‘As for me, I didn’t miss one of Mars’ feast days for ten years. Still lost this!’ He waggled his stump at her.

Fabiola clicked her tongue. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Fighting Mithridates in Armenia,’ came the proud reply. Abruptly his face turned sad. ‘And now I beg for enough to eat each day.’

Immediately she reached for her purse.

‘Save your money, lady,’ the man muttered. ‘It must be hard enough earned.’

Fabiola frowned. The comment had been made as if he knew her history. ‘Explain yourself,’ she snapped.

His face went puce with embarrassment and there was silence for a moment as Fabiola glared at him.

‘Not many customers tip, do they?’ he ventured eventually.

Fabiola went cold. It was inevitable that she would be recognised by some in Rome, but she had not expected it this soon. And low-ranking veterans were uncommon clients in the brothel. They could not usually afford the high prices. So how did he know her? ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded harshly.

The cripple looked down. ‘I used to sit opposite the Lupanar, before the area got too dangerous. Watched you come out many times with that huge doorman. Benignus, is that his name?’

‘I see.’ She could not deny it.

‘It was impossible to miss your beauty, lady.’

‘I’m a free woman now,’ Fabiola said in a low voice. ‘A citizen.’

‘The gods favour you then,’ he said approvingly. ‘Few escape Jovina’s claws.’

‘You know her?’

He grinned. ‘Of course. She got to recognise me, too. Yet the old bitch never dropped a single as into my lap.’

It was Fabiola’s turn to colour. ‘Neither did I.’

‘That’s all right, lady. People don’t notice me nowadays.’ The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Lost my sword arm for nothing.’

Sympathy filled her at his plight. The legions stood for everything that she despised, protecting a state which was founded on slavery and warfare. Although this man had served many years in their ranks, he had also paid a heavy price. Fabiola found it impossible to hate him. She felt the opposite. With luck, Romulus might have had similar comrades. ‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘Take this.’

Gold glittered in her outstretched hand and his eyes opened wide with shock. The offered aureus was worth more than a legionary earned in a month. ‘Lady, I . . .’ he muttered.

Fabiola placed the coin in the veteran’s palm and closed his fingers over it. There was no resistance. She found it sad how extreme poverty could even grind down the pride of a brave soldier.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered, no longer able to meet her gaze.

Satisfied, Fabiola had turned to go when intuition made her pause. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked softly.

‘Secundus, lady,’ he replied. ‘Gaius Secundus.’

‘You probably know my name,’ she said, probing.

Secundus grinned in response. ‘Fabiola.’

She inclined her head graciously, and another man came into her thrall. ‘May we meet again.’

Secundus watched reverently as Fabiola climbed the steps towards the cellae. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she had given him enough money to live well for weeks. The gods were smiling today.

‘Perhaps Jupiter will answer my prayers,’ she offered over one shoulder.

‘I hope so, lady,’ Secundus called out. ‘Or Mithras,’ he added in a whisper.

The poorly lit cella was jammed with people wishing to ask a favour of the preeminent deity in Rome. After each new arrival had made an offering, shaven-headed acolytes directed them where to kneel. Priests filled the air with low chanting. Small oil lamps dangled from brackets, their guttering flames creating a forbidding atmosphere. High on the back wall hung an image of Jupiter, a great circular piece of sculpted, painted stone with a diameter twice the length of a man. The god had a beaked nose and full, sardonic lips. His unsmiling face stared impassively at the worshippers, heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Below the carving ran a long, flat altar, covered with gifts. Hens and lambs lay side by side, blood still dripping from the fresh cuts in their necks. Tiny, crudely made statues of Jupiter huddled together in twos and threes. There were copper coins, silver denarii, signet rings, necklaces and loaves of bread. Little replica clay vessels contrasted with the occasional piece of ornate glass. Rich or poor, plebeian or patrician, all gave something. All had a request of the god.

Fabiola moved quietly to the altar. Finding a place to stack a small pile of aurei, she knelt down nearby. But it was hard to concentrate on her prayers. Distracted by the loud muttering from the eager citizens around her, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine her lover. Gradually the noise diminished as her concentration improved. Brutus was of average build, but his clean-shaven, tanned face was pleasant and his smile natural. Fabiola had not seen him for months and was constantly surprised by how much she missed him. Especially recently. Holding his picture bright in her mind, she begged Jupiter for a sign. Anything that could help Brutus, and Caesar, to overcome the Gaulish rebellion. And protect them both from Scaevola’s menaces.

Her hopes were in vain. Fabiola saw and heard nothing but the other people in the tightly packed room.

Despite her best efforts, thoughts of Romulus began to replace those of Brutus. Perhaps it was because she had met Secundus? Fabiola found the images impossible to ignore. It had been nearly four years since she had seen her brother. Romulus would have grown into a man. He would be strong, as Secundus must have been, before he lost his arm. It was pleasing to think of her twin standing straight and tall in his chain mail, wearing a horsehair-crested helmet. Then her imagination faltered. How could Romulus be alive? Crassus’ defeat had been total, shaking the Republic to its core. Fabiola scowled, unwilling still to give up hope. In turn, that meant conceding that Romulus was a prisoner of the Parthians, sent to the ends of the earth. To Margiana, a place without hope. In mental agony, Fabiola remembered her own personal journey to Hades. She had not fought physical battles or risked her life in the legions. Instead she had been forced into prostitution.

And she had endured. Somehow Romulus would too. Fabiola was sure of it.

She got to her feet and made her way to the door. Docilosa and her guards were waiting outside, but disappointingly there was no sign of Secundus. His place on the bottom step had been taken by a leper covered in filthy, weeping bandages. Although Fabiola hadn’t realised it at the time, the veteran had given her hope. There had been no sign of the mysterious soothsayer, and she had not been given proof of her twin’s survival, or of Caesar’s future. But her journey to Rome had not been without reward. Now it was time to return to Brutus’ residence in the city, a large, comfortable domus on the Palatine Hill. There she could gather her thoughts and find ways of helping Brutus, and dealing with Scaevola. Perhaps there would even be time to begin the search for Romulus? Caught up in its own troubles, the Republic would not be sending an army to retaliate against Parthia in the foreseeable future. Yet merchants journeyed to the east regularly, attracted by the valuable goods they could resell in Rome. For the right price, one might be persuaded to ask questions on his travels.

The idea was enough to make Fabiola forget her worries for a short time.

Several days went by, and Fabiola was able to learn more about the dire situation in the capital. Enough shops were situated near Brutus’ house for her to venture out relatively safely and gather information. There was no sign of Scaevola, and Fabiola began to think he was still in the south, near Pompeii. She relaxed into the role of a country lady, ignorant of recent goings-on. After she had spent a decent sum buying food and other necessities, the grateful shopkeepers were happy to relate all the latest rumours. As Fabiola had suspected, the streets had been taken over by gangs loyal to Clodius and Milo.