The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  ‘Cavalry,’ he said in a monotone.

  Alarmed, Gordianus’ eyes darted back to the track in front, which was still empty.

  Questions from the other legionaries filled the air, but Romulus ignored them.

  They could all hear it now.

  Brennus stood calmly, thinking of his wife and son, who had died without him being there to defend them. Of his uncle, who had died saving him. Of his cousin, whose life Brennus had failed to save. Only death could assuage the guilt he felt over these losses. And if he saved Romulus’ life while doing so, he would not have died in vain.

  When the first horsemen came into view, Brennus actually smiled.

  They were followed by at least two hundred more. Wearing polished scale armour that covered their bodies right down to their thighs, the Scythians were armed with lances, short-headed axes, swords and recurved composite bows. Maximising the full dramatic effect of their appearance, the riders reined in their red-coloured horses and stopped. About two hundred and fifty paces of snow-covered ground separated them from the battered Roman soldiers. Enough distance to reach a full charge.

  I have accurately predicted the future, thought Romulus bitterly. But I did not see this.

  Nearby, Novius blanched. What chance had they now?

  He was not alone in his reaction. Finally taking in what awaited them, Romulus’ spirits plummeted. The divination was my best. And last. We will surely die now. With infantry and archers about to engage them from behind, and the cavalry blocking their way forward, there was nowhere to go. Except to Elysium. From somewhere, Romulus summoned the dregs of his faith in the warrior god. Mithras! Do not forsake us! We are worthy of your favour.

  ‘How did those bastards get here?’ shouted the older optio. Scythia lay to the south-east, with a long range of mountains between it and Margiana. The communicating passes would be blocked by snow for months.

  There was only one answer.

  ‘They came around the peaks, sir,’ replied Romulus. Only that could explain the Scythians’ presence in midwinter.

  ‘Why now?’ demanded the optio.

  ‘To catch us unawares,’ Brennus said. ‘Who would expect an attack of this size at this time of year?’

  ‘The gods must be angry,’ spat Gordianus, making the sign against evil. Without anger, he glanced at Romulus. They were now comrades again. ‘Have we some hope?’

  ‘Hardly any,’ he answered.

  Fearful mutters rose as this passed back through the ranks.

  ‘Let’s hope that Darius’ riders made it back then,’ said Gordianus. ‘Or the whole legion could be in danger.’

  Behind the wedge, the massed ranks of Scythians were closing in. Simultaneously, the lead cavalryman flicked his reins, forcing his horse into a walk. The trot would be next, followed by the canter.

  Their fate was about to be sealed.

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Romulus.

  The optio looked uncertain. Normally there was a centurion present to tell him what to do.

  ‘If the horses get any speed up, they’ll cut us to pieces, sir,’ said Romulus.

  The optio’s eyes flickered from side to side. On the heights were yet more warriors, with archers ranked behind. Escape that way meant fighting uphill, while being showered with arrows.

  ‘Let’s hit them quickly, sir,’ said Romulus. ‘That way, there’s a chance of smashing through.’

  ‘Charge them?’ queried the optio disbelievingly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus glanced back at his frightened-looking comrades. Being hit at the gallop by the approaching horses would undoubtedly break them. And if that happened, the Scythian infantry would soon finish the job. ‘Now,’ he urged.

  Unused to such pressure, the optio hesitated.

  Brennus’ grip on his sword tightened. Romulus’ idea was the best, the sole, choice. If their erstwhile commander did not act, he would intervene. Lethally, if necessary.

  Ignoring the confused junior officer, Gordianus turned to his comrades. He too thought Romulus was right. ‘We’ve only one chance,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no way back or on either side.’

  ‘What should we do?’ cried a voice a few ranks back.

  ‘Charge those fucking horses,’ cried Gordianus. ‘Before they reach top speed.’

  The men looked dismayed, but did not protest.

  Gordianus seized the moment. ‘Let’s do it!’

  A defiant roar rose into the air. Novius and his cronies alone looked unhappy.

  Romulus did not delay any longer. ‘Form wedge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

  The dull-witted optio had no time to respond. Desperate to survive, the legionaries launched themselves forward, carrying him with them.

