The Silver Eagle

Chapter VI: Chaos Descends

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Fabiola struggled not to lose her footing as the crowd pressed forward; only Tullius’ firm grip on her arm kept her upright. The other bodyguards had also been swallowed up by the rapidly moving mass of people. Occasionally Fabiola caught sight of their confused faces, but for the most part she concentrated on what the gang members were saying. It seemed the ambush at the inn had taken them all by surprise. Traitors in their midst were suspected and dire threats being made against any who might have been involved. The thugs would not rest until Clodius’ death had been thoroughly avenged.

Fabiola could sense more than a desire for retribution in the angry words filling the air. The men brandishing weapons around her were all plebeians. Poor, uneducated, malnourished. They lived in overcrowded, rat-infested flats and were destined to live short, miserable lives with almost no chance of betterment. In many ways their lives were little different to those of slaves. Yet they were Roman citizens. Mob rule offered them something more. Power. Respect from those who normally looked down on them. Money from the people they robbed. They risked death, certainly, but it was worth it to gain these things that would otherwise never be theirs. It was therefore no surprise that both Clodius and Milo had enormous followings. But Fabiola could see that the rabble’s methods were short-sighted. If anarchy reigned, there would be no congiaria, the free distributions of grain and money that kept the poorest families alive. They would simply starve.

The crowd’s pulsing anger did not appeal either. Fabiola only had to look at the blameless and terrified captives to know that such uncontrolled violence affected the innocent as well as the guilty. Whatever the monstrosities perpetuated by the Republic, it was still an institution which provided a framework for a more peaceful society than that which had gone before. Innocent people were not killed out of hand by the state for the contents of their purses. Yet that would become the norm once more if mobs like this assumed control.

It did not take long to reach the Forum Romanum. Bordered by numerous temples and shrines, it was home to the Senate building and the basilicae, massive covered markets that were normally jammed with tradesmen, lawyers, scribes and soothsayers. It was the busiest place in the city, a location dear to the heart of every citizen. Public meetings were commonly held here, as were trials and some elections. Events which happened in the Forum tended to be remembered, which was precisely why it had been chosen for Clodius’ wake.

Today, the basilicae were quiet and virtually empty. The usual wall of sound comprised of merchants’ voices, lawyers arguing and food vendors competing with each other was absent. In its place were the hollow shouts of the bravest shopkeepers, those who had actually dared to open up their stalls. For weeks there had been few honest folk about. Most traders, lawmakers and salesmen stayed safely at home. Even the wily haruspices were not to be seen. With constant violence the only business on offer, there had been little reason to risk their lives. The nobles and well-to-do were also absent, secure in their thick-walled houses.

They would not be safe there for long, thought Fabiola, eyeing the angry, chattering men around her.

Although the rich were not present, the open space of the Forum was crowded with plebeians drawn, despite the threat of conflict today. Word of Clodius’ death had spread through the crowded suburbs faster than the plague. Terrified of the future offered by the rival gangs, Rome’s citizens still wanted to watch it unfold. Seismic events like this were rare. Not since Sulla, ‘the butcher’, marched on the capital more than thirty years before had there been such a threat to democracy. For all its faults, the Republic generally ran quite smoothly. But now it felt like a rudderless ship caught in rough seas.

The best vantage points — the steps to the basilicae and all the shrines — were jammed. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, craning their necks to see. Even the statues were covered in spectators. In contrast, the central area was clear. Bloodshed was inevitable and anyone caught in the middle would risk being killed.

Claiming the moral high ground, Milo stood in front of the Senate, dressed in an immaculate white toga. A handsome, clean-shaven figure, he was surrounded by scores of his men, many of whom were gladiators. The dramatic implication was impossible to miss. Here stood the defender of Rome, waiting to repel those who sought to tear it down. Attempting to give divine approval to his cause, a group of priests had been prominently deployed on the Senate steps. Chanting, burning incense and raising their hands to the heavens, the white-robed men would give credibility to any cause. The ploy was working and many in the crowd began to shout Milo’s name. His gladiators responded by beating their weapons off their shields, creating an almighty din.

Brutus had taught Fabiola the different classes of fighter at the arena. Eager to know more about the life into which Romulus had been cast, she had memorised every detail. Now she picked out murmillones in their characteristic bronze fish-crested helmets, their right shoulders covered in mail. Beside Samnites with plumed helmets and elongated, oval shields was a group of secutores. Fabric and leather manicae protected their right shoulders while a single greave covered each man’s left leg. Even the retiarii, fishermen armed only with a trident and net, were present. The massed ranks of trained killers made a fearsome sight.

