The Silver Eagle

by Unknown

  None of their companions noticed.

  ‘To arms!’ Romulus roared. ‘We are under attack from the east!’

  Alarmed, the other warriors scrambled to their feet, reaching for their weapons and staring out into the pitch darkness.

  From it, fearsome yells rose into the freezing air.

  Brennus was beside Romulus in an instant. ‘Wait,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t move yet.’

  ‘They’re spotlit by the fire,’ said Romulus, understanding.

  ‘Fools,’ muttered Brennus.

  The first arrows descended as they watched. Fired from beyond the firelight, they fell in a dense, deadly rain. A perfectly laid ambush, it was bizarrely beautiful to watch. More than half the Parthians were killed outright by the volley, and several others were wounded. The remainder frantically grabbed their bows and loosed shaft after blind shaft in response.

  Romulus raised his silk-covered scutum and was about to race forward, but Brennus’ great paw stopped him again. ‘Tarquinius . . .’ he protested.

  ‘Is safe underground for the moment.’

  Romulus relaxed a fraction.

  ‘They’ll charge next,’ the Gaul said as the terrifying shouts increased in volume. ‘And when they do, let’s give them a little surprise of our own.’

  Brennus’ guess was correct. What he had not foreseen was the number of attackers.

  There was another shower of arrows and then the enemy came in at a run. Dozens of them. With bows like those of the Parthians slung over their shoulders, they waved swords, knives and vicious-looking short-headed axes. Dressed in felt hats, ornate scale mail and knee-high boots, the brown-skinned men could only be one nationality: Scythian. Romulus and Brennus had already encountered the fierce nomads in skirmishes on the border. Although their empire’s heyday had passed, the Scythians still made unrelenting enemies. And their hooked arrow heads were coated in a deadly poison called scythicon. Anyone even scratched with it died in agonising pain.

  Brennus cursed quietly, and Romulus’ stomach clenched.

  Tarquinius was still in the Mithraeum, and they could not just leave him to his fate. Yet if they tried to rescue the haruspex, certain death would come to all of them. There were at least fifty Scythians visible now, and more were appearing. Bitterness filled Romulus at the randomness of life. The idea of returning to Rome now seemed laughable.

  ‘They can’t have missed the noise,’ Brennus whispered. ‘Pacorus is no coward. He’ll come charging out at any moment. And there’s only one way to save their lives.’

  ‘Go in, quick and silent,’ said Romulus.

  Pleased, Brennus nodded. ‘Hit any Scythians by the temple’s entrance. Grab Tarquinius and the others. Then make a run for it.’

  Clinging to his words, Romulus led the way.

  They ran hard and fast, their cold muscles aching with the effort. Thankfully, adrenalin soon kicked in, giving them extra speed. Javelins in hand, both cocked their right arms back, preparing to throw when the time was right. Engrossed with the surviving Parthians, the Scythians were not even looking outwards. They had encircled their foes, and were closing in.

  With a century behind us, thought Romulus wistfully, we’d smash them into pieces. Now though, they had to trust that Tarquinius emerged at the right time and they could escape into the night. It was a slim hope.

  Like two avenging ghosts, they closed in on the Mithraeum’s unguarded entrance.

  Still they were not seen.

  Cries of fear filled the air as the last Parthians realised that their fate was sealed.

  A few steps from the hole, Romulus was beginning to think that they might just do it. Then a lightly built Scythian straightened up from a prone Parthian, wiping his sword on the corpse’s clothing. His mouth opened and closed as he saw them. Snapping out an order, the Scythian rushed forward. Nine men followed, some quickly sheathing their weapons and unslinging their bows.

  ‘You look for Tarquinius,’ yelled Romulus as they skidded to a stop by the opening. ‘I’ll hold them.’

  Trusting his friend implicitly, Brennus dropped his pila by Romulus’ feet. Ripping a torch from the ground, he clattered down the steps. ‘Won’t be long,’ he yelled.

  ‘I’ll be dead if you are.’ Grimly, Romulus closed one eye and took aim. With the ease of long practice, he threw his first pilum in a low, curving arc. It hit the lead Scythian twenty paces away, skewering right through his scale mail and running deep into his chest. He dropped like a pole-axed mule.