  Romulus kept his position at the front of the wedge. Brennus was pounding along on his right and Gordianus on his left. Soon they were running at full tilt, their shields held high against Scythian arrows. Those behind could not run and hold their scuta over their heads, which meant speed was vital. Once the mounted archers started releasing, the men in the middle would begin to die.

  The Scythians responded to the Roman charge by urging their horses into a canter. All had arrows already fitted to their bowstrings. To a man, they drew back and prepared to release.

  Less than a hundred paces separated the two sides.

  Arrows shot up in graceful arcs and whistled down amongst the legionaries. The man directly behind Brennus went down, shot through the cheek. More shafts thumped into Romulus’ and Gordianus’ shields, making them awkward to carry, but there was no chance to rip them out. The veteran began muttering a prayer to Mars, the god of war.

  Sweat ran down Romulus’ face and into the cut below his right eye. The salt stung, and he used the pain to focus himself. Some of the legionaries still had javelins left, he thought. Hit any of the Scythians and they’ll fall off. Open up the formation. Maybe give us enough room to get through. Mithras, protect us. Give us the strength to survive.

  Fifty paces.

  ‘Ready pila,’ he yelled. ‘At my command, loose at will.’

  Brennus smiled proudly. Romulus was turning into a leader.

  Used to obeying orders, all those with javelins cocked their right arms back. Throwing while running was something they had all been trained to do.

  Another flurry of arrows landed. Men made soft, choking noises as metal points skewered their throats; they screamed as eyeballs ruptured. Others were hit in the lower legs where their shields left them exposed. The falling bodies tripped up those immediately behind, and the legionaries at the rear had to just trample over them regardless. Injured, dying or simply winded, it was every man for himself now.

  Thirty paces. Good javelin range.

  ‘Aim at the front riders,’ shouted Romulus one more time. ‘Loose!’

  It was difficult enough to aim a pilum accurately when standing still. At the run, it was much harder. At Romulus’ command, eight or ten flew forward at the approaching horsemen. Most landed short. Just two found their mark, both striking the tattooed lead rider in the chest. Killed instantly, he toppled sideways and fell off. His body was trampled at once by the horses behind.

  Gordianus cheered.

  As Romulus had hoped, the dead man’s mount turned away from the Roman wedge, eager to escape. Now there was a small gap in the enemy ranks. He aimed straight for it.

  But the other Scythians kept up a relentless fire of arrows. At twenty paces, they were hardly able to miss the unfortunate legionaries. With every step, men dropped into the snow, their blood staining it a deep red.

  Someone tried to speak, but the words were unintelligible. Romulus turned his head. Gordianus had been hit at the top of his left shoulder, just above where his chain mail shirt ended.

  The veteran’s face was stunned. He tried again to speak, but couldn’t. His hand rose to the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh, then fell away. Gordianus knew that pulling out the arrow would only kill him quicker.

  Grief fi
lled Romulus, but there was nothing he could do. Gordianus was a dead man.

  Dropping his gladius, the veteran leaned over and firmly gripped Romulus’ shoulder with his right hand. His lips framed two silent words: ‘My friend.’

  With a leaden heart, Romulus nodded.

  With the last of his strength, Gordianus pushed him away. As he did, a Scythian spear took him in his exposed left side. At such close range, it punched straight through the chain mail. Gordianus’ eyes opened wide and he slumped to his knees.

  Unable to watch, Romulus turned away.

  ‘Steady, lad,’ Brennus shouted. ‘I’m still here.’

  But the battle was not going well. Horsemen were sweeping down the sides of the shrunken wedge, loosing arrows from point-blank range. Their effect was terrifying and devastating. There was no let-up in the onslaught either. With a tight turning circle, the horses were simply riding around, repeating their attacks time and again.

  By now, the wedge had ground to a halt. With every casualty, another gap was created in the shield wall, making it even harder to stop the Scythian arrows and spears. Romulus judged that fewer than forty legionaries remained uninjured. And they were rapidly losing the will to fight.

  Then he saw why. A horde of infantry was closing in from the rear to seal their fate.

