The Silver Eagle (41 page)

‘Tell me why I shouldn’t cut this rope,’ the Nubian said in passable Parthian. ‘Before my men kill your friend.’

Chapter XXI: Reunion

Central Gaul, summer 52
BC

A
fter a long time, Fabiola managed to pull herself together. Muttering reassuring words, Secundus moved her away from the druid’s body. Fabiola hardly noticed the gore any longer as the
optio
led his men towards the group of tents on a promontory overlooking the corpse-strewn ground. The terror of the previous few weeks had been overwhelming, and her encounter with the dying druid agonising. Fabiola shuddered. But with the aid of the gods, she had coped this far. Endured. She breathed deeply and imagined the reception she would get. Gradually Fabiola’s mood changed to that of nervous excitement. She was about to see Brutus again! Nothing could be done about Romulus for the moment, and her deep-held worries about Caesar faded into the background. Her perilous journey was nearly over, and at last she would be able to relax a little. The prospect filled her with relief.

They climbed the slope, reaching a number of checkpoints manned by exhausted-looking legionaries. Many had bandaged arms, legs or heads; their armour and shields were battered and blood-stained. To a man, though, their manner was alert and watchful. At each, Fabiola declared her status and her mission, which saw them ushered through with surprised but respectful salutes. As she passed, the soldiers’ heads turned in lust and awe at her beauty. But not one dared say a word within earshot. Who wished to incur the displeasure of Decimus Brutus, key right-hand man of Julius Caesar?

They came within range of the army’s command post: this was also where the senior officers’ quarters had been erected. Fabiola’s pulse quickened. As well as the usual force of guards, messengers and trumpeters, there were men in gilded armour standing outside the largest tent, with a lithe, energetic figure gesticulating in their midst. It could only be Caesar. And where he was, Brutus would not be far away. She smiled, imagining her lover’s response when he saw her.

‘Caesar is the best general Rome has ever had,’ Secundus declared. ‘This is a victory like no other!’

Remotely associated with Caesar through Fabiola and Brutus, Docilosa swelled with pride. After surviving great dangers and threats to their lives, this was just reward.

‘Look, lady.’

Secundus’ words dragged Fabiola from her reverie. Her gaze followed his pointing arm. It was no surprise that Caesar had moved to this spot, she thought. The whole battlefield was laid out below them, allowing an appreciation of the scale of his achievement and the size of the force which must have opposed his ten legions. The view to the north-west was obscured by the rock face, but the fortifications stretched as far as the eye could see to the south-east, facing both ways, with lethal killing grounds in front and behind. There were blocks of wood with iron hooks to drag at passing men’s feet and clothing, pits with sharpened stakes at the bottom and ditches filled with irregularly cut gravestones. Inside these were two deep trenches, one of which had been filled with water from a nearby river. Finally there was the palisade itself, which was reinforced by a layer of spiked branches poking forward below the battlements. Regular towers along it provided excellent fields of fire. Stores of
pila
were still stacked along the walkways, the last remnants of the thousands which must have been hurled at the Gauls as they advanced slowly through the death-traps. Fabiola could see that Caesar’s defences had been tested to their limit. Corpses covered the ground between the circumvallation and Alesia, as well as on the other side. Many of the dead were clearly Roman, slain in counter-attacks and missions to retrieve undamaged
pila
, but the vast majority were Gauls – warriors in the prime of life, younger men, youths and even a few old men. Whole tribes lay here.

Fabiola’s fearful admiration for Caesar soared. Her knowledge of warfare was limited, but no one could fail to appreciate the immensity of the struggle which must have gone on here. To win when so greatly outnumbered was incredible. Fabiola was glad that she had not decided to stay with Marcus Petreius. Even Pompey might not be capable of outwitting the general who had won this remarkable victory. If it came to it, was anyone? A tremor of fear ran through Fabiola. She suddenly felt very small and insignificant. Brutus had hitched his fate to a meteor, it seemed. And hers with it. Only time would tell if they both got burned.

‘Fabiola? Is that you?’

The sound of the familiar voice made her stomach turn over. Fabiola turned her head, and saw her lover walking towards them. Nervously, she raised a hand. ‘Brutus!’

With an excited cry, he broke into a run. Of average build, Brutus was clad in a typical senior officer’s gilded breastplate, red cloak and transverse crested helmet. He held on to the ornate hilt of his sword, but the studded leather straps which protected his groin and upper legs jingled to and fro as he ran.

Fabiola longed to race to her lover, but in an effort to keep her composure, she remained stationary. Smoothing down her plain dress, she wished there had been time to buy more clothes and some perfume. Stay calm, she thought. This is not Rome, or Pompeii. There are no luxuries when on campaign. I am here: that is enough.

‘By all the gods, it is you!’ shouted Brutus as he drew near.

Fabiola gave him a radiant smile, the one she knew he loved.

Petreius’ legionaries saluted and pulled apart smartly, forming a corridor.

Slowing, Brutus strode the last few paces, drinking in Fabiola’s beauty as a thirsty man drains a cup of water. There was a tired grey sheen to his unshaven face, but he was unhurt. ‘How in the name of Hades?’ he demanded, beaming and frowning by turns. ‘What are you doing in this godforsaken spot?’

She pouted. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

He took her hands in his and squeezed them hard. ‘Yes! It’s as if Mars himself has answered my prayers.’

Fabiola leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Brutus met her passion with a burning intensity of his own, and enveloped her in his arms. Finally they parted, staring into each other’s eyes, needing to say nothing. It was luxury for both to feel the other’s body against their own. ‘Gods,’ Fabiola murmured at last. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’

Boyishly, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘And I you, my darling. How many months has it been?’

