Eagle of the Empire

by Martin Ferguson

  I laugh. ‘She is the last person I want to speak to.’

  ‘How come?’ she asks, flopping into the seat beside me.

  ‘Let’s just say, we don’t get along,’ I say. ‘She’s an angry lady - especially when it comes to me. We barely speak.’

  ‘All families argue.’

  ‘Not like this,’ I say. ‘In her case, her bark and bite are as bad as each other.’

  ‘Why do you argue?’ Emma asks. ‘Matt never mentioned any problems.’

  ‘No matter what I do, it isn’t good enough. I am never worthy in her eyes, not even close, especially compared to the golden boy.’

  ‘Jealous of Matt?’ she guesses.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘He was the only one who understood. He protected me when he could and offered me a place to stay when needed.’

  I fall silent again at the memory of Matt. Failing the trials meant I’d failed him.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened to your bike,’ she says, trying to take my mind off the trials. ‘You think you can fix it?’

  I look to the wreckage, shaking my head again.

  ‘It would need a lot of work and more spare parts than exist in the world for such an old model. I don’t know.’

  I briefly look to her and see she is trying, saddened for me, the anger now gone.

  ‘Is Abbey angry I cost her the bet?’ I ask her.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Emma says. ‘I doubt Gabriel would ever collect anyway. Beneath all the booze and everything else, he’s actually alright; a little damaged, but who isn’t in some way?’

  She flashes me the briefest of smiles, but I see she wants to ask a question, dying to know why I would not go into the water. I thank her silently for not asking, but I know I must speak with someone about it, so it might as well be Emma.

  ‘When I was ten years old, Matt and I were playing near a river. Our parents warned us so many times to be careful, but of course, we never listened. On the banks, I lost my footing, falling into the water. Swimming was never a problem but the current was too strong. No matter how hard I kicked and fought, I couldn’t surface. Water filled my lungs, the current pulled me farther and deeper. All I saw was darkness. My chest burned as I gasped for air and swallowed only more of the river.’

  I stop, body shaking as I relive it. Closing my eyes, I can remember it all so vividly, a haunting nightmare I can never shake. The rushing water, the burning in my lungs, the choking of the foul water, the reeds tangling around my legs and the cuts to my body from the rocks below the surface. Every night, the memory returns to me in my sleep. Every time I see a river or sea, the fear threatens to overwhelm me.

  Emma places a hand on my arm, calming me for a moment.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she whispers.

  ‘I woke up in the hospital five days later. They had to restart my heart twice. Matt dragged me out of the river, nearly dying himself in the attempt. Matt saved my life.’

  I breathe deeply, whistling as I exhale.

  ‘The fear has had a hold of me ever since. No matter how hard I fight it, it always wins. I barely survived the tombs in Loch Lomond because of it, and I failed the trials…’

  Stopping again, I calm myself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells me. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let Dave feature water in the tests.’

  I say nothing, falling silent for a long time.

  ‘Fire,’ Emma then says, breaking the silence.

  ‘What of it?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m terrified of it,’ she utters, gaze fixed on the far side of the garage where a mechanic wields a blow-torch. ‘Can’t go near it, can barely look at it. I even hated seeing it in your trials. Ever since I was young, when they…’

  She says no more, unable to.

  ‘So I guess I’m not on the team then?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘I doubt you’ll let me be one of your hunters if I can’t face water.’

  ‘No,’ she simply says, unable to think of any other way to reply, still distant, lost in her own thoughts, her own horrors.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say. ‘I failed. I just… I just can’t, not water.’

  Emma doesn’t have the words to reply. The data-pad in her pocket beeps, signalling a received message.

  ‘A-ha,’ she says, excitement now in her voice. ‘Abbey has received the rest of the images from our excavation teams at Inchlonaig. They include the carvings on the walls of the legatus’s burial chamber.’

  She shows me the data-pad, the darkened tomb and the Latin inscriptions in the stone.

  ‘What does it mean?’ I ask her.

  ‘Abbey has translated,’ she says, taps on the screen increasing the resolution and definition of the images.

