reference. The time was not ripe yet. By late autumn, Fabiola's rift with Romulus had been going on for nearly a year. They had met on a number of occasions, and been quite civil to each other, even taking a trip to Pompeii to visit her latifundium. In many ways, the twins were the same as they had been as children and their old easy relationship was revived when they spent time in one another's company. However, the unresolved row over Caesar's role in their parentage was always lurking beneath their genuine pleasure in seeing one another, and regularly flared up. They had a second argument, worse than the first, when Caesar returned to Rome from Hispania. Once again, Romulus refused to have any part in Fabiola's plan to murder the dictator. Torn by guilt, he began for the first time to wonder if he should tell anyone. However, the result of that — Fabiola's likely execution — was too awful to contemplate. Convincing himself that she would never have the courage or the ability to actually carry out the threat, Romulus tried to bury his concerns in the recesses of his mind. He wanted to tell Tarquinius, but his worries about what the haruspex might divine in the light of such knowledge kept his lips sealed.
Fabiola's feelings were similar to those of Romulus. Although she fretted that her brother would expose her, she could not bring herself to act against him. Her ruthlessness did not extend that far. Yet she would not give up on her idea, even if it meant that she was never to be friends with Romulus. Not that Fabiola wished for such an outcome — how could she? He was the beloved twin she had so longed to find again. Yet her determination was unshakeable. Her need for revenge defined her. Her enthusiasm increased as the details of Caesar's latest triumph were announced. In a notable exception to his previous four victory parades, it was undoubtedly to commemorate his success against a Roman enemy. This was breaking tradition in the boldest of fashions, and guaranteed to anger many senators. Of course no one dared say a word. Remarkably, though, Pontius Aquila, one of the tribunes, refused to stand as Caesar passed by in his chariot. Incensed, the dictator had shouted that Aquila should try to take back the Republic from him. The tribune's gesture was tiny, but spoke volumes to Fabiola.
Her hopes continued to rise as a fawning Senate heaped honours and rights upon Caesar. His dictatorship was extended to ten years, and he was granted the right to the consulship, should he wish it. He was entirely in control of the Republic's army, and the treasury. At formal meetings, Caesar sat on an ivory chair between the two consuls, while his statue was carried among those of the gods to the ceremonial openings of games. Other effigies of him were placed near those of Rome's kings of old, and in the temple of Romulus.
Prominent former Pompeians such as Cicero now felt confident enough to make mildly sarcastic comments about these developments, but the vast majority of nobles and politicians remained quiet, or spoke in private. It didn't matter to Fabiola. To her delight, Brutus was one of those who had begun to grumble. Her lover had realised that Caesar had no intention of returning total power to the Senate. In fact, almost no real debates took place there any longer. Instead the dictator and his advisers met behind closed doors, deciding what should be done about a particular issue. Once the matter had been settled, a decree was issued, purporting to be from the Senate. To Brutus' outrage, it often contained a list of those who were supposed to have attended. 'The damn war is over,' he ranted to Fabiola one night near the turn of the year. 'It's time for the Senate to take control again. The Republic has been ruled well that way for hundreds of years. Who does Caesar think he is?'
Fabiola studied Brutus' face intently. Was this finally her time to speak? She'd planted the first seed in his mind after the battle of Pharsalus, but had been unable to capitalise on it since. She had worried that it had withered away and died, but here was the first sign of growth.
'There's a rumour that his dictatorship is to be made permanent. So is his right to the censorship! And, as if all his titles weren't enough, he is to be called 'Father of the Country'. No ivory chair is good enough either — only a gold one will do now,' Brutus sneered. 'I should have known when he added the pediment and pillars to the front of his house. For Jupiter's sake! Making it look like a temple doesn't turn him into a god. Neither does creating a damn college of priests in his name.'
'Didn't men like Marius, Sulla and Pompey get honoured in this manner?' Fabiola asked, probing the depth of Brutus' anger.
