The Silver Eagle

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 yelled 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!’