The Silver Eagle

Chapter XIX: Alesia

Northern Italy, spring/summer 52 BC

Trying to reduce Petreius to a sweating, drained shadow of his former self, Fabiola had used every trick of her previous trade when coupling with him. All the time she was driving the legate mad with lust, she was racking her brains for a way out of the situation.

How could she rejoin Secundus and Sextus and safely continue north to Gaul?

Petreius would have no particular reason to set Fabiola free. A nubile bed companion like her would make his journey to Rome far more pleasurable. And there was nothing she could do if he did decide to keep her by him. With almost five thousand soldiers at his beck and call, the ruthless legate could behave as he pleased.

The possibility of staying and becoming Petreius’ mistress had entered her mind. He was not a bad-looking man, and seemed personable enough. Far away in Gaul, Brutus would be able to do nothing about it. Fabiola decided not to make this choice for two reasons. The first was that it meant changing allegiance to Pompey’s side. That felt like a bad idea. Her instincts told her that Caesar’s former partner in the triumvirate was not the man to back. And the second, more important, reason was that becoming Petreius’ lover — and therefore siding with an enemy of Caesar — would probably mean that she would never meet the nobleman who might be her father.

A more callous thought also occurred to Fabiola. She could simply wait until the legate fell asleep and then kill him. But even if she left his tent without being discovered and managed to find Docilosa, Secundus and Sextus, their next task would prove impossible. There was no reason to think that any of Petreius’ disciplined soldiers would just let her and her companions leave without permission. Fabiola had no desire to be crucified or tortured to death, one of which would surely be the punishment when his body was discovered.

What in the name of Hades was she to do?

Thinking that she had tired him out, Fabiola was surprised when Petreius found the energy to take her again a short time later. Kneeling on all fours, she encouraged his deep thrusts with loud moans. When the legate had finished and sagged back on the sweat-soaked sheets, Fabiola climbed off the bed. She desperately needed time to think. Naked, she walked a few steps to a low table that had a selection of food and drink arrayed upon it. Filling two cups with some watered-down wine, the young woman turned to find Petreius admiring her.

‘By all that is sacred,’ he said with a satisfied sigh. ‘You look like a goddess come to tempt a mere mortal.’

Fabiola batted her eyelashes and flashed a practised smile.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘No merchant I’ve ever met would have a daughter like you.’

She laughed throatily and spun in a slow circle, drawing a loud groan of desire from him.

But the question would be repeated, of that there was no doubt. Fabiola tried to quell the panic rising in her breast. Petreius was no satiated customer to be ushered out of the door when his time was up. This was a man used to getting his own way, a powerful noble experienced in commanding soldiers and fighting wars. Completely at his mercy, on his territory, her feminine wiles would only go so far.

Like all sleeping chambers, Petreius’ had a small shrine in one corner. Most Romans prayed to the gods on rising and retiring, to request their guidance and protection during both day and night. The legate was no different. As Fabiola’s gaze passed idly over the stone altar, her attention was drawn back to it. Prominently displayed in front of deities such as Jupiter and Mars was a small, cloaked figure that looked familiar. Fabiola’s breath caught in her chest as she recognised Mithras. The delicately carved statue was portrayed in the same manner as the large sculpture in the Mithraeum in Rome. Wearing a Phrygian cap, the god was crouched over a reclining bull and plunging a knife down into its chest while looking away.

Fabiola closed her eyes and asked for his divine help.

Was this her chance?

Petreius was a follower of Mithras. She had been inside the god’s temple and had drunk the sacred homa. Importantly, Fabiola had had a vision as a raven. The fact that she had done so without permission, outraging most of the veterans in the process, was irrelevant right now.

A daring idea began to take root in Fabiola’s mind. It was all she could think of, so it had to work.

A low laugh came from behind her. ‘Lucky I have no statue of Priapus to beg my case,’ Petreius said. ‘Otherwise I’d keep you awake all night.’

