The Silver Eagle

Chapter II: Scaevola

Near Pompeii, winter 53/52 BC

‘Mistress?’

Fabiola opened her eyes with a start. Standing behind her was a kind-faced, middle-aged woman in a simple smock and plain leather sandals. She smiled. Docilosa was Fabiola’s one true friend and ally, someone she could trust with her life. ‘I’ve asked you not to call me that.’

Docilosa’s lips twitched. A former domestic slave, she had received her manumission at the same time as her new mistress. But the habits of a lifetime took a while to discard. ‘Yes, Fabiola,’ she said carefully.

‘What is it?’ asked Fabiola, climbing to her feet. Stunningly beautiful, slim and black-haired, she was dressed in a simple but expensive silk and linen robe. Ornate gold and silver jewellery winked from around her neck and arms. ‘Docilosa?’

There was a pause.

‘Word has come from the north,’ said Docilosa. ‘From Brutus.’

Joy struck, followed by dread. This was what Fabiola had been asking for: news of her lover. Twice a day, in an alcove off her villa’s main courtyard, she prayed at this altar without fail. Now that Jupiter had answered her requests, would it be good news? Fabiola studied Docilosa’s face for a clue.

Decimus Brutus was sequestered in Ravenna with Caesar, his general, who was plotting their return to Rome. Conveniently situated between the capital and the frontier with Transalpine Gaul, Ravenna was Caesar’s favourite winter abode. There, surrounded by his armies, he could monitor the political situation. Above the River Rubicon, this was allowed. But for a general to cross without relinquishing his military command — thereby entering Italy proper under arms — was an act of high treason. So every winter, Caesar watched and waited. Unhappy, the Senate could do little about it, while Pompey, the only man with the military muscle to oppose Caesar, sat on the fence. The situation changed daily, but one thing felt certain. Trouble was looming.

Fabiola was therefore surprised by Docilosa’s news.

‘Rebellion has broken out in Transalpine Gaul,’ she revealed. ‘There’s heavy fighting in many areas. Apparently the Roman settlers and merchants in the conquered cities are being massacred.’

Fighting panic at this new threat to Brutus, Fabiola exhaled slowly. Remember what you have escaped, she thought. Things have been far worse than this. At thirteen, Fabiola had been sold as a virgin into an expensive brothel by Gemellus, her cruel former owner. Adding to the horror, Romulus, her brother, had been sold into gladiator school at the same time. Her heart ached at the thought. Nearly four years of enforced prostitution in the Lupanar had followed. I did not lose hope then. Fabiola eyed the statue on the altar with reverence. And Jupiter delivered me from the life I despised. Rescue had come in the form of Brutus, one of Fabiola’s keenest lovers, who bought her from Jovina, the madam of the brothel, for a great deal of money. The impossible is always possible, Fabiola reflected, feeling calmer. Brutus would be safe. ‘I thought Caesar had conquered all of Gaul?’ she asked.

‘So they say,’ muttered Docilosa.

‘Yet it has seen nothing but unrest,’ retorted Fabiola. Aided by Brutus, Rome’s most daring general had been stamping out trouble since his bloody campaign had ostensibly ended. ‘What is it now?’

‘The chieftain Vercingetorix has demanded, and received, a levy from the tribes,’ Docilosa replied. ‘Tens of thousands of men are flocking to his banner.’

Fabiola frowned. This was not news she wanted to hear. With the majority of his forces stationed in winter quarters just inside Transalpine Gaul, Caesar could be in real trouble. The Gaulish people were fierce warriors who had vigorously resisted the Roman conquest, losing only because of Caesar’s extraordinary abilities as a tactician and the legions’ superior discipline. If the tribes were truly uniting, an uprising had catastrophic potential.

‘The news gets worse,’ Docilosa continued. ‘Heavy snow has already fallen in the mountains on the border.’

Fabiola’s lips tightened. Brutus’ most recent message had talked about coming to visit soon. That would not now happen.

And if Caesar couldn’t reach his troops in time to quell the rebellion before spring, the trouble would spread far and wide. Vercingetorix had picked his moment carefully, thought Fabiola angrily. If this revolt succeeded, all her well-laid plans would come to nothing. Doubtless thousands would lose their lives in the forthcoming fighting, but she had to ignore that heavy cost. Whatever her desires, those men would still die. A quick victory for Caesar would mean less bloodshed. Fabiola desperately wanted this because then Brutus, his devoted follower, would gain more glory. But it was not just that. Fabiola was ruthlessly focused. If Caesar succeeded, her star would rise too.

