The Silver Eagle (19 page)

Nodding his thanks, the injured slave grabbed the nearest weapon, which was an axe with a notched blade.

They huddled together, waiting for the battle to end.

It did not take long. Surprised and outnumbered, the surviving thugs did not put up much resistance. Although used to fighting together, they usually only faced terrified, half-starved slaves: easy to intimidate and even easier to overcome. Several threw down their weapons and pleaded for mercy. It got them nothing more than a swifter death. Veteran of a score of skirmishes, Scaevola realised that the game was up. Spinning on his heel, he shoved one of his own men out of the way with an impatient cry. He bounded backwards, towards the Forum. Despite the rioting, he had more chance of escaping with his life there than here with his followers.

His eyes met Fabiola’s.

Time stopped.

Full of bitter rage, the squat
fugitivarius
mouthed a curse at her. She did the same. Stung by her defiance, he lunged forward,
gladius
in hand. And was met by Sextus, swinging his axe.

Scaevola skidded to a halt. ‘Curse you to Hades,’ he spat before sprinting off up the street.

Overcome by terror and nervous exhaustion, Fabiola sank down into the mud. Sextus moved to stand protectively over her, his one eye bright with battle rage. As the last thugs fell, the veterans closed in on them and Sextus turned this way and that, waving his axe at any who came within range.

Fabiola closed her eyes. Their rescuers might prove to be nothing more than another group of would-be rapists. But they did not move any closer. Heavy
scuta
clattered on to the ground when they were done. Without speaking, the men took a brief rest, chests heaving, sword arms reddened. Killing was tiring work.

When nothing happened, Fabiola got to her feet, the rags of her dress clutched around her. Unshaven faces regarded her admiringly. Silently. And not one man moved. She did not know how to react. Neither did Sextus.

Finally one of the veterans surrounding them gave a shrill whistle. To Fabiola’s utter surprise, Secundus emerged from the alleyway. A parting appeared in the circle, allowing him to approach. ‘Lady,’ he said, inclining his head.

Fabiola tried to be bold. ‘You have my thanks,’ she said, rewarding him with a beaming smile.

‘What happened?’

‘We were escaping the rioting,’ Fabiola explained. ‘And they ambushed us. They were going to . . . He nearly . . .’ The words dried in her throat.

‘You’re safe now,’ muttered Secundus, patting her arm.

She nodded jerkily, her emotions still in turmoil. Although Secundus seemed sympathetic, not every veteran’s face was friendly.

Secundus regarded the nearest corpse with contempt. ‘To think that we fought for fuckers like this, eh?’

It was a valid point. Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers had fought and died for their countrymen’s sake. Meanwhile, other men robbed, raped and killed citizens on the streets of Rome.

‘This ambush was planned,’ Fabiola revealed. She filled Secundus in, blaming the attack by Scaevola and his crew on the fact that she and Brutus were supporters of Caesar. She made no mention of the young fugitive who had been the reason they met. Few would understand why anyone would want to intervene on behalf of a slave.

‘Well, the scumbag’s gone now,’ said Secundus reassuringly when she had finished. ‘He won’t be back in a hurry. Most of his men are dead.’

Feeling calmer, Fabiola gazed down the alleyway. Like the Forum, it was now littered with bodies. A few thugs were still alive, but not for long. Secundus’ men moved expertly among them, slitting throats and checking for money pouches. It was not pleasant to witness, but they deserved no better, she thought.

Wary of the violence in the Forum, Secundus began calling the veterans back. ‘This is no place to linger, lady,’ he said, ushering her towards the alleyway. Like a faithful hound, Sextus followed.

‘Do you often intervene like this?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘From time to time.’

Fabiola was surprised. ‘But why?’

Secundus laughed. ‘It’s hard to give up army life after ten years or more, lady. About fifty or sixty of us keep in touch; we like to keep the area fairly peaceable. Can’t stop what’s going on in the Forum, but this, we can. It’s easy for us, being trained soldiers and all. And it pleases Mithras.’

