The Silver Eagle tllc-2

by Ben Kane

  ‘How far is the harbour?’

  ‘A few blocks.’ Tarquinius grinned boyishly. ‘The library is near too. Tens of thousands of books all in one place. I have to see it!’

  Romulus was momentarily infected by his friend’s enthusiasm. But his fear soon returned as shouts and the clash of arms reached their ears. The noise was not far away, and it was coming from the direction that they were heading in. ‘Let’s go back,’ he urged. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

  Unslinging his battleaxe, the haruspex kept walking.

  ‘Tarquinius! It’s too dangerous.’

  There was no response.

  Romulus cursed and ran after him. His friend had been right so many times before. What could he do but follow?

  Each man’s destiny was his own.

  It did not take long to reach the western edge of the main harbour, which was still peaceful. Here it was separated from a smaller one by a raised, man-made causeway running out to Pharos Island. At each end was a bridge which allowed ships to pass on one side of the port to the other.

  ‘The Heptastadion,’ revealed Tarquinius. ‘It’s almost a mile long.’

  Romulus could not take his eyes off the lighthouse, which was taller and more magnificent than anything he had ever seen. ‘That’s a marvel,’ he muttered.

  The haruspex watched him indulgently for a moment, but then his face grew serious. ‘Look,’ he said.

  In the small anchorage to the left of the Heptastadion were nearly two score triremes. A cohort of soldiers was on guard nearby, protection for the vulnerable docked vessels.

  Romulus gasped as the familiar sound of Latin carried through the cool air. There was no mistaking the troops’ identity. They were Roman.

  ‘Caesar’s men.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Romulus asked, excitement running through him.

  Tarquinius nodded, sensing that something important was about to happen. Precisely what, he could not tell.

  Not that it mattered whom the legionaries served, thought Romulus. It made little difference to them which Roman general had a presence in Alexandria.

  Renewed sounds of combat came from their right and they turned their heads. A few hundred paces away, past some warehouses, stood a large group of Egyptian soldiers. There were archers, slingers and light infantry to the rear, with legionaries at the front. All of them were facing away from the two friends. As they watched, a volley of stones and javelins shot up into the air, disappearing beyond the front ranks. Loud screams erupted as they landed.

  ‘They’ve ambushed our lot,’ cried Romulus. His mind was telling him that they should escape, but his heart wanted to fight with his countrymen. What’s the point? he thought. This is not my war.

  ‘You will have a choice very soon,’ said Tarquinius.

  Startled, the young soldier looked around.

  ‘I sense a link between you and Caesar. Will you embrace or reject it?’

  Before he could respond, Romulus heard the words ‘Ready above the din. His eyes were drawn back to the fighting.pila!’

  Roman javelins thrown in response to the Egyptian volley came showering down on the unprotected slingers and skirmishers. There was a moment’s confusion and then they heard the legionaries charge. At the same time, burning torches were tossed out into the harbour on to the ships tethered below. Within the space of thirty heartbeats, plenty of sails were aflame.

  Romulus admired Caesar’s tactics, which caused instant panic in the Egyptian ranks. So there was a connection between them? He watched the fire spread in a kind of daze.

  ‘No,’ hissed Tarquinius. ‘Not like that.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘If it moves down here, those will burn.’ The haruspex pointed at the large warehouses nearby.

  Romulus did not understand.

  ‘That’s the library,’ said Tarquinius, his face twisted in anguish. ‘The ancient books in there are totally irreplaceable.’

  Horrified, Romulus turned back. Already a quarter of the Egyptian ships were on fire, and the blaze was spreading fast. It was easy to see how the library might burn. Yet there was nothing they could do.

  Tarquinius studied the conflagration for a few heartbeats and then his eyes opened wide with grief and awe. His faint hope that the Etruscan civilisation would see a new ascendancy was a false one. When the civil war was over, Rome would grow bigger and even more powerful, suffering nothing else to grow in its shadow. And Caesar would play a major role in beginning this process. He sighed, thinking that was all there was to see. But as ever, there was more. It was now he must tell Romulus, before it was too late.

