. Who knew what malevolent influence Sabina could bring to bear? Afterwards, she would blame herself for not concentrating, but in reality there was little she could have done to prevent what happened next.
As Fabiola drew alongside one of the many doors in the passageway, it opened. Still wishing to remain anonymous, she didn't turn her head. There was an angry gasp from Sextus, though, and Fabiola heard his gladius snickering from its scabbard. She came back to reality with a bang. What was he doing? Drawing a weapon inside a temple would draw down the wrath of any deity, let alone Orcus. Turning, Fabiola's mouth opened in rebuke. She was just in time to see a stocky man plunging a sword deep into Sextus' side.
It was Scaevola.
Chapter V: Visions
Alexandria, Egypt Soaking up the warm sunshine, Tarquinius walked slowly along the street's central section, among the tall palm trees and ornate fountains. At least thirty paces across, the boulevard had to be three times wider than the biggest avenue in Rome. On its own, it was impressive. Taken with the lofty buildings on each side, the luxuriance of the trees' shade and the whispering water all around, it was truly awe-inspiring. Despite its widespread reputation, the haruspex had never truly believed that the Egyptian capital could be quite so impressive. Yet it was. This, the stunning Canopic Way, was not even unique in Alexandria, the most grand of cities. Equally impressive was the Argeus, the main thoroughfare that ran from north to south, and which intersected with the Canopic Way at a magnificent crossroads.
While he took little pleasure from the sights, every one of the metropolis' five quarters lived up to the same standard. Countless royal palaces dotted the northern parts; near the centre were the striking Paneium, a man- made hill topped by a temple to Pan, and the Sema, the marble-walled enclosure that contained the tombs of the Ptolemy kings as well as that of Alexander of Macedon. In the western quarter, where Tarquinius was now heading, were the main part of the library, and the Gymnasium, the grand building where young men were taught Hellenistic values and sports including running, wrestling and javelin-throwing. Not a man who was easily surprised, the haruspex' jaw had fallen open the first time he saw its immense porticos. Each was more than a stade in length — nearly an eighth of a mile — making the Gymnasium dwarf any structure he'd ever seen, apart from the Pharos, Alexandria's mighty lighthouse.
Always one to remain inconspicuous, Tarquinius kept the hood of his light wool cloak up. With his long blond hair and gold earring, people had always stared at him. Now, though, they had even more reason. The slingshot had left a deep depression in the left side of his face, which accentuated the scar left by Vahram's knife. Tarquinius did not care. All his emotions were muted by a heavy blanket of grief, his constant companion since that night in the harbour.
Falling back into the cold black water, the haruspex had been sure that his life was over. Yet again, he'd been wrong. A good part of him still wished that he had not been. Killing Caelius outside the brothel had been sweet revenge for the death of Olenus, his mentor, but the repercussions of his act had been profound. At the time, it had seemed the right thing to do. Now, he was not so sure. Time could not be turned back, though, and Romulus was gone with Caesar's legions, to whatever fate the gods laid out for him. With luck, that would include a return to Rome. Tarquinius scowled. If that vision wasn't wrong too.
Coming to a short time after Romulus and Petronius had carried him on to the sand, Tarquinius' shame had been overwhelming. All he'd wanted to do was vanish. Somehow he had crawled up the rocky slope off the beach, finally falling into a shallow gully. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, he remained there until dawn the next day, waiting for the demon Charon. Death seemed the only apt punishment for the content and timing of his confession. Romulus had been rightfully incandescent, and Tarquinius doubted if the young soldier would ever forgive him. The pain he'd seen in the other's eyes hurt more than the crushing injury to his face and left the haruspex with little reason to live. Yet, injured and alone, he had not died. After many days of agony, existing on brackish rainwater from rock pools, and shellfish, he had recovered — physically. In turn that meant that the gods still had plans for him. Whether it was Tinia, the greatest Etruscan deity, or Mithras, his guide since Margiana, who was behind it all, Tarquinius had no idea. Nor did he have a clue to his purpose, but he knew better than to fight against a will greater than his.
By the time the haruspex had ventured back into the city, the fighting was long over. Caesar's legions had sailed east, joining with their allies from Pergamum and taking the fight to the Egyptians. At Pelusium, the boy king Ptolemy and thousands of his troops were killed. Caesar had returned to Alexandria in triumph. Cleopatra was installed as queen, and the legionaries who had been reviled by the population swaggered about the streets like conquering heroes. Tarquinius was forced to go to ground. Although he had been press-ganged into the Roman army against his will, he was technically a deserter. It was also possible that he might meet Romulus, and that prospect was too painful. With nowhere else to go, he had fled to the vast necropolis which lay southwest of the city walls. There, among the gardens, groves and myriad tombs, Tarquinius' companions were the criminal poor, lepers and the embalmers of the dead. In the shelter of a crumbling mausoleum to some long-dead merchant, he was content to live a solitary existence. Days blurred into weeks, and then months. Most of the graveyard's residents gave him a wide berth; those who did not received short shrift. Age and injury might have been starting to take their toll on the haruspex, but he was still lethal with a sword or his double-headed axe.
Caesar had finally departed Alexandria a week previously. Feeling relieved that he was free to move about and guilty that he had not encountered Romulus, Tarquinius began venturing into the city on a daily basis. Haruspicy, his favoured method of discovering what the future might hold, had proved characteristically unhelpful. The winds off the sea, which lay to the north, and from Lake Mareotis, which was to the south, were a daily feature in the city. To Tarquinius, expert at reading air currents, they were refreshing but little else; the clouds he saw merely offered shade from the sun, and the birdlife, more varied and colourful than in Italy, was nothing other than that. After nearly twenty-five years of soothsaying, the haruspex was used to this episodic dearth of information. When his need was greatest, the world around him often revealed nothing, and when he did not care one way or another, it deluged him in detail. Although it was difficult to find enough privacy to sacrifice an animal, Tarquinius had managed it twice. Neither occasion had been fruitful, but he had not completely lost faith in his abilities — as had happened in Margiana. His gut feeling was that he would find out by another method, and it was time to locate that source.
To this end, Tarquinius had been visiting the great library daily. Thankfully, the warehouses that had burned down on the night of the pitched battle between the Roman legionaries and the Egyptians had not meant its total destruction. That was no thanks to Caesar, he thought darkly. All the general had been concerned with was a
