The Silver Eagle (43 page)

‘Fabiola!’ hissed Brutus. ‘You exceed yourself.’ She had never seen him so angry.

Suddenly Fabiola felt very sober. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s none of my business – a mere woman.’
What have I said?
Her mind was in complete turmoil. Discretion and stealth were her watchwords. Asking Caesar about a defeat – however rare – that he had suffered was downright foolish. Mithras, Fabiola prayed, forgive me. Do not let this affect Brutus’ friendship with his general.

There was a quiet chuckle.

The sound was so unexpected that for a heartbeat Fabiola did not recognise it. Looking up, she saw Caesar was watching her, and laughing. It was unnerving. Fabiola felt like a mouse caught between the front paws of a cat.

‘What happened was that the men taking part in the surprise attack did not answer my recall,’ revealed Caesar coldly. ‘While some scaled Gergovia’s walls, others pressed home to the gates. Seeing the legionaries were isolated from my main force, the Gauls inside and out regrouped and enveloped them completely.’

‘You soon came to the rescue with the Tenth, sir,’ said Brutus hurriedly.

‘Not before we’d lost seven hundred men,’ replied Caesar. The regret in his voice was obvious. ‘And forty-six centurions.’

Fabiola bent her head, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow her. It didn’t.

Brutus tried to make some small talk, but his attempt failed miserably. Sitting on the same couch, the three others began talking among themselves. It left Brutus and Fabiola facing Caesar, which was unnerving.

‘Your young lover is blessed with an enquiring mind,’ said Caesar loudly a few moments later. ‘An intelligent one for a former slave. And whore.’

Their companions looked suitably surprised by this revelation.

Brutus clenched his jaw, but refrained from speaking.

Fabiola burned with embarrassment and shame. Yet it was to be expected that Caesar knew everything about her. She waited, wishing with all her heart that time could be turned back.

‘Such ability is sometimes a good thing,’ Caesar went on. ‘But often it is not. Combined with such beauty, a woman might achieve much. Gain influence over powerful people.’

‘I see, sir,’ Brutus replied, avoiding eye contact.

‘Keep the girl on a close leash,’ Caesar said sourly. He turned his piercing gaze on Fabiola.

She quailed, but did not look away.

‘Or I might be forced to.’ With this, he fell silent. His granite-hard expression revealed more than any words could.

‘Rome must beware of Caesar,’ the druid had warned.

So must she.

Chapter XXII: News

More than two years pass . . .

Cana, on the Arabian coast, winter 50
BC

T
he pirates were in pensive mood as the ship slipped between a pair of imposing towers and into Cana’s imposing stone-walled harbour. The
olibanum
and tortoise shells they had plundered were hidden in the hold, and their weapons were concealed underneath rolls of spare canvas on the deck. Anything more than a cursory search, however, would discover their status. Although well able to fight, the thirty corsairs were vastly outnumbered by the soldiers patrolling the battlements above.

Eyeing the vigilant sentries, Romulus also felt uneasy. His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that, with one exception, neither he nor Tarquinius trusted a single one of their comrades. Mustafa, the greasy-haired giant who had nearly drowned by the dock in Barbaricum, was now his devoted follower, but the rest were hard-bitten sailors or murderous ex-slaves from India and the shores of the Erythraean Sea, every shade of brown and black under the sun. The toughest and most treacherous of them all was Ahmed, the Nubian captain. Unfortunately, he also held their fate in his hands. Yet, through a combination of guile and luck, they had survived this far.

Tarquinius nudged Romulus as they glided past the towers and anxious muttering rippled among the crew. They all had good reason to be concerned: a row of men’s heads, bloodied and decaying, was prominently displayed on spikes above the nearby battlements. It was a very pointed warning by the ruling powers of Cana to all those who entered the port.

‘Pirates probably,’ said the haruspex in a low voice.

‘Us, in other words,’ replied Romulus, glancing his friend up and down and imagining how he must look himself. The burning hot sun had turned any exposed skin a deep mahogany colour. Like the rest of the crew, Romulus went about the deck in nothing but a loincloth, his feet hard and calloused. His hair had grown long and unkempt and lay in thick black waves, framing his handsome face, which was largely covered by a beard. He was now a fully grown, mature man of twenty. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his dark skin, revealing the scars of battle. On Romulus’ upper right arm, covering the mark where his slave brand had been, was a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull.

