The Silver Eagle

Chapter IV: Fabiola and Secundus

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Fabiola’s pulse quickened as she raced up the last few steps to the top of the Capitoline Hill, nearing the enormous complex. She had not worshipped here for months and had missed it keenly. Sheer excitement had made her run ahead of Docilosa and the bodyguards, but this was now replaced by anxiety at what she might find. It might be nothing at all.

An appreciative wolf whistle from a passer-by dragged her thoughts down to earth.

Fabiola’s common sense kicked in, and she slowed down. It was not wise for a woman to venture out alone in any part of Rome. Particularly not for her. Scaevola’s threat had been no idle one — only a day after the incident with the fugitive, two of her slaves had been randomly killed in the fields. There were no witnesses, but the fugitivarii had to be the main suspects. The threat accelerated Fabiola’s departure. She had hurriedly managed to recruit a dozen gladiators from the local ludus, leaving six to defend the latifundium with Corbulo. Joining her original three bodyguards, the rest had come with her to Rome. But that did not mean that the danger was gone. And like a foolish child playing hide-and-seek, she had just left her protection behind.

Already Fabiola could feel the stares of several unsavoury types who were loitering nearby. None looked like Scaevola, but a flutter of fear rose from her stomach all the same. Now was not the time to let something foolish happen. Retracing her steps, Fabiola steadied her nerves. Perhaps too it had been foolish to pin her hopes on finding the mysterious soothsayer. Yet the revelation about Gemellus’ last divination had to be more than coincidence. On the voyage north, her mind had raced constantly with the possibilities of the stranger at Gemellus’ door being Romulus.

Soon Fabiola had been joined by her followers. Her face perspiring from the climb, Docilosa was also red with indignation at her mistress’s rash behaviour. Nothing she said ever made any difference to Fabiola’s actions, so she scolded the guards mercilessly for falling behind. The nine muscle-bound men looked sheepish and shuffled their feet in the dirt. Even the new recruits had learned not to argue with her. Amused, Fabiola hurried towards her destination, confident that Docilosa was watching her back.

Dominating the open area before her was an immense marble statue of a naked Jupiter, his bearded face painted the traditional victor’s red. On triumphal days, a wooden scaffold had to be erected to daub his entire body with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. Today, apart from its crimson visage, the beautifully carved figure was a muted, more natural white colour. Its position, on the very edge of the top of the Capitoline Hill, had been very deliberately chosen. The main part of the city lay sprawled below, directly beneath Jupiter’s imperious gaze. In open spaces like the Forum Romanum and the Forum Boarium, citizens could look up and be reassured by his presence: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the all-seeing state-god of the Republic.

No less impressive was the huge gold-roofed temple that stood behind, its triangular portico of decorated terracotta supported by three rows of six painted columns, all the height of ten men. This was the airy anteroom to the triad of imposing cellae, or sacred rooms. Each one was dedicated to a single deity: Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. Of course Jupiter’s was in the centre.

Extending for some distance to the rear was an extensive complex of smaller shrines, teaching schools and priests’ quarters. Thousands of citizens came daily to worship in this, the most important religious centre in Rome. Fabiola revered it greatly and was sure that she could feel a distinct aura of power within the cellae. The long, narrow plastered rooms had originally been built by the Etruscans, the founders of the city. A people who had been crushed by the Romans.

Her nose twitched. The air was thick with the smells of incense and myrrh, and manure from the sacrificial animals on sale. The cries of hawkers and traders mixed with the incantations of haruspices performing divinations. Tethered lambs bleated plaintively, resigned hens packed into wicker cages stared beadily into the distance. Scantily clad prostitutes cast practised, seductive eyes at any man who glanced their way. Acrobats jumped and tumbled while snake charmers played flutes, tempting their charges out of clay vessels sitting in front of them. From small stalls, food vendors were offering bread, wine and hot sausages. Slaves wearing nothing but loincloths slouched beside their litters, sweat from the steep climb still coating their bodies. There would be time for a brief rest while their owners prayed. Children shrieked with laughter, getting under men’s feet as they chased each other through the throng.

Although more peaceful than the narrow streets below, an uneasy air hung over the area. It was the same throughout Rome. Upon their arrival, Fabiola had been struck by the palpable menace. There were few people about, fewer stalls with their goods spilling out on to the road, more shops securely boarded up. Even the beggars were not as plentiful. But the most obvious sign of trouble had been the large gangs of dangerous-looking men on many corners. They had to be the reason that no one was abroad. Instead of the usual clubs and knives, nearly all were wearing swords. Fabiola had also seen spears, bows and shields; many men were even wearing leather armour or chain mail. A good number had bandaged arms or legs, evidence of recent fighting. The city had always been full of criminals and thieves, but Fabiola had never seen them congregate in such numbers, in daylight. Armed like soldiers.