‘We don’t need him,’ Fabiola answered, moving her legs apart slightly and bowing from the waist towards Mithras.

The view this afforded drew a shocked, lustful growl from the legate.

With a subtle rolling motion, Fabiola turned back and strode towards him, her full breasts moving gently. The light from the oil lamps coloured her flesh, giving it an alluring amber glow. She knew from long experience that looking like this, no man could resist her. Placing the wine on the floor by the bed, Fabiola put her hands on her hips.

‘You look like a woman who means business,’ Petreius said.

She laughed and arched her pelvis towards him. ‘Do I?’

Little do you know.

Unable to take any more teasing, he reached out for her — but she stepped away, out of reach.

The legate frowned.

Quickly Fabiola moved closer again, allowing his eager fingers to grasp her buttocks.

‘Who needs Priapus?’ he muttered, rolling to the edge of the mattress in a desperate attempt to get closer. ‘I’ll fuck you again right now.’

Fabiola smiled to herself. This was where she wanted him: crazy with lust. Turning, she stared down as Petreius pressed his face into her groin. ‘You have a statue of Mithras, I see.’

‘What?’ His voice was muffled.

‘The warrior god.’

He pulled back, looking faintly irritated. ‘I began following him during my time in Asia Minor. What of it?’

Aware that she had to act with the utmost delicacy, Fabiola fell silent. Stooping, she gently rolled him over and began stroking his erect member.

Enjoying what she was doing, he relaxed again.

There was silence as Fabiola climbed on to the bed and lowered herself down on him.

When he came, Petreius gasped in ecstasy, gripping her hips with his hands. Then he flopped back on the sheet and closed his eyes.

Satisfied that the legate was now as vulnerable as she would ever see him, Fabiola threw the dice. ‘I have heard that Mithras’ followers honour and respect each other greatly,’ she said. ‘They give help to one another when it is needed.’

‘If we can, we do,’ he replied in an already sleepy voice.

‘What if the situation is awkward or difficult?’

‘All the more reason to be of assistance.’

‘And most of you are soldiers,’ Fabiola said, changing tack.

‘Yes.’

‘But some are not.’

‘No,’ he answered, sounding confused. ‘There are men of many trades and professions in our religion. Even some more worthy slaves. We are all equal before the god.’

The seed had been planted, thought Fabiola. It was time to act.

‘I have aided you tonight,’ she murmured, climbing off him and lying down.

He chuckled. ‘You have. Very much.’

‘Then will you help me?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, amused. ‘What is it you want? Money? Dresses?’

Fabiola clenched her fists, hoping that the primary tenet of honour mentioned by Secundus so many times was also an important part of Petreius’ belief system. There was no way of knowing unless she tried. ‘More than that.’ She paused, noticing that her hands were actually trembling. ‘I need a letter of safe conduct and enough men to protect me on my journey north.’

He jerked upright, suddenly fully awake. ‘What did you say?’

‘I was the first woman to enter the Mithraeum in Rome,’ she said. ‘To become a devotee.’

‘That is forbidden under all circumstances,’ Petreius stuttered. ‘I know the provinces are a bit backward when it comes to new traditions, but this? On whose authority was it allowed?’

‘Secundus,’ she replied. ‘The one-armed veteran who was with me when your troops rescued us.’

‘A low-ranking cripple?’ he scoffed. ‘Sounds like he’s getting ideas way above his station. Does he want to screw you?’

It was unsurprising, Fabiola thought, that a man of Petreius’ status would look down on someone as lowly as Secundus. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said firmly. ‘And despite what you may think, he admitted me to the Path. My rank is that of Corax, which makes me a comrade of yours.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that he is the Pater of the temple,’ sneered the legate.

‘Correct,’ Fabiola replied. ‘He is also my guide.’

Petreius’ nostrils flared, but he let her continue without further interruption.