During their time aboard, Tarquinius had revealed many details about the warrior religion. Its tenets of courage, honour and truth appealed immensely to Romulus, as did the equality between devotees. He had taken to Mithraicism with gusto, finding it helped with his grief for Brennus. Romulus prayed daily now; having the tattoo was another way of showing his devotion. And if they ever reached Rome, it would hide the irregularly healed scar that had caused so much trouble in Margiana.

Rome, he thought longingly.

‘We need to keep a low profile here,’ said Tarquinius grimly, bringing Romulus back to Cana.

Ahmed also looked concerned, but weeks of sailing off the barren Arabian coast meant that their stocks of food and water were running low. The risk they were taking was a necessary one.

Dozens of dhows similar to their own were tied up side by side with larger merchant ships. Their sterns moved gently as they pulled on the anchors holding them to the sandy harbour floor. On a long quay, men scurried to and fro with bulging sacks, helping to load the vessels. Noises carried across the water: shouted orders from merchants; a woman laughing; mules braying with indignation.

Sitting at one end of the harbour was a menacing fortress, bigger than any they had seen since Barbaricum. Its walls were patrolled by even more soldiers in conical helmets and armed with spears and recurved bows.

‘There must be plenty to protect here,’ said Ahmed, jerking his head at the imposing structure. His gold earrings shook with the movement. The broad-nosed, full-lipped Nubian had a muscular build, and his ebony skin was covered with a fine latticework of whitened scars. A wide-bladed cutlass was shoved into his belt, its blade spotted with rust and darker stains.

‘Cana is one of the main towns in southern Arabia,’ replied Tarquinius. ‘The
olibanum
grown for miles around is carried in by camel. Once sold, it is transported to Egypt.’

Egypt! Romulus struggled to contain the excitement bubbling up inside him. Reaching this port felt like a real milestone. They were nearer Rome now than at any time since Carrhae.

The Nubian’s face also lit up. ‘Plenty of vessels to take west of here, then.’

Tarquinius’ dark eyes glinted with satisfaction at Ahmed’s enthusiasm for continuing the voyage. Thank you, Mithras. You have brought us this far, he thought. Let our journey continue without mishap.

Offered the chance to join the pirates after Romulus’ rescue of Mustafa, the two friends had accepted with alacrity. It had seemed like a ticket home, and compared to the other option – execution – had not been difficult to accept. But the reality of life aboard the dhow had been very different, and its range extremely confined. While the merchantmen, their prey, sailed hundreds of miles to and from India, the corsairs preferred not to stray far from their base, a swampy island in the Indus delta. Generally there was no need, with well-laden ships plying the seas around Barbaricum on a constant basis. After two long years, Ahmed had only sailed west with the monsoon because the pickings near Barbaricum had grown lean.

Romulus had been secretly ecstatic, and even the reticent Tarquinius was pleased.

As they drew close to the jetty, a stout man clad in clean white robes took notice and began shouting in their direction. Clutching a tablet and stylus in his hands, he impatiently waved the dhow into a mooring place.

‘The harbourmaster,’ said Tarquinius. ‘A good source of information.’

‘And lies,’ advised Ahmed as they tied up alongside a broad-bellied merchant vessel. ‘Watch what you say in this town. That goes for all of you.’ He glared.

The crew nodded. They had already seen the summary justice on offer here.

‘Once the harbour dues have been paid, the ship must be reprovisioned,’ said Ahmed. ‘I need six men for that.’

Reluctant to delay their excursion to shore, everyone looked at the deck.

Unperturbed, the captain simply picked the pirates nearest him; Romulus, Tarquinius and Mustafa were lucky enough to avoid the duty.

‘The rest of you can do as you wish, but I want no trouble. Take no swords ashore. Only knives.’ Ahmed held up a warning finger. ‘Any man who isn’t back one hour before nightfall will be left behind.’

Wide grins split the faces of those who were about to spend a day on dry land. It had been many weeks since they had drunk alcohol or visited a brothel. The fact that it was still early morning would not stop any of them. The pirates to be left on board looked suitably miserable.

Romulus considered wearing the mail shirt he’d bought in Barbaricum, but settled for just his ragged military tunic. Too much attention would be drawn to the rusty armour. Feeling naked without a weapon, he attached his dagger to his belt. Tarquinius did likewise. After a bout of sunstroke the previous year, he had finally stopped wearing his hide breastplate, but, stubborn to the last, the ageing haruspex still refused to exchange his leather-bordered skirt for a loincloth. Following the rest, the two friends pulled themselves on to the next boat and made their way towards the jetty. Like a faithful puppy, Mustafa followed. By now, Romulus did not even try and stop him.