Compared to a rural town like Pompeii, the capital always felt a touch more dangerous. Today it was markedly different. This felt as if a war was about to break out. Her newly enlarged collection of nine bodyguards began to seem woefully inadequate, and Fabiola had lifted the hood of her cloak, determined not to attract attention. As they hurried past, she noticed that the various quarters seemed to be under the control of two distinct groups. She suspected they were those of Clodius and Milo, a renegade politician and a former tribune. Fortunately relations between the sides seemed poor, with colourful insults filling the air across the streets that demarcated the borders of their territory. A few fast-moving passers-by were of little immediate interest to either faction.

Clearly the situation had deteriorated badly since her departure just four months before, when Brutus had been worried enough to take her away from Rome. It had begun with a political vacuum that formed after the scandals that had seen elections postponed and numerous politicians indicted for corruption. Clodius Pulcher, the disreputable noble turned plebeian, had been quick to take advantage. Gathering his street gangs together, he started to take control of the city. Unimpressed, his old rival Milo had responded in kind, recruiting gladiators to give himself the military advantage. Skirmishes were soon taking place, intimidating the nobles and terrifying the city’s ordinary residents. Fearful rumours had even reached as far as Pompeii. They centred on one word.

Anarchy.

Fabiola had paid little attention to the gossip. Safe on the latifundium, it had seemed unreal. Here in Rome, it was impossible to deny the truth. Brutus had been completely correct. With Crassus dead and Caesar far away in Gaul, there were few prominent figures to take a stand against the growing social unrest. Cato, the politician and outstanding orator, might have been one, but he had no troops to back him up. Cicero, another powerful senator, had long been rendered powerless by intimidation. When he had spoken out against the gangs’ brutality, Clodius had been quick to put Cicero in his place, erecting notices across the Palatine that listed his crimes against the Republic. The citizens loved such public shaming, and Clodius’ status grew even higher. Politicians would not be able to bring this situation under control. Rome needed an iron fist — someone not scared of using martial force.

It needed Caesar or Pompey.

But Caesar was stuck in Gaul. Meanwhile, Pompey was cleverly biding his time, letting the situation spiral out of control until asked to help by the Senate. The Republic’s most famous general craved constant popularity and saving the city from the bloodthirsty gangs would give him unprecedented kudos. So the rumours on the street went.

To remain safe, Fabiola realised that she would need more protection than the hulks lumbering in her wake. Two men instantly came to mind. Benignus and Vettius, the Lupanar’s doormen, would be an ideal nucleus for her force. They were tough, skilled street fighters and, thanks to her previous hard work, fiercely loyal to her already. Jovina, the brothel’s owner, had refused to sell the pair before, but she would find a way to win the old crone over. Perhaps something would be revealed at the temple.

Disappointingly, the soothsayers clustered outside the shrine seemed to be the usual group of liars and charlatans. Fabiola could pick them out from a hundred paces away. Dressed in ragged robes, often deliberately unkempt and with blunt-peaked leather hats jammed on their greasy heads, the men relied on just a few clever ruses. Long silences, meaningful stares into the entrails of the animals they sacrificed and shrewd judgement of their clients’ wishes worked like a dream. Over the years she had watched countless people being taken in, promised everything they asked for and relieved of their meagre savings in moments. Desperate for a sign of divine approval, few seemed to realise what had happened. In the current economic climate, jobs were rare, food expensive and opportunities to better oneself few and far between. While Caesar grew immensely wealthy from the proceeds of his campaigns and Pompey could never spend all that he had plundered, the existence of the average citizen was sufficiently miserable to ensure ripe pickings for the soothsayers.

Fabiola did not trust such men. She had learned to rely only on herself, and on Jupiter, the father of Rome. To find out that there was a genuine haruspex, someone who could predict the future, had been news indeed. Hoping against hope that she might find the armed stranger whom Corbulo had mentioned, Fabiola moved through the group, asking questions, smiling and dropping coins into palms.

