The Silver Eagle

alive, he thought gratefully. Brennus nudged him and they ran off, both trying not to let their injuries show. It was best not to wait for Pacorus to reconsider, and what the volatile primus pilus might do later scarcely seemed to matter.

Behind them, they heard Pacorus speak to Vahram. ‘I want the whole legion ready to march in an hour. Have all the long spears issued as well.’

‘Sir.’

‘The silk-covered shields should withstand their poison arrows,’ he went on. ‘And the spears will break their charge.’

It was the last thing that Romulus heard. Rounding a corner on to the Via Principia, they trotted along, ignoring the curious stares thrown in their direction. Soon they found themselves at their new barracks. The most important cohort in the Legion, the First was under Vahram’s personal command. Being the primus pilus was in fact two jobs: running his own unit of six centuries, as well as being the ranking senior centurion in the Forgotten Legion.

The optio of the first century was a dour Capuan called Aemilius and they found him standing in the narrow corridor, yelling orders at his men. He looked surprised to see the pair, as did the legionaries present. Everyone in the camp had heard Novius’ malicious gossip, and sour comments immediately filled the air.

Ignoring them, Romulus relayed their orders and saluted.

‘Pacorus himself sent you?’ Aemilius repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Romulus, stiffening to attention again. Brennus did likewise.

If it was humanly possible, they had to get on Aemilius’ good side from the start. Otherwise the two most senior officers in the century would be out for their blood. And that was before the legionaries became involved.

Aemilius rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘Escaped slaves, eh?’

All the men listening craned their heads to see.

There was no point denying it any longer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Romulus replied, although he no longer felt like one. Training as a soldier, fighting battles and surviving this far had given him a seasoned confidence beyond that of an ordinary slave.

Slavery had never sat easily on Brennus’ broad shoulders, but he held his tongue too. Here, remaining silent was the same as agreeing with Romulus.

While the nearby soldiers hissed with disapproval, Aemilius did not react. Romulus hid his surprise at this. It was a tiny spark of hope.

‘You were on Darius’ patrol?’

Both nodded.

‘And what they say,’ said the optio, his stare piercing, ‘is it true? Did you run away?’

‘No, sir,’ protested Romulus fiercely.

‘The men who did are lying dead on the intervallum, sir,’ added Brennus. ‘We just bested the three of them, unarmed.’

Gasps of disbelief filled the corridor. The First Cohort’s barracks was beside the Praetoria, a long distance from the front gate. Busy with routine duties, none here had witnessed the dramatic duel.

Aemilius’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did you, by Jupiter?’

‘Ask any of the other officers, sir,’ urged Romulus.

‘We’re no cowards,’ said Brennus.

Something told Romulus that the optio was a fair-minded man. He threw caution to the wind. ‘The gods helped us.’

The Gaul shook his shaggy head in agreement. After what they had been through, it did seem that way.

Superstitious mutters rippled between the legionaries.

Aemilius looked dubious. ‘I’ve seen you two on the training ground before,’ he said. ‘You’re good. Very good. More likely that’s why you’re standing here now.’

Romulus kept silent, breathing into the waves of pain from his ribs.

Aemilius relaxed. Then, noticing the deep cut on Brennus’ left forearm, he frowned. ‘You can’t hold a shield with that.’

‘Bit of strapping and I’ll be fine, sir. Don’t want to miss the fight,’ answered Brennus stolidly. ‘There are some deaths to be avenged.’

‘Whose?’

‘The men of our century, sir,’ Romulus interjected.

A slow smile appeared on the optio’s face. These two soldiers were brave at least. Time would tell if they were liars or not. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Have it seen to in the valetudinarium. Your young friend here can go to the armoury for kit and weapons.’

Romulus and Brennus hurried to obey.

There was a battle to fight.

In the event, the expected clash with the Scythians did not occur. Realising perhaps that the response to their attack would be rapid and ruthless, the nomadic warriors had pulled back from where they had been spotted by the Parthian rider. Pacorus’ order for the men to carry enough supplies for several days turned out to be a fortunate one, as the legionaries marched fruitlessly after an enemy which had the advantage of being many miles away at the start of their pursuit. The exercise proved to be nothing more than an extended training march in winter conditions. Naturally, the soldiers were not pleased by this, but they had to obey.

After three days, with his men’s food running low, the Parthian commander was forced to call a halt. But he was determined not to give up. Upon their return to the fort, six cohorts were immediately provided with enough rations for a month and sent out again. Much of the winter passed in this fashion: searching an empty, frozen landscape for a wraithlike enemy. There were occasional skirmishes with the Scythians, but nothing decisive.

Like all the others, Romulus and Brennus took part in the sorties, marching alongside Aemilius and his men. Forced to join a contubernium, they had achieved grudging acceptance from the six legionaries with whom they lived, slept and ate every day. Yet there was no friendship and the other men in the century shunned them entirely. It was no better amongst the rest of the cohorts. Like Romulus and Brennus, Caius had fully recovered from his wound, and he was ceaseless in his efforts to foment bad feeling against the two friends. No one made direct attacks on them, but the threat was always there. They could not leave each other’s company, even to visit the latrines or baths.

It was an extremely wearing existence, and Romulus grew heartily sick of it. He and Brennus could not fight the entire legion. Desertion was their one option, although there was virtually nowhere to go. Well over a thousand miles of barren wilderness lay between the fort and the city of Seleucia in the west. It was hundreds more beyond that to Roman territory. To the north and east were unknown areas, populated by savage tribes like the Sogdians and Scythians. The land of Serica, where silk came from, lay even further eastwards, but he did not know where. Romulus had a single idea: to head south, through the kingdom of the Bactrians. Occasionally some of the Parthian warriors mentioned a great city called Barbaricum, where a mighty river met the sea. Romulus had seen it once on the Periplus, Tarquinius’ ancient, annotated map. He knew that Barbaricum was a bustling trade centre, where precious items such as spices, silk, jewels and ivory were bought and sold. From it, ships apparently sailed to Egypt, carrying goods that were worth a king’s ransom in Italy and Greece.

But Romulus had no idea how to reach it: the only possible route home.

And he would not leave without Tarquinius. Neither would Brennus. There was still no sign of the haruspex anyway. He was alive, yet, as before, he was kept under close guard in Pacorus’ quarters. Any attempt to free him would doubtless end in disaster, and so the pair watched, waited and endured for many cold months. All they could do was pray to the gods.

Spring arrived, and the six cohorts which were out on patrol surprised the Scythians in their camp. Utilising the dusk for an unusually timed attack, Vahram led his men to a stunning victory. Almost the entire force of raiders was annihilated in one short, brutal encounter. With little threat remaining, the primus pilus hurried back to the fort the next day. He was doing everything in his power to regain Pacorus’ approval. A pair of riders was sent on in advance to relay the good news.