The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  But that was the least of his worries right now. A finger of fear tugged at Romulus’ heart. He did not want to die screaming in agony. And the same emotion was evident in the faces of the legionaries in the rear ranks. The cries of the wounded were doing little for morale.

  There were at least a hundred figures on horseback pinning them against the fortlet’s wall. Pleasingly, about two score more lay sprawled in the dirt, taken down by the first shower of Roman javelins. Wary of using their last missiles, Darius had not yet ordered another volley. His last bodyguard was using his bow to deadly effect, however. Taking his time, the Parthian was loosing well-aimed arrows, invariably killing a Scythian with each shot. But his efforts would soon come to a halt. The case-like quiver on his left hip only held twenty to thirty shafts.

  ‘Into line, soldier!’ shouted one of the optiones at Romulus.

  Spotting Brennus’ huge frame at the front, he shoved his way through to join him. Even on his knees, the Gaul towered over the others. Lowering his scutum to meet the others in the shield wall, Romulus knelt down on the cold ground beside his friend. The men in the second rank held their scuta angled overhead to protect those in front while those behind covered their own heads. The testudo was an extremely effective defensive formation. Romulus’ misery lifted a fraction. They could hold their own against these attackers.

  ‘Stand fast! Protect yourselves from their arrows,’ shouted Darius, his perspiring face determined. ‘Let the bastards use them all up. We’ll stay inside the fort, and in the morning we can march out of here.’

  At this, there was a loud cheer. Not everyone would fall to the poisoned shafts.

  Romulus turned to Brennus. ‘Can’t be that simple,’ he muttered. ‘Can it?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied the Gaul with a scowl.

  ‘There aren’t enough warriors to wipe us out.’

  But there were no more visible, and clearly Darius thought that the riders pounding back and forth in front of them were their only attackers.

  The nomads must have heard of the silk protection on their shields, thought Romulus. Word had spread fast through the border region about the Forgotten Legion’s secret weapon, meaning that most tribes were wary of attacking unless in great force. No leader could think that a hundred horse archers would be able to stop two centuries marching out to freedom. Slow them down, yes. Annihilate them, no. And if Darius’ messengers safely delivered their message, reinforcements would arrive by the next afternoon. What was going on?

  Romulus peered over the iron rim of his shield, his eyes flicking from left to right. There was a small group of Scythians at the enemy’s rear, directing operations, but no sign of any more warriors. Mithras, help me! He took a deep, uncertain breath as his gaze was drawn upwards, over the milling horsemen. Clear blue sky. On the horizon, a few clouds. A faint breeze coming from the north. Attracted by the fighting, vultures were already beginning to circle high above. Romulus considered what he saw for a long time. Dread filled his heart, but eventually he was sure.

  ‘We need to fight our way out,’ he muttered. ‘Now.’

  The big Gaul was surprised. ‘Why? It’s nearly nightfall. Better to do what Darius says.’

  Romulus put his lips to Brennus’ ear. ‘The omens are bad.’

  Brennus looked confused. This was normally Tarquinius’ territory. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I asked Mithras for help and he gave it,’ whispered Romulus vehemently. ‘These are the scouts for a much larger force that will arrive at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘They’re just keeping us here?’

  ‘Precisely,’ finished Romulus.

  Used to Tarquinius’ accurate predictions, Brennus let out a heavy sigh. He scanned Romulus’ features again, searching for proof.

  ‘I don’t understand either,’ hissed Romulus. ‘But I saw a vision of Rome earlier too.’

  The Gaul spat a curse. ‘Very well. Speak to Darius. Tell him what you saw.’

  By now, the Scythians had stopped wasting arrows by firing at the silk-covered shields. Instead they were letting them fly in curving arcs that came down to the rear of the testudo. Pushing his way out, Romulus was greeted by the sight of the injured soldiers transfixed to the ground. The unfortunate men who had been treating them had also been hit. Now they would die too. Still uninjured, Darius was standing nearby, with his guard holding a discarded scutum over both their heads. Both their horses had been struck by arrows and were charging wildly around the inside of the fortlet. Not for long, thought Romulus grimly. The scythicon would already be pumping through their veins.

  He darted over. ‘A word if I may, sir?’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Darius irritably. He looked harassed and angry.