Her search was fruitless. None of those she asked had any knowledge of the man she sought. Keen for business from an obviously wealthy lady, most denied ever having seen him. Tiring of their offered divinations, Fabiola moved to the temple steps, where she sat miserably for some time, watching the ebb and flow of the crowd. Her guards stood nearby, chewing on meat and bread Docilosa had bought. To keep them happy, she had purchased each a small cup of watered-down wine as well. Docilosa made a good mistress, thought Fabiola. She shouted when necessary and rewarded regularly.

‘Not going inside to make an offering, lady?’

Startled at being addressed, Fabiola looked down to see a one-armed man regarding her from the bottom step. It was a place well situated to ask devotees for a coin as they passed inside the temple. Middle-aged, stocky and with close-cropped hair, he wore a ragged military tunic. A solitary bronze phalera on his chest was a proud reminder of the cripple’s service in the legions. From a strap over his right shoulder hung a knife in a worn leather sheath. Everyone in Rome needed to be able to defend themselves. His gaze was direct and admiring, but not threatening. ‘Perhaps,’ Fabiola replied. ‘I was hoping to find a real soothsayer first. There are none in Pompeii.’

The veteran barked with laughter. ‘You’ll not find any round here either!’

Noticing the interaction, one of Fabiola’s men moved forward, reaching for his sword. Tersely, she waved him off. There was no danger in passing the time of day. ‘Obviously,’ she sighed. It had been a vain hope to think that someone whom Gemellus had briefly encountered several years before would still be here. ‘Probably no such thing.’

‘Best to rely on no one, lady,’ advised the cripple with a wink. ‘Even the gods are fickle. They’ve certainly deserted the Republic in recent days.’

‘You speak the truth, friend,’ moaned a fat man in a grubby tunic, sweating as he climbed the steps. ‘We honest citizens are being robbed on a daily basis. Something has to be done!’

Hearing his words, other passers-by muttered in angry agreement. Well-dressed or in rags, they all seemed of the same mind. Fabiola took note. The situation in Rome was as serious as it seemed. These people looked genuinely worried. Troubled, she turned back to the veteran.

‘As for me, I didn’t miss one of Mars’ feast days for ten years. Still lost this!’ He waggled his stump at her.

Fabiola clicked her tongue. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Fighting Mithridates in Armenia,’ came the proud reply. Abruptly his face turned sad. ‘And now I beg for enough to eat each day.’

Immediately she reached for her purse.

‘Save your money, lady,’ the man muttered. ‘It must be hard enough earned.’

Fabiola frowned. The comment had been made as if he knew her history. ‘Explain yourself,’ she snapped.

His face went puce with embarrassment and there was silence for a moment as Fabiola glared at him.

‘Not many customers tip, do they?’ he ventured eventually.

Fabiola went cold. It was inevitable that she would be recognised by some in Rome, but she had not expected it this soon. And low-ranking veterans were uncommon clients in the brothel. They could not usually afford the high prices. So how did he know her? ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded harshly.

The cripple looked down. ‘I used to sit opposite the Lupanar, before the area got too dangerous. Watched you come out many times with that huge doorman. Benignus, is that his name?’

‘I see.’ She could not deny it.

‘It was impossible to miss your beauty, lady.’

‘I’m a free woman now,’ Fabiola said in a low voice. ‘A citizen.’

‘The gods favour you then,’ he said approvingly. ‘Few escape Jovina’s claws.’

‘You know her?’

He grinned. ‘Of course. She got to recognise me, too. Yet the old bitch never dropped a single as into my lap.’

It was Fabiola’s turn to colour. ‘Neither did I.’

‘That’s all right, lady. People don’t notice me nowadays.’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Lost my sword arm for nothing.’

Sympathy filled her at his plight. The legions stood for everything that she despised, protecting a state which was founded on slavery and warfare. Although this man had served many years in their ranks, he had also paid a heavy price. Fabiola found it impossible to hate him. She felt the opposite. With luck, Romulus might have had similar comrades. ‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘Take this.’

Gold glittered in her outstretched hand and his eyes opened wide with shock. The offered aureus was worth more than a legionary earned in a month. ‘Lady, I. ’ he muttered.

Fabiola placed the coin in the veteran’s palm and closed his fingers over it. There was no resistance. She found it sad how extreme poverty could even grind down the pride of a brave soldier.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, no longer able to meet her gaze.

Satisfied, Fabiola had turned to go when intuition made her pause. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked softly.

‘Secundus, lady,’ he replied. ‘Gaius Secundus.’

‘You probably know my name,’ she said, probing.

