The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  Fabiola had to admire the theatrics. The last and most dramatic part had been reserved until Fulvia had reached safety. She could guess what would happen next.

  There were more wails as the group of women clustered around Fulvia, touching the dead noble’s wounds and raising bloody fingertips for all to see.

  It was the final straw for Clodius’ men. Revenge had to be taken. An incoherent bellow of hatred left their throats and they swarmed forward towards their enemies. Fabiola, her guards and the screaming captives were carried along with them. There would be no clear lines of battle, just a chaotic mêlée of thugs and civilians.

  The terrified priests shouted for calm. Too late, they realised that what had been unleashed was uncontrollable. This vast, inchoate fury threatened Rome itself, and they had encouraged it.

  ‘Mistress!’ cried Tullius. ‘We must escape.’

  Fabiola nodded grimly. ‘Use your weapons only if there is no other way,’ she ordered her men. She did not want any innocent blood on her conscience.

  They had barely acknowledged her when the two sides met with a resounding crash. Trained fighters, Milo’s gladiators had an instant advantage over the plebeian rabble. Forming a solid wall of shields, they easily withstood the initial screaming charge. Gladii stabbed forward viciously; tridents and spears shoved into unprotected faces and necks; javelins hummed through the air; blood spilled on to the cobbles. Fabiola watched in fascinated horror. This was far worse than anything she had seen in the arena. In the first few moments, dozens fell to the ground injured or killed. Inevitably though, weight of numbers began to tell. Enraged, filled with grief, Clodius’ thugs threw themselves at their enemies like men possessed. A Samnite was the first to go down, shield bodily ripped from his grasp by two burly plebeians. Even as he skewered one through the throat, the gladiator was transfixed by a spear. Blood bubbling from his lips, he collapsed, leaving a gap in the defensive line. Those who were nearby immediately concentrated their attack on this spot. Next a murmillo was killed, then a retiarius. The mob advanced, forcing Milo’s followers backwards and on to the steps of the Senate. The gladiators were not highly disciplined Roman legionaries, used to withstanding overwhelming odds. More holes appeared and were instantly expanded, further separating their ranks. The fighters’ heads began to turn, seeking a way out. They had been promised good wages for street brawls, not death in a full-scale battle.

  The fight was far from over, but Fabiola sensed that the tide had turned. Fortunately they were still some distance from the bloodshed. The thugs who had marched them to the Forum had disappeared into the mêlée. It was time to escape, if they could. She jerked her head at Tullius, who was more than happy to obey. He barked an order at the others. Forming a protective diamond shape around Fabiola, the nine bodyguards drew their swords, turned as one and began to beat a path out of the crowd. Thankfully, large numbers were also trying to flee. With their captors’ attention diverted, all the prisoners had a chance to gain their freedom, brutally pushing, shoving and ignoring the weak, who were simply trampled underfoot. When Fabiola bent to help an old woman who had fallen to her knees, Tullius roughly pulled her away. ‘Leave her!’

  Shocked at being handled, Fabiola realised the Sicilian was truly worried about her safety. She looked back in anguish, but the lined, terrified face had already been swallowed by the heaving mass. Another innocent victim. But there was no time to grieve or to dwell on the gods’ purpose today. Intent on their own survival as well as that of their mistress, Fabiola’s guards battered on.

  ‘Make for that!’ Tullius shouted, pointing at the temple of Castor, the nearest building. Ducking their heads down, the bodyguards soon gained momentum.

  Fabiola held her breath as they crept through the maelstrom. Occasionally Tullius or the others had to use the hilt of their swords across someone’s head, but most gang members nearby were more interested in attacking the gladiators than stopping a few people moving away from the battle.

  Finally reaching the carved stone steps, they worked around their base and into a narrow side street. Fabiola took one more glance at the Forum. The two sides were still fighting hammer and tongs, neither prepared to give or ask for quarter. Milo’s gladiators had been broken up and were now in small groups, struggling for their lives against far superior numbers of plebeians. Any success cost the thugs dearly though: every murmillo or secutor who died was taking three or four men with him. The dead sprawled everywhere now, crushed underfoot, heaped on top of each other, prostrate in the entrances to temples. It was a massacre.

