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.