Vahram extended a hand and pushed Felix backwards, letting him fall lifeless to the floor. A gush of blood accompanied the blade’s withdrawal from his thoracic cavity. It formed around the little Gaul’s body in a great red pool.

Weeping fat, angry tears, Romulus swept forward, ready to kill. It was six steps to Vahram. Two heartbeats.

Tarquinius observed in silence. Romulus would decide his own fate. So would Brennus. It was not for him to intervene. Romulus’ journey back to Rome was not his only possible path. Perhaps, like many gods, Mithras was fickle. Maybe they would all die here tonight.

But Vahram did not even lift his bloodied sword to defend himself.

Disturbed by the squat primus pilus’ calm, Romulus managed to pull himself back. As he had learned at the Mithraeum, gut reactions were not always the best. Killing Vahram now would burn all their bridges. It was also a sure way to die. But there was another option: walking out of here. If he did that, then Felix could be avenged – later. Somehow Romulus was sure of this. Quickly he held out an arm to halt Brennus’ attack as well. Remarkably, the Gaul did not protest.

This is not a battle that no one else could win, Brennus thought, remembering the haruspex prophecy. I will know when it is.

Tarquinius exhaled with relief. Thank you, Mithras!

‘You show intelligence,’ Vahram snarled. ‘Twenty archers are waiting outside.’

Romulus scowled. All of them had been outwitted – even Tarquinius.

‘If one of us calls out, they have orders to kill you all.’

Romulus lowered his weapon, followed slowly by Brennus. He glanced at the statue of Mithras and made a silent vow to himself. Gods willing, my day will come, the young soldier thought savagely. For Felix, just as it will with Gemellus.

‘Get back to barracks,’ Vahram snapped. ‘And consider yourselves lucky not to be crucified.’

Romulus’ fists clenched, but he did not protest.

Great Belenus, Brennus prayed. Take Felix straight to paradise. I will see him there.

Vahram was not finished. He pointed a stubby finger at Tarquinius. ‘If Pacorus dies, so will you.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And both of your friends here.’

Tarquinius’ face paled. The primus pilus was repeating, albeit unknowingly, Pacorus’ threat. It was the vivid vision of Romulus entering Ostia which gave him strength. He himself might not return to Rome, but his pupil could. Quite how that would happen, Tarquinius was not sure. All he could do was believe in Mithras.

Romulus’ heart sank. Judging by the haruspex’ response, the chances of Pacorus surviving were slim to none. Like mist dispersed by the rising sun, the promised path to Rome vanished again. What hope had they really?

Brennus quietly led him away from Felix’ body, but Romulus turned in the doorway and looked back.

Have faith in Mithras, mouthed the haruspex, inclining his head towards the small statue on the altar. He will guide you.

Mithras, thought Romulus numbly. Only a god could help him now.

Chapter IV: Fabiola and Secundus

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Fabiola’s pulse quickened as she raced up the last few steps to the top of the Capitoline Hill, nearing the enormous complex. She had not worshipped here for months and had missed it keenly. Sheer excitement had made her run ahead of Docilosa and the bodyguards, but this was now replaced by anxiety at what she might find. It might be nothing at all.

An appreciative wolf whistle from a passer-by dragged her thoughts down to earth.

Fabiola’s common sense kicked in, and she slowed down. It was not wise for a woman to venture out alone in any part of Rome. Particularly not for her. Scaevola’s threat had been no idle one – only a day after the incident with the fugitive, two of her slaves had been randomly killed in the fields. There were no witnesses, but the fugitivarii had to be the main suspects. The threat accelerated Fabiola’s departure. She had hurriedly managed to recruit a dozen gladiators from the local ludus, leaving six to defend the latifundium with Corbulo. Joining her original three bodyguards, the rest had come with her to Rome. But that did not mean that the danger was gone. And like a foolish child playing hide-and-seek, she had just left her protection behind.

Already Fabiola could feel the stares of several unsavoury types who were loitering nearby. None looked like Scaevola, but a flutter of fear rose from her stomach all the same. Now was not the time to let something foolish happen. Retracing her steps, Fabiola steadied her nerves. Perhaps too it had been foolish to pin her hopes on finding the mysterious soothsayer. Yet the revelation about Gemellus’ last divination had to be more than coincidence. On the voyage north, her mind had raced constantly with the possibilities of the stranger at Gemellus’ door being Romulus.

Soon Fabiola had been joined by her followers. Her face perspiring from the climb, Docilosa was also red with indignation at her mistress’s rash behaviour. Nothing she said ever made any difference to Fabiola’s actions, so she scolded the guards mercilessly for falling behind. The nine muscle-bound men looked sheepish and shuffled their feet in the dirt. Even the new recruits had learned not to argue with her. Amused, Fabiola hurried towards her destination, confident that Docilosa was watching her back.

Dominating the open area before her was an immense marble statue of a naked Jupiter, his bearded face painted the traditional victor’s red. On triumphal days, a wooden scaffold had to be erected to daub his entire body with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. Today, apart from its crimson visage, the beautifully carved figure was a muted, more natural white colour. Its position, on the very edge of the top of the Capitoline Hill, had been very deliberately chosen. The main part of the city lay sprawled below, directly beneath Jupiter’s imperious gaze. In open spaces like the Forum Romanum and the Forum Boarium, citizens could look up and be reassured by his presence: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the all-seeing state-god of the Republic.

No less impressive was the huge gold-roofed temple that stood behind, its triangular portico of decorated terracotta supported by three rows of six painted columns, all the height of ten men. This was the airy anteroom to the triad of imposing cellae, or sacred rooms. Each one was dedicated to a single deity: Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. Of course Jupiter’s was in the centre.

Extending for some distance to the rear was an extensive complex of smaller shrines, teaching schools and priests’ quarters. Thousands of citizens came daily to worship in this, the most important religious centre in Rome. Fabiola revered it greatly and was sure that she could feel a distinct aura of power within the cellae. The long, narrow plastered rooms had originally been built by the Etruscans, the founders of the city. A people who had been crushed by the Romans.

Her nose twitched. The air was thick with the smells of incense and myrrh, and manure from the sacrificial animals on sale. The cries of hawkers and traders mixed with the incantations of haruspices performing divinations. Tethered lambs bleated plaintively, resigned hens packed into wicker cages stared beadily into the distance. Scantily clad prostitutes cast practised, seductive eyes at any man who glanced their way. Acrobats jumped and tumbled while snake charmers played flutes, tempting their charges out of clay vessels sitting in front of them. From small stalls, food vendors were offering bread, wine and hot sausages. Slaves wearing nothing but loincloths slouched beside their litters, sweat from the steep climb still coating their bodies. There would be time for a brief rest while their owners prayed. Children shrieked with laughter, getting under men’s feet as they chased each other through the throng.