Secundus grinned in response. ‘Fabiola.’

She inclined her head graciously, and another man came into her thrall. ‘May we meet again.’

Secundus watched reverently as Fabiola climbed the steps towards the cellae. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she had given him enough money to live well for weeks. The gods were smiling today.

‘Perhaps Jupiter will answer my prayers,’ she offered over one shoulder.

‘I hope so, lady,’ Secundus called out. ‘Or Mithras,’ he added in a whisper.

The poorly lit cella was jammed with people wishing to ask a favour of the preeminent deity in Rome. After each new arrival had made an offering, shaven-headed acolytes directed them where to kneel. Priests filled the air with low chanting. Small oil lamps dangled from brackets, their guttering flames creating a forbidding atmosphere. High on the back wall hung an image of Jupiter, a great circular piece of sculpted, painted stone with a diameter twice the length of a man. The god had a beaked nose and full, sardonic lips. His unsmiling face stared impassively at the worshippers, heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Below the carving ran a long, flat altar, covered with gifts. Hens and lambs lay side by side, blood still dripping from the fresh cuts in their necks. Tiny, crudely made statues of Jupiter huddled together in twos and threes. There were copper coins, silver denarii, signet rings, necklaces and loaves of bread. Little replica clay vessels contrasted with the occasional piece of ornate glass. Rich or poor, plebeian or patrician, all gave something. All had a request of the god.

Fabiola moved quietly to the altar. Finding a place to stack a small pile of aurei, she knelt down nearby. But it was hard to concentrate on her prayers. Distracted by the loud muttering from the eager citizens around her, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine her lover. Gradually the noise diminished as her concentration improved. Brutus was of average build, but his clean-shaven, tanned face was pleasant and his smile natural. Fabiola had not seen him for months and was constantly surprised by how much she missed him. Especially recently. Holding his picture bright in her mind, she begged Jupiter for a sign. Anything that could help Brutus, and Caesar, to overcome the Gaulish rebellion. And protect them both from Scaevola’s menaces.

Her hopes were in vain. Fabiola saw and heard nothing but the other people in the tightly packed room.

Despite her best efforts, thoughts of Romulus began to replace those of Brutus. Perhaps it was because she had met Secundus? Fabiola found the images impossible to ignore. It had been nearly four years since she had seen her brother. Romulus would have grown into a man. He would be strong, as Secundus must have been, before he lost his arm. It was pleasing to think of her twin standing straight and tall in his chain mail, wearing a horsehair-crested helmet. Then her imagination faltered. How could Romulus be alive? Crassus’ defeat had been total, shaking the Republic to its core. Fabiola scowled, unwilling still to give up hope. In turn, that meant conceding that Romulus was a prisoner of the Parthians, sent to the ends of the earth. To Margiana, a place without hope. In mental agony, Fabiola remembered her own personal journey to Hades. She had not fought physical battles or risked her life in the legions. Instead she had been forced into prostitution.

And she had endured. Somehow Romulus would too. Fabiola was sure of it.

She got to her feet and made her way to the door. Docilosa and her guards were waiting outside, but disappointingly there was no sign of Secundus. His place on the bottom step had been taken by a leper covered in filthy, weeping bandages. Although Fabiola hadn’t realised it at the time, the veteran had given her hope. There had been no sign of the mysterious soothsayer, and she had not been given proof of her twin’s survival, or of Caesar’s future. But her journey to Rome had not been without reward. Now it was time to return to Brutus’ residence in the city, a large, comfortable domus on the Palatine Hill. There she could gather her thoughts and find ways of helping Brutus, and dealing with Scaevola. Perhaps there would even be time to begin the search for Romulus? Caught up in its own troubles, the Republic would not be sending an army to retaliate against Parthia in the foreseeable future. Yet merchants journeyed to the east regularly, attracted by the valuable goods they could resell in Rome. For the right price, one might be persuaded to ask questions on his travels.

The idea was enough to make Fabiola forget her worries for a short time.

Several days went by, and Fabiola was able to learn more about the dire situation in the capital. Enough shops were situated near Brutus’ house for her to venture out relatively safely and gather information. There was no sign of Scaevola, and Fabiola began to think he was still in the south, near Pompeii. She relaxed into the role of a country lady, ignorant of recent goings-on. After she had spent a decent sum buying food and other necessities, the grateful shopkeepers were happy to relate all the latest rumours. As Fabiola had suspected, the streets had been taken over by gangs loyal to Clodius and Milo.

