The Silver Eagle

Chapter VIII: Despair

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

With leering faces, the fugitivarii shuffled closer.

Sextus dodged forward, trying to gut one of them with his spear. His attempt failed; instead he just missed losing an arm to a cut from a shrewdly wielded sword. Such daring moves were too risky, so he and Fabiola moved back to back. It made little difference. At once their enemies began to encircle them.

Fabiola’s heart sank. The narrow street was deserted. Even if there had been someone about, who would intervene against such determined lowlife? Rome had no official force to keep the peace. The natural result of this was surely the rioting in the Forum Romanum. Fabiola cursed. What had she been thinking, to leave the safety of the house earlier? After his previous humiliation at her hands, Scaevola would be less than merciful. And there was nowhere to flee.

Not that Fabiola would run. That was what cowards did.

A sudden rush by the thugs and it was all over. Fabiola managed to bury her blade in the thigh of one, and Sextus to pierce the throat of another, but the remainder swarmed in, knocking the pair to the ground in a flurry of blows. As Fabiola struggled to rise, a sword hilt connected with her head. She collapsed, semi-conscious. Sextus was less lucky, suffering a heavy beating before being trussed up like a hen for the pot. But he was not killed. Scaevola had seen how good the injured slave was with a weapon. Selling him to a gladiator school would be most profitable.

The fugitivarii clustered eagerly around Fabiola, lustful eyes drinking in her beauty.

‘Get her up,’ Scaevola ordered.

His order was obeyed instantly. With a strong arm under each of hers, Fabiola found herself hanging between two of the biggest men. Head lolling to one side, her long black hair fell over her face.

The chief fugitivarius grabbed a handful of Fabiola’s tresses. With a brutal tug upwards, he revealed her stunning features.

Fabiola moaned in pain and opened her eyes.

‘Lady,’ said Scaevola with a cruel smile. ‘We meet again. And your lover’s still not here to protect you.’

She looked at him with utter scorn.

‘He wasn’t at the latifundium either,’ said the fugitivarius regretfully. ‘We came looking for you both the day after you’d left for Rome. Didn’t we, lads?’

His men growled in acknowledgement.

Seeing her eyes widen, Scaevola smiled cruelly. ‘Warned you, didn’t I? Nobody crosses me without getting paid back.’

Fabiola struggled to keep her voice even. ‘What did you do?’

‘Attacked just before dawn. It’s the best time,’ he revealed with delight. ‘Killed your pet gladiators. Torched the buildings and took all your slaves to sell on. Best of the lot, though, we recaptured the fugitive I’d been chasing. Naturally, he had to be punished.’ There was a pause. ‘They say that gelded men make good servants for women.’

Fabiola could not take in the devastating horror of it all. ‘Corbulo?’ she pleaded.

Scaevola was saving the worst for last. ‘The old bastard was stubborn,’ he said admiringly. ‘Most fools talk quickly with their feet in a fire. Not him. Wasn’t until we broke his arms and legs that he started talking.’

‘No!’ Fabiola screamed, trying to break free. ‘Corbulo had done nothing.’

‘He knew where you were,’ responded the fugitivarius. ‘That was enough.’

‘You’ll all rot in Hades for this,’ Fabiola spat, tears running down her cheeks. ‘And Brutus will send you there.’

Scaevola made a face. ‘I can’t see him anywhere. Can anyone else?’

Chuckling, his men shook their heads.

‘Shame. We’ll have to hunt down the whoreson later. The only good supporter of Caesar is a dead one.’

Fabiola was dumbstruck. What have I done to deserve this, great Jupiter?

‘So it’s just us, I’m afraid,’ Scaevola said teasingly. Letting go of her hair, he took hold of the neck of her dress with both hands and tore it to the waist.

The view this allowed drew gasps from his followers.

Used to men seeing her naked, Fabiola ignored them. But her inner rage knew no bounds.

On the ground beside them, Sextus writhed uselessly.

Looking into her eyes, Scaevola caressed her full breasts. ‘Like that?’ he whispered.

The young woman did not give him the dignity of a reply. But real terror was now growing inside her.

His hand dropped, stroking her flat belly. It was all Fabiola could do not to pull away, but she knew that would only increase the chief fugitivarius’ enjoyment. Next her torn dress was pulled off completely and dropped into the bloody mud. Fabiola’s underclothes followed. The two thugs holding her shifted from foot to foot, peering at her beautiful body.