Facing them from the other side of the Forum was a larger, more disorganised crowd of Clodius’ followers. Although less well armed, Fabiola calculated that they significantly outnumbered Milo’s force.

Seeing his cronies, the leader of the newly arrived mob roughly pushed into the throng of waiting citizens. His men were quick to copy him, using the flats and even the edges of their swords on any who got in the way. Screams rang out, blood flowed on to the cobbles and a path instantly appeared for the thugs to join their comrades. A great cheer rose into the air as they joined ranks. Now their number was at least three times that of their enemies.

A strange calm fell. Both sides had assembled for battle, but the reason had not yet arrived. Clodius’ body.

During the journey, Fabiola’s guards had managed to wriggle and squeeze their way to her side. It was a small consolation, but she felt acutely vulnerable without a weapon. Whispering in Tullius’ ear, Fabiola took the dagger he passed to her and slid it up one sleeve of her dress. Only the gods knew what would happen before nightfall. Rome might fall, but she wanted to survive. If the need arose, she was perfectly prepared to fight as well. Fabiola offered up a swift prayer to Jupiter. Protect us all, she thought. Let no harm come to me or mine.

It was not long before the sound of women’s screams reached them. Carrying from some distance away, the cries rose and fell in clear ululations of grief. Sighs of anticipation swept through the crowd and heads craned to see the source of the piercing howls. Clodius’ corpse was approaching. The strain grew too much for one of Milo’s men, who threw his javelin. It flew up in a shallow arc towards the plebeians but fell short and skittered harmlessly across the cobblestones. Jeers and insults filled the air in response. The atmosphere grew even more tense, but, amazingly, none of Clodius’ thugs responded. Their throbbing anger was being held in check until they had seen his body with their own eyes. Like everyone else, their eyes were fixed on the spot where the Via Appia entered the Forum. Fabiola glanced at Tullius, who, despite the critical situation, gave her a reassuring smile. Knowing that he was putting on a brave face for her, she warmed to the tough Sicilian. A good man: she needed more like him.

The keening slowly grew in volume until it was possible to make out a group of women clad in grey mourning dresses approaching the open space and the massed, eager audience. In their midst was a slim, blood-soaked figure staggering under the weight of a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle.

Clever, thought Fabiola. Fulvia had done well to assemble her friends in such a short time. There were few better ways to whip up public hysteria than with such a chorus of wailing. And it was a master stroke for Clodius’ widow to enter the Forum carrying his corpse.

Gradually the screams became intelligible.

‘Look what they have done to my Clodius!’

‘Murdered,’ responded the women dramatically. ‘Killed on the street like a dog!’

‘Left naked as the day he was born,’ intoned Fulvia.

Shouts of anger went up from many of the watching citizens.

‘Scared of a fair fight?’ A number of Fulvia’s companions spat in the direction of Milo and his men. ‘Cowards!’

A swelling cry of rage met this accusation. Many of Clodius’ supporters began drumming sword hilts off their shields. Shifting restlessly, others stamped their feet on the cobbles. On the other side of the Forum, the gladiators did the same. Soon it was hard to make out a word through the crescendo of noise.

As the two sides continued challenging each other, the hot taste of acid filled the back of Fabiola’s throat. This was what Romulus might have experienced just before Carrhae. Before he died. The pangs of a familiar sorrow were followed by an eerie feeling of acceptance. Maybe he is dead, Fabiola thought. Perhaps Jupiter has brought me here to die today: to join Romulus and Mother. She was briefly surprised that the concept satisfied her. Her family had meant everything to her, but they were long gone. Apart from Brutus and Docilosa, she was alone in the world. Yet neither were blood relatives, and revenge as a purpose in life could only sustain her so far. Very well. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, do what you will.

The faces of the terrified citizens around her still tore at Fabiola’s conscience. They were not like her, who had little left to live for. Innocent of any crime, most of them probably had families. Yet they were about to die too. And things would get worse if order was not restored. Fabiola felt helpless and insignificant. What can I do? There was only one thing to ask for. Jupiter, protect your people and your city.

‘Let’s get those fuckers!’ shouted a large man in the front rank.

Everyone cheered. Baying with fury, the mob lurched forward.

‘Wait!’ barked the bearded leader. ‘We haven’t seen Clodius’ body yet.’

It was the right thing to say. The crowd swayed back into position.