  Romulus was getting anxious. It was time to go. ‘Come on,’ he cried.

  ‘You asked why I left Italy in a hurry,’ the haruspex said suddenly.

  ‘Gods above,’ muttered Romulus. First the revelation about Caesar, then this. ‘Don’t tell me now. It can wait.’

  ‘No, it can’t,’ Tarquinius replied with a real sense of urgency. ‘I killed Rufus Caelius.’

  ‘What?’ Romulus spun around to look at the haruspex.

  ‘The nobleman outside the Lupanar.’

  All the background noise died away as Romulus struggled to take in the impossible. ‘You? How.?’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘It was me,’ Tarquinius hissed. ‘I was there, sitting near the doorway. Waiting for him.’

  Romulus’ eyes widened with shock. There had been a small hooded and cloaked figure by the brothel. At the time, he had presumed it was a leper or a beggar.

  ‘But when Caelius came out,’ Tarquinius went on, ‘you picked a fight with him. I held back for a moment, but the breeze told me that I had to act fast. So I stabbed him.’

  Romulus could not even speak. His hunch had been correct all along: the crack on the head he had delivered had not killed Caelius. Instead, Tarquinius had delivered the fatal blow. Confusion mixed with rage and Romulus’ mind reeled with the enormity of it. He and Brennus need not have fled Italy at all. ‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘Caelius murdered the man who taught me haruspicy. Olenus, my mentor.’

  Romulus wasn’t listening. ‘You ruined my life that night,’ he retorted furiously. ‘And what about Brennus? Have you thought about that?’

  Tarquinius did not reply. His dark eyes were full of sorrow.

  ‘Making prophecies is one thing,’ Romulus went on, outraged now. ‘Men can choose to believe or disbelieve what you say. But committing murder and letting an innocent man take the blame, that’s directly interfering with someone’s life. Mithras above! Did you have any idea of the effect you might have?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Tarquinius quietly.

  ‘Then why did you do it?’ Romulus screamed. ‘I might have earned the rudis by now, and found my family. And Brennus would be alive, damn you!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ faltered Tarquinius. Real sadness filled his face.

  ‘That’s not nearly enough.’

  ‘I should have told you long ago.’

  ‘Why didn’t you then?’ Romulus shot back bitterly.

  ‘How could I?’ Tarquinius replied. ‘Would you have kept as a friend the man responsible for all your troubles?’

  There was no answer to that.

  And then the gods turned their faces away.

  The heavy tramp of men marching in unison came from behind them. It was very close. Sprinting to the corner, Romulus risked a look around it. The street down which they had come was entirely filled with approaching Egyptian troops. He spat a curse. They were marching to the aid of their comrades, or to attack the triremes. In the process, the soldiers had unknowingly blocked off their escape route.

  They had two choices: to flee over the bridge and along the Heptastadion and risk being completely trapped, or to take their chances along the waterfront. Find a small alleyway to hide in until the battle had passed.

  Tarquinius materialised at his shoulder.

  Romulus clenched his jaw until it hurt. He wanted t
o throttle the haruspex, but this was no time to continue the feud. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Head for the island,’ Tarquinius replied. ‘We’ll be safe there until dawn.’

  Shedding their cloaks, they turned and ran for the Heptastadion, some two hundred paces away.

  Shouts rose from the triremes as they were spotted. Although they were illuminated against the light from the huge conflagration, Romulus was confident that they were beyond javelin range.

  They sprinted on.

  More cries rose from the Egyptian soldiers who had just reached the quayside.

  Romulus glanced over his shoulder and could see some of them pointing in their direction.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ yelled Tarquinius. ‘They’ve got more to worry about than us.’

  One hundred paces.

  Romulus began to think that they would make it.

  Then he saw the sentry picket: a squad of ten Roman legionaries standing on the edge of the Heptastadion, their attention focused on the heavy fighting. He glanced over himself. Caesar’s cohorts had smashed through the Egyptian lines and were pounding along the dock towards their triremes. The sentries cheered at the sight.

  Mithras and Jupiter, Romulus thought frantically, let us pass unseen.

