At once Antonius' expression became surly.

Fabiola knew she had him. He looked like a boy called to book by his father. 'Do you want to bring disgrace down on Caesar? He's barely returned from Asia Minor, and you're bringing his name into disrepute.' She shoved Antonius' tunic at him, and was relieved when he shrugged it over his shoulders. His licium followed, and then his belt. A few heartbeats later, Fabiola was pushing Antonius out into the reception area. 'Go on,' she said urgently. 'Send a messenger next time.'

He pulled her in for a last kiss. 'What'll I say if Brutus sees me?' he asked, all innocence now.

'Tell him you'd been out drinking and heard about the new whores here. You wanted to try one out.'

He liked that. 'I'll say they're well worth the money!'

Fabiola smiled. 'Leave,' she pleaded. 'Or my life won't be worth living.'

'Can't have that now, can we?' Pinching her backside, Antonius bowed and was gone.

Fabiola took a couple of deep breaths. Calm down, she thought. On the narrow street Brutus could not miss Antonius; naturally, he would engage him in conversation. She had a little time. Darting into her office, Fabiola looked into the small bronze mirror on her desk. Her face was red and sweaty, and her normally immaculate hair had come undone. She looked dishevelled – like someone who had just been having sex. That had to change – fast. Fabiola reached for one of the little clay vessels on the desktop, dabbing some white lead on her cheeks. An expert at applying makeup, she soon changed her appearance to a more sickly one. Leaving her hair down, she wiped away some of the sweat, but not all. She wanted to appear feverish.

It wasn't long before she heard Vettius talking to Brutus at the front door. True to his word, the huge doorman delayed him as long as possible. Fabiola panicked, suddenly unsure of her ability to deceive her lover yet again. Somehow, though, she had to.

'Fabiola?'

Her reflexes took over. 'Brutus?' she said in a weak voice. 'Is that you?'

'What are you doing in here?' He stood framed in the office doorway. 'Gods, you look terrible. Are you ill?'

With relief flooding through her, Fabiola nodded. 'I think I've got Docilosa's fever,' she said.

Moving to Fabiola's side, Brutus lifted her chin. Studying her pale complexion and the bags she had carefully painted under her eyes, he swore. 'Why are you even up?' he demanded in a worried voice. 'You need a surgeon.'

'I'm all right,' Fabiola protested. 'A day in bed and I'll be back to normal.'

'Jovina should be looking after the front of the shop,' he muttered.

'I know,' said Fabiola. 'I'm sorry.'

His face softened. 'No need to apologise, my love. But you're in no shape to be working.'

Fabiola sat down on the edge of the desk with a sigh. 'That's better,' she sighed. There would be no rest until she discovered his purpose. 'What brings you to the Lupanar so early in the morning?'

'I could say the same of Antonius,' Brutus answered with a flash of anger. 'What in the name of Hades did he want here?'

Careful, thought Fabiola. Remember what you told Antonius to say. 'You know what he's like. He'd been on an all-night drinking session, and came in on impulse. Our advertisements about the new whores must be working.' She smiled broadly.

Brutus scowled. 'The prick should go somewhere else.'

'He will,' murmured Fabiola. 'A man like him rarely ploughs the same furrow twice.' The truth of her own words shocked her. Why was she risking everything with such a rake?

Brutus grimaced. 'True enough.' Then he grinned, becoming the person Fabiola was so fond of. 'I came to see if you would accompany me to Caesar's games this morning, but with you being ill, it's out of the question, obviously.'

Fabiola's ears pricked up. Even though Romulus was no longer a gladiator, she thought of him every time the arena was mentioned. 'Is there something special on?'

'This morning, you mean?' Brutus looked pleased with himself. 'Yes. There's a beast appearing that they call the Ethiopian bull. It's half the size of an elephant, but with two horns and an armoured hide. Impossible to kill, apparently. I thought you'd like to see it.'

Fabiola knew the animal wouldn't just be walking around to be admired. 'Who's fighting it?'

Brutus shrugged. 'A pair of noxii. Deserters from one of Caesar's legions, I think. No loss, in other words.'

His casual manner made Fabiola feel nauseous. Who deserved to die like that? 'Thank you,' she whispered. 'But I couldn't.'

Chapter XI: The Ethiopian Bull

One hour later… It was only mid-morning, but the amphitheatre was already full. Above Romulus' head, the crowd was shouting with anticipation. All the prisoners knew why too, and fear stalked among them, increasing their unease. As a consequence of the street gossip which had swept into the ludus the previous afternoon, few had slept well. Memor had relished delivering the news himself, watching each man closely for signs of terror. Petronius had stared at the wall, refusing to meet the lanista's gaze, but Romulus had been forced to. Two strapping gladiators had pinioned his arms while another pulled his head around to hear Memor reel off the host of fanged and toothed creatures they might be pitted against. In the face of such cruelty, he had managed to keep his composure – just.

Apparently Caesar had paid astronomical sums for the most exotic animals available. Some had never been seen in Rome before. Consequently, wildly inaccurate descriptions were rife. Waxing lyrical, Memor mentioned them all. Even the most common beasts to be used were enough to send men witless. Lions, tigers, leopards and bears were all lethal predators. Just as dangerous were elephants and wild bulls. Old memories had been triggered in Romulus' mind at the lanista's gruesome descriptions. He had witnessed a contest between venatores and big cats once before. Not one man had survived the brutal display, and the injuries they sustained before dying had been horrendous. Thankfully he'd concealed his distress from Memor, but his mind was filled all night with the images of the young venator who had endured only to be executed for his anger at the crowd's cruelty towards him. It was crushing to know that even if, by some miracle, he survived, there was virtually no chance of mercy. By dawn, Romulus' eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion and fear. What he would have given to have had Brennus or Tarquinius by his side. But they were gone, long gone, and now he faced his own journey to Hades. Petronius' presence helped, but only a little.

During the march from the ludus, the guards had done nothing to stop their charges from being abused by the crowd. The degradation reminded Romulus of the walk he'd made through the streets of Seleucia before Crassus' execution. This felt even worse, though. Rather than being Parthian, his attackers were of his own nationality, and today he understood all the insults. Covered in spit, rotten fruit and vegetables, he and his companions had finally arrived at Pompey's magnificent complex on the Campus Martius, the plain of Mars. It was a place that Romulus had fought in before, but, hurried to the cells below the audience's seats, he did not get to appreciate its grandeur. With its people's theatre, temple to Venus and chamber for the Senate, it was a monument to extravagance that had cost Pompey an absolute fortune to construct. Despite this, it had won him little popularity with the masses. His opulent house nearby stood empty now, its pattering fountains and graceful statues mocking Pompey's fall from grace.

At least the general's end in Egypt had been quick, thought Romulus. Infinitely better than what awaited him and the other men in the barred chamber. He tried not to think about what a lion's claws might feel like as they ripped apart his flesh. The pain as a bull gored him to death. Or having his head ripped off by an elephant – that was how he had seen Vahram, the cruel primus pilus of the Forgotten Legion, die. It was impossible now not to imagine these terrible fates. Romulus paced up and down, swallowing the bitter-tasting bile that kept rising from his stomach. His urge to vomit was overwhelming, but he would not let himself. Some prisoners were praying to their gods, while others just sat, staring into space. Petronius was furiously doing press-ups. As if that would help, thought Romulus. He said nothing, though. Each man faced death in his own manner, and it was not for him to laugh at it.