Like all sleeping chambers, Petreius’ had a small shrine in one corner. Most Romans prayed to the gods on rising and retiring, to request their guidance and protection during both day and night. The legate was no different. As Fabiola’s gaze passed idly over the stone altar, her attention was drawn back to it. Prominently displayed in front of deities such as Jupiter and Mars was a small, cloaked figure that looked familiar. Fabiola’s breath caught in her chest as she recognised Mithras. The delicately carved statue was portrayed in the same manner as the large sculpture in the Mithraeum in Rome. Wearing a Phrygian cap, the god was crouched over a reclining bull and plunging a knife down into its chest while looking away.

Fabiola closed her eyes and asked for his divine help.

Was this her chance?

Petreius was a follower of Mithras. She had been inside the god’s temple and had drunk the sacred homa. Importantly, Fabiola had had a vision as a raven. The fact that she had done so without permission, outraging most of the veterans in the process, was irrelevant right now.

A daring idea began to take root in Fabiola’s mind. It was all she could think of, so it had to work.

A low laugh came from behind her. ‘Lucky I have no statue of Priapus to beg my case,’ Petreius said. ‘Otherwise I’d keep you awake all night.’

‘We don’t need him,’ Fabiola answered, moving her legs apart slightly and bowing from the waist towards Mithras.

The view this afforded drew a shocked, lustful growl from the legate.

With a subtle rolling motion, Fabiola turned back and strode towards him, her full breasts moving gently. The light from the oil lamps coloured her flesh, giving it an alluring amber glow. She knew from long experience that looking like this, no man could resist her. Placing the wine on the floor by the bed, Fabiola put her hands on her hips.

‘You look like a woman who means business,’ Petreius said.

She laughed and arched her pelvis towards him. ‘Do I?’

Little do you know.

Unable to take any more teasing, he reached out for her – but she stepped away, out of reach.

The legate frowned.

Quickly Fabiola moved closer again, allowing his eager fingers to grasp her buttocks.

‘Who needs Priapus?’ he muttered, rolling to the edge of the mattress in a desperate attempt to get closer. ‘I’ll fuck you again right now.’

Fabiola smiled to herself. This was where she wanted him: crazy with lust. Turning, she stared down as Petreius pressed his face into her groin. ‘You have a statue of Mithras, I see.’

‘What?’ His voice was muffled.

‘The warrior god.’

He pulled back, looking faintly irritated. ‘I began following him during my time in Asia Minor. What of it?’

Aware that she had to act with the utmost delicacy, Fabiola fell silent. Stooping, she gently rolled him over and began stroking his erect member.

Enjoying what she was doing, he relaxed again.

There was silence as Fabiola climbed on to the bed and lowered herself down on him.

When he came, Petreius gasped in ecstasy, gripping her hips with his hands. Then he flopped back on the sheet and closed his eyes.

Satisfied that the legate was now as vulnerable as she would ever see him, Fabiola threw the dice. ‘I have heard that Mithras’ followers honour and respect each other greatly,’ she said. ‘They give help to one another when it is needed.’

‘If we can, we do,’ he replied in an already sleepy voice.

‘What if the situation is awkward or difficult?’

‘All the more reason to be of assistance.’

‘And most of you are soldiers,’ Fabiola said, changing tack.

‘Yes.’

‘But some are not.’

‘No,’ he answered, sounding confused. ‘There are men of many trades and professions in our religion. Even some more worthy slaves. We are all equal before the god.’

The seed had been planted, thought Fabiola. It was time to act.

‘I have aided you tonight,’ she murmured, climbing off him and lying down.

He chuckled. ‘You have. Very much.’

‘Then will you help me?’

‘Of course,’ he replied, amused. ‘What is it you want? Money? Dresses?’

Fabiola clenched her fists, hoping that the primary tenet of honour mentioned by Secundus so many times was also an important part of Petreius’ belief system. There was no way of knowing unless she tried. ‘More than that.’ She paused, noticing that her hands were actually trembling. ‘I need a letter of safe conduct and enough men to protect me on my journey north.’

He jerked upright, suddenly fully awake. ‘What did you say?’

‘I was the first woman to enter the Mithraeum in Rome,’ she said. ‘To become a devotee.’

‘That is forbidden under all circumstances,’ Petreius stuttered. ‘I know the provinces are a bit backward when it comes to new traditions, but this? On whose authority was it allowed?’

‘Secundus,’ she replied. ‘The one-armed veteran who was with me when your troops rescued us.’

‘A low-ranking cripple?’ he scoffed. ‘Sounds like he’s getting ideas way above his station. Does he want to screw you?’

It was unsurprising, Fabiola thought, that a man of Petreius’ status would look down on someone as lowly as Secundus. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ she said firmly. ‘And despite what you may think, he admitted me to the Path. My rank is that of Corax, which makes me a comrade of yours.’

‘You’ll be telling me next that he is the Pater of the temple,’ sneered the legate.

‘Correct,’ Fabiola replied. ‘He is also my guide.’

Petreius’ nostrils flared, but he let her continue without further interruption.

‘After drinking the homa, I became a raven,’ she said quietly. ‘And was granted a vision, in which I saw the survivors of Crassus’ army. Secundus decreed that it was sent by the god himself.’

‘Wait. This is too much to take in.’ Rubbing a hand through his close-cropped hair, the legate stood up and walked over to a tall swan-legged bronze ewer. Bending his neck, he vigorously splashed cold water over his entire head and neck a number of times. Pulling a cloth from a wooden stand, he dried himself and donned a clean robe.

Fabiola sat on the bed, waiting patiently.

‘Start from the beginning,’ he ordered, sitting beside her. ‘Tell me exactly how you met this Secundus.’

Fabiola kept it simple, keeping her original fabrication the same, but accurately recounting how she had met the veteran on the steps of Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Her rescue was simplified to take place on the fringes of the riot over Pulcher’s death. There was no point complicating matters by mentioning Scaevola and the fugitivarii.

‘That’s all very touching,’ Petreius said when she had finished. ‘But saving a pretty girl’s life doesn’t mean that the Pater would just invite you to become one of us.’ His face turned hard. ‘Tell me the truth.’

This was a crucial moment.

‘I have done. Most of my guards were killed well before the veterans arrived,’ Fabiola said. Acting modestly, she looked down. ‘It was a case of defending myself or being raped on the spot. Perhaps the gods helped, but I managed to kill three or four of our attackers.’

‘By Jupiter!’ exclaimed the legate. ‘Has someone trained you to fight?’

‘No.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘I only ever saw my father and brothers practise in the yard of our domus. It was sheer desperation, I suppose.’

He regarded her slender arms with new respect.

She dared a bit more. ‘Secundus said that he had rarely seen such bravery, even on the battlefield.’

‘If what you say is true, I’m not surprised,’ agreed Petreius emphatically. ‘With soldiers like you, we would have little to fear from Caesar.’

Pleased by his praise, Fabiola flushed.

A rigorous interrogation about Mithraic practices and rituals followed. Petreius listened intently, showing no emotion at Fabiola’s responses. This made her even more nervous, but by taking her time, the young woman was able to answer every question correctly.