‘Milo’s a clever bastard,’ pronounced the shopkeeper. ‘He’ll have gone somewhere very public, with lots of witnesses to prove it.’
The same goes for Memor, thought Fabiola. ‘What happened next?’
‘Clodius got hit in the shoulder by a
Fabiola shuddered at the dramatic and gory image. ‘And you’re certain he’s dead?’
‘He didn’t have a chance, lady. They were like a pack of wild dogs.’ The youngster swallowed. ‘There was blood everywhere. Clodius’ men are carrying his body back to the city,’ continued the prisoner. ‘His wife doesn’t even know yet.’
‘When she finds out, the gates of Hades will open,’ said the shopkeeper grimly. ‘Fulvia won’t take this lying down.’
Fabiola’s interest was piqued. ‘You know her?’
‘Not exactly. But she’s a typical noblewoman,’ he replied. ‘Likes to get her opinion across, if you know what I mean.’
Fabiola raised an eyebrow.
The old man tittered.
Realising what he had said, the proprietor flushed. ‘Not meaning to insult noble ladies, of course.’
Fabiola graced him with a smile to show that she had taken no offence. ‘Release the boy,’ she ordered Tullius.
Reluctantly the Sicilian obeyed.
Unsure what would happen to him, the youth shuffled his feet.
Fabiola tossed him a
‘Thank you, lady!’ He bobbed his head and ran off, eager to spread the news.
‘We’d best return to the
Fabiola did not protest. The open-fronted shop was no place to linger at a time like this. Saying goodbye to the shopkeeper, they hurried on to the street. It was only a hundred paces to Brutus’ house and the protection of its thick walls and iron-studded gates. In the event, that short distance was too far.
Round the nearest corner swarmed a horde of thugs armed with clubs, swords and spears. Being herded in their midst were many frightened-looking men, women and children: ordinary citizens. Talking in loud, angry voices, the group’s leaders did not immediately see Fabiola and her guards.
‘Quick!’ hissed Tullius, gesturing frantically. ‘Back into the shop!’
Fabiola turned, but slipped on a sliver of wet wood lying in the mud. The resulting splash was enough to catch the attention of the fast-moving rabble. Within a heartbeat, it had reached them. Before the Sicilian had time to do more than help Fabiola up, they were surrounded. Fortunately, the heavies seemed relatively good-natured. Shouts of laughter rang out at her misfortune and rough, unshaven faces pressed in close, leering.
‘Come with us!’ cried a bearded man who appeared to be one of the mob’s leaders. His tone offered no option of refusal.
Tullius looked helplessly at his mistress. If he or his men touched their weapons, they would be killed out of hand.
Fabiola knew it too. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down her dress. ‘Where?’
The answer was instant. ‘To the Forum!’
She peered at the people who were being forced to accompany the gang members: their faces were twisted with fear. Law and order was completely breaking down, and there was no one to stand up for normal people like them. ‘Why?’ Fabiola asked stoutly.
‘To witness what those bastards did to Clodius!’ shouted the bearded thug. ‘His body will be displayed for all to see.’
A furious roar met his words and Fabiola’s heart sank. News of the murder had already reached the city. The young man had not been the first to return.
‘Respect must be paid to the dead.’ The gang leader raised his sword in the air. ‘Before we rid this city of that bastard Milo. And everyone who follows him!’
This time the mob’s response was an inarticulate roar. Primeval. Terrifying.
Fabiola could almost feel the Republic’s foundations shake beneath the rabble’s anger. Her own heart was thumping with fear, but it was pointless trying to resist.
The crowd moved off at speed, taking Fabiola and her men with it.
Chapter V: Discovery
Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
An entire cohort was sent out to the Mithraeum at dawn, but found only corpses. The surviving Scythians had disappeared on horseback, and their original purpose was presumed to be an attempt to assassinate Pacorus. Long-range patrols were mounted throughout the area, but found no evidence of enemy forces. Gradually the tension in the fort eased, although Vahram, now acting commander, insisted that the sentries were doubled day and night.
Nothing more was seen of the Scythians.
Weeks passed without any news of Tarquinius. There was no word of Pacorus either; complete secrecy reigned over the commander’s house and only Parthians were allowed within. The senior centurions were deeply angry at what had happened and spoke only to those they trusted: in other words, to none of the Roman prisoners. Of course, Romulus and Brennus had told their roommates about the attack; the news spread like wildfire. Rumours filled the camp on a daily basis. Only one thing was clear. Because there had been no reprisals, Pacorus was still alive. Tarquinius’ care was having at least some effect, but nobody knew more.
To ensure that they did not flee, Romulus and Brennus were closely watched at all times. No other overt threat was made, but their situation remained desperate. Vahram’s threat was no idle one, and most Parthians made sure to remind the pair of it at every opportunity. They were constantly taunted with the manner of Felix’ death as well. This sting to their pride was particularly hard to ignore: after all, their friend’s murder had not been avenged, and it might never be. With a clenched jaw, Brennus dealt with the menaces silently. Romulus kept them at bay by praying daily to Mithras. He thought of home too, and of what exactly Tarquinius might have seen. Knowing it involved returning to Rome helped immensely.
All kinds of fantasies went through his head, from discovering his mother and Fabiola to torturing Gemellus. Taking on Vahram in a duel and killing him slowly was another favourite. Romulus also had time to relive the brawl that had caused him to flee the capital. During it, he had apparently killed a nobleman with a crack to the head from his sword hilt. At the time, panicked and desperate to avoid crucifixion, Romulus had not given it much consideration. Now, the veteran of innumerable battles, he knew that unless he was no judge of his own strength, the blow had probably not been enough to kill. When he asked Brennus, the big Gaul confirmed that he had only punched the angry noble a couple of times. It was a troubling realisation, because it meant that he, Romulus, was innocent. Which meant that he had had no reason to flee in the first place. So who had killed Rufus Caelius? It was impossible to know the truth of it, yet Romulus became consumed by thoughts of what might have been if the nobleman had not been slain. Although he talked it over repeatedly with Brennus, the Gaul was less concerned about what had happened. His destiny all along had been to take a great journey, and Brennus was convinced that was why he was in Margiana. Romulus did not have that comfort.
All he had was Tarquinius’ advice to trust in Mithras, about whom he knew very little.
Unsurprisingly, none of the Parthians would talk to him about their god. Watched constantly, he had no chance of trying to visit the Mithraeum either. Then Romulus managed to procure a small statue from a wizened old man who came into the fort on a regular basis to sell knickknacks. All the ancient told him was that Mithras wore a Phrygian cap, and that the life of the bull he was sacrificing gave birth to humankind, the animals and birds of the earth, and its crops and foods. Romulus pressed him hard for more information, and discovered that there were