Once the closest of allies, Pompey and the brutal Milo had parted company on bad terms some years before. Now Milo was allied to Cato, one of the few politicians to oppose the shrunken triumvirate’s stranglehold on power. Crassus might be dead, but Caesar and Pompey still controlled the Republic, which was not to the liking of many. Desperate to prevent Pompey becoming consul as the new year began, Cato had put forward Milo as a candidate instead. This was too much for Clodius, and minor disturbances now occurred on a daily basis. Occasional larger pitched battles had claimed the lives of dozens of thugs. Caught in the middle, a number of unlucky residents had also died. The Senate was paralysed, unsure what to do. Most people, one trader told Fabiola, just wanted order restored. And the person to do it was Pompey.

With his legions.

‘Soldiers on the streets of Rome?’ Fabiola cried. The very idea was anathema. To prevent any attempts at overthrowing the Republic, its laws banned all military personnel from entering the capital. ‘Sulla was the last man to do that.’

‘I remember it well,’ said a skinny old man who was buying lamp oil. He shivered. ‘Blood ran in the streets for days. No one was safe.’

The shopkeeper shook his head heavily. ‘I know. But have we any choice?’ He gestured at his empty shelves. ‘If there is nothing to buy, people will starve. What then?’

Fabiola could not argue with his words. If only Brutus and Caesar were able to intervene, she thought. But there was no chance of that. News had come that meant neither man would be back for many months. Braving snow that was higher than a man, Caesar had ridden through the mountains and successfully rejoined his legions in Gaul. Battle had already been joined against the tribes; Caesar had suffered initial setbacks before a stunning victory had forced Vercingetorix and his army to retreat to the north. Yet the intelligent Gaulish chieftain was unbeaten. Thousands of warriors were still flocking to his banner, so Caesar had no option but to stay put. The situation in Gaul was critical, and Fabiola’s worries about Brutus grew by the day.

Loud shouts from the street drew her attention back to the present. Fabiola made to leave the shop, but her bodyguards blocked the doorway. Although Docilosa was in bed with an upset stomach, they had been browbeaten enough times. ‘Let me check it out, Mistress,’ said Tullius, the most senior. A short Sicilian with crooked teeth and a bad limp, he was deadly with a gladius.

She frowned but obeyed. Danger lurked everywhere now.

‘Clodius Pulcher is dead!’ Sandals slapped loudly off the ground as the running person drew nearer. ‘Murdered on the Via Appia!’

Placing his thumb between the forefinger and index finger of his right hand, the shopkeeper made the sign against evil. The old man muttered a prayer.

Cries of dismay rose from the passers-by who had dared to be out. Windows clattered open as the residents of the flats above street level heard the news. Their voices added to the swelling noise.

‘I want to see what’s going on,’ demanded Fabiola.

Drawing his dagger, Tullius peered outside. One look was enough. With a grunt of satisfaction he darted forward, deliberately knocking over the messenger. Quickly the Sicilian dragged him into the shop, one arm wrapped around his throat, the other holding his knife tightly under the youth’s ribcage.

Fabiola took in the youngster at a glance. Short, underfed, dressed in rags, he was typical of Rome’s poorest dwellers. No doubt he had been hoping to get a reward from someone for bringing back such dramatic news.

The captive’s gaze darted wildly from side to side as he took in the shocked shopkeeper, the old man, Fabiola and her other guards. ‘Who’re you?’ he gasped. ‘Not seen you round here before.’

‘Shut it, arsehole.’ Tullius poked him with his dagger. ‘Tell the lady what you were screaming about just now.’

The youth was happy to obey. ‘Clodius and a group of his men were attacked by Milo’s gladiators. Near an inn just south of the city,’ he said excitedly. ‘Must have been outnumbered two to one.’

‘When?’

‘No more than an hour ago.’

‘Did you witness this?’ Fabiola demanded.

He nodded. ‘It was an ambush, lady. The gladiators threw javelins first and then swarmed in from all sides.’

‘Gladiators?’ Fabiola interrupted, her mind, as ever, darting to Romulus.

‘Yes, lady. Memor’s men.’

She managed not to react. ‘Memor?’ she asked casually.

He seemed surprised. ‘You know, the lanista of the Ludus Magnus.’

