The Silver Eagle

She paled. ‘Rome?’

He grinned in acknowledgement.

Fabiola felt faint. This was far more than she had expected. Although it was not all here in Ravenna, Caesar’s battle-hardened army was the most powerful ever controlled by one man in the Republic’s history. Yet once assembled, Pompey’s would be far larger. The impending clash over which of the two had ultimate power boded ill for the future of democracy and the rights of the ordinary citizen. How had things come to such a pass? ‘And us?’ she asked.

‘This is when Caesar most needs support.’ He smiled fiercely. ‘We go with him.’

Fabiola’s heart began to pound. Fear and dread blended with a strange excitement. She would witness a Roman leader commit the most treasonous act possible.

Crossing the Rubicon under arms.

Awe filled Fabiola. The druid had been right. If only he had revealed more about Romulus, she thought with a pang of anguish.

‘You’ll hear about it later,’ Brutus revealed.

Fabiola looked at him enquiringly.

‘Caesar’s holding a banquet. We’re invited.’

‘Is he not meeting with you and the other officers?’ she asked, confused.

‘Quite the opposite. Relaxation before a battle is the best policy,’ Brutus laughed. ‘Just remember not to ask him about Gergovia.’

Fabiola giggled, then her face turned serious. ‘Don’t worry, my love. I won’t ever let you down again like that.’

‘I know.’ Stepping closer, Brutus looked into her eyes. ‘You, I can rely on more than anyone else.’

This comment lit up Fabiola’s heart. It confirmed that Brutus was hers more than Caesar’s. An important battle had already been won.

To Fabiola, that was more important than any of the ones to follow.

Fabiola had long ago lost her embarrassment when being introduced to nobility. By now most, if not all, of Brutus’ colleagues knew her history. Unknown to her lover, one or two had even been clients in the Lupanar. Often, though, Romans were quite accepting of slaves who had been freed, which made her life much easier. As far as the military officers Fabiola encountered were concerned, she was a beautiful, intelligent young woman whom Brutus valued considerably. She suspected that many were somewhat jealous and would have liked her for themselves.

At the feast that night, Fabiola was grateful for her acquired poise when introduced to Longinus, one of the new tribunes. Meeting him made Fabiola so nervous that she wanted to vomit, yet she controlled herself adroitly. Together with Antonius and Curio, Longinus had brought the news of the Senate’s actions to Ravenna just a few hours before. But that was not what interested Fabiola most. This was the officer who had escaped from Carrhae with his honour and the survivors of his legion intact. He had also brought news of the terrible defeat to Rome. While it was like reopening an old wound, Fabiola could not help wanting to pick Longinus’ brains, asking him not about his role in the impending civil war but his experiences in Parthia. All her hopes about Romulus had resurfaced with a vengeance the instant he appeared.

Longinus was surprised. ‘Why would you want to know about that burning hell?’ he asked, his scarred face confused. ‘I try never to think about it.’

A quick glance over her shoulder told Fabiola that Brutus was not watching. She turned coy, a policy which rarely failed with men. ‘Don’t be modest, general,’ she purred. ‘I’m told that if you had been in charge at Carrhae, the outcome might have been quite different.’

Flattered, Longinus’ grizzled features softened. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he protested. ‘But Crassus certainly wouldn’t listen to my advice that day.’

She nodded understandingly. ‘How bad was it?’

Longinus scowled. ‘Beyond your imagination, lady. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. Temperatures hotter than Hades. Scant food and no water.’ He sighed. ‘And the damn Parthians. Little men for the most part, but by all the gods, they can ride and shoot arrows. Ordinary legionaries just can’t fight them.’ His face darkened. ‘And thanks to the treachery of our so-called Nabataean allies, we had precious few cavalry.’

‘They say that was Crassus’ greatest mistake,’ Fabiola threw in. ‘Not having reliable cavalry.’ She was pleased to see respect appear in his face. Longinus did not know it, but the sentiment was one Fabiola had heard Brutus utter before.

‘True enough,’ Longinus agreed. ‘When our Gaulish horsemen were killed with Publius, Crassus’ son, the rest simply fled. There we were on a flat, burning plain: thirty thousand infantry facing ten thousand horse, most of them mounted archers with an unlimited supply of arrows. You can imagine what happened next.’ He fell into a grim silence.

While Fabiola had heard plenty of snippets and gossip about Carrhae, Longinus had painted a far more terrifying picture. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Romulus being there. The horror was incalculable. Fabiola swallowed, taking consolation from her vision in the Mithraeum. To be present at the battle she had seen, her brother had somehow survived the devastation of Crassus’ army. It had to be the gods who had saved Romulus, Fabiola thought desperately. And they would continue to look after him.

‘My lady, what is it?’

Some of her inner turmoil must have shown, Fabiola realised. She was about to lie, and then saw that there was no point. Longinus knew of her origins. ‘My brother was there,’ she said simply.

‘I see. Was he also a. ’ Longinus paused, looking uncomfortable.

‘Slave? Yes, he was. And a gladiator,’ Fabiola answered, without batting an eyelid. ‘I think he joined a mercenary cohort as an ordinary soldier.’

Longinus failed to conceal his surprise. ‘Their recruitment policies are, shall we say, a little more relaxed than the legions. Yet most of them fought very well. At one stage during the battle, twenty brave mercenaries who had been isolated with Publius were allowed to return unharmed to our lines. Not that it did them much good, probably. Rome lost so many good soldiers that day.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘A few irregulars retreated to the Euphrates with my legion. Was your brother among them?’

Fabiola shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

He patted her arm.

‘Romulus survived though,’ she said stoutly.

Longinus gave her a disbelieving look.

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘I see. If he did, then. ’ Longinus flashed a false grin. ‘Who knows?’

Fabiola smiled brightly at him. The grizzled tribune was trying to protect her from the brutal reality of the Roman survivors’ fates. But he had not seen what she had after drinking the homa. Nor heard the druid’s dying words. They had been cut short, which meant that there was still hope. While her fortunes continued to soar, Fabiola had to believe that those of Romulus stayed on an even keel at least. It was either that, or go mad.

‘Fabiola?’ It was Brutus’ voice. ‘Caesar has personally requested that we attend him.’

Longinus inclined his head and stood aside.

Murmuring her thanks, Fabiola followed Brutus, who seemed delighted. ‘What does he want?’ she asked nervously. Since Alesia, there had not been a private, face-to-face meeting. In public with other people around, yes. But like this, no.

‘He’s already done it with Antonius and a couple of the others,’ replied Brutus. ‘I think it’s to toast our good fortune in the days ahead.’

At the entrance to a side chamber stood four smartly turned-out, tough-looking veterans. As the couple drew near, they stiffened to attention. An optio, the most senior, slapped a fist off his mail shirt and saluted.

Brutus languidly acknowledged the gesture. They passed inside, into Caesar’s personal quarters. The man himself was alone, bent over a detailed map of Italy laid out on a nearby desk. Still unaware of their presence, he stabbed a finger down on to the parchment. ‘Rome,’ he muttered.

Brutus grinned.