  ‘Here laid to rest are the ashes of our noble Legatus Antonius Thadian. He and our brothers died honourably in battle, our Eagle returned to Rome by Centurion Marcus Aurelius.’

  ‘The Eagle was never in the tomb,’ I say, laughing at the futility of it all. Matt was taken for something that was never even there.

  ‘If it was to be returned to Rome, it should have gone to the emperor,’ Emma explains, fingers working the data-pad, searching information and known records. ‘Usually, a legion returns to the city in triumph and there is a celebration of their victories. The Eagle is then given to the emperor as a sign of honour. Many were recorded, accounts mentioning those of dozens of legions but there are no mentions of the Legio IX Hispana – of its return or the Eagle. We would have seen them before if there were mentions of this but there simply aren’t any. I don’t understand it. Something must have happened.’

  The data-pad beeps, a new message received.

  ‘The inscription outside the legatus’s tomb,’ Emma says.

  ‘Tantum Dignos,’ I remember.

  ‘Only the worthy,’ she replies.

  ‘Only the worthy,’ I repeat.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go and run this through our central database,’ she says as she exits the car, all focus on the data-pad in her hand. Just as Emma begins to depart, she hurries back and fumbles in her pockets, pulling free a mobile phone.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot to give you this. It’s a replacement for your destroyed one. I’ve already uploaded your old SIM card. You should reply to your friend Sara. She seems worried about you, despite repeatedly calling you a loser!’

  ‘Nosey,’ I taunt her, knowing she has read all my messages.

  ‘Just curious,’ she replies. ‘Besides, Abbey had first look. You should reply to your mother, too.’

  I look at the phone and cycle through the messages, new to my eyes but already opened by Emma and Abbey. I look over the words but can’t take any in. Something at the back of my mind is calling to me.

  ‘Wait,’ I call out to Emma, stopping her before she has vacated the garage.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks, puzzled.

  Something she said. A name. Matt’s journal. Searching the pages, I find it.

  ‘That’s it,’ I exclaim, laughing in shock as I decode more. ‘In Matt’s own words. CENTURION. GLADIATOR. COLOSSEUM. LEGIO IX HISPANA. POSSIBLE EAGLE LOCATION.’

  ‘It’s a thin lead,’ Emma says, looking to the pages of Matt’s journal but seeing only symbols and scribbles.

  ‘Are there any records or documentation of previous gladiators?’ I ask, heart pounding, a lead at last. ‘If it is the centurion, this Marcus Aurelius who returned the Eagle, following his path, his history, may lead us to it.’

  ‘There are few records of gladiators’ names,’ she says, tapping away at her data-pad again. ‘None matching the name of our centurion. There is one depository of records that may have mention of him, if any would.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the very place your brother mentions and tried to gain access to more times than I can count. The Colosseum in Rome.’

  ‘Wait, anybody can go into the Colosseum? There are tourist trips through it every day,’ I reply.

  ‘Not in the lower depths,’
she explains. ‘Within chambers below the sands are records of gladiators, great walls rumoured to be inscribed with their names, victories and their fates beyond the great arena, similar to the legion’s tomb you found.’

  ‘So why can’t we see them?’ I ask.

  ‘The Italian government values its past and history higher than many other nations. They keep this particular treasure locked away. Only those deemed worthy are allowed admittance.’

  ‘You mean the wealthy,’ I state.

  ‘The privileged and those specialists within the Italian government,’ she says. ‘That’s probably where Matt got his lead, from one of their historians he was able to bribe. We have tried, God knows how many times, to gain access to the Colosseum, officially as the British Museum, and unofficially, but we have never had any luck.’

  I scan Matt’s journal for more information, more clues, but the encryptions release no more secrets. A thousand ideas rush through my mind but one prevails over all.

  ‘I have to report this to Charles,’ Emma says. ‘He needs to know so we can chase this up.’

  ‘I’m coming with you…’ I begin to say before she stops me.

  ‘No, stay here,’ she orders.

  ‘What?’ I reply, stunned.

