The Silver Eagle

by Unknown

  Yet even if she had wanted to, there was no going back now. The draw of what she might find was too much. Mithras awaited. Taking a deep breath, Fabiola slid her legs over the edge, praying the drop would not be far.

  It wasn’t.

  The staircase was steep and narrow, each step carved from a single piece of smooth stone. As long as Fabiola took care, she would not fall. It was just a case of descending into the utter darkness. Running her fingertips along the wall, she could feel no plasterwork. It was extremely difficult to determine where the joints between each slab were, if there were any at all. Whoever had built the hidden structure had been a master of engineering.

  Only the faint slap of Fabiola’s feet on the stone broke the silence. It felt quite terrifying, just as she imagined a descent into Hades might be. Keeping her mind occupied by counting the steps, Fabiola had reached eighty-four by the bottom. The Mithraeum was deep underground. The walls had not opened out at all either, meaning she was in a narrow passageway. It led forward, beyond her touch. Now Fabiola’s fear grew too great to continue without illumination. Who knew what lay down here? She searched along the wall for a metal bracket or an oil lamp. When her fingers closed on the familiar shape of a bronze bowl, Fabiola almost cried out with relief. Beside it, in a little alcove, she found two sharp pieces of stone. Striking them off each other, she used the sparks generated to ignite the lamp’s wick.

  After so long in the dark, the light which flared felt blinding. Wisely, Fabiola looked away, letting her eyes grow accustomed. The first thing she noticed was the ornate mosaic floor beneath her feet. She had seldom seen tiny tile pieces as delicate, or designs as well executed. It would have taken a workman of great skill many weeks to lay the surface. With a plain stripe of dark colour running along the walls, the passage centre was divided into seven panels, each of which was filled with various symbols. It was immediately clear that what she was seeing was of huge importance.

  The first depicted a black bird with a powerful beak, a caduceus, the symbol of commerce, and a small cup. Fabiola was delighted by the raven’s image. And yet the majestic bird, one of her favourites, only represented the first stage.

  The second square contained an oil lamp and a diadem. She walked forward, her eyes soaking in the wealth of information on the floor surface. There followed a lance, helmet and sling bag, and then a fire shovel, a rattle and Jupiter’s thunderbolt.

  Already a deep sense of reverence and of belonging had calmed Fabiola’s initial nervousness. The panels clearly represented symbols sacred to the worshippers of Mithras. She longed to know what they meant.

  The next stage was represented by a sickle, a dagger and a crescent moon with a star. Second from the end was a square filled with a torch, a whip and an ornate seven-rayed crown. The last had in it a Phrygian cap, a staff, a libation bowl and a large sickle. The cap was the same as that worn by the statue of Mithras in the atrium above.

  Air moved over her face, telling her that the passageway had opened out. Moving slowly forward into the darkness, she lifted her lamp to light others in brackets on the wall. Their yellow glow revealed a long, rectangular room, its slatted roof supported by regularly placed wooden posts which had been driven into the floor. Low stone seating ran the entire length of both side walls. Covered in inscriptions, three small stone altars dominated the far end of the chamber. Above them, on the back wall, was a massive, brightly painted representation of the tauroctony. Crimson blood spurted from the wound in the bull’s neck, and Mithras’ dark green cloak was covered in bright dots of light that could only be stars. A male figure stood on either side of the god, each bearing a torch, one upright and the other pointing downwards. Positioned around him were animals and objects: Fabiola made out a raven, a cup and a lion. There was also a dog, a scorpion and a snake. More images covered the plaster panels to her left and right. Her mouth dropped at their quality and detail.

  There were men feasting around a table, waited on by others bearing drinking cups and plates of what looked like bread marked with an ‘X’. In others she could see Mithras in his Phrygian cap holding hands with an imposing golden figure wearing the seven-rayed crown. Was this the sun? The same god-like creature was in many of the pictures, seated with Mithras behind the dead bull’s body, standing in a horse-drawn chariot, accepting gifts from lesser mortals. Even the floor was decorated. Its tiles were divided into twelve squares, depicting a variety of animals and symbols: twin children, a ram, a bull, a scales and a scorpion among others.