Scaevola’s own eyes widened at the sight. ‘Like Venus herself,’ he breathed. A meaty hand reached down and cupped her groin. ‘But this one you can fuck.’

Despite herself, Fabiola tensed. His touch brought back memories of Gemellus, the merchant who had owned her entire family, and of other unsavoury clients in the brothel.

The fugitivarius grinned and pushed a finger inside her.

It was too much for Fabiola. Surprising those restraining her, she managed to free her right arm. Raking Scaevola’s cheek with her long fingernails, she left four deep gouges in his flesh. More shocked than badly hurt, he reeled backwards, spitting curses. She had no further chance to injure him; the thugs quickly manhandled her back under control. Against their strength, Fabiola could do little. It was best to conserve her energy for another opportunity. Her struggles subsided and stopped.

With blood running unchecked down on to his neck, Scaevola moved to stand before her once more. ‘Quite the vixen, eh?’ he said, panting. ‘I like my women like that.’

This time, she spat at him.

He responded with a solid punch to Fabiola’s solar plexus which drove all the air from her lungs. Stars burst across her vision and her knees folded, unable to take her weight. She had never known pain like it.

‘Let her fall,’ she heard the fugitivarius say. ‘I’ll take the bitch right here.’

Obediently the men released Fabiola’s arms, and she toppled down on top of her torn dress. Standing back, they left their chief to it. It clearly wasn’t the first time that this had happened.

Lifting his chain mail and tunic with a grin, Scaevola freed his erection from his licium, his undergarment. He moved closer, greedily eyeing the neat triangle of hair at the top of her thighs. Sexual violence was part of his job, and Fabiola was more beautiful than any slave he’d ever raped. He was going to enjoy this.

Dazedly, Fabiola looked up. Nausea washed over her and she struggled hard not to vomit. This would be worse than any of the sex she had endured as a prostitute. Those men had at least paid to be with her and, in an expensive brothel, the vast majority had never offered any violence. The threat of Vettius and Benignus was enough protection for Jovina’s women. At that moment, Fabiola would have given all the money she possessed to see the pair of huge doormen appear.

Instead, she was totally alone.

Fresh tears pricked her eyes, but Fabiola quelled them ruthlessly. Self-pity would make what was about to happen far worse. The most important thing to do now was survive. Simply survive. She shuddered in anticipation.

Scaevola dropped to his knees and shoved her legs apart. Taking his time, the fugitivarius caressed the inside of her thighs, laughing at the goose bumps of fear this caused. Half stunned and incapable of resisting further, Fabiola’s revulsion was still apparent.

His men gathered round, keen to see everything.

Scaevola could control himself no longer. With an animal grunt, he moved closer. The tip of his erection nudged forward, searching.

Fabiola turned her head away so she did not have to look at his face. This was what her mother had endured for years. If she could do it, so could her daughter.

At that exact moment, the thought did not make things any easier.

Shame filled Fabiola. After he had finished, Scaevola would let his men rape her as well, before one of them cut her throat. Then her body would be left like so much meat, among the others who had died. Trying to save the young slave who had run on to her latifundium had been reckless, yet somehow it still felt right. Not responding would have denied all that Fabiola was, all that she had come from. Sooner or later Scaevola would have attacked her property anyway, searching for Brutus.

The fugitivarius grabbed Fabiola’s chin in a grip of iron and twisted her face towards his. Dark, murderous eyes bored into her. His foul breath made her gag. ‘Look at me while I fuck you,’ he muttered, leaning in to lick her breasts. ‘Dirty whore.’

Finally, a sob escaped Fabiola. This was far worse than she could have imagined. She managed to wrench her face away again.

Between the legs of the men standing above her, there was a sudden blur of movement from the alleyway. No one else noticed. Totally engrossed by the rape, none of the thugs were looking anywhere but at her. Amazingly, Fabiola saw armed figures spilling silently on to the street. All were dressed similarly in faded, patched military tunics and battered chain mail. The occasional phalera decorated a chest. Bronze bowl helmets with upright horsehair plumes covered every man’s head. Carrying gladii and elongated, oval scuta, they advanced in a solid wall. These could only be ex-legionaries: men who really knew how to fight. And they did not look as if they were here on friendly business.

Fabiola’s mouth opened in astonishment.

Mistaking her reaction for one of fear, Scaevola laughed and prepared to enter her.

