The Silver Eagle

man, and seemed personable enough. Far away in Gaul, Brutus would be able to do nothing about it. Fabiola decided not to make this choice for two reasons. The first was that it meant changing allegiance to Pompey’s side. That felt like a bad idea. Her instincts told her that Caesar’s former partner in the triumvirate was not the man to back. And the second, more important, reason was that becoming Petreius’ lover — and therefore siding with an enemy of Caesar — would probably mean that she would never meet the nobleman who might be her father.

A more callous thought also occurred to Fabiola. She could simply wait until the legate fell asleep and then kill him. But even if she left his tent without being discovered and managed to find Docilosa, Secundus and Sextus, their next task would prove impossible. There was no reason to think that any of Petreius’ disciplined soldiers would just let her and her companions leave without permission. Fabiola had no desire to be crucified or tortured to death, one of which would surely be the punishment when his body was discovered.

What in the name of Hades was she to do?

Thinking that she had tired him out, Fabiola was surprised when Petreius found the energy to take her again a short time later. Kneeling on all fours, she encouraged his deep thrusts with loud moans. When the legate had finished and sagged back on the sweat-soaked sheets, Fabiola climbed off the bed. She desperately needed time to think. Naked, she walked a few steps to a low table that had a selection of food and drink arrayed upon it. Filling two cups with some watered-down wine, the young woman turned to find Petreius admiring her.

‘By all that is sacred,’ he said with a satisfied sigh. ‘You look like a goddess come to tempt a mere mortal.’

Fabiola batted her eyelashes and flashed a practised smile.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘No merchant I’ve ever met would have a daughter like you.’

She laughed throatily and spun in a slow circle, drawing a loud groan of desire from him.

But the question would be repeated, of that there was no doubt. Fabiola tried to quell the panic rising in her breast. Petreius was no satiated customer to be ushered out of the door when his time was up. This was a man used to getting his own way, a powerful noble experienced in commanding soldiers and fighting wars. Completely at his mercy, on his territory, her feminine wiles would only go so far.

Like all sleeping chambers, Petreius’ had a small shrine in one corner. Most Romans prayed to the gods on rising and retiring, to request their guidance and protection during both day and night. The legate was no different. As Fabiola’s gaze passed idly over the stone altar, her attention was drawn back to it. Prominently displayed in front of deities such as Jupiter and Mars was a small, cloaked figure that looked familiar. Fabiola’s breath caught in her chest as she recognised Mithras. The delicately carved statue was portrayed in the same manner as the large sculpture in the Mithraeum in Rome. Wearing a Phrygian cap, the god was crouched over a reclining bull and plunging a knife down into its chest while looking away.

Fabiola closed her eyes and asked for his divine help.

Was this her chance?

Petreius was a follower of Mithras. She had been inside the god’s temple and had drunk the sacred homa. Importantly, Fabiola had had a vision as a raven. The fact that she had done so without permission, outraging most of the veterans in the process, was irrelevant right now.

A daring idea began to take root in Fabiola’s mind. It was all she could think of, so it had to work.

A low laugh came from behind her. ‘Lucky I have no statue of Priapus to beg my case,’ Petreius said. ‘Otherwise I’d keep you awake all night.’

‘We don’t need him,’ Fabiola answered, moving her legs apart slightly and bowing from the waist towards Mithras.

The view this afforded drew a shocked, lustful growl from the legate.

With a subtle rolling motion, Fabiola turned back and strode towards him, her full breasts moving gently. The light from the oil lamps coloured her flesh, giving it an alluring amber glow. She knew from long experience that looking like this, no man could resist her. Placing the wine on the floor by the bed, Fabiola put her hands on her hips.

‘You look like a woman who means business,’ Petreius said.

She laughed and arched her pelvis towards him. ‘Do I?’

Little do you know.

Unable to take any more teasing, he reached out for her — but she stepped away, out of reach.

The legate frowned.

Quickly Fabiola moved closer again, allowing his eager fingers to grasp her buttocks.

‘Who needs Priapus?’ he muttered, rolling to the edge of the mattress in a desperate attempt to get closer. ‘I’ll fuck you again right now.’

Fabiola smiled to herself. This was where she wanted him: crazy with lust. Turning, she stared down as Petreius pressed his face into her groin. ‘You have a statue of Mithras, I see.’

‘What?’ His voice was muffled.

‘The warrior god.’

He pulled back, looking faintly irritated. ‘I began following him during my time in Asia Minor. What of it?’

Aware that she had to act with the utmost delicacy, Fabiola fell silent. Stooping, she gently rolled him over and began stroking his erect member.

Enjoying what she was doing, he relaxed again.

There was silence as Fabiola climbed on to the bed and lowered herself down on him.

When he came, Petreius gasped in ecstasy, gripping her hips with his hands. Then he flopped back on the sheet and closed his eyes.

Satisfied that the legate was now as vulnerable as she would ever see him, Fabiola threw the dice. ‘I have heard that Mithras’ followers honour and respect each other greatly,’ she said. ‘They give help to one another when it is needed.’

‘If we can, we do,’ he replied in an already sleepy voice.

‘What if the situation is awkward or difficult?’

‘All the more reason to be of assistance.’

‘And most of you are soldiers,’ Fabiola said, changing tack.

‘Yes.’

‘But some are not.’

‘No,’ he answered, sounding confused. ‘There are men of many trades and professions in our religion. Even some more worthy slaves. We are all equal before the god.’

The seed had been planted, thought Fabiola. It was time to act.

‘I have aided you tonight,’ she murmured, climbing off him and lying down.

He chuckled. ‘You have. Very much.’

‘Then will you help me?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, amused. ‘What is it you want? Money? Dresses?’

Fabiola clenched her fists, hoping that the primary tenet of honour mentioned by Secundus so many times was also an important part of Petreius’ belief system. There was no way of knowing unless she tried. ‘More than that.’ She paused, noticing that her hands were actually trembling. ‘I need a letter of safe conduct and enough men to protect me on my journey north.’

He jerked upright, suddenly fully awake. ‘What did you say?’

‘I was the first woman to enter the Mithraeum in Rome,’ she said. ‘To become a devotee.’

‘That is forbidden under all circumstances,’ Petreius stuttered. ‘I know the provinces are a bit backward when it comes to new traditions, but this? On whose authority was it allowed?’

‘Secundus,’ she replied. ‘The one-armed veteran who was with me when your troops rescued us.’

‘A low-ranking cripple?’ he scoffed. ‘Sounds like he’s getting ideas way above his station. Does he want to screw you?’

It was unsurprising, Fabiola thought, that a man of Petreius’ status would look down on someone as lowly as Secundus. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said firmly. ‘And despite what you may think, he admitted me to the Path. My rank is that of Corax, which makes me a comrade of yours.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that he is the Pater of the temple,’ sneered the legate.

‘Correct,’ Fabiola replied. ‘He is also my guide.’

Petreius’ nostrils flared, but he let her continue without further interruption.