Instead, she was totally alone.

Fresh tears pricked her eyes, but Fabiola quelled them ruthlessly. Self-pity would make what was about to happen far worse. The most important thing to do now was survive. Simply survive. She shuddered in anticipation.

Scaevola dropped to his knees and shoved her legs apart. Taking his time, the fugitivarius caressed the inside of her thighs, laughing at the goose bumps of fear this caused. Half stunned and incapable of resisting further, Fabiola’s revulsion was still apparent.

His men gathered round, keen to see everything.

Scaevola could control himself no longer. With an animal grunt, he moved closer. The tip of his erection nudged forward, searching.

Fabiola turned her head away so she did not have to look at his face. This was what her mother had endured for years. If she could do it, so could her daughter.

At that exact moment, the thought did not make things any easier.

Shame filled Fabiola. After he had finished, Scaevola would let his men rape her as well, before one of them cut her throat. Then her body would be left like so much meat, among the others who had died. Trying to save the young slave who had run on to her latifundium had been reckless, yet somehow it still felt right. Not responding would have denied all that Fabiola was, all that she had come from. Sooner or later Scaevola would have attacked her property anyway, searching for Brutus.

The fugitivarius grabbed Fabiola’s chin in a grip of iron and twisted her face towards his. Dark, murderous eyes bored into her. His foul breath made her gag. ‘Look at me while I fuck you,’ he muttered, leaning in to lick her breasts. ‘Dirty whore.’

Finally, a sob escaped Fabiola. This was far worse than she could have imagined. She managed to wrench her face away again.

Between the legs of the men standing above her, there was a sudden blur of movement from the alleyway. No one else noticed. Totally engrossed by the rape, none of the thugs were looking anywhere but at her. Amazingly, Fabiola saw armed figures spilling silently on to the street. All were dressed similarly in faded, patched military tunics and battered chain mail. The occasional phalera decorated a chest. Bronze bowl helmets with upright horsehair plumes covered every man’s head. Carrying gladii and elongated, oval scuta, they advanced in a solid wall. These could only be ex-legionaries: men who really knew how to fight. And they did not look as if they were here on friendly business.

Fabiola’s mouth opened in astonishment.

Mistaking her reaction for one of fear, Scaevola laughed and prepared to enter her.

Far too late, his men realised that something was wrong.

Loud thumps rang out as heavy shield bosses slammed into the nearest ones’ backs, knocking them off balance. These were followed by ruthless sword blows that pierced bellies and opened chests to the air. Many of the thugs were killed in the initial attack and chaos reigned as the remainder struggled to understand what had happened. Without speaking, the veterans pressed forward, herding the fugitivarii together, like sheep to the slaughter, merciless in the face of their enemies’ confusion. This was something they had done countless times before.

Shouts of terror rang out as the surviving ruffians realised there would be no escape.

The chief fugitivarius cursed and pulled back from Fabiola’s groin. His erection totally vanished, he fumbled frantically to put himself back in his underclothes. If he didn’t get up off the ground, he’d be dead very soon. Stumbling to his feet, Scaevola joined the fight.

Fabiola watched as one of the veterans tackled a heavily built thug who was armed with a short sword and dagger. Ducking down, he drove his gilded shield boss upwards at his opponent’s face, forcing the man to lift his chin away in reflex and expose his throat. The classic move was followed by a swift gladius thrust. Blood ran down the straight iron blade in great streams. The fugitivarius was dead before the blade even pulled free, letting him fall to the ground.

Fabiola used the opportunity to pull on the remnants of her dress, partially covering her nudity. She picked up a discarded sword, ready to fight before anyone else laid a hand on her.

‘Mistress! Cut me free.’

She turned in surprise. Sextus was lying a few paces away, still tied up. Fabiola crept over, quickly slicing through his bonds.

Nodding his thanks, the injured slave grabbed the nearest weapon, which was an axe with a notched blade.

They huddled together, waiting for the battle to end.

It did not take long. Surprised and outnumbered, the surviving thugs did not put up much resistance. Although used to fighting together, they usually only faced terrified, half-starved slaves: easy to intimidate and even easier to overcome. Several threw down their weapons and pleaded for mercy. It got them nothing more than a swifter death. Veteran of a score of skirmishes, Scaevola realised that the game was up. Spinning on his heel, he shoved one of his own men out of the way with an impatient cry. He bounded backwards, towards the Forum. Despite the rioting, he had more chance of escaping with his life there than here with his followers.

His eyes met Fabiola’s.

Time stopped.

Full of bitter rage, the squat fugitivarius mouthed a curse at her. She did the same. Stung by her defiance, he lunged forward, gladius in hand. And was met by Sextus, swinging his axe.

Scaevola skidded to a halt. ‘Curse you to Hades,’ he spat before sprinting off up the street.

Overcome by terror and nervous exhaustion, Fabiola sank down into the mud. Sextus moved to stand protectively over her, his one eye bright with battle rage. As the last thugs fell, the veterans closed in on them and Sextus turned this way and that, waving his axe at any who came within range.

Fabiola closed her eyes. Their rescuers might prove to be nothing more than another group of would-be rapists. But they did not move any closer. Heavy scuta clattered on to the ground when they were done. Without speaking, the men took a brief rest, chests heaving, sword arms reddened. Killing was tiring work.

When nothing happened, Fabiola got to her feet, the rags of her dress clutched around her. Unshaven faces regarded her admiringly. Silently. And not one man moved. She did not know how to react. Neither did Sextus.

Finally one of the veterans surrounding them gave a shrill whistle. To Fabiola’s utter surprise, Secundus emerged from the alleyway. A parting appeared in the circle, allowing him to approach. ‘Lady,’ he said, inclining his head.

Fabiola tried to be bold. ‘You have my thanks,’ she said, rewarding him with a beaming smile.

‘What happened?’

‘We were escaping the rioting,’ Fabiola explained. ‘And they ambushed us. They were going to . . . He nearly . . .’ The words dried in her throat.

‘You’re safe now,’ muttered Secundus, patting her arm.

She nodded jerkily, her emotions still in turmoil. Although Secundus seemed sympathetic, not every veteran’s face was friendly.

Secundus regarded the nearest corpse with contempt. ‘To think that we fought for fuckers like this, eh?’

It was a valid point. Since time immemorial, Roman soldiers had fought and died for their countrymen’s sake. Meanwhile, other men robbed, raped and killed citizens on the streets of Rome.

‘This ambush was planned,’ Fabiola revealed. She filled Secundus in, blaming the attack by Scaevola and his crew on the fact that she and Brutus were supporters of Caesar. She made no mention of the young fugitive who had been the reason they met. Few would understand why anyone would want to intervene on behalf of a slave.

‘Well, the scumbag’s gone now,’ said Secundus reassuringly when she had finished. ‘He won’t be back in a hurry. Most of his men are dead.’