Far too late, his men realised that something was wrong.

Loud thumps rang out as heavy shield bosses slammed into the nearest ones’ backs, knocking them off balance. These were followed by ruthless sword blows that pierced bellies and opened chests to the air. Many of the thugs were killed in the initial attack and chaos reigned as the remainder struggled to understand what had happened. Without speaking, the veterans pressed forward, herding the fugitivarii together, like sheep to the slaughter, merciless in the face of their enemies’ confusion. This was something they had done countless times before.

Shouts of terror rang out as the surviving ruffians realised there would be no escape.

The chief fugitivarius cursed and pulled back from Fabiola’s groin. His erection totally vanished, he fumbled frantically to put himself back in his underclothes. If he didn’t get up off the ground, he’d be dead very soon. Stumbling to his feet, Scaevola joined the fight.

Fabiola watched as one of the veterans tackled a heavily built thug who was armed with a short sword and dagger. Ducking down, he drove his gilded shield boss upwards at his opponent’s face, forcing the man to lift his chin away in reflex and expose his throat. The classic move was followed by a swift gladius thrust. Blood ran down the straight iron blade in great streams. The fugitivarius was dead before the blade even pulled free, letting him fall to the ground.

Fabiola used the opportunity to pull on the remnants of her dress, partially covering her nudity. She picked up a discarded sword, ready to fight before anyone else laid a hand on her.

‘Mistress! Cut me free.’

She turned in surprise. Sextus was lying a few paces away, still tied up. Fabiola crept over, quickly slicing through his bonds.

Nodding his thanks, the injured slave grabbed the nearest weapon, which was an axe with a notched blade.

They huddled together, waiting for the battle to end.

It did not take long. Surprised and outnumbered, the surviving thugs did not put up much resistance. Although used to fighting together, they usually only faced terrified, half-starved slaves: easy to intimidate and even easier to overcome. Several threw down their weapons and pleaded for mercy. It got them nothing more than a swifter death. Veteran of a score of skirmishes, Scaevola realised that the game was up. Spinning on his heel, he shoved one of his own men out of the way with an impatient cry. He bounded backwards, towards the Forum. Despite the rioting, he had more chance of escaping with his life there than here with his followers.

His eyes met Fabiola’s.

Time stopped.

Full of bitter rage, the squat fugitivarius mouthed a curse at her. She did the same. Stung by her defiance, he lunged forward, gladius in hand. And was met by Sextus, swinging his axe.

Scaevola skidded to a halt. ‘Curse you to Hades,’ he spat before sprinting off up the street.

Overcome by terror and nervous exhaustion, Fabiola sank down into the mud. Sextus moved to stand protectively over her, his one eye bright with battle rage. As the last thugs fell, the veterans closed in on them and Sextus turned this way and that, waving his axe at any who came within range.

Fabiola closed her eyes. Their rescuers might prove to be nothing more than another group of would-be rapists. But they did not move any closer. Heavy scuta clattered on to the ground when they were done. Without speaking, the men took a brief rest, chests heaving, sword arms reddened. Killing was tiring work.

When nothing happened, Fabiola got to her feet, the rags of her dress clutched around her. Unshaven faces regarded her admiringly. Silently. And not one man moved. She did not know how to react. Neither did Sextus.

Finally one of the veterans surrounding them gave a shrill whistle. To Fabiola’s utter surprise, Secundus emerged from the alleyway. A parting appeared in the circle, allowing him to approach. ‘Lady,’ he said, inclining his head.

Fabiola tried to be bold. ‘You have my thanks,’ she said, rewarding him with a beaming smile.

‘What happened?’

‘We were escaping the rioting,’ Fabiola explained. ‘And they ambushed us. They were going to. He nearly. ’ The words dried in her throat.

‘You’re safe now,’ muttered Secundus, patting her arm.

She nodded jerkily, her emotions still in turmoil. Although Secundus seemed sympathetic, not every veteran’s face was friendly.

Secundus regarded the nearest corpse with contempt. ‘To think that we fought for fuckers like this, eh?’

It was a valid point. Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers had fought and died for their countrymen’s sake. Meanwhile, other men robbed, raped and killed citizens on the streets of Rome.

‘This ambush was planned,’ Fabiola revealed. She filled Secundus in, blaming the attack by Scaevola and his crew on the fact that she and Brutus were supporters of Caesar. She made no mention of the young fugitive who had been the reason they met. Few would understand why anyone would want to intervene on behalf of a slave.

