The Silver Eagle

She managed to return his smile, but a flutter of unease rose from her stomach. After her time in the Lupanar, Fabiola could read men like a book.

‘Please.’ Petreius was indicating where she should lie. It was the place of honour, directly adjoining his position.

Her mind in a turmoil, the young woman sat down. Taking off her shoes, she placed them on the floor beneath the seat before reclining.

Thankfully the legate took the central couch rather than sitting right beside her. He waved a hand at the nearest slave, who hurried over, pouring mulsum for them both.

Fabiola took the proffered goblet gratefully. After her near escape from Scaevola, the mixture of wine and honey tasted like nectar to her. Without thinking, she drained the lot.

The glass was refilled at once.

Sipping his, Petreius fixed his gaze on Fabiola. ‘Tell me of your family,’ he said warmly.

She searched his face for signs of deception, but could see none. Praying again to Mithras, and to Jupiter, Fabiola began constructing an elaborate life history. She was one of three children of Julianus Messalinus, a deceased merchant, and his wife, Velvinna Helpis. The family resided on the Aventine, a mainly plebeian area. To make her story more authentic, Fabiola wove much of her own life into it. Where she had grown up was unremarkable; like anywhere in Rome, patricians lived there too. Naming her mother correctly somehow felt right, as did mentioning a twin brother. Julianus, the oldest, had joined the army as a bookkeeper and been killed with Crassus in Parthia. At this point, Fabiola’s voice wobbled and she stopped for a moment.

Petreius looked suitably sympathetic.

Nervously, Fabiola went on. While it increased her danger to invent living people who could never be traced, she wanted to feel that she had some kin still, instead of being alone in the world. So Romulus, her twin, now ran the family business, but was often out of the country on trading ventures. Unmarried, Fabiola lived in the ancestral home with her mother and their retinue of slaves. To avoid Petreius asking why she was still single, Fabiola mentioned a number of regular suitors. So far, none had met with Velvinna’s approval.

‘All mothers are the same,’ laughed the legate.

The young woman was amazed by her own inventiveness. Yet it was not difficult for her to come up with a completely fabricated existence. As a child in Gemellus’ domus, she had observed much about Roman society. Although he came from impoverished roots, the cruel merchant had achieved a certain level of public recognition because of his riches. He had dealings with all levels of society, and had often entertained his clients at his home. Fabiola had an excellent understanding of the way the trading classes dealt with each other.

She paused, her throat dry from talking. Another swallow of the mulsum helped her to continue.

Petreius listened carefully, long fingers cupping his jaw.

Easy targets because of their awkward table manners or poor social etiquette, former slaves were frequently the butt of cruel jokes. Determined that this would not happen to her if she was ever freed, Fabiola had also absorbed every little piece of information that came her way in the Lupanar. Many of her customers spent large amounts of time in her company, during which they poured out their life stories to her. As the most popular prostitute, she had encountered numerous members of the Roman elite, the senators and equites. Other clients had been prosperous merchants or businessmen. All were men who lived at the pinnacle of Roman society, in a world far removed from that of the average slave, and one which Fabiola had only recently been admitted to. She was careful, therefore, to portray herself as being from the middle class of Roman society rather than the upper.

Petreius did not appear upset that Fabiola was from trading stock rather than noble. If anything, he looked pleased by her revelation.

Her initial story also seemed to satisfy him. To take the focus away from herself, she quickly went on the offensive.

‘I am so unimportant,’ Fabiola said. ‘Whereas you are the commander of a legion.’

Petreius made a modest gesture of denial, but she could see he was pleased.

‘You must have fought many wars,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And conquered many peoples.’

‘I’ve seen my fair share of combat,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Like any who do their duty for Rome.’

‘Tell me,’ Fabiola requested, her eyes shining with false excitement.

‘I was one of those who defeated the Catiline conspirators,’ he said. ‘And among other things, I helped Pompey Magnus to quell the Spartacus rebellion.’

Fabiola gasped in apparent admiration, holding back the riposte that it had in fact been Crassus who was responsible for putting down the uprising. Tellingly, Petreius had just shown himself to be a liar. As the informed knew, Pompey’s role had been only minor; his defeat of five thousand slaves who had fled the main battle a helping hand rather than a decisive thrust. Yet he had managed to claim all the credit by sending the Senate a letter informing them of his victory. The stroke was one of Pompey’s finest, and clearly Petreius had jumped on the bandwagon of his master’s success.

Fabiola noted this chink in the legate’s armour. If only the Thracian gladiator had not failed, she thought sadly. Romulus and I might have been born free. Had completely different lives. Instead, outmanoeuvred and surrounded by the legions, Spartacus had failed. Now slaves were more rigorously controlled than ever before.

‘Of course the uprising never really posed much threat to Rome,’ Petreius sneered. ‘Damn slaves.’

Fabiola nodded in seeming agreement. How little you know, she shouted inwardly. Like many nobles, Petreius regarded slaves as little more than animals, incapable of intelligent thought or action. She fantasised about grabbing the pugio on his belt and sticking it in his chest, but quashed the idea on the spot. While appealing, it would not help her get out of this situation. Any such action would also endanger the lives of the people in her care: Docilosa, Sextus and Secundus. What other options were there? Escaping from the massive camp without the legate’s permission would be impossible. Sentries watched all the entrances day and night, and no one came or left without being challenged.

A sinking feeling began to creep over her.

Like her previous clients, Petreius hadn’t noticed Fabiola’s momentary lack of attention. By simply smiling and nodding her head, the beautiful young woman could keep men absorbed for hours. Her previous profession had taught Fabiola not just how to physically satisfy men, but also the skilful art of making them think that they were the centre of the world. While pretending to enjoy their conversation, she also tantalised and teased. The promise of pleasure was sometimes more effective than actually providing it. Throaty laughs, a flash of bosom or thigh, fluttering eyelashes — Fabiola knew them all. Fuelled by the wine and her despair at what to do, she now found herself making more of these suggestive gestures than planned. Later, she would wonder if there was anything else she could have done.

‘I also served in Asia Minor,’ Petreius went on. ‘Mithridates was a very skilled general. It took more than six years to defeat him. But we did.’

‘You fought with Lucullus then?’

Although Lucullus had not struck the final blow, Fabiola knew that the able general had been largely responsible for bringing the warlike king of Bithynia and Pontus to heel. Yet Pompey, the leader sent by the Senate to finish the job, had taken all the credit. Again.

Petreius coloured. ‘At first, yes. But after he was replaced, I continued the campaign under Pompey Magnus.’

Fabiola hid a knowing smile. That’s how it works, she thought. Pompey had stripped Lucullus of his command, but let his friends keep their posts. ‘And now you find yourself leading men again,’ she purred. ‘To Rome.’

The legate made a diffident gesture. ‘Merely doing my duty.’

You’re bringing the Republic to the brink of civil war at the same time, thought Fabiola. Caesar could regard Pompey’s actions of sending troops to Rome for nothing less than what it was: a blatant show of force. The man who restored peace to the capital would become an instant hero. In addition, having legionaries stationed in the Forum Romanum would place him in a powerful position indeed. And its timing was masterful. Stuck in Gaul, fighting for his life, Caesar could do nothing to prevent it.

‘I’m hungry,’ announced the legate. ‘Would you care for some dinner, my lady?’

Fabiola smiled her acceptance. Lining her stomach was a good idea. It might slow down the rate at which the