The Road to Rome (22 page)

Two days later
. . .

S
cowling, Fabiola totted up the figures on her parchment again. It made no difference: they were as depressing as the first time she’d calculated them. Time had passed since her takeover of the Lupanar, and business was still not improving. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been busy, she thought angrily. The brothel had been redecorated from top to bottom and the baths refilled. Fifteen heavies recruited by Vettius lounged around the entrance and the street, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Unless one had a very large force, attacking the premises now would be tantamount to suicide. Thanks to some well-placed bribes at the slave market, Fabiola was the owner of a bevy of new prostitutes: dark-eyed, brown-skinned Judaeans, Illyrians with raven tresses and pitch-black Nubians. There was even a girl from Britannia with red hair and a cream complexion that Fabiola could have wished for herself.

Posters advertising the Lupanar’s revamp had been put up all over Rome too, aimed at attracting both new custom and old. A common method of raising public awareness, this should have resulted in a flood of men through the door. Instead, it had been a mere trickle. Fabiola sighed. She had underestimated Scaevola’s ability to affect her business. There could be no doubt that the brothel’s failure to take off was thanks to the
fugitivarius
, whose blockade of the Lupanar had begun the day after Antonius’ visit. Her hopes that Scaevola would find out about her affair with the Master of the Horse and just disappear had proved fruitless. While Fabiola didn’t think Antonius knew of her feud, she hadn’t dared mention it to him yet either. Any time she ever thought about it, her new lover seemed to mention the
fugitivarius
– in glowing terms.

Scaevola’s initial tactics had been blatant: open intimidation of potential customers by his thugs right outside the brothel. Incensed, Fabiola had sent Vettius and his men out to deal with them. After a pitched battle and a handful of casualties, the
fugitivarius
had withdrawn his forces to the surrounding streets. The situation had then settled into an uneasy peace, broken by the occasional bloody skirmish. While the fighting was bad for business, the damage done by Scaevola’s ever-present heavies was even worse. It was impossible to stop them too. Fabiola’s guards could not protect the Lupanar and also stand on every street corner day and night.

It was all rather depressing, thought Fabiola morosely. Brutus’ funds weren’t limitless, and the place wasn’t making any money. While she didn’t mind spending most of her time in the brothel, the poor trade meant that she was having little luck in discovering anyone of senior rank who was prepared to join a conspiracy against Caesar. Every one of her prostitutes had been drilled to repeat the smallest detail let slip by a client about the political situation. Thus armed, Fabiola planned to focus her attention on those who spoke badly of Caesar in any way. Information, though, like customers, was proving to be thin on the ground. She could only suppose that, eager to avoid trouble, most people were keeping their lips sealed.

For weeks Fabiola sat in the Lupanar, brooding. Even Brutus, who was working from dawn till dusk on official matters, had noticed her ill humour. ‘Buying the damn fleapit was a bad idea from the start,’ he cried during one of their now regular arguments. Alarmed by the volatility of Brutus’ reaction, she had turned on a charm offensive to allay his concerns. It had worked – for the moment. Now Fabiola was careful to be at home before he was, ready to pay him the attention he was used to. She could not afford to upset Brutus too much, especially now that Marcus Antonius had become a regular lover.

That impulsive move had made her life far more complicated, and dangerous. By this stage, however, Fabiola could not help herself. It had all begun with a simple plan: that in the Master of the Horse she would have a safety net in case Brutus ever abandoned her, or that Antonius would prove to be another possible ally against Caesar. Of course it was all an exercise in self-deception. Antonius was known throughout Rome for philandering with senators’ wives, so he wasn’t about to lose his heart to Fabiola, or to favour her above all others. He was also Caesar’s most ardent
supporter, threatening bloody murder to anyone he thought harboured the smallest disloyal thought about the Republic’s dictator. If he learned of Fabiola’s plans for Caesar, she might as well write her own death warrant. The best thing she could have done was to end the affair after the first occasion.

Fabiola had known all this within a few days of encountering Antonius, and yet here she was, still meeting him whenever he demanded it. Guilt about her infidelity to Brutus ravaged her, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. The fact that Brutus did not deserve it wasn’t adequate either. Fabiola hated her weakness, but did nothing about it. Deep down, she knew why. The reason she was involved with Antonius was that she was enthralled by his animal magnetism, his brooding presence, and his confident manner. The Master of the Horse was an alpha male from his head to his toes, while Brutus, a decent man through and through, was not. In Antonius’ presence, Fabiola wasn’t always the one in charge. It was a most unusual situation for her and, after so many years of controlling men, she liked it. She relished too how Antonius undressed her with his eyes, the way he ran his hands over her naked body and the feeling when he was deep inside her.

