The Silver Eagle

in darkness. It would be the reason for their death.

‘Ready pila,’ whispered the senior centurion from their midst.

Silently they obeyed.

‘Forward.’

Caligae crunched slowly on the frosty ground, but soon picked up speed. In a few heartbeats, the soldiers were at a trot. Icy air rushed into their faces, chilling their nostrils and throats with each inhalation. No one spoke a word. Every man knew his task, had practised it a thousand times before on the training ground. Shields held high to protect their bodies, they grasped their javelins loosely in their right hands, ready to stab downwards. The charge was all-important. If they broke through, freedom beckoned. Failure would mean death.

Momentarily forgetting the threat from Novius and his comrades, Romulus bared his teeth.

It was thrilling.

Terrifying.

Within fifty paces, they were on the enemy.

Preparing himself, Romulus drew back his pilum. Stooping low, he plunged it into the side of a sleeping form, and jumped over without checking to see if the Scythian was dead. Right now, injuring was good enough. Beside him, Brennus kept pace, stabbing the man’s companion in the chest as he went by. Two more warriors were dispatched similarly and then they were past the first fire and on to three terrified sentries. Dark eyes opened wide with shock. The trio, who had been muttering quietly to each other, were suddenly confronted by an armoured mass of running legionaries, bloodied javelins in hand.

Screams of terror filled the air. They were rapidly cut off, ebbing away into bubbling whispers. But the noise woke the other Scythians. Wrapped in their thick cloaks and blankets, most had been sleeping comfortably. Waking to the sounds of men dying, the startled warriors jumped up and grabbed for their weapons. All was confusion and disorder.

There was no need for silence any longer. Brennus threw back his head and let out a blood-curdling battle cry; in response, the legionaries yelled a deafening roar of defiance.

The element of speed and surprise was vital, thought Romulus as they pounded on. The Scythians were still half-asleep and unable to fight back properly. It must have seemed as if demons had descended upon their encampment. They simply did not have a chance. Hobnailed caligae stamped down on upturned faces, breaking noses and splitting lips; pila stabbed down into soft, unprotected flesh, and were ripped free to use again. Legionaries used the iron rims of their scuta to smash down on enemy heads. It was most satisfying to revenge themselves for the deaths of the unfortunates in the fortlet. Nonetheless, they kept running.

Seeing the Scythians’ horses reacting uneasily to the screams and cries, Romulus had a brainwave. ‘Throw your javelins,’ he cried, pointing left. ‘They’ll panic!’

The men immediately on his left needed no urging. Slowing down, they drew back and released their pila at the milling mounts. Romulus did likewise. It was impossible to miss: all of the missiles found a target. Rearing up in pain from the metal barbs buried deep in their backs, the injured horses kicked out with their front feet, spun in circles and barged their companions. That was enough. Ripping up the pegs which had tethered their lead ropes to the ground, the group of terrified horses turned and fled into the darkness.

Romulus whooped with glee. Now the Scythians could not pursue them.

‘Good thinking,’ cried Brennus.

Pleased, Romulus knew more still awaited. This was only the start — but it was a good one.

Soon the wedge had forced its way through the enemy camp. In its wake, it left utter mayhem. Scores of warriors lay in blood-soaked blankets, slain before they had even woken up. Others had belly wounds that would take days to kill, or badly cut limbs which completely disabled. Some had even been trampled by their own mounts. Those who were uninjured stood dazedly looking after the Romans, unable to respond.

Not a single legionary had been killed or wounded.

Romulus could not help but be proud. What other soldiers were capable of such a fast-moving manoeuvre in the dark? But this was no time to clap themselves on the back. They had to make as much ground as possible before dawn, and whatever fate that delivered to them.

Darius was in no mood to linger either. There was a moment to wipe their bloody pila on their cloaks and take a gulp of water, and then Darius bellowed, ‘Double time!’

Romulus and Brennus took off, followed by their comrades. In case of pursuit, no change was made to the wedge for the moment. Thanks to the bright stars, following the track west was not difficult. The stones had been beaten down from the regular passage of legionaries, forming a wide, easily discernible stripe across the landscape.

They ran for a long time, until it felt as if their lungs would burst.

Behind them, the sky began to lighten. As the sun climbed into view, it finally became possible to make out their surroundings. Nearby was an inscribed stone tablet.

They were exactly two miles from the fortlet.

Horseless, the Scythians had no chance of catching them now. Roman legionaries could march twenty-four miles in five hours, carrying full kit. Without their heavy yokes to slow them down, the patrol would probably reach the safety of the main fort in less than four.

‘Halt!’ cried Darius, his sweating face purple with effort. To give him his due, the senior centurion had kept up with his men. ‘Down shields. Take a breather.’

The delighted legionaries smiled at the command. Everyone had seen the mile marker and done the maths. They had earned a brief rest. As ordered, their scuta clattered down. Keeping the wedge formation, the soldiers sank to one knee, breathing heavily. Gulps were taken from leather water carriers, helmets and felt liners lifted to dry hair that was wringing with moisture. No one could complain of being cold now.

Romulus grimaced as he scanned the low slopes around them.

‘Not happy?’ asked Brennus under his breath.

‘No.’ There were large areas of flat ground beyond the top of the inclines on either side of the defile. ‘A whole damn army could be waiting up there.’

The Gaul’s gaze followed his. He too had been on many patrols through here and knew every dip and fold of the terrain. ‘It opens out soon,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Get through this section and we’ll quickly see any enemy.’

‘That’s not for nearly a mile,’ Romulus muttered. He turned to see where Darius was. Pleasingly, the Parthian was moving among the men, muttering encouraging words. It was the mark of a good officer to praise those under his command when they had performed well. With the adrenalin rush of their escape subsiding, Darius now seemed unconcerned. Romulus’ warning the day before had meant nothing. In the Parthian’s mind, there was time for a respite before the long march home.

Romulus prayed that his vision had been wrong. But his instinct was jangling an inner alarm.

It was time to continue. Instead of the attacking wedge, the legionaries formed up in a more typical marching order. Each century was six wide, fifteen deep. Darius took up his position at the front, his faithful guard alongside.

As they moved off, Romulus’ heart pounded in his chest. He could not stop his eyes moving from side to side. Brennus was similarly alert, but neither said a word to anyone.

Spirits had risen hugely because of their escape, and it wasn’t long before Gordianus began his usual ditty about the legionary in the brothel.

This was too much for Romulus, whose nerves were fraying. There was no point warning any enemies nearby of their presence. ‘Give it a rest,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that a hundred times before.’

‘Shut it, you filth,’ Novius responded. ‘We want to hear about your mother.’

‘And your sisters,’ responded Brennus as quick as a flash.

The others cheered at the jokes.

Novius flushed with anger but his retort was lost in the din as the whole formation responded to Gordianus’ tune.