The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  Petreius guided her to another part of the enormous tent, where three reclining couches were positioned closely around a low table, leaving one side free for food to be served. Typically, each couch was able to accommodate up to three people. The level of opulence here was the same as the area where Fabiola had washed, and equalled most banqueting halls in Rome. Even the table was a piece of art, with an inlaid surface of gold and pearl and wonderfully carved legs in the shape of lions’ paws. Light from the huge candelabra hanging overhead bounced off large platters of Arretine ware, red glazed pottery with intricate designs in relief. There was fine glassware in a range of colours, a silver salt cellar and spoons with delicate bone handles. A trio of slaves sat in one corner, alternately playing the pan pipes, lyre and cithara, a large stringed instrument with a sweet sound. Others stood by, waiting to serve food and drink.

  Hoping there would be more guests, Fabiola looked around.

  Petreius met her glance with a wink. ‘Normally I dine with my tribunes, but not tonight.’

  She managed to return his smile, but a flutter of unease rose from her stomach. After her time in the Lupanar, Fabiola could read men like a book.

  ‘Please.’ Petreius was indicating where she should lie. It was the place of honour, directly adjoining his position.

  Her mind in a turmoil, the young woman sat down. Taking off her shoes, she placed them on the floor beneath the seat before reclining.

  Thankfully the legate took the central couch rather than sitting right beside her. He waved a hand at the nearest slave, who hurried over, pouring mulsum for them both.

  Fabiola took the proffered goblet gratefully. After her near escape from Scaevola, the mixture of wine and honey tasted like nectar to her. Without thinking, she drained the lot.

  The glass was refilled at once.

  Sipping his, Petreius fixed his gaze on Fabiola. ‘Tell me of your family,’ he said warmly.

  She searched his face for signs of deception, but could see none. Praying again to Mithras, and to Jupiter, Fabiola began constructing an elaborate life history. She was one of three children of Julianus Messalinus, a deceased merchant, and his wife, Velvinna Helpis. The family resided on the Aventine, a mainly plebeian area. To make her story more authentic, Fabiola wove much of her own life into it. Where she had grown up was unremarkable; like anywhere in Rome, patricians lived there too. Naming her mother correctly somehow felt right, as did mentioning a twin brother. Julianus, the oldest, had joined the army as a bookkeeper and been killed with Crassus in Parthia. At this point, Fabiola’s voice wobbled and she stopped for a moment.

  Petreius looked suitably sympathetic.

  Nervously, Fabiola went on. While it increased her danger to invent living people who could never be traced, she wanted to feel that she had some kin still, instead of being alone in the world. So Romulus, her twin, now ran the family business, but was often out of the country on trading ventures. Unmarried, Fabiola lived in the ancestral home with her mother and their retinue of slaves. To avoid Petreius asking why she was still single, Fabiola mentioned a number of regular suitors. So far, none had met with Velvinna’s approval.

  ‘All mothers are the same,’ laughed the legate.

  The young woman was amazed by her own inventiveness. Yet it was not difficult for her to come up with a completely fabricated existence. As a child in Gemellus’ domus, she had observed much about Roman society. Although he came from impoverished roots, the cruel merchant had achieved a certain level of public recognition because of his riches. He had dealings with all levels of society, and had often entertained his clients at his home. Fabiola had an excellent understanding of the way the trading classes dealt with each other.

  She paused, her throat dry from talking. Another swallow of the mulsum helped her to continue.

  Petreius listened carefully, long fingers cupping his jaw.

  Easy targets because of their awkward table manners or poor social etiquette, former slaves were frequently the butt of cruel jokes. Determined that this would not happen to her if she was ever freed, Fabiola had also absorbed every little piece of information that came her way in the Lupanar. Many of her customers spent large amounts of time in her company, during which they poured out their life stories to her. As the most popular prostitute, she had encountered numerous members of the Roman elite, the senators and equites. Other clients had been prosperous merchants or businessmen. All were men who lived at the pinnacle of Roman society, in a world far removed from that of the average slave, and one which Fabiola had only recently been admitted to. She was careful, therefore, to portray herself as being from the middle class of Roman society rather than the upper.

  Petreius did not appear upset that Fabiola was from trading stock rather than noble. If anything, he looked pleased by her revelation.

  Her initial story also seemed to satisfy him. To take the focus away from herself, she quickly went on the offensive.

  ‘I am so unimportant,’ Fabiola said. ‘Whereas you are the commander of a legion.’

  Petreius made a modest gesture of denial, but she could see he was pleased.

  ‘You must have fought many wars,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And conquered many peoples.’

  ‘I’ve seen my fair share of combat,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘Like any who do their duty for Rome.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Fabiola requested, her eyes shining with false excitement.

  ‘I was one of those who defeated the Catiline conspirators,’ he said. ‘And among other things, I helped Pompey Magnus to quell the Spartacus rebellion.’

  Fabiola gasped in apparent admiration, holding back the riposte that it had in fact been Crassus who was responsible for putting down the uprising. Tellingly, Petreius had just shown himself to be a liar. As the informed knew, Pompey’s role had been only minor; his defeat of five thousand slaves who had fled the main battle a helping hand rather than a decisive thrust. Yet he had managed to claim all the credit by sending the Senate a letter informing them of his victory. The stroke was one of Pompey’s finest, and clearly Petreius had jumped on the bandwagon of his master’s success.

  Fabiola noted this chink in the legate’s armour. If only the Thracian gladiator had not failed, she thought sadly. Romulus and I might have been born free. Had completely different lives. Instead, outmanoeuvred and surrounded by the legions, Spartacus had failed. Now slaves were more rigorously controlled than ever before.

  ‘Of course the uprising never really posed much threat to Rome,’ Petreius sneered. ‘Damn slaves.’

  Fabiola nodded in seeming agreement. How little you know, she shouted inwardly. Like many nobles, Petreius regarded slaves as little more than animals, incapable of intelligent thought or action. She fantasised about grabbing the pugio on his belt and sticking it in his chest, but quashed the idea on the spot. While appealing, it would not help her get out of this situation. Any such action would also endanger the lives of the people in her care: Docilosa, Sextus and Secundus. What other options were there? Escaping from the massive camp without the legate’s permission would be impossible. Sentries watched all the entrances day and night, and no one came or left without being challenged.

  A sinking feeling began to creep over her.

  Like her previous clients, Petreius hadn’t noticed Fabiola’s momentary lack of attention. By simply smiling and nodding her head, the beautiful young woman could keep men absorbed for hours. Her previous profession had taught Fabiola not just how to physically satisfy men, but also the skilful art of making them think that they were the centre of the world. While pretending to enjoy their conversation, she also tantalised and teased. The promise of pleasure was sometimes more effective than actually providing it. Throaty laughs, a flash of bosom or thigh, fluttering eyelashes – Fabiola knew them all. Fuelled by the wine and her despair at what to do, she now found herself making more of these suggestive gestures than planned. Later, she would wonder if there was anything else she could have done.

  ‘I als
o 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.’<
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  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

  Trying 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.