The Silver Eagle

Chapter XVIII: Pompey’s General

Northern Italy, spring 52 BC

By the time that the legionaries reached them, Fabiola had regained control of her emotions. The forty men clattered to a halt, shields and pila at the ready. Sextus and Docilosa were very careful not to raise their bloodied weapons. Any perceived threat would result in a volley of javelins. Yet the soldiers’ disciplined appearance was infinitely more appealing than that of Scaevola and his crew. There would be no out-of-hand rape here. Ignoring the soldiers’ eager stares, Fabiola took her time, fixing her hair back into place with a couple of decorated ivory pins and lifting the neck of her dress to a more modest level. Then she beamed at the optio in charge, who had made his way to the front. Brazening their way out of the situation might yet be possible.

‘Centurion,’ Fabiola purred, deliberately giving him a higher rank. ‘You have our thanks.’

While the optio flushed proudly, his men tittered with amusement.

He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and they fell silent. ‘What happened, my lady?’

‘Those ruffians you saw,’ Fabiola began, ‘they ambushed us in the woods. Killed almost all my slaves and bodyguards.’ Not entirely acting, she let her lip tremble at the memory.

‘The roads are dangerous everywhere, lady,’ he muttered in sympathy.

‘But they ran when you appeared,’ said Fabiola, batting her eyelashes.

Embarrassed now, the optio looked down.

Secundus hid a smile. As if the fugitivarii would have attacked them in front of an entire legion, he thought.

Awed by her beauty, the optio said nothing for a moment. A short man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, he carefully considered the four figures, their clothes torn and covered with bloodstains. ‘Might I ask where you are bound?’ he asked eventually.

‘Ravenna,’ lied Fabiola. ‘To see my aged aunt.’

Satisfied, he nodded.

Fabiola thought she had succeeded. ‘If we might proceed then?’ she said. ‘The next town is not far. I will be able to purchase more slaves there.’

‘That won’t be possible, lady.’

‘Why ever not?’ she demanded, her voice rising.

The optio cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I have my orders.’

‘Which are?’

‘To take you in,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘The centurion said so.’

Fabiola looked at Secundus, who gave her a tiny shrug.

The optio’s superior might want them questioned further, but they could not exactly refuse.

‘Very well,’ she said, acceding gracefully. ‘Lead on.’

Pleased, the junior officer barked an order. Parting smoothly in the middle, his men positioned themselves on either side of Fabiola and her little party.

Before walking away, she glanced at the trees. Nothing. Scaevola and his fugitivarii had disappeared.

Fabiola knew that it would not be the last time that they met. She’d have to kill the merciless slave-catcher on the next occasion, or he would do the same to her.

In the event, Fabiola’s fear about not being allowed to continue her journey proved correct. The centurion who greeted them nearer the marching camp was no less impressed by her beauty than the optio, but he was far more assured in his manner. Fabiola’s request to proceed was brushed aside with a courteous yet firm refusal.

‘There aren’t many travellers about, lady,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I’m sure the legate would appreciate a chat with you. Find out what’s going on. Offer some advice, maybe.’

‘He’d hardly bother with me,’ Fabiola protested.

‘On the contrary,’ came the reply. ‘The legate is a man of fine taste who would want me to offer you his hospitality.’

‘That is most gracious,’ said Fabiola, bowing her neck to conceal her dread. ‘And his name?’

‘Marcus Petreius, lady,’ the centurion answered proudly. ‘One of Pompey’s best generals.’

Again the optio took charge.

The walk to the temporary camp did not take long. Never having seen one constructed before, Fabiola watched the working soldiers with interest. Three deep fossae were already finished, their bottoms decorated with caltrops. Now the legionaries were finishing off the ramparts, which were the height of two tall men. Tamping down the earth with flattening blows of their shovels, they formed a firm surface to walk upon. Stakes chopped from freshly felled trees decorated the corners, forming protective areas for the sentries. As with a permanent fort, one entrance was being situated in the middle of each side. With the legion on the march, there were no wooden gates to use. Instead, one wall angled just in front of the other where they met, forming a narrow corridor. Fabiola counted twenty paces as they passed through it. Piles of cut branches were being stacked nearby; these would be used to fill the gap once night fell.

