The Silver Eagle tllc-2

by Ben Kane

  At last the prolonged surgery finished. Muttering under his breath, Tarquinius produced a tiny bag, allowing a faint dusting of powder from it to fall over the Parthian’s wounds. The falling particles smelt strong and musty.

  ‘I haven’t seen you use that before,’ commented Romulus curiously.

  ‘Some call it mantar,’ the haruspex answered, tying up the pouch. ‘Few even know of it; I’ve only come across it once, in Egypt.’ He weighed the bag carefully in his hand. It looked as light as a feather. ‘This cost me three talents.’

  ‘How much was there?’ asked Romulus.

  Tarquinius looked amused. ‘When I bought it? About three small spoonfuls.’

  They all stared at him with amazement. That amount of gold would let a man live comfortably for the rest of his life.

  Tarquinius was in a talkative mood. ‘It’s excellent at killing infection.’ The pouch disappeared inside his tunic again.

  ‘Even that caused by scythicon?’ Romulus could not conceal the strain in his voice.

  ‘We will see,’ answered Tarquinius, eyeing the figure of Mithras. ‘I’ve saved a man’s life with it before.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’

  The haruspex grinned. ‘It’s made by grinding up a particular type of blue-green fungus.’

  Brennus was incredulous. ‘Like the stuff that grows on bread?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or on some varieties of over-ripe fruit. I have never been able to tell,’ sighed Tarquinius. ‘Many moulds are poisonous, so it’s difficult to experiment with them.’

  Romulus was intrigued by the incredible concept that something growing on rotting matter might prevent the inevitable, fatal illness that followed belly wounds or animal bites.

  Resentment bubbled up in Brennus. ‘It’d be better saved for our comrades.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Tarquinius’ dark eyes regarded him steadily. ‘However our lives depend on Pacorus recovering.’

  The Gaul sighed. He was not worried about himself, but Romulus’ survival was vital to him. And Tarquinius held the key to that, he was sure of it. Which meant that Pacorus had to pull through as well.

  During the whole experience, the Parthian had not even opened his eyes. Only his faint breathing showed that he was still alive.

  Sitting back, Tarquinius considered his handiwork. He went very quiet.

  Romulus looked at him questioningly. It was the same way the haruspex behaved when he was studying the winds or cloud formations in the sky.

  ‘He has a small chance,’ pronounced Tarquinius at length. ‘His aura has strengthened a little.’ Thank you, great Mithras.

  Romulus breathed a small sigh of relief. They might survive yet.

  ‘Sit him up so I can place the bandages.’

  As the servants obeyed, the Etruscan ripped several sheets into suitable sizes. He was about to begin wrapping Pacorus’ midriff when the door suddenly slammed open. As the sentry snapped to attention, eight brown-skinned men barged into the room, their dark eyes angry and concerned. Dressed in fine cloth tunics and richly embroidered tightly fitting trousers, they wore sheathed swords and daggers on belts inlaid with gold wire. Most had neatly trimmed short beards and black, coiffed hair. ‘What’s going on?’ shouted one.

  Everyone except Tarquinius tensed. Romulus, Brennus and Felix jerked upright, staring straight ahead as if on parade. These were some of the Parthian senior centurions, the highest-ranking officers in the Forgotten Legion. Men who would be responsible for the legion if Pacorus died.

  Still held in a sitting position by the servants, Pacorus’ head lolled forward on to his chest.

  The newcomers gasped.

  ‘Sir?’ asked another, bending down and trying to attract Pacorus’ attention.

  There was no response.

  Rage filled the man’s features. ‘Is he dead?’

  Romulus’ pulse quickened and his eyes darted to Pacorus. He was immensely relieved to see that the Parthian was still breathing.

  ‘No,’ said Tarquinius. ‘But he is near death.’

  ‘What have you done?’ barked Vahram, the primus pilus, or senior centurion, of the First Cohort. He was their own direct superior. A barrel-chested, powerful man in early middle age, he was also the legion’s second-in-command. ‘Explain yourself!’

  Struggling not to panic, Romulus prepared to draw his gladius. Brennus and Felix did likewise. It was impossible to miss the threat in Vahram’s words. These were no mere guards to intimidate and, like Pacorus, the senior centurions held the power of life and death over them all.

  His nostrils flaring, Vahram gripped his weapon.