  But his comrades scarcely paused.

  Romulus’ second javelin punched into a stocky Scythian’s belly, taking him out of the equation. His third missed, but the fourth pierced the throat of a warrior with a long black beard. Giving him a little more respect now, three Scythians slowed down and strung shafts to their bows. The four others redoubled their speed.

  Seven of the whoresons, Romulus thought, his heart pounding with a combination of madness and fear. Poison arrows too. Bad news. What should I do? Suddenly, Cotta, his trainer in the ludus, came to mind. If all else fails, take the battle to an unsuspecting enemy. The element of surprise is invaluable. He could think of nothing else, and there was still no sign of Brennus or Tarquinius.

  Yelling at the top of his voice, Romulus charged forward.

  The Scythians smiled at his recklessness. Here was another fool to kill.

  Reaching the first, Romulus used the one-two method of punching with his metal shield boss and following with a thrust of his gladius. It worked well. Spinning away from his falling enemy, he heard an arrow strike his scutum. Then another. Thankfully, the silk did its job and neither penetrated. A third whistled past his ear. Knowing he had a moment before more were loosed, Romulus peered over the iron rim. Two Scythians were almost on him. The last was a few steps behind, while the trio with bows were fitting their second shafts.

  Romulus’ mouth felt bone dry.

  Then a familiar battle cry filled his ears.

  The Scythians faltered; Romulus risked a glance over his shoulder. Springing from the entrance like a great bear, Brennus had launched himself half a dozen steps forward.

  Next came Pacorus, screaming with rage. He was followed closely by the hulking guard, waving his knife over his head.

  There was no sign of Tarquinius.

  Romulus had no time to dwell on this. He spun back and barely managed to parry a powerful blow from a Scythian. He stabbed forward in response, but missed. Then the man’s comrade nearly took off his sword arm with a huge downward cut. It missed by a whisker. Sparks went flying upward as the iron blade struck the flagstones, and Romulus moved fast. The second Scythian had overextended himself with the daring blow, and in the process, exposed his neck. Leaning forward, Romulus shoved his gladius into the unprotected spot between the man’s felt hat and his mail. Slicing through skin and muscle, it entered the chest cavity, severing most of the major blood vessels. The Scythian was a corpse before Romulus even tried to withdraw his blade. Shocked, his comrade still had the presence of mind to lower his right shoulder and drive forward into Romulus’ left side.

  The air left his lungs with a rush, and Romulus fell awkwardly to the frozen ground. Somehow he held on to his gladius. Desperately he pulled on it, feeling the blade grating off his enemy’s clavicle as it came out, far too slowly. It was hopeless.

  His lips peeled back with satisfaction, the Scythian jumped to stand over Romulus. His right arm went up, preparing to deliver the death stroke.

  Bizarrely, Romulus could think only of Tarquinius. Where was he? Had he seen anything?

  The Scythian made a high, keening sound of pain. Surprised, Romulus looked up. There was a familiar-looking knife protruding from his enemy’s left eye socket. He could have shouted for joy: it belonged to Brennus. Somehow the Gaul had saved his life.

  With a hefty kick, Romulus sent the Scythian tumbling backwards. Craning his neck, he looked for the others. Brennus and Pacorus were within arm’s reach, fighting side by side. Unfortunat
ely, the guard was already down, two arrows protruding from his belly.

  But they now had a tiny chance.

  Carefully retrieving his scutum, Romulus sat up, protecting himself from enemy shafts.

  One immediately slammed into it, but he was able to take in the situation.

  The trio of archers were still on their feet.

  And at least a score of Scythians were running to join the fray.

  With arrows raining down around him, Romulus managed to retreat unhurt to Brennus’ side.

  ‘Give me your shield,’ Pacorus ordered him at once.

  Romulus stared at his commander. My life, or his? he considered. Death now, or later? ‘Yes, sir,’ he said slowly, without moving. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Now!’ Pacorus screamed.

  As one, the archers drew back and loosed again. Three arrows shot forward, seeking human flesh. They took Pacorus in the chest, arm and left leg.

  He went down, bellowing in pain. ‘Curse you,’ he cried. ‘I’m a dead man.’

  More and more shafts hissed into the air.

  ‘Where’s Tarquinius?’ shouted Romulus.