‘Well, the scumbag’s gone now,’ said Secundus reassuringly when she had finished. ‘He won’t be back in a hurry. Most of his men are dead.’

Feeling calmer, Fabiola gazed down the alleyway. Like the Forum, it was now littered with bodies. A few thugs were still alive, but not for long. Secundus’ men moved expertly among them, slitting throats and checking for money pouches. It was not pleasant to witness, but they deserved no better, she thought.

Wary of the violence in the Forum, Secundus began calling the veterans back. ‘This is no place to linger, lady,’ he said, ushering her towards the alleyway. Like a faithful hound, Sextus followed.

‘Do you often intervene like this?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘From time to time.’

Fabiola was surprised. ‘But why?’

Secundus laughed. ‘It’s hard to give up army life after ten years or more, lady. About fifty or sixty of us keep in touch; we like to keep the area fairly peaceable. Can’t stop what’s going on in the Forum, but this, we can. It’s easy for us, being trained soldiers and all. And it pleases Mithras.’

Fabiola was confused by the reference. ‘Your god?’

He regarded her steadily. ‘Indeed, lady. The soldiers’ god.’

She and Sextus owed their lives not just to Jupiter, but to an unknown deity. Fabiola was intrigued. ‘I would like to offer my thanks,’ she said.

‘At the Mithraeum, lady?’ he asked. ‘Unfortunately not.’

Unused to being refused, Fabiola bridled. ‘Why?’

‘You’re a woman. Only men may enter our temple.’

‘I see.’

Secundus coughed awkwardly. ‘It’s not safe round here, though.’ The noise of fighting could still be heard from the Forum. ‘It would be permissible for you to wait in the anterooms. Tomorrow, when it is safer, we can escort you back to your domus.’

‘My slave comes too.’ She indicated Sextus.

‘Of course,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Our medical orderly can treat his wound.’

Some of the veterans looked less than happy at Secundus’ offer of shelter and treatment.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Fabiola asked.

There was another shy grin. ‘You gave me an aureus, remember?’

The best money I ever spent, thought Fabiola. ‘Strange that our paths should cross again so soon,’ she said.

‘The gods work in such ways, lady,’ Secundus replied.

‘They do,’ she agreed passionately.

Leaving the dead sprawled uncaring in the mud, Secundus led them off through a series of narrow yet empty thoroughfares. His companions split up, some walking protectively in front, some behind. Despite their reservations about Fabiola and her slave, all kept their swords drawn and eyes peeled for more trouble. But there was no one else about. All of Clodius’ and Milo’s men had descended on the Forum and the noise of the rioting alone was enough to make any ordinary citizens remaining indoors stay where they were. Doors were shut and shop windows barred. Street fountains splashed noisily, unattended. There were no plebeian women collecting water in clay vessels or washing their clothes. The public toilets were empty of gossiping neighbours and urchins selling vinegar-soaked sponges on sticks. Rickety wooden stalls that would typically be displaying bread, pottery, ironmongery and simple foodstuffs stood forlorn and bare. Even the begging lepers and the familiar scavenging mongrels were nowhere to be seen. An occasional scared face peered from half-open shuttered windows above, but these slammed shut if any of the party looked up. It was an eerie feeling to move through the city unimpeded by traffic or throngs of people. Rome was normally a hive of human activity from dawn till dusk.

Not today.

After they had been climbing for a little while, the sounds of violence gradually began to diminish.

‘This is the Palatine,’ Fabiola exclaimed in surprise.

Secundus threw her a crooked smile. ‘Expected us to be based on the Aventine or Caelian Hills, did you?’

Fabiola flushed at his accurate guess. Most of the Palatine’s residents were wealthy, unlike the ragged, unshaven figures surrounding her.

‘Soldiers are the true spirit of Rome,’ he said proudly. There was a growl of agreement from the others. ‘We belong here, at its ancient heart.’

Fabiola bent her head in respect. After all, legionaries were the men who fought and died for the Republic. Although she had little love for it, she could respect these veterans’ bravery and the sacrifices they had made in its name. One only had to see the stump of Secundus’ sword arm and the multitude of old scars on all the ex-soldiers to realise that. Flesh had been hacked off, blood lost and comrades slain, while the rich who dwelled around here had given little, if anything, for their state.