  Tarquinius lifted his hands calmly, palms facing Vahram. ‘I can clarify everything,’ he said.

  ‘Do so,’ replied the primus pilus. ‘Quickly.’

  Romulus’ fingers slowly released his gladius hilt. He stepped back, as did Brennus and Felix. It felt as if they were all teetering on the edge of a deep chasm.

  In stony silence, the Parthians convened around the bed. Vahram scanned the others’ faces suspiciously as he listened to the haruspex’ account of what had happened. Of course no mention was made of returning to Rome.

  When Tarquinius finished, no one spoke for some moments. It was hard to tell if the Parthians believed his story. Romulus felt very uneasy. But the die had been cast. All they could do was wait. And pray.

  ‘Very well,’ said Vahram at last. ‘Things could have happened as you say.’

  A slow breath escaped Romulus’ lips.

  ‘Just one more thing, haruspex.’ Vahram’s hand fell lightly to his sword. ‘Did you know this would happen?’

  The world stopped and Romulus’ heart lurched in his chest.

  Again everyone’s eyes were fixed on Tarquinius.

  Vahram waited.

  Incredibly, the haruspex laughed. ‘I cannot see everything,’ he said.

  ‘Answer the damn question,’ growled Vahram.

  ‘There was great danger, yes.’ Tarquinius shrugged. ‘There always is in Margiana.’

  The tough primus pilus was not satisfied. ‘Speak clearly, you son of a whore!’ he shouted, drawing his sword.

  ‘I thought that something might happen,’ admitted the haruspex. ‘But I had no idea what.’

  Romulus remembered the watching jackal and how he and Brennus had stayed away from the fire to study it. A decision which had saved their lives. Was that not proof of a god’s favour? He looked at Mithras crouching over the bull and trembled with awe.

  ‘That’s all?’ demanded Vahram.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Romulus watched the primus pilus’ face carefully. Like that of Tarquinius, it was hard to judge. He did not know why, but suspicion filled him.

  ‘Very well.’ Vahram relaxed, letting his blade drop to his side. ‘How long will it be before Pacorus recovers?’

  ‘He may never do so,’ replied the haruspex levelly. ‘Scythicon is the most powerful poison known to man.’

  The senior centurions looked anxious and a vein pulsed in Vahram’s neck.

  Pacorus moaned, breaking the silence.

  ‘Examine him again!’ barked one of the younger officers.

  Tarquinius bent over the bed, checking Pacorus’ pulse and the colour of his gums. ‘If he lives, it will take months,’ he pronounced at last.

  ‘How many?’ asked Ishkan, a middle-aged man with jet-black hair.

  ‘Two, maybe three.’

  ‘You will not leave this building until he is well,’ the primus pilus ordered. ‘For any reason.’

  There was a growl of agreement from the others.

  ‘My century, sir?’ Tarquinius enquired.

  ‘Fuck them!’ screamed Ishkan.

  ‘Your optio can take charge,’ the primus pilus said curtly.

  Tarquinius bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  Brennus and Felix relaxed. A reprieve had been granted, but Romulus was not happy. Later he would realise, bitterly, that the feeling had been intuition.

&n
bsp; ‘We’ll leave you to it.’ Vahram turned to go, and then swiftly spun on his heel. Snarling silently, he rushed at Felix with his sword raised. The little Gaul had no time to reach for his own weapon. Nor did his friends.

  Vahram ran his blade deep into Felix’ chest. The lethally sharp iron slipped between the little Gaul’s ribs to pierce muscle, lungs and heart, emerging red-tipped from his back.

  Felix’ eyes widened with horror and his mouth opened. No sound came out.

  The senior centurions’ faces were the picture of shock.

  Tarquinius also looked stunned. He had forgotten the heavy price that gods often required. They gave nothing away free. Normally, he would have sacrificed an animal when seeking important information. Tonight, Mithras had revealed much without any obvious payment. Anguish filled the haruspex. How could he have been so stupid? Elated at seeing a vision, and at the mere possibility of returning to Rome, he had failed to consider what might follow. Was Felix’ life worth that much?

  And then Tarquinius’ vision filled with the image of Romulus, standing on the deck of a ship, sailing into Ostia, Rome’s port. After the drought of the previous few months, it felt like a rainstorm. Felix had not died in vain, he thought.