  Tarquinius’ gaze rose to the heavens. His eyes widened at what he saw.

  Fifty paces.

  The gravel crunched beneath their caligae.

  Thirty paces.

  One of the legionaries half turned, muttering something in a comrade’s ear.

  He saw them.

  Twenty paces.

  Now they were well within range of the sentries’ javelins; things happened very fast. A single pilum hummed through the air towards them, but landed harmlessly in the dirt. Another five followed, also falling short. The next four, thrown by men eager to bring down potential enemies, flew too long.

  A pair per man, thought Romulus. Ten left. Still too many. He cringed inwardly, knowing that the best shots always held on to their pila until the last moment. At this range, the legionaries could hardly miss. And that was before drawing their gladii and charging them down. They could not make it.

  Tarquinius realised the same thing. ‘Stop, you fools,’ he shouted in Latin. ‘We’re Romans.’ He slowed to a stop and raised his hands in the air.

  Quickly Romulus did the same.

  Remarkably, no more pila were launched. Instead, the sentries ran over, shields and swords at the ready. In the lead was a middle-aged optio. Within a few heartbeats they were surrounded by a ring of scuta, the sharp points of gladii poking between them. Hard, unshaven faces suspiciously studied the two friends.

  ‘Deserters?’ snarled the optio, looking at Romulus’ rusty chain mail and Tarquinius’ leather-bordered skirt. ‘Explain yourselves, fast.’

  ‘We work for a bestiarius, sir,’ Romulus explained smoothly. ‘Just got to Alexandria today, after being in the far south for months.’

  ‘Why are you creeping round like spies then?’ he demanded.

  ‘Our boss sent us in to check out the situation. We’re the only ones who can handle ourselves, see,’ replied Romulus with a knowing look. ‘But we got trapped by the fighting.’

  The optio rubbed his chin for a moment. Romulus’ explanation wasn’t unreasonable. ‘And your weapons?’ he barked. ‘They’re Roman style, except for that thing.’ He pointed curiously at Tarquinius’ double-headed axe. ‘How come?’

  Romulus panicked. He had no wish to call down the attention, or opprobrium, that admitting to being veterans of Crassus’ campaign would bring on them. But what could he say? Keeping silent was not an option.

  To his relief, Tarquinius broke in. ‘Before the bestiarius, we served for a while in the Egyptian army, sir.’

  ‘Mercenaries, eh?’ growled the optio. ‘For those bastards?’

  ‘We knew nothing of any trouble with Caesar,’ added Romulus quickly. ‘As I said, we’ve been gone from the city for more than six months.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ His eyes flickered with satisfaction at their military appearance. ‘Right now we need every damn sword we can get.’

  ‘But. ’ said Romulus, not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘We want to get back to Italy.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ asked the optio, to roars of laughter from his men.

  ‘We’re not in the army though,’ protested Romulus, fighting a sinking feeling.

  ‘You are now,’ he snarled. ‘Welcome to the Twenty-Eighth Legion.’

  His soldiers cheered.

  Romulus looked at Tarquinius, who gave a small, resigned shrug. Romulus scowled. The haruspex’ actions had led to this, had led to everything. There was no forgiveness in his heart, just a searing anger.

  ‘Don’t try and run,’ warned the optio. ‘These lads are free to kill you if you do.’

  Romulus studied the circle of smirking faces. There was no mercy in any.

  ‘Remember the penalty for desertion is crucifixion. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they both replied quietly. Miserably.

  ‘Cheer up,’ the optio said with a cruel smile. ‘Survive six years or so and you can leave.’

  Bizarrely, Romulus took some heart at this. While the penalties for indiscipline in the military were savage, he was being treated like a Roman citizen, not a slave. Perhaps this way — in the legions — he could win acceptance. On his own, without Tarquinius.

  Something drew Romulus’ eyes back to the dock.

  Gaining momentum, Caesar’s legionaries had now pushed past the Egyptians whose arrival had caused the two friends to flee. While the first cohort pursued their demoralised enemies back into the city, the remainder were marching down to their triremes. Near the front marched an aquilifer, holding the legion’s silver eagle aloft. Romulus swelled with pride at the sight of it. Hurrying behind was a party of senior officers and centurions, recognisable by their transverse horsehair-crested helmets and red cloaks.

