The Silver Eagle

to lay the surface. With a plain stripe of dark colour running along the walls, the passage centre was divided into seven panels, each of which was filled with various symbols. It was immediately clear that what she was seeing was of huge importance.

The first depicted a black bird with a powerful beak, a caduceus, the symbol of commerce, and a small cup. Fabiola was delighted by the raven’s image. And yet the majestic bird, one of her favourites, only represented the first stage.

The second square contained an oil lamp and a diadem. She walked forward, her eyes soaking in the wealth of information on the floor surface. There followed a lance, helmet and sling bag, and then a fire shovel, a rattle and Jupiter’s thunderbolt.

Already a deep sense of reverence and of belonging had calmed Fabiola’s initial nervousness. The panels clearly represented symbols sacred to the worshippers of Mithras. She longed to know what they meant.

The next stage was represented by a sickle, a dagger and a crescent moon with a star. Second from the end was a square filled with a torch, a whip and an ornate seven-rayed crown. The last had in it a Phrygian cap, a staff, a libation bowl and a large sickle. The cap was the same as that worn by the statue of Mithras in the atrium above.

Air moved over her face, telling her that the passageway had opened out. Moving slowly forward into the darkness, she lifted her lamp to light others in brackets on the wall. Their yellow glow revealed a long, rectangular room, its slatted roof supported by regularly placed wooden posts which had been driven into the floor. Low stone seating ran the entire length of both side walls. Covered in inscriptions, three small stone altars dominated the far end of the chamber. Above them, on the back wall, was a massive, brightly painted representation of the tauroctony. Crimson blood spurted from the wound in the bull’s neck, and Mithras’ dark green cloak was covered in bright dots of light that could only be stars. A male figure stood on either side of the god, each bearing a torch, one upright and the other pointing downwards. Positioned around him were animals and objects: Fabiola made out a raven, a cup and a lion. There was also a dog, a scorpion and a snake. More images covered the plaster panels to her left and right. Her mouth dropped at their quality and detail.

There were men feasting around a table, waited on by others bearing drinking cups and plates of what looked like bread marked with an ‘X’. In others she could see Mithras in his Phrygian cap holding hands with an imposing golden figure wearing the seven-rayed crown. Was this the sun? The same god-like creature was in many of the pictures, seated with Mithras behind the dead bull’s body, standing in a horse-drawn chariot, accepting gifts from lesser mortals. Even the floor was decorated. Its tiles were divided into twelve squares, depicting a variety of animals and symbols: twin children, a ram, a bull, a scales and a scorpion among others.

By now, Fabiola was reeling with the wealth of information she had just been exposed to.

She tiptoed across the mosaic, beginning to feel very self-conscious. Although there was no one else in the chamber, it felt as if there were. Her nerves returned, making her palms sweaty. Standing before the trio of altars, Fabiola looked up at Mithras. Had a woman ever stood here in this way? Should she leave? Blood pounded in her ears, but nothing struck her down.

Her eyes were caught by a small phial which was standing on the central plinth. Made of expensive blue glass, it had a delicately wrought top in the shape of a lion’s head. Her hand reached out and picked it up.

This is the moment of truth, Fabiola decided, pulling out the stopper. She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. She smelt a faint, attractive odour and instinctively knew that the contents were there to be drunk during rituals. This is my sacred time, Fabiola thought fiercely. Mithras will understand. Or he will poison me. It was time to place her trust completely in the warrior deity. Her heart raced for a few beats, but Fabiola allowed the sensation of calm that pervaded the chamber to regain control once more. Surely the god had brought her here? Who was she to resist? After the day’s dramatic events, she had nothing to lose. Tipping back her head, Fabiola poured the liquid into her mouth. It tasted light and sweet, with a powerful undercurrent of unfamiliar flavour.

Replacing the phial on the altar, she swallowed.

For a long time, nothing happened. She began to feel disappointed.

Then it seemed to Fabiola that drums began to pound, a simple, repetitive beat which drew her in and down, its rhythm mesmeric. Instead of feeling alarmed, she felt euphoric. Mithras was here, in the room. She could feel him.

