The Silver Eagle

bloodstains. ‘Might I ask where you are bound?’ he asked eventually.

‘Ravenna,’ lied Fabiola. ‘To see my aged aunt.’

Satisfied, he nodded.

Fabiola thought she had succeeded. ‘If we might proceed then?’ she said. ‘The next town is not far. I will be able to purchase more slaves there.’

‘That won’t be possible, lady.’

‘Why ever not?’ she demanded, her voice rising.

The optio cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I have my orders.’

‘Which are?’

‘To take you in,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘The centurion said so.’

Fabiola looked at Secundus, who gave her a tiny shrug.

The optio’s superior might want them questioned further, but they could not exactly refuse.

‘Very well,’ she said, acceding gracefully. ‘Lead on.’

Pleased, the junior officer barked an order. Parting smoothly in the middle, his men positioned themselves on either side of Fabiola and her little party.

Before walking away, she glanced at the trees. Nothing. Scaevola and his fugitivarii had disappeared.

Fabiola knew that it would not be the last time that they met. She’d have to kill the merciless slave-catcher on the next occasion, or he would do the same to her.

In the event, Fabiola’s fear about not being allowed to continue her journey proved correct. The centurion who greeted them nearer the marching camp was no less impressed by her beauty than the optio, but he was far more assured in his manner. Fabiola’s request to proceed was brushed aside with a courteous yet firm refusal.

‘There aren’t many travellers about, lady,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I’m sure the legate would appreciate a chat with you. Find out what’s going on. Offer some advice, maybe.’

‘He’d hardly bother with me,’ Fabiola protested.

‘On the contrary,’ came the reply. ‘The legate is a man of fine taste who would want me to offer you his hospitality.’

‘That is most gracious,’ said Fabiola, bowing her neck to conceal her dread. ‘And his name?’

‘Marcus Petreius, lady,’ the centurion answered proudly. ‘One of Pompey’s best generals.’

Again the optio took charge.

The walk to the temporary camp did not take long. Never having seen one constructed before, Fabiola watched the working soldiers with interest. Three deep fossae were already finished, their bottoms decorated with caltrops. Now the legionaries were finishing off the ramparts, which were the height of two tall men. Tamping down the earth with flattening blows of their shovels, they formed a firm surface to walk upon. Stakes chopped from freshly felled trees decorated the corners, forming protective areas for the sentries. As with a permanent fort, one entrance was being situated in the middle of each side. With the legion on the march, there were no wooden gates to use. Instead, one wall angled just in front of the other where they met, forming a narrow corridor. Fabiola counted twenty paces as they passed through it. Piles of cut branches were being stacked nearby; these would be used to fill the gap once night fell.

Inside the camp, leather tents were being erected in long, neat lines. There was minimal fuss as hundreds of men worked side by side. Their officers watched, vine canes at the ready for anyone who slowed down. Secundus explained to Fabiola what was going on as they walked by. A simple standard marked the spot where every centurion’s tent stood. Each contubernium then set up theirs alongside by turn, in the same place as their room in a permanent barracks would be.

Fabiola marvelled at the organisation being displayed, and her sense of unease was slightly dispelled. She noticed Secundus enjoying the scenes that he must have partaken in so many times in his army career.

A wide path led straight from the entrance to the centre, where even bigger canvas pavilions already stood. This was the legion’s command post, and to one side stood the luxurious quarters of its legate, Marcus Petreius. As the most important officer, his tent had been erected immediately after the headquarters were thrown up. A red At least twenty hand-picked legionaries stood guard outside it, while messengers ran to and fro, relaying Petreius’ orders to his senior centurions. A pair of saddled horses were tethered nearby, happily eating from nosebags. The couriers who rode them stood idly by, gossiping with each other.vexillum had been stabbed into the ground by the entrance.

The optio led his men straight to the main tent. Coming to a halt near the centurion in charge of the guards, he saluted and stood to attention.

The officer smiled when he saw Fabiola. This was far more pleasing than some fat, balding merchant come to beg assistance. Swallowing a piece of bread, he strolled over.

There was a brief conversation as the optio reported his news.

‘My lady,’ said the duty centurion with a courteous bow. ‘No doubt you will wish to clean up before meeting the legate.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Fabiola gratefully. It was vital that she make a good impression.

‘Come inside.’ He indicated she should follow him. ‘Your slaves can find somewhere to sleep with the mule drivers and camp followers.’

Secundus bit back his retort. This was no time to draw attention to himself.

But Fabiola bridled with anger at his dismissive attitude. ‘They are my servants, not slaves,’ she said loudly.

Sextus’ eyes widened, and pride filled his face.

The centurion stiffened, and then inclined his head. ‘As you say, lady. I will have a tent prepared for them among the soldiers of my own cohort.’

‘Good,’ answered Fabiola. ‘Like myself, they will require hot water and food.’

‘Of course.’ He could not protest further.

Docilosa unsuccessfully tried to hide her smirk.

Curtly ordering one of his men to accompany Fabiola’s companions, the centurion made to lead her into the tent.

Secundus stayed by her side.

Surprised, Fabiola turned to him.

‘You still need protection, lady,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, touched by his loyalty. ‘Mithras will protect me.’

Fabiola’s answer satisfied Secundus and he stood back, watching as she followed the centurion inside. A silent prayer of his own went up to the warrior god. The beautiful young woman would have to be very careful what she said. If Petreius got even the tiniest whiff that they were heading north to join with Caesar, there would be little mercy shown. He had heard the legionaries talking as they walked into the fort. Outright hostilities had not yet commenced, but Caesar was already regarded as an enemy.

Ushering Fabiola to a large partitioned room, the centurion bowed. ‘I will have hot water and drying cloths brought, lady,’ he muttered. ‘We have no women’s apparel, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course not,’ Fabiola laughed, trying to put him at his ease. ‘A wash will suffice until my dress can be cleaned.’

Discomfited, he ducked his head and left.

Fabiola looked around, pleased at the level of luxury on offer. Being on campaign did not mean that Petreius had to do without any of life’s necessities. Thick carpets and animal skins covered the floor, while richly patterned wall hangings concealed the canvas of the tent’s sides. The roof was high, supported by a network of long poles. From these hung ropes suspending elegant bronze oil lamps overhead. Yet more stood on decorated stone plinths, illuminating the chamber well. A weapons rack near her held a number of gladii with beautifully carved wood and bone hilts. Even their sheaths were ornate, the beaten gold on their surfaces depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Occupying a central position was a well-carved bust of Pompey. Having seen him in Rome, Fabiola recognised his bulbous eyes and mop of curly hair.

Iron-bound wooden chests had been placed around the periphery, while a heavy desk sat in the centre, a