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.