The Silver Eagle

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,