Working his way along a high, plain wall, Secundus came to a halt before a small door, its surface reinforced with protective iron studs. A simply forged knocker and a metal plate around the keyhole made it look the same as the back entrance to any other decent-sized house in the city. If they could afford it, Romans preferred to live in a well-built domus, a private, hollow square with an open air courtyard in the middle and rooms around the sides. The exterior of these dwellings was usually entirely ordinary, designed to avoid attention. Inside, they could be luxurious, like that of Brutus, or garish in the extreme, as Gemullus’ had been.

Checking there was no one in sight, Secundus rapped on the timbers with his knuckles.

Instantly a challenge issued from the other side.

Secundus leaned in close and muttered a few words.

His answer was sufficient. There was a short delay as bolts were thrown back and then the door swung inwards on silent, oiled hinges. Framed in the portal was a powerfully built figure in a russet-brown military tunic, carrying a drawn gladius. With close-cropped hair and a scar running from his right ear to his chin, this had to be another ex-soldier.

Recognising Secundus, he sheathed his sword and thumped his clenched right fist off his chest in salute.

Returning the gesture, Secundus led the way into the atrium.

Fabiola and Sextus were close behind, followed by the rest of the group. The guard’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the two strangers, one a woman, the other grievously wounded, but he said nothing. As the last man entered, the portal shut with a quiet click, blocking out the daylight. With the doors to the tablinum closed, the only illumination in the wide hallway running from left to right was from oil lamps in regularly placed wall brackets. Flickering yellow flames lit up a number of brightly painted statues, the most prominent of which was a cloaked deity crouched over a reclining bull. Shadows cast by his Phrygian cap prevented the god’s face from being seen, but the dagger in his right hand showed clear intent. Like all animals in shrines, the massive ox was about to be sacrificed.

‘Mithras,’ announced Secundus reverently. ‘The Father.’

As one, his men bowed their heads.

Feeling more than a little fear, Fabiola shivered. Although they had only entered the first chamber in the building, there was more power palpable here than in the cellae at the great temple on the Capitoline Hill. If she was lucky, and Mithras willing, some information about Romulus might be revealed. Unlike the falsehoods uttered by the soothsayers and the uncertainties found inside temples, a sign given in a place like this might carry divine authority. Fabiola snapped back to the present. Do not lose focus, she thought. There would be time to pray later. Bowing respectfully to the sculpture, she indicated Sextus’ gaping, ruined eye. ‘He needs treatment,’ she said.

Her slave had not uttered a single word of complaint thus far, but his teeth were gritted in pain. The adrenalin rush of combat had subsided and now waves of pain were radiating outwards, filling his skull with thousands of stabbing needles.

Secundus pointed to their left. ‘The valetudinarium is down here.’

‘Who owns the house?’ Fabiola asked. This was a far cry from the type of accommodation most citizens could afford.

‘Better than an army barracks, eh?’ laughed Secundus. ‘It belonged to a legate, lady. One of us.’

She frowned. ‘Belonged?’

‘Poor bastard was thrown from his horse two years ago,’ he answered. ‘Left no family either.’

‘And you seized his property?’ It was not unheard of for this to happen. In the current uncertain political climate, those who acted with confidence often got away with totally illegal acts. It was how Clodius and Milo had conducted their business for years.

He regarded her sternly. ‘We’re veterans, not thieves, lady.’

‘Of course,’ Fabiola muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘The domus belongs to Mithras now,’ he said simply.

‘So you live here?’

‘We have that privilege,’ Secundus answered. ‘This is the most hallowed ground in Rome. It has to be protected.’

Leaving his men and the statue of Mithras behind, Secundus took them along the corridor and around what would be the corner of the central courtyard. Beneath their feet was a simple but well-laid mosaic, its pattern the typical Roman concentric circles, waves and swirls. Few of the many rooms they passed seemed to be occupied, their open doors often revealing bare walls and floors, devoid of furniture.

Secundus finally came to a halt before a chamber which smelt strongly of vinegar, the main cleaning agent used by Roman surgeons. ‘Janus!’ he cried.

Ushering Sextus in, Fabiola entered the valetudinarium, the soldiers’ hospital. As she would learn later, it was laid out just as it would have been inside a tent in a marching camp. A low desk near the doorway formed the reception area. On a wall behind were wooden shelves covered with rolls of calfskin, pots, beakers and metal instruments. Open chests on the floor were full of rolled blankets and dressings. Neat lines of low cots lined the back of the large room. All were unoccupied. Near them stood a battered table surrounded by a number of oil lamps on crudely fashioned iron stands. Thick ropes hung from each of its legs and while clean, its surface was covered in dark, circular stains. They looked rather like old blood.