  By now, Fabiola was reeling with the wealth of information she had just been exposed to.

  She tiptoed across the mosaic, beginning to feel very self-conscious. Although there was no one else in the chamber, it felt as if there were. Her nerves returned, making her palms sweaty. Standing before the trio of altars, Fabiola looked up at Mithras. Had a woman ever stood here in this way? Should she leave? Blood pounded in her ears, but nothing struck her down.

  Her eyes were caught by a small phial which was standing on the central plinth. Made of expensive blue glass, it had a delicately wrought top in the shape of a lion’s head. Her hand reached out and picked it up.

  This is the moment of truth, Fabiola decided, pulling out the stopper. She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. She smelt a faint, attractive odour and instinctively knew that the contents were there to be drunk during rituals. This is my sacred time, Fabiola thought fiercely. Mithras will understand. Or he will poison me. It was time to place her trust completely in the warrior deity. Her heart raced for a few beats, but Fabiola allowed the sensation of calm that pervaded the chamber to regain control once more. Surely the god had brought her here? Who was she to resist? After the day’s dramatic events, she had nothing to lose. Tipping back her head, Fabiola poured the liquid into her mouth. It tasted light and sweet, with a powerful undercurrent of unfamiliar flavour.

  Replacing the phial on the altar, she swallowed.

  For a long time, nothing happened. She began to feel disappointed.

  Then it seemed to Fabiola that drums began to pound, a simple, repetitive beat which drew her in and down, its rhythm mesmeric. Instead of feeling alarmed, she felt euphoric. Mithras was here, in the room. She could feel him.

  The drums’ speed increased, rising to a crescendo of sound that shook the walls. Unaware of where she was, Fabiola stood motionless, absorbing the energy. Gradually the pounding died away, to be replaced by another, quieter sequence. She felt herself falling, falling, but there was no impact of the hard floor against her back. More hypnotic drumming followed, bringing Fabiola seamlessly into another world, an incredible place where she saw through the eyes of a flying bird. Blinking hard and trying to bring back the small chamber made no difference. If she now turned her head, Fabiola could see shiny black feathers sitting perfectly arranged on powerful wings. Had she really become a raven? Strangely, she felt no terror. Instead there was only joy.

  It seemed completely natural to soar high in the sunlit sky, riding currents of air that allowed her to reach great speeds or to hang motionless, scanning the ground below. For long moments Fabiola revelled in just being, rejoicing in the freedom that flight granted and the view of the earth laid out as she had never seen before. Rivers wound sinuously through the landscape; hills and ice-capped mountains ran in short, stubby lines or immense, jagged ranges. The green stain of forests covered parts of the vista. Human settlements were scattered here and there; the dirt roads joining them appearing as mere ribbons. Where was she?

  Movement on a great plain drew her attention and she flew lower, unseen by the two armies that were regarding each other from a safe standoff range. Along one side of the battlefield ran a river, wider than any she had ever seen. Now Fabiola was sure that it wasn’t Italy. This place was far from anywhere that she knew.

  Combat would commence soon, but for the moment the generals were trying to gauge their enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, while their soldiers prayed and wiped the sweat from their clammy foreh
eads. Before long though, men would begin to die. Judging from the flat terrain and good weather, Fabiola knew that it would be in large numbers.

  In the ranks of the host directly beneath her, sunlight sparkled off metal. Eyesight far more powerful than she normally possessed instantly focused on its source. What she saw was so incredible that it seemed beyond belief. There, among the massed ranks of soldiers, Fabiola saw a solitary silver eagle.

  Here in an alien land, a Roman standard.

  There was nothing else it could be. With powerful, outstretched wings, talons gripping a golden thunderbolt and borne by a man wearing a wolf-skin headdress, this was the talismanic symbol that led every legion into combat. Fabiola studied the figures around the silver eagle, seeing now the rounded bowls of their crested bronze helmets, the elongated, oval scuta they bore, the neat lines in which they stood. Surely these were Roman legionaries? But not everything about them fitted. Instead of pila, many men carried long, heavy spears, and their metal shield bosses were obscured by fabric. The officers standing to the side of each unit also looked out of place, carrying bows and wearing odd-looking conical hats and embroidered tunics and trousers. If these were legionaries, they were like none that she had ever seen before.