Inside the camp, leather tents were being erected in long, neat lines. There was minimal fuss as hundreds of men worked side by side. Their officers watched, vine canes at the ready for anyone who slowed down. Secundus explained to Fabiola what was going on as they walked by. A simple standard marked the spot where every centurion’s tent stood. Each contubernium then set up theirs alongside by turn, in the same place as their room in a permanent barracks would be.

Fabiola marvelled at the organisation being displayed, and her sense of unease was slightly dispelled. She noticed Secundus enjoying the scenes that he must have partaken in so many times in his army career.

A wide path led straight from the entrance to the centre, where even bigger canvas pavilions already stood. This was the legion’s command post, and to one side stood the luxurious quarters of its legate, Marcus Petreius. As the most important officer, his tent had been erected immediately after the headquarters were thrown up. A red At least twenty hand-picked legionaries stood guard outside it, while messengers ran to and fro, relaying Petreius’ orders to his senior centurions. A pair of saddled horses were tethered nearby, happily eating from nosebags. The couriers who rode them stood idly by, gossiping with each other.vexillum had been stabbed into the ground by the entrance.

The optio led his men straight to the main tent. Coming to a halt near the centurion in charge of the guards, he saluted and stood to attention.

The officer smiled when he saw Fabiola. This was far more pleasing than some fat, balding merchant come to beg assistance. Swallowing a piece of bread, he strolled over.

There was a brief conversation as the optio reported his news.

‘My lady,’ said the duty centurion with a courteous bow. ‘No doubt you will wish to clean up before meeting the legate.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Fabiola gratefully. It was vital that she make a good impression.

‘Come inside.’ He indicated she should follow him. ‘Your slaves can find somewhere to sleep with the mule drivers and camp followers.’

Secundus bit back his retort. This was no time to draw attention to himself.

But Fabiola bridled with anger at his dismissive attitude. ‘They are my servants, not slaves,’ she said loudly.

Sextus’ eyes widened, and pride filled his face.

The centurion stiffened, and then inclined his head. ‘As you say, lady. I will have a tent prepared for them among the soldiers of my own cohort.’

‘Good,’ answered Fabiola. ‘Like myself, they will require hot water and food.’

‘Of course.’ He could not protest further.

Docilosa unsuccessfully tried to hide her smirk.

Curtly ordering one of his men to accompany Fabiola’s companions, the centurion made to lead her into the tent.

Secundus stayed by her side.

Surprised, Fabiola turned to him.

‘You still need protection, lady,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, touched by his loyalty. ‘Mithras will protect me.’

Fabiola’s answer satisfied Secundus and he stood back, watching as she followed the centurion inside. A silent prayer of his own went up to the warrior god. The beautiful young woman would have to be very careful what she said. If Petreius got even the tiniest whiff that they were heading north to join with Caesar, there would be little mercy shown. He had heard the legionaries talking as they walked into the fort. Outright hostilities had not yet commenced, but Caesar was already regarded as an enemy.

Ushering Fabiola to a large partitioned room, the centurion bowed. ‘I will have hot water and drying cloths brought, lady,’ he muttered. ‘We have no women’s apparel, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course not,’ Fabiola laughed, trying to put him at his ease. ‘A wash will suffice until my dress can be cleaned.’

Discomfited, he ducked his head and left.

Fabiola looked around, pleased at the level of luxury on offer. Being on campaign did not mean that Petreius had to do without any of life’s necessities. Thick carpets and animal skins covered the floor, while richly patterned wall hangings concealed the canvas of the tent’s sides. The roof was high, supported by a network of long poles. From these hung ropes suspending elegant bronze oil lamps overhead. Yet more stood on decorated stone plinths, illuminating the chamber well. A weapons rack near her held a number of gladii with beautifully carved wood and bone hilts. Even their sheaths were ornate, the beaten gold on their surfaces depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Occupying a central position was a well-carved bust of Pompey. Having seen him in Rome, Fabiola recognised his bulbous eyes and mop of curly hair.

