The Silver Eagle

significant detail so far.

‘Vahram sent them away.’

Pacorus said nothing in response to Tarquinius’ intimation, but the muscles in his jaw bunched. What was the best thing to do? Vahram was a popular figure among the Parthian garrison, and executing him out of hand could prove risky. Obviously Ishkan was loyal, but could he rely on all the other senior centurions? Still not fully recovered, he was just beginning to understand how easily he could have been killed. Concealing his emotions, Pacorus turned to the primus pilus. ‘It was foolish to go this far,’ he barked. ‘He’s useful in his own way.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Vahram waited to see if there was more.

‘I want you supervising sentry duty for the next three months,’ the commander ordered. ‘Consider yourself lucky not to be demoted.’

Vahram saluted, delighted that his punishment was so light. Tarquinius had revealed nothing and now he could continue to plot against Pacorus.

They were interrupted by the sound of running feet in the avenue outside. A sentry’s challenge rang out, and was answered. Then the front gate creaked open.

Pacorus stared at Ishkan, who shrugged. Vahram looked similarly puzzled.

Above, the storm had abated. Tarquinius could determine nothing of relevance in what he saw. They were all in the dark.

A few moments later, a cloaked legionary emerged into the courtyard, accompanied by one of the Parthian warriors who guarded Pacorus’ quarters. Both saluted and stood to attention.

‘What is it?’ cried Pacorus impatiently.

‘This is one of the sentries from the main gate, sir,’ said the Parthian. ‘Some of Darius’ men have returned.’

A cold sweat broke out on Tarquinius’ forehead. Like him, Romulus and Brennus served in Darius’ cohort. Where had they been?

Confused, the commander turned to Vahram.

‘I sent out a patrol two days ago, sir,’ explained the primus pilus. ‘There had been no word from the fortlet to the east.’

Satisfied, Pacorus indicated that the legionary should speak.

‘Three men have just got back, sir,’ he faltered.

‘Messengers?’

‘No, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘Survivors.’

All the senior officers gasped. Tarquinius managed to stay silent, but his gaze was locked on the sentry.

‘When they got to the fortlet, the garrison had already been massacred, sir. More Scythian raiders, apparently.’

Tarquinius’ mind was suddenly filled with the image he had seen of a barrack-room floor covered in blood. And of the red flashes against the snowy landscape. Scythians always rode red-coloured horses. His misery deepened.

‘They said that Darius sent two riders back with the news,’ the soldier went on.

‘We’ve heard nothing,’ interrupted Vahram.

‘They’ll have been intercepted,’ said Ishkan grimly.

Nervous, the sentry waited.

‘Go on,’ demanded Pacorus.

‘Same lot attacked the patrol, sir. Annihilated it at dawn the next day as it was trying to retreat here.’

‘Leaving three soldiers out of. ’

‘Two centuries, sir,’ answered Vahram.

‘And Darius? Is he here?’

The sentry shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

Pacorus scowled. Nearly one hundred and sixty men dead, and now Darius. One of his best officers. ‘How many Scythians?’ he asked.

The question had to be repeated.

‘They said a few thousand, sir,’ said the fearful sentry at last.

All the colour left Pacorus’ face. ‘Mithras above,’ he muttered, wishing he were fully recovered.

‘It’s the middle of winter,’ Vahram ranted. ‘The mountain passes to Scythia are blocked with snow!’

‘Where are they?’ Pacorus demanded. ‘These survivors?’

‘The duty optio sent them to the valetudinarium, sir,’ replied the sentry. ‘They’re suffering from exposure and frostbite.’

‘I don’t give a damn!’ screamed the commander, his face going puce. ‘Bring them here at once!’

The sentry and the Parthian warrior scuttled from sight, grateful not to have been punished.

‘This cannot go unanswered,’ Pacorus growled, waving Vahram and Ishkan into his chamber. Almost as an afterthought, he looked back at Tarquinius. ‘Cut those ropes,’ he ordered Ishkan’s men. ‘Carry him in here.’

The haruspex gritted his teeth as he was borne none too gently inside and laid by the fire for the second time. While his body was torn and bruised, and his mind exhausted, he was anxious to hear all the news from the returned legionaries. Yet every breath, shallow or deep, hurt. Using all his powers of concentration, Tarquinius managed to keep himself alert while the Parthians waited. Pacorus quickly sat down on his bed, while Ishkan and Vahram took their places on stools alongside. Their low muttering filled the air. Some response would have to be made to the Scythian incursion. And fast. Although it was not campaigning weather, the tribesmen could not be left to ravage the area unchecked.

Tarquinius only cared about whether his friends had been on the ill-fated patrol or not. Everything else, even his own life, paled into insignificance.

After what seemed an age, there was a heavy knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ cried Pacorus.

A trio of legionaries shuffled in, their faces chapped and feet still blue with cold. They looked distinctly intimidated at being in the presence of the Forgotten Legion’s commander. Most low-rankers never came face to face with Pacorus, except to be punished. And unless their story was plausible, that was a distinct possibility. Pushed forward by a number of warriors, the men reluctantly moved to stand before the Parthian officers. They did not notice the bloodied man lying in a heap by the fire.

Tarquinius recognised them at once, and his heart sank. Novius, Optatus and Ammias were from his own century, which meant that Romulus and Brennus were dead. He lay back, rare tears welling in his eyes. After years of protection, Tinia had utterly forsaken him and those whom he loved. And Mithras, the god whom he had begun to trust, was no different.

‘Make your report,’ ordered Pacorus.

Naturally it was Novius who spoke. He related the story of the patrol with minimal emotion. Like many legionaries, he spoke little Parthian, so Ishkan translated. After Darius, he was the senior centurion who spoke most Latin. Apart from an occasional interruption from Pacorus or Vahram, the story was delivered to a silent, horrified audience. The final battle was particularly emotive for Tarquinius, who could almost see his friends dying beneath the showers of poisoned Scythian arrows.

Having related the two centuries’ fate, the little legionary paused. His life and that of his comrades hinged upon what transpired next. Cowardice was not tolerated in either the Roman or Parthian armies. Soldiers who ran from a battle were liable to be executed out of hand. Their reasons for surviving had to convince their commander.

And Tarquinius.

Pacorus knew exactly why Novius was uneasy. ‘How is it,’ he said, picking his words very carefully, ‘that you three escaped without any wounds?’

Ishkan translated.

‘The gods were smiling on us, sir,’ Novius replied at once. ‘It wasn’t as if we were the only ones not to be hit. When the testudo collapsed at the end, two other lads broke free with us, but they were struck by arrows as we ran.’

Optatus and Ammias grimaced in unison.