  ‘We must retreat, sir,’ he blurted. ‘At once.’

  The bodyguard snorted with derision.

  Darius was more tolerant. ‘Just as it’s about to get dark?’ Then the senior centurion saw that Romulus was deadly serious. His actions bordered on insubordination, but Darius valued his men, especially this one. Unlike the other Parthian officers, he did not instantly punish all wrongdoers. ‘Do you know what temperature it drops to out here?’ he cried. ‘We’d all freeze.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir.’ Romulus swallowed, but his stare did not waver. ‘But waiting until the morning will be even worse.’

  Darius glanced back at the strong walls of the fortlet. It was a good position to defend for one night. With their grisly contents, no one would sleep in the blood-soaked barracks, but huddled by blazing fires under the shelter of the ramparts, his men would survive well enough until dawn. ‘Why?’

  Romulus saw him look. ‘More Scythians are on their way, sir. A lot more.’

  Darius stared at him, perplexed. Yet this legionary had seen the rider behind the patrol. And he was Tarquinius’ protégé. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have seen it in the sky.’

  The guard hissed with disapproval.

  Darius’ dark eyes bored into Romulus. ‘What exactly did you see?’

  ‘A large host on the march. Soldiers carrying torches to light the way,’ revealed Romulus. ‘Squadrons of horse archers and companies of infantry. Armoured cavalry.’

  Darius frowned. It was uncommon for armies to travel by night. Most men were too superstitious to do so: it was the time when demons and evil spirits were abroad.

  Romulus pointed at the enemy riders, who had pulled back for a rest. ‘They’re just delaying us, sir. Until the others arrive.’

  Now the stout Parthian scowled. He was one of the few senior centurions who had bothered to learn any Latin and could understand Tarquinius; he had a great deal of respect for the haruspex, even though he was a foreigner. But it seemed ridiculous that the young man standing before him could possess the same mystical ability. Romulus was a soldier, not a soothsayer. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful to you for spotting the Scythian, lad,’ Darius growled. ‘Your action saved many lives.’

  Flushing, Romulus ducked his head.

  ‘But you actually saw that warrior earlier,’ the Parthian went on. ‘Whereas these others are a figment of your imagination.’

  He began to protest.

  Darius’ face hardened. ‘Scythians do not move during the hours of darkness. Or make large-scale attacks in wintertime.’

  ‘What about the attack at the Mithraeum?’ Romulus countered. ‘Sir.’

  Darius’ eyes bulged with anger at the other’s confidence.

  ‘Mithras showed me the Scythians,’ said Romulus, risking everything. ‘I prayed to him and he answered.’

  ‘How dare you?’ the Parthian snarled. ‘Only initiates may worship Mithras, you insolent dog.’

  His guard laid a hand to his sword.

  Romulus hung his head. He had failed. Despite his friendly manner, their senior centurion was just another Parthian.

  ‘Consider yourself lucky not to be whipped. Or worse,’ Darius snapped. ‘Resume your position.’

  The guard s
mirked.

  Hiding his anger, Romulus stalked back to his place in the front rank. The fool, he thought. Darius was blinded by his refusal to admit that his god might favour a non-Parthian. Yet Romulus felt sure that was where his vision had come from.

  ‘Keep your damn mouth shut too,’ Darius called out. ‘Not a word to anyone.’

  Under his shield nearby, Novius sniggered unpleasantly. To Romulus’ disappointment, none of the veterans had been hit. Even if they survived the Scythian attack, he still had them to contend with.

  Brennus’ reaction surprised Romulus. Instead of being furious, as he was, his friend simply shrugged.

  ‘The Scythian reinforcements will outnumber us more than ten to one,’ Romulus said.

  ‘We can’t avoid our fate,’ replied Brennus solemnly. A day when your friends need you. A time to stand and fight. No one could win such a battle. Except Brennus. Would tomorrow be that day?

