The Silver Eagle (37 page)

‘I also served in Asia Minor,’ Petreius went on. ‘Mithridates was a very skilled general. It took more than six years to defeat him. But we did.’

‘You fought with Lucullus then?’

Although Lucullus had not struck the final blow, Fabiola knew that the able general had been largely responsible for bringing the warlike king of Bithynia and Pontus to heel. Yet Pompey, the leader sent by the Senate to finish the job, had taken all the credit. Again.

Petreius coloured. ‘At first, yes. But after he was replaced, I continued the campaign under Pompey Magnus.’

Fabiola hid a knowing smile. That’s how it works, she thought. Pompey had stripped Lucullus of his command, but let his friends keep their posts. ‘And now you find yourself leading men again,’ she purred. ‘To Rome.’

The legate made a diffident gesture. ‘Merely doing my duty.’

You’re bringing the Republic to the brink of civil war at the same time, thought Fabiola. Caesar could regard Pompey’s actions of sending troops to Rome for nothing less than what it was: a blatant show of force. The man who restored peace to the capital would become an instant hero. In addition, having legionaries stationed in the Forum Romanum would place him in a powerful position indeed. And its timing was masterful. Stuck in Gaul, fighting for his life, Caesar could do nothing to prevent it.

‘I’m hungry,’ announced the legate. ‘Would you care for some dinner, my lady?’

Fabiola smiled her acceptance. Lining her stomach was a good idea. It might slow down the rate at which the
mulsum
was going to her head. She was not used to drinking much alcohol.

Petreius clicked his fingers and two slaves hurried over with bowls of steaming water and drying cloths. While they washed their hands, the others left, returning at once with a multitude of platters. There were various types of salted fish. Sausages in porridge sat alongside plates of freshly cooked cauliflower and beans. Sliced hard-boiled eggs and onions were served with piquant sauce.

Fabiola stared at the surface of the low table, which was now covered in food. As a child, hunger had been a constant feature of her life. Now it was the opposite, which seemed ironic.

Muttering a brief request to the gods for their blessing, Petreius leaned over and began. In the Roman fashion, he mostly used his fingers to pick up his food; occasionally he used a spoon.

The young woman breathed a slow sigh of relief. His attention had been diverted for the moment. Picking on some fish and beans, she tried to gather her thoughts through the fog that the
mulsum
had induced. She had a little while: the legate was obviously hungry. Clearing his plate, he indicated that the unfinished foods should be removed. After they had washed their hands again, the second course was brought in.

It felt so decadent to Fabiola as yet more serving dishes arrived. Sow’s udder in fish sauce, roasted kid and more sausages. Baked fish: bream, tunny and mullet. Pigeons and thrushes baked on a tray. Chestnuts and cabbage sprouts, and the inevitable onions. It was far more food than two people could ever eat. Marcus Petreius’ athletic stature belied his appetite. She was sure that Brutus would not approve. Her lover ate sparingly, preferring to spend his time at the table in good conversation.

A slave slipped past and filled clean glasses with watered-down wine. Being lighter,
mulsum
was served with starters.

‘Drink,’ encouraged Petreius. ‘It’s a very good Campanian. From one of my
latifundia
.’

Fabiola took a swallow, but she was careful not to finish all of the richly flavoured red wine. It had a deep, earthy taste, which was only marginally reduced by its dilution.

They made more polite small talk over the main course. Nothing was mentioned about Fabiola’s journey or Petreius’ mission to Rome. When he had eaten enough, the legate waved at the slaves again. One immediately laid out a selection of food, beside which he poured a little pile of salt. A cup of wine was placed beside this, the traditional dinner offering to the gods.

Petreius bent his head, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Fabiola did the same, fervently asking not just for Mithras’ and Jupiter’s blessing upon their meal, but for their assistance. She still had no idea what to do.

The final course consisted of all kinds of pastries, hazelnuts, and preserved pears and apples. Not wanting to appear rude, Fabiola helped herself to a few small portions and took her time eating.

More wine was poured for both of them.

‘Your aunt in Ravenna,’ said Petreius out of the blue. ‘What was her name again?’

‘Clarina,’ replied Fabiola. ‘Clarina Silvina.’

‘Where exactly does she live?’

Unease filled Fabiola. What did he care? ‘Not far from the Forum, I think,’ she lied, picking a location that could fit any town in Italy. ‘Off the street that leads to the south gate.’

‘Is her house large?’

‘Not especially,’ she said. ‘But Mother says that it is well appointed. Aunt Clarina has good taste.’

