The Silver Eagle (46 page)

Longinus was surprised. ‘Why would you want to know about that burning hell?’ he asked, his scarred face confused. ‘I try never to think about it.’

A quick glance over her shoulder told Fabiola that Brutus was not watching. She turned coy, a policy which rarely failed with men. ‘Don’t be modest, general,’ she purred. ‘I’m told that if you had been in charge at Carrhae, the outcome might have been quite different.’

Flattered, Longinus’ grizzled features softened. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he protested. ‘But Crassus certainly wouldn’t listen to my advice that day.’

She nodded understandingly. ‘How bad was it?’

Longinus scowled. ‘Beyond your imagination, lady. Nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. Temperatures hotter than Hades. Scant food and no water.’ He sighed. ‘And the damn Parthians. Little men for the most part, but by all the gods, they can ride and shoot arrows. Ordinary legionaries just can’t fight them.’ His face darkened. ‘And thanks to the treachery of our so-called Nabataean allies, we had precious few cavalry.’

‘They say that was Crassus’ greatest mistake,’ Fabiola threw in. ‘Not having reliable cavalry.’ She was pleased to see respect appear in his face. Longinus did not know it, but the sentiment was one Fabiola had heard Brutus utter before.

‘True enough,’ Longinus agreed. ‘When our Gaulish horsemen were killed with Publius, Crassus’ son, the rest simply fled. There we were on a flat, burning plain: thirty thousand infantry facing ten thousand horse, most of them mounted archers with an unlimited supply of arrows. You can imagine what happened next.’ He fell into a grim silence.

While Fabiola had heard plenty of snippets and gossip about Carrhae, Longinus had painted a far more terrifying picture. A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Romulus being there. The horror was incalculable. Fabiola swallowed, taking consolation from her vision in the Mithraeum. To be present at the battle she had seen, her brother had somehow survived the devastation of Crassus’ army. It had to be the gods who had saved Romulus, Fabiola thought desperately. And they would continue to look after him.

‘My lady, what is it?’

Some of her inner turmoil must have shown, Fabiola realised. She was about to lie, and then saw that there was no point. Longinus knew of her origins. ‘My brother was there,’ she said simply.

‘I see. Was he also a . . .’ Longinus paused, looking uncomfortable.

‘Slave? Yes, he was. And a gladiator,’ Fabiola answered, without batting an eyelid. ‘I think he joined a mercenary cohort as an ordinary soldier.’

Longinus failed to conceal his surprise. ‘Their recruitment policies are, shall we say, a little more relaxed than the legions. Yet most of them fought very well. At one stage during the battle, twenty brave mercenaries who had been isolated with Publius were allowed to return unharmed to our lines. Not that it did them much good, probably. Rome lost so many good soldiers that day.’ He looked her in the eyes. ‘A few irregulars retreated to the Euphrates with my legion. Was your brother among them?’

Fabiola shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

He patted her arm.

‘Romulus survived though,’ she said stoutly.

Longinus gave her a disbelieving look.

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘I see. If he did, then . . .’ Longinus flashed a false grin. ‘Who knows?’

Fabiola smiled brightly at him. The grizzled tribune was trying to protect her from the brutal reality of the Roman survivors’ fates. But he had not seen what she had after drinking the
homa
. Nor heard the druid’s dying words. They had been cut short, which meant that there was still hope. While her fortunes continued to soar, Fabiola had to believe that those of Romulus stayed on an even keel at least. It was either that, or go mad.

‘Fabiola?’ It was Brutus’ voice. ‘Caesar has personally requested that we attend him.’

Longinus inclined his head and stood aside.

Murmuring her thanks, Fabiola followed Brutus, who seemed delighted. ‘What does he want?’ she asked nervously. Since Alesia, there had not been a private, face-to-face meeting. In public with other people around, yes. But like this, no.

‘He’s already done it with Antonius and a couple of the others,’ replied Brutus. ‘I think it’s to toast our good fortune in the days ahead.’

