The Silver Eagle (14 page)

At first, little was said by anyone the next morning. It was cold and miserable, and marching while carrying full kit was not easy. While the men were well able for the task, it was necessary to get into a good rhythm. Inevitably, Gordianus began to sing. Smiles broke out as the tune was recognised, a familiar ditty involving a sex-starved legionary and every whore in a large brothel. There were endless verses and a bawdy chorus to roar at the end of each. The soldiers were happy to join in: it passed the time, which often dragged on such patrols.

Normally Romulus enjoyed singing the refrain, with its countless sexual positions and innuendos. Today, though, he was gloomily imagining what might happen during the patrol. If they encountered any trouble, Novius could use the opportunity to strike. In the midst of a pitched battle, it was all too easy to stab a man in the back without anyone noticing.

Brennus’ nudge darkened his mood even further. They had reached a crossroads five miles from the fort; the Gaul was pointing at a crucifix that stood on a small mound to one side. Pacorus had ordered it positioned so that all who passed would see it. Like those outside the front gates, the cross had just two purposes: to slowly kill condemned men, and to give graphic warning of the punishments at Parthia’s disposal.

The crucifixes were rarely empty. Falling asleep on duty, disobeying an order or angering Pacorus: all were common reasons for legionaries to die on the simple wooden structures. Even Parthian warriors who incurred his wrath were sometimes executed in this manner.

Gordianus’ voice died away, his song unfinished.

Romulus closed his eyes, trying not to imagine himself and Brennus ending their lives in such a way. With Pacorus’ life hanging in the balance, it was still a distinct possibility – if Novius and his lot didn’t do the job first.

Despite the early hour, there were carrion birds clustered all around the crucifix: on the ground, on the horizontal crossbar, even on the lifeless shoulders of their prey. Bare-headed vultures pecked irritably at each other while ravens darted in opportunistically to take what they could. Overhead, the huge wingspans of eagles could be seen, gliding serenely in anticipation of a good meal.

By now, everyone’s gaze was on the frozen corpse that sagged forward, its head hanging. Thick ropes were tied around the dead man’s arms and long iron nails pierced his feet. Everyone knew him: it was a young legionary from Ishkan’s cohort who had been caught stealing bread from the ovens two days before. Dragged on to the
intervallum
before the whole legion, he had first been beaten with flails until his tunic was shredded and his back a red, bleeding ruin. Then, naked except for a loincloth, the wretch was forced to carry his cross from the fort to the lonely crossroads. Ten men from every cohort had accompanied him as witnesses. By the time they had reached the desolate spot, his torn, bare feet were blue with cold. This was not enough to dull the pain of the sharp nails being driven through them.

Romulus vividly remembered the man’s thin, cracked screams.

Around him, the other legionaries’ faces were full of dull resentment – except those of Novius and his friends, who were laughing behind cupped hands.

Darius, their stout senior centurion, sensed the bad feeling and urged his men to march faster. They needed little encouragement. As the soldiers came alongside, the nearest vultures lifted their bloated bodies into the air with lazy wing beats. Others further away just waddled out of reach. In the depths of winter, food was hard to come by, and the birds were reluctant to leave this ready feast. There would be no let-up until a skeleton hung from the cross.

Romulus could not tear his gaze away from the frozen body. The only part to remain inviolate was its groin, covered by the loincloth. Empty eye sockets stared into nothingness; peck marks covered its cheeks, chest and arms. Its mouth was open in a last, silent rictus of pain and terror. Half-torn-off strips of flesh hung uneaten from its thighs, where the largest muscles were. Even its feet had been chewed, probably by a resourceful jackal standing on its hind legs. Had the man been alive when the vultures first landed? Felt the sensation of breaking bone as powerful jaws closed on his frozen toes?

It was revolting, but compelling.

Romulus blinked.

Beneath the horror, there was more.

Over the previous weeks, there had been time to study the air currents and the cloud formations over the fort. Romulus had become meticulous, noting every bird and animal, observing the pattern of snowfall and the way ice formed on the river that flowed past the fort. Having watched Tarquinius, he knew that literally everything could be important, could provide some information. It frustrated him immensely that little seemed to make sense. But by following the haruspex’ instructions, predicting the weather had at last became simple enough. Of course this was of interest but Romulus wanted to know far more than when the next storm would strike. Annoyingly, though, he had seen nothing about Tarquinius, Pacorus or Novius and the other veterans. Nothing useful.

Now perhaps, there was an opportunity.

Romulus focused again on the corpse.

A single, shocking image of Rome flashed before his eyes. Suddenly he felt a real link to Italy, as if the savagery of the crucifixion had been a form of sacrifice. Was this what happened when the haruspex killed hens or goats? Real awareness surged through Romulus for the first time.

He saw the familiar sights of the Forum Romanum: the Senate House, the
basilicae
, the distinctive temples and statues of the gods. Normal activities here included trading, money lending and the announcement of court judgements. Not today. Romulus frowned, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Horrifyingly, in the heart of the city, there was rioting. In front of the Senate itself, men were cutting and slashing each other to pieces. Among them, innocent civilians were being killed in their dozens. Bloody, mutilated bodies lay piled everywhere. Bizarrely, some of the combatants even looked like gladiators. Stunned, Romulus could not take it in. How could the capital of the greatest state in the world descend into such chaos? Was his mind playing tricks? Was he going mad? His need to go home had never been stronger, or seemed more unlikely.

