The Silver Eagle (36 page)

She jumped with fright.

A tall, brown-haired man in late middle age had entered the chamber. He was dressed in a well-cut thigh-length tunic; soft leather shoes covered his feet. A belt of gold links and a sheathed dagger confirmed his status as a soldier. High cheekbones and a strong chin were the most striking features in his rugged face. ‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said when he saw Fabiola’s reaction. ‘I did not mean to scare you.’

Wondering how long he had been watching her, Fabiola bowed. ‘My nerves are a little ragged,’ she replied.

‘That’s not surprising,’ said the man. ‘I have been told of the scum who ambushed you. What were they – deserters or just common bandits?’

‘It’s difficult to know.’ Fabiola had no wish to reveal any details about Scaevola. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Indeed. I’m sorry for even mentioning it,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try to forget the whole episode. You’re safe now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, her relief only half acted. Delayed shock was beginning to set in, draining her energy when she needed it most. It was crucial that she divulge nothing about her journey while somehow persuading the general to let her party continue unhindered. Mithras,
Sol Invictus
, help me, Fabiola thought. Asking help from the warrior god felt appropriate when faced with this military threat.

‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed deeply. ‘I am Marcus Petreius, legate of the Third Legion. You are welcome in my camp.’

Returning the gesture, she smiled radiantly. ‘I am Fabiola Messalina.’

Unaffected by her wiles, Petreius came straight to the point. ‘I find it most unusual for a beautiful young woman to be travelling alone,’ he said. ‘The roads are so dangerous.’

She feigned surprise. ‘I have – had – servants and slaves with me.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘No father or brother to accompany you?’

It was usual for unmarried noble women to travel with a male relation or chaperon of some kind: the lies had to start now.

Fabiola took a deep breath and began. ‘Father is long dead. And Julianus, my eldest brother, was killed in Parthia last year.’ The tiny shred of hope left in her heart stopped her naming Romulus as the fictional sibling who had died. But it was still the likely reality. Fabiola lowered her gaze, real tears pricking her eyes.

‘You have my sympathies, lady,’ he said respectfully. ‘But what about the rest of your family?’

‘Mother is too frail for such a long journey and Romulus, my twin, is out of the country on business,’ protested Fabiola. ‘Someone had to visit my widowed aunt in Ravenna. Poor Clarina does not have long.’

He nodded understandingly. ‘Yet these are troubled times. It’s very unwise to travel without a large party of guards.’

‘It is no better in Rome,’ cried Fabiola. ‘The mobs are burning nobles alive in their own homes!’

‘That is true, the gods curse them,’ said Petreius, his jaw hardening. ‘But I will soon stop that.’

She gasped in apparent surprise. ‘Are you marching to the capital?’

‘Yes, lady, with all speed,’ the legate replied briskly. ‘The Senate has appointed Pompey Magnus as sole consul for the year. His main remit is to restore law and order, and the Third will do that by whatever means necessary.’

Fabiola looked suitably shocked. The use of troops in Rome was one of the Republic’s abiding nightmares. Forbidden by law, it had last happened more than a generation before. Sulla, ‘the butcher’, had ordered it and then assumed total control of the state. In the minds of most, that was not a time to be repeated.

‘This is what it has come to,’ sighed Petreius. ‘There is no other way.’

She could see the legate believed in what he was saying. ‘Has no one protested?’

‘Not a single senator,’ he said wryly. ‘They’re all too worried about their houses being looted.’

Fabiola smiled, remembering how many of her clients had been obsessed with nothing more than increasing their own wealth, regardless of how it was obtained. Yet when the poor tried to take something for themselves, the rich were the first to condemn them. Although Rome was nominally a democracy, in reality for generations the fate of the Republic had been governed by a tiny elite class of nobles, the vast majority of whom were only out to line their own pockets. Gone was the ancient founding spirit that had seen successful generals relinquish their commands and return home to eat from plain earthenware bowls; in Rome now just a few ruthless men wrestled for ultimate riches – and ultimate power.

