The Silver Eagle

seven stages of devotion. After this, the seller totally clammed up. ‘You look brave and honest,’ were his last words. ‘If you are, Mithras will reveal more.’

At this, the window of hope in Romulus’ heart opened a fraction.

He placed the carved figure on the special shrine which had been erected by the barracks entrance. Although it was dedicated to Aesculapius, the god of medicine, Romans were happy to worship more than one deity at the same time. Romulus spent every spare moment he had on his knees before the image of Mithras, praying for some good news about Tarquinius, and that he might discover how to return to Rome. Nothing was forthcoming, but he did not lose faith. Since childhood, life had dealt him one hard knock after another. Witnessing Gemellus rape his mother nightly. Being sold into the savagery of the ludus. The duel against Lentulus, a far more experienced fighter. A deadly mass combat in the arena. Escaping Rome after the brawl. Army life and the horrors of Carrhae. Captivity in Parthia and then the long march to Margiana. But each time death threatened, the gods had lifted him from harm’s way. Consequently, Romulus was prepared to devote all his attention to Mithras. What else could he do?

During his time at the shrine, Romulus was touched by the devotion shown by his comrades. In normal circumstances, the Romans would have been pleased if Pacorus died, but now prayers for his recovery were offered up by the dozen. Almost all the men in the century stopped by the altar each day. Word of the threat to Tarquinius’ life spread fast and there were visits from countless other soldiers as well. Soon the simple stone top was dotted with sestertii, denarii and even lucky amulets: offerings that men would not part with lightly. Everything that had been minted or made in Italy was now priceless. It proved to Romulus and Brennus how important Tarquinius was to the Forgotten Legion’s sense of wellbeing.

One cold afternoon, Romulus was performing his devotions as usual. Deep in prayer and with his eyes closed, he became aware of loud muttering behind him. Presuming it was other soldiers asking for divine help, he ignored the noise. But when they started sniggering, he looked around. Five legionaries were standing just outside the door, peering in at him. Romulus recognised them; they were from a contubernium in his century. All had served in the legions for many years. Tellingly, he had seen none make any offerings at the altar.

‘Praying for the soothsayer?’ asked Caius, a tall, thin man with few teeth and bad breath. ‘Our centurion.’

Romulus did not like Caius’ tone. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘Why aren’t you?’

‘Been gone a while, hasn’t he?’ sneered Optatus, leaning against the doorpost. A strongly built figure almost as large as Brennus, he had a permanently unfriendly manner.

Romulus felt a tickle of unease. All five had been out on the training ground. They were in chain mail and were fully armed, whereas he was clad in just his tunic, with only a dagger for protection. ‘I suppose so,’ he said slowly, gazing from one to the other.

‘Treacherous bastard,’ said Novius, the smallest of the five. Despite his stature, he was an expert swordsman. Romulus had seen him in action before. ‘Be conniving with Pacorus, won’t he?’

‘Coming up with more ways to have us slaughtered,’ added Caius. ‘Like he did at Carrhae.’

Romulus could scarcely believe his ears, but the others’ heads were nodding angrily. ‘What did you say?’ he spat.

‘You heard.’ Caius’ lips lifted, revealing red, inflamed gums. ‘Crassus didn’t lose the battle. He was a good general.’

‘So how did it happen?’ Romulus retorted hotly.

‘That treacherous Nabataean didn’t help, but it was more likely your Etruscan friend, meddling with evil spirits.’ Novius rubbed at the phallus amulet hanging from his neck. ‘He’s always bringing bad luck on us.’

His companions muttered in agreement.

Absolutely astonished that men could think like this, Romulus realised it was best not to respond. The discontented legionaries were looking for a scapegoat. With his long blond hair, single gold earring and odd manner, Tarquinius was an obvious target. Arguing would make things worse. Turning his back on them, he leaned forward, bowing to the small stone figure of Aesculapius on the altar.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Optatus. ‘Where did you get that?’

Romulus looked down and his heart banged in his chest. The sleeve of his tunic had ridden up his right arm, revealing the thick scar where his slave brand had been. After slicing the damning mark off, Brennus had cobbled the wound together with crude stitches. There had been a few questions about it when they had joined the army, but Romulus had managed to laugh them off, saying he had received the cut in a skirmish with outlaws. None in the Gaulish mercenary cohort had cared where he came from anyway. Already upset by the accusations against Tarquinius, he was disconcerted by the question. ‘I can’t remember,’ he faltered.

‘What?’ Optatus laughed incredulously. ‘Happened in your sleep, did it?’

Although his comrades sniggered, their expressions changed. Now they looked like a pack of hounds that have cornered a wild boar. Romulus cursed to himself. Who would ever forget how or when he was injured in a fight?

Novius stuck his left leg forward and jabbed a finger at the shiny marks on either side of his muscular calf. Their length and breadth meant that they had probably been made by a spear. ‘I’ve no idea who did this,’ he crowed. ‘Didn’t even feel the blade go in.’

Loud laughter met his remark. All had scars from their time in the army.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Romulus defensively, knowing his answer sounded weak.

Caius’ response was immediate. ‘You’re only a damn boy. You’ve not campaigned in a dozen wars or been in the legions half your life.’

‘Like us,’ snarled Optatus. ‘And we remember every sword cut like it was yesterday.’

Romulus flushed, unable to mention his two years as a secutor. The agony of Lentulus’ knife plunging into his right thigh was as vivid now as the moment it happened. But he could not mention it. Gladiators were nearly all slaves, criminals or prisoners of war; they were the lowest of the low.

‘They say that for the right price, there are men who’ll cut off a brand and stitch you up,’ said Caius spitefully. ‘Get rid of the evidence.’

Novius frowned.

Optatus swelled with outrage. ‘Been to one of those, have you?’

‘Of course not,’ blustered Romulus. ‘Slaves aren’t allowed in the army.’

‘On pain of death,’ added Novius with a leer.

Caius stepped over the threshold. ‘Where is it you’re from again?’

‘Transalpine Gaul.’ Romulus didn’t like the way this was going. He got to his feet, wondering where Brennus was. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Served there for three years,’ said Novius, his eyes mere slits. ‘Didn’t we, lads?’

Optatus grinned at the memory.

Romulus felt nauseous. It was Brennus who came from that part of Gaul; he himself was a city dweller through and through. The lie had just been a way to get them into the army. At the time, Bassius, their old centurion, was happy enough to get two men who could obviously fight. He had not asked too many questions. To Bassius, bravery was all that had mattered. Then, as mercenaries in Crassus’ army, they had not mixed with Roman legionaries until after their capture. And on the long march east, few had asked questions of other prisoners. Survival had been more important. Until now. ‘So did half the army,’ Romulus said truculently. ‘Did you catch the pox there too?’

Novius did not respond to the jibe. ‘Where exactly did you live?’ The malevolent little legionary had everyone’s attention.

‘In a village, high up in the mountains,’ replied Romulus vaguely. ‘It was quite remote.’

But there was no end to his interrogation. Now Novius and Optatus moved inside, while the last two blocked the doorway. There was nowhere to go, other than further into the barracks, where it was even more confined. The young soldier swallowed, resisting the urge to draw his dagger. In this tight space, he had little chance against three men with swords. His only hope was to brazen it out.

‘What was the nearest town?’

Frantically Romulus racked his brains, trying to recall if Brennus had ever mentioned such a place. Nowhere came to mind. A prayer to Mithras, followed by another to Jupiter, made no difference. His mouth opened and