She felt a twinge of guilt that her first thought had not been for Brutus’ safety. A keen career soldier, he was also extremely courageous. He might be injured, or even killed, in the forthcoming fighting. That would be hard to bear, she reflected, offering up an extra prayer. Although she had never let herself love anyone, Fabiola was genuinely fond of Brutus. He had always been gentle and kind, even when taking her virginity. She smiled. Choosing to lavish her charms on him had been a good decision.

Previously, there had been many such clients, all powerful nobles whose patronage could have guaranteed her progress into the upper echelons of Roman society. Keeping her eyes on that prize, Fabiola had somehow managed to disassociate herself from the degradation of her job. Just as they used Fabiola’s body, men were to be taken for whatever she could gain: gold, information or, best of all, influence. From the start, Brutus had been different from most clients, which made sex with him easier. What had finally tipped the balance in his favour was his close relationship with Caesar, a politician who had aroused Fabiola’s interest as she eavesdropped on conversations between nobles relaxing in the brothel’s baths. The pillow talk that she cajoled from her satiated customers had also been full of promising pointers towards Caesar. Perhaps it was Jupiter who had guided her to become Brutus’ mistress, thought Fabiola. While at a feast with Brutus, she had seen a statue of Caesar which reminded her strongly of Romulus. Suspicion had burned in Fabiola’s mind since.

Docilosa’s next words brought her back to reality. ‘The Optimates threw a feast when the news of Vercingetorix’ rebellion reached Rome. Pompey Magnus was guest of honour.’

‘Gods above,’ muttered Fabiola. ‘Anything else?’ Caesar had enemies everywhere, and particularly in the capital. The triumvirate which ruled the Republic had been reduced by one with the death of Crassus, and since then Pompey had seemed unsure what to do about Caesar’s unsurpassed military successes. Which suited Caesar admirably. But now the Optimates, the group of politicians which opposed him, were openly courting Pompey, his sole rival. Caesar could still be the new ruler of Rome — but only if Vercingetorix’ uprising did not succeed and if he retained enough support in the Senate. Suddenly Fabiola felt very vulnerable. In the Lupanar, she had been a big fish in a small pond. Outside, in the real world, she was a nobody. If Caesar failed, so did Brutus. And without his backing, what chance had she of succeeding in life? Unless, of course, she prostituted herself with someone else. Fabiola’s stomach turned at that idea. Those years in the Lupanar had been enough to last a lifetime.

This called for dramatic measures.

‘I must visit the temple on the Capitoline Hill,’ Fabiola declared. ‘To make an offering and pray that Caesar crushes the rebellion quickly.’

Docilosa hid her surprise. ‘The voyage to Rome will take at least a week. More if the seas are rough.’

Fabiola’s face was serene. ‘In that case, we shall travel by road.’

Now the older woman was shocked. ‘We’ll end up raped and murdered! The countryside is full of bandits.’

‘No more so than the streets of Rome,’ Fabiola replied tartly. ‘Besides, we can take the three bodyguards that Brutus left. They’ll be enough protection.’ Not as good as Benignus or Vettius, she thought, fondly remembering the Lupanar’s huge doormen. Despite their devotion to Fabiola, they had been too valuable for Jovina to sell as well. Returning to the capital might allow her to investigate that possibility again. The tough pair would be very useful.

‘What will Brutus say when he finds out?’

‘He’ll understand,’ answered Fabiola brightly. ‘I’m doing it for him.’

Docilosa sighed. She would not win this argument. And with few diversions other than the baths or covered market in Pompeii, life had become very mundane in the almost empty villa. Rome would provide some excitement — it always did. ‘When do you wish to leave?’

‘Tomorrow. Send word to the port so that the captain can ready Ajax. He’ll know in the morning if the weather is good enough to sail.’ Upon his arrival in the north, Brutus had immediately sent back his treasured liburnian to lie at his lover’s disposal. Powered by one hundred slaves working a single bank of oars, the short, low-slung ship was the fastest type of vessel the Romans could build. Ajax had been lying idle at the dock in Pompeii and Fabiola had not foreseen needing its services until the following spring. Now, things had changed.

Docilosa bowed and withdrew, leaving her mistress to brood.

Visiting the temple would also afford Fabiola another opportunity to ask Jupiter who had raped their mother. Velvinna had only mentioned it in passing, but for obvious reasons, she had not forgotten. Discovering her father’s identity was Fabiola’s driving purpose in life. And once she knew, revenge would be hers.

At any price.

