Inside the camp, leather tents were being erected in long, neat lines. There was minimal fuss as hundreds of men worked side by side. Their officers watched, vine canes at the ready for anyone who slowed down. Secundus explained to Fabiola what was going on as they walked by. A simple standard marked the spot where every centurion’s tent stood. Each contubernium then set up theirs alongside by turn, in the same place as their room in a permanent barracks would be.

Fabiola marvelled at the organisation being displayed, and her sense of unease was slightly dispelled. She noticed Secundus enjoying the scenes that he must have partaken in so many times in his army career.

A wide path led straight from the entrance to the centre, where even bigger canvas pavilions already stood. This was the legion’s command post, and to one side stood the luxurious quarters of its legate, Marcus Petreius. As the most important officer, his tent had been erected immediately after the headquarters were thrown up. A red At least twenty hand-picked legionaries stood guard outside it, while messengers ran to and fro, relaying Petreius’ orders to his senior centurions. A pair of saddled horses were tethered nearby, happily eating from nosebags. The couriers who rode them stood idly by, gossiping with each other.vexillum had been stabbed into the ground by the entrance.

The optio led his men straight to the main tent. Coming to a halt near the centurion in charge of the guards, he saluted and stood to attention.

The officer smiled when he saw Fabiola. This was far more pleasing than some fat, balding merchant come to beg assistance. Swallowing a piece of bread, he strolled over.

There was a brief conversation as the optio reported his news.

‘My lady,’ said the duty centurion with a courteous bow. ‘No doubt you will wish to clean up before meeting the legate.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Fabiola gratefully. It was vital that she make a good impression.

‘Come inside.’ He indicated she should follow him. ‘Your slaves can find somewhere to sleep with the mule drivers and camp followers.’

Secundus bit back his retort. This was no time to draw attention to himself.

But Fabiola bridled with anger at his dismissive attitude. ‘They are my servants, not slaves,’ she said loudly.

Sextus’ eyes widened, and pride filled his face.

The centurion stiffened, and then inclined his head. ‘As you say, lady. I will have a tent prepared for them among the soldiers of my own cohort.’

‘Good,’ answered Fabiola. ‘Like myself, they will require hot water and food.’

‘Of course.’ He could not protest further.

Docilosa unsuccessfully tried to hide her smirk.

Curtly ordering one of his men to accompany Fabiola’s companions, the centurion made to lead her into the tent.

Secundus stayed by her side.

Surprised, Fabiola turned to him.

‘You still need protection, lady,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, touched by his loyalty. ‘Mithras will protect me.’

Fabiola’s answer satisfied Secundus and he stood back, watching as she followed the centurion inside. A silent prayer of his own went up to the warrior god. The beautiful young woman would have to be very careful what she said. If Petreius got even the tiniest whiff that they were heading north to join with Caesar, there would be little mercy shown. He had heard the legionaries talking as they walked into the fort. Outright hostilities had not yet commenced, but Caesar was already regarded as an enemy.

Ushering Fabiola to a large partitioned room, the centurion bowed. ‘I will have hot water and drying cloths brought, lady,’ he muttered. ‘We have no women’s apparel, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course not,’ Fabiola laughed, trying to put him at his ease. ‘A wash will suffice until my dress can be cleaned.’

Discomfited, he ducked his head and left.

Fabiola looked around, pleased at the level of luxury on offer. Being on campaign did not mean that Petreius had to do without any of life’s necessities. Thick carpets and animal skins covered the floor, while richly patterned wall hangings concealed the canvas of the tent’s sides. The roof was high, supported by a network of long poles. From these hung ropes suspending elegant bronze oil lamps overhead. Yet more stood on decorated stone plinths, illuminating the chamber well. A weapons rack near her held a number of gladii with beautifully carved wood and bone hilts. Even their sheaths were ornate, the beaten gold on their surfaces depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Occupying a central position was a well-carved bust of Pompey. Having seen him in Rome, Fabiola recognised his bulbous eyes and mop of curly hair.

Iron-bound wooden chests had been placed around the periphery, while a heavy desk sat in the centre, a comfortable-looking leather-backed camp chair behind it. Tightly rolled scrolls lay scattered on the desktop, and Fabiola’s heart quickened. This was Petreius’ private working space, and vital information about Pompey’s plans might be included in the cylinders of parchment in front of her.

She longed to understand them. Like most slaves, or former slaves, Fabiola was illiterate. Gemellus had seen no value in educating those who served him. Only Servilius, his bookkeeper, had known how to read and write. And Jovina, the wily crone who owned the Lupanar, actively discouraged the prostitutes from learning. Uneducated women were far easier to intimidate and coerce. At Fabiola’s request, Brutus had started teaching her, but there had been so little time before he was called away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of young, shaven-headed slaves who silently delivered a large cauldron of steaming hot water, drying cloths and a beaten bronze mirror on a stand. Also offered was a metal tray with small vials of olive oil, a curved strigil and two finely carved boxwood combs laid upon it. The embarrassed slaves bobbed their heads and withdrew, avoiding Fabiola’s gaze all the while. Having a beautiful young woman to serve rather than soldiers was clearly too much for them.

Fabiola stripped and washed herself down with warm water, before rubbing oil all over her skin. Lastly she used the strigil to take off the grime and dirt that covered her body from the ambush and pursuit. Although not as relaxing as a bath, it felt good to wash. All that was missing was a phial of perfume, but like all her possessions, such things were lying back in the litter. While Scaevola would have no use for these items, there would be no opportunity to go back for them either.

Pulling on her damp, sweaty dress once more, she grimaced at its feel against her skin. At least there weren’t too many spots of blood on it. Smoothing back her hair, Fabiola looked into the mirror and combed it as best she could.

‘Aphrodite herself has come to visit us,’ said a deep voice behind her.

She jumped with fright.

A tall, brown-haired man in late middle age had entered the chamber. He was dressed in a well-cut thigh-length tunic; soft leather shoes covered his feet. A belt of gold links and a sheathed dagger confirmed his status as a soldier. High cheekbones and a strong chin were the most striking features in his rugged face. ‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said when he saw Fabiola’s reaction. ‘I did not mean to scare you.’

Wondering how long he had been watching her, Fabiola bowed. ‘My nerves are a little ragged,’ she replied.

‘That’s not surprising,’ said the man. ‘I have been told of the scum who ambushed you. What were they – deserters or just common bandits?’

‘It’s difficult to know.’ Fabiola had no wish to reveal any details about Scaevola. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Indeed. I’m sorry for even mentioning it,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try to forget the whole episode. You’re safe now.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, her relief only half acted. Delayed shock was beginning to set in, draining her energy when she needed it most. It was crucial that she divulge nothing about her journey while somehow persuading the general to let her party continue unhindered. Mithras, Sol Invictus, help me, Fabiola thought. Asking help from the warrior god felt appropriate when faced with this military threat.