by Ben Kane
Fabiola could not take her eyes off the fugitive, who was casting terrified glances over his shoulder as he ran. ‘Why is he being hunted?’ she asked dully, knowing the answer.
‘Because he ran away,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And a slave is his master’s property.’
Fabiola was intimately acquainted with this cruel reality. It was the same reason that had allowed Gemellus to repeatedly rape her mother. To sell her and Romulus. To execute Juba, the giant Nubian who had trained her brother to use a sword. Owners had the ultimate power over their slaves: that of life and death. Starkly reinforcing this, in the Roman legal system, the pride of the Republic, there was no retribution for the torture or killing of a slave.
A pack of large dogs burst from the cover of the nearest grove, their noses alternately sniffing the ground and the air for their quarry’s scent.
Fabiola heard the young man wail with terror. It was an awful sound.
She and Corbulo watched in silence.
A group of heavily armed men emerged from the trees, urging the hounds on with shouts and whistles. Cheers went up as they caught sight of the slave, whose energy looked almost spent.
‘Where’s he from?’
The vilicus shrugged. ‘Who knows? The fool could have been running for days,’ he said. ‘He’s young and strong. I’ve known the chase take more than a week.’ Corbulo looked almost sympathetic. ‘But those bastards never give up. And a man can’t run for ever on an empty belly.’
Fabiola sighed. Nobody would give food or help to a fugitive. Why would they? Rome was a state based on foundations of war and slavery. Its citizens had no reason to aid those who had fled captivity. Brutal punishments, terrible living conditions and a poor diet concerned them not at all. Of course, not every slave was treated this badly, but they were still the beating pulse of the Republic, the labour which built its magnificent buildings, toiled in its workshops and grew its foodstuffs. Rome needed its slaves. There was little that other slaves could do either, Fabiola thought bitterly. The punishment for helping an escapee was death. And who wanted to die by crucifixion?
The drama was about to reach its climax. Having staggered to within fifty paces of them, the young man fell to his knees in the damp earth. He raised his arms in silent supplication and Fabiola had to close her eyes. Coming between a runaway and the men legally sent to catch him would not be a good idea. Without risking a lawsuit from the slave’s owner, there was nothing she could do anyway.
Then the pack reached him.
Screams filled the air as the trained dogs began to savage the fugitive like a child’s doll. Fabiola watched in horror. She thanked the gods a few moments later when the lead huntsman whipped them off. Gradually the rest of the fugitivarii arrived, more than a dozen tough-looking types clad in dull colours and armed with bows, spears and swords. From under their wool cloaks, the dull glimmer of mail could be made out. They gathered around, laughing at the deep bite wounds on the slave’s arms and legs. This was part of their sport.
Fabiola held herself back. What could she do?
Engrossed with their capture, the fugitivarii seemed oblivious to their audience. Their brindle dogs had flopped down close by, red tongues hanging from wide, powerful jaws. Similar animals roamed around Fabiola’s villa at night, used as protection against bandits and criminals. These heavily muscled creatures looked even more vicious.
Encircled now, the slave had rolled into a foetal position. He was moaning softly and only crying out when struck by his captors. Then something changed. The nearest thug finally noticed Fabiola and Corbulo. Seeing her rich clothing and jewellery, he did not speak, but muttered a few words to the stocky man in charge. Rather than respond, though, the figure delivered a huge kick to the slave’s chest.
A muffled scream reached them.
Fabiola stared in horror. The blow had been enough to break ribs. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted. ‘He’s badly injured!’
Beside her, Corbulo coughed uneasily.
An opening appeared in the circle, hard, unforgiving faces turning towards the stunning woman and her vilicus. As they took in her beauty, leers distorted their features and lewd suggestions were made, albeit in whispers. The rich were still people to be respected.
Fabiola ignored the comments; Corbulo glared.
Bizarrely, the slave was then allowed to get to his feet. One of the fugitivarii drew his sword and poked him with its tip. Away from them, and towards Fabiola. Confused, the young slave did not move. Another sharp prod followed, prompting a sob. But he took the hint, and stumbled towards the villa. Laughs of derision met his efforts, and a number of the thugs threw clods of earth at him. His pace increased.