Taking charge of the rundown latifundium when Brutus left had greatly intimidated Fabiola. But it provided her with satisfaction too. Being mistress of the large estate surrounding the villa was tangible proof of her revenge on Gemellus, who had originally owned it. And so she had thrown herself into the job from the start. An initial tour of the house proved that, as in his residence in Rome, Gemellus’ tastes were crude and garish. It had given her great pleasure to have every single opulent bedroom, banqueting hall and office redecorated. The merchant’s many statues of Priapus had been smashed, their massive erect members reminding Fabiola too much of the suffering that she had witnessed Gemellus inflict on her mother. The thick layer of dust covering the mosaic floors was swept away; the fountains unclogged and cleared of dead leaves. Even the neglected plants in the courtyards had been replaced. Best of all, the walls of the heated bathing area had been repainted with bright images of the gods, mythological sea creatures and fish. One of Fabiola’s most powerful memories of her first day in the Lupanar was seeing such pictures in its baths. She had determined to have the same luxuriant surroundings herself one day. Now it was a reality.

And yet it was hard not to feel guilty, she thought later that day. While she lacked for nothing, Romulus was probably dead. Tears pricked the corners of Fabiola’s eyes. While in the brothel, she had left no stone unturned in her efforts to find him. Incredibly, after more than a year, she had discovered that her twin was still alive. In the savagery of the gladiatorial arena, Jupiter had protected him. The further revelation that Romulus had enrolled in Crassus’ legions could not dampen Fabiola’s spirits, but then disaster struck. A few months before, the devastating news of Carrhae had reached Rome. At one stroke, Fabiola lost virtually all hope. To survive one horror only to end up in a doomed army seemed cruel beyond belief. Eager to help, Brutus had done his best to find out more, but the news was all bad. The defeat was one of the worst ever suffered by the Republic, with huge numbers of men lost. Certainly Romulus was not among the remnants of the legion that had escaped with the legate Cassius Longinus. Plenty of cash had been spread amongst the veterans of the Eighth, to no avail. Fabiola sighed. Her twin’s sun-bleached bones were probably still littering the sand where he had fallen. Either that or he was gone to the ends of the earth — to some god-forsaken place called Margiana, where the Parthians had sent their ten thousand prisoners.

And no one had ever returned from there.

Rare tears rolled down Fabiola’s cheeks. While the slightest chance remained of seeing Romulus again, she would not despair totally, but now stubbornness was taking over from faith. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, hear me, she thought miserably. Let my brother still be alive — somehow. Determined not to lose control of her emotions, Fabiola dried her eyes and went in search of Corbulo, the aged vilicus, or steward, of her latifundium. As usual, she found him busy supervising the workers. Never having lived in the countryside, Fabiola knew little about it, or agriculture, so she spent most days in Corbulo’s company. The news from Gaul would not change that. The latifundium was her responsibility now.

Fabiola knew from Corbulo that the days of citizen farmers working their own fields were disappearing fast, as cheap grain from Sicily and Egypt put them out of business. For more than a generation, farming had been confined to those rich enough to buy up land and work it with slaves. Fortunately for such people, the Republic’s war-like tendencies had provided no end of unfortunate souls from all corners of the world to generate them wealth. Gemellus’ former estate was no different.

Recently freed, Fabiola hated slavery. At first, being the owner of several hundred people — men, women and children — troubled her. Practically, though, she could do nothing. Freeing the Greeks, Libyans, Gauls and Numidians would achieve little other than bankrupting her new property. She resolved instead to consolidate her position as Brutus’ lover, cultivate noble friends if possible and try to discover her father’s identity. Perhaps in the future, with help from Romulus, she would be able to do more. Fabiola remembered how her twin brother had idolised Spartacus, the Thracian gladiator whose slave rebellion had shaken Rome to its core only a generation before.

That thought brought a smile to Fabiola’s face as she reached the large yard behind the villa. Here, the slaves’ miserable, damp living quarters were a stark comparison to the solidly built storage areas. Something would have to be done about their situation, she decided. There were also stables, a two-storey mill and numerous stone sheds. These last were built on brick stilts to allow continuous airflow underneath and to prevent rodent access. Some were filled to the ceiling with harvested grain and oats, while others contained the estate’s rich variety of produce. Resin-sealed jars of olive oil stood in well-balanced stacks. There were tubs of garum, a popular and strongly favoured fish paste, sitting beside barrels of salted mullet and clay vessels full of olives. Ready to be used over the winter, apples, quinces and pears were packed neatly in rows on beds of straw. Muddy bulbs of garlic were arranged in small pyramids. Dried hams hung from the rafters beside bunches of carrots, chicory and herbs: sage, fennel, mint and thyme.

Wine, one of the premium products, was prepared and stored in special cellars in yet another building. Firstly fermented in dolia, huge pitch-lined jars that were partially buried in the ground, the juice from the crushed grapes was then sealed in and left to age. Only the best vintages were decanted to amphorae and moved to the main house, where they were laid in a special depository in the roof space over one of the main hearths.

