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.
Standing up from his leather stool in the corner, a thin-faced man wearing a worn military tunic decorated with two phalerae bowed his head courteously at Fabiola. Like all the soldiers, he wore a belt and a sheathed dagger. The studs of his caligae clashed gently off the floor as he approached.
Respect filled Fabiola. Every single one of Secundus’ men might initially look like a vagrant, but they all carried themselves with a quiet dignity. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, nodding at the table.
‘The operating theatre,’ replied the brown-haired medical orderly.
Fabiola’s stomach clenched at the thought of being tied down and cut open.
Janus ushered Sextus towards it. ‘An arrow?’ His voice was low, authoritative.
‘Yes,’ muttered the slave, bending his head to allow a proper examination. ‘I pulled it out myself.’
Janus clicked his tongue disapprovingly, his fingers already probing the area for further damage.
Secundus saw Fabiola’s surprise. ‘The barbs scrape off flesh as they come out. Makes a ragged and very distinctive wound,’ he explained. ‘Knives or swords come out more cleanly.’
She winced. Romulus!
‘In the legions we see them all, lady,’ Secundus murmured. ‘War is a savage business.’
Her composure cracked even more.
Secundus grew concerned. ‘What is it?’
For some reason, Fabiola felt unable to conceal the truth. The gods had brought Secundus into her life twice in just a few days; as a veteran, he would understand. ‘My brother was at Carrhae,’ she explained.
He shot her a surprised glance. ‘How did that come to pass? Did he belong to Crassus?’
Of course, he knew her past: that she had been a slave. Fabiola peered anxiously at Janus and Sextus, but they were out of earshot. The orderly had made her slave lie down on the table and was cleaning the blood from his face with a wet cloth. ‘No. He escaped from the Ludus Magnus and joined the army.’
‘A slave in the legions?’ barked Secundus. ‘That’s forbidden, on pain of death.’
Romulus had not been discovered and executed for that reason, thought Fabiola. As crafty as she, her twin would have found a way. ‘He was with a Gaul,’ she went on. ‘A champion gladiator.’
‘I see,’ the veteran answered thoughtfully. ‘Might have joined a mercenary cohort then. They’re not as picky.’