‘After drinking the homa, I became a raven,’ she said quietly. ‘And was granted a vision, in which I saw the survivors of Crassus’ army. Secundus decreed that it was sent by the god himself.’

‘Wait. This is too much to take in.’ Rubbing a hand through his close-cropped hair, the legate stood up and walked over to a tall swan-legged bronze ewer. Bending his neck, he vigorously splashed cold water over his entire head and neck a number of times. Pulling a cloth from a wooden stand, he dried himself and donned a clean robe.

Fabiola sat on the bed, waiting patiently.

‘Start from the beginning,’ he ordered, sitting beside her. ‘Tell me exactly how you met this Secundus.’

Fabiola kept it simple, keeping her original fabrication the same, but accurately recounting how she had met the veteran on the steps of Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Her rescue was simplified to take place on the fringes of the riot over Pulcher’s death. There was no point complicating matters by mentioning Scaevola and the fugitivarii.

‘That’s all very touching,’ Petreius said when she had finished. ‘But saving a pretty girl’s life doesn’t mean that the Pater would just invite you to become one of us.’ His face turned hard. ‘Tell me the truth.’

This was a crucial moment.

‘I have done. Most of my guards were killed well before the veterans arrived,’ Fabiola said. Acting modestly, she looked down. ‘It was a case of defending myself or being raped on the spot. Perhaps the gods helped, but I managed to kill three or four of our attackers.’

‘By Jupiter!’ exclaimed the legate. ‘Has someone trained you to fight?’

‘No.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘I only ever saw my father and brothers practise in the yard of our domus. It was sheer desperation, I suppose.’

He regarded her slender arms with new respect.

She dared a bit more. ‘Secundus said that he had rarely seen such bravery, even on the battlefield.’

‘If what you say is true, I’m not surprised,’ agreed Petreius emphatically. ‘With soldiers like you, we would have little to fear from Caesar.’

Pleased by his praise, Fabiola flushed.

A rigorous interrogation about Mithraic practices and rituals followed. Petreius listened intently, showing no emotion at Fabiola’s responses. This made her even more nervous, but by taking her time, the young woman was able to answer every question correctly.

When the legate had finished, there was a long silence.

‘You know a lot about Mithraicism,’ he admitted. ‘Only an initiate should know these things.’

A great wave of relief washed over her, but her ordeal was not over yet.

‘Perhaps an old lover tried to impress you by revealing Mithraic secrets,’ he ventured, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you’re lying to me. ’

‘I am telling the truth,’ Fabiola said as calmly as possible.

Resting his chin on one hand, Petreius drummed his fingers against his cheek.

He was a tough customer, thought Fabiola, a bad enemy to make, but she had committed herself now.

‘Secundus is the man to ask,’ he said at last. ‘No Pater would lie about something like this.’

Fabiola quailed mentally at the idea of this trial, which would truly test Secundus’ belief in her.

The legate called in one of the legionaries standing on guard outside his tent, ordering him to bring Secundus before them.

An uncomfortable silence reigned as they waited. After Fabiola’s revelation, Petreius seemed almost embarrassed by what they had done together. Worried that Secundus would reveal what had really happened in the Mithraeum, Fabiola was unable to keep up her usual bright chatter. She took the opportunity to have a wash, get dressed and tie up her hair. Secundus would draw his own conclusions about what had gone on here, but she still wanted to look her best.

Of course the legate was too smart to talk to Secundus in front of her. When the legionary returned with him a short time later, Petreius asked Fabiola to remain in the bedchamber. All she could do was comply.

The low murmur of voices soon came from the main part of the tent. Fabiola could make out Secundus’ tone, answering questions. In an agony of nerves, she knelt before the stone altar and studied the statue of Mithras. Forgive me, great one, she thought. I have lied in your presence about what happened in the Mithraeum. But that does not mean I do not believe in you. Help me now, and I swear to be a faithful follower of yours for ever. The magnitude of what she was promising was very great, but Fabiola knew her situation was desperate. If Secundus’ version of events did not tie in neatly with hers, then it would be Orcus, the god of the underworld, whom she had to deal with, rather than Mithras. For dishonouring his religion, the legate could easily have her killed.

