Romulus was stunned. Maybe I'm dreaming, or already dead, he thought.

'The noxius failed, but then his comrade bought him some time with his own life. Even though the survivor was then armed with a spear, I thought that the beast would kill him. But it didn't! Against all the odds, he slew a creature which had walked out of legend. Furthermore, he turned his back on me – the editor. Why? To honour his friend,' Caesar shouted. 'I say to you that this man is a true son of Rome. He may have been born a slave, and committed crimes. Today, however, I name him a citizen of the Republic.'

Romulus' mouth fell open. Instead of death, he was being offered life. Freedom.

Memor looked appalled, outraged even, but he kept his mouth shut.

To tumultuous applause, Caesar turned to Romulus and offered him his right hand. 'What is your name?'

'Romulus, sir,' he replied, firmly taking the grip.

'If all my soldiers were as brave as you, I'd only ever need one legion,' joked Caesar.

Romulus was overcome by gratitude. 'I offer you my service, Caesar,' he said, dropping to one knee.

It was Caesar's turn to look surprised. 'You wish to be part of my army? Soon we will be shipping out for Africa, where much bloodshed awaits us.'

'I can think of no greater honour, sir.'

'A soldier like you will be welcome,' replied Caesar in a pleased tone. 'Which legion would you join?'

Romulus grinned. 'The Twenty-Eighth!'

'A good choice,' smiled Caesar. 'Very well. You shall have your wish.' He beckoned to one of his officers. 'Have this man – Romulus – taken to your camp and fitted out with an ordinary legionary's kit. He can bunk in with your soldiers until next week, when I send new orders to the Twenty-Eighth. Then he is to accompany them to his old unit. Clear?'

'Sir!'

Caesar turned away.

The officer jerked his head at Romulus. It was clear that the interview was over. Romulus struggled to overcome his intimidation and awe. I made a promise, he thought. 'Sir?'

Caesar looked around. 'What is it?'

'Petronius – my comrade – served in the Twenty-Eighth,' began Romulus.

'So?'

'He was a good soldier, sir. I promised him that he would receive a decent funeral, with all the proper rites.'

Caesar was taken aback. 'Determined, aren't you?'

'He was my friend, sir,' replied Romulus stolidly.

The surrounding officers and senators looked outraged by his audacity.

Caesar stared at Romulus long and hard. 'Good enough,' he said at length. 'I'd do the same myself.' He glanced at the centurion in charge of his guards. 'See that it's done.'

Romulus saluted. 'Thank you, sir.'

'Until we meet again,' answered Caesar.

This time, Romulus felt his elbow being taken. His audience was over.

'Lanista!' Caesar's voice was frosty. 'A word, if you please.'

Romulus didn't get to hear what the general had to say to Memor. Alternately sad and ecstatic at what had happened, he was led off by a lean soldier with a bad limp. 'Caesar likes you,' this man whispered as they left the amphitheatre. 'But don't go thinking you're something special now. You're not – you're just a plain legionary, like me. Never again speak to an officer unless he addresses you first. Unless you want a good flogging, of course.'

Romulus nodded. No longer having to conceal his identity was worth any harsh discipline.

'Don't expect any special treatment from your comrades either. They won't give a shit about what you did here today,' the soldier went on. 'All they'll care about is how you fight against the fucking Republicans in Africa.'

Romulus caught the nervousness in the other's voice. 'How bad is it over there?'

There was a resigned shrug. 'The usual when fighting for Caesar. By all accounts, we'll be outnumbered two or three to one. The bastards also have vast numbers of Numidian cavalry, while we have next to none.'

Resigned, Romulus eyed the temple of Jupiter which loomed over the city. He couldn't visit it just yet. Nor would he get to see Fabiola. Instead, more danger beckoned.

In Africa.

Chapter XIII: Strands of Fate

Fussing like an old woman, Brutus put Fabiola to bed. Aided by Docilosa, he fetched warm blankets, watered-down wine and an assortment of herbal remedies. Guilt filled Fabiola. Unlike her 'fever', his solicitousness was natural and unfeigned. She had to continue with her charade, though, at least until that evening. Lying back, Fabiola closed her eyes and tried to put the image of unarmed men being killed by a horned, armoured beast from her mind. It was difficult, but the alternative – staring at Brutus' worried features – was little better.

Jovina had stepped in to run things from the reception area while Docilosa hovered in the background, her face a neutral mask. Fabiola knew well that this was only for Brutus' benefit. There were telltale signs that she could read: her servant's flaring nostrils, and the way she slapped down the glass of wine on the bedside table. As soon as he'd left, Docilosa would vent her spleen. It was unsurprising, thought Fabiola. Her coupling with Antonius had been an uncharacteristic moment of madness, which could have left her out on the street. Despite the calamitous outcome that had been so narrowly avoided, Fabiola still felt a surreptitious pleasure at what she'd done. They hadn't been caught, and that's all there was to it. She was her own mistress, and would carry on her own affairs as she chose. Docilosa wasn't going to tell her what to do. Who did her servant think she was anyway?

Part of Fabiola knew that she was overreacting, but Docilosa's self-righteousness wound her up so much that she felt it impossible to let go. There would be no unburdening of her worries and guilt today, she realised. Best to get a good rest – she could always do with more sleep – and settle things with Docilosa tomorrow. Slowing her breathing down, she pretended to doze off. Satisfied by this, Brutus issued a string of orders to Docilosa and left. He was still keen to see the Ethiopian bull.

With a disapproving sigh, Docilosa sat down on a stool by the bed. She made a few attempts to talk, whispering questions at Fabiola. Still annoyed and set on her decision, Fabiola studiously ignored her. Eventually Docilosa gave up. It wasn't long before Fabiola actually surrendered to sleep. Running the Lupanar was draining work.

Despite the sleeping draughts which Brutus had made her drink, Fabiola's nap was far from restful. Instead, she was plunged into a dark nightmare in which Antonius knew all about her secret plan. Dragging her before Caesar, he laughed as his master raped Fabiola. Brutus was nowhere to be seen. Tossing and turning, Fabiola could not stop the horrifying dream. When Caesar was finished, she was turned over to Scaevola. That was too much. Fabiola woke up in a cold sweat, both of her fists clenched in the blanket. The room was silent. Was she alone? Her eyes darted wildly to the stool where Docilosa had been sitting. In her place perched an unhappy-looking Vettius.

Seeing her distress, he jumped up. 'Should I fetch a surgeon, Mistress?'

'What?' she cried, startled. 'No, I'm feeling better.' Physically she might be, but Fabiola's mind was full of horrors. Damping them down as best she could, she sat up. 'Where's Docilosa?'

His gaze flickered away. 'Gone to see her daughter.'

'When?'

'About three hours ago.'

'She left me?' cried Fabiola in disbelief. 'When I was ill?'

'She said that your fever had broken,' Vettius muttered as if it were his fault. 'Was she wrong?'

Fabiola considered what to say for a moment. There was no point making this bigger than it was already. 'No,' she sighed, throwing off the bedclothes. 'It has gone. Go back to your post.'