Clodius’ men were brimming with confidence. And when Milo’s gladiators regrouped, they would want only one thing. Revenge.
Chaos had descended on Rome.
More violence was as inevitable as dusk followed dawn. Only trained soldiers could quell the bloodthirsty mobs, could bring safety to the warrens of dangerous streets and alleyways. Secundus and his men were too few to bring the situation under control. Crassus was gone to Hades and Caesar was far away. Without Pompey Magnus’ involvement, Rome’s future looked very bleak indeed. Unless they wished to see more public structures such as the markets and law courts, or even their own homes, burned down around their ears, the senators and nobles would have no choice but to ask for his help.
As they left the city walls behind, Fabiola remembered Brutus’ prediction of this exact manoeuvre by Pompey. This was the man who had outwitted Crassus to take the credit for quelling the Spartacus rebellion, and then done the same to the general Lucullus, after he had almost crushed Mithridates’ uprising in Asia Minor. Pompey was not about to be beaten to the ultimate prize. Bringing armed legionaries into the Forum Romanum for the first time since Sulla would give Pompey physical control of the Republic itself.
Yet the Senate had no other choice.
Five days later, it was as if the violence had never been. The screams of people caught up in the rioting had been replaced by birdsong, the creaking of the litter and the muttering of Secundus and his men. Leaning her head out of the litter’s side, Fabiola peered into the distance. Docilosa clicked her tongue disapprovingly, but Fabiola ignored her. Horrified at what had happened to Fabiola on the street, her middle-aged servant had refused point blank to be left behind. Glad to have the female company, Fabiola had not put up much protest. Now though, after bumping up and down for hours on end, she was bored. Snatching an occasional glance outside was perhaps not wise, but Fabiola needed to do so to stay sane.
The other person who had declined to stay in Rome was walking directly alongside. Despite his horrific wound, Sextus had insisted he accompany Fabiola north. The one-eyed slave followed her like a shadow; it was a most comforting feeling. Apart from Docilosa, no one was allowed within three steps of her without his nod of approval.
Passing between rows of empty fields, the paved road stretched on to the grey horizon. Far from the nearest town, there were few other travellers in sight. Those that were abroad generally hurried past with the hoods of their cloaks turned up. With no official force to protect ordinary citizens in Rome or outside it, the Republic’s roads were dangerous, by day or night.
The countryside was regularly dotted with latifundia, their lands lying fallow until the spring. Like Fabiola’s, each was made up of a central building complex with the obligatory vineyards, olive groves and fruit trees. Dense groves of oaks and cypresses grew near the entrances; large packs of guard dogs ran loose around all the properties. Secundus and his men had frequently been obliged to throw stones at the fierce animals. Gangs of armed men in grubby tunics also lounged at the gates to many of the villas: protection against robbers. In these dangerous times, rich landowners guarded their estates even more closely than normal.
The parties of unshaven heavies eyed the litter and its accompanying guard of twelve men with suspicion, but dared not delay their passage, even when their hounds were stoned into submission. The distinctive bronze crested helmets, the thigh-length mail and army weapons marked out the tough-looking figures as veterans. They were all equipped with bows to boot, which made any attempt to rob them especially perilous. At these times, Fabiola was careful not to show her face. Presuming the passenger in the litter to be a wealthy nobleman or merchant, the thugs sullenly stood back.
In this fashion, they had travelled without trouble. Every night, Secundus chose a place for their camp as far from the road as possible. Avoiding attention was their main aim. Once he was happy with their position, the tents were swiftly put up. It did not take Secundus’ eleven followers long to hammer the iron pegs into the ground and erect them. Until this journey, Fabiola had never seen the eight-man leather tents used by legionaries on the march. She and Docilosa had one to themselves, the men shared two others and the four slaves who carried the