  One of them could be Caesar, Romulus thought.

  ‘There’s our general,’ cried the optio, confirming his suspicion. ‘Let him know we’re here, boys.’

  His men cheered.

  Romulus frowned. There were two women in their midst too. Then a blinding flash of light seared his eyeballs and he looked around.

  In the harbour, most of the Egyptian ships were burning. Long yellow tongues of flame were reaching across the narrow quay to lick hungrily at the library buildings. The immense conflagration lit up the whole scene.

  Curious, Romulus turned back to stare at the newly arrived Romans, who were now no more than a hundred paces away. Along with some officers, the women had been helped on to the deck of the nearest ship. But other red-cloaked figures remained on the dock. Sailors were already loosening the trireme’s moorings, preparing to cast off into the harbour. Caesar was sending for reinforcements, thought Romulus, and sending his mistress and her servant away to safety.

  Then one of the women pushed back the hood of her cloak.

  Romulus gasped. It had been nine years, but there was no mistaking the features. She had grown up, but it was his twin sister. ‘Fabiola!’ he shouted.

  No reaction.

  ‘Fabiola!’ Romulus bellowed at the top of his voice.

  Her head turned, searching.

  Lunging forward, Romulus managed to run a few steps before two legionaries blocked his way.

  ‘You’re going nowhere, scumbag,’ snarled one. ‘We’re on sentry duty until dawn.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ cried Romulus. ‘That’s my sister over there. I have to speak to her.’

  Derisive laughter filled his ears. ‘Really? I suppose Cleopatra’s your cousin, too?’

  Helplessly, Romulus screamed the same words over and over. ‘Fabiola! It’s me, Romulus!’

  Incredibly, amidst the press and the confusion she saw him. Long-haired, bearded and in rusty chain mail, he could have been mistaken for a lunatic, but Fabiola knew her brother at once. ‘Romulus?’ she yelle
d joyfully. ‘Is it you?’

  ‘Yes! I’m in the Twenty-Eighth Legion,’ he shouted, giving Fabiola the only clue he could think of.

  His last three words were swallowed in the pandemonium around Fabiola. ‘What?’ she cried. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  It was pointless trying to speak. Officers’ commands, sailors’ cries, and the pounding drum filled the air in a cacophony of sound.

  Fabiola ran to Brutus’ side and muttered in his ear and an instant later, he was beckoning to the trierarch. And shouting at him.

  Reluctantly the captain ordered his men to stop what they were doing. All activity on the deck ceased.

  Romulus’ heart thumped with joy.

  But then waves of screaming Egyptians emerged from the nearby side streets, called by their defeated soldiers from every slum and dirt-bound hovel to help drive out the Roman invaders. The legionaries suddenly had a major battle on their hands.

  On the ship, Brutus looked helplessly at Fabiola. Sorrowfully. ‘We can’t stay. Our mission is too important,’ he said and turned to the trierarch. ‘As you were.’

  Fabiola felt her knees begin to shake. With a supreme effort, she held herself upright, forced down the faintness. Take courage, she thought. Romulus is alive, and in the legions. He will return to Rome one day. Mithras will protect him. She raised a quivering hand in farewell. For now.

  ‘Cast off. Quickly!’

  Hearing the shouted order, Romulus understood Fabiola’s gesture. Utter wretchedness filled him. There was to be no joyful reunion.

  Pushed out into the harbour by long poles, the trireme turned ponderously. Slow drumbeats directed the sailors, and the three banks of oars dug alternately into the water, positioning the ship to leave. The trierarch paced up and down, shouting rapid-fire commands. Other crewmembers unlashed and prepared the deck catapults while the ship’s marines readied their weapons. Nothing lay between them and the open sea to the west, but they would be ready all the same.

  The baying crowd of Egyptians was nearly at the dock. Moving fast, Caesar had marshalled his cohorts into a solid line across the Heptastadion. Just a few moments remained before the two sides clashed.