The drums’ speed increased, rising to a crescendo of sound that shook the walls. Unaware of where she was, Fabiola stood motionless, absorbing the energy. Gradually the pounding died away, to be replaced by another, quieter sequence. She felt herself falling, falling, but there was no impact of the hard floor against her back. More hypnotic drumming followed, bringing Fabiola seamlessly into another world, an incredible place where she saw through the eyes of a flying bird. Blinking hard and trying to bring back the small chamber made no difference. If she now turned her head, Fabiola could see shiny black feathers sitting perfectly arranged on powerful wings. Had she really become a raven? Strangely, she felt no terror. Instead there was only joy.

It seemed completely natural to soar high in the sunlit sky, riding currents of air that allowed her to reach great speeds or to hang motionless, scanning the ground below. For long moments Fabiola revelled in just being, rejoicing in the freedom that flight granted and the view of the earth laid out as she had never seen before. Rivers wound sinuously through the landscape; hills and ice-capped mountains ran in short, stubby lines or immense, jagged ranges. The green stain of forests covered parts of the vista. Human settlements were scattered here and there; the dirt roads joining them appearing as mere ribbons. Where was she?

Movement on a great plain drew her attention and she flew lower, unseen by the two armies that were regarding each other from a safe standoff range. Along one side of the battlefield ran a river, wider than any she had ever seen. Now Fabiola was sure that it wasn’t Italy. This place was far from anywhere that she knew.

Combat would commence soon, but for the moment the generals were trying to gauge their enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, while their soldiers prayed and wiped the sweat from their clammy foreheads. Before long though, men would begin to die. Judging from the flat terrain and good weather, Fabiola knew that it would be in large numbers.

In the ranks of the host directly beneath her, sunlight sparkled off metal. Eyesight far more powerful than she normally possessed instantly focused on its source. What she saw was so incredible that it seemed beyond belief. There, among the massed ranks of soldiers, Fabiola saw a solitary silver eagle.

Here in an alien land, a Roman standard.

There was nothing else it could be. With powerful, outstretched wings, talons gripping a golden thunderbolt and borne by a man wearing a wolf-skin headdress, this was the talismanic symbol that led every legion into combat. Fabiola studied the figures around the silver eagle, seeing now the rounded bowls of their crested bronze helmets, the elongated, oval scuta they bore, the neat lines in which they stood. Surely these were Roman legionaries? But not everything about them fitted. Instead of pila, many men carried long, heavy spears, and their metal shield bosses were obscured by fabric. The officers standing to the side of each unit also looked out of place, carrying bows and wearing odd-looking conical hats and embroidered tunics and trousers. If these were legionaries, they were like none that she had ever seen before.

Confused, Fabiola had begun to climb away from the forces beneath her when a powerful image of a huge, pig-tailed warrior suddenly came to mind. He was flanked by a slim, blond-haired man who carried a double-headed axe. Memories stirred in the depths of the young woman’s soul, struggling to emerge into the raven’s consciousness. Then it was clear. The Gaul was here. With another guide. Fabiola’s heart sang with joy.

Romulus might be alive!

But there was no time to search for him.

‘What are you doing here?’ cried an angry voice.

Someone took hold of Fabiola, turning her wing into a hand once more.

No, she thought desperately. Leave me here! Great Mithras, let me find my brother. See him, in the flesh. Fabiola pulled away, resuming her shape and swooping down on a fortunate draught of air. Free for a dozen heartbeats, she shot across the open ground in the plain’s centre, horrified to see that the other army outnumbered the Roman one many times. Infantry armed with every weapon under the sun were flanked by skirmishers carrying slings and bows. There were thousands of archers, both in chariots and on horseback. Worst of all, three squadrons of enormous grey, armoured creatures waited in the enemy’s midst, flapping ears, long trunks and fearsome tusks tipped with metal adding to their fearsome aura. They had to be elephants, Fabiola thought. Each carrying two or three bowmen on their broad backs, these animals were