Standing up from his leather stool in the corner, a thin-faced man wearing a worn military tunic decorated with two phalerae bowed his head courteously at Fabiola. Like all the soldiers, he wore a belt and a sheathed dagger. The studs of his caligae clashed gently off the floor as he approached.

Respect filled Fabiola. Every single one of Secundus’ men might initially look like a vagrant, but they all carried themselves with a quiet dignity. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, nodding at the table.

‘The operating theatre,’ replied the brown-haired medical orderly.

Fabiola’s stomach clenched at the thought of being tied down and cut open.

Janus ushered Sextus towards it. ‘An arrow?’ His voice was low, authoritative.

‘Yes,’ muttered the slave, bending his head to allow a proper examination. ‘I pulled it out myself.’

Janus clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his fingers already probing the area for further damage.

Secundus saw Fabiola’s surprise. ‘The barbs scrape off flesh as they come out. Makes a ragged and very distinctive wound,’ he explained. ‘Knives or swords come out more cleanly.’

She winced. Romulus!

‘In the legions we see them all, lady,’ Secundus murmured. ‘War is a savage business.’

Her composure cracked even more.

Secundus grew concerned. ‘What is it?’

For some reason, Fabiola felt unable to conceal the truth. The gods had brought Secundus into her life twice in just a few days; as a veteran, he would understand. ‘My brother was at Carrhae,’ she explained.

He shot her a surprised glance. ‘How did that come to pass? Did he belong to Crassus?’

Of course, he knew her past: that she had been a slave. Fabiola peered anxiously at Janus and Sextus, but they were out of earshot. The orderly had made her slave lie down on the table and was cleaning the blood from his face with a wet cloth. ‘No. He escaped from the Ludus Magnus and joined the army.’

‘A slave in the legions?’ barked Secundus. ‘That’s forbidden, on pain of death.’

Romulus had not been discovered and executed for that reason, thought Fabiola. As crafty as she, her twin would have found a way. ‘He was with a Gaul,’ she went on. ‘A champion gladiator.’

‘I see,’ the veteran answered thoughtfully. ‘Might have joined a mercenary cohort then. They’re not as picky.’

‘Romulus was a brave man,’ Fabiola snapped, bridling at his words. ‘As good as any damn legionary.’

‘My words were hasty,’ he admitted, colouring. ‘If he is like you, he must have had the heart of a lion.’

Unwilling to let it go, Fabiola pointed at Sextus. ‘Look! He’s a slave. Yet he fought for me when badly wounded. So did the others, before they were killed.’

Secundus lifted his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I am not what you think.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘Slaves are permitted to worship Mithras. With us, as equals.’

It was Fabiola’s turn to feel embarrassed. Secundus was not then like the majority of citizens, who regarded slaves as little better than animals. Even manumission did not completely remove the stain: by now, she was well used to the patronising stares given her by many nobles who knew her past. Fabiola sincerely hoped that any children the gods might grant her would not suffer the same discrimination. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Our religion’s main tenets are truth, honour and courage. Those are qualities anyone can possess, whether they are a consul or a low-born slave. Mithras sees all men in the same light, as brothers.’

It was an alien and incredible concept; one Fabiola had never heard of. Naturally, it appealed to her immensely. In Rome, slaves were permitted to worship the gods, but the idea of recognising them as equals to their masters was unthinkable. Their position in society remained the same: the very bottom. The only people who could perhaps have changed that, the well-fed priests and acolytes in the city’s temples, were no more than mouthpieces of the state: they never expressed such revolutionary thoughts. That might upset the status quo, which allowed an elite class of tens of thousands, as well as the ordinary citizens, to rule over hundreds of times that number of slaves. To hear that a god — a warrior god — could see past the stigma of slavery was truly amazing.

Fabiola’s gaze lifted to that of Secundus. ‘What about women?’ she asked. ‘Can we join?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘It is not permitted.’

‘Why not?’

Secundus’ jaw hardened at her audacity. ‘We are soldiers. Women are not.’

‘I fought today,’ she said hotly.

‘It’s not the same, lady,’ he snapped. ‘Do not presume too much on our hospitality.’