finely carved boxwood combs laid upon it. The embarrassed slaves bobbed their heads and withdrew, avoiding Fabiola’s gaze all the while. Having a beautiful young woman to serve rather than soldiers was clearly too much for them.
Fabiola stripped and washed herself down with warm water, before rubbing oil all over her skin. Lastly she used the strigil to take off the grime and dirt that covered her body from the ambush and pursuit. Although not as relaxing as a bath, it felt good to wash. All that was missing was a phial of perfume, but like all her possessions, such things were lying back in the litter. While Scaevola would have no use for these items, there would be no opportunity to go back for them either.
Pulling on her damp, sweaty dress once more, she grimaced at its feel against her skin. At least there weren’t too many spots of blood on it. Smoothing back her hair, Fabiola looked into the mirror and combed it as best she could.
‘Aphrodite herself has come to visit us,’ said a deep voice behind her.
She jumped with fright.
A tall, brown-haired man in late middle age had entered the chamber. He was dressed in a well-cut thigh-length tunic; soft leather shoes covered his feet. A belt of gold links and a sheathed dagger confirmed his status as a soldier. High cheekbones and a strong chin were the most striking features in his rugged face. ‘Forgive me, lady,’ he said when he saw Fabiola’s reaction. ‘I did not mean to scare you.’
Wondering how long he had been watching her, Fabiola bowed. ‘My nerves are a little ragged,’ she replied.
‘That’s not surprising,’ said the man. ‘I have been told of the scum who ambushed you. What were they – deserters or just common bandits?’
‘It’s difficult to know.’ Fabiola had no wish to reveal any details about Scaevola. ‘They all look the same.’
‘Indeed. I’m sorry for even mentioning it,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Try to forget the whole episode. You’re safe now.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fabiola, her relief only half acted. Delayed shock was beginning to set in, draining her energy when she needed it most. It was crucial that she divulge nothing about her journey while somehow persuading the general to let her party continue unhindered. Mithras, Sol Invictus, help me, Fabiola thought. Asking help from the warrior god felt appropriate when faced with this military threat.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed deeply. ‘I am Marcus Petreius, legate of the Third Legion. You are welcome in my camp.’
Returning the gesture, she smiled radiantly. ‘I am Fabiola Messalina.’
Unaffected by her wiles, Petreius came straight to the point. ‘I find it most unusual for a beautiful young woman to be travelling alone,’ he said. ‘The roads are so dangerous.’
She feigned surprise. ‘I have – had – servants and slaves with me.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘No father or brother to accompany you?’
It was usual for unmarried noble women to travel with a male relation or chaperon of some kind: the lies had to start now.
Fabiola took a deep breath and began. ‘Father is long dead. And Julianus, my eldest brother, was killed in Parthia last year.’ The tiny shred of hope left in her heart stopped her naming Romulus as the fictional sibling who had died. But it was still the likely reality. Fabiola lowered her gaze, real tears pricking her eyes.
‘You have my sympathies, lady,’ he said respectfully. ‘But what about the rest of your family?’
‘Mother is too frail for such a long journey and Romulus, my twin, is out of the country on business,’ protested Fabiola. ‘Someone had to visit my widowed aunt in Ravenna. Poor Clarina does not have long.’
He nodded understandingly. ‘Yet these are troubled times. It’s very unwise to travel without a large party of guards.’
‘It is no better in Rome,’ cried Fabiola. ‘The mobs are burning nobles alive in their own homes!’
‘That is true, the gods curse them,’ said Petreius, his jaw hardening. ‘But I will soon stop that.’
She gasped in apparent surprise. ‘Are you marching to the capital?’
‘Yes, lady, with all speed,’ the legate replied briskly. ‘The Senate has appointed Pompey Magnus as sole consul for the year. His main remit is to restore law and order, and the Third will do that by whatever means necessary.’
Fabiola looked suitably shocked. The use of troops in Rome was one of the Republic’s abiding nightmares. Forbidden by law, it had last happened more than a generation before. Sulla, ‘the butcher’, had ordered it and then assumed