The Silver Eagle (18 page)

Romulus pointed at the enemy riders, who had pulled back for a rest. ‘They’re just delaying us, sir. Until the others arrive.’

Now the stout Parthian scowled. He was one of the few senior centurions who had bothered to learn any Latin and could understand Tarquinius; he had a great deal of respect for the haruspex, even though he was a foreigner. But it seemed ridiculous that the young man standing before him could possess the same mystical ability. Romulus was a soldier, not a soothsayer. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful to you for spotting the Scythian, lad,’ Darius growled. ‘Your action saved many lives.’

Flushing, Romulus ducked his head.

‘But you actually saw that warrior earlier,’ the Parthian went on. ‘Whereas these others are a figment of your imagination.’

He began to protest.

Darius’ face hardened. ‘Scythians do not move during the hours of darkness. Or make large-scale attacks in wintertime.’

‘What about the attack at the Mithraeum?’ Romulus countered. ‘Sir.’

Darius’ eyes bulged with anger at the other’s confidence.

‘Mithras showed me the Scythians,’ said Romulus, risking everything. ‘I prayed to him and he answered.’

‘How dare you?’ the Parthian snarled. ‘Only initiates may worship Mithras, you insolent dog.’

His guard laid a hand to his sword.

Romulus hung his head. He had failed. Despite his friendly manner, their senior centurion was just another Parthian.

‘Consider yourself lucky not to be whipped. Or worse,’ Darius snapped. ‘Resume your position.’

The guard smirked.

Hiding his anger, Romulus stalked back to his place in the front rank. The fool, he thought. Darius was blinded by his refusal to admit that his god might favour a non-Parthian. Yet Romulus felt sure that was where his vision had come from.

‘Keep your damn mouth shut too,’ Darius called out. ‘Not a word to anyone.’

Under his shield nearby, Novius sniggered unpleasantly. To Romulus’ disappointment, none of the veterans had been hit. Even if they survived the Scythian attack, he still had them to contend with.

Brennus’ reaction surprised Romulus. Instead of being furious, as he was, his friend simply shrugged.

‘The Scythian reinforcements will outnumber us more than ten to one,’ Romulus said.

‘We can’t avoid our fate,’ replied Brennus solemnly.
A day when your friends need you. A time to stand and fight. No one could win such a battle. Except Brennus.
Would tomorrow be that day?

Romulus suspected he knew the reason behind Brennus’ calm. Ever since Tarquinius had revealed the druid’s prediction to the Gaul, he had secretly worried about losing his friend here, in Margiana. Mithras had shown Tarquinius that there was a road back to Rome. But was it for all three of them? His stomach knotted, Romulus considered the sky once more. What he had seen had changed utterly. The cloud patterns, wind speed and birds visible now made no sense at all. Perhaps he and Brennus would die here, while Tarquinius survived? Romulus’ head spun until it hurt. He heartily wished that the haruspex were with them, to provide guidance. But he wasn’t. For all they knew, he could be dead. An idea surfaced. ‘We could make a run for it tonight,’ he muttered. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘Back to the fort?’ asked Brennus. ‘We’d be executed for desertion.’

Romulus dared not vocalise it. He had been thinking of heading south, towards the coast. Shame filled him that he could have even thought of leaving Tarquinius behind. Like Brennus, the haruspex had taught him so much.

‘Trust in the gods,’ said Brennus, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘They know best.’

But Mithras might be playing with me, thought Romulus. Punishing a non-initiate for daring to worship him. What better way to do that than show a man his doom? Romulus’ guts twisted with worry again as he remembered the Scythian host in his vision.

‘And don’t get hit by an arrow.’

He grimaced at the Gaul’s bleak humour.

Brennus was not finished. ‘Look around you,’ he commanded.

Romulus obeyed, taking in the set faces of the legionaries all around them. There was fear there, but also a steely determination. No names or insults were being called now. Unlike Novius and his cronies, these were men who would stand and fight with him and Brennus, to the end if necessary. Even if they no longer thought it themselves, they were his brothers-in-arms.

That counted for a lot.

Romulus clenched his jaw.

In response, he got an almighty nudge. ‘That’s the spirit.’

He gave Brennus a grateful smile.