Iron-bound wooden chests had been placed around the periphery, while a heavy desk sat in the centre, a comfortable-looking leather-backed camp chair behind it. Tightly rolled scrolls lay scattered on the desktop, and Fabiola’s heart quickened. This was Petreius’ private working space, and vital information about Pompey’s plans might be included in the cylinders of parchment in front of her.

She longed to understand them. Like most slaves, or former slaves, Fabiola was illiterate. Gemellus had seen no value in educating those who served him. Only Servilius, his bookkeeper, had known how to read and write. And Jovina, the wily crone who owned the Lupanar, actively discouraged the prostitutes from learning. Uneducated women were far easier to intimidate and coerce. At Fabiola’s request, Brutus had started teaching her, but there had been so little time before he was called away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of young, shaven-headed slaves who silently delivered a large cauldron of steaming hot water, drying cloths and a beaten bronze mirror on a stand. Also offered was a metal tray with small vials of olive oil, a curved strigil and two finely carved boxwood combs laid upon it. The embarrassed slaves bobbed their heads and withdrew, avoiding Fabiola’s gaze all the while. Having a beautiful young woman to serve rather than soldiers was clearly too much for them.

Fabiola stripped and washed herself down with warm water, before rubbing oil all over her skin. Lastly she used the strigil to take off the grime and dirt that covered her body from the ambush and pursuit. Although not as relaxing as a bath, it felt good to wash. All that was missing was a phial of perfume, but like all her possessions, such things were lying back in the litter. While Scaevola would have no use for these items, there would be no opportunity to go back for them either.

Pulling on her damp, sweaty dress once more, she grimaced at its feel against her skin. At least there weren’t too many spots of blood on it. Smoothing back her hair, Fabiola looked into the mirror and combed it as best she could.

‘Aphrodite herself has come to visit us,’ said a deep voice behind her.

She jumped with fright.

A tall, brown-haired man in late middle age had entered the chamber. He was dressed in a well-cut thigh-length tunic; soft leather shoes covered his feet. A belt of gold links and a sheathed dagger confirmed his status as a soldier. High cheekbones and a strong chin were the most striking features in his rugged face. ‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said when he saw Fabiola’s reaction. ‘I did not mean to scare you.’

Wondering how long he had been watching her, Fabiola bowed. ‘My nerves are a little ragged,’ she replied.

‘That’s not surprising,’ said the man. ‘I have been told of the scum who ambushed you. What were they — deserters or just common bandits?’

‘It’s difficult to know.’ Fabiola had no wish to reveal any details about Scaevola. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Indeed. I’m sorry for even mentioning it,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try to forget the whole episode. You’re safe now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, her relief only half acted. Delayed shock was beginning to set in, draining her energy when she needed it most. It was crucial that she divulge nothing about her journey while somehow persuading the general to let her party continue unhindered. Mithras, Sol Invictus, help me, Fabiola thought. Asking help from the warrior god felt appropriate when faced with this military threat.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed deeply. ‘I am Marcus Petreius, legate of the Third Legion. You are welcome in my camp.’

Returning the gesture, she smiled radiantly. ‘I am Fabiola Messalina.’

Unaffected by her wiles, Petreius came straight to the point. ‘I find it most unusual for a beautiful young woman to be travelling alone,’ he said. ‘The roads are so dangerous.’

She feigned surprise. ‘I have — had — servants and slaves with me.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘No father or brother to accompany you?’

It was usual for unmarried noble women to travel with a male relation or chaperon of some kind: the lies had to start now.

Fabiola took a deep breath and began. ‘Father is long dead. And Julianus, my eldest brother, was killed in Parthia last year.’ The tiny shred of hope left in her heart stopped her naming Romulus as the fictional sibling who had died. But it was still the likely reality. Fabiola lowered her gaze, real tears pricking her eyes.

‘You have my sympathies, lady,’ he said respectfully. ‘But what about the rest of your family?’

‘Mother is too frail for such a long journey and Romulus, my twin, is out of the country on business,’ protested Fabiola. ‘Someone had to visit my widowed aunt in Ravenna. Poor Clarina does not have long.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘Yet these are troubled times. It’s very unwise to travel without a large party of guards.’

‘It is no better in Rome,’ cried Fabiola. ‘The mobs are burning nobles alive in their own homes!’