He said nothing for a moment.

Fabiola’s heart began to pound in her chest and she busied herself with another piece of dried fruit.

‘The southern quarter of the city was where fire broke out last year,’ Petreius announced in a hard voice. ‘Almost all the houses were burned down.’

Fabiola felt her cheeks flush bright red. ‘Clarina mentioned that in a letter,’ she responded, her voice a trifle too high. ‘Hers escaped with light damage.’

‘The only ones to be left unharmed were those near my
domus
,’ the legate said coldly. ‘Thankfully my slaves managed to soak the nearby roofs with enough water to ensure that they did not catch fire and thus spread it to mine.’

She watched him dumbly, a sick feeling in her stomach. How could she have known that Petreius had a residence in Ravenna?

His next words were like the strokes of doom.

‘The residents were so grateful that they came to pay their respects. I don’t recall an elderly lady by the name of Clarina Silvina.’

Fabiola’s mouth opened and closed. In that time, he had moved to her couch; they were now close enough to touch. Petreius’ eyes were slate grey, and distinctly unfriendly now. ‘I . . .’ Fabiola was uncharacteristically lost for words.

‘You have no aunt in Ravenna,’ the legate said harshly. ‘Have you?’

She did not answer.

‘And one of your companions is a crippled veteran. What use is he to anyone?’

Fabiola’s heart rate shot up. Petreius must have been watching from his tent when they arrived, and recognised Secundus’ military bearing. It was difficult not to.

‘Secundus? I found him on the steps of Jupiter’s temple,’ Fabiola protested, angry that Petreius had no respect for the casualties of Rome’s wars. After all, similar things happened to his men. ‘I took pity on him. He’s proved very reliable.’

‘Really? How did he survive the ambush when all the others were killed?’ the legate demanded.

Fabiola flinched before his practised interrogation. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps the gods spared him.’

‘There’s far more to this than meets the eye.’ Petreius sat up. ‘We’ll see what your servant says to a taste of hot iron. That makes men sing like canaries.’

‘No!’ cried Fabiola. ‘Secundus has done nothing.’

She was not being totally altruistic. Few individuals could resist torture, especially at the hands of the experienced soldiers that Petreius would have available. If Secundus revealed Fabiola’s real destination, all hope of reaching Gaul would be gone. Who knew how the legate would react if he found that out? Disposing of four ragged travellers would pose no problem. No one would ever know any different.

Fabiola’s heart sank. In comparison to the likes of Petreius, she really was a nobody.

He turned back, leaning in so close that the musky mix of
mulsum
and wine from his breath filled her nostrils. ‘Unless another solution might be found,’ he said, lightly squeezing one of her breasts. ‘A much more pleasurable one.’

For a heartbeat, Fabiola hesitated. She felt faintly sick. It was an old, familiar feeling: the one she used to get in the Lupanar when a client had just chosen her from the line of prostitutes.

Had she any other choice?

Rather than pulling away, she drew him towards her.

Chapter XIX: Alesia

Northern Italy, spring/summer 52
BC

T
rying to reduce Petreius to a sweating, drained shadow of his former self, Fabiola had used every trick of her previous trade when coupling with him. All the time she was driving the legate mad with lust, she was racking her brains for a way out of the situation.

How could she rejoin Secundus and Sextus and safely continue north to Gaul?

Petreius would have no particular reason to set Fabiola free. A nubile bed companion like her would make his journey to Rome far more pleasurable. And there was nothing she could do if he did decide to keep her by him. With almost five thousand soldiers at his beck and call, the ruthless legate could behave as he pleased.

The possibility of staying and becoming Petreius’ mistress had entered her mind. He was not a bad-looking man, and seemed personable enough. Far away in Gaul, Brutus would be able to do nothing about it. Fabiola decided not to make this choice for two reasons. The first was that it meant changing allegiance to Pompey’s side. That felt like a bad idea. Her instincts told her that Caesar’s former partner in the triumvirate was not the man to back. And the second, more important, reason was that becoming Petreius’ lover – and therefore siding with an enemy of Caesar – would probably mean that she would never meet the nobleman who might be her father.

A more callous thought also occurred to Fabiola. She could simply wait until the legate fell asleep and then kill him. But even if she left his tent without being discovered and managed to find Docilosa, Secundus and Sextus, their next task would prove impossible. There was no reason to think that any of Petreius’ disciplined soldiers would just let her and her companions leave without permission. Fabiola had no desire to be crucified or tortured to death, one of which would surely be the punishment when his body was discovered.

