The Silver Eagle (42 page)

Fabiola beamed at him, overjoyed that a plausible explanation had been provided. She had been troubled about bypassing her involvement with Petreius since leaving the legate’s camp.

Brutus’ eyebrows rose. ‘Mithras has truly blessed you, my love. Fortuna too, I think.’

If only you knew it all, Fabiola thought, thinking of her
homa
-induced vision. But that is best told in private. Except for what happened in Petreius’ bedchamber.

‘Fabiola has been safely delivered,’ Brutus said to the
optio
. ‘It was a job well done. Now you’ll need to be getting back to your unit, I expect. But all of you deserve a good rest before setting off.’ He whistled at the nearest of his men. ‘Take these soldiers down to the camp. Find them some hot food and a bed for the night. Quickly!’

There were pleased grins all round as the
optio
and his half-century were led away. Secundus accompanied them but Sextus stayed by Fabiola’s side.

‘Let’s walk to my tent,’ said Brutus, taking Fabiola by the arm. ‘You can relax there. Tonight, a feast to celebrate our victory is being held, and I’m sure Caesar would want you present. He’s heard all about you.’

The moment that Fabiola had desired for an age was nearly here – and it was almost too terrifying to contemplate. During all that she had endured, she had never actually dared to imagine it. But, thanks to Mithras, it would come to pass, in the unlikely setting of a battlefield in Gaul. ‘Wonderful,’ Fabiola, concealing her jangling nerves. ‘I will be honoured to meet your general at last.’

Helped by Docilosa, Fabiola was dressing for the evening. A table, mirrors, some jewellery and bottles of makeup and perfume had been produced from Alesia, as had a selection of dresses. Fabiola knew better than to ask where they came from. The clothing fitted her so well it could have been for her double, which felt poignant. Fabiola made a silent request of Mithras to protect the clothing’s owner, whoever she was.

‘You look stunning,’ said Brutus, regarding Fabiola admiringly. He moved closer, caressing her shoulders with the tips of his fingers. ‘Not trying to impress Caesar, are you?’

Docilosa pursed her lips with disapproval.

‘If I do, it’s for your benefit,’ Fabiola reproached. ‘You know that.’

‘Of course,’ Brutus replied, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry.’

If only you knew what I really want.

‘Do you want me to change it?’

Brutus eyed her low cut silk
stola
, which exposed large amounts of creamy skin. ‘No,’ he said with a lustful grin. ‘It looks good.’

Mollified, Fabiola sat down in front of the small bronze mirror on her table. Docilosa fussed behind her, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind her ears while Fabiola applied the finishing touches to her makeup. A small amount of ochre on her cheeks and the faintest dusting of antimony did the trick. By religiously keeping out of the sun, Fabiola had so far avoided the need to whiten her complexion with lead. She had decided to feel pleased about meeting Caesar at the feast. No doubt his attention would be taken up by his officers, allowing Fabiola to study him at her leisure. The men she met would also be potential sources of information about the shrewd general. Once more, Fabiola determined to use all her wiles in her quest for her father.

She looked Brutus up and down with a practised eye. Her lover had shed his military dress and
caligae
for soft leather shoes and a brilliant white toga of the finest wool. Never happy, his
vestiplicus
, whose job it was to arrange the garment’s complex folds, fussed and bothered around him. Finally Brutus could take no more and dismissed the fawning slave.

Docilosa took the opportunity to fade into the background.

‘Well?’

‘Very handsome, my love,’ Fabiola murmured, moving to his side and cupping his groin.

They had spent the entire afternoon coupling like rabbits, but Brutus’ response was instant.

‘Perhaps you could complain of a bad stomach,’ she suggested throatily.

‘Stop it,’ he laughed. ‘We can’t miss the feast.’

‘I wouldn’t want to,’ Fabiola replied, kissing him on the lips.

Blithely unaware of her motives, Brutus smiled proudly.

Great Mithras, she prayed. Give me a sign. I need to know if Caesar is the one.