  Confused, Fabiola had begun to climb away from the forces beneath her when a powerful image of a huge, pig-tailed warrior suddenly came to mind. He was flanked by a slim, blond-haired man who carried a double-headed axe. Memories stirred in the depths of the young woman’s soul, struggling to emerge into the raven’s consciousness. Then it was clear. The Gaul was here. With another guide. Fabiola’s heart sang with joy.

  Romulus might be alive!

  But there was no time to search for him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ cried an angry voice.

  Someone took hold of Fabiola, turning her wing into a hand once more.

  No, she thought desperately. Leave me here! Great Mithras, let me find my brother. See him, in the flesh. Fabiola pulled away, resuming her shape and swooping down on a fortunate draught of air. Free for a dozen heartbeats, she shot across the open ground in the plain’s centre, horrified to see that the other army outnumbered the Roman one many times. Infantry armed with every weapon under the sun were flanked by skirmishers carrying slings and bows. There were thousands of archers, both in chariots and on horseback. Worst of all, three squadrons of enormous grey, armoured creatures waited in the enemy’s midst, flapping ears, long trunks and fearsome tusks tipped with metal adding to their fearsome aura. They had to be elephants, Fabiola thought. Each carrying two or three bowmen on their broad backs, these animals were the hammer blow that would drive terror into the hearts of the bravest soldiers. Who in the world would stand against them? Fabiola glanced back at the Roman soldiers, who had looked so brave and prepared as she had soared over their heads. Now, before the imposing host with its vast beasts, they appeared puny and insignificant. There could only be one result once battle was joined.

  Overcome with grief, Fabiola did not believe that the god could be so cruel. To let her discover that Romulus might be alive and then to show her the instrument of his destruction in the same moment was more than she could bear. Her response was immediate, instinctive. Pulling her wings in tightly, she dropped her head and pointed her beak downwards, aiming straight for the lead elephant. Air whistled past Fabiola, streamlining her shape even further.

  Down, down, down she dived.

  Fabiola was soon close enough to see the wrinkles in its thick skin and the deeply curved bows carried by the men on its back. Perhaps she could take out an eye and send it off on a trail of death amongst its own men. The fall was immense – potentially fatal – but Fabiola did not care any longer. Anything was better than this pain. Plummeting like a black stone, with rage burning brightly in her heart, she consigned herself to oblivion.

  This time, she was grabbed by both arms. Shouts filled her ears.

  Fabiola could not help herself. Despite her frantic attempts, the plain covered in armed men disappeared. Crying tears of frustration and despair, she opened her eyes.

  She was back in the underground chamber, which was now packed with veterans. Two were pinioning her arms while Secundus stood a couple of paces away, shaking with anger. ‘What have you done?’ he shouted. ‘We save your miserable hide and you repay us by desecrating our temple?’

  Fabiola looked at the men holding her. Both their faces wore the same furious look. What had been suspicion earlier was now rightful outrage. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her misery brimming over.

  ‘That’s not nearly enough,’ Secundus replied grimly. ‘You must be punished.’

  His men growled in accordance.

  ‘And there is only one penalty.’

  Chapter XII: Pacorus

  Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

  ‘Hold!’

  The shout reverberated in the confined space of the courtyard.

  Surprised, Vahram paused and turned his head. Only half aware of what was going on, the haruspex followed his gaze.

  Ishkan was framed in the entrance. Torches held aloft by his men illuminated the gory scene. The snow around Tarquinius was stained red. The thin, middle-aged senior centurion looked disgusted at the sight. ‘What are you doing?’ he snapped.

  ‘Flogging this snake for information,’ Vahram replied, furious that he had been disturbed. ‘He’s plotting against us.’

  ‘Did the commander order this?’ asked Ishkan.

  ‘Naturally,’ blustered Vahram.

