Romulus breathed in cool desert air. He had grown quite used to his friend's tendency to only partially answer questions. Although Tarquinius' reticence was frustrating, most of his predictions had been correct so far, forcing the young man to start believing what he said. If the Nabataeans left, the army's only defence against the Parthians would be the irregular cavalry and each soldier's scutum, and both had already been shown to be ineffective. It was a sobering thought.
He watched Tarquinius gaze silently at the stars, sure that the soothsayer knew what was going to happen.
Increasingly Romulus thought he did as well.
Chapter XXII: Politics
Campus Martius, Rome, summer 53 BC
While the nobles smiled and nodded, the crowd yelled with anticipation. Brutus' face stayed neutral. The wooden steps creaked as hobnailed caligae clattered up. Burly legionaries in full armour appeared, gazing round suspiciously. Satisfied there was no threat, one beckoned to the men at the foot of the stairs. Several senior military officers, resplendent in gilt breastplates and red cloaks, preceded Pompey. It was all designed to impress. Shouts of approval filled the arena as the tribunes acknowledged the people.
'Pompey is on a mission,' whispered Brutus. 'To remain more popular than Caesar and Crassus. With all the unrest in the city, he 's plotting to become sole consul.'
'Can he do that?'
It was one of Rome's most sacred laws that power should always be shared between two men. And although the consulships had been monopolised by the triumvirate and their allies for years, no one had dared to promote any other change.
Smiling at those around them, Brutus pressed his lips against her ear. 'Of course,' he said quietly. 'He 's deliberately letting the violence from the street gangs spiral out of control. Soon the Senate will have no option but to offer him power. With Crassus in the east, no one else has the soldiers.'
Fabiola made a face. In her lover's eyes there was only one man to lead the Republic.
Caesar. Who was stuck in Gaul, mopping up pockets of tribal resistance.
There was a last clamour from the trumpets. Everyone waited in silence for the master of ceremonies to stand forth.
'Citizens of Rome!'
Loud cheers split the air.
'I give you — the editor of these games! Pom-pey Mag-nus!'
As the praise for Pompey went on and on, Brutus rolled his eyes.
Yet the crude tactic worked. The audience went wild.
A stocky man of medium height with a thick fringe of white hair emerged into the box. His round face was dominated by prominent eyes and a squashed, bulbous nose. Unlike his officers, Pompey wore a white purpleedged toga, mark of the equestrian class. It did not yet pay for leaders to appear in military dress in Rome.
'But Pompey is a canny soldier,' added Brutus. 'It'll be a close match when he comes up against Caesar.'
Fabiola turned to him. 'Civil war?' There had been rumours for months.
'Be quiet!' hissed Brutus. 'Do not say those words in public.'
Pompey moved to stand where all could see and raised his right arm, waving slowly to the citizens. When the rapturous applause died down, he took his seat on a purple cushion in the front row.
Moments later, the final pair of gladiators walked on to the sand below. It was a long, skilful contest to the death between a secutor and a retiarius. Even Fabiola had to admire the lethal display of martial skill. While watching, she prayed silently that the big Gaul was still with her brother, would protect him from danger. Where they were, the gods only knew.
Brutus explained their moves as the two well-matched men lunged and slashed at each other. To compensate for his lack of armour, the fisherman was more experienced than the secutor, who could defend himself against trident thrusts with his shield. The retiarius had only speed and agility to avoid his opponent's razor-sharp blade.
Time passed and finally the fisherman drew first blood, a wily throw half covering the secutor with his weighted net. Instantly the trident swept forward, plunging deep into the other's right thigh.
Thinking the end was near, the crowd roared.
Desperately the hunter threw himself forward as the barbed prongs ripped clear of his flesh. Groaning in pain, he reached up with his sword and slashed the retiarius across the belly as he fell.
His opponent also slumped to his knees.
Blood dripped on to the sand from both men.
There was a pause while the two wounded fighters dragged air into their chests, struggling for the energy to continue. People in the audience screamed encouragement, throwing pieces of bread and fruit at them. The secutor was first to stand, throwing off the net and raising his weapon. With a struggle, the retiarius also got up, holding his stomach with one hand, gory trident with the other.
'It will be over soon,' said Brutus, pointing. Both were clearly badly hurt.
Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining Romulus.
The staff officer leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the portly man in front. 'Ten thousand sestertii on the retiarius, Fabius,' he said, his eyes glinting.
Fabius half turned, an amazed look on his red face. 'His guts are about to fall out, Brutus!'
'Scared to lose?'
'You're on,' laughed Fabius and the pair gripped forearms.
Fabiola pouted and caressed Brutus' neck. 'You're wasting money,' she whispered in his ear.
He winked. 'Never underestimate a fisherman — especially a wounded one.'
Although the secutor could not move fast, he was still armed with sword and shield. Shuffling after the retiarius, he cut and slashed rapidly, parrying occasional trident thrusts with little difficulty. The fisherman made sporadic attempts to retrieve his net but was blocked every time. He seemed quite weak, barely fending off the hunter's aggressive efforts.
Different sections of the crowd shouted their support for each man. Typically, most were backing the fighter who seemed more likely to win.
The secutor.
Watching intently, Brutus stayed quiet amidst the clamour. Fabiola held on to his arm, wishing she could stop the barbaric display and save a man's life.
Weakened by his injury, the retiarius slowed even further and the hunter redoubled his efforts, trying to get in a mortal blow. Tiring himself out, he paused for a moment, confident the other would not attack. The fisherman groaned and blood oozed from between his fingers.
Silence fell on the arena.
The audience held its breath as the secutor prepared to end the fight.
Suddenly the retiarius gasped and looked over his enemy's shoulder. Confused, the hunter's gaze turned away for a single heartbeat.
It was enough.
The armoured fighter spun back, eyes widening in horror as the trident drove deep into his throat. Hanging off the sharp tines, he made a loud choking noise and dropped both sword and shield. The fisherman quickly released his weapon and let the dead man fall to the sand. Swaying gently, he received the crowd's approval with glazed eyes before collapsing on top of his opponent.
Brutus was delighted. 'The oldest trick in the book,' he crowed, poking Fabius in the back.
The fat noble grimaced at the unexpected turn of events. 'A slave will bring you the money in the morning,' he muttered with poor grace before turning back to his companions.
Fabiola's eyes were drawn to the retiarius, who was still lying across the dead secutor. No one else even gave him a glance. He was a slave. 'Will he live?' she asked anxiously.