The Silver Eagle

comfortable-looking leather-backed camp chair behind it. Tightly rolled scrolls lay scattered on the desktop, and Fabiola’s heart quickened. This was Petreius’ private working space, and vital information about Pompey’s plans might be included in the cylinders of parchment in front of her.

She longed to understand them. Like most slaves, or former slaves, Fabiola was illiterate. Gemellus had seen no value in educating those who served him. Only Servilius, his bookkeeper, had known how to read and write. And Jovina, the wily crone who owned the Lupanar, actively discouraged the prostitutes from learning. Uneducated women were far easier to intimidate and coerce. At Fabiola’s request, Brutus had started teaching her, but there had been so little time before he was called away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of young, shaven-headed slaves who silently delivered a large cauldron of steaming hot water, drying cloths and a beaten bronze mirror on a stand. Also offered was a metal tray with small vials of olive oil, a curved strigil and two finely carved boxwood combs laid upon it. The embarrassed slaves bobbed their heads and withdrew, avoiding Fabiola’s gaze all the while. Having a beautiful young woman to serve rather than soldiers was clearly too much for them.

Fabiola stripped and washed herself down with warm water, before rubbing oil all over her skin. Lastly she used the strigil to take off the grime and dirt that covered her body from the ambush and pursuit. Although not as relaxing as a bath, it felt good to wash. All that was missing was a phial of perfume, but like all her possessions, such things were lying back in the litter. While Scaevola would have no use for these items, there would be no opportunity to go back for them either.

Pulling on her damp, sweaty dress once more, she grimaced at its feel against her skin. At least there weren’t too many spots of blood on it. Smoothing back her hair, Fabiola looked into the mirror and combed it as best she could.

‘Aphrodite herself has come to visit us,’ said a deep voice behind her.

She jumped with fright.

A tall, brown-haired man in late middle age had entered the chamber. He was dressed in a well-cut thigh- length tunic; soft leather shoes covered his feet. A belt of gold links and a sheathed dagger confirmed his status as a soldier. High cheekbones and a strong chin were the most striking features in his rugged face. ‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said when he saw Fabiola’s reaction. ‘I did not mean to scare you.’

Wondering how long he had been watching her, Fabiola bowed. ‘My nerves are a little ragged,’ she replied.

‘That’s not surprising,’ said the man. ‘I have been told of the scum who ambushed you. What were they — deserters or just common bandits?’

‘It’s difficult to know.’ Fabiola had no wish to reveal any details about Scaevola. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Indeed. I’m sorry for even mentioning it,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try to forget the whole episode. You’re safe now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, her relief only half acted. Delayed shock was beginning to set in, draining her energy when she needed it most. It was crucial that she divulge nothing about her journey while somehow persuading the general to let her party continue unhindered. Mithras, Sol Invictus, help me, Fabiola thought. Asking help from the warrior god felt appropriate when faced with this military threat.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed deeply. ‘I am Marcus Petreius, legate of the Third Legion. You are welcome in my camp.’

Returning the gesture, she smiled radiantly. ‘I am Fabiola Messalina.’

Unaffected by her wiles, Petreius came straight to the point. ‘I find it most unusual for a beautiful young woman to be travelling alone,’ he said. ‘The roads are so dangerous.’

She feigned surprise. ‘I have — had — servants and slaves with me.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘No father or brother to accompany you?’

It was usual for unmarried noble women to travel with a male relation or chaperon of some kind: the lies had to start now.

Fabiola took a deep breath and began. ‘Father is long dead. And Julianus, my eldest brother, was killed in Parthia last year.’ The tiny shred of hope left in her heart stopped her naming Romulus as the fictional sibling who had died. But it was still the likely reality. Fabiola lowered her gaze, real tears pricking her eyes.

‘You have my sympathies, lady,’ he said respectfully. ‘But what about the rest of your family?’

‘Mother is too frail for such a long journey and Romulus, my twin, is out of the country on business,’ protested Fabiola. ‘Someone had to visit my widowed aunt in Ravenna. Poor Clarina does not have long.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘Yet these are troubled times. It’s very unwise to travel without a large party of guards.’

‘It is no better in Rome,’ cried Fabiola. ‘The mobs are burning nobles alive in their own homes!’

‘That is true, the gods curse them,’ said Petreius, his jaw hardening. ‘But I will soon stop that.’

She gasped in apparent surprise. ‘Are you marching to the capital?’

‘Yes, lady, with all speed,’ the legate replied briskly. ‘The Senate has appointed Pompey Magnus as sole consul for the year. His main remit is to restore law and order, and the Third will do that by whatever means necessary.’

Fabiola looked suitably shocked. The use of troops in Rome was one of the Republic’s abiding nightmares. Forbidden by law, it had last happened more than a generation before. Sulla, ‘the butcher’, had ordered it and then assumed total control of the state. In the minds of most, that was not a time to be repeated.

‘This is what it has come to,’ sighed Petreius. ‘There is no other way.’

She could see the legate believed in what he was saying. ‘Has no one protested?’

‘Not a single senator,’ he said wryly. ‘They’re all too worried about their houses being looted.’

Fabiola smiled, remembering how many of her clients had been obsessed with nothing more than increasing their own wealth, regardless of how it was obtained. Yet when the poor tried to take something for themselves, the rich were the first to condemn them. Although Rome was nominally a democracy, in reality for generations the fate of the Republic had been governed by a tiny elite class of nobles, the vast majority of whom were only out to line their own pockets. Gone was the ancient founding spirit that had seen successful generals relinquish their commands and return home to eat from plain earthenware bowls; in Rome now just a few ruthless men wrestled for ultimate riches — and ultimate power.

Which is why there was a legion camped outside.

It was appalling.

‘Caesar won’t be happy when he hears about this, but there are more pressing things on his mind.’ Petreius’ lips lifted into a mirthless grin. ‘Like survival.’

Fabiola concealed her alarm. She knew nothing of recent developments. ‘I’d heard there was renewed rebellion in Gaul, but nothing more,’ she said brightly.

‘Things go very badly for Caesar, which is good news for Pompey.’ His expression changed, becoming more pleasant. ‘Enough of politics and war. Those are no subjects for a lady. Would you honour me with your company for dinner?’

With little choice but to accept, she bowed. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Fabiola was terrified. She was walking a fine line between deception and discovery, with no option other than to continue. And what about the others? Hopefully no one would ask much of Docilosa or Sextus, she thought, and Secundus would know to keep his mouth shut. His status as a supporter of Caesar was as good a reason to remain anonymous as hers.

Petreius guided her to another part of the enormous tent, where three reclining couches were positioned closely around a low table, leaving one side free for food to be served. Typically, each couch was able to accommodate up to three people. The level of opulence here was the same as the area where Fabiola had washed, and equalled most banqueting halls in Rome. Even the table was a piece of art, with an inlaid surface of gold and pearl and wonderfully carved legs in the shape of lions’ paws. Light from the huge candelabra hanging overhead bounced off large platters of Arretine ware, red glazed pottery with intricate designs in relief. There was fine glassware in a range of colours, a silver salt cellar and spoons with delicate bone handles. A trio of slaves sat in one corner, alternately playing the pan pipes, lyre and cithara, a large stringed instrument with a sweet sound. Others stood by, waiting to serve food and drink.

Hoping there would be more guests, Fabiola looked around.

Petreius met her glance with a wink. ‘Normally I dine with my tribunes, but not tonight.’