At last Fulvia reached the centre of the Forum. An attractive woman in her thirties, she had painted her face with ashes and soot. Tears streamed down her blackened cheeks, mixing with smears of blood. But she remained in full control of her faculties. Ordering her friends to spread out, she reverently lowered her burden to the ground. She pulled back the red-soaked sheet, revealing her husband’s mutilated corpse to the watching citizens. Gasps of outrage greeted her action. Fabiola could not help but wince at the number of Clodius’ wounds. The young messenger had not been exaggerating. The renegade noble had been run through multiple times, each thrust enough to kill. Covered in cuts and slashes, his features were almost unrecognisable. One leg had been almost severed from his body and a bent javelin head still protruded from his left shoulder. Clodius Pulcher had not died well.

Sniggers and laughs rose from Milo’s men as they studied their work.

Fulvia stood up, her grey dress saturated with blood. This was her moment.

Fabiola waited.

All of Rome waited.

Raising her arms dramatically, Fulvia beat her breast with her fists. Spittle flew from her lips as she began to speak. ‘I call on Orcus, god of the underworld!’ She levelled a quivering finger at Milo. ‘To mark out this man.’

Milo visibly quailed. Superstition ruled the hearts and minds of most, and there were few people who would not be intimidated by such a public cursing. But he was a brave man. Squaring his shoulders, the noble prepared himself for Fulvia’s next words.

‘Carry him off to Hades,’ she intoned. ‘There let Cerberus rip him slowly to shreds. And feed on him for all eternity.’

Milo managed not to react this time, but he had no reply. His gladiators fell silent; not even his tame priests dared answer.

Throughout the crowd, men made the sign against evil.

Fulvia let her words sink in for the space of ten heartbeats. Then, carrying Clodius’ body to the steps of the temple of Juno, she fell to her knees and threw herself on top of it. Her companions hurried to join the grieving widow. Great sobs began to rack Fulvia as she finally allowed the grief to take hold.

Fabiola had to admire the theatrics. The last and most dramatic part had been reserved until Fulvia had reached safety. She could guess what would happen next.

There were more wails as the group of women clustered around Fulvia, touching the dead noble’s wounds and raising bloody fingertips for all to see.

It was the final straw for Clodius’ men. Revenge had to be taken. An incoherent bellow of hatred left their throats and they swarmed forward towards their enemies. Fabiola, her guards and the screaming captives were carried along with them. There would be no clear lines of battle, just a chaotic melee of thugs and civilians.

The terrified priests shouted for calm. Too late, they realised that what had been unleashed was uncontrollable. This vast, inchoate fury threatened Rome itself, and they had encouraged it.

‘Mistress!’ cried Tullius. ‘We must escape.’

Fabiola nodded grimly. ‘Use your weapons only if there is no other way,’ she ordered her men. She did not want any innocent blood on her conscience.

They had barely acknowledged her when the two sides met with a resounding crash. Trained fighters, Milo’s gladiators had an instant advantage over the plebeian rabble. Forming a solid wall of shields, they easily withstood the initial screaming charge. Gladii stabbed forward viciously; tridents and spears shoved into unprotected faces and necks; javelins hummed through the air; blood spilled on to the cobbles. Fabiola watched in fascinated horror. This was far worse than anything she had seen in the arena. In the first few moments, dozens fell to the ground injured or killed. Inevitably though, weight of numbers began to tell. Enraged, filled with grief, Clodius’ thugs threw themselves at their enemies like men possessed. A Samnite was the first to go down, shield bodily ripped from his grasp by two burly plebeians. Even as he skewered one through the throat, the gladiator was transfixed by a spear. Blood bubbling from his lips, he collapsed, leaving a gap in the defensive line. Those who were nearby immediately concentrated their attack on this spot. Next a murmillo was killed, then a retiarius. The mob advanced, forcing Milo’s followers backwards and on to the steps of the Senate. The gladiators were not highly disciplined Roman legionaries, used to withstanding overwhelming odds. More holes appeared and were instantly expanded, further separating their ranks. The fighters’ heads began to turn, seeking a way out. They had been promised good wages for street brawls, not death in a full-scale battle.