  ‘You didn’t complete the tests.’ All friendliness is now gone.

  ‘You’ll just leave me here?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you didn’t make the team,’ she says coldly.

  ‘If you won’t help me, I’ll do it on my own,’ I call after her.

  ‘We can’t let you do that!’

  ‘I’d like to see you stop me,’ I warn her.

  ‘Stay here and don’t do anything stupid,’ she orders, heading through the door.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, a plan forming in my mind.

  Once she is gone, I collect my belongings, those not destroyed in the crash, along with Matt’s journal, and pull on my father’s jacket. I hurry to the training facility where I failed the trials, hoping to borrow some of their equipment. Inside is Gabriel, standing alone before the firing range.

  ‘You’re going after him on your own, aren’t you?’ he asks without looking to me. His voice is filled with emotion. Gone is the cocky smart-ass from before.

  ‘I can’t just stay here waiting for Charles’ permission.’

  ‘I’d do the same,’ he says, turning and throwing a card towards me. His eyes are red, raw with emotion. ‘That’ll give you access to the equipment in here and the lift back up to the main museum.’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘Find Matt,’ Gabriel says, ignoring the question. ‘Find him and bring him home.’

  Turning back to the firing range, he unleashes round after round, destroying the targets with ruthless efficiency. He screams in a rage until the weapon is empty, dropping it to the ground and standing there, unmoving.

  ‘Don’t let your brother join the people we’ve lost,’ he says, distant, in a daze.

  That’s why he is the only member of Bravo Team, I realise.

  22

  THE CENTURION—Capua

  ‘Fight, win, and see yourself gladiator of the House of Hader. Only then will word from your wife be gained.’

  That was the order of my Dominus. Win or die upon the sands, forever lost to my dear Lucilla – wherever in this world she is. I have no choice but to embrace the path left before me. More blood. More death.

  With rusted and blunt blade, the barest armour, holed by the blows that killed the last owner and sweating under the blazing sun, I am to step out into battle. I will not fight alone though.

  ‘Noble Mercatio hosts these games and has deemed all bouts will be fought in pairs. Fortunate for Garus, but maybe not so for you,’ Hader told me before taking his seat among the nobility in the arena. The boy is paired with me by a length of chain connecting our wrists. His face pales as our moment approaches.

  ‘Mercatio hates me with passion known only by the gods,’ Hader states.

  ‘Why?’ I dare to ask.

  ‘Slaves are to answer questions, not ask them,’ he says, a wry smile on his face. ‘I may have enjoyed the company of his daughter one evening.’

  I know he is not telling all the tale and he sees my look of doubt.

  ‘Both of his daughters,’ he concedes, pacing away and leaving Garus and I to our fates.

  ‘Fight, win, wipe the smile off his face and earn glory for us both!’ he shouts back before disappearing into the chambers of the arena.

  Looking to Garus, I see his terror on his face. His fear buries my own.

  ‘Keep your shield raised, protect your flank, and do not stray from my side,’ I instruct him as Mercatio begins our introductions. We are named by the drunken noble, ‘The Boy and the Centurion of Hader.’

  ‘Do as I have instructed and you will survive this day,’ I tell Garus.

  ‘And our foes shall fall before us,’ he says back, forcing a smile. ‘Gratitude for all you have taught me, Centurion.’

  ‘Show no mercy!’ I shout to him above the growing roar of the crowd as the arena gates open before us. ‘For they’ll show you none!’

  We march out, few cheering us unknown men but heaping adoration upon those we will face. Obscenities are hurled our way and I see more doubt and fear creep into Garus’s gaze. His moment will come. Fight or die.

  Our arena is square formed of four banks of spectators, small in comparison to those I have seen throughout the Empire, but large enough to house at least three hundred. As is ritual, we salute the honoured guests, those belonging to nobility and who can afford the most expensive seats within the pulvinus, and of course, Mercatio, whose games this day belong to.

  ‘Veterans of the House of Bravatos face the latest recruits of the House of Hader, boys barely old enough to know the love of good women. This will be a mismatch, I fear, but one sure to bring spectacle. No mercy is to be given in this bout to honour the gods. Watch as Hader’s dogs are shown for the pitiful wretches they truly are.’

