The Silver Eagle

closed.

Novius’ sword slid from the scabbard as he stepped closer. ‘Can’t remember that either?’ he said softly.

‘We come from near Lugdunum,’ growled Brennus from the entrance to the corridor.

Romulus had never been so relieved.

‘Allobroge territory, eh?’ sneered Novius.

‘Yes.’ Brennus stepped into the room, forcing Caius to move backwards. ‘It was.’

Optatus grinned. ‘I remember that campaign well. Your villages burned easily.’

‘Some of the women we raped were passably good-looking,’ added Novius, forcing two fingers in and out of a ring made of his right forefinger and thumb.

The others laughed cruelly and Romulus burned with anger and shame for his friend.

The Gaul’s face went purple with rage but he did not react.

Novius was not to be put off. ‘Why is your accent different to his then?’ He jerked a dismissive thumb at Brennus.

Brennus did not give Romulus time to answer. ‘Because his father was a Roman soldier, like you shitbags,’ he snapped. ‘Explains his name too. Happy?’

Ammias, Primitivus and Optatus glowered but did not reply. They were bullies rather than ringleaders.

‘And the mark?’ persisted Novius.

‘It’s from a gladius,’ answered the Gaul with a show of reluctance. ‘The lad could barely lift a sword, but he tried to fight back when you fuckers were attacking our settlement. Naturally he didn’t want to tell you.’

It was Novius’ turn to look confused. Quickly he did the maths, calculating if Romulus’ age as a boy tallied with the Allobroges’ rebellion nine years before.

It did.

‘We fled south. Worked here and there,’ Brennus went on. ‘Ended up in Crassus’ army. With all our tribe gone, it didn’t matter where in Hades we went.’

It was commonplace for the warriors of defeated tribes to seek employ in the service of Rome. Iberians, Gauls, Greeks and Libyans were among the host of nationalities in its armies. Even Carthaginians joined up these days.

The little legionary was visibly disappointed.

Romulus used the silence to shuffle closer to Brennus. Side by side, they were an imposing pair: the huge Gaul with bulging muscles and his young protege, slightly smaller but just as solidly built. Although Romulus had no more than a dagger, they would account for themselves very well if it came to a fight. The pair glared at the five veterans.

Novius lowered his sword. ‘Only citizens are supposed to serve in the legions,’ he said resentfully. ‘Not tribal vermin like you two.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Caius.

The fact that they had served in a mercenary cohort under Crassus was not mentioned. That Romulus was apparently half-Italian. Or the fact that the Forgotten Legion was not a Roman army unit, but a Parthian one.

‘That’s a different matter,’ Brennus replied smoothly. ‘Here we’re all brothers-in-arms. It’s us against the Parthians, miserable scumbags that they are.’

His words seemed to have the right effect on the veterans; they turned to go, Novius taking up the rear.

Grinning at the Gaul, Romulus began to relax. It was the wrong thing to do.

The little legionary turned at the door. Brennus gave him an evil look, but Novius stood his ground. ‘Odd,’ he said in a strange voice. ‘Very odd.’

With a sinking feeling, Romulus saw that Novius was staring at Brennus’ left calf, which had a prominent purple oval of scar tissue.

‘What is it?’ called Caius from outside the barracks.

‘Instead of branding them on the shoulder, Governor Pomptinus made us mark the captives’ calves on that campaign.’

‘I remember,’ came the response. ‘So what?’

Although he had never asked, Romulus had always wondered why Brennus’ mark was different to other slaves.

‘It was to show they were his property,’ crowed Novius.

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Caius sounded bored.

‘This brute has a scar just where his brand should be,’ announced Novius delightedly, lifting his sword again. ‘He’s a damn slave too!’

Before he could do more, Brennus lunged forward and shoved the little legionary in the chest. Novius flew out of the door, landing flat on his back. His four friends scattered, their faces alarmed.

‘Piss off, you son of a whore,’ the Gaul said from between clenched teeth. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’

‘Scum!’ Novius wheezed, his face twisted with rage. ‘You’re both escaped slaves.’

Romulus and Brennus did not reply.

‘Felix probably was too,’ the little legionary added as the others reached for their swords.

‘There’s only one punishment for that,’ snarled Caius.

‘Crucifixion,’ finished Optatus.

Primitivus and Ammias, their companions, raised their gladii in unison at that prospect. Five faces filled with hatred ringed the doorway.

Romulus’ stomach constricted into a knot. He had seen the brutal method of execution carried out many times. It was a slow, agonising death.

‘Just try it,’ Brennus bellowed. His temper was fully up, and he stood in the door like a raging bull. Only one man could attack him at a time. ‘Who’s first?’

None of the veterans moved. They were no fools.

Romulus pelted back to their room, scooping up his scutum and sword. There was no chance to don his chain mail, but armed like this, he felt more of a match for their new enemies. When he got to the entrance, Brennus had come back inside.

‘Bastards,’ he growled. ‘They’re gone. For now.’

‘They’ll tell everyone,’ said Romulus, struggling not to panic. The Parthian officers didn’t care about their history, but it would not be popular among the others in their century. Or, for that matter, the whole legion.

‘I know.’

‘What can we do?’

‘Not much.’ The Gaul sighed heavily. ‘Stay alert. Watch each other’s backs.’

This felt all too familiar. Neither spoke for a moment as they considered their options.

There were none. Escape was out of the question: it was deepest winter. Where would they go anyway? And Tarquinius, the one man who might be able to help, was still incarcerated with Pacorus. They were alone.

Glumly, Romulus studied the burnished iron of his gladius. He was going to be sleeping with it from now on.

It took Novius little more than an hour to tell every man in their century what had happened. He didn’t stop there. The little legionary seemed possessed as he moved between the low-roofed barrack buildings, spreading his gossip. Caius, Optatus and the others were just as busy. Informing over nine thousand men took time, but gossip travelled fast and by nightfall, Romulus felt sure that their secret was well and truly public news.

The hardest thing to take was the reaction of his comrades in the barracks. Eighty of them ate and slept cheek by jowl, sharing their equipment, food and lice. Although the unit had been formed after Carrhae, there was a real sense of camaraderie. Felix had been part of it too. Far from Rome, they only had each other.

That no longer applied to Romulus and Brennus.

Or Tarquinius.

Men tarred them all with the same brush and the altar to Aesculapius and Mithras was dismantled the same day, its offerings taken back. Who would pray for a man with slaves as friends? Yet when the legionaries had nothing to pray for, they had nothing to hope for either — so they needed something to fill the void. Unfortunately, that turned out to be distrust of the two friends.

Suddenly Romulus and Brennus were responsible for all the men’s misfortune.