Fabiola shrugged as if it was unimportant but inside she was reeling. For a short period before Brutus had freed her from the Lupanar, Memor had been one of her clients. She had hated every moment of his visits, but the cruel, dispassionate lanista had been a possible source of information about Romulus. By repeatedly driving him wild with lust, she had managed to discover that her brother had indeed been sold into Memor’s school. And then escaped with a champion fighter. A Gaul. But that was history. She had to keep focused. More important events were unfolding, and Memor seemed to be taking a prominent hand in the ongoing unrest. Why? Anger surged within Fabiola. ‘Was he there?’

‘I didn’t see him, lady.’

‘Or Milo?’

‘He was there at the start, encouraging his men,’ said the youth. ‘Then he left.’

‘Milo’s a clever bastard,’ pronounced the shopkeeper. ‘He’ll have gone somewhere very public, with lots of witnesses to prove it.’

The same goes for Memor, thought Fabiola. ‘What happened next?’

‘Clodius got hit in the shoulder by a pilum and fell down. Some of his men carried him inside the tavern for shelter. The rest tried to hold off the attackers, but there were too many. The door was kicked in and Clodius got dragged outside, screaming and crying for mercy.’

Fabiola shuddered at the dramatic and gory image. ‘And you’re certain he’s dead?’

‘He didn’t have a chance, lady. They were like a pack of wild dogs.’ The youngster swallowed. ‘There was blood everywhere. Clodius’ men are carrying his body back to the city,’ continued the prisoner. ‘His wife doesn’t even know yet.’

‘When she finds out, the gates of Hades will open,’ said the shopkeeper grimly. ‘Fulvia won’t take this lying down.’

Fabiola’s interest was piqued. ‘You know her?’

‘Not exactly. But she’s a typical noblewoman,’ he replied. ‘Likes to get her opinion across, if you know what I mean.’

Fabiola raised an eyebrow.

The old man tittered.

Realising what he had said, the proprietor flushed. ‘Not meaning to insult noble ladies, of course.’

Fabiola graced him with a smile to show that she had taken no offence. ‘Release the boy,’ she ordered Tullius.

Reluctantly the Sicilian obeyed.

Unsure what would happen to him, the youth shuffled his feet.

Fabiola tossed him a denarius and his eyes lit up at the unexpected reward.

‘Thank you, lady!’ He bobbed his head and ran off, eager to spread the news.

‘We’d best return to the domus, Mistress,’ said Tullius, looking concerned. ‘This means trouble.’

Fabiola did not protest. The open-fronted shop was no place to linger at a time like this. Saying goodbye to the shopkeeper, they hurried on to the street. It was only a hundred paces to Brutus’ house and the protection of its thick walls and iron-studded gates. In the event, that short distance was too far.

Round the nearest corner swarmed a horde of thugs armed with clubs, swords and spears. Being herded in their midst were many frightened-looking men, women and children: ordinary citizens. Talking in loud, angry voices, the group’s leaders did not immediately see Fabiola and her guards.

‘Quick!’ hissed Tullius, gesturing frantically. ‘Back into the shop!’

Fabiola turned, but slipped on a sliver of wet wood lying in the mud. The resulting splash was enough to catch the attention of the fast-moving rabble. Within a heartbeat, it had reached them. Before the Sicilian had time to do more than help Fabiola up, they were surrounded. Fortunately, the heavies seemed relatively good-natured. Shouts of laughter rang out at her misfortune and rough, unshaven faces pressed in close, leering.

‘Come with us!’ cried a bearded man who appeared to be one of the mob’s leaders. His tone offered no option of refusal.

Tullius looked helplessly at his mistress. If he or his men touched their weapons, they would be killed out of hand.

Fabiola knew it too. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down her dress. ‘Where?’

The answer was instant. ‘To the Forum!’

She peered at the people who were being forced to accompany the gang members: their faces were twisted with fear. Law and order was completely breaking down, and there was no one to stand up for normal people like them. ‘Why?’ Fabiola asked stoutly.

‘To witness what those bastards did to Clodius!’ shouted the bearded thug. ‘His body will be displayed for all to see.’

A furious roar met his words and Fabiola’s heart sank. News of the murder had already reached the city. The young man had not been the first to return.

‘Respect must be paid to the dead.’ The gang leader raised his sword in the air. ‘Before we rid this city of that bastard Milo. And everyone who follows him!’

This time the mob’s response was an inarticulate roar. Primeval. Terrifying.

Fabiola could almost feel the Republic’s foundations shake beneath the rabble’s anger. Her own heart was thumping with fear, but it was pointless trying to resist.

The crowd moved off at speed, taking Fabiola and her men with it.