‘What are they doing?’ asked Fabiola in dread.
‘They’re playing with him. And us. Time to go inside, Mistress,’ Corbulo muttered, his face a pale shade of grey. ‘Before things get out of hand.’
Fabiola’s feet were rooted to the spot.
The slave came closer. As well as the dog bites that covered his body, his torso and arms were a red ruin. Through an old, flittered tunic, oozing wounds were visible, crisscrossing his skin front and back in an ugly latticework. The marks of a whip, they were evidence of a brutal master. Was this why he had fled? The fugitive was young, Fabiola guessed, no more than fifteen. A boy. Sweat and tears had streaked the dirt on his face, which was pinched and hungry. And full of terror.
‘Mistress!’ Corbulo’s voice was insistent. ‘It’s not safe.’
Fabiola could not take her eyes off the runaway, who did not dare to look at her.
In a trance, he shuffled past them, towards the courtyard. Like a mouse injured by a cat, he would not go far.
At last the fugitivarii began to move, and Fabiola’s stomach twisted. She glanced around, but none of her bodyguards were in sight. Until now, there had rarely been a need for their presence and they spent much of their time around the fire in the kitchen, telling dirty jokes. Even the slaves who were in the yard had not appeared.
Corbulo’s fear had grown so great that he actually took hold of her sleeve.
An urgent desire to help gripped Fabiola, and she turned to face the approaching men. Although fearful too, she was not about to scurry back inside her property to avoid these lowlifes.
Silently, malevolently, they drew closer.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Fabiola cried, holding her hands together to stop them trembling.
‘That’d be me, lady. Scaevola, chief fugitivarius,’ drawled the leader with an insolent half-bow. A squat, powerful figure with short brown hair and deep-set eyes, he wore a legionary’s chain mail shirt that covered him from neck to mid-thigh. A gladius in an ornate sheath and a dagger hung from his belt. Thick silver wrist bands adorned his wrists, announcing his status. Hunting escaped slaves was clearly profitable work. ‘Can I be of assistance?’
The offer came across as it was meant. Rude. Full of innuendo. It was met with sniggers of delight from the others.
Acutely aware of how powerless she was, Fabiola drew herself up to her full height. ‘Explain what you are doing on my land.’
‘Your land?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Where’s Gemellus then? You his latest piece of ass?’
This time his men laughed out loud.
Fabiola gave him an icy stare. ‘That fat degenerate no longer owns this estate. I am the mistress now, and you will answer me!’
Scaevola looked surprised. ‘I hadn’t heard,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve been in the north for months. The pickings are good up there. Plenty of tribal scum fleeing Gaul.’
‘What a pity you returned.’
‘We just follow the work,’ replied the ‘Been chasing this specimen for three days, isn’t that right, boys? But no one escapes old Scaevola and his crew!’fugitivarius.
‘Does it amuse you to torture the slaves you catch?’ asked Fabiola acidly.
Scaevola smiled, revealing sharp teeth. ‘Keeps the lads here happy,’ he answered. ‘And me.’
His men chortled.
Fabiola gave him a withering look.
‘The dirt bag would have more reason to scream if it wasn’t so damn cold,’ Scaevola confided amiably. ‘I need a good fire to heat my iron! But that can be done later, back at the camp.’
Now Fabiola was filled with rage. She knew exactly what Scaevola was talking about. One of the commonest punishments was to brand escapees on the forehead with the letter ‘F’, for fugitivus. It was a savage warning to other slaves. And if another attempt was made, crucifixion was likely. It explained why most slaves accepted their lot. Not me, Fabiola thought fiercely. Not Romulus.
‘Be gone!’ She pointed back the way they had come. ‘Now!’
‘Who’s going to make me, lady?’ Scaevola sneered, jerking his head at Corbulo. ‘This old fool?’
At once his men laid hands on their weapons.
The vilicus went pale. ‘Mistress!’ he hissed. ‘We must return to the villa!’
Fabiola took a deep breath, calming herself. Her decision to confront Scaevola had been made, and other than a humiliating climb-down, she had little choice other than to continue. ‘I am the lover of Decimus Brutus,’ she announced in a loud, clear voice. ‘Do you know who that is, you sewer rat?’