  Rome was finally toppling into anarchy, and there was no one to prevent it.

  ‘Hurry!’ Tullius’ sole concern was to get his mistress to safety.

  It was foolish to linger, but Fabiola could not take her eyes off the scene. She watched as six plebeians emerged from the confusion some distance away, bearing Clodius’ body. Led by Fulvia and the bearded leader whom they had encountered earlier, the group moved purposefully towards the Senate entrance. Behind came a pair of men carrying flaming torches. Fabiola gasped. Clodius’ funeral pyre was to be lit inside the Republic’s most important structure: the Senate itself.

  Tullius bobbed up and down unhappily, but Fabiola would not budge. And her guess was correct. Moments later, tendrils of smoke began billowing from inside the sacred chamber. No event in the city’s history had ever been more dramatic. Five hundred years of democracy were about to go up in flames.

  Even Tullius paused when he realised what they were witnessing. Politics affected slaves little, but certain things in the Republic were permanent – or seemed so. The building that housed the seat of government was one of them. To see the Senate being burned was extraordinarily shocking. If it could be destroyed, then so could any other structure in Rome.

  The Sicilian came to his senses at last. ‘We cannot stay, Mistress.’ His tone was firm.

  Fabiola sighed in acceptance and meekly followed Tullius away. Jupiter had spared their lives thus far, but they should not tempt fate. It was time to leave, before things got even worse. Only military force could bring back peace now. The senators would have no choice but to ask Pompey, the new consul, to intervene, which would swing the balance of power firmly away from Caesar. Brutus’ position would also be weakened by this unrest. So, therefore, would hers. And what would happen in Gaul? If Vercingetorix’ rebellion succeeded, Caesar’s attempt to become the Republic’s leader would fail completely. A defeated general could never retain the fickle public’s approval. Fabiola steeled her resolve. Jupiter had shown her his favour by letting her escape the chaos. Only a short time earlier, she had been ready to die – well, no longer. No matter what happened, this would not be the end of her rise to power.

  Fabiola did not even see the arrow strike. It was the gasp of pain which attracted her attention. She looked up to see Tullius toppling forward, looking faintly surprised. A feathered wooden shaft protruded from the middle of his chest, its iron point buried deep in his lungs. Mortally wounded, the Sicilian landed face down in the ankle-deep mud.

  A heartbeat later, another guard followed him. Then a third.

  Ducking down, Fabiola spat a bitter curse. How could I have been so stupid? she thought. Jupiter does not bother with the likes of me.

  The way ahead had been blocked with piles of refuse, lengths of wood and broken pottery. Eager to get away from the Forum, Tullius had not seen it. Fabiola had not been paying attention either. On another day, she might have thought the waist-high rubbish just indicated a particularly poor street, a place where the inhabitants cared for neither health nor hygiene. Not today.

  This was an ambush.

  A fourth missile hissed through the air, taking the guard nearest to her through the neck.

  They could not go forwards. Or back. Certain death awaited in the Forum. Eyes swivelling, Fabiola looked for the archer.

  One of her five remaining followers pointed. Then he screamed, clutching at the arrow jutting from his left eye. Falling t
o his knees, he tugged frantically at the shaft, and Fabiola heard metal scrape off bone as the barbs pulled free of the socket. His face drenched in blood and aqueous fluid, the brave guard staggered upright, sobbing with pain. Now half-blind, he would be of little use in the impending fight.

  From a side alley, ten ruffians emerged. Dressed in ragged, dull brown tunics, they were carrying an assortment of weapons: spears, clubs, knives, rusty swords. There was one bowman, an evil-looking type who smiled as he notched another arrow to his string. His companions were similarly unsavoury in appearance.

  ‘Look what we’ve got here, boys,’ said a spearman with a leer.

  ‘A noble lady!’ answered another. ‘Always wanted to try one of those.’

  The archer licked his lips. ‘Let’s see what’s under that fine robe.’

  The men moved in, their faces filling with lust. This would not just be robbery. Fabiola saw rape and death in their dark eyes. But instead of fear, anger boiled up inside her. These were the lowest of the low: the scum who waited to prey on the weak and unarmed fleeing the battle.

