The Silver Eagle

After the scalp had been lifted, even a man’s skull could be sawn open to allow the removal of a blood clot on the brain’s surface. According to Tarquinius, the keys to success were an expert knowledge of anatomy, and absolute cleanliness. Such surgery fascinated Romulus and he moved closer to watch. This challenge would surely test his friend’s abilities to the limit. Compared to the relatively clean wounds inflicted by the razor-sharp blades of spears and gladii, those made by the arrows were ragged and contaminated with scythicon.

Pacorus was already halfway to Hades.

Fully aware of the mountainous task facing him, Tarquinius looked at the figure on the altar and bent his head, once. Mithras, help me once more!

The significance of the gesture was not lost on Romulus.

Felix’ face changed as Tarquinius prepared to begin. ‘Time to get warm,’ the little Gaul muttered, sitting down by the fire with a sigh. Few men chose to witness such gory work.

Romulus and Brennus did not move.

‘Hold his arms,’ said Tarquinius briskly. ‘He might wake up. This really stings.’ Pulling the cork stopper from a small flask with his teeth, he poured some strong-smelling liquid on to a piece of clean cloth.

‘Acetum?’ asked Romulus.

Tarquinius inclined his head. ‘Vinegar is excellent at preventing blood poisoning.’

They watched him gently clean the wounds; Pacorus did not even stir.

The haruspex tackled Pacorus’ arm first. Slicing either side of the wooden shaft, he used a metal probe to free the barbed arrow head. Any bleeding was stopped with special clamps and then tied off with gut. Following this, the muscles were closed in layers. Pacorus’ leg was treated similarly. It was the chest wound that took the most effort, however. Gripping special retractors, Tarquinius pried apart two ribs to allow withdrawal of the arrow. Closing this wound was an urgent process, he explained. If too much air leaked into Pacorus’ chest cavity he would die. As Romulus watched, his understanding grew. Keen to learn more, he questioned Tarquinius closely about his techniques.

‘You should have seen enough by now,’ the haruspex pronounced with a sigh. ‘The next test will be for you to operate on an injured soldier.’

Romulus flinched at the prospect. To dress a wound in the midst of combat was one thing, but this was another.

‘There’ll be plenty of casualties in the future,’ said Tarquinius shrewdly. ‘I can never treat them all.’

Romulus nodded in acknowledgement. It was brutal but true. As Romulus had witnessed himself, the haruspex treated only those whom he had a chance of saving. Very seriously wounded legionaries were often left to die. If they were lucky, they received a draught of mandrake or the painkilling papaverum to help them on their way, but most died screaming in agony. Any attempt to save their lives by him, however inexperienced, would be better than the lingering hell they currently endured. Determination filled Romulus to soak up all the medical information he could.

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