The Silver Eagle

‘By crushing the seeds of a plant with small red flowers,’ the orderly explained. ‘We add a few other ingredients and boil them into an infusion. Dulls even the worst pain.’

‘You mean physical pain.’ Nothing can take away grief, thought Fabiola bitterly. Except revenge.

Janus helped Sextus to the nearest bed. ‘Sleep,’ he ordered.

There was little protest. Sextus collapsed back on to the straw mattress, letting himself be covered with a woollen blanket. ‘Lady?’ Secundus had moved to the door. ‘We must leave him here for the moment,’ he said curtly.

Nodding her thanks at Janus, she followed Secundus back to the front entrance, and then down another corridor. Soon Fabiola found herself seated by a table in the stone-flagged kitchen. It was similar to the one in Gemellus’ house. There was a solidly built brick oven in one corner, long work counters along the walls and wooden shelves stacked with typical black and red clay crockery and deep sinks. As in all houses of the rich, lead pipes carried running water to wash food and plates; drains carried away the waste liquid. Yet there were no slaves here; Secundus had served her himself, refusing the offer of help as he awkwardly hacked slices off a loaf with his pugio. Cheese and fish was offered to accompany the bread, which Fabiola gratefully accepted. The day’s events had left her feeling famished. As she ate, she ignored the mixture of curious and surly stares from the many veterans present. She and Sextus were under Secundus’ protection; she doubted any of the scarred men would actually harm them.

When Secundus left, Fabiola reflected on her near escape from Scaevola. On what he had done to the fugitive and poor Corbulo at the latifundium. Closing her eyes, the young woman prayed as she had not done since she was sold into prostitution. Until today, those had been the hardest hours of her life, when only her faith and innate determination had allowed her to endure. Now, the guilt of Corbulo’s and her guards’ deaths weighed heavily on Fabiola’s shoulders. Nearly being raped by a dozen men was also a trauma she would not soon forget.

A discreet cough broke her reverie. It was Secundus again. ‘We’ve prepared a room for you, lady.’

‘I am tired,’ Fabiola admitted. A rest would do her good.

He managed a stiff smile. ‘Follow me.’

Passing out of the kitchen, they walked in silence to the corridor opposite that which led to the valetudinarium. Not far from the statue of the god, they passed a half-open door. Wavering light from a single torch lit the interior. The room was empty apart from a trapdoor in the floor.

Seeing her glance inside, Secundus instantly shut the door. He continued down the passage without explanation. Fabiola followed without protest, but her pulse quickened. It was surely the entrance to the Mithraeum. Until this moment, she had not been aware that it would be underground. Few, if any, other shrines were built like that.

Secundus guided Fabiola to a simple bedchamber, which had little more in it than her room in the Lupanar, where she had lived for nearly four years. Yet a low bed, a wooden storage chest, a bronze oil lamp and a three- legged stool with a neatly folded man’s tunic on it sufficed. Fabiola smiled: she did not have expensive tastes. The blankets looked clean and inviting. She suddenly felt more tired than she had in an age.

‘You can sleep without fear tonight,’ Secundus said in a more kindly tone. He pointed to a small bell on the floor. ‘Ring if you need anything.’ Without another word, the veteran was gone.

Fabiola needed little encouragement. Shutting the door, she blew out the lamp and took off her torn dress and sandals. Then she fell on to the bed. With the blankets pulled tight around her, she soon warmed up. A fit of shaking struck, delayed terror at the thought of what Scaevola had done to her life. And he would not give up. Other than Docilosa and the wounded Sextus, Fabiola was alone in the world. The fear was overwhelming but her exhaustion was greater. She fell into a deep sleep. Thankfully there were no bad dreams.

Yet when she awoke, it was with a real sense of panic. Wondering where she was, Fabiola sat up. Memories flooded back in a succession of disturbing images. Clodius’ corpse being displayed in the Forum. The ensuing riot. Ambush by the fugitivarii. Her men’s deaths. Scaevola. What had happened at the latifundium. Fabiola shuddered, trying — and failing — to forget.