She was still praying when Petreius re-entered the room. His voice made her jump.

‘Secundus is a good man,’ he said. ‘And no liar.’

Bile rose in the back of Fabiola’s throat, and she turned to face him.

‘Neither am I,’ she whispered, sure that Secundus had denounced her.

‘The Pater has corroborated everything.’ Petreius smiled. ‘He feels sure that your remarkable vision was sent by Mithras.’

‘So you believe me?’

‘I do,’ he replied warmly. ‘I will give you the help you asked for. The god would want it.’

Fabiola nearly fainted with relief. Her gamble had paid off.

Petreius moved behind her, and she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck.

‘I’ve never bedded another follower of Mithras before,’ he said.

Fabiola closed her eyes. There was a further price to pay, she thought bitterly. Would it always be so?

Cupping her breasts with his hands, he pushed against her buttocks.

Fabiola’s hand reached around to his groin. Dawn could not come too soon for her.

Petreius had not even asked where Fabiola was going. Naturally his men would tell him upon their return, but the magnanimous gesture was a remarkable example of honouring one’s principles, Fabiola thought. Aid was being given freely, just because it had been asked for. She smiled wryly. Petreius’ help had not been completely free, of course. But even though he had slept with her, the legate had also shown himself to be a cut above the average by respecting one of the central tenets of his faith. From her considerable experience of men, Fabiola doubted that many would have acted in the same way. Despite the fact that Petreius was one of Pompey’s officers, she wished him well.

It seemed apt that the optio and half-century of legionaries who had driven off the fugitivarii should accompany Fabiola and her companions north. And by the end of the first day, she was very glad to have them marching stolidly around the litter that Petreius had provided. As Rome grew further away, so the rule of law grew lighter upon the land. The party regularly encountered army deserters, bandits and impoverished peasants, any of whom would have been capable of robbing and murdering four people travelling on their own. None, however, were prepared to tackle forty well-armed soldiers, and the journey proceeded without incident for more than two weeks.

Following the Roman road along the coast and thereby avoiding the Alps, they crossed the border into Transalpine Gaul. It was the first time that Fabiola had ever left Italy and she was gladder than before to have plenty of protection. Although citizen farmsteads were dotted throughout the countryside, it was clearly a foreign land. Even the presence of regular army checkpoints failed to allay her fears. Most Romans knew that the population of Gaul was made up of fierce tribes, peoples who would rise up at the slightest provocation. And the sullen-looking inhabitants of the miserable settlements and villages that they passed through appeared downright dangerous to Fabiola. The long-haired, moustached men dressed in baggy patterned trousers and belted tunics, very different to Roman wear. Silver adorned their wrists and necks, and practically every single one carried a longsword, hexagonal shield and spear. Even the women carried knives. This was a fighting nation, and they resented their masters.

Fabiola had no chance to explain that as an ex-slave, she had no quarrel with them, and had no part in Rome’s aggressive foreign policy. To those who saw her, she was just another rich Roman passing by.

But, as the optio told her, there had been little fighting in this area. Much of Transalpine Gaul had been under the Republic’s control for over a century, and fortunately the tribes here had not answered Vercingetorix’ call to arms. Thus Fabiola’s unease grew even greater as they travelled further north, towards the regions affected by the uprising. Gossip from the legionaries in the regular outposts and garrison towns did little to reduce this. Caesar had suffered a major setback at Gergovia, during which he had lost hundreds of soldiers. Emboldened by this victory, Vercingetorix had pulled his army back to the fortified town of Alesia, there to await his enemy’s arrival.

And the titanic struggle was still going on.

