‘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
With 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?