  I can see Hader’s smirk even in the bright light of the sun. Cold, clever, and gambler at heart. My Dominus sacrifices the lives of two men with ease, or sees greater glory from recruits beating seasoned gladiators and shaming the man who dishonours him. He knows I am no boy stumbling about, barely able to suffer the weight of sword and shield. I am a soldier: his secret weapon.

  ‘Begin!’

  We turn, our foes awaiting us, arms up to the crowds, encouraging them to bear witness to what they think will be victory with ease. Both are towering and strong; scars on their bodies mark many matches fought and won. One carries a trident and net in the fighting style of Retiarius, and the other, in the style of Hoplomachus, carries a spear and a round shield. Both men have strength and reach over Garus and I with shield and short sword, but their arrogance gives us advantage.

  ‘Avoid the net!’ I yell to Garus. ‘Draw them in and rob them of their advantage of reach.’

  I hope he understands, but above all, I pray he stands and fights.

  I am shocked by his actions as he charges headlong towards our foes, roaring in rage. Our chain bonding us, I can only charge with him. It’s a more aggressive strike than I would have made, but I thank the gods for his courage – we may yet come out of this both alive. The trident strikes the boy’s shield as a spear hammers mine – the battle has begun.

  The spear of the Hoplomachus strikes my shield again, the impact thundering up my arm but I hold balance, slashing the gladius round but without impact. My opponent is skilled with the spear, forcing me away and unable to bring my shorter blade to bear. A thrust too quick to block catches the shoulder of my armour but I am unharmed, ducking beneath the next attack and slamming my shield into his and throwing him back.

  My glance catches Garus, blocking the trident and net as they seek to capture and impale. He is doing well, though a deep cut to his arm shows he is not without mistakes. The Retiarius laughs to the crowd as he forces the boy back again. His smile is wiped from
his face as Garus charges and swipes his sword across the man’s bare thigh to draw blood. Good, but I must jerk hard on our chain to pull him away from the falling net. In return, the trident flashes across my face, almost meeting flesh as I duck away.

  Turning back to my foe, the Hoplomachus, who has rallied from the impact of my shield, charges me, enraged and eager to end my life. I turn and twist away from each thrust of the spear, angering him more, drawing him closer and closer, until I can go on the attack. Spinning off his spear as it hammers into my shield, I pull him close and seek to run through him with my sword. He knows what is coming, bringing his shield round in defence and then punching it across my face, filling my mouth with blood and sending me stumbling to the sands. I roll from the reach of his spear, its iron tip falling to where I laid. Rising up quickly, I block the spear again, spitting blood from my mouth in annoyance at my own foolishness. This ends now.

  I draw the Hoplomachus in, feigning injury and exhaustion and he strikes with increasing desperation and eagerness to end the fight. Taking my time, I wait until the right moment. When I sense he is off-balance, I drop my shield, grasping the spear’s staff and bringing my blade down on the wood, shattering it in two. Before he can recover, I spin, ducking beneath his rising shield and tearing my sword through armour and flesh. Ignoring the wound, he tries to draw his dagger but my blade finds him again, ending the attack as the fire in his eyes begins to fade.

  Turning, expecting to have to rush to the aid of Garus, I am stunned when I see him standing over his foe. Blood covers them both but it flows only from the fallen. Garus looks to me, his smile growing in elation. The crowd around us is cheering louder than any I have heard before. Garus stands, no longer a boy, but a man.

  Mercatio rises to address all, scorn and anger on his face.

  ‘That was far too brief!’ he declares. ‘Send another pair to face Hader’s boys!’

  Two men charge from the arena gates, and in that instant, cheated of our victory, rage takes me. For all the injustices, all the dishonours I suffer, this is to be the last this day. It is my turn to charge, Garus dragged by the chain. I care not for the men I face, only that they suffer my wrath. They are skilled in combat, fighting with weapons still stained by the blood of their earlier kills – but I am filled with righteous anger.