The Silver Eagle

Romulus vividly remembered the man’s thin, cracked screams.

Around him, the other legionaries’ faces were full of dull resentment — except those of Novius and his friends, who were laughing behind cupped hands.

Darius, their stout senior centurion, sensed the bad feeling and urged his men to march faster. They needed little encouragement. As the soldiers came alongside, the nearest vultures lifted their bloated bodies into the air with lazy wing beats. Others further away just waddled out of reach. In the depths of winter, food was hard to come by, and the birds were reluctant to leave this ready feast. There would be no let-up until a skeleton hung from the cross.

Romulus could not tear his gaze away from the frozen body. The only part to remain inviolate was its groin, covered by the loincloth. Empty eye sockets stared into nothingness; peck marks covered its cheeks, chest and arms. Its mouth was open in a last, silent rictus of pain and terror. Half-torn-off strips of flesh hung uneaten from its thighs, where the largest muscles were. Even its feet had been chewed, probably by a resourceful jackal standing on its hind legs. Had the man been alive when the vultures first landed? Felt the sensation of breaking bone as powerful jaws closed on his frozen toes?

It was revolting, but compelling.

Romulus blinked.

Beneath the horror, there was more.

Over the previous weeks, there had been time to study the air currents and the cloud formations over the fort. Romulus had become meticulous, noting every bird and animal, observing the pattern of snowfall and the way ice formed on the river that flowed past the fort. Having watched Tarquinius, he knew that literally everything could be important, could provide some information. It frustrated him immensely that little seemed to make sense. But by following the haruspex’ instructions, predicting the weather had at last became simple enough. Of course this was of interest but Romulus wanted to know far more than when the next storm would strike. Annoyingly, though, he had seen nothing about Tarquinius, Pacorus or Novius and the other veterans. Nothing useful.

Now perhaps, there was an opportunity.

Romulus focused again on the corpse.

A single, shocking image of Rome flashed before his eyes. Suddenly he felt a real link to Italy, as if the savagery of the crucifixion had been a form of sacrifice. Was this what happened when the haruspex killed hens or goats? Real awareness surged through Romulus for the first time.

He saw the familiar sights of the Forum Romanum: the Senate House, the basilicae, the distinctive temples and statues of the gods. Normal activities here included trading, money lending and the announcement of court judgements. Not today. Romulus frowned, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Horrifyingly, in the heart of the city, there was rioting. In front of the Senate itself, men were cutting and slashing each other to pieces. Among them, innocent civilians were being killed in their dozens. Bloody, mutilated bodies lay piled everywhere. Bizarrely, some of the combatants even looked like gladiators. Stunned, Romulus could not take it in. How could the capital of the greatest state in the world descend into such chaos? Was his mind playing tricks? Was he going mad? His need to go home had never been stronger, or seemed more unlikely.

A great arm clapped him on the back, bringing Romulus back to his senses.

‘We can’t help the poor fool now,’ said Brennus, sadly regarding the frozen corpse. ‘Forget about him.’

Romulus’ mouth opened with surprise, then he realised. The Gaul had no idea what he had seen. He was about to tell Brennus when something made him look over his shoulder.

Novius was waiting for his chance and immediately half raised both arms, mimicking the crucified man.

Miserably, Romulus turned away, the little legionary’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears. The world was going crazy.

Chapter VI: Chaos Descends

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Fabiola struggled not to lose her footing as the crowd pressed forward; only Tullius’ firm grip on her arm kept her upright. The other bodyguards had also been swallowed up by the rapidly moving mass of people. Occasionally Fabiola caught sight of their confused faces, but for the most part she concentrated on what the gang members were saying. It seemed the ambush at the inn had taken them all by surprise. Traitors in their midst were suspected and dire threats being made against any who might have been involved. The thugs would not rest until Clodius’ death had been thoroughly avenged.

Fabiola could sense more than a desire for retribution in the angry words filling the air. The men brandishing weapons around her were all plebeians. Poor, uneducated, malnourished. They lived in overcrowded, rat-infested flats and were destined to live short, miserable lives with almost no chance of betterment. In many ways their lives were little different to those of slaves. Yet they were Roman citizens. Mob rule offered them something more. Power. Respect from those who normally looked down on them. Money from the people they robbed. They risked death, certainly, but it was worth it to gain these things that would otherwise never be theirs. It was therefore no surprise that both Clodius and Milo had enormous followings. But Fabiola could see that the rabble’s methods were short-sighted. If anarchy reigned, there would be no congiaria, the free distributions of grain and money that kept the poorest families alive. They would simply starve.

The crowd’s pulsing anger did not appeal either. Fabiola only had to look at the blameless and terrified captives to know that such uncontrolled violence affected the innocent as well as the guilty. Whatever the monstrosities perpetuated by the Republic, it was still an institution which provided a framework for a more peaceful society than that which had gone before. Innocent people were not killed out of hand by the state for the contents of their purses. Yet that would become the norm once more if mobs like this assumed control.

It did not take long to reach the Forum Romanum. Bordered by numerous temples and shrines, it was home to the Senate building and the basilicae, massive covered markets that were normally jammed with tradesmen, lawyers, scribes and soothsayers. It was the busiest place in the city, a location dear to the heart of every citizen. Public meetings were commonly held here, as were trials and some elections. Events which happened in the Forum tended to be remembered, which was precisely why it had been chosen for Clodius’ wake.

Today, the basilicae were quiet and virtually empty. The usual wall of sound comprised of merchants’ voices, lawyers arguing and food vendors competing with each other was absent. In its place were the hollow shouts of the bravest shopkeepers, those who had actually dared to open up their stalls. For weeks there had been few honest folk about. Most traders, lawmakers and salesmen stayed safely at home. Even the wily haruspices were not to be seen. With constant violence the only business on offer, there had been little reason to risk their lives. The nobles and well-to-do were also absent, secure in their thick-walled houses.

They would not be safe there for long, thought Fabiola, eyeing the angry, chattering men around her.

Although the rich were not present, the open space of the Forum was crowded with plebeians drawn, despite the threat of conflict today. Word of Clodius’ death had spread through the crowded suburbs faster than the plague. Terrified of the future offered by the rival gangs, Rome’s citizens still wanted to watch it unfold. Seismic events like this were rare. Not since Sulla, ‘the butcher’, marched on the capital more than thirty years before had there been such a threat to democracy. For all its faults, the Republic generally ran quite smoothly. But now it felt like a rudderless ship caught in rough seas.

The best vantage points — the steps to the basilicae and all the shrines — were jammed. Children sat on their fathers’ shoulders, craning their necks to see. Even the statues were covered in spectators. In contrast, the central area was clear. Bloodshed was inevitable and anyone caught in the middle would risk being killed.

Claiming the moral high ground, Milo stood in front of the Senate, dressed in an immaculate white toga. A handsome, clean-shaven figure, he was surrounded by scores of his men, many of whom were gladiators. The dramatic implication was impossible to miss. Here stood the defender of Rome, waiting to repel those who sought to tear it down. Attempting to give divine approval to his cause, a group of priests had been prominently deployed on the Senate steps. Chanting, burning incense and raising their hands to the heavens, the white-robed men would