What in the name of Hades was she to do?

Thinking that she had tired him out, Fabiola was surprised when Petreius found the energy to take her again a short time later. Kneeling on all fours, she encouraged his deep thrusts with loud moans. When the legate had finished and sagged back on the sweat-soaked sheets, Fabiola climbed off the bed. She desperately needed time to think. Naked, she walked a few steps to a low table that had a selection of food and drink arrayed upon it. Filling two cups with some watered-down wine, the young woman turned to find Petreius admiring her.

‘By all that is sacred,’ he said with a satisfied sigh. ‘You look like a goddess come to tempt a mere mortal.’

Fabiola batted her eyelashes and flashed a practised smile.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘No merchant I’ve ever met would have a daughter like you.’

She laughed throatily and spun in a slow circle, drawing a loud groan of desire from him.

But the question would be repeated, of that there was no doubt. Fabiola tried to quell the panic rising in her breast. Petreius was no satiated customer to be ushered out of the door when his time was up. This was a man used to getting his own way, a powerful noble experienced in commanding soldiers and fighting wars. Completely at his mercy, on his territory, her feminine wiles would only go so far.

Like all sleeping chambers, Petreius’ had a small shrine in one corner. Most Romans prayed to the gods on rising and retiring, to request their guidance and protection during both day and night. The legate was no different. As Fabiola’s gaze passed idly over the stone altar, her attention was drawn back to it. Prominently displayed in front of deities such as Jupiter and Mars was a small, cloaked figure that looked familiar. Fabiola’s breath caught in her chest as she recognised Mithras. The delicately carved statue was portrayed in the same manner as the large sculpture in the Mithraeum in Rome. Wearing a Phrygian cap, the god was crouched over a reclining bull and plunging a knife down into its chest while looking away.

Fabiola closed her eyes and asked for his divine help.

Was this her chance?

Petreius was a follower of Mithras. She had been inside the god’s temple and had drunk the sacred
homa
. Importantly, Fabiola had had a vision as a raven. The fact that she had done so without permission, outraging most of the veterans in the process, was irrelevant right now.

A daring idea began to take root in Fabiola’s mind. It was all she could think of, so it had to work.

A low laugh came from behind her. ‘Lucky I have no statue of Priapus to beg my case,’ Petreius said. ‘Otherwise I’d keep you awake all night.’

‘We don’t need him,’ Fabiola answered, moving her legs apart slightly and bowing from the waist towards Mithras.

The view this afforded drew a shocked, lustful growl from the legate.

With a subtle rolling motion, Fabiola turned back and strode towards him, her full breasts moving gently. The light from the oil lamps coloured her flesh, giving it an alluring amber glow. She knew from long experience that looking like this, no man could resist her. Placing the wine on the floor by the bed, Fabiola put her hands on her hips.

‘You look like a woman who means business,’ Petreius said.

She laughed and arched her pelvis towards him. ‘Do I?’

Little do you know.

Unable to take any more teasing, he reached out for her – but she stepped away, out of reach.

The legate frowned.

Quickly Fabiola moved closer again, allowing his eager fingers to grasp her buttocks.

‘Who needs Priapus?’ he muttered, rolling to the edge of the mattress in a desperate attempt to get closer. ‘I’ll fuck you again right now.’

Fabiola smiled to herself. This was where she wanted him: crazy with lust. Turning, she stared down as Petreius pressed his face into her groin. ‘You have a statue of Mithras, I see.’

‘What?’ His voice was muffled.

‘The warrior god.’

He pulled back, looking faintly irritated. ‘I began following him during my time in Asia Minor. What of it?’

Aware that she had to act with the utmost delicacy, Fabiola fell silent. Stooping, she gently rolled him over and began stroking his erect member.

Enjoying what she was doing, he relaxed again.

There was silence as Fabiola climbed on to the bed and lowered herself down on him.

When he came, Petreius gasped in ecstasy, gripping her hips with his hands. Then he flopped back on the sheet and closed his eyes.

Satisfied that the legate was now as vulnerable as she would ever see him, Fabiola threw the dice. ‘I have heard that Mithras’ followers honour and respect each other greatly,’ she said. ‘They give help to one another when it is needed.’

‘If we can, we do,’ he replied in an already sleepy voice.

‘What if the situation is awkward or difficult?’

‘All the more reason to be of assistance.’

‘And most of you are soldiers,’ Fabiola said, changing tack.

‘Yes.’

‘But some are not.’

