'That's the spirit, comrade,' said a strange voice. 'Caesar's legionaries don't ever give up!'
'Especially those from the Sixth!' cried another.
There was a rousing cheer.
The two friends turned. Another group of soldiers had arrived, also intent on washing off the grime of battle. Romulus recognised none of them. With rusty, battered chain mail and notched swords, the men's arrogant ease spoke volumes. A number of them had flesh wounds, but none were badly hurt. These were some of the legionaries who, vastly outnumbered, had stopped the right flank from dissolving before the Cappadocian attack. The Sixth Legion.
Their leader was a strongly built brute with black hair. Several bronze and silver phalerae were strapped to his chest over his mail. Stepping closer, he eyed Romulus' long, gaping wound with a critical stare. 'A rhomphaia did that. Caught you unawares, eh?'
Embarrassed, Romulus nodded.
The soldier clapped him on the shoulder. 'But you survived! Killed the bastard who did it too, I expect.'
'I did,' Romulus declared proudly.
'It'll never happen to you again either,' the other confided. 'Good legionaries learn fast, and I can tell you're one of those. Like us.'
The newcomers gave him approving looks, and Romulus' heart swelled with pride. Here were some of Caesar's finest, accepting him as one of their own.
'Been wounded before too, I see,' said the burly legionary. He pointed a thick finger at the purple welt on Romulus' right thigh. 'Who'd you get that from?'
His wits addled, Romulus wasn't thinking straight. 'From a Goth,' he answered truthfully.
He didn't see Petronius' surprised reaction.
The soldier stopped. 'Which legion are you boys in again?'
'The Twenty-Eighth,' replied Petronius warily, sensing danger. He began trying to usher Romulus away.
'Wait.' It was an order, not a request.
Avoiding eye contact, Petronius stopped.
'The Twenty-Eighth never served in Gaul or Germania,' the black-haired legionary growled.
'No.' Romulus knew enough of his new unit's history to answer, although he had no idea where this was going. 'It didn't.'
'So where the fuck did you ever fight a Goth then?' the other demanded angrily.
Romulus stared at him as if he were an imbecile. 'In the ludus.'
The big legionary's face was a picture of shock and outrage. 'What did you say?'
Romulus looked at Petronius, who looked similarly stunned. Finally realising what he'd said, his hand reached down for his gladius. It wasn't there — he was still naked, and his weapon was lying on top of his clothing a few steps away.
'I don't believe this,' snarled the soldier, raising his bloody sword. 'A slave in the Twenty-Eighth? Can't let that go unanswered, can we?'
Shouts of indignation left the men's throats as they swarmed in, seizing Romulus by the arms. He was too weak to resist, and when Petronius tried to intervene, he was clubbed to the ground in a hail of blows and kicks.
The immense danger of the situation began to sink into Romulus' fog of pain.
The black-haired legionary's next words proved it.
'I reckon we should finish off today properly,' he cried. 'Nothing like watching a crucifixion with a skin of wine.'
At this, there was a loud cheer.
Chapter VII: The Affair
The temple of Orcus, Rome Sextus roared in agony as Scaevola pulled free his blade. Still clutching his own weapon, he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Fabiola screamed. Sextus' cloak and tunic were already saturated in blood. More was pooling on the mosaic tiles around him, filling the tiny cracks between each coloured piece. Even if his wound wasn't mortal, Sextus would soon die from this loss. Yet she had to defend herself first. Unsheathing her pugio, Fabiola pointed it towards the fugitivarius. It felt like a child's toy. 'Don't come any closer,' she said, hating her quavering voice.
'What's that, bitch?' Scaevola asked, stepping over the injured Sextus, who could only watch. 'I came here to ask for your life, and look! Orcus has answered my prayer before I've even left the premises.' He grinned, revealing sharp brown teeth. 'A man can't ask for more than that.'
Fabiola did not answer. She didn't have the skill to fight off a powerful man like Scaevola with only a knife. And how could she leave Sextus behind? Feeling terrible, she backed away. If she could reach the entrance hall, there were bound to be people about. Priests, priestesses, or other members of the public. Someone who could help them.
Sensing what she was up to, Scaevola lunged after her, slashing and cutting with his gladius. 'Why don't you run?' he taunted. 'I'll even give you a little head start.'
His leering face made Fabiola shake with uncontrollable fear. No matter where she went, or what she did, the fugitivarius seemed to pop up. It was all she could do to keep moving backwards. Frantic, she glanced over her shoulder. It was at least twenty paces to the large doors which led on to the hall. Too far. Despair overtook her. What had she been thinking? To ask Orcus for help and then immediately insult his priestess had been beyond foolish. This had to be the deity's answer. Right on cue, Scaevola thrust his sword at her midriff. Fabiola threw herself sideways; she escaped being gutted by a fingerbreadth.
I have angered the gods, and now I'm going to die in this dark corridor, she thought dully. Caesar will never pay for what he has done. I'll never see Romulus again. The last thought pained Fabiola most, and her feet came to a standstill. The pugio fell from her nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor.
Scaevola crept closer. 'I'm going to gut you first, and then carry you outside,' he whispered. 'How would you like to be fucked while you're dying, you little whore?'
Fabiola stared at him, her eyes dark pools of misery. She could imagine nothing worse.
The fugitivarius drew back his blade. 'Let's get the first bit over with then.'
'Hold!' shrieked a voice taut with fury. 'What sacrilege is this?'
They both turned to see Sabina standing over Sextus' prone form. Her hands were red with his blood, and her wide face was outraged.
'He did it,' Fabiola stuttered, pointing at Scaevola. 'Attacked us as we walked along the corridor.'
'I've sworn to kill this woman,' snarled the fugitivarius. 'Came here to pray for that. And look — Orcus himself delivered her to me.' Self-righteousness oozed from every word.
'How dare you assume to know what the god does!' screamed Sabina, spittle flying from her lips. 'Only his priests or priestesses may speak for him. For any other to do so is heresy.'
Scaevola swallowed uneasily.
Sabina levelled an accusing finger at him. 'You have already drawn blood inside the temple, which is forbidden. A huge offering will have to be made for Orcus to forgive that, and if this man dies,' she said, indicating Sextus, 'you will be cursed with the most terrible fate imaginable. For all eternity.'
His eyes darted to Fabiola, promising rape and murder anew.
It was all she could do not to lose control of her bladder.
'The same would apply if you murder her,' hissed Sabina, her voice threatening. 'Think carefully.'
Despite himself, Scaevola flinched. Even the murderous were ruled by superstition.
Drawn by Sabina's cries, several priests spilled into the corridor from the main hallway. They gasped in horror at the sight of Scaevola holding a bloody sword over Fabiola.
'Fetch the lictores to arrest this dirtbag,' shouted Sabina. 'He has grievously injured a slave and offered violence to this devotee.'
Casting frightened looks over his shoulder, one darted off at once. The others shuffled about, unsure what to