Fabiola was fond of checking each of the stores herself, still amazed that the food belonged to her. As a child, hunger had ruled her life. Now, she had enough to eat for a lifetime. The irony was not lost on her and she made sure that her slaves’ diet was adequate. Most landowners barely gave their slaves enough to live on, let alone survive beyond early middle age. She might not be setting them free, yet Fabiola was determined to be a humane mistress. The use of force might occasionally be necessary to ensure obedience, but not often.

The main labour for the year — sowing, tending and harvesting crops — was almost over. Today though, the yard was a hive of activity. Corbulo was stalking up and down, shouting orders. Fabiola saw men re-forging broken ploughs and repairing worn leather harness for the oxen. Alongside them, women and children emptied carts of the late ripening vegetables such as onions, beet and the famous Pompeian cabbage. Others worked in groups on the wool which had been shorn from the sheep during the summer. Now it was being combed out and washed, before being spun.

Corbulo bowed when he saw her. ‘Mistress.’

Fabiola inclined her head gravely, careful to maintain an air of unaccustomed command.

His brown hair shot with grey, the round-faced, stooped figure would scarcely attract a second glance. His clothes were nondescript. Only his long-handled whip and the lucky silver amulet dangling from a thong round his neck showed he was no mere agricultural slave. Seized as a child on the North African coast, Corbulo had lived his life since on the latifundium.

Having a youthful woman as his owner seemed to trouble the old vilicus little. Brutus had made it perfectly clear that in his absence, Fabiola was the mistress of the household. Corbulo was delighted just to have someone to tell him what to do to stop the estate falling into rack and ruin, as it had been for years.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Supervising this lot, Mistress,’ said Corbulo, indicating the nearby slaves. ‘Always plenty of routine jobs to keep them busy.’

Fabiola was intrigued by daily life on the latifundium. She could not imagine her former master feeling the same way. ‘Did Gemellus have any real interest in this place?’

‘When he first bought it, yes,’ Corbulo answered. ‘Used to come down here every few months.’

Fabiola concealed her surprise.

‘He brought in the new olive trees from Greece and had the fish pools constructed,’ the vilicus revealed. ‘Even picked which hillsides to grow the vines on.’

Fabiola disliked the thought of her former master having a creative side. He had only ever shown brutality at the house in Rome where she and Romulus had grown up. ‘What happened then?’ she asked.

There was a shrug. ‘His businesses started to do badly. It started with goods from Egypt. I can still remember hearing the news.’ Corbulo’s lined face grew anguished. ‘Twelve ships sank on the way here from Egypt. Can you believe that, Mistress?’

Fabiola sighed expressively, showing her apparent empathy. In reality she was trying to understand how a man such as Corbulo could care if his master’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. She had been delighted when Brutus revealed the circumstances that had led to Gemellus’ sale of the latifundium. Yet it was inevitable for slaves to identify with their owners in some way, she supposed. Fabiola could recall how proud Romulus had been about safely bringing back a note from Crassus’ to Gemellus’ house, dodging the moneylenders’ men who were always lounging opposite the front door. Yet her twin had hated Gemellus as much as she did. Even those with no freedom had some pride in their lives. So she should not judge Corbulo on that alone. Although he had worked for Gemellus for over twenty years, the vilicus had thus far proved loyal, reliable and hardworking.

Almost on cue, Corbulo barked at a male slave who was sharpening a scythe with slow, indifferent strokes. ‘Put a proper edge on that, fool!’ He tapped the whip hanging from his belt. ‘Or you’ll feel this across your back.’

Hastily the slave bent over the curved iron blade, running an oilstone back and forth along its entire length.

Fabiola smiled approvingly. While not a brutal man, Corbulo wasn’t scared of using force either. It was a good sign that the threat was enough. ‘I thought his fortune was huge,’ she said, probing for more information.

‘It was.’ Corbulo sighed. ‘But the gods turned their faces away. Soon, everything the master did turned to dust. He began to borrow money, with no means of repaying it.’

She could remember the heavies waiting outside Gemellus’ domus day and night and the rumours in the kitchen where the slaves gathered to gossip. ‘Brutus mentioned a venture with animals for the arena being the final straw.’

Corbulo nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, Mistress. It should have made Gemellus a king’s ransom. He had a third share in a expedition to capture wild beasts in southern Egypt.’bestiarius’

Fabiola felt a pang of nostalgia: her brother had often pretended to be a bestiarius. Grief quickly dissolved her happiness. Instead, Romulus had become a gladiator. Yet no emotion showed on her face. The Lupanar had endowed her with the ability to conceal her feelings from everyone, even Brutus.

Suddenly an old memory surfaced. Not long before they were sold, she and Romulus had overheard Gemellus and his bookkeeper having a conversation. It had concerned the capture of animals for the circus, a venture with the potential for huge profit. The twins had been shocked that the merchant could not afford the initial outlay. As poor household slaves, his wealth always seemed immeasurable. ‘That should have cleared his debts,’ she said calmly.