‘No,’ he answered, sounding confused. ‘There are men of many trades and professions in our religion. Even some more worthy slaves. We are all equal before the god.’

The seed had been planted, thought Fabiola. It was time to act.

‘I have aided you tonight,’ she murmured, climbing off him and lying down.

He chuckled. ‘You have. Very much.’

‘Then will you help me?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, amused. ‘What is it you want? Money? Dresses?’

Fabiola clenched her fists, hoping that the primary tenet of honour mentioned by Secundus so many times was also an important part of Petreius’ belief system. There was no way of knowing unless she tried. ‘More than that.’ She paused, noticing that her hands were actually trembling. ‘I need a letter of safe conduct and enough men to protect me on my journey north.’

He jerked upright, suddenly fully awake. ‘What did you say?’

‘I was the first woman to enter the Mithraeum in Rome,’ she said. ‘To become a devotee.’

‘That is forbidden under all circumstances,’ Petreius stuttered. ‘I know the provinces are a bit backward when it comes to new traditions, but this? On whose authority was it allowed?’

‘Secundus,’ she replied. ‘The one-armed veteran who was with me when your troops rescued us.’

‘A low-ranking cripple?’ he scoffed. ‘Sounds like he’s getting ideas way above his station. Does he want to screw you?’

It was unsurprising, Fabiola thought, that a man of Petreius’ status would look down on someone as lowly as Secundus. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said firmly. ‘And despite what you may think, he admitted me to the Path. My rank is that of Corax, which makes me a comrade of yours.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that he is the Pater of the temple,’ sneered the legate.

‘Correct,’ Fabiola replied. ‘He is also my guide.’

Petreius’ nostrils flared, but he let her continue without further interruption.

‘After drinking the
homa
, I became a raven,’ she said quietly. ‘And was granted a vision, in which I saw the survivors of Crassus’ army. Secundus decreed that it was sent by the god himself.’

‘Wait. This is too much to take in.’ Rubbing a hand through his close-cropped hair, the legate stood up and walked over to a tall swan-legged bronze ewer. Bending his neck, he vigorously splashed cold water over his entire head and neck a number of times. Pulling a cloth from a wooden stand, he dried himself and donned a clean robe.

Fabiola sat on the bed, waiting patiently.

‘Start from the beginning,’ he ordered, sitting beside her. ‘Tell me exactly how you met this Secundus.’

Fabiola kept it simple, keeping her original fabrication the same, but accurately recounting how she had met the veteran on the steps of Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Her rescue was simplified to take place on the fringes of the riot over Pulcher’s death. There was no point complicating matters by mentioning Scaevola and the
fugitivarii
.

‘That’s all very touching,’ Petreius said when she had finished. ‘But saving a pretty girl’s life doesn’t mean that the Pater would just invite you to become one of us.’ His face turned hard. ‘Tell me the truth.’

This was a crucial moment.

‘I have done. Most of my guards were killed well before the veterans arrived,’ Fabiola said. Acting modestly, she looked down. ‘It was a case of defending myself or being raped on the spot. Perhaps the gods helped, but I managed to kill three or four of our attackers.’

‘By Jupiter!’ exclaimed the legate. ‘Has someone trained you to fight?’

‘No.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘I only ever saw my father and brothers practise in the yard of our
domus
. It was sheer desperation, I suppose.’

He regarded her slender arms with new respect.

She dared a bit more. ‘Secundus said that he had rarely seen such bravery, even on the battlefield.’

‘If what you say is true, I’m not surprised,’ agreed Petreius emphatically. ‘With soldiers like you, we would have little to fear from Caesar.’

Pleased by his praise, Fabiola flushed.

A rigorous interrogation about Mithraic practices and rituals followed. Petreius listened intently, showing no emotion at Fabiola’s responses. This made her even more nervous, but by taking her time, the young woman was able to answer every question correctly.

When the legate had finished, there was a long silence.

‘You know a lot about Mithraicism,’ he admitted. ‘Only an initiate should know these things.’

A great wave of relief washed over her, but her ordeal was not over yet.

‘Perhaps an old lover tried to impress you by revealing Mithraic secrets,’ he ventured, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you’re lying to me . . .’

‘I am telling the truth,’ Fabiola said as calmly as possible.

Resting his chin on one hand, Petreius drummed his fingers against his cheek.

He was a tough customer, thought Fabiola, a bad enemy to make, but she had committed herself now.

‘Secundus is the man to ask,’ he said at last. ‘No Pater would lie about something like this.’