'Broke and ran during the battle,' said Petronius disgustedly.
'Surprising they haven't been crucified.'
'I guess Caesar needs plenty of fodder for his games,' Petronius answered.
They exchanged a look of dread. A month or so later, Romulus, Petronius and the other prisoners travelled to the southwest of Asia Minor, where Caesar's fleet was waiting. Forced to march in chains behind the wagon train, their treatment on the way was brutal. As well as eating the dirt left in the air by the Sixth's passage, they were given hardly any rations or water. If any of them so much as looked at one of the guards, a merciless beating followed. It paid to lay low and say nothing, which is what the two friends did. They shunned their companions, preferring their own company to that of cowards who had fled the battlefield. Impossible to ignore, however, were the visits of the black-haired veteran and his comrades. Every day without fail, insults and derogatory comments filled the air. The ordeals lasted until their tormentors grew bored and left, or the officer on duty sent them on their way.
Fortunately for Romulus, his concussion had improved quickly. His wound had healed well too. After ten days, the surgeon visited the stockade to remove the metal clips, leaving only a long red scar which was visible through Romulus' close-cut hair. It would serve as a permanent reminder of a rhomphaia. Not that his life would be long, he thought bitterly, staring at the fleet of triremes that would carry them to Italy. Thus far, the routine of marching and pitching camp had maintained a weird air of normality to their existence. The ships brought reality hammering home. So too did the lack of any communication from Fabiola. Even if she had heard his shout and sent word to him, he knew that no one would bother to search the noxii for one man called Romulus. Their sighting of each other in Alexandria now seemed cruel.
He and Petronius had not been denying their fate, though. In addition to the twenty miles they'd had to travel each day, both had done as much exercise as they could, running on the spot, press ups and wrestling with each other. As soldiers, their fitness, or lack of it, could mean life or death. Yet their hard work was a futile gesture, because in their new vocation, that of the noxius, everyone died. It was the whole premise of their presence in the arena. Despite this, the friends were determined to prepare themselves as well as possible.
Embarking on to the triremes in balmy summer weather, they had an uneventful voyage to Brundisium. During it, Romulus thought often of Brennus and Tarquinius. He and the Gaul had first met the haruspex on the reverse of this very passage, when they had been sailing to war with Crassus' army. How full of hope he'd been then, and what incredible things he'd seen since. Now here he was, returning by the same route, in chains. It felt lonely and unreal — and hopeless. There would be no lingering revenge on Gemellus. No joyful reunion with Fabiola when he reached Rome, just a terrible death before a baying mob. Tarquinius had been right. His road would take him to Rome — but to a miserable end.
Only the presence of Petronius, sturdy and somehow cheerful, had made it possible for Romulus not to withdraw completely into himself. Reaching Italy also helped to lift his spirits a fraction. Hearing Latin spoken all around for the first time in eight years was a joy, as were the familiar sights of Roman towns. Romulus even took pleasure from the sight of the autumn countryside filled with its latifundia. What was less welcome was people's reaction to the pair and their companions. While the veterans of the Sixth received rapturous applause and garlands of flowers wherever they went, the prisoners were reviled and spat upon.
After several weeks of this, Romulus was glad to see the walls of Rome at last. Instead of being instantly disposed of, the prisoners were thrown into a stockade for the night while the Sixth prepared itself for trouble. Caesar had a welcoming party to deal with. Rebellious veterans from, among others, the Ninth and Tenth Legions were camped outside the city walls in their thousands. Gossip about the troublemakers had swept the column as it marched north from Brundisium, even reaching the captives. After Pharsalus, a number of legions had been sent back to Italy, where their promised pensions failed to materialise. Disgruntled, they had soon begun to demonstrate, and threatened worse. Caesar would need them to carry the campaign against the Republicans to Africa and they knew it, so the officers sent by Marcus Antonius to quell the mutiny had been stoned from their camps. Even Sallust, a charismatic ally of Caesar's, could not bring the rebels to heel. He had been lucky to escape from them with his life.