Endless varieties of goods were piled on the timber dock. Bales of purple fabric were stacked beside heaps of tortoise shells, large sheets of copper and planks of hardwood. Rich smells wafted through the humid air from mounds of open-necked cloth bags. Prospective buyers dipped their hands in to taste and smell the spices and incense on offer.

‘
Olibanum
and myrrh and cinnabar,’ breathed Tarquinius, his eyes shining. ‘What is sitting right there would make us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams.’

‘There are no guards,’ said Romulus in amazement.

‘They’ve got that.’ Tarquinius glanced at the fortress. ‘And there was a chain at the harbour mouth that could be pulled up to stop ships leaving.’

Romulus felt his unease grow.

The haruspex seemed comfortable though, and he quickly forgot about it. After so long at sea, being in a town felt exhilarating.

They pushed their way off the quay and on to Cana’s narrow dirt streets, which were lined with primitively built three- and four-storey-high mud-brick houses. The ground floors were occupied by shops, much as they were in Rome. Butchers plied their trade side by side with carpenters, barbers, metalworkers and sellers of meat, fruit and other food.

Except for half-dressed prostitutes beckoning suggestively from doorways, not many women were to be seen. The most numerous men were brown-skinned Arabs in their distinctive white robes, but there were many Indians in loincloths and turbans as well. There was a scattering of Judaeans and Phoenicians, and also some black men, noticeable for their aristocratic faces and high cheekbones.

Romulus nudged Tarquinius. ‘They’re very different looking to Ahmed.’

‘They are from Azania, far to the south of Egypt. Their women are said to be incredibly beautiful.’

‘Let’s find a whorehouse with some then,’ growled Mustafa. ‘I haven’t had a fuck in an age!’

‘A tavern first,’ said Romulus, his thirst winning out. ‘Off the beaten track.’

Tarquinius nodded and Mustafa did not argue.

The trio made their way off the main streets, and the shop fronts soon became smaller and grimier. Brothels became plentiful, and Mustafa’s eyes grew lustful. Urchins in dirty rags homed in, clamouring for coins. Keeping a hand on his purse, Romulus ignored them. Distastefully he picked his way past the human waste thrown from the windows above.

Tarquinius laughed. ‘Just like Rome, eh?’

Romulus curled his lip. ‘It smells the same all right.’

A moment later, they stumbled upon a dingy, open-fronted inn which would meet their purpose. Sand was scattered on the floor to absorb spilt alcohol, or blood. Small tables and rickety chairs were the only furniture. The dim light inside came from a few guttering lamps hanging from the low ceiling. Most of the customers were Arabs, although there was a smattering of other nationalities. Romulus fought his way to the wooden bar while Tarquinius and Mustafa secured a table in the corner. There were many curious glances, but nobody addressed him, which suited Romulus. Sitting down soon after, however, with a jug and three clay cups, he could feel eyes burning holes in the back of his tunic. Unobtrusively, Romulus loosened his dagger in its sheath.

Oblivious, Tarquinius tasted the wine. Instantly his face screwed up. ‘Tastes like horse piss mixed with poor quality
acetum
.’

‘It’s all they’ve got,’ retorted Romulus. ‘Expensive too, so drink up.’

Mustafa laughed and drained his beaker in a single swallow. ‘Finding a whore will be more productive. I’m going to check out those brothels,’ he said. ‘Be all right on your own?’

‘We’ll be fine.’ Romulus glanced round the room, seeing no immediate danger. ‘See you back here.’

Mustafa bobbed his head and vanished.

After a time, the wine began to taste a little better. Romulus raised his cup in a silent toast to Brennus. During his time on the dhow, there had been plenty of time to relive the Gaul’s last gift to him. Over time, the pain had lessened and while Romulus still felt regret, he also recognised the great debt he owed to Brennus. He would not be sitting here now if his friend hadn’t sacrificed himself. Romulus was sure that Mithras would have approved of Brennus’ actions.

Thoughts of home also filled his mind. With a warm glow in his belly, Romulus imagined how he might feel at the sight of Rome and of Fabiola. And even of Julia, the barmaid he’d met on that last fateful night in the capital.

‘Welcome to Cana,’ someone said in Latin.

Romulus almost choked on a mouthful of wine. Red-faced, he looked up at the speaker.

A tall, long-jawed man with short hair had approached from a nearby table. His companions, three heavily built men wearing swords, remained seated.

‘Do I know you?’ Tarquinius asked coolly.

‘No, friend,’ said the stranger, raising his hands peaceably. ‘We’ve not met before.’