The pair settled down to watch the Scythians, many of whom had now dismounted. Occasionally an eager warrior would gallop in close to the Roman lines and release a few arrows, but the rest seemed content to keep the status quo. Using brushwood, some had even started fires. Darkness was beginning to fall and the air was chilling rapidly. It would not be long before the temperature dropped far below freezing. Knowing this, Darius withdrew his men inside the fortlet and closed the gate. Once sentries were in place on the ramparts and fires had been started, there was not much else to be done. Dawn would decide their fate.

Few men slept well. Knowing what lay in the nearby barracks didn’t help. Neither did the piercing cold, which was just kept at bay by the fires and their woollen blankets. Nightmares, numb fingers and toes were inevitable, as were aching, painful muscles. But they were warm enough to stay alive. That was all the legionaries needed.

Romulus lay awake for hours, while beside him the Gaul snored loudly. Brennus had offered to keep watch, but the young soldier was so wound up that he had refused. Eventually weariness began to get the better of him though, and his lids slowly closed. He plunged straight into a nightmare that played out his vision of Rome again in horrifying detail. Mobs of armed plebeians and gladiators ran hither and thither, attacking anyone in sight. Bodies lay scattered in crimson piles. Swords rose and fell; men clutched at gaping wounds. Screams competed with the clash of metal on metal and the air was filled with smoke. Flames licked up the sides of the Senate building itself. Finally Romulus saw Fabiola. Surrounded by a few bodyguards, his twin was caught up in the midst of it. Her face was terrified.

His body covered in a cold sweat, Romulus’ eyes jerked open. The images had been terrifyingly vivid. Was Mithras playing another cruel trick on him? Was it just a dream? Or was it real?

He stiffened. There was movement nearby.

It was not Brennus: he still lay alongside, deeply asleep.

Careful not to lose his night vision by looking at the embers of the fire, Romulus turned his head. The small movement saved his life. With a great leap, Optatus landed on top of him, stabbing at his face with an arrow. Romulus grabbed the burly veteran’s arms – a reflex action – and they rolled over, struggling for control of the shaft.

Starlight revealed a dark liquid coating the arrow’s hooked point and terror constricted Romulus’ throat. It was a Scythian arrow. And Optatus was far stronger than he.

Chapter VIII: Despair

Rome, winter 53/52
BC

W
ith leering faces, the
fugitivarii
shuffled closer.

Sextus dodged forward, trying to gut one of them with his spear. His attempt failed; instead he just missed losing an arm to a cut from a shrewdly wielded sword. Such daring moves were too risky, so he and Fabiola moved back to back. It made little difference. At once their enemies began to encircle them.

Fabiola’s heart sank. The narrow street was deserted. Even if there had been someone about, who would intervene against such determined lowlife? Rome had no official force to keep the peace. The natural result of this was surely the rioting in the Forum Romanum. Fabiola cursed. What had she been thinking, to leave the safety of the house earlier? After his previous humiliation at her hands, Scaevola would be less than merciful. And there was nowhere to flee.

Not that Fabiola would run. That was what cowards did.

A sudden rush by the thugs and it was all over. Fabiola managed to bury her blade in the thigh of one, and Sextus to pierce the throat of another, but the remainder swarmed in, knocking the pair to the ground in a flurry of blows. As Fabiola struggled to rise, a sword hilt connected with her head. She collapsed, semi-conscious. Sextus was less lucky, suffering a heavy beating before being trussed up like a hen for the pot. But he was not killed. Scaevola had seen how good the injured slave was with a weapon. Selling him to a gladiator school would be most profitable.

The
fugitivarii
clustered eagerly around Fabiola, lustful eyes drinking in her beauty.

‘Get her up,’ Scaevola ordered.

His order was obeyed instantly. With a strong arm under each of hers, Fabiola found herself hanging between two of the biggest men. Head lolling to one side, her long black hair fell over her face.

The chief
fugitivarius
grabbed a handful of Fabiola’s tresses. With a brutal tug upwards, he revealed her stunning features.

Fabiola moaned in pain and opened her eyes.

‘Lady,’ said Scaevola with a cruel smile. ‘We meet again. And your lover’s still not here to protect you.’

She looked at him with utter scorn.