Pure scorn twisted his face. 'No,' he cried. 'They were humble in comparison to Caesar! It's all thanks to the lickspittle senators whom he has appointed too. 'Jump,' Caesar says, and they reply, 'How high?' He respects no one any longer. Having exceeded anything ever awarded to a general, he didn't even get to his feet when we came to tell him. It's not right.'
Delight filled Fabiola. He's really unhappy, she thought. Caesar's recent refusal to stand when the senators arrived to offer him the exceptional honours had offended many. As dictator, Caesar was senior to the two consuls. Technically, therefore, he was not obliged to rise, but by not doing so, he had shown contempt towards the senators in general. This was the second or third time that Brutus had mentioned the incident, and although her stomach was a nervous pool of acid, Fabiola decided to act. If she didn't make a move soon, the chance would be lost. In recent days, Caesar had been talking more and more of his intended campaign to Parthia. While the army of sixteen legions and ten thousand cavalry would take time to assemble, preparations were well in train. 'Do you remember what I said to you once?' she asked softly. 'After Pharsalus.'
Brutus gave her a quizzical look.
'Rome must beware of Caesar.'
His eyes widened as the memory returned. 'Why did you say that?'
'Because he'd won a battle that no one else could have.' Fabiola laughed. 'I had no idea! Gone much further than that, hasn't he? Egypt, Asia Minor, Africa and Spain. Now all these extra powers. Where will it stop? On the banks of the Tigris or Euphrates?'
'You said 'Caesar will make himself king',' Brutus muttered.
'He already is, in all but name,' Fabiola retorted. 'We are now his humble subjects.'
His cheeks suffused with fury, and she knew that her barb had run deep. 'You are a wise woman,' he sighed.
Little do you know my reasons, thought Fabiola. I have Mithras to thank for that insight.
'What would you do about it?'
She looked at him calmly. 'There is only one thing to do. Rid Rome of the tyrant before he departs for Parthia.'
There was a long silence, during which Fabiola began to worry that she had overstepped the mark. But she had burned her bridges, so trying to calm her pounding heart, she waited.
'Tyrant? I'd never thought of him like that,' Brutus admitted. 'Yet that's what he's become. It's not as if we can just ask him to retire either. Caesar's not like Sulla: he lives for war.'
Fabiola's hopes slowly began to rise.
There was another pause before Brutus spoke again. 'I can't see any other course of action,' he said heavily. 'It needs to be done in Rome too. No one can touch Caesar in the bosom of his army, and the Parthian campaign will take three years or more.'
Thank you, Mithras, thought Fabiola exultantly. I've convinced him.
'I'll need help. Not to say that I would be scared of acting alone,' he added.
'You don't have to prove your courage to anyone,' Fabiola reassured him.
He gave her a grateful smile. 'Sadly, I already know whom to approach. Servius Galba and Lucius Basilus are both unhappy at the moment. They feel that they've been overlooked while everyone else gets rewarded for their service to Caesar. Caius Trebonius has been complaining too.'
Fabiola felt a thrill of excitement. Two of those mentioned, Galba and Trebonius, had been legates in Caesar's army during the prolonged campaign in Gaul. If they were ready to turn on their master, then it was likely that others would be too. Brutus' next words confirmed this.
'My cousin, Marcus Junius Brutus, would be interested. Not to mention Cassius Longinus.'
Fabiola's spirits soared.
'Have you told Romulus about this?'
Fabiola's mouth opened and closed. 'Yes… I mean… no,' she stuttered.
Brutus frowned. 'Which is it?'
'I might have mentioned it once, in passing,' she muttered, unable to meet his stare.
'And what did he say?' he asked, reaching out to clasp her arm. 'Tell me!'
Fabiola dragged her gaze up to his. She quailed before the look in his eyes. 'He wanted nothing to do with it,' she admitted.
'Your own brother won't get involved,' Brutus said unhappily. 'I can't do it either then. Especially after all Caesar's done for me.'