Fabiola was confused by the reference. ‘Your god?’

He regarded her steadily. ‘Indeed, lady. The soldiers’ god.’

She and Sextus owed their lives not just to Jupiter, but to an unknown deity. Fabiola was intrigued. ‘I would like to offer my thanks,’ she said.

‘At the Mithraeum, lady?’ he asked. ‘Unfortunately not.’

Unused to being refused, Fabiola bridled. ‘Why?’

‘You’re a woman. Only men may enter our temple.’

‘I see.’

Secundus coughed awkwardly. ‘It’s not safe round here, though.’ The noise of fighting could still be heard from the Forum. ‘It would be permissible for you to wait in the anterooms. Tomorrow, when it is safer, we can escort you back to your
domus
.’

‘My slave comes too.’ She indicated Sextus.

‘Of course,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Our medical orderly can treat his wound.’

Some of the veterans looked less than happy at Secundus’ offer of shelter and treatment.

‘Why are you helping me?’ Fabiola asked.

There was another shy grin. ‘You gave me an
aureus
, remember?’

The best money I ever spent, thought Fabiola. ‘Strange that our paths should cross again so soon,’ she said.

‘The gods work in such ways, lady,’ Secundus replied.

‘They do,’ she agreed passionately.

Leaving the dead sprawled uncaring in the mud, Secundus led them off through a series of narrow yet empty thoroughfares. His companions split up, some walking protectively in front, some behind. Despite their reservations about Fabiola and her slave, all kept their swords drawn and eyes peeled for more trouble. But there was no one else about. All of Clodius’ and Milo’s men had descended on the Forum and the noise of the rioting alone was enough to make any ordinary citizens remaining indoors stay where they were. Doors were shut and shop windows barred. Street fountains splashed noisily, unattended. There were no plebeian women collecting water in clay vessels or washing their clothes. The public toilets were empty of gossiping neighbours and urchins selling vinegar-soaked sponges on sticks. Rickety wooden stalls that would typically be displaying bread, pottery, ironmongery and simple foodstuffs stood forlorn and bare. Even the begging lepers and the familiar scavenging mongrels were nowhere to be seen. An occasional scared face peered from half-open shuttered windows above, but these slammed shut if any of the party looked up. It was an eerie feeling to move through the city unimpeded by traffic or throngs of people. Rome was normally a hive of human activity from dawn till dusk.

Not today.

After they had been climbing for a little while, the sounds of violence gradually began to diminish.

‘This is the Palatine,’ Fabiola exclaimed in surprise.

Secundus threw her a crooked smile. ‘Expected us to be based on the Aventine or Caelian Hills, did you?’

Fabiola flushed at his accurate guess. Most of the Palatine’s residents were wealthy, unlike the ragged, unshaven figures surrounding her.

‘Soldiers are the true spirit of Rome,’ he said proudly. There was a growl of agreement from the others. ‘We belong here, at its ancient heart.’

Fabiola bent her head in respect. After all, legionaries were the men who fought and died for the Republic. Although she had little love for it, she could respect these veterans’ bravery and the sacrifices they had made in its name. One only had to see the stump of Secundus’ sword arm and the multitude of old scars on all the ex-soldiers to realise that. Flesh had been hacked off, blood lost and comrades slain, while the rich who dwelled around here had given little, if anything, for their state.

Working his way along a high, plain wall, Secundus came to a halt before a small door, its surface reinforced with protective iron studs. A simply forged knocker and a metal plate around the keyhole made it look the same as the back entrance to any other decent-sized house in the city. If they could afford it, Romans preferred to live in a well-built
domus
, a private, hollow square with an open air courtyard in the middle and rooms around the sides. The exterior of these dwellings was usually entirely ordinary, designed to avoid attention. Inside, they could be luxurious, like that of Brutus, or garish in the extreme, as Gemullus’ had been.

Checking there was no one in sight, Secundus rapped on the timbers with his knuckles.

Instantly a challenge issued from the other side.

Secundus leaned in close and muttered a few words.