  Romulus suspected he knew the reason behind Brennus’ calm. Ever since Tarquinius had revealed the druid’s prediction to the Gaul, he had secretly worried about losing his friend here, in Margiana. Mithras had shown Tarquinius that there was a road back to Rome. But was it for all three of them? His stomach knotted, Romulus considered the sky once more. What he had seen had changed utterly. The cloud patterns, wind speed and birds visible now made no sense at all. Perhaps he and Brennus would die here, while Tarquinius survived? Romulus’ head spun until it hurt. He heartily wished that the haruspex were with them, to provide guidance. But he wasn’t. For all they knew, he could be dead. An idea surfaced. ‘We could make a run for it tonight,’ he muttered. ‘Just the two of us.’

  ‘Back to the fort?’ asked Brennus. ‘We’d be executed for desertion.’

  Romulus dared not vocalise it. He had been thinking of heading south, towards the coast. Shame filled him that he could have even thought of leaving Tarquinius behind. Like Brennus, the haruspex had taught him so much.

  ‘Trust in the gods,’ said Brennus, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘They know best.’

  But Mithras might be playing with me, thought Romulus. Punishing a non-initiate for daring to worship him. What better way to do that than show a man his doom? Romulus’ guts twisted with worry again as he remembered the Scythian host in his vision.

  ‘And don’t get hit by an arrow.’

  He grimaced at the Gaul’s bleak humour.

  Brennus was not finished. ‘Look around you,’ he commanded.

  Romulus obeyed, taking in the set faces of the legionaries all around them. There was fear there, but also a steely determination. No names or insults were being called now. Unlike Novius and his cronies, these were men who would stand and fight with him and Brennus, to the end if necessary. Even if they no longer thought it themselves, they were his brothers-in-arms.

  That counted for a lot.

  Romulus clenched his jaw.

  In response, he got an almighty nudge. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  He gave Brennus a grateful smile.

  The pair settled down to watch the Scythians, many of whom had now dismounted. Occasionally an eager warrior would gallop in close to the Roman lines and release a few arrows, but the rest seemed content to keep the status quo. Using brushwood, some had even started fires. Darkness was beginning to fall and the air was chilling rapidly. It would not be long before the temperature dropped far below freezing. Knowing this, Darius withdrew his men inside the fortlet and closed the gate. Once sentries were in place on the ramparts and fires had been started, there was not much else to be done. Dawn would decide their fate.

  Few men slept well. Knowing what lay in the nearby barracks didn’t help. Neither did the piercing cold, which was just kept at bay by the fires and their woollen blankets. Nightmares, numb fingers and toes were inevitable, as were aching, painful muscles. But they were warm enough to stay alive. That was all the legionaries needed.

  Romulus lay awake for hours, while beside him the Gaul snored loudly. Brennus had offered to keep watch, but the young soldier was so wound up that he had refused. Eventually weariness began to get the better of him though, and his lids slowly closed. He plunged straight into a nightmare that played out his vision of Rome again in horrifying detail. Mobs of armed plebeians and gladiators ran hither and thither, attacking anyone in sight. Bodies lay scattered in crimson piles. Swords rose and fell; men clutched at gaping wounds. Screams competed with the clash of metal on metal and the air was filled with smoke. Flames licked up the sides of the Senate building itself. Finally Romulus saw Fabiola. Surrounded by a few bodyguards, his twin was caught up in the midst of it. Her face was terrified.

  His body covered in a cold sweat, Romulus’ eyes jerked open. The images had been terrifyingly vivid. Was Mithras playing another cruel trick on him? Was it just a dream? Or was it real?

  He stiffened. There was movement nearby.

  It was not Brennus: he still lay alongside, deeply asleep.

  Careful not to lose his night vision by looking at the embers of the fire, Romulus turned his head. The small movement saved his life. With a great leap, Optatus landed on top of him, stabbing at his face with an arrow. Romulus grabbed the burly veteran’s arms – a reflex action – and they rolled over, struggling for control of the shaft.

  Starlight revealed a dark liquid coating the arrow’s hooked point and terror constricted Romulus’ throat. It was a Scythian arrow. And Optatus was far stronger than he.

  Chapter VIII: Despair

  Rome, winter 53/52 BC

  With leering faces, the fugitivarii shuffled closer.

  Sextus dodged forward, trying to gut one of them with his spear. His attempt failed; instead he just missed losing an arm to a cut from a shrewdly wielded sword. Such daring moves were too risky, so he and Fabiola moved back to back. It made little difference. At once their enemies began to encircle them.