The fight was far from over, but Fabiola sensed that the tide had turned. Fortunately they were still some distance from the bloodshed. The thugs who had marched them to the Forum had disappeared into the melee. It was time to escape, if they could. She jerked her head at Tullius, who was more than happy to obey. He barked an order at the others. Forming a protective diamond shape around Fabiola, the nine bodyguards drew their swords, turned as one and began to beat a path out of the crowd. Thankfully, large numbers were also trying to flee. With their captors’ attention diverted, all the prisoners had a chance to gain their freedom, brutally pushing, shoving and ignoring the weak, who were simply trampled underfoot. When Fabiola bent to help an old woman who had fallen to her knees, Tullius roughly pulled her away. ‘Leave her!’

Shocked at being handled, Fabiola realised the Sicilian was truly worried about her safety. She looked back in anguish, but the lined, terrified face had already been swallowed by the heaving mass. Another innocent victim. But there was no time to grieve or to dwell on the gods’ purpose today. Intent on their own survival as well as that of their mistress, Fabiola’s guards battered on.

‘Make for that!’ Tullius shouted, pointing at the temple of Castor, the nearest building. Ducking their heads down, the bodyguards soon gained momentum.

Fabiola held her breath as they crept through the maelstrom. Occasionally Tullius or the others had to use the hilt of their swords across someone’s head, but most gang members nearby were more interested in attacking the gladiators than stopping a few people moving away from the battle.

Finally reaching the carved stone steps, they worked around their base and into a narrow side street. Fabiola took one more glance at the Forum. The two sides were still fighting hammer and tongs, neither prepared to give or ask for quarter. Milo’s gladiators had been broken up and were now in small groups, struggling for their lives against far superior numbers of plebeians. Any success cost the thugs dearly though: every murmillo or secutor who died was taking three or four men with him. The dead sprawled everywhere now, crushed underfoot, heaped on top of each other, prostrate in the entrances to temples. It was a massacre.

Rome was finally toppling into anarchy, and there was no one to prevent it.

‘Hurry!’ Tullius’ sole concern was to get his mistress to safety.

It was foolish to linger, but Fabiola could not take her eyes off the scene. She watched as six plebeians emerged from the confusion some distance away, bearing Clodius’ body. Led by Fulvia and the bearded leader whom they had encountered earlier, the group moved purposefully towards the Senate entrance. Behind came a pair of men carrying flaming torches. Fabiola gasped. Clodius’ funeral pyre was to be lit inside the Republic’s most important structure: the Senate itself.

Tullius bobbed up and down unhappily, but Fabiola would not budge. And her guess was correct. Moments later, tendrils of smoke began billowing from inside the sacred chamber. No event in the city’s history had ever been more dramatic. Five hundred years of democracy were about to go up in flames.

Even Tullius paused when he realised what they were witnessing. Politics affected slaves little, but certain things in the Republic were permanent — or seemed so. The building that housed the seat of government was one of them. To see the Senate being burned was extraordinarily shocking. If it could be destroyed, then so could any other structure in Rome.

The Sicilian came to his senses at last. ‘We cannot stay, Mistress.’ His tone was firm.

Fabiola sighed in acceptance and meekly followed Tullius away. Jupiter had spared their lives thus far, but they should not tempt fate. It was time to leave, before things got even worse. Only military force could bring back peace now. The senators would have no choice but to ask Pompey, the new consul, to intervene, which would swing the balance of power firmly away from Caesar. Brutus’ position would also be weakened by this unrest. So, therefore, would hers. And what would happen in Gaul? If Vercingetorix’ rebellion succeeded, Caesar’s attempt to become the Republic’s leader would fail completely. A defeated general could never retain the fickle public’s approval. Fabiola steeled her resolve. Jupiter had shown her his favour by letting her escape the chaos. Only a short time earlier, she had been ready to die — well, no longer. No matter what happened, this would not be the end of her rise to power.

Fabiola did not even see the arrow strike. It was the gasp of pain which attracted her attention. She looked up to see Tullius toppling forward, looking faintly surprised. A feathered wooden shaft protruded from the middle of his chest, its iron point buried deep in his lungs. Mortally wounded, the Sicilian landed face down in the ankle-deep mud.

A heartbeat later, another guard followed him. Then a third.

Ducking down, Fabiola spat a bitter curse. How could I have been so stupid? she thought. Jupiter does not bother with the likes of me.

The way ahead had been blocked with piles of refuse, lengths of wood and broken pottery. Eager to get away from the Forum, Tullius had not seen it. Fabiola had not been paying attention either. On another day, she might have thought the waist-high rubbish just indicated a particularly poor street, a place where the inhabitants cared for neither health nor hygiene. Not today.

This was an ambush.

A fourth missile hissed through the air, taking the guard nearest to her through the neck.