‘That is true, the gods curse them,’ said Petreius, his jaw hardening. ‘But I will soon stop that.’

She gasped in apparent surprise. ‘Are you marching to the capital?’

‘Yes, lady, with all speed,’ the legate replied briskly. ‘The Senate has appointed Pompey Magnus as sole consul for the year. His main remit is to restore law and order, and the Third will do that by whatever means necessary.’

Fabiola looked suitably shocked. The use of troops in Rome was one of the Republic’s abiding nightmares. Forbidden by law, it had last happened more than a generation before. Sulla, ‘the butcher’, had ordered it and then assumed total control of the state. In the minds of most, that was not a time to be repeated.

‘This is what it has come to,’ sighed Petreius. ‘There is no other way.’

She could see the legate believed in what he was saying. ‘Has no one protested?’

‘Not a single senator,’ he said wryly. ‘They’re all too worried about their houses being looted.’

Fabiola smiled, remembering how many of her clients had been obsessed with nothing more than increasing their own wealth, regardless of how it was obtained. Yet when the poor tried to take something for themselves, the rich were the first to condemn them. Although Rome was nominally a democracy, in reality for generations the fate of the Republic had been governed by a tiny elite class of nobles, the vast majority of whom were only out to line their own pockets. Gone was the ancient founding spirit that had seen successful generals relinquish their commands and return home to eat from plain earthenware bowls; in Rome now just a few ruthless men wrestled for ultimate riches — and ultimate power.

Which is why there was a legion camped outside.

It was appalling.

‘Caesar won’t be happy when he hears about this, but there are more pressing things on his mind.’ Petreius’ lips lifted into a mirthless grin. ‘Like survival.’

Fabiola concealed her alarm. She knew nothing of recent developments. ‘I’d heard there was renewed rebellion in Gaul, but nothing more,’ she said brightly.

‘Things go very badly for Caesar, which is good news for Pompey.’ His expression changed, becoming more pleasant. ‘Enough of politics and war. Those are no subjects for a lady. Would you honour me with your company for dinner?’

With little choice but to accept, she bowed. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Fabiola was terrified. She was walking a fine line between deception and discovery, with no option other than to continue. And what about the others? Hopefully no one would ask much of Docilosa or Sextus, she thought, and Secundus would know to keep his mouth shut. His status as a supporter of Caesar was as good a reason to remain anonymous as hers.

Petreius guided her to another part of the enormous tent, where three reclining couches were positioned closely around a low table, leaving one side free for food to be served. Typically, each couch was able to accommodate up to three people. The level of opulence here was the same as the area where Fabiola had washed, and equalled most banqueting halls in Rome. Even the table was a piece of art, with an inlaid surface of gold and pearl and wonderfully carved legs in the shape of lions’ paws. Light from the huge candelabra hanging overhead bounced off large platters of Arretine ware, red glazed pottery with intricate designs in relief. There was fine glassware in a range of colours, a silver salt cellar and spoons with delicate bone handles. A trio of slaves sat in one corner, alternately playing the pan pipes, lyre and cithara, a large stringed instrument with a sweet sound. Others stood by, waiting to serve food and drink.

Hoping there would be more guests, Fabiola looked around.

Petreius met her glance with a wink. ‘Normally I dine with my tribunes, but not tonight.’

She managed to return his smile, but a flutter of unease rose from her stomach. After her time in the Lupanar, Fabiola could read men like a book.

‘Please.’ Petreius was indicating where she should lie. It was the place of honour, directly adjoining his position.

Her mind in a turmoil, the young woman sat down. Taking off her shoes, she placed them on the floor beneath the seat before reclining.

Thankfully the legate took the central couch rather than sitting right beside her. He waved a hand at the nearest slave, who hurried over, pouring mulsum for them both.

Fabiola took the proffered goblet gratefully. After her near escape from Scaevola, the mixture of wine and honey tasted like nectar to her. Without thinking, she drained the lot.

The glass was refilled at once.

Sipping his, Petreius fixed his gaze on Fabiola. ‘Tell me of your family,’ he said warmly.