  ‘Mistress?’ asked her guards in unison. Without Tullius, they were unsure what to do.

  She swallowed hard. None had shields, leaving them defenceless against missiles. If they did not act fast, they would all fall to the bowman. There was only one way to overcome their ambushers, who were most probably cowards. Producing the dagger Tullius had given her, Fabiola bared her teeth. ‘Run straight at them,’ she hissed. ‘It’s that, or we go to Hades.’ If this was the end that Jupiter had chosen for her, she would at least die well.

  Seeing her determination, the guards’ courage rose. Four raised their swords, and the one-eyed man unsheathed a knife. With his reduced ability to judge depth of field, a short weapon would be easier to fight with. In a heartbeat, the five were lined up beside her. Slaves or not, it was better to die fighting than to just be slain out of hand.

  A scream of rage and defiance left Fabiola’s mouth. Raising her blade, she charged forward. Everything was falling apart. The gods had answered her: she was surely alone in the world. If death took her now, it would be a release.

  Her men roared in response and followed close behind.

  The battle was brief, and brutal.

  Acting on a hunch that she would not be killed at once, Fabiola ran straight at the archer, who was drawing a bead on someone over her left shoulder. She felt a rush of air as his arrow shot past her cheek and a strangled cry from behind her as it landed. Then she was on him. There would only be one chance: her blow had to disable or kill, instantly. Before the thug even drew breath, Fabiola had slammed her dagger deep into the point where his neck met his body. It was where she had seen Corbulo stick pigs as they were being slaughtered. A high-pitched scream left his lips and he dropped his bow. She didn’t hesitate. Pulling her blade free, Fabiola stabbed him twice more, in the chest. His wounds gushing, the archer fell backwards and out of sight. He would be dead within moments.

  Fabiola looked at the hand holding her weapon, her right. It was completely red, sticky with blood. It was sickening. It was hard to know which was worse: this, or having to couple with old, fat senators.

  ‘Bitch!’

  Instinctively she ducked, avoiding a wildly swinging sword. Facing her was an unshaven, skinny man wielding a rusty gladius. Although Fabiola had not been trained to use weapons, she had watched Juba teaching Romulus enough times. She had also seen the Lupanar’s two doormen sparring with each other. This fool has no idea how to fight, she thought, feeling a surge of hope. But she had never been trained to do so either.

  He lunged forward again but she easily dodged away.

  ‘More used to stabbing people in the back, eh?’ Fabiola sneered, wondering what to do next. To get within knife range, she would have to go dangerously close to his sword. The thug sensed her indecision at once.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy fucking you when this is over,’ he panted, trying to snatch her dagger.

  She had him now. Fabiola slipped down the top of her dress, revealing her full breasts. Survival mattered far more than her modesty.

  Eyes goggling, he dropped his guard.

  ‘Like what you see?’ she asked softly, cupping one invitingly.

  The plebeian could not answer. The only women he could afford were the worn-out whores who lived around the tombs on the Via Appia: toothless, diseased, half drunk most of the time. In comparison, Fabiola was like a vision of a goddess. He licked his lips and moved a pace forward.

  Her smile changed to a she-wolf’s snarl as he drew near enough. In her mind, this could have been Gemellus, or a hundred others who had used her body. With a backwards slash, Fabiola cut the man’s throat wide open, taking the blade so deep it grated off the cartilage of his larynx. As he toppled over, choking on his own blood, she grabbed his gladius. Two weapons will be better than one, she thought.

  When Fabiola had pulled up her dress and looked around, nearly all her men were down, but they had killed twice the number of their attackers. Strangely, the guard whose eye had been taken out was still fighting. Her heart filled with pride at his loyalty and courage. Screaming from a mixture of pain and battle rage, he had disabled two thugs, spilling one’s intestines all over the ground and burying his dagger in the thigh of another.

  That left Fabiola and the injured slave against two of the lowlifes, who now looked decidedly less confident. The odds had improved and her spirits lifted a fraction. Jupiter is still watching over us. Do not turn away now, she pleaded. But Fabiola’s hope vanished again as four more men emerged from the alleyway. Drawn by the sound of fighting, they cried out angrily when they saw their comrades lying dead and injured. Dismay was quickly replaced by lust at the realisation that they only faced two enemies, one of whom was a beautiful young woman.

