What in the name of Hades was she to do?
Thinking that she had tired him out, Fabiola was surprised when Petreius found the energy to take her again a short time later. Kneeling on all fours, she encouraged his deep thrusts with loud moans. When the legate had finished and sagged back on the sweat-soaked sheets, Fabiola climbed off the bed. She desperately needed time to think. Naked, she walked a few steps to a low table that had a selection of food and drink arrayed upon it. Filling two cups with some watered-down wine, the young woman turned to find Petreius admiring her.
‘By all that is sacred,’ he said with a satisfied sigh. ‘You look like a goddess come to tempt a mere mortal.’
Fabiola batted her eyelashes and flashed a practised smile.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, intrigued. ‘No merchant I’ve ever met would have a daughter like you.’
She laughed throatily and spun in a slow circle, drawing a loud groan of desire from him.
But the question would be repeated, of that there was no doubt. Fabiola tried to quell the panic rising in her breast. Petreius was no satiated customer to be ushered out of the door when his time was up. This was a man used to getting his own way, a powerful noble experienced in commanding soldiers and fighting wars. Completely at his mercy, on his territory, her feminine wiles would only go so far.
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.
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 t
itanic 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.
They travelled on.
The escape from Scaevola had been the most frightening and hair-raising part of Fabiola’s journey so far. That was, until they neared Alesia. The horror continued for mile after mile. And yet the threat was not living. Just a dozen miles from the last legionary outpost, the countryside was filled with burnt villages and fields of torched crops. Herds of cattle and sheep lay slaughtered, their bloated corpses stinking in the early summer sunshine. Vercingetorix’ men had been hard at work, their aim to deny food and supplies to Caesar’s army. Any living creatures remaining were wild animals and birds. There were no people – everyone had either fled, or joined Vercingetorix in Alesia. It was a sign of how desperate the struggle had been, Fabiola realised. Surely a chieftain would only order the destruction of his own people’s livelihood in the worst of circumstances? Now large tracts of the Gauls’ land lay in waste, which meant there would be no food for the coming winter. Long after the soldiers on both sides left, innocent women and children would starve to death. This extra blood price was chilling.