The Silver Eagle

inhibitions, Fabiola even began asking detailed questions of Caesar himself. Alarmed, Brutus threw her an admonishing glance, but his general, appearing amused, tolerated this for some time.

With her cheeks aglow, Fabiola did not notice when Caesar began to appear impatient. Brutus was reaching over to whisper in her ear when she made an uncharacteristic mistake. ‘If your men are so valiant, what went wrong at Gergovia?’ she asked forcefully.

A shocked silence fell across the table. Caesar’s face froze.

‘Well?’ Fabiola asked again.

No one answered her.

‘Fabiola!’ hissed Brutus. ‘You exceed yourself.’ She had never seen him so angry.

Suddenly Fabiola felt very sober. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It’s none of my business — a mere woman.’ What have I said? Her mind was in complete turmoil. Discretion and stealth were her watchwords. Asking Caesar about a defeat — however rare — that he had suffered was downright foolish. Mithras, Fabiola prayed, forgive me. Do not let this affect Brutus’ friendship with his general.

There was a quiet chuckle.

The sound was so unexpected that for a heartbeat Fabiola did not recognise it. Looking up, she saw Caesar was watching her, and laughing. It was unnerving. Fabiola felt like a mouse caught between the front paws of a cat.

‘What happened was that the men taking part in the surprise attack did not answer my recall,’ revealed Caesar coldly. ‘While some scaled Gergovia’s walls, others pressed home to the gates. Seeing the legionaries were isolated from my main force, the Gauls inside and out regrouped and enveloped them completely.’

‘You soon came to the rescue with the Tenth, sir,’ said Brutus hurriedly.

‘Not before we’d lost seven hundred men,’ replied Caesar. The regret in his voice was obvious. ‘And forty-six centurions.’

Fabiola bent her head, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow her. It didn’t.

Brutus tried to make some small talk, but his attempt failed miserably. Sitting on the same couch, the three others began talking among themselves. It left Brutus and Fabiola facing Caesar, which was unnerving.

‘Your young lover is blessed with an enquiring mind,’ said Caesar loudly a few moments later. ‘An intelligent one for a former slave. And whore.’

Their companions looked suitably surprised by this revelation.

Brutus clenched his jaw, but refrained from speaking.

Fabiola burned with embarrassment and shame. Yet it was to be expected that Caesar knew everything about her. She waited, wishing with all her heart that time could be turned back.

‘Such ability is sometimes a good thing,’ Caesar went on. ‘But often it is not. Combined with such beauty, a woman might achieve much. Gain influence over powerful people.’

‘I see, sir,’ Brutus replied, avoiding eye contact.

‘Keep the girl on a close leash,’ Caesar said sourly. He turned his piercing gaze on Fabiola.

She quailed, but did not look away.

‘Or I might be forced to.’ With this, he fell silent. His granite-hard expression revealed more than any words could.

‘Rome must beware of Caesar,’ the druid had warned.

So must she.

Chapter XXII: News

More than two years pass.

Cana, on the Arabian coast, winter 50 BC

The pirates were in pensive mood as the ship slipped between a pair of imposing towers and into Cana’s imposing stone-walled harbour. The olibanum and tortoise shells they had plundered were hidden in the hold, and their weapons were concealed underneath rolls of spare canvas on the deck. Anything more than a cursory search, however, would discover their status. Although well able to fight, the thirty corsairs were vastly outnumbered by the soldiers patrolling the battlements above.

Eyeing the vigilant sentries, Romulus also felt uneasy. His feelings weren’t helped by the fact that, with one exception, neither he nor Tarquinius trusted a single one of their comrades. Mustafa, the greasy-haired giant who had nearly drowned by the dock in Barbaricum, was now his devoted follower, but the rest were hard-bitten sailors or murderous ex-slaves from India and the shores of the Erythraean Sea, every shade of brown and black under the sun. The toughest and most treacherous of them all was Ahmed, the Nubian captain. Unfortunately, he also held their fate in his hands. Yet, through a combination of guile and luck, they had survived this far.

Tarquinius nudged Romulus as they glided past the towers and anxious muttering rippled among the crew. They all had good reason to be concerned: a row of men’s heads, bloodied and decaying, was prominently displayed on spikes above the nearby battlements. It was a very pointed warning by the ruling powers of Cana to all those who entered the port.

‘Pirates probably,’ said the haruspex in a low voice.

‘Us, in other words,’ replied Romulus, glancing his friend up and down and imagining how he must look himself. The burning hot sun had turned any exposed skin a deep mahogany colour. Like the rest of the crew, Romulus went about the deck in nothing but a loincloth, his feet hard and calloused. His hair had grown long and unkempt and lay in thick black waves, framing his handsome face, which was largely covered by a beard. He was now a fully grown, mature man of twenty. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his dark skin, revealing the scars of battle. On Romulus’ upper right arm, covering the mark where his slave brand had been, was a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull.

During their time aboard, Tarquinius had revealed many details about the warrior religion. Its tenets of courage, honour and truth appealed immensely to Romulus, as did the equality between devotees. He had taken to Mithraicism with gusto, finding it helped with his grief for Brennus. Romulus prayed daily now; having the tattoo was another way of showing his devotion. And if they ever reached Rome, it would hide the irregularly healed scar that had caused so much trouble in Margiana.

Rome, he thought longingly.

‘We need to keep a low profile here,’ said Tarquinius grimly, bringing Romulus back to Cana.

Ahmed also looked concerned, but weeks of sailing off the barren Arabian coast meant that their stocks of food and water were running low. The risk they were taking was a necessary one.

Dozens of dhows similar to their own were tied up side by side with larger merchant ships. Their sterns moved gently as they pulled on the anchors holding them to the sandy harbour floor. On a long quay, men scurried to and fro with bulging sacks, helping to load the vessels. Noises carried across the water: shouted orders from merchants; a woman laughing; mules braying with indignation.

Sitting at one end of the harbour was a menacing fortress, bigger than any they had seen since Barbaricum. Its walls were patrolled by even more soldiers in conical helmets and armed with spears and recurved bows.

‘There must be plenty to protect here,’ said Ahmed, jerking his head at the imposing structure. His gold earrings shook with the movement. The broad-nosed, full-lipped Nubian had a muscular build, and his ebony skin was covered with a fine latticework of whitened scars. A wide-bladed cutlass was shoved into his belt, its blade spotted with rust and darker stains.

‘Cana is one of the main towns in southern Arabia,’ replied Tarquinius. ‘The olibanum grown for miles around is carried in by camel. Once sold, it is transported to Egypt.’

Egypt! Romulus struggled to contain the excitement bubbling up inside him. Reaching this port felt like a real milestone. They were nearer Rome now than at any time since Carrhae.

The Nubian’s face also lit up. ‘Plenty of vessels to take west of here, then.’

Tarquinius’ dark eyes glinted with satisfaction at Ahmed’s enthusiasm for continuing the voyage. Thank you, Mithras. You have brought us this far, he thought. Let our journey continue without mishap.

Offered the chance to join the pirates after Romulus’ rescue of Mustafa, the two friends had accepted with