The Silver Eagle

‘Don’t go far,’ Secundus advised.

Fabiola had no intention of doing so. Even with Sextus at her back, she did not feel safe unless there were plenty of armed men in view. They walked to the river, which swept past, swollen by winter rainfall in the Apennine Mountains. Huge pieces of wood spun in lazy circles, revealing the immense power of the water carrying them by. Like most Romans, Fabiola could not swim. Falling into the torrent would mean certain death by drowning. She shuddered at the thought and turned away. Anxious to lift her sombre mood, she looked up at the sky.

Clouds were scudding across it, illuminated from beneath by the setting sun. The strong wind was from the north, and it promised more snow. Fabiola knew this from the grey-yellow colour of the clouds, and from the biting chill that numbed her fingers and toes. Their journey was going to get even more difficult, she thought wearily. Unease sneaked over her, and Fabiola hurried back to the tents, eager to get away from the threatening weather. Sextus followed, also glancing unhappily into the darkening air.

The wind speed increased through the evening, until it had become a shrieking voice that drowned out all sound. Extra pegs had to be placed to hold the tents securely to the ground. Secundus ordered the sentries doubled, positioning them close enough so they could see each other. Chilled to the bone, Fabiola and Docilosa went to bed fully dressed and even earlier than normal. It was rare to stay up past sunset anyway. What was there to do by the light of guttering oil lamps now, other than brood? Which is what the young woman found herself doing anyway.

Even if they reached Gaul without further mishap, who knew if they would find Brutus amid the carnage and mayhem? With the whole country in revolt against the Romans, travel had become more dangerous than in Italy. Bands of brigands competed with dispossessed tribesmen for whatever pickings could be found. While the men accompanying her were solid veterans, they would not be able to withstand a large Gaulish war party.

Fabiola sighed. What point was there in worrying about the future? Right now, surviving from one day to the next was enough to deal with. Tomorrow was another day. Trying to keep this sentiment to the forefront of her mind, she finally fell asleep.

Cries of alarm roused her from a deep slumber. Thankfully, the howling wind had died away. Dull light penetrated through the tent fabric, telling Fabiola it was early morning. Throwing off the thick blankets, she pulled her pugio from under her pillow. Never again would Fabiola be overcome as she had been on the street in Rome.

Docilosa was also awake. ‘What are you doing, Mistress?’ she asked, looking alarmed.

Without answering, Fabiola moved to the door and partially unlaced the flap, which allowed her to see the area in front of their tent. ‘Sextus is gone.’

‘It could be dangerous,’ warned Docilosa. ‘Stay here.’

Ignoring her, the young woman stepped into the morning air. To her relief, Sextus was only a few steps away. Clutching his gladius with white knuckles, his gaze was fixed on the blood-soaked figure which lay in the thick snow just beyond the next tent. Fabiola joined him.

Secundus and two of his men were crouched over the body.

It was one of the sentries. And his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The frozen snow around him had turned red, a shocking clash of colours in the dawn light.

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t know, Mistress,’ answered Sextus grimly. ‘I’ve heard nothing all night.’

Noticing Fabiola, Secundus turned to face her. His face looked older than she remembered. His hands were covered in blood.

‘His name was Antoninus,’ the veteran said heavily. ‘He served with me for ten years.’

Fabiola’s heart went out to him. ‘Who did it?’

Secundus shrugged. ‘The same bastards who killed Servius, I guess.’

Shocked, she looked at him questioningly.

‘There’s another one over there,’ he revealed. ‘Both were covered in snow, so it must have happened during the storm. Any footprints have been well covered.’

Fear clenched Fabiola’s stomach. ‘Bandits?’ she asked.

‘Could be,’ said Secundus angrily. ‘Damn smart ones though, to get so close without any of us knowing. Antoninus and Servius were good men.’

Fabiola went white. She knew a man who was a real expert at tracking.

Scaevola.

Chapter XV: A New Threat

Margiana, winter/spring 53/52 BC

The archers stared down their arrow shafts at Romulus and Brennus, waiting for the command to release. Despite the friends’ chain mail, the short distance between them meant that the barbed iron points would tear their flesh to pieces.

Romulus’ pulse was pounding in the hollow of his throat.

Resignation filled Brennus. The pain of Optatus’ sword cut was as nothing compared to having the satisfaction of victory taken away and replaced with the threat of summary execution. Again. As a gladiator, at least he had been applauded after winning a fight. Here, he was an expendable piece of meat. If he was to die, Brennus wanted it to be as a free man, not as a prisoner or a slave.

Pacorus was about to speak when one of the sentries on the rampart bothered to glance out eastwards. Like his companions, the soldier had been totally absorbed by the combat being fought below his position. His hoarse cry of alarm drew everyone’s attention away from the pair of sweating figures standing over the legionaries’ corpses.

‘A messenger comes!’ he roared. ‘He’s signalling that an enemy is near.’

As with all units on guard duty, there was a trumpeter standing by. Quickly he put his bronze instrument to his lips and blew a short, sharp series of notes that everyone recognised.

The alarm.

Pacorus’ mouth twisted with apprehension. Before they came within shouting range, riders could raise their right arm to warn their comrades of danger. This was clearly what the sentry had seen. ‘Get to the gate,’ he barked at Vahram. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

The squat primus pilus snapped off a salute and trotted away.

Pacorus turned back to Romulus and Brennus, who were still being covered by his archers. ‘How many did you see out there?’

‘One to two thousand, sir,’ answered Romulus confidently. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘Mostly infantry?’ asked Pacorus hopefully. A much weakened people compared to their heyday centuries before, the Scythians were still feared opponents of any army. Especially their skilled horsemen.

‘About half of each, sir.’

Grey-faced, their commander sucked in a ragged breath. His forces were nearly all foot soldiers. ‘Five hundred to a thousand horse,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Mithras damn them all.’

The friends waited.

So did the Parthian bowmen.

The primus pilus arrived with a warrior on a lathered mount a few moments later. His words confirmed those of Romulus. But instead of advancing further towards the fort, the Scythians were heading north again — in the direction of their own lands and the other fortlets. Satisfied for the moment, Pacorus muttered an order to his men, who finally lowered their bows. Suddenly there were more important things on the commander’s mind than the execution of two ordinary soldiers.

The tension in Romulus’ shoulders began to dissipate, and he let out a long, slow breath.

‘Present yourselves to the optio in the first century of the primus pilus’ cohort,’ Pacorus snapped. ‘He can keep an eye on you there.’

‘Gladly, sir,’ said Vahram, leering at them. ‘There’ll be no question of desertion while I’m around.’

Romulus imagined the punishment duties that the sadistic Parthian would come up with. And yet they were