His answer was sufficient. There was a short delay as bolts were thrown back and then the door swung inwards on silent, oiled hinges. Framed in the portal was a powerfully built figure in a russet-brown military tunic, carrying a drawn
gladius
. With close-cropped hair and a scar running from his right ear to his chin, this had to be another ex-soldier.

Recognising Secundus, he sheathed his sword and thumped his clenched right fist off his chest in salute.

Returning the gesture, Secundus led the way into the
atrium
.

Fabiola and Sextus were close behind, followed by the rest of the group. The guard’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the two strangers, one a woman, the other grievously wounded, but he said nothing. As the last man entered, the portal shut with a quiet click, blocking out the daylight. With the doors to the
tablinum
closed, the only illumination in the wide hallway running from left to right was from oil lamps in regularly placed wall brackets. Flickering yellow flames lit up a number of brightly painted statues, the most prominent of which was a cloaked deity crouched over a reclining bull. Shadows cast by his Phrygian cap prevented the god’s face from being seen, but the dagger in his right hand showed clear intent. Like all animals in shrines, the massive ox was about to be sacrificed.

‘Mithras,’ announced Secundus reverently. ‘The Father.’

As one, his men bowed their heads.

Feeling more than a little fear, Fabiola shivered. Although they had only entered the first chamber in the building, there was more power palpable here than in the
cellae
at the great temple on the Capitoline Hill. If she was lucky, and Mithras willing, some information about Romulus might be revealed. Unlike the falsehoods uttered by the soothsayers and the uncertainties found inside temples, a sign given in a place like this might carry divine authority. Fabiola snapped back to the present. Do not lose focus, she thought. There would be time to pray later. Bowing respectfully to the sculpture, she indicated Sextus’ gaping, ruined eye. ‘He needs treatment,’ she said.

Her slave had not uttered a single word of complaint thus far, but his teeth were gritted in pain. The adrenalin rush of combat had subsided and now waves of pain were radiating outwards, filling his skull with thousands of stabbing needles.

Secundus pointed to their left. ‘The
valetudinarium
is down here.’

‘Who owns the house?’ Fabiola asked. This was a far cry from the type of accommodation most citizens could afford.

‘Better than an army barracks, eh?’ laughed Secundus. ‘It belonged to a legate, lady. One of us.’

She frowned. ‘Belonged?’

‘Poor bastard was thrown from his horse two years ago,’ he answered. ‘Left no family either.’

‘And you seized his property?’ It was not unheard of for this to happen. In the current uncertain political climate, those who acted with confidence often got away with totally illegal acts. It was how Clodius and Milo had conducted their business for years.

He regarded her sternly. ‘We’re veterans, not thieves, lady.’

‘Of course,’ Fabiola muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘The
domus
belongs to Mithras now,’ he said simply.

‘So you live here?’

‘We have that privilege,’ Secundus answered. ‘This is the most hallowed ground in Rome. It has to be protected.’

Leaving his men and the statue of Mithras behind, Secundus took them along the corridor and around what would be the corner of the central courtyard. Beneath their feet was a simple but well-laid mosaic, its pattern the typical Roman concentric circles, waves and swirls. Few of the many rooms they passed seemed to be occupied, their open doors often revealing bare walls and floors, devoid of furniture.

Secundus finally came to a halt before a chamber which smelt strongly of vinegar, the main cleaning agent used by Roman surgeons. ‘Janus!’ he cried.

Ushering Sextus in, Fabiola entered the
valetudinarium
, the soldiers’ hospital. As she would learn later, it was laid out just as it would have been inside a tent in a marching camp. A low desk near the doorway formed the reception area. On a wall behind were wooden shelves covered with rolls of calfskin, pots, beakers and metal instruments. Open chests on the floor were full of rolled blankets and dressings. Neat lines of low cots lined the back of the large room. All were unoccupied. Near them stood a battered table surrounded by a number of oil lamps on crudely fashioned iron stands. Thick ropes hung from each of its legs and while clean, its surface was covered in dark, circular stains. They looked rather like old blood.