Was Brennus still alive?

Near Ostia, late summer 46 BC The breeze strengthened, billowing the trireme's main sail and increasing its speed, forcing it through the water and raising a decent bow wave. The rate of the pounding drum on the rowing deck did not vary, however. The three banks of oars on each side continued to move in unison at the normal rate – about half the speed of a man's heartbeat. Graceful to look at, it was hot, cramped and backbreaking work for the oarsmen. Standing near the prow in just his belted tunic and caligae, Romulus gave thanks once more that he'd never had to serve in the navy. Although the rowers were free men, in his mind their job was far worse than being a legionary. Physically more demanding than the marching and fighting expected of soldiers, the career of a rower also offered the distinct possibility of drowning. Triremes were excellent vessels in the relative calm of waters close to land, but they were death-traps in bad weather or on the open ocean. Romulus could still remember the numerous ships lost on his voyage to Asia Minor with Crassus' army. Caesar's fleet had not been immune either.

That was all in the past, though. It was late summer, and the ten triremes had nearly reached Ostia, Rome's port. Joy filled Romulus. He was returning home, and as a citizen! It scarcely seemed possible, but he'd had time to let the reality sink in on the voyage from Africa. Taking a peek at the two gold phalerae lying in his pack helped too – after all, they were awards which only a citizen could receive. The second had been awarded after he'd saved Sabinus from the elephant. Romulus grinned at the memory of what Caesar had said as he'd pinned the decoration on his chest. 'Trying to win the war all on your own, comrade?'

Of course it hadn't been all Romulus' doing, but the campaign in Africa was over, ended in one day by the victory at Thapsus. After several months of cleaning up-operations, Caesar was returning to the capital to celebrate his conquests with not one, but four triumphs. In a massive propaganda stroke, one was to take place for each of his campaigns in Gaul, Egypt, Asia Minor and Africa. A grateful Senate had declared forty days of public thanksgiving for the dictator's latest victory while pretending that it had been over the Numidian king, not Scipio and a huge number of prominent Republicans. No mention was being made either of Caesar's first success over other Romans: Pharsalus, where his legions had thrashed twice their number under the command of Pompey.

Romulus stared excitedly at the coastline which was running along their starboard side, still amazed that he and Sabinus were accompanying Caesar back to Italy. Yet they were, along with a special century of legionaries. After Thapsus, the legates of all ten legions had each been asked to put forward eight soldiers. The eighty men were to form part of Caesar's honour guard for his triumphs, and were positions of the highest standing. Throughout the army the competition was fierce to win a place. As battle-hardened, frontline officers, the centurions and senior centurions were best placed to judge, and so the legates had referred the matter to them.

There had been plenty of witnesses to Romulus' incredible rescue of Sabinus and of course the pair had previously taken part in the attack on Petreius. Consequently Atilius fought hard to have both included as part of the Twenty-Eighth's quota. His stubbornness won the day, and along with four other legionaries, an optio and a signifer, the two friends were ordered to join the ships carrying Caesar back to Italy. Meanwhile, the majority of the army was embarking for Hispania, where Pompey's two sons were reputed to be raising a huge army among the discontented tribes.

That was where the honour guard would be heading after the triumphs. Caesar had told them so himself before they sailed from Africa. This would be a short visit to Italy then, with little free time to search for Fabiola or Gemellus. Romulus tried not to feel bitter about that. There was Sabinus, playing dice on the deck with three others, who would not see his family at all. Their comrades' stories were similar. Few men, if any, had seen their homes in years. Why should I be any different? thought Romulus. Catching sight of Caesar's red cloak on the deck of the lead trireme, he thought guiltily of the enormous honour he was being shown to be here. What right had he to expect anything other than a new military campaign when the celebrations were over? He was nothing but an ordinary legionary, and as such had to do what he was told until the day, if he survived, his service came to an end.

Romulus knew that there was more to his discontent than a simple desire to quit the legions. Guilt about his feat against the elephant ruled him entirely. Months had passed, and he still obsessed about it on a daily basis. The realisation that he could not only emerge unharmed from an encounter with such a beast, but save Sabinus as well, gnawed at Romulus' insides like a malignant parasite. It could never be proved, but Brennus might have done the same in India as he, Romulus, had at Thapsus. If only Tarquinius were here, Romulus wished. He might be able to glean some information from the wind or clouds. Even a hint would help. But who knew where the haruspex was? He sighed, unwilling since Margiana to make an attempt himself. Tarquinius was long gone, which meant that he had to live with the doubt about Brennus. That was worse than thinking his big friend was dead.

As always, any thought of the haruspex was tinged with suspicion. Could he have known of Brennus' potential to beat an elephant? Romulus wasn't sure. Any time he and Tarquinius had talked about it, there had been no sense of the haruspex withholding information. Not that that meant a thing. Tarquinius was a master of concealment.

Stop it, Romulus thought. Whatever the haruspex was, he wasn't evil. The look on his face in Alexandria had convinced Romulus that he hadn't actually known how his murder of Rufus Caelius would affect others. With his belief system that a man should decide his own fate, it would not have been for Tarquinius to stop Brennus facing his own death either. While Romulus' guilt remained strong, he felt the same way about destiny.

'Ostia ahoy!' shouted the lookout.

Romulus buried his worries for now.

He was nearly home. Fabiola glared at the dead hen lying before her. Its throat had been cut, and its entrails carefully laid out on the ground for inspection. 'Tell me again,' she demanded.

'Of course, Mistress,' the soothsayer said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down uneasily in his scrawny neck. Stoop-shouldered in his grubby robe, the soothsayer wore a typical blunt-peaked leather hat. A short knife with a bloody, rust-spotted blade dangled from his right hand. Pointing with it, he repeated his prophecy. 'You will find a husband soon. A big man with brown hair. A soldier perhaps?' The soothsayer shot a sly glance at Fabiola, trying to assess her response. 'Or maybe he's a noble.' He smiled, revealing a mouthful of decay.

'Liar!' Fabiola spat. 'Antonius will never marry me. What do you take me for – one of your usual gullible fools?'

Startled, the soothsayer busied himself with the hen's intestines again, poking a dirty fingernail here and there in search of wisdom. This was a consultation he was already wishing was over, but there would be no end to it until he came up with something convincing.

Her nostrils flaring, Fabiola sat drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. They were alone in the courtyard of the Lupanar. She'd been recommended this idiot by a number of the brothel's clients, and had summoned him here to avoid being seen seeking a divination in public. Her reason was simple, and stark. Her life had changed utterly since the night of Docilosa's death, and it was down to one person. Raw terror filled Fabiola at the mere thought of Marcus Antonius. Why had she got involved with him? Her regular visits to the Mithraeum and to the temple of Jupiter made no difference at all; and, still full of shame over what had happened to Docilosa, she dared not go to Orcus' shrine for fear of seeing Sabina. Fickle as ever, the gods had discarded her. Perhaps for ever, thought Fabiola, bitterness coursing through her veins.