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.
Fabiola recognised some of them. During her years with Brutus, she'd met countless members of Rome's military class. Raising the hood of her cloak, she was careful not to look in their direction. Like everyone else, the officers would have heard about their split, and she didn't want anyone warning Brutus of her presence before she got a chance to talk to him. There was little need for her to worry, though. Everyone present was far too excited about Caesar's impending arrival. Military messengers arrived regularly, updating the crowd on his progress through the city. Although it would be more than two hours until he reached the hilltop, all eyes were glued to the spot