  ‘And he said to kill the haruspex?’

  ‘If necessary, yes,’ growled the primus pilus.

  Ishkan raised his eyebrows. ‘Where is Pacorus, then?’ He looked around. ‘I would have thought he’d watch.’

  ‘He’s not well enough to be outside for long,’ said Vahram icily. ‘And I am his deputy.’

  ‘Of course you are, sir,’ Ishkan answered, suspicion flaring in his eyes. ‘But let’s just check with him, shall we?’

  Realising that his ruse would be discovered the instant that Ishkan woke Pacorus, Vahram panicked. Stepping away from Tarquinius’ limp body, he blocked the doorway to the bedchamber.

  The dark-haired senior centurion frowned. He lifted a hand and immediately his followers raised their weapons.

  Vahram’s trio of men looked to him for directions, but there were at least a dozen warriors with Ishkan, all of whom were armed with bows. Unless they wanted to die, there was nothing to do but see how the standoff panned out. They relaxed, keeping their hands away from their sword hilts.

  Outmanoeuvred, the primus pilus scowled and stood to one side.

  Leaving his warriors to watch Vahram, Ishkan opened the door. He was not gone long.

  Covered by a blanket and supported by the senior centurion, a shivering Pacorus emerged into the light.

  Vahram cursed under his breath. Things were getting out of control. He should have just killed the damn haruspex.

  Pacorus regarded Tarquinius’ bloodied face and body with a mixture of emotions. He cared little for the haruspex’ health, but valued his abilities. Moreover, he did not like his inferiors acting without his direct authority. Anger finally dominated on the commander’s thin, grey face. ‘What have you to say about this?’ he snapped at Vahram.

  The eyes flashed to Tarquinius. Although his word was worth more, Pacorus would be highly suspicious of him if the haruspex mentioned his plans.primus pilus’

  Barely aware of the delicate situation, Tarquinius forced out an incoherent moan and let some bloody spit dribble from his lips.

  Unsure of himself, Vahram made a snap decision. Hopefully, Tarquinius was in no state to talk. ‘I came in to see how you were, sir. Found the whoreson crouched over the fireplace muttering your name.’

  Aware that he had slept through whatever Tarquinius had been doing, Pacorus sucked in a nervous breath. He had first-hand experience of the haruspex’ frightening powers. ‘Has he said why?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Vahram shook his
head angrily. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Yet you did not think to check with me?’ responded Pacorus. ‘And tried to prevent another senior centurion from bringing the matter to my attention?’

  ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ Vahram said weakly.

  With a dismissive snort, the commander shuffled over. He was followed solicitously by Ishkan.

  Tarquinius lifted his head to stare Pacorus in the face. Grey rings of exhaustion had formed under his dark eyes, and his broken nose had swollen beyond all recognition. The burn on his cheek was red raw and oozing clear fluid. Remarkably, in spite of his injuries, there was still an air of mystery about him.

  Pacorus flinched at the haruspex’ appearance. This was the man who had saved his life, and he was not ungrateful for that. Yet there was no trust between them. ‘Well?’

  Tarquinius jerked his head, indicating Pacorus should come closer.

  Ishkan frowned warily but did not intervene. Tied-up, the half-dead haruspex posed no threat. Yet Vahram looked most unhappy.

  ‘It was his name I was saying,’ whispered Tarquinius. ‘The primus pilus immediately wanted to know why. If I had told him, he would have killed me.’

  ‘Looks like he was going to do that anyway,’ Pacorus answered drily.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ gasped the haruspex. ‘And I was just about to break when Ishkan arrived. Do not trust him.’

  Pacorus looked back at Vahram, who instantly affected not to be interested. ‘Why not?’

  ‘He wants to lead the Forgotten Legion.’

  The commander stiffened. ‘Have you proof of this?’

  Tarquinius was still able to raise his eyebrows.

  Pacorus tapped a finger against his teeth, thinking. It was no surprise to him that the primus pilus might want to usurp his position. But it was also an easy way for Tarquinius to sow the seeds of doubt and distrust among his captors.