‘Except the vessels sank,’ Corbulo announced. ‘Again.’

‘All of them?’

‘Every last one,’ replied the vilicus grimly. ‘A freak storm.’

Fabiola gasped. ‘Bad luck indeed.’

‘It was more than that. The soothsayers said Neptune himself was angry.’ Corbulo swore violently, then his face coloured as he remembered whom he was speaking to. ‘Sorry, Mistress,’ he muttered.

Fabiola abruptly decided to show her authority in front of the slaves. It was something she had seen Brutus do on a regular basis, ensuring that he was feared as well as respected. ‘Remember who I am!’ she snapped.

Corbulo bowed his neck and waited to be punished. Perhaps his new young mistress was no different to Gemellus.

In fact Fabiola had heard far worse in the Lupanar, but Corbulo had no knowledge of that. She was still learning to give orders, so his response gave her confidence. ‘Continue,’ Fabiola said in a more gentle tone.

The vilicus bobbed his head in gratitude. ‘Gemellus was never one for prophecies, but there was one he mentioned just before those ships were lost.’

Her lip curled. ‘Haruspices tell nothing but lies.’ Hoping for a sign of release from their awful existence, many girls in the brothel spent large amounts of their meagre savings on readings from soothsayers. Fabiola had seen precious few predictions borne out. Those that had come true had been of minor significance, strengthening her determination to rely on no one but herself. And on the god Jupiter, who had finally answered her prayer for freedom.

‘Indeed, Mistress,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘Gemellus said the same himself. But this one was not made by one of the usual shysters hanging around the great temple. It came from a stranger with a gladius, who only agreed to do a reading on sufferance.’ There was a deliberate pause. ‘And virtually all of it came true.’

Her curiosity was aroused. Soothsayers did not carry weapons. ‘Explain,’ she ordered.

‘He predicted that Crassus would leave Rome and never return.’

Fabiola’s eyes widened. It had been common knowledge that the third member of the triumvirate wanted military success to win public approval. Crassus’ choice of the governorship of Syria had been little more than an opportunity to invade Parthia. Yet few could have predicted that his trip abroad would be his last — except a genuine soothsayer. Someone who therefore might have knowledge of Romulus. ‘What else did he say?’ she hissed.

The vilicus swallowed. ‘That a storm at sea would sink the ships, drowning the animals.’

‘Is that all?’

Corbulo’s eyes flickered from side to side. ‘There was one other thing,’ he admitted nervously. ‘Gemellus only mentioned it once, the last time I saw him.’

Fabiola pounced like a hawk on its prey. ‘What was it?’

‘The haruspex told him that one day a man would knock on his door.’

She tensed. Romulus?

‘He seemed haunted by the thought,’ Corbulo finished.

‘Not a gladiator?’

‘No, Mistress.’

Her spirits plunged.

‘A soldier.’

And rose again from the depths.

Confused by her interest, Corbulo glanced at her for approval.

The vilicus got a perfunctory smile instead. Fabiola would give away nothing.

Not a gladiator, she thought triumphantly. A soldier, which is what her brother had become after fleeing Rome. Gemellus knew how much Romulus hated him: the prospect of seeing him again one day would have been terrifying. Now the journey to the temple of Jupiter had two important purposes. If she could find this mysterious soothsayer, she might be able to discover if Romulus was alive. It was a wild hope, but Fabiola had learned never to give up.

Dogged faith, and the desire for revenge, was what had kept her alive.

A deep baying sound suddenly rose from beyond the courtyard walls. It was a noise that Fabiola had heard occasionally since arriving in Pompeii, but always at a distance. As it grew louder, she could see fear growing in her slaves’ faces. ‘What’s that?’

‘Dogs. And fugitivarii, Mistress.’ Seeing her blank response, Corbulo explained. ‘Bounty hunters. They’ll be after a runaway.’

Fabiola’s pulse increased, but she did not panic. I am free, she thought firmly. Nobody is pursuing me.

Searching for the sound’s source, they walked a little way out into the large, open fields which surrounded the villa. Stone walls, bare trees and low hedges separated each from its neighbour. This was flat, fertile land, most of it fallow at this time of year. Two weeks earlier, the soil had been tilled, leaving it to breathe before it was planted with seeds in the spring. Only the winter wheat remained, small green shoots poking a hand span from the earth.

Normally, Fabiola liked to stand and take it all in. At this time of year the landscape was stark, but she loved the noisy jackdaws flying to their nesting spots, the crisp air, the absence of people. Rome’s streets were always thronged; inside the busy Lupanar had been little different. The latifundium had come to mean seclusion from the brutal realities of the world.