‘Nearly nine,’ she replied sadly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brutus said, clasping Fabiola’s fingers as if he thought she would disappear if he let go. ‘This campaign has been like no other. We’ve done nothing but march and fight since the damn rebellion started. I couldn’t leave Caesar’s side.’

‘Of course,’ said Fabiola understandingly. ‘I know.’

‘How is it at the
latifundium
?’ Seeing her expression change, Brutus frowned. ‘Has something happened?’

At once tears formed in the corners of Fabiola’s eyes. Poor Corbulo, she thought guiltily. He died because of my rash behaviour. So did the gladiators I hired. My slaves have been sold off to the highest bidder. And that poor boy, castrated just to satisfy Scaevola’s pique.

Brutus gazed into her eyes, full of concern. ‘Tell me,’ he said gently.

It all poured out in a torrent of words. The runaway. Scaevola and his
fugitivarii
. Her humiliation of him. How her slaves had appeared in the nick of time.

‘Crossing the
fugitivarius
was not very wise perhaps,’ said Brutus. ‘But I know how overbearing men like him can be.’

Nodding, Fabiola went on, relating how two slaves had been murdered in the fields. This had hastened her decision to travel to Rome, where she had met Secundus. She indicated the veteran to Brutus. No details were spared about Clodius Pulcher’s death, the ensuing riots and the dramatic burning of the Senate.

‘We heard about that even here. Where’s the respect for proper order gone?’ muttered Brutus darkly. ‘Plebeian scum! They need the point of a sword shoved where it hurts.’

‘That’s probably already happened,’ said Fabiola, inclining her head towards the legionaries around them. ‘One of Pompey’s legions will have reached Rome by now.’

The
optio
grinned proudly.

Understanding, Brutus did not ask more. ‘Thank Mars that you weren’t there for that,’ he replied. ‘Go on.’

Without mentioning Scaevola’s powerful backer, Fabiola related the story of his street ambush and of what the
fugitivarius
had done to Corbulo and the others on the
latifundium
. Brutus’ eyes bulged with anger, but he let her continue without interrupting. Upon hearing of Fabiola’s near rape however, he swelled with outrage. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Scaevola.’ To deliver the thunderbolt, Fabiola placed her lips by Brutus’ ear. ‘Apparently he’s on Pompey’s payroll. And we’re not the first supporters of Caesar to be targeted.’

Brutus went icy calm. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, he needs to be made an example of. Finding an arrogant son of a whore like that shouldn’t be much problem. Scaevola will pay for what he has done. Slowly, too.’

Relief filled Fabiola. Already the malevolent
fugitivarius
felt like less of a threat. To be sure though, she would have to stay by Brutus’ side. ‘Are you finished . . . ?’ she began.

‘Here?’ Brutus indicated the heaped bodies below them. ‘Perhaps. Vercingetorix is in chains and we have taken tens of thousands of his men as slaves.’ He frowned. ‘Many tribes may continue fighting though. But we will not stop until Gaul is truly part of the Republic. Until Caesar has won completely.’ He raised his voice. ‘Victory to Julius Caesar!’

The nearest of Caesar’s legionaries cheered when they heard, while the soldiers who had accompanied Fabiola north looked distinctly uneasy.

Brutus turned next to Docilosa, bestowing a broad smile on her. ‘Looking after your mistress well?’

‘She’s a godsend,’ interrupted Fabiola. ‘I’d have been lost without her.’

Docilosa’s face went beetroot with pride.

‘Your fealty will be rewarded,’ said Brutus kindly. ‘And who is this man here?’

‘Sextus, Master,’ the slave replied, bowing low. ‘The last of the mistress’ bodyguards.’

‘He has the heart of a lion,’ Fabiola declared. ‘And fights like one too.’

‘You have my thanks.’ Brutus clapped Sextus on the shoulder.

‘Master.’

‘And this is Secundus?’ asked Brutus.

‘I am, sir.’ Secundus clenched his fist and thumped it off his chest in salute. ‘A veteran of thirteen years’ service.’

‘He and his comrades saved us from Scaevola,’ said Fabiola. ‘They gave us shelter and then guided us on our journey.’

Sextus nodded emphatically.

Brutus threw a grateful look at Secundus. ‘Are these your men?’ he asked with some confusion.

Secundus’ face turned sad. ‘No, sir. My comrades were all killed by the
fugitivarii
. Two weeks or so north of Rome, they ambushed us again. Caught us napping like raw recruits.’

‘No,’ cried Fabiola. ‘With Mithras’ help, you got us out of there. No one else could have.’

Secundus dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘Mithras, you say?’ asked Brutus sharply.

‘Yes,’ Fabiola answered. ‘Secundus and his men follow the path.’ For the moment, she said nothing about her own involvement.

At once Brutus leaned forward. With a laugh, Secundus did the same and they shook hands firmly.

It was Fabiola’s turn to be surprised. ‘You worship Mithras too?’

‘For the last few months. A senior centurion who served in Asia Minor introduced me to the religion,’ Brutus explained with glee. ‘And now, under Secundus’ protection, the god has brought you to me. This calls for a generous sacrifice!’

Fabiola was delighted.

‘So these legionaries . . .’ began Brutus. ‘Whose are they?’

‘We got them thanks to Mithras too, sir,’ said Secundus in a low voice. ‘The
fugitivarii
fled when we encountered a Pompeian legion on its way to Rome. It was under the command of Marcus Petreius, who turned out to be a believer too.’