Despite the reluctance of Petreius’ optio, Fabiola insisted they continue their journey. His remit had been to follow her orders, and she wasn’t about to let him forget it. She and Secundus had consulted an oracle in one of the towns near the border, and the omens had been promising. False or not, the prophecy had merely gilt-edged Fabiola’s determination. At this point, she felt there was no going back. Her stubborn pride prevented it. But it was not just that. If Caesar lost the battle at Alesia, all of her plans would have come to nothing. In that case, the young woman did not care what happened to her. With her mother dead and Romulus probably so, she might as well die too.

If Caesar had been successful however, his ambition, and that of Brutus, would know no bounds. Moreover, the public would adore him for it. Pompey’s suppression of the rioting in Rome would hardly compare with a victory over hundreds of thousands of fierce warriors. The citizens would appreciate such a crushing blow all the more because of the Romans’ historical fear of Gaul. The sacking of their capital by the tribesmen over three centuries before had left a lasting scar on the national psyche. Caesar had to win, because then Fabiola could continue her quest to find Romulus and discover her father’s identity.

They travelled on.

The escape from Scaevola had been the most frightening and hair-raising part of Fabiola’s journey so far. That was, until they neared Alesia. The horror continued for mile after mile. And yet the threat was not living. Just a dozen miles from the last legionary outpost, the countryside was filled with burnt villages and fields of torched crops. Herds of cattle and sheep lay slaughtered, their bloated corpses stinking in the early summer sunshine. Vercingetorix’ men had been hard at work, their aim to deny food and supplies to Caesar’s army. Any living creatures remaining were wild animals and birds. There were no people — everyone had either fled, or joined Vercingetorix in Alesia. It was a sign of how desperate the struggle had been, Fabiola realised. Surely a chieftain would only order the destruction of his own people’s livelihood in the worst of circumstances? Now large tracts of the Gauls’ land lay in waste, which meant there would be no food for the coming winter. Long after the soldiers on both sides left, innocent women and children would starve to death. This extra blood price was chilling.

But what was she supposed to do? One woman could not change the aggressive nature of the Roman Republic, or of one of its best generals. As usual, Fabiola’s practical side took control. The people of Gaul were beyond her aid. She would help those she could, such as her slaves. Furthermore, she resolved to locate the boy who had been pursued on to her land by Scaevola. The memory of what the fugitivarius had done to him afterwards still tortured her.

Fabiola had little time to dwell on it.

Beyond the devastated farmland lay even more graphic evidence of Caesar’s war. By the time they were within a few miles of Alesia, there were dead and dying Gauls lying all along the wayside, men who had fled the battle or been evacuated by their comrades and then left to die when they could no longer keep up. Thankfully, there was no sign of any able-bodied warriors, but the optio’s fears had grown so great that he refused to continue. Red-faced with determined embarrassment, he insisted that Fabiola and twenty men conceal themselves in a large copse several hundred paces from the road. She could only watch in frustration as he and the other legionaries headed off to find out what they could.

The optio was not gone for long.

‘It’s all over,’ he shouted jubilantly when within earshot. ‘Caesar has done it!’

Whispers of excitement passed between the hidden soldiers.

Fabiola breathed a long sigh of relief, while Secundus grinned from ear to ear. Impatient, they waited until the junior officer had reached them.

‘The battle finished yesterday, apparently. By all the gods, you should see it,’ he said, waving his arms with excitement. ‘Caesar’s legions have built miles of fortifications all around the town to prevent any break-out.’ He paused. ‘And another set facing outwards to stop any attempt at relieving the siege.’

Fabiola could not conceal her surprise. ‘They were being attacked by two armies?’

The optio nodded vigorously. ‘Caesar had ten legions, yet he must have been outnumbered by at least five to one. There are thousands of dead Gauls everywhere, but they say it’s even worse north-west of the battlefield.’

‘Is that where the battle was decided?’ asked Secundus, his face alight.