‘He wasn’t at the
latifundium
either,’ said the
fugitivarius
regretfully. ‘We came looking for you both the day after you’d left for Rome. Didn’t we, lads?’

His men growled in acknowledgement.

Seeing her eyes widen, Scaevola smiled cruelly. ‘Warned you, didn’t I? Nobody crosses me without getting paid back.’

Fabiola struggled to keep her voice even. ‘What did you do?’

‘Attacked just before dawn. It’s the best time,’ he revealed with delight. ‘Killed your pet gladiators. Torched the buildings and took all your slaves to sell on. Best of the lot, though, we recaptured the fugitive I’d been chasing. Naturally, he had to be punished.’ There was a pause. ‘They say that gelded men make good servants for women.’

Fabiola could not take in the devastating horror of it all. ‘Corbulo?’ she pleaded.

Scaevola was saving the worst for last. ‘The old bastard was stubborn,’ he said admiringly. ‘Most fools talk quickly with their feet in a fire. Not him. Wasn’t until we broke his arms and legs that he started talking.’

‘No!’ Fabiola screamed, trying to break free. ‘Corbulo had done nothing.’

‘He knew where you were,’ responded the
fugitivarius
. ‘That was enough.’

‘You’ll all rot in Hades for this,’ Fabiola spat, tears running down her cheeks. ‘And Brutus will send you there.’

Scaevola made a face. ‘I can’t see him anywhere. Can anyone else?’

Chuckling, his men shook their heads.

‘Shame. We’ll have to hunt down the whoreson later. The only good supporter of Caesar is a dead one.’

Fabiola was dumbstruck.
What have I done to deserve this, great Jupiter?

‘So it’s just us, I’m afraid,’ Scaevola said teasingly. Letting go of her hair, he took hold of the neck of her dress with both hands and tore it to the waist.

The view this allowed drew gasps from his followers.

Used to men seeing her naked, Fabiola ignored them. But her inner rage knew no bounds.

On the ground beside them, Sextus writhed uselessly.

Looking into her eyes, Scaevola caressed her full breasts. ‘Like that?’ he whispered.

The young woman did not give him the dignity of a reply. But real terror was now growing inside her.

His hand dropped, stroking her flat belly. It was all Fabiola could do not to pull away, but she knew that would only increase the chief
fugitivarius
’ enjoyment. Next her torn dress was pulled off completely and dropped into the bloody mud. Fabiola’s underclothes followed. The two thugs holding her shifted from foot to foot, peering at her beautiful body.

Scaevola’s own eyes widened at the sight. ‘Like Venus herself,’ he breathed. A meaty hand reached down and cupped her groin. ‘But this one you can fuck.’

Despite herself, Fabiola tensed. His touch brought back memories of Gemellus, the merchant who had owned her entire family, and of other unsavoury clients in the brothel.

The
fugitivarius
grinned and pushed a finger inside her.

It was too much for Fabiola. Surprising those restraining her, she managed to free her right arm. Raking Scaevola’s cheek with her long fingernails, she left four deep gouges in his flesh. More shocked than badly hurt, he reeled backwards, spitting curses. She had no further chance to injure him; the thugs quickly manhandled her back under control. Against their strength, Fabiola could do little. It was best to conserve her energy for another opportunity. Her struggles subsided and stopped.

With blood running unchecked down on to his neck, Scaevola moved to stand before her once more. ‘Quite the vixen, eh?’ he said, panting. ‘I like my women like that.’

This time, she spat at him.

He responded with a solid punch to Fabiola’s solar plexus which drove all the air from her lungs. Stars burst across her vision and her knees folded, unable to take her weight. She had never known pain like it.

‘Let her fall,’ she heard the
fugitivarius
say. ‘I’ll take the bitch right here.’

Obediently the men released Fabiola’s arms, and she toppled down on top of her torn dress. Standing back, they left their chief to it. It clearly wasn’t the first time that this had happened.

Lifting his chain mail and tunic with a grin, Scaevola freed his erection from his
licium
, his undergarment. He moved closer, greedily eyeing the neat triangle of hair at the top of her thighs. Sexual violence was part of his job, and Fabiola was more beautiful than any slave he’d ever raped. He was going to enjoy this.

