The Silver Eagle

mulsum was going to her head. She was not used to drinking much alcohol.

Petreius clicked his fingers and two slaves hurried over with bowls of steaming water and drying cloths. While they washed their hands, the others left, returning at once with a multitude of platters. There were various types of salted fish. Sausages in porridge sat alongside plates of freshly cooked cauliflower and beans. Sliced hard-boiled eggs and onions were served with piquant sauce.

Fabiola stared at the surface of the low table, which was now covered in food. As a child, hunger had been a constant feature of her life. Now it was the opposite, which seemed ironic.

Muttering a brief request to the gods for their blessing, Petreius leaned over and began. In the Roman fashion, he mostly used his fingers to pick up his food; occasionally he used a spoon.

The young woman breathed a slow sigh of relief. His attention had been diverted for the moment. Picking on some fish and beans, she tried to gather her thoughts through the fog that the mulsum had induced. She had a little while: the legate was obviously hungry. Clearing his plate, he indicated that the unfinished foods should be removed. After they had washed their hands again, the second course was brought in.

It felt so decadent to Fabiola as yet more serving dishes arrived. Sow’s udder in fish sauce, roasted kid and more sausages. Baked fish: bream, tunny and mullet. Pigeons and thrushes baked on a tray. Chestnuts and cabbage sprouts, and the inevitable onions. It was far more food than two people could ever eat. Marcus Petreius’ athletic stature belied his appetite. She was sure that Brutus would not approve. Her lover ate sparingly, preferring to spend his time at the table in good conversation.

A slave slipped past and filled clean glasses with watered-down wine. Being lighter, mulsum was served with starters.

‘Drink,’ encouraged Petreius. ‘It’s a very good Campanian. From one of my latifundia.’

Fabiola took a swallow, but she was careful not to finish all of the richly flavoured red wine. It had a deep, earthy taste, which was only marginally reduced by its dilution.

They made more polite small talk over the main course. Nothing was mentioned about Fabiola’s journey or Petreius’ mission to Rome. When he had eaten enough, the legate waved at the slaves again. One immediately laid out a selection of food, beside which he poured a little pile of salt. A cup of wine was placed beside this, the traditional dinner offering to the gods.

Petreius bent his head, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Fabiola did the same, fervently asking not just for Mithras’ and Jupiter’s blessing upon their meal, but for their assistance. She still had no idea what to do.

The final course consisted of all kinds of pastries, hazelnuts, and preserved pears and apples. Not wanting to appear rude, Fabiola helped herself to a few small portions and took her time eating.

More wine was poured for both of them.

‘Your aunt in Ravenna,’ said Petreius out of the blue. ‘What was her name again?’

‘Clarina,’ replied Fabiola. ‘Clarina Silvina.’

‘Where exactly does she live?’

Unease filled Fabiola. What did he care? ‘Not far from the Forum, I think,’ she lied, picking a location that could fit any town in Italy. ‘Off the street that leads to the south gate.’

‘Is her house large?’

‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘But Mother says that it is well appointed. Aunt Clarina has good taste.’

He said nothing for a moment.

Fabiola’s heart began to pound in her chest and she busied herself with another piece of dried fruit.

‘The southern quarter of the city was where fire broke out last year,’ Petreius announced in a hard voice. ‘Almost all the houses were burned down.’

Fabiola felt her cheeks flush bright red. ‘Clarina mentioned that in a letter,’ she responded, her voice a trifle too high. ‘Hers escaped with light damage.’

‘The only ones to be left unharmed were those near my domus,’ the legate said coldly. ‘Thankfully my slaves managed to soak the nearby roofs with enough water to ensure that they did not catch fire and thus spread it to mine.’

She watched him dumbly, a sick feeling in her stomach. How could she have known that Petreius had a residence in Ravenna?

His next words were like the strokes of doom.

‘The residents were so grateful that they came to pay their respects. I don’t recall an elderly lady by the name of Clarina Silvina.’

Fabiola’s mouth opened and closed. In that time, he had moved to her couch; they were now close enough to touch. Petreius’ eyes were slate grey, and distinctly unfriendly now. ‘I. ’ Fabiola was uncharacteristically lost for words.

‘You have no aunt in Ravenna,’ the legate said harshly. ‘Have you?’

She did not answer.

‘And one of your companions is a crippled veteran. What use is he to anyone?’

Fabiola’s heart rate shot up. Petreius must have been watching from his tent when they arrived, and recognised Secundus’ military bearing. It was difficult not to.

‘Secundus? I found him on the steps of Jupiter’s temple,’ Fabiola protested, angry that Petreius had no respect for the casualties of Rome’s wars. After all, similar things happened to his men. ‘I took pity on him. He’s proved very reliable.’

‘Really? How did he survive the ambush when all the others were killed?’ the legate demanded.

Fabiola flinched before his practised interrogation. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps the gods spared him.’

‘There’s far more to this than meets the eye.’ Petreius sat up. ‘We’ll see what your servant says to a taste of hot iron. That makes men sing like canaries.’

‘No!’ cried Fabiola. ‘Secundus has done nothing.’

She was not being totally altruistic. Few individuals could resist torture, especially at the hands of the experienced soldiers that Petreius would have available. If Secundus revealed Fabiola’s real destination, all hope of reaching Gaul would be gone. Who knew how the legate would react if he found that out? Disposing of four ragged travellers would pose no problem. No one would ever know any different.

Fabiola’s heart sank. In comparison to the likes of Petreius, she really was a nobody.

He turned back, leaning in so close that the musky mix of mulsum and wine from his breath filled her nostrils. ‘Unless another solution might be found,’ he said, lightly squeezing one of her breasts. ‘A much more pleasurable one.’

For a heartbeat, Fabiola hesitated. She felt faintly sick. It was an old, familiar feeling: the one she used to get in the Lupanar when a client had just chosen her from the line of prostitutes.

Had she any other choice?

Rather than pulling away, she drew him towards her.

Chapter XIX: Alesia

Northern Italy, spring/summer 52 BC

Trying to reduce Petreius to a sweating, drained shadow of his former self, Fabiola had used every trick of her previous trade when coupling with him. All the time she was driving the legate mad with lust, she was racking her brains for a way out of the situation.

How could she rejoin Secundus and Sextus and safely continue north to Gaul?

Petreius would have no particular reason to set Fabiola free. A nubile bed companion like her would make his journey to Rome far more pleasurable. And there was nothing she could do if he did decide to keep her by him. With almost five thousand soldiers at his beck and call, the ruthless legate could behave as he pleased.

The possibility of staying and becoming Petreius’ mistress had entered her mind. He was not a bad-looking