She searched his face for signs of deception, but could see none. Praying again to Mithras, and to Jupiter, Fabiola began constructing an elaborate life history. She was one of three children of Julianus Messalinus, a deceased merchant, and his wife, Velvinna Helpis. The family resided on the Aventine, a mainly plebeian area. To make her story more authentic, Fabiola wove much of her own life into it. Where she had grown up was unremarkable; like anywhere in Rome, patricians lived there too. Naming her mother correctly somehow felt right, as did mentioning a twin brother. Julianus, the oldest, had joined the army as a bookkeeper and been killed with Crassus in Parthia. At this point, Fabiola’s voice wobbled and she stopped for a moment.

Petreius looked suitably sympathetic.

Nervously, Fabiola went on. While it increased her danger to invent living people who could never be traced, she wanted to feel that she had some kin still, instead of being alone in the world. So Romulus, her twin, now ran the family business, but was often out of the country on trading ventures. Unmarried, Fabiola lived in the ancestral home with her mother and their retinue of slaves. To avoid Petreius asking why she was still single, Fabiola mentioned a number of regular suitors. So far, none had met with Velvinna’s approval.

‘All mothers are the same,’ laughed the legate.

The young woman was amazed by her own inventiveness. Yet it was not difficult for her to come up with a completely fabricated existence. As a child in Gemellus’ domus, she had observed much about Roman society. Although he came from impoverished roots, the cruel merchant had achieved a certain level of public recognition because of his riches. He had dealings with all levels of society, and had often entertained his clients at his home. Fabiola had an excellent understanding of the way the trading classes dealt with each other.

She paused, her throat dry from talking. Another swallow of the mulsum helped her to continue.

Petreius listened carefully, long fingers cupping his jaw.

Easy targets because of their awkward table manners or poor social etiquette, former slaves were frequently the butt of cruel jokes. Determined that this would not happen to her if she was ever freed, Fabiola had also absorbed every little piece of information that came her way in the Lupanar. Many of her customers spent large amounts of time in her company, during which they poured out their life stories to her. As the most popular prostitute, she had encountered numerous members of the Roman elite, the senators and equites. Other clients had been prosperous merchants or businessmen. All were men who lived at the pinnacle of Roman society, in a world far removed from that of the average slave, and one which Fabiola had only recently been admitted to. She was careful, therefore, to portray herself as being from the middle class of Roman society rather than the upper.

Petreius did not appear upset that Fabiola was from trading stock rather than noble. If anything, he looked pleased by her revelation.

Her initial story also seemed to satisfy him. To take the focus away from herself, she quickly went on the offensive.

‘I am so unimportant,’ Fabiola said. ‘Whereas you are the commander of a legion.’

Petreius made a modest gesture of denial, but she could see he was pleased.

‘You must have fought many wars,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And conquered many peoples.’

‘I’ve seen my fair share of combat,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Like any who do their duty for Rome.’

‘Tell me,’ Fabiola requested, her eyes shining with false excitement.

‘I was one of those who defeated the Catiline conspirators,’ he said. ‘And among other things, I helped Pompey Magnus to quell the Spartacus rebellion.’

Fabiola gasped in apparent admiration, holding back the riposte that it had in fact been Crassus who was responsible for putting down the uprising. Tellingly, Petreius had just shown himself to be a liar. As the informed knew, Pompey’s role had been only minor; his defeat of five thousand slaves who had fled the main battle a helping hand rather than a decisive thrust. Yet he had managed to claim all the credit by sending the Senate a letter informing them of his victory. The stroke was one of Pompey’s finest, and clearly Petreius had jumped on the bandwagon of his master’s success.

Fabiola noted this chink in the legate’s armour. If only the Thracian gladiator had not failed, she thought sadly. Romulus and I might have been born free. Had completely different lives. Instead, outmanoeuvred and surrounded by the legions, Spartacus had failed. Now slaves were more rigorously controlled than ever before.

‘Of course the uprising never really posed much threat to Rome,’ Petreius sneered. ‘Damn slaves.’