They could not go forwards. Or back. Certain death awaited in the Forum. Eyes swivelling, Fabiola looked for the archer.

One of her five remaining followers pointed. Then he screamed, clutching at the arrow jutting from his left eye. Falling to his knees, he tugged frantically at the shaft, and Fabiola heard metal scrape off bone as the barbs pulled free of the socket. His face drenched in blood and aqueous fluid, the brave guard staggered upright, sobbing with pain. Now half-blind, he would be of little use in the impending fight.

From a side alley, ten ruffians emerged. Dressed in ragged, dull brown tunics, they were carrying an assortment of weapons: spears, clubs, knives, rusty swords. There was one bowman, an evil-looking type who smiled as he notched another arrow to his string. His companions were similarly unsavoury in appearance.

‘Look what we’ve got here, boys,’ said a spearman with a leer.

‘A noble lady!’ answered another. ‘Always wanted to try one of those.’

The archer licked his lips. ‘Let’s see what’s under that fine robe.’

The men moved in, their faces filling with lust. This would not just be robbery. Fabiola saw rape and death in their dark eyes. But instead of fear, anger boiled up inside her. These were the lowest of the low: the scum who waited to prey on the weak and unarmed fleeing the battle.

‘Mistress?’ asked her guards in unison. Without Tullius, they were unsure what to do.

She swallowed hard. None had shields, leaving them defenceless against missiles. If they did not act fast, they would all fall to the bowman. There was only one way to overcome their ambushers, who were most probably cowards. Producing the dagger Tullius had given her, Fabiola bared her teeth. ‘Run straight at them,’ she hissed. ‘It’s that, or we go to Hades.’ If this was the end that Jupiter had chosen for her, she would at least die well.

Seeing her determination, the guards’ courage rose. Four raised their swords, and the one-eyed man unsheathed a knife. With his reduced ability to judge depth of field, a short weapon would be easier to fight with. In a heartbeat, the five were lined up beside her. Slaves or not, it was better to die fighting than to just be slain out of hand.

A scream of rage and defiance left Fabiola’s mouth. Raising her blade, she charged forward. Everything was falling apart. The gods had answered her: she was surely alone in the world. If death took her now, it would be a release.

Her men roared in response and followed close behind.

The battle was brief, and brutal.

Acting on a hunch that she would not be killed at once, Fabiola ran straight at the archer, who was drawing a bead on someone over her left shoulder. She felt a rush of air as his arrow shot past her cheek and a strangled cry from behind her as it landed. Then she was on him. There would only be one chance: her blow had to disable or kill, instantly. Before the thug even drew breath, Fabiola had slammed her dagger deep into the point where his neck met his body. It was where she had seen Corbulo stick pigs as they were being slaughtered. A high-pitched scream left his lips and he dropped his bow. She didn’t hesitate. Pulling her blade free, Fabiola stabbed him twice more, in the chest. His wounds gushing, the archer fell backwards and out of sight. He would be dead within moments.

Fabiola looked at the hand holding her weapon, her right. It was completely red, sticky with blood. It was sickening. It was hard to know which was worse: this, or having to couple with old, fat senators.

‘Bitch!’

Instinctively she ducked, avoiding a wildly swinging sword. Facing her was an unshaven, skinny man wielding a rusty gladius. Although Fabiola had not been trained to use weapons, she had watched Juba teaching Romulus enough times. She had also seen the Lupanar’s two doormen sparring with each other. This fool has no idea how to fight, she thought, feeling a surge of hope. But she had never been trained to do so either.

He lunged forward again but she easily dodged away.

‘More used to stabbing people in the back, eh?’ Fabiola sneered, wondering what to do next. To get within knife range, she would have to go dangerously close to his sword. The thug sensed her indecision at once.

‘I’m going to enjoy fucking you when this is over,’ he panted, trying to snatch her dagger.

She had him now. Fabiola slipped down the top of her dress, revealing her full breasts. Survival mattered far more than her modesty.

Eyes goggling, he dropped his guard.

‘Like what you see?’ she asked softly, cupping one invitingly.

The plebeian could not answer. The only women he could afford were the worn-out whores who lived around the tombs on the Via Appia: toothless, diseased, half drunk most of the time. In comparison, Fabiola was like a vision of a goddess. He licked his lips and moved a pace forward.

Her smile changed to a she-wolf’s snarl as he drew near enough. In her mind, this could have been Gemellus, or a hundred others who had used her body. With a backwards slash, Fabiola cut the man’s throat wide open, taking the blade so deep it grated off the cartilage of his larynx. As he toppled over, choking on his own blood, she grabbed his gladius. Two weapons will be better than one, she thought.