Until this.

Corbulo spotted the movement first. ‘There!’ He pointed.

Between the gaps in a hedge some two hundred paces away, Fabiola spotted a running figure. Corbulo had been correct. It was a young man, wearing little more than rags. A slave. Clearly exhausted, with his lower body covered in a thick layer of mud, his face was a picture of desperation.

‘He probably tried to give them the slip by hiding in the river,’ announced the vilicus.

Fabiola had taken pleasant walks along the waterway that separated her property from the estate belonging to her nearest neighbour. It would never seem the same again.

Corbulo grimaced. ‘It never works. The fugitivarii always check under the banks with long poles. If that doesn’t work, the dogs will catch their scent.’

Fabiola could not take her eyes off the fugitive, who was casting terrified glances over his shoulder as he ran. ‘Why is he being hunted?’ she asked dully, knowing the answer.

‘Because he ran away,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And a slave is his master’s property.’

Fabiola was intimately acquainted with this cruel reality. It was the same reason that had allowed Gemellus to repeatedly rape her mother. To sell her and Romulus. To execute Juba, the giant Nubian who had trained her brother to use a sword. Owners had the ultimate power over their slaves: that of life and death. Starkly reinforcing this, in the Roman legal system, the pride of the Republic, there was no retribution for the torture or killing of a slave.

A pack of large dogs burst from the cover of the nearest grove, their noses alternately sniffing the ground and the air for their quarry’s scent.

Fabiola heard the young man wail with terror. It was an awful sound.

She and Corbulo watched in silence.

A group of heavily armed men emerged from the trees, urging the hounds on with shouts and whistles. Cheers went up as they caught sight of the slave, whose energy looked almost spent.

‘Where’s he from?’

The vilicus shrugged. ‘Who knows? The fool could have been running for days,’ he said. ‘He’s young and strong. I’ve known the chase take more than a week.’ Corbulo looked almost sympathetic. ‘But those bastards never give up. And a man can’t run for ever on an empty belly.’

Fabiola sighed. Nobody would give food or help to a fugitive. Why would they? Rome was a state based on foundations of war and slavery. Its citizens had no reason to aid those who had fled captivity. Brutal punishments, terrible living conditions and a poor diet concerned them not at all. Of course, not every slave was treated this badly, but they were still the beating pulse of the Republic, the labour which built its magnificent buildings, toiled in its workshops and grew its foodstuffs. Rome needed its slaves. There was little that other slaves could do either, Fabiola thought bitterly. The punishment for helping an escapee was death. And who wanted to die by crucifixion?

The drama was about to reach its climax. Having staggered to within fifty paces of them, the young man fell to his knees in the damp earth. He raised his arms in silent supplication and Fabiola had to close her eyes. Coming between a runaway and the men legally sent to catch him would not be a good idea. Without risking a lawsuit from the slave’s owner, there was nothing she could do anyway.

Then the pack reached him.

Screams filled the air as the trained dogs began to savage the fugitive like a child’s doll. Fabiola watched in horror. She thanked the gods a few moments later when the lead huntsman whipped them off. Gradually the rest of the fugitivarii arrived, more than a dozen tough-looking types clad in dull colours and armed with bows, spears and swords. From under their wool cloaks, the dull glimmer of mail could be made out. They gathered around, laughing at the deep bite wounds on the slave’s arms and legs. This was part of their sport.

Fabiola held herself back. What could she do?

Engrossed with their capture, the fugitivarii seemed oblivious to their audience. Their brindle dogs had flopped down close by, red tongues hanging from wide, powerful jaws. Similar animals roamed around Fabiola’s villa at night, used as protection against bandits and criminals. These heavily muscled creatures looked even more vicious.

Encircled now, the slave had rolled into a foetal position. He was moaning softly and only crying out when struck by his captors. Then something changed. The nearest thug finally noticed Fabiola and Corbulo. Seeing her rich clothing and jewellery, he did not speak, but muttered a few words to the stocky man in charge. Rather than respond, though, the figure delivered a huge kick to the slave’s chest.

A muffled scream reached them.

Fabiola stared in horror. The blow had been enough to break ribs. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted. ‘He’s badly injured!’

Beside her, Corbulo coughed uneasily.

An opening appeared in the circle, hard, unforgiving faces turning towards the stunning woman and her vilicus. As they took in her beauty, leers distorted their features and lewd suggestions were made, albeit in whispers. The rich were still people to be respected.

Fabiola ignored the comments; Corbulo glared.

Bizarrely, the slave was then allowed to get to his feet. One of the fugitivarii drew his sword and poked him with its tip. Away from them, and towards Fabiola. Confused, the young slave did not move. Another sharp prod followed, prompting a sob. But he took the hint, and stumbled towards the villa. Laughs of derision met his efforts, and a number of the thugs threw clods of earth at him. His pace increased.