Fabiola dreaded Brutus’ reaction if he discovered her illicit relationship. He didn’t like the Master of the Horse at the best of times and, when aroused, his temper was ferocious. So Fabiola took the most elaborate precautions when meeting Antonius. Smuggling herself out of the brothel with only Vettius or Benignus as protection, she would meet him in discreet inns just outside Rome, or at one of his private residences in the city. Jovina suspected something was going on, but knew better than to ask. Now that she was no longer in charge, none of the slaves or whores would tell her a thing, which cut off her eyes and ears at a stroke. Fabiola was aware how easy it would be for one slave to gossip with another, or a customer. Scandal like her affair would spread faster than the plague, hence the meetings off the brothel’s premises. Docilosa and the two doormen were the only ones who knew the truth. Benignus and Vettius adored Fabiola so much that they did not care what she did, and while Docilosa disapproved, her mind was wholly taken up by Sabina, with whom she had been reunited after her fever abated.

Although Antonius did not talk much about official business during their trysts, inevitably he let the occasional snippet fall. Fabiola pounced
on these gems like a magpie and now knew of more than half a dozen men who were suspected of plotting against Caesar. Many, like Marcus Brutus and Cassius Longinus, were former Republicans who had been pardoned by Caesar after Pharsalus. Their names filled Fabiola’s mind day and night, frustrating her hugely. How could she meet them in private and win them over? By virtue of her sex and former status, Fabiola did not socialise with the nobility that much. Of course Brutus took her to plays, and to feasts, but these were hardly the places for her to foment high treason. What she needed was for those who hated Caesar to walk through the brothel’s door. She scowled. There was little chance of that happening with Scaevola’s blockade in place. It was endlessly frustrating – a vicious circle which had gone on for months. To break it, she would have to broach the subject of the
fugitivarius
with Antonius.

Sudden shouts from the street made Fabiola’s face brighten. Rather than Scaevola or his thugs, it was the sound of excited, drunk citizens. Drawn by the prospect of Caesar’s games, thousands of people were already flooding the capital’s streets. To celebrate his recent victory over Pharnaces in Asia Minor, several weeks of entertainment had been laid on, beginning a couple of days prior. Brutus had been raving about the quality of gladiators who would be fighting. The resulting influx of visitors into the city had seemingly diluted the
fugitivarius
’ ability to affect Fabiola’s business, and in turn that was bringing in more customers. She glanced at the little altar in the corner. Perhaps Mithras or Fortuna might send her some of the nobles Antonius had mentioned.

What about Romulus? she thought guiltily. How could I forget him? Her resolute refusal to believe that her twin was dead had carried her through for years, culminating miraculously with a sight of him in Alexandria. Yet there had been no news of Romulus since. With a civil war in full flow, Caesar’s legions were constantly on the move, and it was proving hard to get any meaningful information from them. The quartermasters and senior officers whom Fabiola’s messengers had contacted were less than cooperative. Busy obtaining supplies and equipment, recruiting new men to replace their losses, and preparing for Caesar’s new campaigns, they had more on their plates than finding one ordinary soldier among thousands. It was not as if Romulus was an unusual name, one centurion had apparently scoffed.

Stuck in Rome, Fabiola had resigned herself to not seeing her brother again until the war was over and Caesar’s troops returned home. If he survived, of course. There was no guarantee that he would. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her. To Fabiola’s shame, resentment followed in its wake. Wasn’t she doing all she could? She still prayed daily for Romulus. Couriers armed with information had been dispatched to every legion in the army. She couldn’t help it if they found nothing. Was it so wrong for her to have some pleasure in the meantime? After all, she wasn’t a Vestal Virgin.

‘Mistress?’

The sound of Docilosa’s voice cut through Fabiola’s reverie. ‘You know not to call me that,’ she said for the thousandth time.

‘Sorry,’ Docilosa replied. ‘Old habits.’ Wearing a hooded cloak, she looked ready to go out.

‘Off to see Sabina?’ Fabiola enquired.