At the entrance to a side chamber stood four smartly turned-out, tough-looking veterans. As the couple drew near, they stiffened to attention. An
optio
, the most senior, slapped a fist off his mail shirt and saluted.

Brutus languidly acknowledged the gesture. They passed inside, into Caesar’s personal quarters. The man himself was alone, bent over a detailed map of Italy laid out on a nearby desk. Still unaware of their presence, he stabbed a finger down on to the parchment. ‘Rome,’ he muttered.

Brutus grinned.

Not for the first time, Fabiola was struck by how alike Caesar and Romulus were. She herself bore the same fair complexion, aquiline nose and piercing eyes. And while their stations in life were worlds apart, Fabiola felt the burning drive to succeed that she saw in Caesar. Here he was, unafraid to take on the entire institution of the Republic. A similar stubborn courage had burned in Romulus’ heart; it did in hers too. And while Fabiola’s task might be less ambitious than Caesar’s, she would not stop until she discovered who had raped her mother. And taken revenge upon him. Even if it is Caesar, thought Fabiola fiercely. I owe it to Mother. And Romulus. At once doubt filled her. Is he really my father? How in the name of all the gods can I know?

Finally Caesar sensed their presence. Straightening, he gave them both a warm smile. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ replied Brutus.

‘And mine.’ Fabiola bowed deeply.

He offered them both
mulsum
. ‘To a swift victory,’ said Caesar, raising his glass. ‘Or to the Senate seeing sense.’

Smiling, they drank.

‘This is a sad day for the Republic,’ commented Caesar. His voice changed, growing angry. ‘But they leave me no option. The most successful general in our history should not be treated like a dog.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ agreed Brutus indignantly. ‘Pompey will not lay down his commands or disband his legions, so why should you?’

Fabiola murmured in agreement.

‘Pompey is no raw recruit,’ warned Caesar. ‘I hope that he and the Optimates decide to negotiate, or this could be a long struggle.’

‘Gaul only took seven years, sir,’ said Brutus with a grin. ‘What’s another few?’

Caesar threw back his head and laughed before regarding Brutus steadily. ‘My success has a lot to do with good men like you,’ he said. ‘I do not forget these things.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Brutus.

Fabiola was delighted by this show of affection.

They made polite conversation for some time. Then Caesar reached into a drawer on his desk. ‘I need you to do something important for me,’ he said conspiratorially to Brutus. ‘It won’t take long.’

‘Anything, sir.’ Brutus looked eager.

A rolled parchment appeared in Caesar’s hand. ‘These are fresh orders for the troops in Ariminium.’ He saw Fabiola’s confusion and explained. ‘I sent some there yesterday, dressed in civilian clothing.’

‘You want me to travel on ahead, sir?’ asked Brutus.

‘No. Just deliver it to the
optio
who’s waiting outside by my carriage. He knows where to go.’

Taking the parchment, Brutus hurried from the room.

Left alone with Caesar, Fabiola smiled uneasily. Had this been planned? For a short time, her worries seemed unfounded as Caesar asked solicitously about her wellbeing and hopes for the future.

‘Will you bear him children?’ he asked.

Fabiola coloured. ‘If the gods will it, yes.’ Using her knowledge of herbs from the Lupanar, she had avoided pregnancy this far. Consolidating her new position was far more important. Naturally, Brutus knew nothing of this. Trying not to look nervous, she fiddled with one of her gold and carnelian earrings.

Seemingly satisfied, Caesar took Fabiola into another chamber, where he showed off his gilded breastplate and red general’s cloak. ‘That’s what I’ll be wearing later,’ he said. ‘At the Rubicon.’

‘You will look magnificent,’ gushed Fabiola, listening out anxiously for Brutus. What was taking him so long? ‘Quite the conquering hero.’

‘You certainly know how to compliment a man,’ said Caesar, leaning in close. ‘Brutus is very lucky to have a woman like you.’

