The Silver Eagle

‘I hope you and your lover have strong locks on your doors,’ he warned. From nowhere, a knife appeared in his right hand. ‘And plenty of guards. You’ll need both.’

His companions laughed unpleasantly, and Fabiola forced herself not to shiver.

Fortified by his mistress’s courage, Corbulo made a gesture. The slaves moved forward, their weapons raised.

Scaevola eyed them all with scorn. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said. Gathering his men, he led them back across the muddy field. The dogs trotted at their heels.

The vilicus let out a long, slow breath.

Fabiola stood stiff-backed, watching until the fugitivarii were out of sight. Inside, she was panicking. What have I done? I should have let him take the boy. But part of her was glad. Whether her decision had been wise, only time would tell.

‘Mistress?’

She turned to regard the vilicus.

‘Scaevola is a very dangerous man.’ Corbulo paused. ‘And he’s on Pompey’s payroll.’

Fabiola flashed him a grateful smile, and the old vilicus fell wholly under her spell.

‘The mangy dog meant what he said too,’ he explained. ‘His enemies just disappear. These men. ’ He indicated the slaves around them. ‘Next time, they won’t be enough.’

‘I know,’ replied Fabiola, wishing that Brutus were by her side.

She had made a real enemy. Journeying to Rome had become an urgent priority.

Chapter III: Vahram

Eastern Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

Screaming wild battle cries, the Scythians charged headlong at the two friends.

Using the dead Parthian guard’s bow, Brennus had already taken down four, including the archers who had injured Pacorus.

They were still outnumbered by more than nine to one. It’s hopeless, Romulus thought dully. There are far too many. He steeled himself, preparing for the inevitable.

Trying to use as many shafts as possible, Brennus loosed another arrow. Then, with a curse, he threw down his bow and drew his gladius.

They moved shoulder to shoulder.

Surprising Romulus utterly, first one and then another bright ball of fire came flying over his head, illuminating the scene wonderfully. The first landed and smashed apart in a great burst of flame, right in front of the Scythians, who looked suitably terrified. The second struck one of the enemy on the arm, setting light to his felt clothing. The blaze spread upwards with terrible speed, burning his neck and face. The man shrieked in agony. A number of his comrades tried to help, but their efforts were hampered by a further pair of burning missiles. The Scythians’ charge came to an abrupt halt.

‘They’re oil lamps,’ cried Romulus, suddenly understanding.

‘It’s Tarquinius,’ replied Brennus, fitting another shaft to his bowstring.

Delighted, Romulus turned to find the haruspex only a few steps away. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I had a vision of Rome,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘If we can get out of here, there is hope.’

Romulus’ heart soared, and Brennus laughed out loud.

‘What did you see?’ Romulus asked.

Tarquinius ignored the question. ‘Pick up Pacorus,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’

‘Why?’ Romulus demanded in a low voice. ‘The bastard’s going to die anyway. Let’s run for it.’

‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, hurling two more oil lamps. ‘The journey south would kill us in this weather. We must stay in the fort.’

Screams of terror rose from the enemy warriors as the lamps landed.

‘Those are the last ones.’

They had to move. Cursing under his breath, Romulus took hold of Pacorus’ feet. Brennus did likewise with his arms. Lifting him as gently as they could, they slung him over Brennus’ shoulder. Pacorus lolled like a child’s toy, the blood from his wounds soaking into the Gaul’s cloak. By far the strongest of the three, only Brennus would be able to run for any distance with such a load.

‘Which way?’ shouted Romulus, peering around. The cliff face was to their back, so they could only go north, south or east.

Tarquinius pointed.

North. Their trust in the haruspex still strong, neither Romulus nor Brennus argued. They trotted into the darkness, leaving utter confusion in their wake.

Fortunately, the weather aided their escape. Dense flurries of snow began to fall, severely reducing the visibility and covering their trail. There was no pursuit, and Romulus presumed that the Scythians knew how close their camp was. Although he did too, his keen sense of direction soon went awry; he was very glad that Tarquinius seemed to know exactly which way to go. The temperature was dropping even further as the snow began to collect on the ground. If they strayed even a small distance off course, there was little chance of ever reaching the Roman fort. It and the clusters of mud-brick huts nearby were the only dwellings for many miles. Parthia’s population was not large, with less than a tenth of it living on its far eastern borders. Few chose to dwell here other than the garrisons of soldiers, and captives who had no choice.

They marched in silence, stopping occasionally to listen out for the Scythians. At last a familiar rectangular shape appeared out of the gloom. It was the fort.

A tiny sigh of relief escaped Romulus’ lips. He was colder than he could ever remember being. But once they were inside and warmed through again, Tarquinius might reveal what he had seen. The desire to know more was the only thing that had kept him going.

Brennus grinned. Even he was looking forward to a break.

On either side of the massive front gates sat a wooden guard tower. They were matched by similar ones on the corners and smaller observation posts in between. The walls had been constructed from closely packed earth, a useful by-product from the construction of the three deep ditches which surrounded the fort. Filled with spiked iron caltrops, the fossae were also within range of missiles thrown or fired from the timber walkway that ran along the inside of the ramparts. The only passage through them was the beaten-down dirt track to the entrance in the middle of each side.

They tramped down it, expecting to be challenged at any moment.

Surprisingly the huge fort was not a fighting structure: legionaries did not hide behind the protection of walls by choice. The impressive defences were to be used only in the case of unexpected attack. If an enemy presented itself, the officers would marshal the men together on the intervallum, the flat area that ran around the inside of the walls, before marching out to do battle. On open ground, the legionary was the master of all other infantry. And with Tarquinius’ tactics and training, thought Romulus proudly, they could withstand the charge of any force, mounted or on foot.

Man for man, the Forgotten Legion could defeat any enemy.

‘Stop.’ Moving to Brennus’ side, Tarquinius checked Pacorus’ pulse.

‘Is he still alive?’ asked the Gaul.

‘Barely,’ answered Tarquinius, frowning. ‘We must hurry.’

Reality struck as Romulus took in Pacorus’ ashen features. Enough time had passed for the scythicon to do its deadly work. The commander would surely die soon and, as the sole survivors, they would be held responsible. No senior Parthian officer worth his salt would fail to punish the men who had allowed this to happen. They had escaped the Scythians to face certain execution.

Yet Tarquinius had wanted to save Pacorus. And Mithras had revealed a road back to Rome.

As a drowning man clings to a log, Romulus held on to those thoughts.

They were now less than thirty paces from the gate and within range of the sentries’