  ‘Still in the Mithraeum. Looked like he was praying.’ Brennus grimaced. ‘Want to make a run for it?’

  Romulus shook his head fiercely. ‘No way.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  As one, they turned to face the Scythians.

  Chapter II: Scaevola

  Near Pompeii, winter 53/52 BC

  ‘Mistress?’

  Fabiola opened her eyes with a start. Standing behind her was a kind-faced, middle-aged woman in a simple smock and plain leather sandals. She smiled. Docilosa was Fabiola’s one true friend and ally, someone she could trust with her life. ‘I’ve asked you not to call me that.’

  Docilosa’s lips twitched. A former domestic slave, she had received her manumission at the same time as her new mistress. But the habits of a lifetime took a while to discard. ‘Yes, Fabiola,’ she said carefully.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Fabiola, climbing to her feet. Stunningly beautiful, slim and black-haired, she was dressed in a simple but expensive silk and linen robe. Ornate gold and silver jewellery winked from around her neck and arms. ‘Docilosa?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Word has come from the north,’ said Docilosa. ‘From Brutus.’

  Joy struck, followed by dread. This was what Fabiola had been asking for: news of her lover. Twice a day, in an alcove off her villa’s main courtyard, she prayed at this altar without fail. Now that Jupiter had answered her requests, would it be good news? Fabiola studied Docilosa’s face for a clue.

  Decimus Brutus was sequestered in Ravenna with Caesar, his general, who was plotting their return to Rome. Conveniently situated between the capital and the frontier with Transalpine Gaul, Ravenna was Caesar’s favourite winter abode. There, surrounded by his armies, he could monitor the political situation. Above the River Rubicon, this was allowed. But for a general to cross without relinquishing his military command – thereby entering Italy proper under arms – was an act of high treason. So every winter, Caesar watched and waited. Unhappy, the Senate could do little about it, while Pompey, the only man with the military muscle to oppose Caesar, sat on the fence. The situation changed daily, but one thing felt certain. Trouble was looming.

  Fabiola was therefore surprised by Docilosa’s news.

  ‘Rebellion has broken out in Transalpine Gaul,’ she revealed. ‘There’s heavy fighting in many areas. Apparently the Roman settlers and merchants in the conquered cities are being massacred.’

  Fighting panic at this new threat to Brutus, Fabiola exhaled slowly. Remember what you have escaped, she thought. Things have been far worse than this. At thirteen, Fabiola had been sold as a virgin into an expensive brothel by Gemellus, her cruel former owner. Adding to the horror, Romulus, her brother, had been sold into gladiator school at the same time. Her heart ached at the thought. Nearly four years of enforced prostitution in the Lupanar had followed. I did not lose hope then. Fabiola eyed the statue on the altar with reverence. And Jupiter delivered me from the life I despised. Rescue had come in the form of Brutus, one of Fabiola’s keenest lovers, who bought her from Jovina, the madam of the brothel, for a great deal of money. The impossible is always possible, Fabiola reflected, feeling calmer. Brutus would be safe. ‘I thought Caesar had conquered all of Gaul?’ she asked.

  ‘So they say,’ muttered Docilosa.

  ‘Yet it has seen nothing but unrest,’ retorted Fabiola. Aided by Brutus, Rome’s most daring general had been stamping out trouble since his bloody campaign had ostensibly ended. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘The chieftain Vercingetorix has demanded, and received, a levy from the tribes,’ Docilosa replied. ‘Tens of thousands of men are flocking to his banner.’

  Fabiola frowned. This was not news she wanted to hear. With the majority of his forces stationed in winter quarters just inside Transalpine Gaul, Caesar could be in real trouble. The Gaulish people were fierce warriors who had vigorously resisted the Roman conquest, losing only because of Caesar’s extraordinary abilities as a tactician and the legions’ superior discipline. If the tribes were truly uniting, an uprising had catastrophic potential.

  ‘The news gets worse,’ Docilosa continued. ‘Heavy snow has already fallen in the mountains on the border.’

  Fabiola’s lips tightened. Brutus’ most recent message had talked about coming to visit soon. That would not now happen.

