The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  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.

  They huddled together, waiting for the battle to end.

  It did not take long. Surprised and outnumbered, the surviving thugs did not put up much resistance. Although used to fighting together, they usually only faced terrified, half-starved slaves: easy to intimidate and even easier to overcome. Several threw down their weapons and pleaded for mercy. It got them nothing more than a swifter death. Veteran of a score of skirmishes, Scaevola realised that the game was up. Spinning on his heel, he shoved one of his own men out of the way with an impatient cry. He bounded backwards, towards the Forum. Despite the rioting, he had more chance of escaping with his life there than here with his followers.

  His eyes met Fabiola’s.

  Time stopped.

  Full of bitter rage, the squat fugitivarius mouthed a curse at her. She did the same. Stung by her defiance, he lunged forward, gladius in hand. And was met by Sextus, swinging his axe.

  Scaevola skidded to a halt. ‘Curse you to Hades,’ he spat before sprinting off up the street.

  Overcome by terror and nervous exhaustion, Fabiola sank down into the mud. Sextus moved to stand protectively over her, his one eye bright with battle rage. As the last thugs fell, the veterans closed in on them and Sextus turned this way and that, waving his axe at any who came within range.

/>   Fabiola closed her eyes. Their rescuers might prove to be nothing more than another group of would-be rapists. But they did not move any closer. Heavy scuta clattered on to the ground when they were done. Without speaking, the men took a brief rest, chests heaving, sword arms reddened. Killing was tiring work.

  When nothing happened, Fabiola got to her feet, the rags of her dress clutched around her. Unshaven faces regarded her admiringly. Silently. And not one man moved. She did not know how to react. Neither did Sextus.

  Finally one of the veterans surrounding them gave a shrill whistle. To Fabiola’s utter surprise, Secundus emerged from the alleyway. A parting appeared in the circle, allowing him to approach. ‘Lady,’ he said, inclining his head.

  Fabiola tried to be bold. ‘You have my thanks,’ she said, rewarding him with a beaming smile.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were escaping the rioting,’ Fabiola explained. ‘And they ambushed us. They were going to . . . He nearly . . .’ The words dried in her throat.

  ‘You’re safe now,’ muttered Secundus, patting her arm.

  She nodded jerkily, her emotions still in turmoil. Although Secundus seemed sympathetic, not every veteran’s face was friendly.

  Secundus regarded the nearest corpse with contempt. ‘To think that we fought for fuckers like this, eh?’

  It was a valid point. Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers had fought and died for their countrymen’s sake. Meanwhile, other men robbed, raped and killed citizens on the streets of Rome.

  ‘This ambush was planned,’ Fabiola revealed. She filled Secundus in, blaming the attack by Scaevola and his crew on the fact that she and Brutus were supporters of Caesar. She made no mention of the young fugitive who had been the reason they met. Few would understand why anyone would want to intervene on behalf of a slave.

  ‘Well, the scumbag’s gone now,’ said Secundus reassuringly when she had finished. ‘He won’t be back in a hurry. Most of his men are dead.’

  Feeling calmer, Fabiola gazed down the alleyway. Like the Forum, it was now littered with bodies. A few thugs were still alive, but not for long. Secundus’ men moved expertly among them, slitting throats and checking for money pouches. It was not pleasant to witness, but they deserved no better, she thought.

  Wary of the violence in the Forum, Secundus began calling the veterans back. ‘This is no place to linger, lady,’ he said, ushering her towards the alleyway. Like a faithful hound, Sextus followed.

  ‘Do you often intervene like this?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘From time to time.’

  Fabiola was surprised. ‘But why?’

  Secundus laughed. ‘It’s hard to give up army life after ten years or more, lady. About fifty or sixty of us keep in touch; we like to keep the area fairly peaceable. Can’t stop what’s going on in the Forum, but this, we can. It’s easy for us, being trained soldiers and all. And it pleases Mithras.’

  Fabiola was confused by the reference. ‘Your god?’

  He regarded her steadily. ‘Indeed, lady. The soldiers’ god.’

  She and Sextus owed their lives not just to Jupiter, but to an unknown deity. Fabiola was intrigued. ‘I would like to offer my thanks,’ she said.

  ‘At the Mithraeum, lady?’ he asked. ‘Unfortunately not.’

  Unused to being refused, Fabiola bridled. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re a woman. Only men may enter our temple.’

  ‘I see.’

  Secundus coughed awkwardly. ‘It’s not safe round here, though.’ The noise of fighting could still be heard from the Forum. ‘It would be permissible for you to wait in the anterooms. Tomorrow, when it is safer, we can escort you back to your domus.’

  ‘My slave comes too.’ She indicated Sextus.

  ‘Of course,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Our medical orderly can treat his wound.’

  Some of the veterans looked less than happy at Secundus’ offer of shelter and treatment.

  ‘Why are you helping me?’ Fabiola asked.

  There was another shy grin. ‘You gave me an aureus, remember?’

  The best money I ever spent, thought Fabiola. ‘Strange that our paths should cross again so soon,’ she said.

  ‘The gods work in such ways, lady,’ Secundus replied.

  ‘They do,’ she agreed passionately.

  Leaving the dead sprawled uncaring in the mud, Secundus led them off through a series of narrow yet empty thoroughfares. His companions split up, some walking protectively in front, some behind. Despite their reservations about Fabiola and her slave, all kept their swords drawn and eyes peeled for more trouble. But there was no one else about. All of Clodius’ and Milo’s men had descended on the Forum and the noise of the rioting alone was enough to make any ordinary citizens remaining indoors stay where they were. Doors were shut and shop windows barred. Street fountains splashed noisily, unattended. There were no plebeian women collecting water in clay vessels or washing their clothes. The public toilets were empty of gossiping neighbours and urchins selling vinegar-soaked sponges on sticks. Rickety wooden stalls that would typically be displaying bread, pottery, ironmongery and simple foodstuffs stood forlorn and bare. Even the begging lepers and the familiar scavenging mongrels were nowhere to be seen. An occasional scared face peered from half-open shuttered windows above, but these slammed shut if any of the party looked up. It was an eerie feeling to move through the city unimpeded by traffic or throngs of people. Rome was normally a hive of human activity from dawn till dusk.

  Not today.

  After they had been climbing for a little while, the sounds of violence gradually began to diminish.

  ‘This is the Palatine,’ Fabiola exclaimed in surprise.

  Secundus threw her a crooked smile. ‘Expected us to be based on the Aventine or Caelian Hills, did you?’

  Fabiola flushed at his accurate guess. Most of the Palatine’s residents were wealthy, unlike the ragged, unshaven figures surrounding her.

  ‘Soldiers are the true spirit of Rome,’ he said proudly. There was a growl of agreement from the others. ‘We belong here, at its ancient heart.’

  Fabiola bent her head in respect. After all, legionaries were the men who fought and died for the Republic. Although she had little love for it, she could respect these veterans’ bravery and the sacrifices they had made in its name. One only had to see the stump of Secundus’ sword arm and the multitude of old scars on all the ex-soldiers to realise that. Flesh had been hacked off, blood lost and comrades slain, while the rich who dwelled around here had given little, if anything, for their state.

  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.