‘Yes. The enemy warriors almost broke through the defences there. Caesar sent reinforcements led by Decimus Brutus, but they were nearly overwhelmed.’

Fabiola blanched.

‘Then Caesar rallied the soldiers and turned the tide!’

‘You’re one of Pompey’s men, remember?’ joked Secundus.

‘I follow orders just like anyone,’ grumbled the optio. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a great general.’

‘Is Brutus alive?’ interrupted Fabiola.

‘Yes, lady. I asked.’

‘The gods be thanked,’ she cried. ‘And is it safe to continue?’

‘It is. I can guide you to him.’ He grimaced. ‘But we’ll need to travel straight across the battlefield.’

‘Lead on.’ Sure that she had seen the worst of it, Fabiola could wait no longer. She had to see Brutus.

The optio paused, unsure.

‘The danger is over,’ she snapped. ‘You said so yourself.’

The junior officer glanced at Secundus, who shrugged. He tried one more time. ‘It’s not a sight for women.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

Used to her domineering nature by now, the optio snapped off a crisp salute. Signalling the men to follow, he led the way down to the road.

Over a small rise, the battlefield proper began. A strange, unquiet air hung over the whole area. It was in marked contrast to the frantic mayhem of the previous days, which Fabiola struggled to imagine. Clouds of ravens and crows swooped and dived overhead, their harsh cawing the only sound. Like a forest of small trees, countless spears jutted from the ground, any gaps in between filled by the smaller, feathered shapes of arrows.

But it was the number of dead that drew her eyes, again and again.

Fabiola was utterly horrified. Nothing could have prepared her for it, not even the bloodshed she had witnessed in the arena. The ground was littered with more bodies than seemed possible: this was death on an unreal scale. Here was a glut of food that even the flocks of birds could not deal with. And now the corpses were Roman as well as Gaulish. They were heaped in huge piles, draped over each other like sleeping drunks at a feast. There was blood everywhere — on the slack faces, oozing from the countless gaping wounds, on the discarded swords and spears. Pools of it lay clotted around soldiers who had bled to death. Underfoot, the grass had been trampled down from the passage of men, churned into a red, glutinous mud that stuck to the legionaries’ sandals. A faint buzzing sound permeated the still air, made by the clouds of flies that clustered on every exposed piece of flesh.

Groups of legionaries could be seen moving methodically through the dead, stripping them of weapons and valuables. Occasionally enemy warriors were found alive, but none were being spared. By now, the only ones to remain living on the field were those who could not flee. Badly injured, the Gauls were therefore of no use as slaves. From time to time swords flashed in the sun, and short choking cries bubbled away into nothing.

The number of bodies soon made it impossible for the slaves carrying the litter to continue. Alighting, Fabiola raised a hand to her nose, vainly trying not to inhale. The cloying smell of rotting flesh was already sticking in the back of her throat. She could imagine how bad it would be after two or three more days under the hot sun.

Hastily, the optio directed a number of men to march in front of Fabiola, clearing the way. The walk was still like having to traverse the underworld, but she wasn’t going to stop now. Finally, Brutus was within reach. She would be safe once more.

The Roman circumvallation came into sight, dragging Fabiola’s eyes away from the carnage around her. No one could fail to be impressed by the scale of the engineering And all these features had been constructed in duplicate, on the other side.

Fabiola was astonished by Caesar’s sheer determination. He truly was the amazing general that Brutus had described. A dangerous man. A rapist?

On a large plateau above the fortifications, stood the object of Caesar’s attention: Alesia.

Trying to break through from either direction would have been a suicidal task, Fabiola thought. And defending the ramparts, utterly terrifying.

The optio had not been exaggerating about the scale of the slaughter. It was far greater here than what they had left behind. Her gorge rose, and she struggled not to vomit. Is this what Hades looked like? Had Carrhae been this bad?

Cries of pain drew her attention away from one horror to another.

