Once the closest of allies, Pompey and the brutal Milo had parted company on bad terms some years before. Now Milo was allied to Cato, one of the few politicians to oppose the shrunken triumvirate’s stranglehold on power. Crassus might be dead, but Caesar and Pompey still controlled the Republic, which was not to the liking of many. Desperate to prevent Pompey becoming consul as the new year began, Cato had put forward Milo as a candidate instead. This was too much for Clodius, and minor disturbances now occurred on a daily basis. Occasional larger pitched battles had claimed the lives of dozens of thugs. Caught in the middle, a number of unlucky residents had also died. The Senate was paralysed, unsure what to do. Most people, one trader told Fabiola, just wanted order restored. And the person to do it was Pompey.

With his legions.

‘Soldiers on the streets of Rome?’ Fabiola cried. The very idea was anathema. To prevent any attempts at overthrowing the Republic, its laws banned all military personnel from entering the capital. ‘Sulla was the last man to do that.’

‘I remember it well,’ said a skinny old man who was buying lamp oil. He shivered. ‘Blood ran in the streets for days. No one was safe.’

The shopkeeper shook his head heavily. ‘I know. But have we any choice?’ He gestured at his empty shelves. ‘If there is nothing to buy, people will starve. What then?’

Fabiola could not argue with his words. If only Brutus and Caesar were able to intervene, she thought. But there was no chance of that. News had come that meant neither man would be back for many months. Braving snow that was higher than a man, Caesar had ridden through the mountains and successfully rejoined his legions in Gaul. Battle had already been joined against the tribes; Caesar had suffered initial setbacks before a stunning victory had forced Vercingetorix and his army to retreat to the north. Yet the intelligent Gaulish chieftain was unbeaten. Thousands of warriors were still flocking to his banner, so Caesar had no option but to stay put. The situation in Gaul was critical, and Fabiola’s worries about Brutus grew by the day.

Loud shouts from the street drew her attention back to the present. Fabiola made to leave the shop, but her bodyguards blocked the doorway. Although Docilosa was in bed with an upset stomach, they had been browbeaten enough times. ‘Let me check it out, Mistress,’ said Tullius, the most senior. A short Sicilian with crooked teeth and a bad limp, he was deadly with a gladius.

She frowned but obeyed. Danger lurked everywhere now.

‘Clodius Pulcher is dead!’ Sandals slapped loudly off the ground as the running person drew nearer. ‘Murdered on the Via Appia!’

Placing his thumb between the forefinger and index finger of his right hand, the shopkeeper made the sign against evil. The old man muttered a prayer.

Cries of dismay rose from the passers-by who had dared to be out. Windows clattered open as the residents of the flats above street level heard the news. Their voices added to the swelling noise.

‘I want to see what’s going on,’ demanded Fabiola.

Drawing his dagger, Tullius peered outside. One look was enough. With a grunt of satisfaction he darted forward, deliberately knocking over the messenger. Quickly the Sicilian dragged him into the shop, one arm wrapped around his throat, the other holding his knife tightly under the youth’s ribcage.

Fabiola took in the youngster at a glance. Short, underfed, dressed in rags, he was typical of Rome’s poorest dwellers. No doubt he had been hoping to get a reward from someone for bringing back such dramatic news.

The captive’s gaze darted wildly from side to side as he took in the shocked shopkeeper, the old man, Fabiola and her other guards. ‘Who’re you?’ he gasped. ‘Not seen you round here before.’

‘Shut it, arsehole.’ Tullius poked him with his dagger. ‘Tell the lady what you were screaming about just now.’

The youth was happy to obey. ‘Clodius and a group of his men were attacked by Milo’s gladiators. Near an inn just south of the city,’ he said excitedly. ‘Must have been outnumbered two to one.’

‘When?’

‘No more than an hour ago.’

‘Did you witness this?’ Fabiola demanded.

He nodded. ‘It was an ambush, lady. The gladiators threw javelins first and then swarmed in from all sides.’

‘Gladiators?’ Fabiola interrupted, her mind, as ever, darting to Romulus.

‘Yes, lady. Memor’s men.’

She managed not to react. ‘Memor?’ she asked casually.

He seemed surprised. ‘You know, the lanista of the Ludus Magnus.’

Fabiola shrugged as if it was unimportant but inside she was reeling. For a short period before Brutus had freed her from the Lupanar, Memor had been one of her clients. She had hated every moment of his visits, but the cruel, dispassionate lanista had been a possible source of information about Romulus. By repeatedly driving him wild with lust, she had managed to discover that her brother had indeed been sold into Memor’s school. And then escaped with a champion fighter. A Gaul. But that was history. She had to keep focused. More important events were unfolding, and Memor seemed to be taking a prominent hand in the ongoing unrest. Why? Anger surged within Fabiola. ‘Was he there?’

‘I didn’t see him, lady.’

‘Or Milo?’

‘He was there at the start, encouraging his men,’ said the youth. ‘Then he left.’

‘Milo’s a clever bastard,’ pronounced the shopkeeper. ‘He’ll have gone somewhere very public, with lots of witnesses to prove it.’

The same goes for Memor, thought Fabiola. ‘What happened next?’

‘Clodius got hit in the shoulder by a pilum and fell down. Some of his men carried him inside the tavern for shelter. The rest tried to hold off the attackers, but there were too many. The door was kicked in and Clodius got dragged outside, screaming and crying for mercy.’

Fabiola shuddered at the dramatic and gory image. ‘And you’re certain he’s dead?’

‘He didn’t have a chance, lady. They were like a pack of wild dogs.’ The youngster swallowed. ‘There was blood everywhere. Clodius’ men are carrying his body back to the city,’ continued the prisoner. ‘His wife doesn’t even know yet.’

‘When she finds out, the gates of Hades will open,’ said the shopkeeper grimly. ‘Fulvia won’t take this lying down.’

Fabiola’s interest was piqued. ‘You know her?’

‘Not exactly. But she’s a typical noblewoman,’ he replied. ‘Likes to get her opinion across, if you know what I mean.’

Fabiola raised an eyebrow.

The old man tittered.

Realising what he had said, the proprietor flushed. ‘Not meaning to insult noble ladies, of course.’

Fabiola graced him with a smile to show that she had taken no offence. ‘Release the boy,’ she ordered Tullius.

Reluctantly the Sicilian obeyed.

Unsure what would happen to him, the youth shuffled his feet.

Fabiola tossed him a denarius and his eyes lit up at the unexpected reward.

‘Thank you, lady!’ He bobbed his head and ran off, eager to spread the news.

‘We’d best return to the domus, Mistress,’ said Tullius, looking concerned. ‘This means trouble.’

Fabiola did not protest. The open-fronted shop was no place to linger at a time like this. Saying goodbye to the shopkeeper, they hurried on to the street. It was only a hundred paces to Brutus’ house and the protection of its thick walls and iron-studded gates. In the event, that short distance was too far.

Round the nearest corner swarmed a horde of thugs armed with clubs, swords and spears. Being herded in their midst were many frightened-looking men, women and children: ordinary citizens. Talking in loud, angry voices, the group’s leaders did not immediately see Fabiola and her guards.

‘Quick!’ hissed Tullius, gesturing frantically. ‘Back into the shop!’

Fabiola turned, but slipped on a sliver of wet wood lying in the mud. The resulting splash was enough to catch the attention of the fast-moving rabble. Within a heartbeat, it had reached them. Before the Sicilian had time to do more than help Fabiola up, they were surrounded. Fortunately, the heavies seemed relatively good-natured. Shouts of laughter rang out at her misfortune and rough, unshaven faces pressed in close, leering.