A scream of rage and defiance left Fabiola’s mouth. Raising her blade, she charged forward. Everything was falling apart. The gods had answered her: she was surely alone in the world. If death took her now, it would be a release.

Her men roared in response and followed close behind.

The battle was brief, and brutal.

Acting on a hunch that she would not be killed at once, Fabiola ran straight at the archer, who was drawing a bead on someone over her left shoulder. She felt a rush of air as his arrow shot past her cheek and a strangled cry from behind her as it landed. Then she was on him. There would only be one chance: her blow had to disable or kill, instantly. Before the thug even drew breath, Fabiola had slammed her dagger deep into the point where his neck met his body. It was where she had seen Corbulo stick pigs as they were being slaughtered. A high-pitched scream left his lips and he dropped his bow. She didn’t hesitate. Pulling her blade free, Fabiola stabbed him twice more, in the chest. His wounds gushing, the archer fell backwards and out of sight. He would be dead within moments.

Fabiola looked at the hand holding her weapon, her right. It was completely red, sticky with blood. It was sickening. It was hard to know which was worse: this, or having to couple with old, fat senators.

‘Bitch!’

Instinctively she ducked, avoiding a wildly swinging sword. Facing her was an unshaven, skinny man wielding a rusty gladius. Although Fabiola had not been trained to use weapons, she had watched Juba teaching Romulus enough times. She had also seen the Lupanar’s two doormen sparring with each other. This fool has no idea how to fight, she thought, feeling a surge of hope. But she had never been trained to do so either.

He lunged forward again but she easily dodged away.

‘More used to stabbing people in the back, eh?’ Fabiola sneered, wondering what to do next. To get within knife range, she would have to go dangerously close to his sword. The thug sensed her indecision at once.

‘I’m going to enjoy fucking you when this is over,’ he panted, trying to snatch her dagger.

She had him now. Fabiola slipped down the top of her dress, revealing her full breasts. Survival mattered far more than her modesty.

Eyes goggling, he dropped his guard.

‘Like what you see?’ she asked softly, cupping one invitingly.

The plebeian could not answer. The only women he could afford were the worn-out whores who lived around the tombs on the Via Appia: toothless, diseased, half drunk most of the time. In comparison, Fabiola was like a vision of a goddess. He licked his lips and moved a pace forward.

Her smile changed to a she-wolf’s snarl as he drew near enough. In her mind, this could have been Gemellus, or a hundred others who had used her body. With a backwards slash, Fabiola cut the man’s throat wide open, taking the blade so deep it grated off the cartilage of his larynx. As he toppled over, choking on his own blood, she grabbed his gladius. Two weapons will be better than one, she thought.

When Fabiola had pulled up her dress and looked around, nearly all her men were down, but they had killed twice the number of their attackers. Strangely, the guard whose eye had been taken out was still fighting. Her heart filled with pride at his loyalty and courage. Screaming from a mixture of pain and battle rage, he had disabled two thugs, spilling one’s intestines all over the ground and burying his dagger in the thigh of another.

That left Fabiola and the injured slave against two of the lowlifes, who now looked decidedly less confident. The odds had improved and her spirits lifted a fraction. Jupiter is still watching over us. Do not turn away now, she pleaded. But Fabiola’s hope vanished again as four more men emerged from the alleyway. Drawn by the sound of fighting, they cried out angrily when they saw their comrades lying dead and injured. Dismay was quickly replaced by lust at the realisation that they only faced two enemies, one of whom was a beautiful young woman.

‘Mistress?’

Fabiola turned to face her wounded guard. Runnels of clotted blood covered his left cheek. They had even run into his open mouth, staining his teeth red. But his remaining eye burned fiercely from the clean, right side of his face. The effect was terrifying and must have given him an advantage over the thugs. ‘What is it?’

‘When I’m dead . . .’ He paused, looking genuinely distressed. ‘I don’t want to be dumped on the Esquiline Hill, Mistress.’

Fabiola’s heart went out to him. The slave wasn’t afraid of dying with her. Instead, like many of his kind, he feared the indignity of being thrown into the city’s open pits along with excess waste and the bodies of animals and criminals. Like her brother, he had pride as well as courage. Sadly, she didn’t even know the man’s name. ‘If I survive, and you do not,’ Fabiola declared, ‘then I swear before all the gods that you will have your own grave, with a memorial over it.’

She could not promise any more. The odds were still stacked against them.

He stared at her from his good eye and nodded once.

This was how the bonds of comradeship were formed, Fabiola realised. Someone who would stand by another in the midst of battle, especially when they did not have to, was worthy of friendship. And trust. Whether they were a slave or not was irrelevant.

‘Your name?’ she asked.

‘Sextus, Mistress.’

‘Good.’ Pleased that she would not die with a stranger, Fabiola studied the newcomers. They seemed vaguely familiar, but fortunately none was armed with a bow. There would be an opportunity to injure or kill at least a few before they died. Perhaps one would drop his guard as the fool with the gladius had, she thought hopefully. But she doubted the ruse would work again. By the way they held their weapons, the tough-looking men were used to fighting. Sighing, Fabiola moved shoulder to shoulder with Sextus. He smelt of blood and sweat. ‘Let’s charge them,’ she whispered. ‘If we break past, head into the alleyway. It will lead somewhere.’

‘Be easier to defend as well, Mistress,’ Sextus replied. ‘Two men can barely stand alongside each other in there.’

She was delighted by his insight. In such a narrow space, their attackers would not be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers. ‘Jupiter has preserved us both this far,’ she said, taking heart. ‘Now we need Fortuna’s help as well.’

‘The gods have never smiled on me, Mistress. I’m a slave.’ Sextus’ eye was world-weary. ‘But I’ll die rather than let these scum harm you.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm in the thugs’ direction.

There was no more time to talk. Angered by Sextus’ action and full of confidence again, their enemies moved forward purposefully. After all, they now outnumbered their victims by three to one; any fear of injury or death was overcome by their strong desire to rape Fabiola. How hard could it be for half a dozen fighters to overcome a blood-spattered young noblewoman and a badly wounded slave?

Fabiola’s new-found confidence began to desert her. Better armed and disciplined, the new arrivals were clearly more determined than their original attackers. Fear began to take root in her heart. Raising her gladius, she shuffled forward, trying to remember the practice moves she had once seen Romulus make. Sextus kept close beside her, probing forward with the spear he had picked up.

One of the thugs laughed; it was an unpleasant, threatening sound.

And Fabiola remembered where she had seen him before.

These were fugitivarii.

Almost on cue, a burly figure with brown hair and deep-set eyes strolled from the alley. Dressed in a legionary’s mail shirt, he had thick silver bands circling his wrists. Behind him were another six of his men, all heavily armed.

The tip of Sextus’ spear wavered at the sight; Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth in shock.