A short distance away, a group of legionaries was gathered around a moaning, prone figure: an old man, in a robe.

Fabiola watched, horrified, as they drew nearer. He was unarmed, and probably just unfortunate enough to have strayed within their reach.

Javelin tips probed forward, drawing blood and fresh screams. Studded army sandals stamped down on unprotected flesh. Fabiola was sure she heard one of his arms snap. Turning her head made no difference. Cruel laughter filled her ears. Again and again her attention was drawn back to the dreadful scene. The torture went on until the soldiers grew bored. First one man drew his gladius, then another.

Fabiola was moving before she even realised it. Pushing past her surprised legionaries, she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop it!’

‘Come back,’ shouted Secundus from behind her. ‘You cannot intervene.’

She ignored him, unwilling to watch such a summary execution. It reminded her too much of what might have happened to Romulus. Fabiola also had a powerful feeling that she should get involved.

Her screams had the desired effect. A couple of the legionaries stopped what they were doing and looked around. Leering unpleasantly, they nudged their comrades.

Ignoring their lustful reactions, Fabiola stalked closer.

Intimidated by her confident manner, the nearest men moved back. But the ringleader, a hardbitten-looking soldier with rusty chain mail and a battered bronze helmet topped by a simple horsehair crest, did not budge one step. Instead, he licked his lips suggestively at the beautiful young woman who had interrupted their sport.

Fabiola went straight on the offensive. Perhaps shame could help. ‘How brave you are to torture an old man like this,’ she hissed. ‘Have you not seen enough killing?’

Laughs of derision met this question.

Scanning the tough, scarred faces around her, Fabiola realised these were some of Caesar’s veterans. After six years of constant campaigning in Gaul, war and death was all they knew.

Secundus arrived, followed closely by Sextus and the optio. All three were careful to keep their hands away from their weapons.

‘Who the fuck are you to order us about?’ demanded the ringleader. ‘And what business of yours is it anyway?’

His comrades grinned and, as if to prove a point, one of them kicked their victim.

‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’ screamed Fabiola. ‘I will have you all flogged!’

Confused looks met this outburst.

‘Why wouldn’t we kill him?’ asked a thin soldier.

Peering closer, Fabiola took in what, in her rage, she had not noticed before. Although the old man’s robe was threadbare, there was a sickle slung from his rope belt. A worn leather pouch had been opened and its contents scattered on the ground. Dried herbs lay on small stones polished by long use; beside these were the tiny bones of a mouse. A short dagger with bloodstains on its rusty blade provided the final piece of evidence. Now Fabiola understood why the soldiers were acting so cruelly.

Few figures provoked more fear in Roman hearts than the Gaulish druids. Members of a powerful group learned in ancient lore, they were revered and hated in equal measure by their own people. It was said that Vercingetorix himself relied on one to provide him with predictions of the future.

‘See?’ said the thin legionary. ‘He’s a damn druid.’

‘Not for much longer, he isn’t,’ quipped their ringleader.

There was more laughter.

Moving forward, Fabiola saw that while most of the old man’s wounds were superficial, one was not. Through his clutching fingers, large amounts of blood had soaked through his robe over his belly. Her intervention had come too late. It was a death wound.

And gazing at the druid, she saw that he knew it too.

Bizarrely, he smiled. ‘Some of my visions were true, then,’ he said to himself. ‘A beautiful, black-haired woman who seeks revenge.’

Fabiola’s eyes widened.

Behind her, Secundus was paying keen attention.

No one spoke for a moment.

‘You are close to one beloved of Caesar,’ he rasped suddenly.

The watching legionaries exchanged worried glances. Fabiola’s threat had not just been an empty one. Without further protest, they let her kneel by the druid’s side.

Horrified by the whole situation, Fabiola was also intrigued. Here was a man with more power than any of the charlatans to be found at Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Yet he was dying. She had to find out what else he knew before it was too late.

The druid beckoned to her. ‘Do you still grieve as before?’ he whispered.

An involuntary sob rose in Fabiola’s throat, and she nodded. Mother. Romulus.

He grunted with pain, and Fabiola instinctively reached out to grip one of his gnarled, bloody hands. There was little else she could do.

His next words rocked her world.

‘You had a brother. A soldier who went to the east.’

It was all Fabiola could do not to break down completely. ‘Have you seen him?’

He nodded. ‘On a great battlefield, fighting against a mighty host with massive grey monsters in its midst.’

Romulus was in my vision! Fabiola glanced around at Secundus.

Unsurprisingly, he was beaming. Mithras had spoken through her.

Exultant, Fabiola calmed herself. ‘Is he still alive?’

Her words hung in the sultry air.

‘Rome must beware of Caesar.’

Angry snarls met this comment, and the legionaries pressed forward with ready swords. But the old man’s expression had already gone glazed, his eyes unfocused.

‘Is Romulus alive?’ Fabiola squeezed his fingers, to no avail.

A last rattling breath escaped the druid’s lips, and then his body went limp.

‘Good riddance,’ growled the ringleader. ‘Our general is the only man fit to lead the Republic.’ He hawked and spat, before skulking off. His comrades did likewise. There was no sport left here, and by leaving quickly, they would escape punishment. Finding nondescript legionaries like them amidst an army was almost impossible.

Uncaring, Fabiola sagged down, drained of all energy.

There would be no revelation about Romulus.

How was she to bear it?

Chapter XX: Barbaricum

Barbaricum, on the Indian Ocean, summer 52 BC

Squatting by the edge of the rough-hewn wooden dock, Romulus spat angrily into the sea. The journey south had aged him. There were dark rings of exhaustion under his blue eyes and a light growth of stubble covered his jaw. His black hair had grown longer. Although he did not know it, Romulus was now an imposing sight. His military tunic might be ragged and dirty, but his height, heavily muscled arms and legs and sheathed gladius marked him out as a man not to cross.

Tarquinius’ gaze fell away from the men he had been watching. He took in Romulus’ mood at a glance. ‘Brennus chose his own fate,’ he said quietly. ‘You could not stop him.’

Unsurprised at his mind being read, Romulus did not answer. Instead he watched the mixture of objects floating in the water with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. Typical of any large port, there were rotting fish heads, broken pieces of timber, small pieces of discarded fishing net and over-ripe fruit bobbing about between the wooden hulls of the moored ships.

The shouts and cries of merchants, stallholders, slave-dealers and their prospective customers filled the warm, salty air. Just a hundred paces away was part of the immense market which formed the basis for Barbaricum’s existence. Despite the oppressive temperatures and high humidity, the place was thronged. Bearded traders in turbans were selling indigo, different varieties of pepper and other spices from open sacks. Naked except for their chains, scores of men, women and children stood miserably on blocks, waiting like so many cattle. Neat piles of tortoiseshell were stacked higher than a man. Polished tusks lying in pairs were mute evidence that not every elephant became a beast of war. Trestle tables were covered in pieces of turquoise, lapis lazuli, agate and other semi-precious stones. There was silk yarn and cloth, cotton in bales and sheets of finely woven muslin. It was a veritable cornucopia.