The Silver Eagle

approaching horses would undoubtedly break them. And if that happened, the Scythian infantry would soon finish the job. ‘Now,’ he urged.

Unused to such pressure, the optio hesitated.

Brennus’ grip on his sword tightened. Romulus’ idea was the best, the sole, choice. If their erstwhile commander did not act, he would intervene. Lethally, if necessary.

Ignoring the confused junior officer, Gordianus turned to his comrades. He too thought Romulus was right. ‘We’ve only one chance,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no way back or on either side.’

‘What should we do?’ cried a voice a few ranks back.

‘Charge those fucking horses,’ cried Gordianus. ‘Before they reach top speed.’

The men looked dismayed, but did not protest.

Gordianus seized the moment. ‘Let’s do it!’

A defiant roar rose into the air. Novius and his cronies alone looked unhappy.

Romulus did not delay any longer. ‘Form wedge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

The dull-witted optio had no time to respond. Desperate to survive, the legionaries launched themselves forward, carrying him with them.

Romulus kept his position at the front of the wedge. Brennus was pounding along on his right and Gordianus on his left. Soon they were running at full tilt, their shields held high against Scythian arrows. Those behind could not run and hold their scuta over their heads, which meant speed was vital. Once the mounted archers started releasing, the men in the middle would begin to die.

The Scythians responded to the Roman charge by urging their horses into a canter. All had arrows already fitted to their bowstrings. To a man, they drew back and prepared to release.

Less than a hundred paces separated the two sides.

Arrows shot up in graceful arcs and whistled down amongst the legionaries. The man directly behind Brennus went down, shot through the cheek. More shafts thumped into Romulus’ and Gordianus’ shields, making them awkward to carry, but there was no chance to rip them out. The veteran began muttering a prayer to Mars, the god of war.

Sweat ran down Romulus’ face and into the cut below his right eye. The salt stung, and he used the pain to focus himself. Some of the legionaries still had javelins left, he thought. Hit any of the Scythians and they’ll fall off. Open up the formation. Maybe give us enough room to get through. Mithras, protect us. Give us the strength to survive.

Fifty paces.

‘Ready pila,’ he yelled. ‘At my command, loose at will.’

Brennus smiled proudly. Romulus was turning into a leader.

Used to obeying orders, all those with javelins cocked their right arms back. Throwing while running was something they had all been trained to do.

Another flurry of arrows landed. Men made soft, choking noises as metal points skewered their throats; they screamed as eyeballs ruptured. Others were hit in the lower legs where their shields left them exposed. The falling bodies tripped up those immediately behind, and the legionaries at the rear had to just trample over them regardless. Injured, dying or simply winded, it was every man for himself now.

Thirty paces. Good javelin range.

‘Aim at the front riders,’ shouted Romulus one more time. ‘Loose!’

It was difficult enough to aim a pilum accurately when standing still. At the run, it was much harder. At Romulus’ command, eight or ten flew forward at the approaching horsemen. Most landed short. Just two found their mark, both striking the tattooed lead rider in the chest. Killed instantly, he toppled sideways and fell off. His body was trampled at once by the horses behind.

Gordianus cheered.

As Romulus had hoped, the dead man’s mount turned away from the Roman wedge, eager to escape. Now there was a small gap in the enemy ranks. He aimed straight for it.

But the other Scythians kept up a relentless fire of arrows. At twenty paces, they were hardly able to miss the unfortunate legionaries. With every step, men dropped into the snow, their blood staining it a deep red.

Someone tried to speak, but the words were unintelligible. Romulus turned his head. Gordianus had been hit at the top of his left shoulder, just above where his chain mail shirt ended.

The veteran’s face was stunned. He tried again to speak, but couldn’t. His hand rose to the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh, then fell away. Gordianus knew that pulling out the arrow would only kill him quicker.

Grief filled Romulus, but there was nothing he could do. Gordianus was a dead man.

Dropping his gladius, the veteran leaned over and firmly gripped Romulus’ shoulder with his right hand. His lips framed two silent words: ‘My friend.’

With a leaden heart, Romulus nodded.

With the last of his strength, Gordianus pushed him away. As he did, a Scythian spear took him in his exposed left side. At such close range, it punched straight through the chain mail. Gordianus’ eyes opened wide and he slumped to his knees.

Unable to watch, Romulus turned away.

‘Steady, lad,’ Brennus shouted. ‘I’m still here.’

But the battle was not going well. Horsemen were sweeping down the sides of the shrunken wedge, loosing arrows from point-blank range. Their effect was terrifying and devastating. There was no let-up in the onslaught either. With a tight turning circle, the horses were simply riding around, repeating their attacks time and again.

By now, the wedge had ground to a halt. With every casualty, another gap was created in the shield wall, making it even harder to stop the Scythian arrows and spears. Romulus judged that fewer than forty legionaries remained uninjured. And they were rapidly losing the will to fight.

Then he saw why. A horde of infantry was closing in from the rear to seal their fate.

Romulus shook his head. Mithras had turned his face away. Of Jupiter there was no sign. This was where they would die. ‘It’s over,’ he said wearily.

‘It’s never over,’ roared Brennus. Grabbing a pilum from a dead soldier at his feet, he hurled it at an approaching rider. His effort was magnificent, hitting the Scythian in the chest with such force that he was thrown backwards off his mount.

Almost immediately another replaced him.

The Gaul scowled; to Romulus it just seemed another example of how the gods had discarded them.

Brennus’ mouth opened in a sudden warning. His hand reached up to grab the hilt of his longsword.

There was a heavy impact and Romulus’ vision doubled. Blinding pain filled his head and his knees crumpled, letting him fall to the ground.

‘No!’ cried Brennus. ‘You stupid bastard!’

It was the last thing Romulus heard.

Chapter XI: The Warrior God

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

Although angered by Secundus’ response to her question, Fabiola wisely kept her counsel. Her safety was quite fragile. ‘I apologise,’ she muttered.

An awkward silence fell, and Fabiola turned to see how Sextus was doing. His treatment was nearly over. Once Janus had removed all dirt and metal fragments from the eye socket, he had washed it out with acetum. Now there was a neat cloth bandage in place over the gaping hole. His face clean, Sextus was drinking from a small clay cup.

Janus saw her looking. ‘Papaverum,’ he said, cleaning his hands in a bowl of water. ‘One of the most powerful painkillers.’

‘How is it made?’ Fabiola had little idea what went into the strange concoctions made by apothecaries; theirs was a trade which guarded its secrets jealously.