The Silver Eagle by Ben Kane

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