Somehow she knew that night had fallen. The house was deathly silent, and the air around her was pitch black. Fabiola listened carefully for a long time, but could hear no activity. People tended to go to bed not long after sunset. The veterans were probably no different. Immediately the plain room with its trapdoor came to mind. Like all forbidden fruit, its appeal was great. Easing herself off the bed, Fabiola donned the man’s tunic and tiptoed to the door.

Not a sound from the other side.

Turning the handle gently, she pulled it open a crack. No cry of alarm. A glimmer of light from an oil lamp further down the corridor revealed that no one was about. Barefoot, Fabiola slipped out of her room, closing the door. From the chamber beside hers came the loud sound of a man snoring. It was echoed in the others that she passed. Yet her tension grew and grew. If she was discovered, the veterans’ reaction would not be pleasant. The thought stopped Fabiola in her tracks. She had had two lucky escapes already that day. It was pushing her luck to continue.

Down the dim passageway, in the atrium, she saw the large statue of Mithras, cloaked and mysterious. The bull he was crouched over had its head raised and was looking straight at her, knowingly. Disconcerted, Fabiola shivered. Then curiosity, and a reluctance to admit defeat, got the better of her. Involuntarily, her feet began to move again across the cool mosaic floor. Soon she had reached the door which Secundus had closed. A quick glance to either side was enough to tell Fabiola that no one had heard her. The sole witness was the bull, and it did not speak.

Thankfully the portal was not locked. Nor did its hinges creak as she pushed it open. Inside the room was totally dark. Yet Fabiola did not dare to find flints to ignite a lamp. Once she was in the Mithraeum perhaps, but not before. If any of the veterans happened to see a light burning in here, her game would be up. She pushed the door to, almost closing it. Just the slightest glimmer from the corridor came through the tiny crack that she left between its edge and the frame. Fabiola hoped it would be enough. Sliding her bare feet cautiously across the tiles, she moved to where the middle of the chamber should be. On her hands and knees in the utter blackness, she searched with her fingertips. To her frustration, only the finest irregularities between the tiny pieces of tile which formed the mosaic were apparent. When Fabiola stopped, the only sounds were her own breathing and her rapid heartbeat. It was unnerving, and she had to pause a number of times to calm herself. For what seemed like an eternity, she found nothing.

At last her fingers closed on an iron ring. Careful probing revealed that it was attached to the middle of a rectangular stone slab. A rush of relief flooded her, yet goosebumps rose on her skin as she lifted the trapdoor, allowing a current of cool air to rise from the depths, bringing with it the smells of stale incense and men’s body odour. This was hallowed ground, and she was forbidden from entering it.

Yet even if she had wanted to, there was no going back now. The draw of what she might find was too much. Mithras awaited. Taking a deep breath, Fabiola slid her legs over the edge, praying the drop would not be far.

It wasn’t.

The staircase was steep and narrow, each step carved from a single piece of smooth stone. As long as Fabiola took care, she would not fall. It was just a case of descending into the utter darkness. Running her fingertips along the wall, she could feel no plasterwork. It was extremely difficult to determine where the joints between each slab were, if there were any at all. Whoever had built the hidden structure had been a master of engineering.

Only the faint slap of Fabiola’s feet on the stone broke the silence. It felt quite terrifying, just as she imagined a descent into Hades might be. Keeping her mind occupied by counting the steps, Fabiola had reached eighty-four by the bottom. The Mithraeum was deep underground. The walls had not opened out at all either, meaning she was in a narrow passageway. It led forward, beyond her touch. Now Fabiola’s fear grew too great to continue without illumination. Who knew what lay down here? She searched along the wall for a metal bracket or an oil lamp. When her fingers closed on the familiar shape of a bronze bowl, Fabiola almost cried out with relief. Beside it, in a little alcove, she found two sharp pieces of stone. Striking them off each other, she used the sparks generated to ignite the lamp’s wick.

After so long in the dark, the light which flared felt blinding. Wisely, Fabiola looked away, letting her eyes grow accustomed. The first thing she noticed was the ornate mosaic floor beneath her feet. She had seldom seen tiny tile pieces as delicate, or designs as well executed. It would have taken a workman of great skill many weeks