Unable to watch, Romulus turned away.

‘Steady, lad,’ Brennus shouted. ‘I’m still here.’

But the battle was not going well. Horsemen were sweeping down the sides of the shrunken wedge, loosing arrows from point-blank range. Their effect was terrifying and devastating. There was no let-up in the onslaught either. With a tight turning circle, the horses were simply riding around, repeating their attacks time and again.

By now, the wedge had ground to a halt. With every casualty, another gap was created in the shield wall, making it even harder to stop the Scythian arrows and spears. Romulus judged that fewer than forty legionaries remained uninjured. And they were rapidly losing the will to fight.

Then he saw why. A horde of infantry was closing in from the rear to seal their fate.

Romulus shook his head. Mithras had turned his face away. Of Jupiter there was no sign. This was where they would die. ‘It’s over,’ he said wearily.

‘It’s never over,’ roared Brennus. Grabbing a pilum from a dead soldier at his feet, he hurled it at an approaching rider. His effort was magnificent, hitting the Scythian in the chest with such force that he was thrown backwards off his mount.

Almost immediately another replaced him.

The Gaul scowled; to Romulus it just seemed another example of how the gods had discarded them.

Brennus’ mouth opened in a sudden warning. His hand reached up to grab the hilt of his longsword.

There was a heavy impact and Romulus’ vision doubled. Blinding pain filled his head and his knees crumpled, letting him fall to the ground.

‘No!’ cried Brennus. ‘You stupid bastard!’

It was the last thing Romulus heard.

Chapter XI: The Warrior God

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Although angered by Secundus’ response to her question, Fabiola wisely kept her counsel. Her safety was quite fragile. ‘I apologise,’ she muttered.

An awkward silence fell, and Fabiola turned to see how Sextus was doing. His treatment was nearly over. Once Janus had removed all dirt and metal fragments from the eye socket, he had washed it out with acetum. Now there was a neat cloth bandage in place over the gaping hole. His face clean, Sextus was drinking from a small clay cup.

Janus saw her looking. ‘Papaverum,’ he said, cleaning his hands in a bowl of water. ‘One of the most powerful painkillers.’

‘How is it made?’ Fabiola had little idea what went into the strange concoctions made by apothecaries; theirs was a trade which guarded its secrets jealously.

‘By crushing the seeds of a plant with small red flowers,’ the orderly explained. ‘We add a few other ingredients and boil them into an infusion. Dulls even the worst pain.’

‘You mean physical pain.’ Nothing can take away grief, thought Fabiola bitterly. Except revenge.

Janus helped Sextus to the nearest bed. ‘Sleep,’ he ordered.

There was little protest. Sextus collapsed back on to the straw mattress, letting himself be covered with a woollen blanket. ‘Lady?’ Secundus had moved to the door. ‘We must leave him here for the moment,’ he said curtly.

Nodding her thanks at Janus, she followed Secundus back to the front entrance, and then down another corridor. Soon Fabiola found herself seated by a table in the stone-flagged kitchen. It was similar to the one in Gemellus’ house. There was a solidly built brick oven in one corner, long work counters along the walls and wooden shelves stacked with typical black and red clay crockery and deep sinks. As in all houses of the rich, lead pipes carried running water to wash food and plates; drains carried away the waste liquid. Yet there were no slaves here; Secundus had served her himself, refusing the offer of help as he awkwardly hacked slices off a loaf with his pugio. Cheese and fish was offered to accompany the bread, which Fabiola gratefully accepted. The day’s events had left her feeling famished. As she ate, she ignored the mixture of curious and surly stares from the many veterans present. She and Sextus were under Secundus’ protection; she doubted any of the scarred men would actually harm them.

When Secundus left, Fabiola reflected on her near escape from Scaevola. On what he had done to the fugitive and poor Corbulo at the latifundium. Closing her eyes, the young woman prayed as she had not done since she was sold into prostitution. Until today, those had been the hardest hours of her life, when only her faith and innate determination had allowed her to endure. Now, the guilt of Corbulo’s and her guards’ deaths weighed heavily on Fabiola’s shoulders. Nearly being raped by a dozen men was also a trauma she would not soon forget.

A discreet cough broke her reverie. It was Secundus again. ‘We’ve prepared a room for you, lady.’

‘I am tired,’ Fabiola admitted. A rest would do her good.

He managed a stiff smile. ‘Follow me.’

Passing out of the kitchen, they walked in silence to the corridor opposite that which led to the valetudinarium. Not far from the statue of the god, they passed a half-open door. Wavering light from a single torch lit the interior. The room was empty apart from a trapdoor in the floor.

Seeing her glance inside, Secundus instantly shut the door. He continued down the passage without explanation. Fabiola followed without protest, but her pulse quickened. It was surely the entrance to the Mithraeum. Until this moment, she had not been aware that it would be underground. Few, if any, other shrines were built like that.

Secundus guided Fabiola to a simple bedchamber, which had little more in it than her room in the Lupanar, where she had lived for nearly four years. Yet a low bed, a wooden storage chest, a bronze oil lamp and a three-legged stool with a neatly folded man’s tunic on it sufficed. Fabiola smiled: she did not have expensive tastes. The blankets looked clean and inviting. She suddenly felt more tired than she had in an age.

‘You can sleep without fear tonight,’ Secundus said in a more kindly tone. He pointed to a small bell on the floor. ‘Ring if you need anything.’ Without another word, the veteran was gone.

Fabiola needed little encouragement. Shutting the door, she blew out the lamp and took off her torn dress and sandals. Then she fell on to the bed. With the blankets pulled tight around her, she soon warmed up. A fit of shaking struck, delayed terror at the thought of what Scaevola had done to her life. And he would not give up. Other than Docilosa and the wounded Sextus, Fabiola was alone in the world. The fear was overwhelming but her exhaustion was greater. She fell into a deep sleep. Thankfully there were no bad dreams.

Yet when she awoke, it was with a real sense of panic. Wondering where she was, Fabiola sat up. Memories flooded back in a succession of disturbing images. Clodius’ corpse being displayed in the Forum. The ensuing riot. Ambush by the fugitivarii. Her men’s deaths. Scaevola. What had happened at the latifundium. Fabiola shuddered, trying – and failing – to forget.

Somehow she knew that night had fallen. The house was deathly silent, and the air around her was pitch black. Fabiola listened carefully for a long time, but could hear no activity. People tended to go to bed not long after sunset. The veterans were probably no different. Immediately the plain room with its trapdoor came to mind. Like all forbidden fruit, its appeal was great. Easing herself off the bed, Fabiola donned the man’s tunic and tiptoed to the door.

Not a sound from the other side.

Turning the handle gently, she pulled it open a crack. No cry of alarm. A glimmer of light from an oil lamp further down the corridor revealed that no one was about. Barefoot, Fabiola slipped out of her room, closing the door. From the chamber beside hers came the loud sound of a man snoring. It was echoed in the others that she passed. Yet her tension grew and grew. If she was discovered, the veterans’ reaction would not be pleasant. The thought stopped Fabiola in her tracks. She had had two lucky escapes already that day. It was pushing her luck to continue.