‘What are they doing?’ asked Fabiola in dread.

‘They’re playing with him. And us. Time to go inside, Mistress,’ Corbulo muttered, his face a pale shade of grey. ‘Before things get out of hand.’

Fabiola’s feet were rooted to the spot.

The slave came closer. As well as the dog bites that covered his body, his torso and arms were a red ruin. Through an old, flittered tunic, oozing wounds were visible, crisscrossing his skin front and back in an ugly latticework. The marks of a whip, they were evidence of a brutal master. Was this why he had fled? The fugitive was young, Fabiola guessed, no more than fifteen. A boy. Sweat and tears had streaked the dirt on his face, which was pinched and hungry. And full of terror.

‘Mistress!’ Corbulo’s voice was insistent. ‘It’s not safe.’

Fabiola could not take her eyes off the runaway, who did not dare to look at her.

In a trance, he shuffled past them, towards the courtyard. Like a mouse injured by a cat, he would not go far.

At last the fugitivarii began to move, and Fabiola’s stomach twisted. She glanced around, but none of her bodyguards were in sight. Until now, there had rarely been a need for their presence and they spent much of their time around the fire in the kitchen, telling dirty jokes. Even the slaves who were in the yard had not appeared.

Corbulo’s fear had grown so great that he actually took hold of her sleeve.

An urgent desire to help gripped Fabiola, and she turned to face the approaching men. Although fearful too, she was not about to scurry back inside her property to avoid these lowlifes.

Silently, malevolently, they drew closer.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Fabiola cried, holding her hands together to stop them trembling.

‘That’d be me, lady. Scaevola, chief fugitivarius,’ drawled the leader with an insolent half-bow. A squat, powerful figure with short brown hair and deep-set eyes, he wore a legionary’s chain mail shirt that covered him from neck to mid-thigh. A gladius in an ornate sheath and a dagger hung from his belt. Thick silver wrist bands adorned his wrists, announcing his status. Hunting escaped slaves was clearly profitable work. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

The offer came across as it was meant. Rude. Full of innuendo. It was met with sniggers of delight from the others.

Acutely aware of how powerless she was, Fabiola drew herself up to her full height. ‘Explain what you are doing on my land.’

‘Your land?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where’s Gemellus then? You his latest piece of ass?’

This time his men laughed out loud.

Fabiola gave him an icy stare. ‘That fat degenerate no longer owns this estate. I am the mistress now, and you will answer me!’

Scaevola looked surprised. ‘I hadn’t heard,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve been in the north for months. The pickings are good up there. Plenty of tribal scum fleeing Gaul.’

‘What a pity you returned.’

‘We just follow the work,’ replied the ‘Been chasing this specimen for three days, isn’t that right, boys? But no one escapes old Scaevola and his crew!’fugitivarius.

‘Does it amuse you to torture the slaves you catch?’ asked Fabiola acidly.

Scaevola smiled, revealing sharp teeth. ‘Keeps the lads here happy,’ he answered. ‘And me.’

His men chortled.

Fabiola gave him a withering look.

‘The dirt bag would have more reason to scream if it wasn’t so damn cold,’ Scaevola confided amiably. ‘I need a good fire to heat my iron! But that can be done later, back at the camp.’

Now Fabiola was filled with rage. She knew exactly what Scaevola was talking about. One of the commonest punishments was to brand escapees on the forehead with the letter ‘F’, for fugitivus. It was a savage warning to other slaves. And if another attempt was made, crucifixion was likely. It explained why most slaves accepted their lot. Not me, Fabiola thought fiercely. Not Romulus.

‘Be gone!’ She pointed back the way they had come. ‘Now!’

‘Who’s going to make me, lady?’ Scaevola sneered, jerking his head at Corbulo. ‘This old fool?’

At once his men laid hands on their weapons.

The vilicus went pale. ‘Mistress!’ he hissed. ‘We must return to the villa!’

Fabiola took a deep breath, calming herself. Her decision to confront Scaevola had been made, and other than a humiliating climb-down, she had little choice other than to continue. ‘I am the lover of Decimus Brutus,’ she announced in a loud, clear voice. ‘Do you know who that is, you sewer rat?’

Scaevola’s face became a cold, calculating mask.

‘One of Julius Caesar’s most important men,’ she continued proudly, rubbing it in. ‘A senior army officer.’ Fabiola glared at the fugitivarii, daring any to meet her stony gaze. None would, except Scaevola. ‘If anything happens to me, he would go to Hades to find the scum responsible.’

For a moment, Fabiola’s words seemed to have worked. She turned to go.