A great arm clapped him on the back, bringing Romulus back to his senses.

‘We can’t help the poor fool now,’ said Brennus, sadly regarding the frozen corpse. ‘Forget about him.’

Romulus’ mouth opened with surprise, then he realised. The Gaul had no idea what he had seen. He was about to tell Brennus when something made him look over his shoulder.

Novius was waiting for his chance and immediately half raised both arms, mimicking the crucified man.

Miserably, Romulus turned away, the little legionary’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears. The world was going crazy.

Chapter VI: Chaos Descends

Rome, winter 53/52
BC

F
abiola struggled not to lose her footing as the crowd pressed forward; only Tullius’ firm grip on her arm kept her upright. The other bodyguards had also been swallowed up by the rapidly moving mass of people. Occasionally Fabiola caught sight of their confused faces, but for the most part she concentrated on what the gang members were saying. It seemed the ambush at the inn had taken them all by surprise. Traitors in their midst were suspected and dire threats being made against any who might have been involved. The thugs would not rest until Clodius’ death had been thoroughly avenged.

Fabiola could sense more than a desire for retribution in the angry words filling the air. The men brandishing weapons around her were all plebeians. Poor, uneducated, malnourished. They lived in overcrowded, rat-infested flats and were destined to live short, miserable lives with almost no chance of betterment. In many ways their lives were little different to those of slaves. Yet they were Roman citizens. Mob rule offered them something more. Power. Respect from those who normally looked down on them. Money from the people they robbed. They risked death, certainly, but it was worth it to gain these things that would otherwise never be theirs. It was therefore no surprise that both Clodius and Milo had enormous followings. But Fabiola could see that the rabble’s methods were short-sighted. If anarchy reigned, there would be no
congiaria
, the free distributions of grain and money that kept the poorest families alive. They would simply starve.

The crowd’s pulsing anger did not appeal either. Fabiola only had to look at the blameless and terrified captives to know that such uncontrolled violence affected the innocent as well as the guilty. Whatever the monstrosities perpetuated by the Republic, it was still an institution which provided a framework for a more peaceful society than that which had gone before. Innocent people were not killed out of hand by the state for the contents of their purses. Yet that would become the norm once more if mobs like this assumed control.

It did not take long to reach the Forum Romanum. Bordered by numerous temples and shrines, it was home to the Senate building and the
basilicae
, massive covered markets that were normally jammed with tradesmen, lawyers, scribes and soothsayers. It was the busiest place in the city, a location dear to the heart of every citizen. Public meetings were commonly held here, as were trials and some elections. Events which happened in the Forum tended to be remembered, which was precisely why it had been chosen for Clodius’ wake.

Today, the
basilicae
were quiet and virtually empty. The usual wall of sound comprised of merchants’ voices, lawyers arguing and food vendors competing with each other was absent. In its place were the hollow shouts of the bravest shopkeepers, those who had actually dared to open up their stalls. For weeks there had been few honest folk about. Most traders, lawmakers and salesmen stayed safely at home. Even the wily haruspices were not to be seen. With constant violence the only business on offer, there had been little reason to risk their lives. The nobles and well-to-do were also absent, secure in their thick-walled houses.

They would not be safe there for long, thought Fabiola, eyeing the angry, chattering men around her.

Although the rich were not present, the open space of the Forum was crowded with plebeians drawn, despite the threat of conflict today. Word of Clodius’ death had spread through the crowded suburbs faster than the plague. Terrified of the future offered by the rival gangs, Rome’s citizens still wanted to watch it unfold. Seismic events like this were rare. Not since Sulla, ‘the butcher’, marched on the capital more than thirty years before had there been such a threat to democracy. For all its faults, the Republic generally ran quite smoothly. But now it felt like a rudderless ship caught in rough seas.

The best vantage points – the steps to the
basilicae
and all the shrines – were jammed. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, craning their necks to see. Even the statues were covered in spectators. In contrast, the central area was clear. Bloodshed was inevitable and anyone caught in the middle would risk being killed.

Claiming the moral high ground, Milo stood in front of the Senate, dressed in an immaculate white toga. A handsome, clean-shaven figure, he was surrounded by scores of his men, many of whom were gladiators. The dramatic implication was impossible to miss. Here stood the defender of Rome, waiting to repel those who sought to tear it down. Attempting to give divine approval to his cause, a group of priests had been prominently deployed on the Senate steps. Chanting, burning incense and raising their hands to the heavens, the white-robed men would 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
murmillones
in their characteristic bronze fish-crested helmets, their right shoulders covered in mail. Beside Samnites with plumed helmets and elongated, oval shields was a group of
secutores
. Fabric and leather
manicae
protected their right shoulders while a single greave covered each man’s left leg. Even the
retiarii
, fishermen armed only with a trident and net, were present. The massed ranks of trained killers made a fearsome sight.

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.
Very well. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, do what you will.

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.
Jupiter, protect your people and your city.

‘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.