Ben Kane: The Silver Eagle

The air left his lungs with a rush, and Romulus fell awkwardly to the frozen ground. Somehow he held on to his gladius . Desperately he pulled on it, feeling the blade grating off his enemy’s clavicle as it came out, far too slowly. It was hopeless.

His lips peeled back with satisfaction, the Scythian jumped to stand over Romulus. His right arm went up, preparing to deliver the death stroke.

Bizarrely, Romulus could think only of Tarquinius. Where was he? Had he seen anything?

The Scythian made a high, keening sound of pain. Surprised, Romulus looked up. There was a familiar-looking knife protruding from his enemy’s left eye socket. He could have shouted for joy: it belonged to Brennus. Somehow the Gaul had saved his life.

With a hefty kick, Romulus sent the Scythian tumbling backwards. Craning his neck, he looked for the others. Brennus and Pacorus were within arm’s reach, fighting side by side. Unfortunately, the guard was already down, two arrows protruding from his belly.

But they now had a tiny chance.

Carefully retrieving his scutum , Romulus sat up, protecting himself from enemy shafts.

One immediately slammed into it, but he was able to take in the situation.

The trio of archers were still on their feet.

And at least a score of Scythians were running to join the fray.

With arrows raining down around him, Romulus managed to retreat unhurt to Brennus’ side.

‘Give me your shield,’ Pacorus ordered him at once.

Romulus stared at his commander. My life, or his? he considered. Death now, or later? ‘Yes, sir,’ he said slowly, without moving. ‘Of course.’

‘Now!’ Pacorus screamed.

As one, the archers drew back and loosed again. Three arrows shot forward, seeking human flesh. They took Pacorus in the chest, arm and left leg.

He went down, bellowing in pain. ‘Curse you,’ he cried. ‘I’m a dead man.’

More and more shafts hissed into the air.

‘Where’s Tarquinius?’ shouted Romulus.

‘Still in the Mithraeum. Looked like he was praying.’ Brennus grimaced. ‘Want to make a run for it?’

Romulus shook his head fiercely. ‘No way.’

‘Me neither.’

As one, they turned to face the Scythians.

Near Pompeii, winter 53/52 BC

‘Mistress?’

Fabiola opened her eyes with a start. Standing behind her was a kind-faced, middle-aged woman in a simple smock and plain leather sandals. She smiled. Docilosa was Fabiola’s one true friend and ally, someone she could trust with her life. ‘I’ve asked you not to call me that.’

Docilosa’s lips twitched. A former domestic slave, she had received her manumission at the same time as her new mistress. But the habits of a lifetime took a while to discard. ‘Yes, Fabiola,’ she said carefully.

‘What is it?’ asked Fabiola, climbing to her feet. Stunningly beautiful, slim and black-haired, she was dressed in a simple but expensive silk and linen robe. Ornate gold and silver jewellery winked from around her neck and arms. ‘Docilosa?’

There was a pause.

‘Word has come from the north,’ said Docilosa. ‘From Brutus.’

Joy struck, followed by dread. This was what Fabiola had been asking for: news of her lover. Twice a day, in an alcove off her villa’s main courtyard, she prayed at this altar without fail. Now that Jupiter had answered her requests, would it be good news? Fabiola studied Docilosa’s face for a clue.

Decimus Brutus was sequestered in Ravenna with Caesar, his general, who was plotting their return to Rome. Conveniently situated between the capital and the frontier with Transalpine Gaul, Ravenna was Caesar’s favourite winter abode. There, surrounded by his armies, he could monitor the political situation. Above the River Rubicon, this was allowed. But for a general to cross without relinquishing his military command — thereby entering Italy proper under arms — was an act of high treason. So every winter, Caesar watched and waited. Unhappy, the Senate could do little about it, while Pompey, the only man with the military muscle to oppose Caesar, sat on the fence. The situation changed daily, but one thing felt certain. Trouble was looming.

Fabiola was therefore surprised by Docilosa’s news.