  Fabiola’s heart sank. The narrow street was deserted. Even if there had been someone about, who would intervene against such determined lowlife? Rome had no official force to keep the peace. The natural result of this was surely the rioting in the Forum Romanum. Fabiola cursed. What had she been thinking, to leave the safety of the house earlier? After his previous humiliation at her hands, Scaevola would be less than merciful. And there was nowhere to flee.

  Not that Fabiola would run. That was what cowards did.

  A sudden rush by the thugs and it was all over. Fabiola managed to bury her blade in the thigh of one, and Sextus to pierce the throat of another, but the remainder swarmed in, knocking the pair to the ground in a flurry of blows. As Fabiola struggled to rise, a sword hilt connected with her head. She collapsed, semi-conscious. Sextus was less lucky, suffering a heavy beating before being trussed up like a hen for the pot. But he was not killed. Scaevola had seen how good the injured slave was with a weapon. Selling him to a gladiator school would be most profitable.

  The fugitivarii clustered eagerly around Fabiola, lustful eyes drinking in her beauty.

  ‘Get her up,’ Scaevola ordered.

  His order was obeyed instantly. With a strong arm under each of hers, Fabiola found herself hanging between two of the biggest men. Head lolling to one side, her long black hair fell over her face.

  The chief fugitivarius grabbed a handful of Fabiola’s tresses. With a brutal tug upwards, he revealed her stunning features.

  Fabiola moaned in pain and opened her eyes.

  ‘Lady,’ said Scaevola with a cruel smile. ‘We meet again. And your lover’s still not here to protect you.’

  She looked at him with utter scorn.

  ‘He wasn’t at the latifundium either,’ said the fugitivarius regretfully. ‘We came looking for you both the day after you’d left for Rome. Didn’t we, lads?’

  His men growled in acknowledgement.

  Seeing her eyes widen, Scaevola smiled cruelly. ‘Warned you, didn’t I? Nobody crosses me without getting paid back.’

  Fabiola struggled to keep her voice even. ‘What did you do?’
<
br />   ‘Attacked just before dawn. It’s the best time,’ he revealed with delight. ‘Killed your pet gladiators. Torched the buildings and took all your slaves to sell on. Best of the lot, though, we recaptured the fugitive I’d been chasing. Naturally, he had to be punished.’ There was a pause. ‘They say that gelded men make good servants for women.’

  Fabiola could not take in the devastating horror of it all. ‘Corbulo?’ she pleaded.

  Scaevola was saving the worst for last. ‘The old bastard was stubborn,’ he said admiringly. ‘Most fools talk quickly with their feet in a fire. Not him. Wasn’t until we broke his arms and legs that he started talking.’

  ‘No!’ Fabiola screamed, trying to break free. ‘Corbulo had done nothing.’

  ‘He knew where you were,’ responded the fugitivarius. ‘That was enough.’

  ‘You’ll all rot in Hades for this,’ Fabiola spat, tears running down her cheeks. ‘And Brutus will send you there.’

  Scaevola made a face. ‘I can’t see him anywhere. Can anyone else?’

  Chuckling, his men shook their heads.

  ‘Shame. We’ll have to hunt down the whoreson later. The only good supporter of Caesar is a dead one.’

  Fabiola was dumbstruck. What have I done to deserve this, great Jupiter?

  ‘So it’s just us, I’m afraid,’ Scaevola said teasingly. Letting go of her hair, he took hold of the neck of her dress with both hands and tore it to the waist.

  The view this allowed drew gasps from his followers.

  Used to men seeing her naked, Fabiola ignored them. But her inner rage knew no bounds.

  On the ground beside them, Sextus writhed uselessly.

  Looking into her eyes, Scaevola caressed her full breasts. ‘Like that?’ he whispered.

  The young woman did not give him the dignity of a reply. But real terror was now growing inside her.

  His hand dropped, stroking her flat belly. It was all Fabiola could do not to pull away, but she knew that would only increase the chief fugitivarius’ enjoyment. Next her torn dress was pulled off completely and dropped into the bloody mud. Fabiola’s underclothes followed. The two thugs holding her shifted from foot to foot, peering at her beautiful body.