Passing between rows of empty fields, the paved road stretched on to the grey horizon. Far from the nearest town, there were few other travellers in sight. Those that were abroad generally hurried past with the hoods of their cloaks turned up. With no official force to protect ordinary citizens in Rome or outside it, the Republic’s roads were dangerous, by day or night.

The countryside was regularly dotted with latifundia, their lands lying fallow until the spring. Like Fabiola’s, each was made up of a central building complex with the obligatory vineyards, olive groves and fruit trees. Dense groves of oaks and cypresses grew near the entrances; large packs of guard dogs ran loose around all the properties. Secundus and his men had frequently been obliged to throw stones at the fierce animals. Gangs of armed men in grubby tunics also lounged at the gates to many of the villas: protection against robbers. In these dangerous times, rich landowners guarded their estates even more closely than normal.

The parties of unshaven heavies eyed the litter and its accompanying guard of twelve men with suspicion, but dared not delay their passage, even when their hounds were stoned into submission. The distinctive bronze crested helmets, the thigh-length mail and army weapons marked out the tough-looking figures as veterans. They were all equipped with bows to boot, which made any attempt to rob them especially perilous. At these times, Fabiola was careful not to show her face. Presuming the passenger in the litter to be a wealthy nobleman or merchant, the thugs sullenly stood back.

In this fashion, they had travelled without trouble. Every night, Secundus chose a place for their camp as far from the road as possible. Avoiding attention was their main aim. Once he was happy with their position, the tents were swiftly put up. It did not take Secundus’ eleven followers long to hammer the iron pegs into the ground and erect them. Until this journey, Fabiola had never seen the eight-man leather tents used by legionaries on the march. She and Docilosa had one to themselves, the men shared two others and the four slaves who carried the litter slept in a fourth. Refusing all other offers, Sextus spent every night wrapped in a blanket at the entrance to Fabiola’s. Inside, the women’s sleeping arrangements were simple: the bedding consisted of cushions and blankets from the litter. The Spartan decoration was still more than she was used to from her childhood. As then, there were few opportunities to bathe. This did not trouble Fabiola either: the weather was so cold that washing did not appeal much.

There had been no sign of Scaevola since they had left Rome. Fabiola prayed daily that the malevolent fugitivarius had not managed to regroup his men sufficiently to mount a pursuit. So far, her prayers had been answered. If their run of good luck continued, the main problems to overcome would be the Pompeian forces that lay to the north, and any rogue tribesmen in Gaul.

Although spring was around the corner, the days were still short. Finding a suitable spot to stop for the night, Secundus called an early halt to their march that afternoon. Sticking his head inside the litter, he beckoned to Fabiola. ‘It’s safe to come out now,’ he said.

Gratefully she emerged into the cold air. Being able to stretch her legs in daylight was a real pleasure. Today Secundus had picked a secluded location by a river. Although it was only a hundred paces from a bridge over the fast-flowing water, it was protected by a grove of trees. Despite their bare branches, they provided plenty of cover. With darkness about to fall in the next hour, their camp would remain well hidden overnight.

‘Don’t go far,’ Secundus advised.

Fabiola had no intention of doing so. Even with Sextus at her back, she did not feel safe unless there were plenty of armed men in view. They walked to the river, which swept past, swollen by winter rainfall in the Apennine Mountains. Huge pieces of wood spun in lazy circles, revealing the immense power of the water carrying them by. Like most Romans, Fabiola could not swim. Falling into the torrent would mean certain death by drowning. She shuddered at the thought and turned away. Anxious to lift her sombre mood, she looked up at the sky.

Clouds were scudding across it, illuminated from beneath by the setting sun. The strong wind was from the north, and it promised more snow. Fabiola knew this from the grey-yellow colour of the clouds, and from the biting chill that numbed her fingers and toes. Their journey was going to get even more difficult, she thought wearily. Unease sneaked over her, and Fabiola hurried back to the tents, eager to get away from the threatening weather. Sextus followed, also glancing unhappily into the darkening air.

The wind speed increased through the evening, until it had become a shrieking voice that drowned out all sound. Extra pegs had to be placed to hold the tents securely to the ground. Secundus ordered the sentries doubled, positioning them close enough so they could see each other. Chilled to the bone, Fabiola and Docilosa went to bed fully dressed and even earlier than normal. It was rare to stay up past sunset anyway. What was there to do by the light of guttering oil lamps now, other than brood? Which is what the young woman found herself doing anyway.

Even if they reached Gaul without further mishap, who knew if they would find Brutus amid the carnage and mayhem? With the whole country in revolt against the Romans, travel had become more dangerous than in Italy. Bands of brigands competed with dispossessed tribesmen for whatever pickings could be found. While the men accompanying her were solid veterans, they would not be able to withstand a large Gaulish war party.

Fabiola sighed. What point was there in worrying about the future? Right now, surviving from one day to the next was enough to deal with. Tomorrow was another day. Trying to keep this sentiment to the forefront of her mind, she finally fell asleep.

Cries of alarm roused her from a deep slumber. Thankfully, the howling wind had died away. Dull light penetrated through the tent fabric, telling Fabiola it was early morning. Throwing off the thick blankets, she pulled her pugio from under her pillow. Never again would Fabiola be overcome as she had been on the street in Rome.

Docilosa was also awake. ‘What are you doing, Mistress?’ she asked, looking alarmed.

Without answering, Fabiola moved to the door and partially unlaced the flap, which allowed her to see the area in front of their tent. ‘Sextus is gone.’

‘It could be dangerous,’ warned Docilosa. ‘Stay here.’

Ignoring her, the young woman stepped into the morning air. To her relief, Sextus was only a few steps away. Clutching his gladius with white knuckles, his gaze was fixed on the blood-soaked figure which lay in the thick snow just beyond the next tent. Fabiola joined him.

Secundus and two of his men were crouched over the body.

It was one of the sentries. And his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The frozen snow around him had turned red, a shocking clash of colours in the dawn light.

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t know, Mistress,’ answered Sextus grimly. ‘I’ve heard nothing all night.’

Noticing Fabiola, Secundus turned to face her. His face looked older than she remembered. His hands were covered in blood.

‘His name was Antoninus,’ the veteran said heavily. ‘He served with me for ten years.’

Fabiola’s heart went out to him. ‘Who did it?’

Secundus shrugged. ‘The same bastards who killed Servius, I guess.’

Shocked, she looked at him questioningly.

‘There’s another one over there,’ he revealed. ‘Both were covered in snow, so it must have happened during the storm. Any footprints have been well covered.’

Fear clenched Fabiola’s stomach. ‘Bandits?’ she asked.