  Romulus shook his head. Mithras had turned his face away. Of Jupiter there was no sign. This was where they would die. ‘It’s over,’ he said wearily.

  ‘It’s never over,’ roared Brennus. Grabbing a pilum from a dead soldier at his feet, he hurled it at an approaching rider. His effort was magnificent, hitting the Scythian in the chest with such force that he was thrown backwards off his mount.

  Almost immediately another replaced him.

  The Gaul scowled; to Romulus it just seemed another example of how the gods had discarded them.

  Brennus’ mouth opened in a sudden warning. His hand reached up to grab the hilt of his longsword.

  There was a heavy impact and Romulus’ vision doubled. Blinding pain filled his head and his knees crumpled, letting him fall to the ground.

  ‘No!’ cried Brennus. ‘You stupid bastard!’

  It was the last thing Romulus heard.

  Chapter XI: The Warrior God

  Rome, winter 53/52 BC

  Although angered by Secundus’ response to her question, Fabiola wisely kept her counsel. Her safety was quite fragile. ‘I apologise,’ she muttered.

  An awkward silence fell, and Fabiola turned to see how Sextus was doing. His treatment was nearly over. Once Janus had removed all dirt and metal fragments from the eye socket, he had washed it out with acetum. Now there was a neat cloth bandage in place over the gaping hole. His face clean, Sextus was drinking from a small clay cup.

  Janus saw her looking. ‘Papaverum,’ he said, cleaning his hands in a bowl of water. ‘One of the most powerful painkillers.’

  ‘How is it made?’ Fabiola had little idea what went into the strange concoctions made by apothecaries; theirs was a trade which guarded its secrets jealously.

  ‘By crushing the seeds of a plant with small red flowers,’ the orderly explained. ‘We add a few other ingredients and boil them into an infusion. Dulls even the worst pain.’

  ‘You mean physical pain.’ Nothing can take away grief, thought Fabiola bitterly. Except revenge.

  Janus helped Sextus to the nearest bed. ‘Sleep,’ he ordered.

  There was little protest. Sextus collapsed back on to the straw mattress, letting himself be covered with a woollen blanket. ‘Lady?’ Secundus had moved to the door. ‘We must leave him here for the moment,’ he said curtly.

  Nodding her thanks at Janus, she followed Secundus back to the front entrance, and then down another corridor. Soon Fabiola found herself seated by a table in the stone-flagged kitchen. It was similar to the one in Gemellus’ house. There was a solidly built brick oven in one corner, long work counters along the walls and wooden shelves stacked with typical black and red clay crockery and deep sinks. As in all houses of the rich, lead pipes carried running water to wash food and plates; drains carried away the waste liquid. Yet there were no slaves here; Secundus had served her himself, refusing the offer of help as he awkwardly hacked slices off a loaf with his pugio. Cheese and fish was offered to accompany the bread, which Fabiola gratefully accepted. The day’s events had left her feeling famished. As she ate, she ignored the mixture of curious and surly stares from the many veterans present. She and Sextus were under Secundus’ protection; she doubted any of the scarred men would actually harm them.

  When Secundus left, Fabiola reflected on her near escape from Scaevola. On what he had done to the fugitive and poor Corbulo at the latifundium. Closing her eyes, the young woman prayed as she had not done since she was sold into prostitution. Until today, those had been the hardest hours of her life, when only her faith and innate determination had allowed her to endure. Now, the guilt of Corbulo’s and her guards’ deaths weighed heavily on Fabiola’s shoulders. Nearly being raped by a dozen men was also a trauma she would not soon forget.

  A discreet cough broke her reverie. It was Secundus again. ‘We’ve prepared a room for you, lady.’

  ‘I am tired,’ Fabiola admitted. A rest would do her good.

  He managed a stiff smile. ‘Follow me.’

  Passing out of the kitchen, they walked in silence to the corridor opposite that which led to the valetudinarium. Not far from the statue of the god, they passed a half-open door. Wavering light from a single torch lit the interior. The room was empty apart from a trapdoor in the floor.

  Seeing her glance inside, Secundus instantly shut the door. He continued down the passage without explanation. Fabiola followed without protest, but her pulse quickened. It was surely the entrance to the Mithraeum. Until this moment, she had not been aware that it would be underground. Few, if any, other shrines were built like that.