  And if Caesar couldn’t reach his troops in time to quell the rebellion before spring, the trouble would spread far and wide. Vercingetorix had picked his moment carefully, thought Fabiola angrily. If this revolt succeeded, all her well-laid plans would come to nothing. Doubtless thousands would lose their lives in the forthcoming fighting, but she had to ignore that heavy cost. Whatever her desires, those men would still die. A quick victory for Caesar would mean less bloodshed. Fabiola desperately wanted this because then Brutus, his devoted follower, would gain more glory. But it was not just that. Fabiola was ruthlessly focused. If Caesar succeeded, her star would rise too.

  She felt a twinge of guilt that her first thought had not been for Brutus’ safety. A keen career soldier, he was also extremely courageous. He might be injured, or even killed, in the forthcoming fighting. That would be hard to bear, she reflected, offering up an extra prayer. Although she had never let herself love anyone, Fabiola was genuinely fond of Brutus. He had always been gentle and kind, even when taking her virginity. She smiled. Choosing to lavish her charms on him had been a good decision.

  Previously, there had been many such clients, all powerful nobles whose patronage could have guaranteed her progress into the upper echelons of Roman society. Keeping her eyes on that prize, Fabiola had somehow managed to disassociate herself from the degradation of her job. Just as they used Fabiola’s body, men were to be taken for whatever she could gain: gold, information or, best of all, influence. From the start, Brutus had been different from most clients, which made sex with him easier. What had finally tipped the balance in his favour was his close relationship with Caesar, a politician who had aroused Fabiola’s interest as she eavesdropped on conversations between nobles relaxing in the brothel’s baths. The pillow talk that she cajoled from her satiated customers had also been full of promising pointers towards Caesar. Perhaps it was Jupiter who had guided her to become Brutus’ mistress, thought Fabiola. While at a feast with Brutus, she had seen a statue of Caesar which reminded her strongly of Romulus. Suspicion had burned in Fabiola’s mind since.

  Docilosa’s next words brought her back to reality. ‘The Optimates threw a feast when the news of Vercingetorix’ rebellion reached Rome. Pompey Magnus was guest of honour.’

  ‘Gods above,’ muttered Fabiola. ‘Anything else?’ Caesar had enemies everywhere, and particularly in the capital. The triumvirate which ruled the Republic had been reduced by one with the death of Crassus, and since then Pompey had seemed unsure what to do about Caesar’s unsurpassed m
ilitary successes. Which suited Caesar admirably. But now the Optimates, the group of politicians which opposed him, were openly courting Pompey, his sole rival. Caesar could still be the new ruler of Rome – but only if Vercingetorix’ uprising did not succeed and if he retained enough support in the Senate. Suddenly Fabiola felt very vulnerable. In the Lupanar, she had been a big fish in a small pond. Outside, in the real world, she was a nobody. If Caesar failed, so did Brutus. And without his backing, what chance had she of succeeding in life? Unless, of course, she prostituted herself with someone else. Fabiola’s stomach turned at that idea. Those years in the Lupanar had been enough to last a lifetime.

  This called for dramatic measures.

  ‘I must visit the temple on the Capitoline Hill,’ Fabiola declared. ‘To make an offering and pray that Caesar crushes the rebellion quickly.’

  Docilosa hid her surprise. ‘The voyage to Rome will take at least a week. More if the seas are rough.’

  Fabiola’s face was serene. ‘In that case, we shall travel by road.’

  Now the older woman was shocked. ‘We’ll end up raped and murdered! The countryside is full of bandits.’

  ‘No more so than the streets of Rome,’ Fabiola replied tartly. ‘Besides, we can take the three bodyguards that Brutus left. They’ll be enough protection.’ Not as good as Benignus or Vettius, she thought, fondly remembering the Lupanar’s huge doormen. Despite their devotion to Fabiola, they had been too valuable for Jovina to sell as well. Returning to the capital might allow her to investigate that possibility again. The tough pair would be very useful.

  ‘What will Brutus say when he finds out?’

  ‘He’ll understand,’ answered Fabiola brightly. ‘I’m doing it for him.’

  Docilosa sighed. She would not win this argument. And with few diversions other than the baths or covered market in Pompeii, life had become very mundane in the almost empty villa. Rome would provide some excitement – it always did. ‘When do you wish to leave?’