The druid beckoned to her. ‘Do you still grieve as before?’ he whispered.
An involuntary sob rose in Fabiola’s throat, and she nodded. Mother. Romulus.
He grunted with pain, and Fabiola instinctively reached out to grip one of his gnarled, bloody hands. There was little else she could do.
His next words rocked her world.
‘You had a brother. A soldier who went to the east.’
It was all Fabiola could do not to break down completely. ‘Have you seen him?’
He nodded. ‘On a great battlefield, fighting against a mighty host with massive grey monsters in its midst.’
Romulus was in my vision! Fabiola glanced around at Secundus.
Unsurprisingly, he was beaming. Mithras had spoken through her.
Exultant, Fabiola calmed herself. ‘Is he still alive?’
Her words hung in the sultry air.
‘Rome must beware of Caesar.’
Angry snarls met this comment, and the legionaries pressed forward with ready swords. But the old man’s expression had already gone glazed, his eyes unfocused.
‘Is Romulus alive?’ Fabiola squeezed his fingers, to no avail.
A last rattling breath escaped the druid’s lips, and then his body went limp.
‘Good riddance,’ growled the ringleader. ‘Our general is the only man fit to lead the Republic.’ He hawked and spat, before skulking off. His comrades did likewise. There was no sport left here, and by leaving quickly, they would escape punishment. Finding nondescript legionaries like them amidst an army was almost impossible.
Uncaring, Fabiola sagged down, drained of all energy.
There would be no revelation about Romulus.
How was she to bear it?
Chapter XX: Barbaricum
Barbaricum, on the Indian Ocean, summer 52 BC
Squatting by the edge of the rough-hewn wooden dock, Romulus spat angrily into the sea. The journey south had aged him. There were dark rings of exhaustion under his blue eyes and a light growth of stubble covered his jaw. His black hair had grown longer. Although he did not know it, Romulus was now an imposing sight. His military tunic might be ragged and dirty, but his height, heavily muscled arms and legs and sheathed gladius marked him out as a man not to cross.
Tarquinius’ gaze fell away from the men he had been watching. He took in Romulus’ mood at a glance. ‘Brennus chose his own fate,’ he said quietly. ‘You could not stop him.’
Unsurprised at his mind being read, Romulus did not answer. Instead he watched the mixture of objects floating in the water with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. Typical of any large port, there were rotting fish heads, broken pieces of timber, small pieces of discarded fishing net and over-ripe fruit bobbing about between the wooden hulls of the moored ships.
The shouts and cries of merchants, stallholders, slave-dealers and their prospective customers filled the warm, salty air. Just a hundred paces away was part of the immense market which formed the basis for Barbaricum’s existence. Despite the oppressive temperatures and high humidity, the place was thronged. Bearded traders in turbans were selling indigo, different varieties of pepper and other spices from open sacks. Naked except for their chains, scores of men, women and children stood miserably on blocks, waiting like so many cattle. Neat piles of tortoiseshell were stacked higher than a man. Polished tusks lying in pairs were mute evidence that not every elephant became a beast of war. Trestle tables were covered in pieces of turquoise, lapis lazuli, agate and other semi-precious stones. There was silk yarn and cloth, cotton in bales and sheets of finely woven muslin. It was a veritable cornucopia.
But the ships that would carry all these goods away were of more interest to Romulus and Tarquinius. Tied up in their dozens, shallow-draughted fishing boats with small single masts knocked gently against larger merchant vessels with neatly reefed sails. Many of the craft were of unfamiliar shape to Romulus, but the haruspex had mentioned feluccas and native galleys. Here and there he saw sharp-prowed, lateen-rigged ships, their armed, unsavoury-looking crews eyeing each other warily. These were not honest traders. Without a bronze ram or banks of oars, the dhows still reminded him of Roman triremes. Of fighting ships.
It was a group of men from one of these that Tarquinius was studying intently.
But what did it matter anyway? Once more, Romulus’ misery settled over him like a cloak. He briefly considered letting himself fall in, to sink beneath the slick, greasy surface. Then his guilt might end.
‘It is not your fault that he died,’ said the haruspex softly.
The words sprang to Romulus’ lips unbidden. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘It’s yours.’