A small guard of four legionaries and an
optio
brought them to Caesar’s massive tent.

Sextus watched the pair go, a worried expression on his face. He did not like letting Fabiola out of his sight. Ever.

A balding major-domo was waiting for them at the entrance. ‘Welcome,’ he said, bowing from the waist. ‘Please follow me.’

Full of sudden apprehension, Fabiola froze. Was she mad? Even if her suspicion was correct, to dream of harming one of Rome’s most famous sons was tantamount to committing suicide. A wry smile twisted her lips. What did that matter? Although she had survived terrible dangers, her twin brother had endured far worse. Without Romulus, my survival is unimportant, thought Fabiola. Death is nothing to be afraid of.

Brutus had not noticed her reaction; he eagerly entered after the slave. Steeling herself, Fabiola hurried in too.

Normally where Caesar met daily with his officers, the spacious yet Spartan chamber had been redecorated with dining furniture. In customary fashion, a large reclining couch was placed on three sides of each table, with the fourth left open. The couple were only two of more than twenty guests for dinner. Legates, tribunes and senior staff officers relaxed in threes on each couch, while numerous serving slaves moved to and fro between them. There was no sign of Caesar himself yet, but the lively hum of conversation filled the air.

Heads turned and appreciative murmurs were made as Brutus led Fabiola past the outer tables. He nodded and bowed to many of the officers, while Fabiola smiled hesitantly. Reaching the central table, Brutus greeted the four men who were already reclining around it. Fabiola was delighted. This was clearly where Caesar would sit and to be invited to dine here was an honour of the highest kind.

‘Marcus Antonius, Titus Labienus, Caius Trebonius and Gaius Fabius, good evening.’

The quartet murmured courteous replies, but all their eyes were on Brutus’ companion.

‘May I present Fabiola, my lover? To my utter surprise, she has risked her life through the wilds of Gaul just to come and see me.’

Antonius gave Fabiola a lingering, unpleasant stare, which she ignored.

‘I’m not surprised,’ responded Labienus appreciatively. He was a thin, grey-haired man in late middle age. ‘You’re one of Caesar’s best officers. A fine catch.’

‘Don’t listen to him, my love,’ Brutus demurred. ‘Along with Caesar and Fabius, this man won the final battle. And those two’ – he pointed at Antonius and Trebonius – ‘saved our skins the night before with their cavalry.’

Antonius laughed at Brutus’ comment. ‘You did your bit,’ he drawled, rubbing a hand through his curly brown hair. ‘That’s why you’re here. Now sit.’

Brutus flushed and guided Fabiola to her seat at the end of the right-hand couch. He took the middle space, meaning they were separated by a bolster, and both faced Caesar’s couch. It had been left empty for the general to occupy alone. Having learned the importance of the different places, Fabiola knew that only Labienus and Antonius were reclining in superior positions to her lover. Pride filled her, but she was also worried by the obvious animosity between Brutus and Antonius, Caesar’s best friend: a man with a wild and dangerous reputation.

Glasses of
mulsum
were served at once, but Fabiola had scarcely swallowed a mouthful before loud cheering broke out. Officer after officer stood, and she realised that Caesar had entered the room.

Getting to his feet, Brutus turned to Fabiola with a smile. ‘See how they love him?’

She nodded.

‘The legionaries are the same,’ he said. ‘They would follow him to Hades and back.’

‘Why?’ she asked, trying to understand.

‘Caesar always rewards his soldiers’ bravery. For example, every single one who fought here at Alesia is to receive a slave as bounty,’ whispered Brutus. ‘But it’s not just that. Caesar is also courageous, so they greatly respect him. Whenever necessary, he leads from the front. Vercingetorix’ warriors were very close to winning yesterday, but Caesar rode out from the palisade with our cavalry reserve and smashed into their rear.’ He thumped one fist into the other. ‘All along the line our men were hard-pressed and about to break, but when they saw Caesar in his red cloak galloping up and down, they counter-attacked. The Gauls panicked and fled, and the battle was won!’

