The Silver Eagle by Ben Kane Page A

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