Scaevola’s face became a cold, calculating mask.
‘One of Julius Caesar’s most important men,’ she continued proudly, rubbing it in. ‘A senior army officer.’ Fabiola glared at the fugitivarii, daring any to meet her stony gaze. None would, except Scaevola. ‘If anything happens to me, he would go to Hades to find the scum responsible.’
For a moment, Fabiola’s words seemed to have worked. She turned to go.
‘The whore of one of Caesar’s lapdogs, eh?’ Scaevola drawled.
Fabiola’s cheeks burned, but she had no chance to respond.
‘There are people in Rome who pay good money to see Caesar’s supporters . . .’ Scaevola smiled, making his words more chilling, ‘. . . removed from the equation.’
His men’s interest picked up instantly.
Fabiola’s heart lurched. There had been rumours in Pompeii recently about the brutal murders of a number of Caesar’s less wealthy allies. Men who, previously, had had no need for many bodyguards. And she had just three.
‘Expecting Brutus soon?’
Fabiola had no answer. The first fingers of panic clutched her belly.
‘Not to worry.’ Scaevola leered at her. ‘You’ll do. Boys?’
As one, the fugitivarii moved forward.
Horrified, Fabiola looked at Corbulo. To his credit, the vilicus was not backing away. Gripping his whip in his right fist, he moved to stand protectively in front of her.
Scaevola began to laugh, a deep, unpleasant sound. ‘Kill the stupid old bastard,’ he ordered. ‘But I want the bitch alive and unharmed. She’s mine.’
Jupiter, Greatest and Best, thought Fabiola desperately. Once more, I need your help.
Instead, the sound of swords being drawn from their sheaths filled the air.
Squaring his shoulders, Corbulo moved a step forward.
Fabiola’s heart filled with pride at his brave, useless action. Then she looked at the thugs and her gorge rose. They were both about to die. No doubt she would be raped first. And she did not even have a weapon to defend herself with.
Just a few steps from Corbulo, the fugitivarii stopped and Scaevola’s face went purple with rage.
Confused, Fabiola and Corbulo looked at each other. They sensed movement behind them.
Turning her head, Fabiola saw practically every male slave she owned coming towards them at a run. Gripping scythes, hammers, axes, and even planks of wood, there were at least forty of them. Alarmed by the escapee entering the yard, they had spontaneously come to defend their mistress. And yet not one knew how to fight like the fugitivarii. A lump formed in Fabiola’s throat at the risks these unfortunates would take for her.
Reaching her, the slaves fanned out in a long line.
The thugs looked unhappy. Armed or not, they were vastly outnumbered. And after Spartacus’ rebellion twenty years before, everyone knew that slaves could fight.
Fabiola turned to face Scaevola. ‘Get off my latifundium,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’
‘I’m not leaving without the fugitive,’ Scaevola growled. ‘Fetch him.’
His head bowed, Corbulo obediently moved a step towards the yard.
‘Stop!’
The vilicus jerked upright at Fabiola’s shouted command.
‘You’re not having the poor creature,’ she said, allowing her fury to take complete hold. ‘He stays here.’
Corbulo’s face was a picture of shock.
Scaevola’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.
‘You heard,’ snapped Fabiola.
‘The son of a whore belongs to a merchant called Sextus Roscius, not you!’ the fugitivarius roared. ‘This is totally illegal.’
‘So is physically assaulting a citizen. But that did not trouble you,’ responded Fabiola sharply. ‘Ask Roscius how much he wants for the boy. I’ll have the money sent the very next day.’
Obviously not used to being thwarted or to losing face, Scaevola’s fists bunched with rage.
They glared at each other for a heart-stopping moment.
‘This is not over,’ the fugitivarius muttered from between clenched teeth. ‘No one, especially a jumped-up little bitch like you, crosses Scaevola without payback. You hear me?’
Fabiola lifted her chin. She did not answer.
‘I hope you and your lover have strong locks on your doors,’ he warned. From nowhere, a knife appeared in his right hand. ‘And plenty of guards. You’ll need both.’
His companions laughed unpleasantly, and Fabiola forced herself not to shiver.