When Fabiola had pulled up her dress and looked around, nearly all her men were down, but they had killed twice the number of their attackers. Strangely, the guard whose eye had been taken out was still fighting. Her heart filled with pride at his loyalty and courage. Screaming from a mixture of pain and battle rage, he had disabled two thugs, spilling one’s intestines all over the ground and burying his dagger in the thigh of another.

That left Fabiola and the injured slave against two of the lowlifes, who now looked decidedly less confident. The odds had improved and her spirits lifted a fraction. Jupiter is still watching over us. Do not turn away now, she pleaded. But Fabiola’s hope vanished again as four more men emerged from the alleyway. Drawn by the sound of fighting, they cried out angrily when they saw their comrades lying dead and injured. Dismay was quickly replaced by lust at the realisation that they only faced two enemies, one of whom was a beautiful young woman.

‘Mistress?’

Fabiola turned to face her wounded guard. Runnels of clotted blood covered his left cheek. They had even run into his open mouth, staining his teeth red. But his remaining eye burned fiercely from the clean, right side of his face. The effect was terrifying and must have given him an advantage over the thugs. ‘What is it?’

‘When I’m dead. ’ He paused, looking genuinely distressed. ‘I don’t want to be dumped on the Esquiline Hill, Mistress.’

Fabiola’s heart went out to him. The slave wasn’t afraid of dying with her. Instead, like many of his kind, he feared the indignity of being thrown into the city’s open pits along with excess waste and the bodies of animals and criminals. Like her brother, he had pride as well as courage. Sadly, she didn’t even know the man’s name. ‘If I survive, and you do not,’ Fabiola declared, ‘then I swear before all the gods that you will have your own grave, with a memorial over it.’

She could not promise any more. The odds were still stacked against them.

He stared at her from his good eye and nodded once.

This was how the bonds of comradeship were formed, Fabiola realised. Someone who would stand by another in the midst of battle, especially when they did not have to, was worthy of friendship. And trust. Whether they were a slave or not was irrelevant.

‘Your name?’ she asked.

‘Sextus, Mistress.’

‘Good.’ Pleased that she would not die with a stranger, Fabiola studied the newcomers. They seemed vaguely familiar, but fortunately none was armed with a bow. There would be an opportunity to injure or kill at least a few before they died. Perhaps one would drop his guard as the fool with the gladius had, she thought hopefully. But she doubted the ruse would work again. By the way they held their weapons, the tough-looking men were used to fighting. Sighing, Fabiola moved shoulder to shoulder with Sextus. He smelt of blood and sweat. ‘Let’s charge them,’ she whispered. ‘If we break past, head into the alleyway. It will lead somewhere.’

‘Be easier to defend as well, Mistress,’ Sextus replied. ‘Two men can barely stand alongside each other in there.’

She was delighted by his insight. In such a narrow space, their attackers would not be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers. ‘Jupiter has preserved us both this far,’ she said, taking heart. ‘Now we need Fortuna’s help as well.’

‘The gods have never smiled on me, Mistress. I’m a slave.’ Sextus’ eye was world-weary. ‘But I’ll die rather than let these scum harm you.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm in the thugs’ direction.

There was no more time to talk. Angered by Sextus’ action and full of confidence again, their enemies moved forward purposefully. After all, they now outnumbered their victims by three to one; any fear of injury or death was overcome by their strong desire to rape Fabiola. How hard could it be for half a dozen fighters to overcome a blood-spattered young noblewoman and a badly wounded slave?

Fabiola’s new-found confidence began to desert her. Better armed and disciplined, the new arrivals were clearly more determined than their original attackers. Fear began to take root in her heart. Raising her gladius, she shuffled forward, trying to remember the practice moves she had once seen Romulus make. Sextus kept close beside her, probing forward with the spear he had picked up.

One of the thugs laughed; it was an unpleasant, threatening sound.

And Fabiola remembered where she had seen him before.

These were fugitivarii.

Almost on cue, a burly figure with brown hair and deep-set eyes strolled from the alley. Dressed in a legionary’s mail shirt, he had thick silver bands circling his wrists. Behind him were another six of his men, all heavily armed.

The tip of Sextus’ spear wavered at the sight; Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth in shock.

Scaevola bowed mockingly.

Her pulse became a trip hammer. This ambush had been planned.