Tears formed in Fabiola’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘It is done,’ said Secundus in a more forgiving tone. ‘Mithras works in strange ways.’

‘You believe me?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘I see no deceit in you. And you dreamt a raven.’

Fabiola had to ask. ‘Was my vision real?’

‘It was sent by the god,’ he replied evasively. ‘Yet the homa can take us far away. Too far sometimes.’

‘I saw Roman soldiers. And my brother’s friends,’ she protested. ‘About to fight a battle that no one could win. No one.’ Fat tears rolled down Fabiola’s cheeks.

‘What you observed may never happen,’ said Secundus calmly.

‘Or it has done so already,’ she retorted, filled with bitterness.

‘That is true,’ he acknowledged. ‘Visions can show all possibilities.’

Fabiola hunched her shoulders, trying to hold in the grief.

‘It is remarkable to have such a powerful dream after drinking homa for the first time,’ said Secundus. ‘And surely a sign from the god.’

‘Your men don’t seem convinced.’

‘They will obey my orders,’ said Secundus, frowning. ‘For the moment.’

Fabiola was somewhat relieved.

His next words were startling. ‘The first step in Mithraicism is to become a Corax. A raven. Many initiates never even see one.’ He stared at her. ‘Your vision means that we have met for a purpose.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Mithras reveals many things to me.’ Secundus smiled, infuriating Fabiola. She felt as if he was playing with her. ‘What are your plans?’

Fabiola reflected for a moment. She had originally intended to return to the latifundium. That was now impossible. So was staying in Rome. The uncertain political situation was proving to be even more dangerous than she had imagined and Scaevola was still at large in the city. Denied twice, the fugitivarius would not give up his pursuit of her now. Fabiola had no doubt about that. Yet without protection, where could she go? ‘I don’t know,’ Fabiola replied, eyeing the figure of Mithras hopefully.

‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘My men wouldn’t stand for it.’

Fabiola was not surprised. She had broken one of the veterans’ most sacred rules, and the threats shouted at her would not go away.

‘More than one wants you dead for what was done here tonight.’

She was at his, and Mithras’, mercy. Closing her eyes, Fabiola waited for Secundus to go on.

‘Your lover is in Gaul with Caesar,’ he said. ‘Trying to quell Vercingetorix’s rebellion.’

Her heart rate quickened. ‘He is.’

‘Brutus can protect you.’

‘It’s hundreds of miles to the border,’ Fabiola faltered. ‘Even more beyond that.’

‘I will guide you,’ he announced.

She controlled her shock. ‘Why would you do this?’

‘Two reasons,’ grinned Secundus. He bowed towards the tauroctony. ‘One is that the god desires me to.’

‘And the second?’

‘Caesar needs all the help he can get in Rome,’ he answered with a sly wink. ‘We’ll see what he says to the offer of more than fifty veterans’ swords. If he agrees, we’ll get the recognition and pensions we deserve.’

It was a shrewd plan, thought Fabiola.

Years of absence from Rome had allowed Julius Caesar to write himself an undeniably impressive curriculum vitae: the conquest of Gaul and the immense wealth it yielded. Following this came incursions to Germania and Britannia, short but forceful campaigns to hammer home Rome’s military superiority to the natives of those areas. Kept up to date with every victory by Caesar’s messengers, the plebeians loved him for his dash and his martial tendencies.

Yet it was not enough: he was not daily on the ground in the city, pressing flesh, showing his face to the public, courting powerful nobles’ and senators’ favour. Bribes and the work of his minions could only do so much. Caesar still needed the influence of his surviving partner in the triumvirate: Pompey Magnus. Who, delighted by Crassus’ death in Parthia, was paying lip service to his erstwhile ally while simultaneously making friends with every little faction in the Senate. Few of these loved Caesar, Rome’s most illustrious general. As someone who had flouted the law before, he was too real a threat to the Republic. And now, with the political situation in real flux and anarchy threatening, Caesar was bogged down in Gaul for the foreseeable future. The offer of tough men in the capital would be tempting indeed.

‘You have my thanks,’ Fabiola said gratefully. ‘But there will be bandits on the way. And Scaevola and his fugitivarii might follow us.’

Seeing her involuntary glance at his stump, the veteran laughed. ‘It won’t just be me. We’ll have whatever comrades I can persuade.’

It only took Fabiola a moment to decide. The road north would be full of danger, and the situation in Gaul even more perilous. But what real option did she have?

Fabiola extended her arm in the man’s fashion. Secundus smiled and accepted the grip.

Leaving the city turned out to be a wise plan. The sun had barely risen before plumes of smoke filled the sky. Yet more buildings were going up in flames. The mob was making the most of the fact that the Senate was paralysed by a combination of corruption, indecision and infighting. As civilian politicians, the senators were unprepared for, and rightly fearful of, such blatant, armed insurrection. The Republic’s military was almost never needed within Italy itself, and to avoid attempts on power, legionary garrisons were prohibited within many miles of Rome. This rule left the city vulnerable to precisely such civil unrest. Now, having burned down the capital’s most important building, Clodius’ men were brimming with confidence. And when Milo’s gladiators regrouped, they would want only one thing. Revenge.

Chaos had descended on Rome.

More violence was as inevitable as dusk followed dawn. Only trained soldiers could quell the bloodthirsty mobs, could bring safety to the warrens of dangerous streets and alleyways. Secundus and his men were too few to bring the situation under control. Crassus was gone to Hades and Caesar was far away. Without Pompey Magnus’ involvement, Rome’s future looked very bleak indeed. Unless they wished to see more public structures such as the markets and law courts, or even their own homes, burned down around their ears, the senators and nobles would have no choice but to ask for his help.

As they left the city walls behind, Fabiola remembered Brutus’ prediction of this exact manoeuvre by Pompey. This was the man who had outwitted Crassus to take the credit for quelling the Spartacus rebellion, and then done the same to the general Lucullus, after he had almost crushed Mithridates’ uprising in Asia Minor. Pompey was not about to be beaten to the ultimate prize. Bringing armed legionaries into the Forum Romanum for the first time since Sulla would give Pompey physical control of the Republic itself.

Yet the Senate had no other choice.

Five days later, it was as if the violence had never been. The screams of people caught up in the rioting had been replaced by birdsong, the creaking of the litter and the muttering of Secundus and his men. Leaning her head out of the litter’s side, Fabiola peered into the distance. Docilosa clicked her tongue disapprovingly, but Fabiola ignored her. Horrified at what had happened to Fabiola on the street, her middle-aged servant had refused point blank to be left behind. Glad to have the female company, Fabiola had not put up much protest. Now though, after bumping up and down for hours on end, she was bored. Snatching an occasional glance outside was perhaps not wise, but Fabiola needed to do so to stay sane.

The other person who had declined to stay in Rome was walking directly alongside. Despite his horrific wound, Sextus had insisted he accompany Fabiola north. The one-eyed slave followed her like a shadow; it was a most comforting feeling. Apart from Docilosa, no one was allowed within three steps of her without his nod of approval.