Fortified by his mistress’s courage, Corbulo made a gesture. The slaves moved forward, their weapons raised.
Scaevola eyed them all with scorn. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said. Gathering his men, he led them back across the muddy field. The dogs trotted at their heels.
The vilicus let out a long, slow breath.
Fabiola stood stiff-backed, watching until the fugitivarii were out of sight. Inside, she was panicking. What have I done? I should have let him take the boy. But part of her was glad. Whether her decision had been wise, only time would tell.
‘Mistress?’
She turned to regard the vilicus.
‘Scaevola is a very dangerous man.’ Corbulo paused. ‘And he’s on Pompey’s payroll.’
Fabiola flashed him a grateful smile, and the old vilicus fell wholly under her spell.
‘The mangy dog meant what he said too,’ he explained. ‘His enemies just disappear. These men . . .’ He indicated the slaves around them. ‘Next time, they won’t be enough.’
‘I know,’ replied Fabiola, wishing that Brutus were by her side.
She had made a real enemy. Journeying to Rome had become an urgent priority.
Chapter III: Vahram
Eastern Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
Screaming wild battle cries, the Scythians charged headlong at the two friends.
Using the dead Parthian guard’s bow, Brennus had already taken down four, including the archers who had injured Pacorus.
They were still outnumbered by more than nine to one. It’s hopeless, Romulus thought dully. There are far too many. He steeled himself, preparing for the inevitable.
Trying to use as many shafts as possible, Brennus loosed another arrow. Then, with a curse, he threw down his bow and drew his gladius.
They moved shoulder to shoulder.
Surprising Romulus utterly, first one and then another bright ball of fire came flying over his head, illuminating the scene wonderfully. The first landed and smashed apart in a great burst of flame, right in front of the Scythians, who looked suitably terrified. The second struck one of the enemy on the arm, setting light to his felt clothing. The blaze spread upwards with terrible speed, burning his neck and face.
The man shrieked in agony. A number of his comrades tried to help, but their efforts were hampered by a further pair of burning missiles. The Scythians’ charge came to an abrupt halt.
‘They’re oil lamps,’ cried Romulus, suddenly understanding.
‘It’s Tarquinius,’ replied Brennus, fitting another shaft to his bowstring.
Delighted, Romulus turned to find the haruspex only a few steps away. ‘What took you so long?’
‘I had a vision of Rome,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘If we can get out of here, there is hope.’
Romulus’ heart soared, and Brennus laughed out loud.
‘What did you see?’ Romulus asked.
Tarquinius ignored the question. ‘Pick up Pacorus,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’
‘Why?’ Romulus demanded in a low voice. ‘The bastard’s going to die anyway. Let’s run for it.’
‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, hurling two more oil lamps. ‘The journey south would kill us in this weather. We must stay in the fort.’
Screams of terror rose from the enemy warriors as the lamps landed.
‘Those are the last ones.’
They had to move. Cursing under his breath, Romulus took hold of Pacorus’ feet. Brennus did likewise with his arms. Lifting him as gently as they could, they slung him over Brennus’ shoulder. Pacorus lolled like a child’s toy, the blood from his wounds soaking into the Gaul’s cloak. By far the strongest of the three, only Brennus would be able to run for any distance with such a load.
‘Which way?’ shouted Romulus, peering around. The cliff face was to their back, so they could only go north, south or east.
Tarquinius pointed.
North. Their trust in the haruspex still strong, neither Romulus nor Brennus argued. They trotted into the darkness, leaving utter confusion in their wake.
Fortunately, the weather aided their escape. Dense flurries of snow began to fall, severely reducing the visibility and covering their trail. There was no pursuit, and Romulus presumed that the Scythians knew how close their camp was. Although he did too, his keen sense of direction soon went awry; he was very glad that Tarquinius seemed to know exactly which way to go. The temperature was dropping even further as the snow began to collect on the ground. If they strayed even a small distance off course, there was little chance of ever reaching the Roman fort. It and the clusters of mud-brick huts nearby were the only dwellings for many miles. Parthia’s population was not large, with less than a tenth of it living on its far eastern borders. Few chose to dwell here other than the garrisons of soldiers, and captives who had no choice.