Soon the cheering and clapping had reached deafening proportions. The nearest officers parted, revealing Caesar for the first time. A lean whippet of a man, he had short, thinning hair, a narrow face with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. While not traditionally handsome, something about him demanded attention. Fabiola could not put her finger on it. She noted that the toga Caesar was wearing had a narrow purple border. This was the mark of censors, magistrates and dictators. Few could doubt which category Caesar fell into, she thought in admiration. But was he responsible for raping her mother? A striking resemblance to Romulus provided new fuel for her suspicions.

‘Welcome, sir,’ said Antonius expansively. ‘You grace us with your presence.’

Caesar nodded at each of them in turn. He lingered most on Fabiola, who flushed and looked down at her shoes. Meeting one of the most powerful men in the Republic was intimidating.

Brutus clicked his fingers and a delicate goblet was placed in his general’s hand.

‘This must be the beautiful Fabiola,’ said Caesar. His gaze was piercing and charismatic. ‘At last we meet.’

‘Sir.’ She bowed deeply in response. ‘I am honoured to be here, at your victory feast.’

He smiled, putting Fabiola more at ease. ‘Please be seated.’

They all obeyed, and Fabiola looked on politely as the men became engrossed in a lively discussion. Naturally enough, they talked first about the battle. Fabiola’s interest was aroused and soon she was listening to every word.

Caesar led the conversation, analysing every angle of their campaign. There was much to consider. His struggle against Vercingetorix might have ended at the walled city of Alesia, but the conflict had lasted for many months. It had begun with the besieging of a number of towns loyal to the rebel chieftain, including Cenabum and Avaricum.

‘I’ve heard of Cenabum before,’ said Fabiola.

‘Probably because the townspeople massacred Roman traders who were living there,’ explained Caesar. ‘Of course we wanted revenge, so the siege did not take long.’

‘What happened?’ asked Fabiola.

‘My forces set fire to the gates, burst into the town and sacked it.’ He smiled thinly at her horror. ‘Soldiers are wolves. They need the thrill of the hunt to stay keen.’

Fabiola nodded, remembering the adrenalin running through her veins as she fought alongside Sextus. She could also imagine the terror of the civilians inside Cenabum when the legionaries swarmed in.

‘Besieging Avaricum was harder though. It was winter still and we ran very short of food,’ continued Brutus. ‘Foraging parties were sent out daily, but the Gaulish cavalry played havoc with them.’

‘A dark few days,’ agreed Antonius.

‘So I gave my legions the option of lifting the siege . . .’ said Caesar.

‘Did they take it?’ asked Fabiola curiously.

‘They refused to a man,’ he replied proudly. ‘Said it would be a disgrace not to finish what they had started. So, with no corn left to make bread, my legionaries lived on beef and nothing else for several days.’

‘At the same time, they were building an enormous embankment to fill the gully which protected the only way into the town,’ Brutus went on, his face alight. ‘And the Gauls were hurling sharpened stakes, massive rocks and boiling pitch down on us all the while.’

‘Even when the timber base of the embankment itself was set on fire, the men did not lose heart,’ said Caesar. ‘The next day, despite heavy rain, they took the walls and then the town.’

Fabiola gasped admiringly. With
mulsum
coursing through her, she became more and more involved in the animated conversation between Caesar and his officers. Her desire to find out if he was her father became submerged beneath her fascination with the awe-inspiring details of the campaign. Losing her inhibitions, Fabiola even began asking detailed questions of Caesar himself. Alarmed, Brutus threw her an admonishing glance, but his general, appearing amused, tolerated this for some time.

With her cheeks aglow, Fabiola did not notice when Caesar began to appear impatient. Brutus was reaching over to whisper in her ear when she made an uncharacteristic mistake. ‘If your men are so valiant, what went wrong at Gergovia?’ she asked forcefully.

A shocked silence fell across the table. Caesar’s face froze.

‘Well?’ Fabiola asked again.

No one answered her.