‘The whore of one of Caesar’s lapdogs, eh?’ Scaevola drawled.

Fabiola’s cheeks burned, but she had no chance to respond.

‘There are people in Rome who pay good money to see Caesar’s supporters. ’ Scaevola smiled, making his words more chilling, ‘. removed from the equation.’

His men’s interest picked up instantly.

Fabiola’s heart lurched. There had been rumours in Pompeii recently about the brutal murders of a number of Caesar’s less wealthy allies. Men who, previously, had had no need for many bodyguards. And she had just three.

‘Expecting Brutus soon?’

Fabiola had no answer. The first fingers of panic clutched her belly.

‘Not to worry.’ Scaevola leered at her. ‘You’ll do. Boys?’

As one, the fugitivarii moved forward.

Horrified, Fabiola looked at Corbulo. To his credit, the vilicus was not backing away. Gripping his whip in his right fist, he moved to stand protectively in front of her.

Scaevola began to laugh, a deep, unpleasant sound. ‘Kill the stupid old bastard,’ he ordered. ‘But I want the bitch alive and unharmed. She’s mine.’

Jupiter, Greatest and Best, thought Fabiola desperately. Once more, I need your help.

Instead, the sound of swords being drawn from their sheaths filled the air.

Squaring his shoulders, Corbulo moved a step forward.

Fabiola’s heart filled with pride at his brave, useless action. Then she looked at the thugs and her gorge rose. They were both about to die. No doubt she would be raped first. And she did not even have a weapon to defend herself with.

Just a few steps from Corbulo, the fugitivarii stopped and Scaevola’s face went purple with rage.

Confused, Fabiola and Corbulo looked at each other. They sensed movement behind them.

Turning her head, Fabiola saw practically every male slave she owned coming towards them at a run. Gripping scythes, hammers, axes, and even planks of wood, there were at least forty of them. Alarmed by the escapee entering the yard, they had spontaneously come to defend their mistress. And yet not one knew how to fight like the fugitivarii. A lump formed in Fabiola’s throat at the risks these unfortunates would take for her.

Reaching her, the slaves fanned out in a long line.

The thugs looked unhappy. Armed or not, they were vastly outnumbered. And after Spartacus’ rebellion twenty years before, everyone knew that slaves could fight.

Fabiola turned to face Scaevola. ‘Get off my latifundium,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’

‘I’m not leaving without the fugitive,’ Scaevola growled. ‘Fetch him.’

His head bowed, Corbulo obediently moved a step towards the yard.

‘Stop!’

The vilicus jerked upright at Fabiola’s shouted command.

‘You’re not having the poor creature,’ she said, allowing her fury to take complete hold. ‘He stays here.’

Corbulo’s face was a picture of shock.

Scaevola’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.

‘You heard,’ snapped Fabiola.

‘The son of a whore belongs to a merchant called Sextus Roscius, not you!’ the fugitivarius roared. ‘This is totally illegal.’

‘So is physically assaulting a citizen. But that did not trouble you,’ responded Fabiola sharply. ‘Ask Roscius how much he wants for the boy. I’ll have the money sent the very next day.’

Obviously not used to being thwarted or to losing face, Scaevola’s fists bunched with rage.

They glared at each other for a heart-stopping moment.

‘This is not over,’ the fugitivarius muttered from between clenched teeth. ‘No one, especially a jumped-up little bitch like you, crosses Scaevola without payback. You hear me?’

Fabiola lifted her chin. She did not answer.

‘I hope you and your lover have strong locks on your doors,’ he warned. From nowhere, a knife appeared in his right hand. ‘And plenty of guards. You’ll need both.’

His companions laughed unpleasantly, and Fabiola forced herself not to shiver.

Fortified by his mistress’s courage, Corbulo made a gesture. The slaves moved forward, their weapons raised.

Scaevola eyed them all with scorn. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said. Gathering his men, he led them back across the muddy field. The dogs trotted at their heels.

The vilicus let out a long, slow breath.

Fabiola stood stiff-backed, watching until the fugitivarii were out of sight. Inside, she was panicking. What have I done? I should have let him take the boy. But part of her was glad. Whether her decision had been wise, only time would tell.

‘Mistress?’

She turned to regard the vilicus.

‘Scaevola is a very dangerous man.’ Corbulo paused. ‘And he’s on Pompey’s payroll.’

Fabiola flashed him a grateful smile, and the old vilicus fell wholly under her spell.

‘The mangy dog meant what he said too,’ he explained. ‘His enemies just disappear. These men. ’ He indicated the slaves around them. ‘Next time, they won’t be enough.’

‘I know,’ replied Fabiola, wishing that Brutus were by her side.

She had made a real enemy. Journeying to Rome had become an urgent priority.