‘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.