A short distance away, a group of legionaries was gathered around a moaning, prone figure: an old man, in a robe.

Fabiola watched, horrified, as they drew nearer. He was unarmed, and probably just unfortunate enough to have strayed within their reach.

Javelin tips probed forward, drawing blood and fresh screams. Studded army sandals stamped down on unprotected flesh. Fabiola was sure she heard one of his arms snap. Turning her head made no difference. Cruel laughter filled her ears. Again and again her attention was drawn back to the dreadful scene. The torture went on until the soldiers grew bored. First one man drew his gladius, then another.

Fabiola was moving before she even realised it. Pushing past her surprised legionaries, she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop it!’

‘Come back,’ shouted Secundus from behind her. ‘You cannot intervene.’

She ignored him, unwilling to watch such a summary execution. It reminded her too much of what might have happened to Romulus. Fabiola also had a powerful feeling that she should get involved.

Her screams had the desired effect. A couple of the legionaries stopped what they were doing and looked around. Leering unpleasantly, they nudged their comrades.

Ignoring their lustful reactions, Fabiola stalked closer.

Intimidated by her confident manner, the nearest men moved back. But the ringleader, a hardbitten-looking soldier with rusty chain mail and a battered bronze helmet topped by a simple horsehair crest, did not budge one step. Instead, he licked his lips suggestively at the beautiful young woman who had interrupted their sport.

Fabiola went straight on the offensive. Perhaps shame could help. ‘How brave you are to torture an old man like this,’ she hissed. ‘Have you not seen enough killing?’

Laughs of derision met this question.

Scanning the tough, scarred faces around her, Fabiola realised these were some of Caesar’s veterans. After six years of constant campaigning in Gaul, war and death was all they knew.

Secundus arrived, followed closely by Sextus and the optio. All three were careful to keep their hands away from their weapons.

‘Who the fuck are you to order us about?’ demanded the ringleader. ‘And what business of yours is it anyway?’

His comrades grinned and, as if to prove a point, one of them kicked their victim.

‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’ screamed Fabiola. ‘I will have you all flogged!’

Confused looks met this outburst.

‘Why wouldn’t we kill him?’ asked a thin soldier.

Peering closer, Fabiola took in what, in her rage, she had not noticed before. Although the old man’s robe was threadbare, there was a sickle slung from his rope belt. A worn leather pouch had been opened and its contents scattered on the ground. Dried herbs lay on small stones polished by long use; beside these were the tiny bones of a mouse. A short dagger with bloodstains on its rusty blade provided the final piece of evidence. Now Fabiola understood why the soldiers were acting so cruelly.

Few figures provoked more fear in Roman hearts than the Gaulish druids. Members of a powerful group learned in ancient lore, they were revered and hated in equal measure by their own people. It was said that Vercingetorix himself relied on one to provide him with predictions of the future.

‘See?’ said the thin legionary. ‘He’s a damn druid.’

‘Not for much longer, he isn’t,’ quipped their ringleader.

There was more laughter.

Moving forward, Fabiola saw that while most of the old man’s wounds were superficial, one was not. Through his clutching fingers, large amounts of blood had soaked through his robe over his belly. Her intervention had come too late. It was a death wound.

And gazing at the druid, she saw that he knew it too.

Bizarrely, he smiled. ‘Some of my visions were true, then,’ he said to himself. ‘A beautiful, black-haired woman who seeks revenge.’

Fabiola’s eyes widened.

Behind her, Secundus was paying keen attention.

No one spoke for a moment.

‘You are close to one beloved of Caesar,’ he rasped suddenly.

The watching legionaries exchanged worried glances. Fabiola’s threat had not just been an empty one. Without further protest, they let her kneel by the druid’s side.

Horrified by the whole situation, Fabiola was also intrigued. Here was a man with more power than any of the charlatans to be found at Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Yet he was dying. She had to find out what else he knew before it was too late.

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?