The Silver Eagle

Crucifixion was not that likely. To earn that punishment, Romulus or Brennus would have to fall foul of a Parthian officer. But there were countless other ways a man could be killed. Petty arguments were commonplace and with every man in the Forgotten Legion a trained soldier, they could be ended quite easily. Poisoning food, the norm in Rome, was not as popular as the use of weapons. Because men dropped their guard when in the latrines or bathhouse, being jumped in those locations was common. The narrow gaps between the rows of barracks were also dangerous places. More than once Romulus had come across bodies covered in stab wounds just a few steps from their quarters.

But the most immediate danger was where they slept. Eight men had to share a small, cramped space and when one quarter of those were being ostracised, it made life very difficult. On hearing the news, a pair of legionaries had instantly moved to another contubernium that was two short. Their disgusted faces upset Romulus hugely. That left Gordianus, a balding veteran, and three soldiers on one side of the room, the friends on the other. Gordianus, the obvious leader now, had not said much in response to Novius’ revelation.

This kept his companions quiet, for which Romulus was grateful. He could take silent resentment. While it was doubtful that any of their own contubernium would try to kill them, they could not be trusted. Like a viper sliding through the grass, Novius was forever appearing unexpectedly, muttering in men’s ears and poisoning their minds. The little legionary had taken to hanging around in the barracks corridor, idly picking his nails with his dagger. When he wasn’t there, Caius or Optatus were. While none made any overt signs of violence, it was most disconcerting. If Romulus and Brennus responded by killing any of their enemies, they would be severely punished. And there were too many of them to risk a night attack. Cutting five men’s throats quietly was an impossible task.

So Romulus and Brennus cooked together every day and stood outside the latrines with a ready sword while the other went inside. They went on sentry duty simultaneously, and only one slept at a time. It was exhausting and demoralising.

‘This is worse than the ludus,’ muttered Brennus on the second night. ‘Remember?’

Romulus nodded bitterly.

‘There we could at least bolt the door on my cell.’

‘And Figulus and Gallus had few friends,’ Romulus added.

‘Not thousands!’ The Gaul gave a short, sarcastic laugh.

And so it went on. Romulus’ prayers to Mithras grew ever more frantic, but their situation did not change. The days stretched into a week, and the pair grew haggard and irritable. There was one occasion when Novius and his friends attempted to jump them in the alleyway outside the barracks, but Romulus’ quick knife throw stopped the attack in its tracks. Caius’ left thigh was now heavily bandaged, and the veterans’ relentless hounding slackened somewhat. But the respite would merely be temporary. They would not be able to keep up their guard for ever.

Both were therefore relieved when, one frosty morning, Vahram ordered two centuries — theirs and another — out on patrol. For a few days, there had been no news from one of the legion’s outposts that were positioned east of the main camp. The seven fortlets, each with a garrison of a half-century and a handful of Parthian warriors with horses, had been built in strategic positions overlooking various approach routes into Margiana from the north and east. High mountains protected the south and south-east. There was usually little news from the small forts, but twice a week riders were sent back regardless. Whatever their faults, Pacorus and Vahram kept themselves well informed of everything going on in the area. The need for this had been bloodily reinforced by the attack at the Mithraeum.

Romulus’ and Brennus’ feelings were not echoed by their comrades as they prepared for the patrol. Loud curses filled the warm, close air as yokes were dug out of the tiny storerooms behind the sleeping space for each contubernium. Their destination was only twenty miles away, but Roman soldiers always travelled prepared. Besides, Vahram had ordered rations for four days. The yokes, long, forked pieces of wood, carried everything from a cooking pot and spare equipment to sleeping blankets. Along with his armour and heavy scutum, they brought the weight carried by each man to over sixty pounds.

‘This is bloody pointless,’ Gordianus grumbled, lifting another legionary’s mail shirt over his head so he could put it on. ‘A fool’s errand.’

‘We’ll meet the messenger halfway there,’ said the man he was helping. ‘And watch the prick piss himself with laughter as he watches us walk back.’

There were vociferous mutters of agreement. Who wanted to leave the safety and warmth of the fort for no reason? It was probably all down to a couple of lame horses.

‘I don’t know,’ said a familiar voice. ‘A lot of things can happen on patrol.’

Romulus looked up to find Novius standing in the doorway. Behind him were their other main tormentors, Caius and Optatus.

Automatically the young soldier’s hand reached for his gladius; Brennus did likewise.

‘Relax.’ Novius’ smile was evil. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

Romulus had had enough. Lifting his sword, he stood up and moved towards the little legionary. ‘I’ll gut you now,’ he swore.

Novius laughed and was gone, followed by his comrades.

‘Gods above,’ said Romulus wearily. ‘I can’t take this much longer.’

Brennus’ red-rimmed eyes told him the same story.

At first, little was said by anyone the next morning. It was cold and miserable, and marching while carrying full kit was not easy. While the men were well able for the task, it was necessary to get into a good rhythm. Inevitably, Gordianus began to sing. Smiles broke out as the tune was recognised, a familiar ditty involving a sex- starved legionary and every whore in a large brothel. There were endless verses and a bawdy chorus to roar at the end of each. The soldiers were happy to join in: it passed the time, which often dragged on such patrols.

Normally Romulus enjoyed singing the refrain, with its countless sexual positions and innuendos. Today, though, he was gloomily imagining what might happen during the patrol. If they encountered any trouble, Novius could use the opportunity to strike. In the midst of a pitched battle, it was all too easy to stab a man in the back without anyone noticing.

Brennus’ nudge darkened his mood even further. They had reached a crossroads five miles from the fort; the Gaul was pointing at a crucifix that stood on a small mound to one side. Pacorus had ordered it positioned so that all who passed would see it. Like those outside the front gates, the cross had just two purposes: to slowly kill condemned men, and to give graphic warning of the punishments at Parthia’s disposal.

The crucifixes were rarely empty. Falling asleep on duty, disobeying an order or angering Pacorus: all were common reasons for legionaries to die on the simple wooden structures. Even Parthian warriors who incurred his wrath were sometimes executed in this manner.

Gordianus’ voice died away, his song unfinished.

Romulus closed his eyes, trying not to imagine himself and Brennus ending their lives in such a way. With Pacorus’ life hanging in the balance, it was still a distinct possibility — if Novius and his lot didn’t do the job first.

Despite the early hour, there were carrion birds clustered all around the crucifix: on the ground, on the horizontal crossbar, even on the lifeless shoulders of their prey. Bare-headed vultures pecked irritably at each other while ravens darted in opportunistically to take what they could. Overhead, the huge wingspans of eagles could be seen, gliding serenely in anticipation of a good meal.

By now, everyone’s gaze was on the frozen corpse that sagged forward, its head hanging. Thick ropes were tied around the dead man’s arms and long iron nails pierced his feet. Everyone knew him: it was a young legionary from Ishkan’s cohort who had been caught stealing bread from the ovens two days before. Dragged on to the intervallum before the whole legion, he had first been beaten with flails until his tunic was shredded and his back a red, bleeding ruin. Then, naked except for a loincloth, the wretch was forced to carry his cross from the fort to the lonely crossroads. Ten men from every cohort had accompanied him as witnesses. By the time they had reached the desolate spot, his torn, bare feet were blue with cold. This was not enough to dull the pain of the sharp nails being driven through them.