The Silver Eagle tllc-2

by Ben Kane

  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. Unfortunately, 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 military 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?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Send word to the port so that the captain can ready Ajax. He’ll know in the morning if the weather is good enough to sail.’ Upon his arrival in the north, Brutus had immediately sent back his treasured liburnian to lie at his lover’s disposal. Powered by one hundred slaves working a single bank of oars, the short, low-slung ship was the fastest type of vessel the Romans could build. Ajax had been lying idle at the dock in Pompeii and Fabiola had not foreseen needing its services until the following spring. Now, things had changed.

  Docilosa bowed and withdrew, leaving her mistress to brood.

  Visiting the temple would also afford Fabiola another opportunity to ask Jupiter who had raped their mother. Velvinna had only mentioned it in passing, but for obvious reasons, she had not forgotten. Discovering her father’s identity was Fabiola’s driving purpose in life. And once she knew, revenge would be hers.

  At any price.

  Taking charge of the rundown latifundium when Brutus left had greatly intimidated Fabiola. But it provided her with satisfaction too. Being mistress of the large estate surrounding the villa was tangible proof of her revenge on Gemellus, who had originally owned it. And so she had thrown herself into the job from the start. An initial tour of the house proved that, as in his residence in Rome, Gemellus’ tastes were crude and garish. It had given her great pleasure to have every single opulent bedroom, banqueting hall and office redecorated. The merchant’s many statues of Priapus had been smashed, their massive erect members reminding Fabiola too much of the suffering that she had witnessed Gemellus inflict on her mother. The thick layer of dust covering the mosaic floors was swept away; the fountains unclogged and cleared of dead leaves. Even the neglected plants in the courtyards had been replaced. Best of all, the walls of the heated bathing area had been repainted with bright images of the gods, mythological sea creatures and fish. One of Fabiola’s most powerful memories of her first day in the Lupanar was seeing such pictures in its baths. She had determined to have the same luxuriant surroundings herself one day. Now it was a rea
lity.

  And yet it was hard not to feel guilty, she thought later that day. While she lacked for nothing, Romulus was probably dead. Tears pricked the corners of Fabiola’s eyes. While in the brothel, she had left no stone unturned in her efforts to find him. Incredibly, after more than a year, she had discovered that her twin was still alive. In the savagery of the gladiatorial arena, Jupiter had protected him. The further revelation that Romulus had enrolled in Crassus’ legions could not dampen Fabiola’s spirits, but then disaster struck. A few months before, the devastating news of Carrhae had reached Rome. At one stroke, Fabiola lost virtually all hope. To survive one horror only to end up in a doomed army seemed cruel beyond belief. Eager to help, Brutus had done his best to find out more, but the news was all bad. The defeat was one of the worst ever suffered by the Republic, with huge numbers of men lost. Certainly Romulus was not among the remnants of the legion that had escaped with the legate Cassius Longinus. Plenty of cash had been spread amongst the veterans of the Eighth, to no avail. Fabiola sighed. Her twin’s sun-bleached bones were probably still littering the sand where he had fallen. Either that or he was gone to the ends of the earth — to some god-forsaken place called Margiana, where the Parthians had sent their ten thousand prisoners.

  And no one had ever returned from there.

  Rare tears rolled down Fabiola’s cheeks. While the slightest chance remained of seeing Romulus again, she would not despair totally, but now stubbornness was taking over from faith. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, hear me, she thought miserably. Let my brother still be alive — somehow. Determined not to lose control of her emotions, Fabiola dried her eyes and went in search of Corbulo, the aged vilicus, or steward, of her latifundium. As usual, she found him busy supervising the workers. Never having lived in the countryside, Fabiola knew little about it, or agriculture, so she spent most days in Corbulo’s company. The news from Gaul would not change that. The latifundium was her responsibility now.