Dazedly, Fabiola looked up. Nausea washed over her and she struggled hard not to vomit. This would be worse than any of the sex she had endured as a prostitute. Those men had at least paid to be with her and, in an expensive brothel, the vast majority had never offered any violence. The threat of Vettius and Benignus was enough protection for Jovina’s women. At that moment, Fabiola would have given all the money she possessed to see the pair of huge doormen appear.

Instead, she was totally alone.

Fresh tears pricked her eyes, but Fabiola quelled them ruthlessly. Self-pity would make what was about to happen far worse. The most important thing to do now was survive. Simply survive. She shuddered in anticipation.

Scaevola dropped to his knees and shoved her legs apart. Taking his time, the
fugitivarius
caressed the inside of her thighs, laughing at the goose bumps of fear this caused. Half stunned and incapable of resisting further, Fabiola’s revulsion was still apparent.

His men gathered round, keen to see everything.

Scaevola could control himself no longer. With an animal grunt, he moved closer. The tip of his erection nudged forward, searching.

Fabiola turned her head away so she did not have to look at his face. This was what her mother had endured for years. If she could do it, so could her daughter.

At that exact moment, the thought did not make things any easier.

Shame filled Fabiola. After he had finished, Scaevola would let his men rape her as well, before one of them cut her throat. Then her body would be left like so much meat, among the others who had died. Trying to save the young slave who had run on to her
latifundium
had been reckless, yet somehow it still felt right. Not responding would have denied all that Fabiola was, all that she had come from. Sooner or later Scaevola would have attacked her property anyway, searching for Brutus.

The
fugitivarius
grabbed Fabiola’s chin in a grip of iron and twisted her face towards his. Dark, murderous eyes bored into her. His foul breath made her gag. ‘Look at me while I fuck you,’ he muttered, leaning in to lick her breasts. ‘Dirty whore.’

Finally, a sob escaped Fabiola. This was far worse than she could have imagined. She managed to wrench her face away again.

Between the legs of the men standing above her, there was a sudden blur of movement from the alleyway. No one else noticed. Totally engrossed by the rape, none of the thugs were looking anywhere but at her. Amazingly, Fabiola saw armed figures spilling silently on to the street. All were dressed similarly in faded, patched military tunics and battered chain mail. The occasional
phalera
decorated a chest. Bronze bowl helmets with upright horsehair plumes covered every man’s head. Carrying
gladii
and elongated, oval
scuta
, they advanced in a solid wall. These could only be ex-legionaries: men who really knew how to fight. And they did not look as if they were here on friendly business.

Fabiola’s mouth opened in astonishment.

Mistaking her reaction for one of fear, Scaevola laughed and prepared to enter her.

Far too late, his men realised that something was wrong.

Loud thumps rang out as heavy shield bosses slammed into the nearest ones’ backs, knocking them off balance. These were followed by ruthless sword blows that pierced bellies and opened chests to the air. Many of the thugs were killed in the initial attack and chaos reigned as the remainder struggled to understand what had happened. Without speaking, the veterans pressed forward, herding the
fugitivarii
together, like sheep to the slaughter, merciless in the face of their enemies’ confusion. This was something they had done countless times before.

Shouts of terror rang out as the surviving ruffians realised there would be no escape.

The chief
fugitivarius
cursed and pulled back from Fabiola’s groin. His erection totally vanished, he fumbled frantically to put himself back in his underclothes. If he didn’t get up off the ground, he’d be dead very soon. Stumbling to his feet, Scaevola joined the fight.

Fabiola watched as one of the veterans tackled a heavily built thug who was armed with a short sword and dagger. Ducking down, he drove his gilded shield boss upwards at his opponent’s face, forcing the man to lift his chin away in reflex and expose his throat. The classic move was followed by a swift
gladius
thrust. Blood ran down the straight iron blade in great streams. The
fugitivarius
was dead before the blade even pulled free, letting him fall to the ground.

Fabiola used the opportunity to pull on the remnants of her dress, partially covering her nudity. She picked up a discarded sword, ready to fight before anyone else laid a hand on her.

‘Mistress! Cut me free.’

She turned in surprise. Sextus was lying a few paces away, still tied up. Fabiola crept over, quickly slicing through his bonds.