Uncaring that Caesar had returned, the veterans marched on Rome to demand their rights. Armed to the teeth, they were a brooding threat to the Republic's stability. Nonetheless, Caesar had taken the Sixth to within a mile of their position and set up his own encampment. Knowing that they were greatly outnumbered had filled the Sixth with unease, but nothing happened on the first night. Although his own death was near, Romulus couldn't help wondering what the general would do. Incredibly, by mid morning the next day it was all over. The delighted guards told Romulus and the others all about it.
Accompanied only by a few men, Caesar had entered the rebels' tent lines in the cold of an autumn dawn. Inside, he had climbed the podium outside the headquarters. As news of his presence spread, a great crowd of mutineers gathered to hear what he had to say. According to the stunned men who'd been with him, Caesar had simply asked them what they wanted. A long list of grievances followed, culminating with the demand that all the veterans be discharged. In a neat manoeuvre that totally disarmed them, Caesar promised to release every man from service at once, and to honour their rewards in time. Crucially, he addressed the rebels as 'citizens' rather than 'comrades', showing them that they were no longer part of his army.
At once the shocked legionaries had begged their general to have them back, to help win the struggle in Africa. Caesar repeatedly demurred, even starting to leave, but their pleas grew more frantic. Promises were made that he would need no other troops to achieve victory. With masterful reluctance, he had accepted the service of all except the men of the Tenth. It, Caesar's most favoured and rewarded legion, had disappointed him most, so its soldiers had to be let go. With their huge pride in their unit called into question, the Tenth's veterans had demanded that Caesar decimate them, as long as they were taken back into his army. In a final gesture of magnanimity, he had given in, welcoming the Tenth to his bosom like wayward children, and ending the rebellion at a stroke.
When he heard the story, Romulus' admiration for Caesar soared. For months, Petronius had filled his ears with talk of Alesia, Pharsalus and other victories. In Pontus, he'd seen with his own eyes what Caesar could do, but this quality made him unique. Not only could Caesar lead armies into battle against terrible odds and win, he could lead men like no other. Crassus had been the polar opposite of this, commanding in an impersonal and uncharismatic manner. Even though he had only served under Caesar for a short time, Romulus was glad he had had that experience before he died.
Once the mutineers had been dealt with, there was no further delay. Caesar headed into the capital to meet with the Master of the Horse and the Senate. The Sixth was demobbed for the moment, its soldiers beating an instant path to the local taverns and brothels. After a few days, they would go home to their families. The prisoners were disposed of the same day too. With a dozen soldiers as escort, the centurion who had pronounced sentence on the two friends led the group into the city.
Petronius had never seen Rome before, and was amazed by the thick Servian walls, the sheer size of buildings and numbers of people. Romulus, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread as they walked the streets through which he had run errands as a boy. This was not how he wanted to return home. Even the sight of Jupiter's massive temple atop the Capitoline Hill produced only a flicker of joy in his heart, and this small pleasure was drained away by passing the crossroads near Gemellus' house. Despite the financial difficulties which Hiero had told him of, the merchant might still be living there. A dull resentment filled Romulus' belly. He was only a hundred paces from the door of the man whom he'd dreamt for years of killing, and he was unable to do a thing about it.
Finally they neared the Ludus Magnus, the main gladiator school, and old fear made Romulus' heart skip a beat. It was from this place that he and Brennus had fled, unnecessarily as it turned out. It had been Tarquinius who killed the fiery nobleman, not Romulus. By now, his initial fury at the haruspex' revelation had crumbled to a lingering bitterness at what might have been. It was hard to feel otherwise. Brennus could still have been alive if they hadn't run, and they might both have earned the rudis. Yet Romulus was not naive: underneath lay the knowledge that Tarquinius would have acted as he thought best — and according to the wind, or the stars. Had his accurate divinations not been a comfort through the ordeals of Carrhae and Margiana? After so long together, Romulus knew the haruspex well; he did not think Tarquinius was a man to act maliciously.
The realisation helped him to square his shoulders as he read what was inscribed on the stone over the main gate: 'Ludus Magnus'. The first time Romulus had seen them, as an illiterate thirteen-year-old, he'd only guessed the two words' meaning. Thanks to Tarquinius, though, he could now read them. It was odd that they were here, thought Romulus. There were four ludi in Rome, yet here he was, outside his old training ground. An ironic smile