  ‘Mistress?’

  Fabiola turned to face her wounded guard. Runnels of clotted blood covered his left cheek. They had even run into his open mouth, staining his teeth red. But his remaining eye burned fiercely from the clean, right side of his face. The effect was terrifying and must have given him an advantage over the thugs. ‘What is it?’

  ‘When I’m dead . . .’ He paused, looking genuinely distressed. ‘I don’t want to be dumped on the Esquiline Hill, Mistress.’

  Fabiola’s heart went out to him. The slave wasn’t afraid of dying with her. Instead, like many of his kind, he feared the indignity of being thrown into the city’s open pits along with excess waste and the bodies of animals and criminals. Like her brother, he had pride as well as courage. Sadly, she didn’t even know the man’s name. ‘If I survive, and you do not,’ Fabiola declared, ‘then I swear before all the gods that you will have your own grave, with a memorial over it.’

  She could not promise any more. The odds were still stacked against them.

  He stared at her from his good eye and nodded once.

  This was how the bonds of comradeship were formed, Fabiola realised. Someone who would stand by another in the midst of battle, especially when they did not have to, was worthy of friendship. And trust. Whether they were a slave or not was irrelevant.

  ‘Your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Sextus, Mistress.’

  ‘Good.’ Pleased that she would not die with a stranger, Fabiola studied the newcomers. They seemed vaguely familiar, but fortunately none was armed with a bow. There would be an opportunity to injure or kill at least a few before they died. Perhaps one would drop his guard as the fool with the gladius had, she thought hopefully. But she doubted the ruse would work again. By the way they held their weapons, the tough-looking men were used to fighting. Sighing, Fabiola moved shoulder to shoulder with Sextus. He smelt of blood and sweat. ‘Let’s charge them,’ she whispered. ‘If we break past, head into the alleyway. It will lead somewhere.’

  ‘Be easier to defend as well, Mistress,’ Sextus replied. ‘Two men can barely stand alongside each other in there.’

  She was delighted by his insight. In such a narrow
space, their attackers would not be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers. ‘Jupiter has preserved us both this far,’ she said, taking heart. ‘Now we need Fortuna’s help as well.’

  ‘The gods have never smiled on me, Mistress. I’m a slave.’ Sextus’ eye was world-weary. ‘But I’ll die rather than let these scum harm you.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm in the thugs’ direction.

  There was no more time to talk. Angered by Sextus’ action and full of confidence again, their enemies moved forward purposefully. After all, they now outnumbered their victims by three to one; any fear of injury or death was overcome by their strong desire to rape Fabiola. How hard could it be for half a dozen fighters to overcome a blood-spattered young noblewoman and a badly wounded slave?

  Fabiola’s new-found confidence began to desert her. Better armed and disciplined, the new arrivals were clearly more determined than their original attackers. Fear began to take root in her heart. Raising her gladius, she shuffled forward, trying to remember the practice moves she had once seen Romulus make. Sextus kept close beside her, probing forward with the spear he had picked up.

  One of the thugs laughed; it was an unpleasant, threatening sound.

  And Fabiola remembered where she had seen him before.

  These were fugitivarii.

  Almost on cue, a burly figure with brown hair and deep-set eyes strolled from the alley. Dressed in a legionary’s mail shirt, he had thick silver bands circling his wrists. Behind him were another six of his men, all heavily armed.

  The tip of Sextus’ spear wavered at the sight; Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth in shock.

  Scaevola bowed mockingly.

  Her pulse became a trip hammer. This ambush had been planned.

  Chapter VII: Ambush

  Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

  It was the silence which first drew Romulus’ attention. The fortlet that they had marched all day to reach was at the bottom of a gentle slope in a wide defile, meaning that sound carried up to anyone approaching from the west. Normal noises should have been audible: during daylight, every Roman camp was a hubbub of activity. There were smiths hammering out dents in sword blades, men shouting during weapons drill or trumpets sounding the change of guard. Yet he could hear nothing.