The Silver Eagle by Ben Kane Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
    Then the pack reached him.
    Screams filled the air as the trained dogs began to savage the fugitive like a child’s doll. Fabiola watched in horror. She thanked the gods a few moments later when the lead huntsman whipped them off. Gradually the rest of the fugitivarii arrived, more than a dozen tough-looking types clad in dull colours and armed with bows, spears and swords. From under their wool cloaks, the dull glimmer of mail could be made out. They gathered around, laughing at the deep bite wounds on the slave’s arms and legs. This was part of their sport.
    Fabiola held herself back. What could she do?
    Engrossed with their capture, the fugitivarii seemed oblivious to their audience. Their brindle dogs had flopped down close by, red tongues hanging from wide, powerful jaws. Similar animals roamed around Fabiola’s villa at night, used as protection against bandits and criminals. These heavily muscled creatures looked even more vicious.
    Encircled now, the slave had rolled into a foetal position. He was moaning softly and only crying out when struck by his captors. Then something changed. The nearest thug finally noticed Fabiola and Corbulo. Seeing her rich clothing and jewellery, he did not speak, but muttered a few words to the stocky man in charge. Rather than respond, though, the figure delivered a huge kick to the slave’s chest.
    A muffled scream reached them.
    Fabiola stared in horror. The blow had been enough to break ribs. ‘Leave him alone,’ she shouted. ‘He’s badly injured!’
    Beside her, Corbulo coughed uneasily.
    An opening appeared in the circle, hard, unforgiving faces turning towards the stunning woman and her vilicus. As they took in her beauty, leers distorted their features and lewd suggestions were made, albeit in whispers. The rich were still people to be respected.
    Fabiola ignored the comments; Corbulo glared.
    Bizarrely, the slave was then allowed to get to his feet. One of the fugitivarii drew his sword and poked him with its tip. Away from them, and towards Fabiola. Confused, the young slave did not move. Another sharp prod followed, prompting a sob. But he took the hint, and stumbled towards the villa. Laughs of derision met his efforts, and a number of the thugs threw clods of earth at him. His pace increased.
    ‘What are they doing?’ asked Fabiola in dread.
    ‘They’re playing with him. And us. Time to go inside, Mistress,’ Corbulo muttered, his face a pale shade of grey. ‘Before things get out of hand.’
    Fabiola’s feet were rooted to the spot.
    The slave came closer. As well as the dog bites that covered his body, his torso and arms were a red ruin. Through an old, flittered tunic, oozing wounds were visible, crisscrossing his skin front and back in an ugly latticework. The marks of a whip, they were evidence of a brutal master. Was this why he had fled? The fugitive was young, Fabiola guessed, no more than fifteen. A boy. Sweat and tears had streaked the dirt on his face, which was pinched and hungry. And full of terror.
    ‘Mistress!’ Corbulo’s voice was insistent. ‘It’s not safe.’
    Fabiola could not take her eyes off the runaway, who did not dare