Corbulo bowed his neck and waited to be punished. Perhaps his new young mistress was no different to Gemellus.

In fact Fabiola had heard far worse in the Lupanar, but Corbulo had no knowledge of that. She was still learning to give orders, so his response gave her confidence. ‘Continue,’ Fabiola said in a more gentle tone.

The vilicus bobbed his head in gratitude. ‘Gemellus was never one for prophecies, but there was one he mentioned just before those ships were lost.’

Her lip curled. ‘Haruspices tell nothing but lies.’ Hoping for a sign of release from their awful existence, many girls in the brothel spent large amounts of their meagre savings on readings from soothsayers. Fabiola had seen precious few predictions borne out. Those that had come true had been of minor significance, strengthening her determination to rely on no one but herself. And on the god Jupiter, who had finally answered her prayer for freedom.

‘Indeed, Mistress,’ Corbulo agreed. ‘Gemellus said the same himself. But this one was not made by one of the usual shysters hanging around the great temple. It came from a stranger with a gladius, who only agreed to do a reading on sufferance.’ There was a deliberate pause. ‘And virtually all of it came true.’

Her curiosity was aroused. Soothsayers did not carry weapons. ‘Explain,’ she ordered.

‘He predicted that Crassus would leave Rome and never return.’

Fabiola’s eyes widened. It had been common knowledge that the third member of the triumvirate wanted military success to win public approval. Crassus’ choice of the governorship of Syria had been little more than an opportunity to invade Parthia. Yet few could have predicted that his trip abroad would be his last – except a genuine soothsayer. Someone who therefore might have knowledge of Romulus. ‘What else did he say?’ she hissed.

The vilicus swallowed. ‘That a storm at sea would sink the ships, drowning the animals.’

‘Is that all?’

Corbulo’s eyes flickered from side to side. ‘There was one other thing,’ he admitted nervously. ‘Gemellus only mentioned it once, the last time I saw him.’

Fabiola pounced like a hawk on its prey. ‘What was it?’

‘The haruspex told him that one day a man would knock on his door.’

She tensed. Romulus?

‘He seemed haunted by the thought,’ Corbulo finished.

‘Not a gladiator?’

‘No, Mistress.’

Her spirits plunged.

‘A soldier.’

And rose again from the depths.

Confused by her interest, Corbulo glanced at her for approval.

The vilicus got a perfunctory smile instead. Fabiola would give away nothing.

Not a gladiator, she thought triumphantly. A soldier, which is what her brother had become after fleeing Rome. Gemellus knew how much Romulus hated him: the prospect of seeing him again one day would have been terrifying. Now the journey to the temple of Jupiter had two important purposes. If she could find this mysterious soothsayer, she might be able to discover if Romulus was alive. It was a wild hope, but Fabiola had learned never to give up.

Dogged faith, and the desire for revenge, was what had kept her alive.

A deep baying sound suddenly rose from beyond the courtyard walls. It was a noise that Fabiola had heard occasionally since arriving in Pompeii, but always at a distance. As it grew louder, she could see fear growing in her slaves’ faces. ‘What’s that?’

‘Dogs. And fugitivarii, Mistress.’ Seeing her blank response, Corbulo explained. ‘Bounty hunters. They’ll be after a runaway.’

Fabiola’s pulse increased, but she did not panic. I am free, she thought firmly. Nobody is pursuing me.

Searching for the sound’s source, they walked a little way out into the large, open fields which surrounded the villa. Stone walls, bare trees and low hedges separated each from its neighbour. This was flat, fertile land, most of it fallow at this time of year. Two weeks earlier, the soil had been tilled, leaving it to breathe before it was planted with seeds in the spring. Only the winter wheat remained, small green shoots poking a hand span from the earth.

Normally, Fabiola liked to stand and take it all in. At this time of year the landscape was stark, but she loved the noisy jackdaws flying to their nesting spots, the crisp air, the absence of people. Rome’s streets were always thronged; inside the busy Lupanar had been little different. The latifundium had come to mean seclusion from the brutal realities of the world.

Until this.

Corbulo spotted the movement first. ‘There!’ He pointed.

Between the gaps in a hedge some two hundred paces away, Fabiola spotted a running figure. Corbulo had been correct. It was a young man, wearing little more than rags. A slave. Clearly exhausted, with his lower body covered in a thick layer of mud, his face was a picture of desperation.

‘He probably tried to give them the slip by hiding in the river,’ announced the vilicus.

Fabiola had taken pleasant walks along the waterway that separated her property from the estate belonging to her nearest neighbour. It would never seem the same again.

Corbulo grimaced. ‘It never works. The fugitivarii always check under the banks with long poles. If that doesn’t work, the dogs will catch their scent.’

Fabiola could not take her eyes off the fugitive, who was casting terrified glances over his shoulder as he ran. ‘Why is he being hunted?’ she asked dully, knowing the answer.

‘Because he ran away,’ Corbulo replied. ‘And a slave is his master’s property.’

Fabiola was intimately acquainted with this cruel reality. It was the same reason that had allowed Gemellus to repeatedly rape her mother. To sell her and Romulus. To execute Juba, the giant Nubian who had trained her brother to use a sword. Owners had the ultimate power over their slaves: that of life and death. Starkly reinforcing this, in the Roman legal system, the pride of the Republic, there was no retribution for the torture or killing of a slave.

A pack of large dogs burst from the cover of the nearest grove, their noses alternately sniffing the ground and the air for their quarry’s scent.

Fabiola heard the young man wail with terror. It was an awful sound.

She and Corbulo watched in silence.

A group of heavily armed men emerged from the trees, urging the hounds on with shouts and whistles. Cheers went up as they caught sight of the slave, whose energy looked almost spent.

‘Where’s he from?’

The vilicus shrugged. ‘Who knows? The fool could have been running for days,’ he said. ‘He’s young and strong. I’ve known the chase take more than a week.’ Corbulo looked almost sympathetic. ‘But those bastards never give up. And a man can’t run for ever on an empty belly.’

Fabiola sighed. Nobody would give food or help to a fugitive. Why would they? Rome was a state based on foundations of war and slavery. Its citizens had no reason to aid those who had fled captivity. Brutal punishments, terrible living conditions and a poor diet concerned them not at all. Of course, not every slave was treated this badly, but they were still the beating pulse of the Republic, the labour which built its magnificent buildings, toiled in its workshops and grew its foodstuffs. Rome needed its slaves. There was little that other slaves could do either, Fabiola thought bitterly. The punishment for helping an escapee was death. And who wanted to die by crucifixion?

The drama was about to reach its climax. Having staggered to within fifty paces of them, the young man fell to his knees in the damp earth. He raised his arms in silent supplication and Fabiola had to close her eyes. Coming between a runaway and the men legally sent to catch him would not be a good idea. Without risking a lawsuit from the slave’s owner, there was nothing she could do anyway.