  But Romulus knew none of this. Grief flooded through him. Felix was completely innocent; he had not even been at the Mithraeum. In reflex, Romulus drew his weapon and took a step towards the primus pilus. Brennus was right behind, his face fixed in a rictus of rage. They were two against eight, but at that exact moment, neither cared.

  Vahram extended a hand and pushed Felix backwards, letting him fall lifeless to the floor. A gush of blood accompanied the blade’s withdrawal from his thoracic cavity. It formed around the little Gaul’s body in a great red pool.

  Weeping fat, angry tears, Romulus swept forward, ready to kill. It was six steps to Vahram. Two heartbeats.

  Tarquinius observed in silence. Romulus would decide his own fate. So would Brennus. It was not for him to intervene. Romulus’ journey back to Rome was not his only possible path. Perhaps, like many gods, Mithras was fickle. Maybe they would all die here tonight.

  But Vahram did not even lift his bloodied sword to defend himself.

  Disturbed by the squat primus pilus’ calm, Romulus managed to pull himself back. As he had learned at the Mithraeum, gut reactions were not always the best. Killing Vahram now would burn all their bridges. It was also a sure way to die. But there was another option: walking out of here. If he did that, then Felix could be avenged — later. Somehow Romulus was sure of this. Quickly he held out an arm to halt Brennus’ attack as well. Remarkably, the Gaul did not protest.

  This is not a battle that no one else could win, Brennus thought, remembering the haruspex prophecy. I will know when it is.

  Tarquinius exhaled with relief. Thank you, Mithras!

  ‘You show intelligence,’ Vahram snarled. ‘Twenty archers are waiting outside.’

  Romulus scowled. All of them had been outwitted — even Tarquinius.

  ‘If one of us calls out, they have orders to kill you all.’

  Romulus lowered his weapon, followed slowly by Brennus. He glanced at the statue of Mithras and made a silent vow to himself. Gods willing, my day will come, the young soldier thought savagely. For Felix, just as it will with Gemellus.

  ‘Get back to barracks,’ Vahram snapped. ‘And consider yourselves lucky not to be crucified.’

  Romulus’ fists clenched, but he did not protest.

  Great Belenus, Brennus prayed. Take Felix straight to paradise. I will see him there.

  Vahram was not finished. He pointed a stubby finger at Tarquinius. ‘If Pacorus dies, so will you.’ His eyes glinted. ‘And both of your friends here.’

  Tarquinius’ face paled. The primus pilus was repeating, albeit unknowingly, Pacorus’ threat. It was the vivid vision of Romulus entering Ostia which gave him strength. He himself might not return to Rome, but his pupil could. Quite how that would happen, Tarquinius was not sure. All he could do was believe in Mithras.

  Romulus’ heart sank. Judging by the haruspex’ response, the chances of Pacorus surviving were slim to none. Like mist dispersed by the rising sun, the promised path to Rome vanished again. What hope had they really?

  Brennus quietly led him away from Felix’ body, but Romulus turned in the doorway and looked back.

  Have faith in Mithras, mouthed the haruspex, inclining his head towards the small statue on the altar. He will guide you.

  Mithras, thought Romulus numbly. Only a god could help him now.

  Chapter IV: Fabiola and Secundus

  Rome, winter 53/52 BC

  Fabiola’s pulse quickened as she raced up the last few steps to the top of the Capitoline Hill, nearing the enormous complex. She had not worshipped here for months and had missed it keenly. Sheer excitement had made her run ahead of Docilosa and the bodyguards, but this was now replaced by anxiety at what she might find. It might be nothing at all.

  An appreciative wolf whistle from a passer-by dragged her thoughts down to earth.

  Fabiola’s common sense kicked in, and she slowed down. It was not wise for a woman to venture out alone in any part of Rome. Particularly not for her. Scaevola’s threat had been no idle one — only a day after the incident with the fugitive, two of her slaves had been randomly killed in the fields. There were no witnesses, but the fugitivarii had to be the main suspects. The threat accelerated Fabiola’s departure. She had hurriedly managed to recruit a dozen gladiators from the local ludus, leaving six to defend the latifundium with Corbulo. Joining her original three bodyguards, the rest had come with her to Rome. But that did not mean that the danger was gone. And like a foolish child playing hide-and-seek, she had just left her protection behind.

