The Silver Eagle

around, but none of her bodyguards were in sight. Until now, there had rarely been a need for their presence and they spent much of their time around the fire in the kitchen, telling dirty jokes. Even the slaves who were in the yard had not appeared.

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

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

Silently, malevolently, they drew closer.

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

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

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

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

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

This time his men laughed out loud.

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

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

‘What a pity you returned.’

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

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

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

His men chortled.

Fabiola gave him a withering look.

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

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

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

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

At once his men laid hands on their weapons.

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

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

Scaevola’s face became a cold, calculating mask.

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

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

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

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

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

His men’s interest picked up instantly.

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

‘Expecting Brutus soon?’

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

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

As one, the fugitivarii moved forward.

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

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

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

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

Squaring his shoulders, Corbulo moved a step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Stop!’

The vilicus jerked upright at Fabiola’s shouted command.

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

Corbulo’s face was a picture of shock.

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

‘You heard,’ snapped Fabiola.

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

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

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

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

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

Fabiola lifted her chin. She did not answer.