When the legate had finished, there was a long silence.

‘You know a lot about Mithraicism,’ he admitted. ‘Only an initiate should know these things.’

A great wave of relief washed over her, but her ordeal was not over yet.

‘Perhaps an old lover tried to impress you by revealing Mithraic secrets,’ he ventured, his eyes narrowing. ‘If you’re lying to me . . .’

‘I am telling the truth,’ Fabiola said as calmly as possible.

Resting his chin on one hand, Petreius drummed his fingers against his cheek.

He was a tough customer, thought Fabiola, a bad enemy to make, but she had committed herself now.

‘Secundus is the man to ask,’ he said at last. ‘No Pater would lie about something like this.’

Fabiola quailed mentally at the idea of this trial, which would truly test Secundus’ belief in her.

The legate called in one of the legionaries standing on guard outside his tent, ordering him to bring Secundus before them.

An uncomfortable silence reigned as they waited. After Fabiola’s revelation, Petreius seemed almost embarrassed by what they had done together. Worried that Secundus would reveal what had really happened in the Mithraeum, Fabiola was unable to keep up her usual bright chatter. She took the opportunity to have a wash, get dressed and tie up her hair. Secundus would draw his own conclusions about what had gone on here, but she still wanted to look her best.

Of course the legate was too smart to talk to Secundus in front of her. When the legionary returned with him a short time later, Petreius asked Fabiola to remain in the bedchamber. All she could do was comply.

The low murmur of voices soon came from the main part of the tent. Fabiola could make out Secundus’ tone, answering questions. In an agony of nerves, she knelt before the stone altar and studied the statue of Mithras. Forgive me, great one, she thought. I have lied in your presence about what happened in the Mithraeum. But that does not mean I do not believe in you. Help me now, and I swear to be a faithful follower of yours for ever. The magnitude of what she was promising was very great, but Fabiola knew her situation was desperate. If Secundus’ version of events did not tie in neatly with hers, then it would be Orcus, the god of the underworld, whom she had to deal with, rather than Mithras. For dishonouring his religion, the legate could easily have her killed.

She was still praying when Petreius re-entered the room. His voice made her jump.

‘Secundus is a good man,’ he said. ‘And no liar.’

Bile rose in the back of Fabiola’s throat, and she turned to face him.

‘Neither am I,’ she whispered, sure that Secundus had denounced her.

‘The Pater has corroborated everything.’ Petreius smiled. ‘He feels sure that your remarkable vision was sent by Mithras.’

‘So you believe me?’

‘I do,’ he replied warmly. ‘I will give you the help you asked for. The god would want it.’

Fabiola nearly fainted with relief. Her gamble had paid off.

Petreius moved behind her, and she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck.

‘I’ve never bedded another follower of Mithras before,’ he said.

Fabiola closed her eyes. There was a further price to pay, she thought bitterly. Would it always be so?

Cupping her breasts with his hands, he pushed against her buttocks.

Fabiola’s hand reached around to his groin. Dawn could not come too soon for her.

Petreius had not even asked where Fabiola was going. Naturally his men would tell him upon their return, but the magnanimous gesture was a remarkable example of honouring one’s principles, Fabiola thought. Aid was being given freely, just because it had been asked for. She smiled wryly. Petreius’ help had not been completely free, of course. But even though he had slept with her, the legate had also shown himself to be a cut above the average by respecting one of the central tenets of his faith. From her considerable experience of men, Fabiola doubted that many would have acted in the same way. Despite the fact that Petreius was one of Pompey’s officers, she wished him well.

It seemed apt that the optio and half-century of legionaries who had driven off the fugitivarii should accompany Fabiola and her companions north. And by the end of the first day, she was very glad to have them marching stolidly around the litter that Petreius had provided. As Rome grew further away, so the rule of law grew lighter upon the land. The party regularly encountered army deserters, bandits and impoverished peasants, any of whom would have been capable of robbing and murdering four people travelling on their own. None, however, were prepared to tackle forty well-armed soldiers, and the journey proceeded without incident for more than two weeks.

Following the Roman road along the coast and thereby avoiding the Alps, they crossed the border into Transalpine Gaul. It was the first time that Fabiola had ever left Italy and she was gladder than before to have plenty of protection. Although citizen farmsteads were dotted throughout the countryside, it was clearly a foreign land. Even the presence of regular army checkpoints failed to allay her fears. Most Romans knew that the population of Gaul was made up of fierce tribes, peoples who would rise up at the slightest provocation. And the sullen-looking inhabitants of the miserable settlements and villages that they passed through appeared downright dangerous to Fabiola. The long-haired, moustached men dressed in baggy patterned trousers and belted tunics, very different to Roman wear. Silver adorned their wrists and necks, and practically every single one carried a longsword, hexagonal shield and spear. Even the women carried knives. This was a fighting nation, and they resented their masters.

Fabiola had no chance to explain that as an ex-slave, she had no quarrel with them, and had no part in Rome’s aggressive foreign policy. To those who saw her, she was just another rich Roman passing by.

But, as the optio told her, there had been little fighting in this area. Much of Transalpine Gaul had been under the Republic’s control for over a century, and fortunately the tribes here had not answered Vercingetorix’ call to arms. Thus Fabiola’s unease grew even greater as they travelled further north, towards the regions affected by the uprising. Gossip from the legionaries in the regular outposts and garrison towns did little to reduce this. Caesar had suffered a major setback at Gergovia, during which he had lost hundreds of soldiers. Emboldened by this victory, Vercingetorix had pulled his army back to the fortified town of Alesia, there to await his enemy’s arrival.

And the titanic struggle was still going on.

Despite the reluctance of Petreius’ optio, Fabiola insisted they continue their journey. His remit had been to follow her orders, and she wasn’t about to let him forget it. She and Secundus had consulted an oracle in one of the towns near the border, and the omens had been promising. False or not, the prophecy had merely gilt-edged Fabiola’s determination. At this point, she felt there was no going back. Her stubborn pride prevented it. But it was not just that. If Caesar lost the battle at Alesia, all of her plans would have come to nothing. In that case, the young woman did not care what happened to her. With her mother dead and Romulus probably so, she might as well die too.

If Caesar had been successful however, his ambition, and that of Brutus, would know no bounds. Moreover, the public would adore him for it. Pompey’s suppression of the rioting in Rome would hardly compare with a victory over hundreds of thousands of fierce warriors. The citizens would appreciate such a crushing blow all the more because of the Romans’ historical fear of Gaul. The sacking of their capital by the tribesmen over three centuries before had left a lasting scar on the national psyche. Caesar had to win, because then Fabiola could continue her quest to find Romulus and discover her father’s identity.