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