Fabiola nodded in seeming agreement. How little you know, she shouted inwardly. Like many nobles, Petreius regarded slaves as little more than animals, incapable of intelligent thought or action. She fantasised about grabbing the pugio on his belt and sticking it in his chest, but quashed the idea on the spot. While appealing, it would not help her get out of this situation. Any such action would also endanger the lives of the people in her care: Docilosa, Sextus and Secundus. What other options were there? Escaping from the massive camp without the legate’s permission would be impossible. Sentries watched all the entrances day and night, and no one came or left without being challenged.

A sinking feeling began to creep over her.

Like her previous clients, Petreius hadn’t noticed Fabiola’s momentary lack of attention. By simply smiling and nodding her head, the beautiful young woman could keep men absorbed for hours. Her previous profession had taught Fabiola not just how to physically satisfy men, but also the skilful art of making them think that they were the centre of the world. While pretending to enjoy their conversation, she also tantalised and teased. The promise of pleasure was sometimes more effective than actually providing it. Throaty laughs, a flash of bosom or thigh, fluttering eyelashes — Fabiola knew them all. Fuelled by the wine and her despair at what to do, she now found herself making more of these suggestive gestures than planned. Later, she would wonder if there was anything else she could have done.

‘I also served in Asia Minor,’ Petreius went on. ‘Mithridates was a very skilled general. It took more than six years to defeat him. But we did.’

‘You fought with Lucullus then?’

Although Lucullus had not struck the final blow, Fabiola knew that the able general had been largely responsible for bringing the warlike king of Bithynia and Pontus to heel. Yet Pompey, the leader sent by the Senate to finish the job, had taken all the credit. Again.

Petreius coloured. ‘At first, yes. But after he was replaced, I continued the campaign under Pompey Magnus.’

Fabiola hid a knowing smile. That’s how it works, she thought. Pompey had stripped Lucullus of his command, but let his friends keep their posts. ‘And now you find yourself leading men again,’ she purred. ‘To Rome.’

The legate made a diffident gesture. ‘Merely doing my duty.’

You’re bringing the Republic to the brink of civil war at the same time, thought Fabiola. Caesar could regard Pompey’s actions of sending troops to Rome for nothing less than what it was: a blatant show of force. The man who restored peace to the capital would become an instant hero. In addition, having legionaries stationed in the Forum Romanum would place him in a powerful position indeed. And its timing was masterful. Stuck in Gaul, fighting for his life, Caesar could do nothing to prevent it.

‘I’m hungry,’ announced the legate. ‘Would you care for some dinner, my lady?’

Fabiola smiled her acceptance. Lining her stomach was a good idea. It might slow down the rate at which the mulsum was going to her head. She was not used to drinking much alcohol.

Petreius clicked his fingers and two slaves hurried over with bowls of steaming water and drying cloths. While they washed their hands, the others left, returning at once with a multitude of platters. There were various types of salted fish. Sausages in porridge sat alongside plates of freshly cooked cauliflower and beans. Sliced hard-boiled eggs and onions were served with piquant sauce.

Fabiola stared at the surface of the low table, which was now covered in food. As a child, hunger had been a constant feature of her life. Now it was the opposite, which seemed ironic.

Muttering a brief request to the gods for their blessing, Petreius leaned over and began. In the Roman fashion, he mostly used his fingers to pick up his food; occasionally he used a spoon.

The young woman breathed a slow sigh of relief. His attention had been diverted for the moment. Picking on some fish and beans, she tried to gather her thoughts through the fog that the mulsum had induced. She had a little while: the legate was obviously hungry. Clearing his plate, he indicated that the unfinished foods should be removed. After they had washed their hands again, the second course was brought in.

It felt so decadent to Fabiola as yet more serving dishes arrived. Sow’s udder in fish sauce, roasted kid and more sausages. Baked fish: bream, tunny and mullet. Pigeons and thrushes baked on a tray. Chestnuts and cabbage sprouts, and the inevitable onions. It was far more food than two people could ever eat. Marcus Petreius’ athletic stature belied his appetite. She was sure that Brutus would not approve. Her lover ate sparingly, preferring to spend his time at the table in good conversation.

A slave slipped past and filled clean glasses with watered-down wine. Being lighter, mulsum was served with starters.

‘Drink,’ encouraged Petreius. ‘It’s a very good Campanian. From one of my latifundia.’