There was a shy grin. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Of course,’ Fabiola replied warmly. ‘Whenever you like.’ Docilosa’s joy over her reunion with Sabina warmed her heart. Pangs of sadness always gripped her at the same time, though. What might it have been like to see her own mother once more after so many years? She would never know. ‘Be careful. Keep your eyes peeled for Scaevola.’

Docilosa lifted her hood. ‘Don’t worry. Vettius won’t let me out until the street’s clear.’ Like all the brothel’s residents, she had grown used to blending into the crowd at once.

Fabiola nodded, her guilt about Romulus and desire to see Antonius returning with a vengeance. She was unaware of her grim expression.

Docilosa didn’t move from her position. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not been yourself in recent days.’

Fabiola forced an unconvincing smile. What was sparking Docilosa’s sudden interest? ‘It’s nothing,’ she muttered.

Her servant raised one eyebrow. ‘Expect me to believe that?’

‘There’s a lot on my mind,’ Fabiola offered. ‘Scaevola’s still about. Business isn’t increasing like it should. My coffers aren’t bottomless.’

‘We’re doing everything that can be done in those departments,’ Docilosa answered stolidly. She studied Fabiola’s face. ‘There’s more than that going on – I can see it in your eyes.’

Fabiola looked down, wishing that her servant would just leave. She was poor at concealing her emotions from Docilosa, and still wasn’t ready to reveal her plan to kill Caesar. Now she had two more dirty secrets – her pleasure in having an affair with Antonius, and her shameful resentment of Romulus. Suddenly these private thoughts seemed too much to bear on her own. Fabiola glanced at Docilosa. ‘I . . .’ she faltered.

‘Tell me,’ Docilosa urged. ‘I’m listening.’

I should explain, thought Fabiola. Every little detail. She’ll understand. She did when I couldn’t cope with the idea of Carrhae any longer. Fabiola’s memory of her meltdown on the very day Brutus had appeared with her
manumissio
was strong. It was Docilosa who had listened and calmed her, before sending Fabiola out to face her lover in what had proved to be the most important meeting of her life. ‘It’s about Caesar,’ she began. ‘And Romulus. And . . .’ Her voice dried up.

Docilosa finished Fabiola’s sentence for her. ‘Marcus Antonius?’

She nodded, unable to miss the stern disapproval in Docilosa’s tone.

There was no time to continue the conversation. A customer had arrived. Speaking a few words to Vettius over his shoulder, he entered. A big, burly man in a plain cloak and tunic, he had a sheathed
gladius
hanging from a belt. It was the mark of a soldier, thought Fabiola. Then he turned towards her, and her stomach turned over. There was no mistaking the determined blue eyes, the long straight nose and the mop of curly brown hair. It was Marcus Antonius.

‘Surprise!’ He half bowed, sending a strong whiff of wine in her direction.

‘Antonius. What are you doing here?’ Fabiola hissed. Her nerves were unravelling fast. Jovina was in the kitchen, but could venture up the corridor at any moment. If the old madam saw him, she would put two and two together in the blink of an eye. ‘You’re drunk,’ she chided, taking his arm and trying to usher him towards the door.

Antonius wouldn’t budge. ‘Might have had a little wine,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

Fabiola hid her impatience. By now, she knew all about his excessive drinking. Antonius was a wild-living soldier who cared nothing for what others thought. He commonly attended political meetings while under the influence, and had even vomited in front of the entire Senate once.
Now his bravado had brought him here, in broad daylight. ‘Are you alone?’ she demanded.

‘Of course.’ He sounded hurt. ‘No
lictores
, no guards. I even left my chariot at home.’ He tugged at his working man’s tunic. ‘Look. Just for you.’

Impressed, she touched his cheek. Antonius’ British war chariot was his pride and joy. So was his fondness for wearing military dress. ‘No one saw you coming in?’

‘I hid my face all the way here,’ he declared, lifting a fold of his cloak dramatically. ‘Only the doorman knows.’

‘Good,’ replied Fabiola, but her worries remained. Even without his coterie of followers, Antonius was recognisable to all. Despite his protestations, he would have been noticed. On the other hand, it was excellent that Scaevola and his men would have seen him enter the Lupanar. They might think twice before attacking it again. But Antonius’ visit was still a double-edged sword. Fabiola couldn’t afford for him to stay longer than the time it would take to be entertained by a prostitute. He’d also have to leave discreetly, or Brutus would hear that the Master of the Horse, his enemy, was frequenting the Lupanar.