Which is why there was a legion camped outside.

It was appalling.

‘Caesar won’t be happy when he hears about this, but there are more pressing things on his mind.’ Petreius’ lips lifted into a mirthless grin. ‘Like survival.’

Fabiola concealed her alarm. She knew nothing of recent developments. ‘I’d heard there was renewed rebellion in Gaul, but nothing more,’ she said brightly.

‘Things go very badly for Caesar, which is good news for Pompey.’ His expression changed, becoming more pleasant. ‘Enough of politics and war. Those are no subjects for a lady. Would you honour me with your company for dinner?’

With little choice but to accept, she bowed. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

Fabiola was terrified. She was walking a fine line between deception and discovery, with no option other than to continue. And what about the others? Hopefully no one would ask much of Docilosa or Sextus, she thought, and Secundus would know to keep his mouth shut. His status as a supporter of Caesar was as good a reason to remain anonymous as hers.

Petreius guided her to another part of the enormous tent, where three reclining couches were positioned closely around a low table, leaving one side free for food to be served. Typically, each couch was able to accommodate up to three people. The level of opulence here was the same as the area where Fabiola had washed, and equalled most banqueting halls in Rome. Even the table was a piece of art, with an inlaid surface of gold and pearl and wonderfully carved legs in the shape of lions’ paws. Light from the huge candelabra hanging overhead bounced off large platters of Arretine ware, red glazed pottery with intricate designs in relief. There was fine glassware in a range of colours, a silver salt cellar and spoons with delicate bone handles. A trio of slaves sat in one corner, alternately playing the pan pipes, lyre and cithara, a large stringed instrument with a sweet sound. Others stood by, waiting to serve food and drink.

Hoping there would be more guests, Fabiola looked around.

Petreius met her glance with a wink. ‘Normally I dine with my tribunes, but not tonight.’

She managed to return his smile, but a flutter of unease rose from her stomach. After her time in the Lupanar, Fabiola could read men like a book.

‘Please.’ Petreius was indicating where she should lie. It was the place of honour, directly adjoining his position.

Her mind in a turmoil, the young woman sat down. Taking off her shoes, she placed them on the floor beneath the seat before reclining.

Thankfully the legate took the central couch rather than sitting right beside her. He waved a hand at the nearest slave, who hurried over, pouring
mulsum
for them both.

Fabiola took the proffered goblet gratefully. After her near escape from Scaevola, the mixture of wine and honey tasted like nectar to her. Without thinking, she drained the lot.

The glass was refilled at once.

Sipping his, Petreius fixed his gaze on Fabiola. ‘Tell me of your family,’ he said warmly.

She searched his face for signs of deception, but could see none. Praying again to Mithras, and to Jupiter, Fabiola began constructing an elaborate life history. She was one of three children of Julianus Messalinus, a deceased merchant, and his wife, Velvinna Helpis. The family resided on the Aventine, a mainly plebeian area. To make her story more authentic, Fabiola wove much of her own life into it. Where she had grown up was unremarkable; like anywhere in Rome, patricians lived there too. Naming her mother correctly somehow felt right, as did mentioning a twin brother. Julianus, the oldest, had joined the army as a bookkeeper and been killed with Crassus in Parthia. At this point, Fabiola’s voice wobbled and she stopped for a moment.

Petreius looked suitably sympathetic.

Nervously, Fabiola went on. While it increased her danger to invent living people who could never be traced, she wanted to feel that she had some kin still, instead of being alone in the world. So Romulus, her twin, now ran the family business, but was often out of the country on trading ventures. Unmarried, Fabiola lived in the ancestral home with her mother and their retinue of slaves. To avoid Petreius asking why she was still single, Fabiola mentioned a number of regular suitors. So far, none had met with Velvinna’s approval.

‘All mothers are the same,’ laughed the legate.