Fabiola took a swallow, but she was careful not to finish all of the richly flavoured red wine. It had a deep, earthy taste, which was only marginally reduced by its dilution.

They made more polite small talk over the main course. Nothing was mentioned about Fabiola’s journey or Petreius’ mission to Rome. When he had eaten enough, the legate waved at the slaves again. One immediately laid out a selection of food, beside which he poured a little pile of salt. A cup of wine was placed beside this, the traditional dinner offering to the gods.

Petreius bent his head, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Fabiola did the same, fervently asking not just for Mithras’ and Jupiter’s blessing upon their meal, but for their assistance. She still had no idea what to do.

The final course consisted of all kinds of pastries, hazelnuts, and preserved pears and apples. Not wanting to appear rude, Fabiola helped herself to a few small portions and took her time eating.

More wine was poured for both of them.

‘Your aunt in Ravenna,’ said Petreius out of the blue. ‘What was her name again?’

‘Clarina,’ replied Fabiola. ‘Clarina Silvina.’

‘Where exactly does she live?’

Unease filled Fabiola. What did he care? ‘Not far from the Forum, I think,’ she lied, picking a location that could fit any town in Italy. ‘Off the street that leads to the south gate.’

‘Is her house large?’

‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘But Mother says that it is well appointed. Aunt Clarina has good taste.’

He said nothing for a moment.

Fabiola’s heart began to pound in her chest and she busied herself with another piece of dried fruit.

‘The southern quarter of the city was where fire broke out last year,’ Petreius announced in a hard voice. ‘Almost all the houses were burned down.’

Fabiola felt her cheeks flush bright red. ‘Clarina mentioned that in a letter,’ she responded, her voice a trifle too high. ‘Hers escaped with light damage.’

‘The only ones to be left unharmed were those near my domus,’ the legate said coldly. ‘Thankfully my slaves managed to soak the nearby roofs with enough water to ensure that they did not catch fire and thus spread it to mine.’

She watched him dumbly, a sick feeling in her stomach. How could she have known that Petreius had a residence in Ravenna?

His next words were like the strokes of doom.

‘The residents were so grateful that they came to pay their respects. I don’t recall an elderly lady by the name of Clarina Silvina.’

Fabiola’s mouth opened and closed. In that time, he had moved to her couch; they were now close enough to touch. Petreius’ eyes were slate grey, and distinctly unfriendly now. ‘I. ’ Fabiola was uncharacteristically lost for words.

‘You have no aunt in Ravenna,’ the legate said harshly. ‘Have you?’

She did not answer.

‘And one of your companions is a crippled veteran. What use is he to anyone?’

Fabiola’s heart rate shot up. Petreius must have been watching from his tent when they arrived, and recognised Secundus’ military bearing. It was difficult not to.

‘Secundus? I found him on the steps of Jupiter’s temple,’ Fabiola protested, angry that Petreius had no respect for the casualties of Rome’s wars. After all, similar things happened to his men. ‘I took pity on him. He’s proved very reliable.’

‘Really? How did he survive the ambush when all the others were killed?’ the legate demanded.

Fabiola flinched before his practised interrogation. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps the gods spared him.’

‘There’s far more to this than meets the eye.’ Petreius sat up. ‘We’ll see what your servant says to a taste of hot iron. That makes men sing like canaries.’

‘No!’ cried Fabiola. ‘Secundus has done nothing.’

She was not being totally altruistic. Few individuals could resist torture, especially at the hands of the experienced soldiers that Petreius would have available. If Secundus revealed Fabiola’s real destination, all hope of reaching Gaul would be gone. Who knew how the legate would react if he found that out? Disposing of four ragged travellers would pose no problem. No one would ever know any different.

Fabiola’s heart sank. In comparison to the likes of Petreius, she really was a nobody.

He turned back, leaning in so close that the musky mix of mulsum and wine from his breath filled her nostrils. ‘Unless another solution might be found,’ he said, lightly squeezing one of her breasts. ‘A much more pleasurable one.’

For a heartbeat, Fabiola hesitated. She felt faintly sick. It was an old, familiar feeling: the one she used to get in the Lupanar when a client had just chosen her from the line of prostitutes.

Had she any other choice?

Rather than pulling away, she drew him towards her.