give credibility to any cause. The ploy was working and many in the crowd began to shout Milo’s name. His gladiators responded by beating their weapons off their shields, creating an almighty din.
Brutus had taught Fabiola the different classes of fighter at the arena. Eager to know more about the life into which Romulus had been cast, she had memorised every detail. Now she picked out
Facing them from the other side of the Forum was a larger, more disorganised crowd of Clodius’ followers. Although less well armed, Fabiola calculated that they significantly outnumbered Milo’s force.
Seeing his cronies, the leader of the newly arrived mob roughly pushed into the throng of waiting citizens. His men were quick to copy him, using the flats and even the edges of their swords on any who got in the way. Screams rang out, blood flowed on to the cobbles and a path instantly appeared for the thugs to join their comrades. A great cheer rose into the air as they joined ranks. Now their number was at least three times that of their enemies.
A strange calm fell. Both sides had assembled for battle, but the reason had not yet arrived. Clodius’ body.
During the journey, Fabiola’s guards had managed to wriggle and squeeze their way to her side. It was a small consolation, but she felt acutely vulnerable without a weapon. Whispering in Tullius’ ear, Fabiola took the dagger he passed to her and slid it up one sleeve of her dress. Only the gods knew what would happen before nightfall. Rome might fall, but she wanted to survive. If the need arose, she was perfectly prepared to fight as well. Fabiola offered up a swift prayer to Jupiter. Protect us all, she thought. Let no harm come to me or mine.
It was not long before the sound of women’s screams reached them. Carrying from some distance away, the cries rose and fell in clear ululations of grief. Sighs of anticipation swept through the crowd and heads craned to see the source of the piercing howls. Clodius’ corpse was approaching. The strain grew too much for one of Milo’s men, who threw his javelin. It flew up in a shallow arc towards the plebeians but fell short and skittered harmlessly across the cobblestones. Jeers and insults filled the air in response. The atmosphere grew even more tense, but, amazingly, none of Clodius’ thugs responded. Their throbbing anger was being held in check until they had seen his body with their own eyes. Like everyone else, their eyes were fixed on the spot where the Via Appia entered the Forum. Fabiola glanced at Tullius, who, despite the critical situation, gave her a reassuring smile. Knowing that he was putting on a brave face for her, she warmed to the tough Sicilian. A good man: she needed more like him.
The keening slowly grew in volume until it was possible to make out a group of women clad in grey mourning dresses approaching the open space and the massed, eager audience. In their midst was a slim, blood-soaked figure staggering under the weight of a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle.
Clever, thought Fabiola. Fulvia had done well to assemble her friends in such a short time. There were few better ways to whip up public hysteria than with such a chorus of wailing. And it was a master stroke for Clodius’ widow to enter the Forum carrying his corpse.
Gradually the screams became intelligible.
‘Look what they have done to my Clodius!’
‘Murdered,’ responded the women dramatically. ‘Killed on the street like a dog!’
‘Left naked as the day he was born,’ intoned Fulvia.
Shouts of anger went up from many of the watching citizens.
‘Scared of a fair fight?’ A number of Fulvia’s companions spat in the direction of Milo and his men. ‘Cowards!’
A swelling cry of rage met this accusation. Many of Clodius’ supporters began drumming sword hilts off their shields. Shifting restlessly, others stamped their feet on the cobbles. On the other side of the Forum, the gladiators did the same. Soon it was hard to make out a word through the crescendo of noise.
As the two sides continued challenging each other, the hot taste of acid filled the back of Fabiola’s throat. This was what Romulus might have experienced just before Carrhae. Before he died. The pangs of a familiar sorrow were followed by an eerie feeling of acceptance. Maybe he is dead, Fabiola thought. Perhaps Jupiter has brought me here to die today: to join Romulus and Mother. She was briefly surprised that the concept satisfied her. Her family had meant everything to her, but they were long gone. Apart from Brutus and Docilosa, she was alone in the world. Yet neither were blood relatives, and revenge as a purpose in life could only sustain her so far.
The faces of the terrified citizens around her still tore at Fabiola’s conscience. They were not like her, who had little left to live for. Innocent of any crime, most of them probably had families. Yet they were about to die too. And things would get worse if order was not restored. Fabiola felt helpless and insignificant. What can I do? There was only one thing to ask for.
‘Let’s get those fuckers!’ shouted a large man in the front rank.
Everyone cheered. Baying with fury, the mob lurched forward.
‘Wait!’ barked the bearded leader. ‘We haven’t seen Clodius’ body yet.’
It was the right thing to say. The crowd swayed back into position.
At last Fulvia reached the centre of the Forum. An attractive woman in her thirties, she had painted her face with ashes and soot. Tears streamed down her blackened cheeks, mixing with smears of blood. But she remained in full control of her faculties. Ordering her friends to spread out, she reverently lowered her burden to the ground. She pulled back the red-soaked sheet, revealing her husband’s mutilated corpse to the watching citizens. Gasps of outrage greeted her action. Fabiola could not help but wince at the number of Clodius’ wounds. The young messenger had not been exaggerating. The renegade noble had been run through multiple times, each thrust enough to kill. Covered in cuts and slashes, his features were almost unrecognisable. One leg had been almost severed from his body and a bent javelin head still protruded from his left shoulder. Clodius Pulcher had not died well.
Sniggers and laughs rose from Milo’s men as they studied their work.
Fulvia stood up, her grey dress saturated with blood. This was her moment.
Fabiola waited.
All of Rome waited.
Raising her arms dramatically, Fulvia beat her breast with her fists. Spittle flew from her lips as she began to speak. ‘I call on Orcus, god of the underworld!’ She levelled a quivering finger at Milo. ‘To mark out this man.’
Milo visibly quailed. Superstition ruled the hearts and minds of most, and there were few people who would not be intimidated by such a public cursing. But he was a brave man. Squaring his shoulders, the noble prepared himself for Fulvia’s next words.
‘Carry him off to Hades,’ she intoned. ‘There let Cerberus rip him slowly to shreds. And feed on him for all eternity.’
Milo managed not to react this time, but he had no reply. His gladiators fell silent; not even his tame priests dared answer.
Throughout the crowd, men made the sign against evil.
Fulvia let her words sink in for the space of ten heartbeats. Then, carrying Clodius’ body to the steps of the temple of Juno, she fell to her knees and threw herself on top of it. Her companions hurried to join the grieving widow. Great sobs began to rack Fulvia as she finally allowed the grief to take hold.
Fabiola had to admire the theatrics. The last and most dramatic part had been reserved until Fulvia had reached safety. She could guess what would happen next.
There were more wails as the group of women clustered around Fulvia, touching the dead noble’s wounds and raising bloody fingertips for all to see.
It was the final straw for Clodius’ men. Revenge had to be taken. An incoherent bellow of hatred left their throats and they swarmed forward towards their enemies. Fabiola, her guards and the screaming captives were carried along with them. There would be no clear lines of battle, just a chaotic melee of thugs and civilians.
The terrified priests shouted for calm. Too late, they realised that what had been unleashed was uncontrollable. This vast, inchoate fury threatened Rome itself, and they had encouraged it.
‘Mistress!’ cried Tullius. ‘We must escape.’