  Already Fabiola could feel the stares of several unsavoury types who were loitering nearby. None looked like Scaevola, but a flutter of fear rose from her stomach all the same. Now was not the time to let something foolish happen. Retracing her steps, Fabiola steadied her nerves. Perhaps too it had been foolish to pin her hopes on finding the mysterious soothsayer. Yet the revelation about Gemellus’ last divination had to be more than coincidence. On the voyage north, her mind had raced constantly with the possibilities of the stranger at Gemellus’ door being Romulus.

  Soon Fabiola had been joined by her followers. Her face perspiring from the climb, Docilosa was also red with indignation at her mistress’s rash behaviour. Nothing she said ever made any difference to Fabiola’s actions, so she scolded the guards mercilessly for falling behind. The nine muscle-bound men looked sheepish and shuffled their feet in the dirt. Even the new recruits had learned not to argue with her. Amused, Fabiola hurried towards her destination, confident that Docilosa was watching her back.

  Dominating the open area before her was an immense marble statue of a naked Jupiter, his bearded face painted the traditional victor’s red. On triumphal days, a wooden scaffold had to be erected to daub his entire body with the blood of a freshly slaughtered bull. Today, apart from its crimson visage, the beautifully carved figure was a muted, more natural white colour. Its position, on the very edge of the top of the Capitoline Hill, had been very deliberately chosen. The main part of the city lay sprawled below, directly beneath Jupiter’s imperious gaze. In open spaces like the Forum Romanum and the Forum Boarium, citizens could look up and be reassured by his presence: Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the all-seeing state-god of the Republic.

  No less impressive was the huge gold-roofed temple that stood behind, its triangular portico of decorated terracotta supported by three rows of six painted columns, all the height of ten men. This was the airy anteroom to the triad of imposing cellae, or sacred rooms. Each one was dedicated to a single deity: Jupiter, Minerva and Juno. Of course Jupiter’s was in the centre.

  Extending for some distance to the rear was an extensive complex of smaller shrines, teaching schools and priests’ quarters. Thousands of citizens came daily to worship in this, the most important religious ce
ntre in Rome. Fabiola revered it greatly and was sure that she could feel a distinct aura of power within the cellae. The long, narrow plastered rooms had originally been built by the Etruscans, the founders of the city. A people who had been crushed by the Romans.

  Her nose twitched. The air was thick with the smells of incense and myrrh, and manure from the sacrificial animals on sale. The cries of hawkers and traders mixed with the incantations of haruspices performing divinations. Tethered lambs bleated plaintively, resigned hens packed into wicker cages stared beadily into the distance. Scantily clad prostitutes cast practised, seductive eyes at any man who glanced their way. Acrobats jumped and tumbled while snake charmers played flutes, tempting their charges out of clay vessels sitting in front of them. From small stalls, food vendors were offering bread, wine and hot sausages. Slaves wearing nothing but loincloths slouched beside their litters, sweat from the steep climb still coating their bodies. There would be time for a brief rest while their owners prayed. Children shrieked with laughter, getting under men’s feet as they chased each other through the throng.

  Although more peaceful than the narrow streets below, an uneasy air hung over the area. It was the same throughout Rome. Upon their arrival, Fabiola had been struck by the palpable menace. There were few people about, fewer stalls with their goods spilling out on to the road, more shops securely boarded up. Even the beggars were not as plentiful. But the most obvious sign of trouble had been the large gangs of dangerous-looking men on many corners. They had to be the reason that no one was abroad. Instead of the usual clubs and knives, nearly all were wearing swords. Fabiola had also seen spears, bows and shields; many men were even wearing leather armour or chain mail. A good number had bandaged arms or legs, evidence of recent fighting. The city had always been full of criminals and thieves, but Fabiola had never seen them congregate in such numbers, in daylight. Armed like soldiers.

  Compared to a rural town like Pompeii, the capital always felt a touch more dangerous. Today it was markedly different. This felt as if a war was about to break out. Her newly enlarged collection of nine bodyguards began to seem woefully inadequate, and Fabiola had lifted the hood of her cloak, determined not to attract attention. As they hurried past, she noticed that the various quarters seemed to be under the control of two distinct groups. She suspected they were those of Clodius and Milo, a renegade politician and a former tribune. Fortunately relations between the sides seemed poor, with colourful insults filling the air across the streets that demarcated the borders of their territory. A few fast-moving passers-by were of little immediate interest to either faction.