Scipio stared at him. ‘That’s exactly what Sextius Calvinus and his faction would wish him to think. It’s a set-up. They’ve been trying to find a way of getting rid of Petraeus ever since Scipio Africanus appointed him to the academy. He’s never moderated his opinions about the need for a professional army or his scorn of the Senate, and the plebs respect him. Where is he now?’
‘At his farm in the Alban Hills. My fabri helped him to build a new stone barn there only a few months ago. His wife is long dead and his children are grown up, so he lives alone.’
‘I was there too, only last week,’ Fabius said. ‘I’d promised to spend time with Petraeus when we came back from Macedonia, to tell him about Pydna and help him dig a terrace for some olive saplings. They won’t come to fruit in his lifetime, but he’s bequeathed the land to me on his death.’
‘And Brasis?’
‘Last seen heading for the Ostian Gate. Not before he drunkenly ransacked the Gladiator School for a sword.’
Fabius stood up. ‘We need to warn Petraeus.’
Scipio put his hand on Ennius’ shoulder. ‘I’m going to find Brutus, who was with my father’s Praetorian Guard but can be spared now that the main ceremony is over. Fabius and I will strip off our ceremonial armour and be at the gate in an hour’s time. If we run, we can be in the Alban Hills before midnight. After all the battles he has fought and all he has done for Rome I will not allow Petraeus to die in his bed at the hands of a drunken Thracian gladiator. Nor will I forget what our enemies have been prepared to do to bring us down. We move now.’
* * *
Four hours later, Fabius clambered up a gorse-infested slope on the lower reaches of the Alban Hills, followed close behind by Scipio and Brutus. He had led them off the road on a short cut over rough ground where he had scrambled with his puppy Rufius only a few days before when he had stayed with Petraeus. His legs were criss-crossed with scratches from the spiny undergrowth, but he did not care. He could smell burning, and he had a dread sense of foreboding. Brasis was at least half an hour ahead of them, and must have made it to the farm by now.
He reached the crest of the hill, the other two alongside him. Ahead of them lay a shallow ravine he had scrambled down with Rufius, and on the other side the farmstead, perhaps half a stade distant. It was a moonlit night, and they could see the buildings clearly. Beyond the main building he saw a lick of flame from a fire in the yard, evidently the source of the smell. For a few moments Fabius felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Perhaps Petraeus had relented and lit his own private bonfire in celebration of the triumph. Perhaps Brasis had never made it here after all, and had passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere outside Rome. Perhaps they would not have to embarrass and anger Petraeus by coming to his rescue, when there was no good cause.
But then he saw something that made him freeze. The flame leapt from behind the building over the roof, and then to the wooden byre where Fabius had slept with Rufius. And then Petraeus appeared from behind the byre, his bow-legged gait unmistakable, carrying a firebrand in one hand and a sword in the other, pursued by the lurching form of Brasis. He swept the brand over his wood pile, the kindling instantly igniting in the dry air, and then tossed it into the shed where he kept his olive press and oil supply. In seconds the entire farm was alight, a mass of flame crackling and erupting high into the sky. And then Petraeus stopped in the yard in front — the place where he and Fabius had sat together only a few days before, watching the sunset over distant Rome — and he staggered, falling heavily on one arm, and then struggled up again. In the light of the fire they could see that his tunic was soaked with blood, and that it was pouring in a trail behind him. Fabius realized what he had been doing with the firebrand, why he had been burning his farm. He had been lighting his own funeral pyre.
There was no chance of getting there in time to help him. They watched helplessly as he staggered backwards, clearly grievously wounded, and faced his attacker. He lunged, his blade burying itself somewhere deep in Brasis’ midriff. Then he slipped and was down, and Brasis was on him, slashing and thrusting, driving his blade deep into the centurion’s body, over and over again, until he was still. Brasis got up, staggered backwards, leaned forward again and picked up the corpse by the hair, lopping the head off with one stroke and holding it up for a moment while it bled out. Then he sheathed his sword, put the head into a bag on his belt and turned in the direction of Rome, putting his hands on his knees and trying to marshal his strength. Petraeus’ sword was still stuck in him, and he had gaping slash wounds on his arms and legs. Petraeus had not gone down without exacting his price. He had fought like a legionary to the end.
Fabius felt numb. The old centurion was dead.
Brutus suddenly bellowed, his fists held out and his muscles tensed, his eyes wild, staring at the scene. Scipio stood in front of him and took his head in his hands, leaning against his forehead. ‘Do your worst, Brutus. And when it is over, put the centurion’s body in the flames of his beloved home. That shall be his funeral pyre. I must go far away, but you need not worry. Fabius will look after me. Ave atque vale. We will meet again, in this world or the next.’
He held him for a few moments longer, then released him and turned back towards the fire. Brutus drew his sword and bounded forward, crashing through the spiny undergrowth like a bull as he hurtled down the ravine and up the other side, his sword held high, howling with rage.
Scipio turned to Fabius. ‘Return to Rome under cover of darkness and get what we need for the forest. I’ll await you here.’
‘Your father will have missed you at the rite of dedication to Scipio Africanus.’
‘Find him before you leave and tell him what’s happened. He should at least be able to silence Sextius Calvinus, if Brutus doesn’t get to him first. We will continue to have enemies in the Senate, but those who would take this step should know who they are dealing with. I’ll send word to my father once we have arrived in Macedonia.’
His voice was hoarse, no longer with emotion but with cold determination. Fabius saw beyond the young man’s anguish to the hardness in those eyes that he had first seen all those years ago. He would see that Scipio rode out this storm, and took strength from it, a soldier’s strength.
There was a bellow from the slope opposite, reverberating down the ravine. They turned towards the fire and saw the figure of Brutus silhouetted by the flames, his sword raised, holding something up with his other hand. It was Brasis’ severed head.
Scipio grasped Fabius by the shoulders, and turned him towards Rome. ‘Go now.’
Fabius began to run.
PART THREE
7
Fabius pulled hard on the reins of his horse, guiding it around the mud that oozed up where an underground spring had broken through the forest path. His hunting dog Rufius leapt over the mud and loped ahead, towards the two riders who had begun to pick their way around the rocks that had been exposed where a mountain stream had cut into the slope. The depth of the stream bed showed that in spring it was a raging torrent, bringing down melt water from the mountains that rose beyond the northern fringe of the forest. They had been told by the foresters that the path had been used years before to bring out mighty oak timbers to build the tomb of King Philip, father of Alexander the Great, many stades away to the south on the plain of Macedon beside the sea. The foresters had come this far north to choose the hardiest trees, here on the lower mountain slopes where the oak gave way to pine and fir and cedar, before that too petered out and all that lay beyond the treeline was snow and jagged rock, a place where only a hardy few among the foresters had ever dared to venture.