The Silver Eagle

Stay calm, Romulus thought. He’ll make a mistake eventually. They always do.

From behind him came the unmistakable sound of a man crying out in pain.

Romulus couldn’t help himself. He turned to see what had happened. Optatus had sliced Brennus across his left arm, opening a long cut from his elbow to his wrist. As blood welled from the wound, the Gaul desperately retreated, trying to avoid further injury.

Too late, the young soldier remembered Ammias. In slow motion, he spun back. His enemy’s shield boss hit him full in the chest and Romulus heard a dull crack as two of his ribs broke. Used like this, the Roman scutum was an excellent offensive weapon. Stars cascaded across Romulus’ vision and he landed heavily, dropping his sword.

At once Ammias kicked it out of reach. Snarling with rage, he stooped over Romulus. ‘You killed my friend,’ he growled. ‘And the Gaulish bastard did for Primitivus. Now it’s your turn.’

Romulus clenched his jaw in an effort not to cry out. Sharp needles were stabbing him with every breath. Sensing his weakness, the grinning veteran kicked him viciously.

He nearly passed out from the pain.

‘Like that?’ gloated Ammias. ‘Slave scum.’

Romulus could not answer. Through slitted eyes, he saw his opponent’s gladius rise up.

Roars of approval came from the watching legionaries. The unexpected entertainment was proving to be hugely enjoyable. It was all the better if one of their comrades was victorious.

Enjoying his moment of victory, Ammias paused.

Romulus knew that death was an instant away. When the sword came down, his life would be over. A procession of thoughts flashed through his mind. Now there would be no chance to help Brennus. Or Tarquinius. No possible return to Rome. No reunion with Fabiola. And no revenge on Gemellus.

Had Jupiter and Mithras protected him for so long, only for him to die like a dog?

Scrabbling with his fingernails at the hard earth, Romulus managed to scoop up a small handful.

Grimacing, the veteran thrust downwards.

Ignoring the agony from his ribs, Romulus rolled to one side, sweeping up his arm at the same time. Ammias’ move brought him within reach, and at the last moment, the young soldier opened his hand. Particles of dirt filled his enemy’s eyes and his gladius plunged into the ground, missing Romulus by a handbreadth.

Blinded, Ammias cried out in agony.

Romulus seized the moment and punched him in the solar plexus, badly bruising his right fist against the veteran’s chain mail.

Letting go of his sword hilt, Ammias went down, his mouth open in an ‘O’ of surprise.

A shocked silence fell over the assembled soldiers.

Holding his ribs with his left hand, Romulus got to his knees.

Beside him, Ammias was rolling around, trying to find his gladius.

Romulus got there first. Pulling it free with a grunt of effort, he smashed the flat of the blade across his enemy’s face. There was a sound of cartilage breaking, which was followed by a strangled cry. Ammias reeled backwards, clutching his ruined nose. Blood poured from between his fingers; his eyes were inflamed and full of grit. He was no longer capable of fighting. Romulus briefly considered killing him. After all, Ammias was one of the men who had tried to murder him on multiple occasions, had been instrumental in turning the whole legion against him. But he was unarmed and unable to defend himself. Ripping Ammias’ scutum from his grip, Romulus stood.

He was no cold-blooded murderer. And Brennus needed his help.

With his opponent already weakened by blood loss, Optatus was doing his level best to kill the Gaul. It was only Brennus’ huge strength that had allowed him to continue resisting the legionary’s skilful attacks. When Optatus saw Romulus running over, his efforts redoubled. Punches with his shield were followed instantly by thrusts of his gladius. It was a deadly one-two combination and difficult to resist for long.

Ignoring the waves of pain from his broken ribs as best he could, Romulus neared the pair. Finally Optatus had to turn and face him.

‘On your own now,’ said Romulus, buying time. ‘How do you like that?’

Optatus could see the young soldier’s sides heaving, could imagine why he was winded. ‘Two injured slaves,’ he replied, his top lip lifting with contempt. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

It was a bad mistake. While they were talking, Brennus had retrieved Novius’ sword and shield. Despite his injury, the Gaul was now a second deadly opponent.

A moment later, the friends were poised on either side of the big legionary.

Optatus was no coward. He made no attempt to surrender or to run. Instead, he turned this way and that, wondering who would attack first.

But Romulus and Brennus held back. Both were reluctant to kill Optatus.

Sensing their indecision, the veteran lunged forward at Romulus.

He moved back a step, taking the blow on his shield. Optatus did not let up, thrusting again and again at Romulus’ face with his gladius. Without doubt, he was the toughest of the legionaries. If he could overcome the young soldier, there was a chance of his beating Brennus.

The Gaul could not stand by any longer. As Optatus drew back another time, he leaned in and sliced the veteran’s left hamstring with his blade.

Optatus collapsed with a loud groan, instinctively holding up his shield to protect himself. Still he asked for no quarter. Yet, lying on his back, he now had no chance at all.

Grudging admiration filled Romulus at his bravery. He looked to Pacorus for a similar reaction. Brennus did likewise.

It was not forthcoming. The commander’s face was creased with anger. Novius and his cronies had lied to him. Romulus’ and Brennus’ clemency to the veterans clearly demonstrated that. He snapped out an order and his archers raised their bows.

Romulus realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ he cried.

Brennus closed his eyes. He had seen things like this all too often.

A dozen arrows hummed through the air. Six pinned Optatus to the ground, while the remainder spitted Ammias through the chest and abdomen. Both were killed instantly.

Silence fell over the intervallum. Reaching into their quivers, the warriors fitted new shafts to their bowstrings.

‘So die all those who lie to me,’ shouted Pacorus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘I am the commander of the Forgotten Legion!’

Unwilling to meet his furious stare, the audience of soldiers looked down. Even Vahram avoided Pacorus’ eyes.

Romulus and Brennus moved closer together, uncertain how the volatile Parthian would react next.

Another order from the commander rang out.

At full draw, the archers’ bows swung to cover the two friends.

Chapter XIV: A New Ally

Rome, winter 53/52 BC

‘Only devotees may enter the Mithraeum,’ said Secundus in a hard voice. ‘And death is the penalty for those who break that rule.’

Fabiola trembled. In this, the centre of his power, she saw him in an entirely different light. Now Secundus was a tall, powerful figure, his authority exuding from every pore. Produced from a wooden chest, a golden staff had appeared in his left hand and a red Phrygian cap sat on his head. This was no impoverished army cripple, begging for a coin to feed himself. The face that Secundus gave to the world outside was a complete facade.

Ringing them angrily, his men shouted in agreement.