‘Thank you, general.’ There was a soft clunk, and Fabiola looked down. Something glittered in the carpet. It was her earring, which had now fallen off. Fabiola bent to pick it up, revealing rather more cleavage than she intended. When she stood, Caesar was eyeing her flesh greedily. Terrified, Fabiola froze.

‘So young,’ he murmured. ‘So perfect.’

There was a new, predatory look in Caesar’s eyes which made Fabiola feel very uncomfortable. She backed away a step, her fist clenching on the earring until it hurt.

He followed silently.

Retreating further, scared now, Fabiola collided with the wall. There was nowhere else to go. She tried not to panic. Where was Brutus?

Caesar stepped forward. Wine fumes filled her nostrils. ‘You’re a real beauty.’

Fabiola looked down, praying that he would go away. Instead he reached out and cupped her breasts. Next he began to lick her neck. Terrified and disgusted, Fabiola did not dare react. This was one of the two most important men in the Republic, while she was just a nobleman’s mistress. A nobody.

At length, Caesar paused. ‘You were a slave before.’

She nodded.

‘Then you should be used to this,’ Caesar hissed, lifting her dress.

Silent tears of fury ran down Fabiola’s cheeks.

Breathing heavily, he pulled aside her underclothes and fumbled with her.

Mithras and Jupiter, she thought. Help me! But there was no divine intervention. Nor any sign of Brutus.

Caesar’s efforts grew more frantic, and Fabiola felt his erection pressing forward against her thigh. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘Please!’

One of the legionaries outside laughed, instantly arousing Fabiola’s suspicions. Perhaps this was not the first time Caesar had assaulted a woman?

Hearing the noise, he stopped for a moment, listening.

Fabiola’s heart leapt, but it was a false alarm. Instead of releasing her, Caesar twisted Fabiola’s arm and forced her on to her knees with him. She moaned with fear.

‘Be quiet, or I’ll hurt you.’

Fabiola was unsure why, but the words struck a deep chord. Suddenly she knew. She just knew. Caesar
was
the rapist. He was her father.

‘Take off your dress,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to fuck you on the floor.’

An image of Velvinna flashed before her eyes. Naked. Helpless. Alone. Twenty-one years before, this man had done the same thing to her mother. Burning fury consumed Fabiola. ‘No,’ she snarled. ‘I won’t.’

Caesar drew back his hand to strike her.

And she prepared to fight back with all her strength.

‘Fabiola?’ Brutus’ voice was not far away. ‘Caesar? Where are they?’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Answer me!’ Brutus shouted.

‘In the other room,’ one of the sentries reluctantly muttered.

‘Stand aside!’

Caesar cursed under his breath. Hastily rearranging his clothing, he got to his feet.

Fabiola was quick to do so as well. Brutus must not suspect anything. She knew his temper. Brutus was liable to lash out at anyone who had assaulted Fabiola in such a manner, even Caesar, his general. The consequences if he did that were far too grave to even consider. For both of them. She had to act as if everything were normal. Inspiration hit, and Fabiola opened the throbbing palm of her right hand. On it lay her gold and carnelian earring, now crushed. Overcome by terror, she had been unaware of her actions until that moment.

Brutus appeared in the doorway. ‘There you are,’ he said, relieved. His brow creased at the sight of Caesar and his lover standing so close together. ‘What’s going on?’

Caesar self-consciously cleared his throat.

‘Nothing, my darling. The general was showing me his armour. Then I lost this,’ answered Fabiola brightly, holding out her hand. Lamplight flashed off the mangled piece of jewellery, and she prayed he would not peer too closely at it. ‘We were just looking for it.’

‘I see,’ Brutus answered, looking suspicious. ‘The
optio
has left, sir.’

‘Good. Time to make my excuses to the guests,’ Caesar announced briskly. ‘You should do so too. We need to reach the Rubicon by dawn at the latest.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Brutus replied.

‘Until the next time.’ Caesar bowed to Fabiola, an arrogant half-smile curving his lips at the double meaning only they understood. His secret was safe with her. A former slave, Fabiola would never dare say anything to Brutus. And if she did, he would simply deny it.