  Secundus guided Fabiola to a simple bedchamber, which had little more in it than her room in the Lupanar, where she had lived for nearly four years. Yet a low bed, a wooden storage chest, a bronze oil lamp and a three-legged stool with a neatly folded man’s tunic on it sufficed. Fabiola smiled: she did not have expensive tastes. The blankets looked clean and inviting. She suddenly felt more tired than she had in an age.

  ‘You can sleep without fear tonight,’ Secundus said in a more kindly tone. He pointed to a small bell on the floor. ‘Ring if you need anything.’ Without another word, the veteran was gone.

  Fabiola needed little encouragement. Shutting the door, she blew out the lamp and took off her torn dress and sandals. Then she fell on to the bed. With the blankets pulled tight around her, she soon warmed up. A fit of shaking struck, delayed terror at the thought of what Scaevola had done to her life. And he would not give up. Other than Docilosa and the wounded Sextus, Fabiola was alone in the world. The fear was overwhelming but her exhaustion was greater. She fell into a deep sleep. Thankfully there were no bad dreams.

  Yet when she awoke, it was with a real sense of panic. Wondering where she was, Fabiola sat up. Memories flooded back in a succession of disturbing images. Clodius’ corpse being displayed in the Forum. The ensuing riot. Ambush by the fugitivarii. Her men’s deaths. Scaevola. What had happened at the latifundium. Fabiola shuddered, trying – and failing – to forget.

  Somehow she knew that night had fallen. The house was deathly silent, and the air around her was pitch black. Fabiola listened carefully for a long time, but could hear no activity. People tended to go to bed not long after sunset. The veterans were probably no different. Immediately the plain room with its trapdoor came to mind. Like all forbidden fruit, its appeal was great. Easing herself off the bed, Fabiola donned the man’s tunic and tiptoed to the door.

  Not a sound from the other side.

  Turning the handle gently, she pulled it open a crack. No cry of alarm. A glimmer of light from an oil lamp further down the corridor revealed that no one was about. Barefoot, Fabiola slipped out of her room
, closing the door. From the chamber beside hers came the loud sound of a man snoring. It was echoed in the others that she passed. Yet her tension grew and grew. If she was discovered, the veterans’ reaction would not be pleasant. The thought stopped Fabiola in her tracks. She had had two lucky escapes already that day. It was pushing her luck to continue.

  Down the dim passageway, in the atrium, she saw the large statue of Mithras, cloaked and mysterious. The bull he was crouched over had its head raised and was looking straight at her, knowingly. Disconcerted, Fabiola shivered. Then curiosity, and a reluctance to admit defeat, got the better of her. Involuntarily, her feet began to move again across the cool mosaic floor. Soon she had reached the door which Secundus had closed. A quick glance to either side was enough to tell Fabiola that no one had heard her. The sole witness was the bull, and it did not speak.

  Thankfully the portal was not locked. Nor did its hinges creak as she pushed it open. Inside the room was totally dark. Yet Fabiola did not dare to find flints to ignite a lamp. Once she was in the Mithraeum perhaps, but not before. If any of the veterans happened to see a light burning in here, her game would be up. She pushed the door to, almost closing it. Just the slightest glimmer from the corridor came through the tiny crack that she left between its edge and the frame. Fabiola hoped it would be enough. Sliding her bare feet cautiously across the tiles, she moved to where the middle of the chamber should be. On her hands and knees in the utter blackness, she searched with her fingertips. To her frustration, only the finest irregularities between the tiny pieces of tile which formed the mosaic were apparent. When Fabiola stopped, the only sounds were her own breathing and her rapid heartbeat. It was unnerving, and she had to pause a number of times to calm herself. For what seemed like an eternity, she found nothing.

  At last her fingers closed on an iron ring. Careful probing revealed that it was attached to the middle of a rectangular stone slab. A rush of relief flooded her, yet goosebumps rose on her skin as she lifted the trapdoor, allowing a current of cool air to rise from the depths, bringing with it the smells of stale incense and men’s body odour. This was hallowed ground, and she was forbidden from entering it.