‘Rebellion has broken out in Transalpine Gaul,’ she revealed. ‘There’s heavy fighting in many areas. Apparently the Roman settlers and merchants in the conquered cities are being massacred.’

Fighting panic at this new threat to Brutus, Fabiola exhaled slowly. Remember what you have escaped, she thought. Things have been far worse than this. At thirteen, Fabiola had been sold as a virgin into an expensive brothel by Gemellus, her cruel former owner. Adding to the horror, Romulus, her brother, had been sold into gladiator school at the same time. Her heart ached at the thought. Nearly four years of enforced prostitution in the Lupanar had followed. I did not lose hope then. Fabiola eyed the statue on the altar with reverence. And Jupiter delivered me from the life I despised. Rescue had come in the form of Brutus, one of Fabiola’s keenest lovers, who bought her from Jovina, the madam of the brothel, for a great deal of money. The impossible is always possible, Fabiola reflected, feeling calmer. Brutus would be safe. ‘I thought Caesar had conquered all of Gaul?’ she asked.

‘So they say,’ muttered Docilosa.

‘Yet it has seen nothing but unrest,’ retorted Fabiola. Aided by Brutus, Rome’s most daring general had been stamping out trouble since his bloody campaign had ostensibly ended. ‘What is it now?’

‘The chieftain Vercingetorix has demanded, and received, a levy from the tribes,’ Docilosa replied. ‘Tens of thousands of men are flocking to his banner.’

Fabiola frowned. This was not news she wanted to hear. With the majority of his forces stationed in winter quarters just inside Transalpine Gaul, Caesar could be in real trouble. The Gaulish people were fierce warriors who had vigorously resisted the Roman conquest, losing only because of Caesar’s extraordinary abilities as a tactician and the legions’ superior discipline. If the tribes were truly uniting, an uprising had catastrophic potential.

‘The news gets worse,’ Docilosa continued. ‘Heavy snow has already fallen in the mountains on the border.’

Fabiola’s lips tightened. Brutus’ most recent message had talked about coming to visit soon. That would not now happen.

And if Caesar couldn’t reach his troops in time to quell the rebellion before spring, the trouble would spread far and wide. Vercingetorix had picked his moment carefully, thought Fabiola angrily. If this revolt succeeded, all her well-laid plans would come to nothing. Doubtless thousands would lose their lives in the forthcoming fighting, but she had to ignore that heavy cost. Whatever her desires, those men would still die. A quick victory for Caesar would mean less bloodshed. Fabiola desperately wanted this because then Brutus, his devoted follower, would gain more glory. But it was not just that. Fabiola was ruthlessly focused. If Caesar succeeded, her star would rise too.

She felt a twinge of guilt that her first thought had not been for Brutus’ safety. A keen career soldier, he was also extremely courageous. He might be injured, or even killed, in the forthcoming fighting. That would be hard to bear, she reflected, offering up an extra prayer. Although she had never let herself love anyone, Fabiola was genuinely fond of Brutus. He had always been gentle and kind, even when taking her virginity. She smiled. Choosing to lavish her charms on him had been a good decision.

Previously, there had been many such clients, all powerful nobles whose patronage could have guaranteed her progress into the upper echelons of Roman society. Keeping her eyes on that prize, Fabiola had somehow managed to disassociate herself from the degradation of her job. Just as they used Fabiola’s body, men were to be taken for whatever she could gain: gold, information or, best of all, influence. From the start, Brutus had been different from most clients, which made sex with him easier. What had finally tipped the balance in his favour was his close relationship with Caesar, a politician who had aroused Fabiola’s interest as she eavesdropped on conversations between nobles relaxing in the brothel’s baths. The pillow talk that she cajoled from her satiated customers had also been full of promising pointers towards Caesar. Perhaps it was Jupiter who had guided her to become Brutus’ mistress, thought Fabiola. While at a feast with Brutus, she had seen a statue of Caesar which reminded her strongly of Romulus. Suspicion had burned in Fabiola’s mind since.