The young woman was amazed by her own inventiveness. Yet it was not difficult for her to come up with a completely fabricated existence. As a child in Gemellus’
domus
, she had observed much about Roman society. Although he came from impoverished roots, the cruel merchant had achieved a certain level of public recognition because of his riches. He had dealings with all levels of society, and had often entertained his clients at his home. Fabiola had an excellent understanding of the way the trading classes dealt with each other.

She paused, her throat dry from talking. Another swallow of the
mulsum
helped her to continue.

Petreius listened carefully, long fingers cupping his jaw.

Easy targets because of their awkward table manners or poor social etiquette, former slaves were frequently the butt of cruel jokes. Determined that this would not happen to her if she was ever freed, Fabiola had also absorbed every little piece of information that came her way in the Lupanar. Many of her customers spent large amounts of time in her company, during which they poured out their life stories to her. As the most popular prostitute, she had encountered numerous members of the Roman elite, the senators and
equites
. Other clients had been prosperous merchants or businessmen. All were men who lived at the pinnacle of Roman society, in a world far removed from that of the average slave, and one which Fabiola had only recently been admitted to. She was careful, therefore, to portray herself as being from the middle class of Roman society rather than the upper.

Petreius did not appear upset that Fabiola was from trading stock rather than noble. If anything, he looked pleased by her revelation.

Her initial story also seemed to satisfy him. To take the focus away from herself, she quickly went on the offensive.

‘I am so unimportant,’ Fabiola said. ‘Whereas you are the commander of a legion.’

Petreius made a modest gesture of denial, but she could see he was pleased.

‘You must have fought many wars,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And conquered many peoples.’

‘I’ve seen my fair share of combat,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Like any who do their duty for Rome.’

‘Tell me,’ Fabiola requested, her eyes shining with false excitement.

‘I was one of those who defeated the Catiline conspirators,’ he said. ‘And among other things, I helped Pompey Magnus to quell the Spartacus rebellion.’

Fabiola gasped in apparent admiration, holding back the riposte that it had in fact been Crassus who was responsible for putting down the uprising. Tellingly, Petreius had just shown himself to be a liar. As the informed knew, Pompey’s role had been only minor; his defeat of five thousand slaves who had fled the main battle a helping hand rather than a decisive thrust. Yet he had managed to claim all the credit by sending the Senate a letter informing them of his victory. The stroke was one of Pompey’s finest, and clearly Petreius had jumped on the bandwagon of his master’s success.

Fabiola noted this chink in the legate’s armour. If only the Thracian gladiator had not failed, she thought sadly. Romulus and I might have been born free. Had completely different lives. Instead, outmanoeuvred and surrounded by the legions, Spartacus had failed. Now slaves were more rigorously controlled than ever before.

‘Of course the uprising never really posed much threat to Rome,’ Petreius sneered. ‘Damn slaves.’

Fabiola nodded in seeming agreement. How little you know, she shouted inwardly. Like many nobles, Petreius regarded slaves as little more than animals, incapable of intelligent thought or action. She fantasised about grabbing the
pugio
on his belt and sticking it in his chest, but quashed the idea on the spot. While appealing, it would not help her get out of this situation. Any such action would also endanger the lives of the people in her care: Docilosa, Sextus and Secundus. What other options were there? Escaping from the massive camp without the legate’s permission would be impossible. Sentries watched all the entrances day and night, and no one came or left without being challenged.

A sinking feeling began to creep over her.

Like her previous clients, Petreius hadn’t noticed Fabiola’s momentary lack of attention. By simply smiling and nodding her head, the beautiful young woman could keep men absorbed for hours. Her previous profession had taught Fabiola not just how to physically satisfy men, but also the skilful art of making them think that they were the centre of the world. While pretending to enjoy their conversation, she also tantalised and teased. The promise of pleasure was sometimes more effective than actually providing it. Throaty laughs, a flash of bosom or thigh, fluttering eyelashes – Fabiola knew them all. Fuelled by the wine and her despair at what to do, she now found herself making more of these suggestive gestures than planned. Later, she would wonder if there was anything else she could have done.