The Silver Eagle

to give up.

Dogged faith, and the desire for revenge, was what had kept her alive.

A deep baying sound suddenly rose from beyond the courtyard walls. It was a noise that Fabiola had heard occasionally since arriving in Pompeii, but always at a distance. As it grew louder, she could see fear growing in her slaves’ faces. ‘What’s that?’

‘Dogs. And fugitivarii, Mistress.’ Seeing her blank response, Corbulo explained. ‘Bounty hunters. They’ll be after a runaway.’

Fabiola’s pulse increased, but she did not panic. I am free, she thought firmly. Nobody is pursuing me.

Searching for the sound’s source, they walked a little way out into the large, open fields which surrounded the villa. Stone walls, bare trees and low hedges separated each from its neighbour. This was flat, fertile land, most of it fallow at this time of year. Two weeks earlier, the soil had been tilled, leaving it to breathe before it was planted with seeds in the spring. Only the winter wheat remained, small green shoots poking a hand span from the earth.

Normally, Fabiola liked to stand and take it all in. At this time of year the landscape was stark, but she loved the noisy jackdaws flying to their nesting spots, the crisp air, the absence of people. Rome’s streets were always thronged; inside the busy Lupanar had been little different. The latifundium had come to mean seclusion from the brutal realities of the world.

Until this.

Corbulo spotted the movement first. ‘There!’ He pointed.

Between the gaps in a hedge some two hundred paces away, Fabiola spotted a running figure. Corbulo had been correct. It was a young man, wearing little more than rags. A slave. Clearly exhausted, with his lower body covered in a thick layer of mud, his face was a picture of desperation.

‘He probably tried to give them the slip by hiding in the river,’ announced the vilicus.

Fabiola had taken pleasant walks along the waterway that separated her property from the estate belonging to her nearest neighbour. It would never seem the same again.

Corbulo grimaced. ‘It never works. The fugitivarii always check under the banks with long poles. If that doesn’t work, the dogs will catch their scent.’

Fabiola could not take her eyes off the fugitive, who was casting terrified glances over his shoulder as he ran. ‘Why is he being hunted?’ she asked dully, knowing the answer.

‘Because he ran away,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And a slave is his master’s property.’

Fabiola was intimately acquainted with this cruel reality. It was the same reason that had allowed Gemellus to repeatedly rape her mother. To sell her and Romulus. To execute Juba, the giant Nubian who had trained her brother to use a sword. Owners had the ultimate power over their slaves: that of life and death. Starkly reinforcing this, in the Roman legal system, the pride of the Republic, there was no retribution for the torture or killing of a slave.

A pack of large dogs burst from the cover of the nearest grove, their noses alternately sniffing the ground and the air for their quarry’s scent.

Fabiola heard the young man wail with terror. It was an awful sound.

She and Corbulo watched in silence.

A group of heavily armed men emerged from the trees, urging the hounds on with shouts and whistles. Cheers went up as they caught sight of the slave, whose energy looked almost spent.

‘Where’s he from?’

The vilicus shrugged. ‘Who knows? The fool could have been running for days,’ he said. ‘He’s young and strong. I’ve known the chase take more than a week.’ Corbulo looked almost sympathetic. ‘But those bastards never give up. And a man can’t run for ever on an empty belly.’

Fabiola sighed. Nobody would give food or help to a fugitive. Why would they? Rome was a state based on foundations of war and slavery. Its citizens had no reason to aid those who had fled captivity. Brutal punishments, terrible living conditions and a poor diet concerned them not at all. Of course, not every slave was treated this badly, but they were still the beating pulse of the Republic, the labour which built its magnificent buildings, toiled in its workshops and grew its foodstuffs. Rome needed its slaves. There was little that other slaves could do either, Fabiola thought bitterly. The punishment for helping an escapee was death. And who wanted to die by crucifixion?

The drama was about to reach its climax. Having staggered to within fifty paces of them, the young man fell to his knees in the damp earth. He raised his arms in silent supplication and Fabiola had to close her eyes. Coming between a runaway and the men legally sent to catch him would not be a good idea. Without risking a lawsuit from the slave’s owner, there was nothing she could do anyway.

Then the pack reached him.

Screams filled the air as the trained dogs began to savage the fugitive like a child’s doll. Fabiola watched in horror. She thanked the gods a few moments later when the lead huntsman whipped them off. Gradually the rest of the fugitivarii arrived, more than a dozen tough-looking types clad in dull colours and armed with bows, spears and swords. From under their wool cloaks, the dull glimmer of mail could be made out. They gathered around, laughing at the deep bite wounds on the slave’s arms and legs. This was part of their sport.

Fabiola held herself back. What could she do?

Engrossed with their capture, the fugitivarii seemed oblivious to their audience. Their brindle dogs had flopped down close by, red tongues hanging from wide, powerful jaws. Similar animals roamed around Fabiola’s villa at night, used as protection against bandits and criminals. These heavily muscled creatures looked even more vicious.

Encircled now, the slave had rolled into a foetal position. He was moaning softly and only crying out when struck by his captors. Then something changed. The nearest thug finally noticed Fabiola and Corbulo. Seeing her rich clothing and jewellery, he did not speak, but muttered a few words to the stocky man in charge. Rather than respond, though, the figure delivered a huge kick to the slave’s chest.

A muffled scream reached them.

Fabiola stared in horror. The blow had been enough to break ribs. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted. ‘He’s badly injured!’

Beside her, Corbulo coughed uneasily.

An opening appeared in the circle, hard, unforgiving faces turning towards the stunning woman and her vilicus. As they took in her beauty, leers distorted their features and lewd suggestions were made, albeit in whispers. The rich were still people to be respected.

Fabiola ignored the comments; Corbulo glared.

Bizarrely, the slave was then allowed to get to his feet. One of the fugitivarii drew his sword and poked him with its tip. Away from them, and towards Fabiola. Confused, the young slave did not move. Another sharp prod followed, prompting a sob. But he took the hint, and stumbled towards the villa. Laughs of derision met his efforts, and a number of the thugs threw clods of earth at him. His pace increased.

‘What are they doing?’ asked Fabiola in dread.

‘They’re playing with him. And us. Time to go inside, Mistress,’ Corbulo muttered, his face a pale shade of grey. ‘Before things get out of hand.’

Fabiola’s feet were rooted to the spot.

The slave came closer. As well as the dog bites that covered his body, his torso and arms were a red ruin. Through an old, flittered tunic, oozing wounds were visible, crisscrossing his skin front and back in an ugly latticework. The marks of a whip, they were evidence of a brutal master. Was this why he had fled? The fugitive was young, Fabiola guessed, no more than fifteen. A boy. Sweat and tears had streaked the dirt on his face, which was pinched and hungry. And full of terror.

‘Mistress!’ Corbulo’s voice was insistent. ‘It’s not safe.’

Fabiola could not take her eyes off the runaway, who did not dare to look at her.

In a trance, he shuffled past them, towards the courtyard. Like a mouse injured by a cat, he would not go far.

At last the fugitivarii began to move, and Fabiola’s stomach twisted. She glanced