Early the next day, Brutus stood on a nearby hill, studying the battlefield. Fabiola was by his side, silently aghast. While not as bloody as Alesia, the human cost of Pharsalus had been high: over six thousand Republican legionaries lay dead below them, while Caesar had lost more than twelve hundred. Uncounted numbers of Republican allied troops were strewn everywhere, worthless in death as they had been in life. Clouds of vultures, eagles and other birds of prey already filled the air overhead.
‘Will they all just rot?’ asked Fabiola, revolted at that thought.
‘No. Look,’ answered Brutus, pointing. Small groups of men could be seen stacking wood in rectangular piles all across the plain. ‘Funeral pyres,’ he said.
Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining the smell of burning flesh. ‘Is it over then?’
Brutus sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid not, my love.’
‘But this. ’ Fabiola pointed at the carnage below them. ‘Have enough men not died?’
‘The losses are terrible,’ he agreed. ‘Yet the Optimates will not give up this easily. Word has it that they will take ship for Africa, where the Republican cause is still strong.’
Fabiola nodded. About the only area where Caesar had suffered a setback so far was in the province of Africa. The year before, Curio, his former tribune, had made the foolish mistake of being lured away from the coast and into the barren hinterland. There he and his army were annihilated by the cavalry of the king of Numidia, a Republican ally. ‘That will require another campaign,’ she said, wishing the bloodshed were already over. When it was, she could reactivate her plans to take revenge upon Caesar. ‘Won’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Brutus replied simply. ‘But you can go back to Rome at any stage. I’ll make sure you have enough protection.’
Pleased by this, Fabiola kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll stay by you, my love,’ she said, still wary of the potential danger from Scaevola. ‘What of Pompey?’
Brutus frowned. ‘The scouts say he headed east to the Aegean coast, unlike the others. From there, my guess is that he will sail for Parthia, or Egypt.’ He saw her questioning look. ‘The man won’t just give up. He needs more support for his cause.’
‘It will never end! Pompey still has two sons in Hispania. They’ve got to be untrustworthy too,’ cried Fabiola despairingly. ‘Africa, Egypt, Hispania. Can Caesar fight a war on three fronts?’
‘Of course,’ Brutus smiled. ‘And he will win. I know it in my heart.’
Fabiola did not answer, but despair filled her. If Caesar truly was capable of defeating so many foes, he would prove to be the most formidable general ever seen. How could she ever take revenge on someone so powerful? Brutus loved her, she was sure of it, but it seemed doubtful he would ever betray Caesar the way she wanted him to. What chance, therefore, had she of convincing anyone else? Disconsolate, Fabiola stared out over the plain, searching for a clue. For a long time there was nothing. At last she saw it, a single raven flying apart from the other birds, coasting on the warm currents of air which rose from the baking ground below. Rapt, Fabiola watched it for a long time. And then she knew. Thank you, Mithras, she thought triumphantly. The worst enemies were always the ones within. So Brutus and his compatriots were still the key.
‘If he succeeds,’ Fabiola said calculatingly, ‘you cannot trust him ever again. Rome must beware of Caesar.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Brutus, confused and a little angry.
‘The arrogance of a man with such ability knows no bounds,’ Fabiola answered. ‘Caesar will make himself king.’
‘King?’ The mere concept was now anathema to every citizen. Almost five hundred years before, the people of Rome had committed their proudest act: overthrowing and then expelling the city’s last monarch.
Fabiola knew one more vital detail.
An ancestor of Brutus had purportedly been the main instigator.
Exulting, she watched the blood drain from Brutus’ face.
‘That can never be,’ he muttered.
Chapter XXVI: The Bestiarius
Off the coast of Ethiopia, summer/autumn 48 BC
Romulus crashed into the sea on his back. At the last moment, he remembered to hold his breath. Disorientated, he panicked as his heavy chain mail immediately began to pull him into the depths. Soon his lungs felt as if they were about to burst, and it took all Romulus’ effort not to let his reflexes take over. Yet he had no desire to die with a chest full of seawater, and his desperate desire to help Tarquinius gave him extra strength. Righting himself, Romulus kicked his legs vigorously and pushed upwards. To his relief, the salinity aided his buoyancy. Romulus burst through the surface, exhaling as he did so. Air had never tasted so sweet. Wiping his stinging eyes, he frantically scanned the sides of the dhow for his friend.
All he could see was cursing pirates lining the rails. Some were shaking their fists, but others were stringing bows or aiming spears.
‘Quickly!’ screamed Ahmed. ‘You fools! Loose!’
The danger was not over.
Romulus cursed. What hope had he of climbing aboard? Of rescuing Tarquinius before the trireme struck? Certain death from two directions awaited if he even tried. Yet he could not just swim away.
‘I’m here,’ said a voice from behind him.
Romulus nearly jumped out of his skin.
Tarquinius was bobbing a few paces away, a wide grin on his face.
‘How.?’
‘There’s no time for that,’ the haruspex replied. ‘Let’s put some distance between us and the dhow.’
Right on cue, an arrow hit the water between them. It sank harmlessly, but another followed, and then a spear was launched.
Romulus had no desire to linger. Taking a quick look around to establish which way the shore was, he pushed himself through the warm sea with strong strokes.
‘Fucking dogs!’ Ahmed’s voice echoed across the waves. ‘Curse you both to hell and gone!’
More poorly aimed arrows splashed in nearby, but none of the crew had Romulus’ skill with the bow. And the infuriated Nubian could not afford the time to pursue the pair. It had been a perfectly timed moment to flee.
Their armour was not enough to stop them reaching dry land. Soon afterwards, they pulled themselves up an abandoned beach, which was covered in stones and pebbles. As one, they turned to see what had become of the dhow.
They had a grandstand view of the unfolding drama, which was about to reach its climax.
The pirate vessel had managed at last to come about, and was picking up speed towards Arabia, the wind bellying her sails. But it was too late. The dhow’s poor tacking had proved to be its undoing. Before the corsairs could gain any ground eastwards, the trireme had reached ramming speed. And it showed no sign of slowing down. The drum was pounding out a thudding rhythm faster than a man’s heartbeat, forcing the oarsmen to row at an exhausting pace.
‘There’s been no signal to heave to,’ said Romulus.
‘They’re going to ram them regardless.’
‘Poor bastards.’
Raised slightly from the water by the speed of the trireme, the bronze head of the ram became visible as they watched. Both were riveted to the spot. Extending fifteen paces or more in front of the ship, it provided the Roman navy with one of its most devastating forms of attack. Yet Ahmed and his crew were unaware of this. All they could see was the trireme bearing down at an acute angle, aiming for a head-on collision.
Cries of alarm carried across the water, intermingled with the screams of the captive women.
With an incredible crash, the ram hit the dhow near its prow. Even though they were some distance away, it was possible to hear the cracking of timbers. The overwhelming impetus of the Roman vessel drove the smaller boat sharply to one side. Several pirates were thrown overboard from the sheer force of the impact. They flailed about in the water, helplessly watching their comrades, most of whom had been knocked off their feet. Shouts of
