The Silver Eagle

When they returned, Pacorus was waiting at the fort’s main entrance with a party of his warriors. He called Vahram to his side and exchanged a few words with him before indicating that the legionaries should enter. As the ranks of the First Cohort began passing by, the commander dipped his head in acknowledgement. He seemed genuinely pleased by their victory.

Anger filled Romulus at the sight of the swarthy Parthian in his richly cut cloak, the picture of arrogant superiority. He longed to plunge his javelin into his chest, but of course he wouldn’t: he might gain his vengeance, but Tarquinius would still be a prisoner. The young soldier dared not act. He and Brennus had been fortunate to escape with their lives and avoid the commander since. He hoped that Pacorus had forgotten them for now. With Mithras’ blessing, it would stay that way. All the two friends could do was keep their heads down.

The First Cohort came to an abrupt halt and Romulus almost walked into the soldier ahead of him. Confused, men stood on tiptoe to see what was happening. A loud commotion came from the front. Angry shouts were met by a low, insistent voice which held one’s attention.

Recognition tickled the edges of Romulus’ memory.

Taller than nearly everyone, Brennus raised a hand to his eyes.

‘See anything?’ asked Romulus.

‘No,’ came the annoyed reply.

‘What’s going on?’ snarled Pacorus impatiently at the nearest centurion. ‘Move on!’

The officer scurried to obey, using liberal strokes of his vine cane on his men, but no one would budge.

A stooped figure wrapped in a heavy blanket emerged from the gateway. Shuffling rather than walking, it limped towards Pacorus. Superstitious gasps rose from the soldiers as they saw who it was.

Positioned on the outside of the rank, Romulus could see more than the Gaul. Sadness and euphoria filled him at the same time.

All the colour drained from Brennus’ face. ‘Is it.?’ he began.

‘Yes,’ answered Romulus simply.

They had not seen him for months, but only one person in the camp had the ability to cause such confusion.

Angry that his order had not been obeyed, Pacorus snapped out another. Two of his men ran to stand before the figure, challenging it first in Parthian and then in bad Latin. There was no answer.

Another command rang out and one warrior stepped forward, roughly pulling away the blanket from the newcomer’s head. Obviously weak, he tottered backwards and nearly fell. Somehow he regained his balance and stepped forward. The Parthians blocked the move at once, but the man stood proudly, staring at Pacorus across their outstretched arms.

As Tarquinius’ face was revealed to those nearby, Romulus bit back the cry of horror that sprang to his lips. The haruspex had aged ten years. There were grey streaks in his long blond hair and new worry lines furrowed his entire face, giving him the appearance of an old man. The blanket had slipped away from his now bony shoulders, exposing his flesh, which was beaten and badly bruised. But the worst thing of all was the red, recently healed burn on Tarquinius’ left cheek. It was the shape of a knife blade.

‘They’ve tortured him,’ hissed Romulus, moving out of rank.

The Gaul’s great hand gripped his right arm, stopping him.

Romulus’ protest died away. ‘Each man’s fate is his own’ was one of the haruspex’ staple sayings. It was not his place to intervene. And Tarquinius had engineered this situation.

‘You!’ said Pacorus with a sneer. ‘Come to see what my troops have done without you?’

His warriors laughed.

Tarquinius licked his dry, cracked lips and Romulus’ heart ached.

‘Enough!’ barked the commander. ‘Move on,’ he shouted at the centurions.

‘Hold.’ Tarquinius’ voice was not loud, but every man heard what he said. Remarkably, no one moved.

Pacorus swelled with fury, yet the two Parthians holding the haruspex also seemed less certain.

‘The Scythians have been defeated,’ said Tarquinius. ‘That danger is gone.’

Pacorus could not stop the smirk that formed on his lips. He raised his arms in triumph, and his warriors cheered. Even the legionaries looked pleased.

Tarquinius waited until they had all stopped. ‘What of the Indians though?’ he asked softly.

Shock replaced the happiness in men’s faces. The five words hung in the air, which had suddenly turned clammy. Romulus glanced at Brennus, who shrugged.

‘The Indians?’ Pacorus laughed, but it rang hollow. ‘They would have to defeat the Bactrians before coming anywhere near Margiana.’

‘They have already done so.’

Pacorus’ complexion turned pale grey. ‘Spring has only just started,’ he retorted.

‘A hundred miles to the south, the snows have melted early,’ came the instant response. ‘And Bactria’s army has been crushed.’

The commander was visibly deflated.

‘A huge army is on the move towards us,’ Tarquinius continued. ‘The Indian king Azes desires more land. Unchecked, he will sweep through Margiana.’

Pacorus’ miserable expression spoke volumes. Tarquinius had mentioned this once, a long time ago. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Thirty thousand infantry,’ intoned the haruspex. ‘And perhaps five thousand cavalry. Battle chariots too.’

Shouts of disbelief rose into the air from the nearest legionaries.

‘A small threat,’ growled Pacorus, trying to shrug it off.

Tarquinius’ eyes were dark pits. ‘There are also elephants. One hundred of them at least.’

Now the soldiers began to look scared and the Parthian’s shoulders slumped.

Romulus’ joy at seeing his mentor again began to dissolve. This was the doom of the Forgotten Legion. And of his friends too. He knew it. Wrapped in new misery, he did not notice Brennus’ reaction.

There was a long silence before Pacorus finally regained control of his emotions. ‘Back to barracks. At once!’ he muttered. Morale would be affected if even more was revealed, but judging by the unhappy voices among the ranks of the First, that was already happening.

The centurions and optiones hurriedly obeyed. With kicks and curses, and blows from their vine canes, they got the men moving.

‘We must talk,’ the commander said to Tarquinius.

The haruspex gravely inclined his head. Despite his horrific injuries, there was still an air of gravitas about him.

Romulus and Brennus marched on. Tarquinius’ head turned as they came alongside. Romulus’ eyes and his met, before Tarquinius’ gaze moved to Brennus. He grinned at them, and it was impossible not to respond. The greatest threat to their lives might lie ahead, but they were all still alive.

And then they had tramped past, under the arched gateway and the sentries on the ramparts. A maelstrom of emotions could be felt in the First’s ranks. The legionaries’ elation at their stunning victory had been utterly diluted by the haruspex’ ominous words. After Novius’ accusations, Tarquinius had automatically been tarred with the same brush as Romulus and Brennus. Being incarcerated, no one could accuse him of being an escaped slave, yet he was guilty by association. But kinder memories of the terrible march east from Seleucia were also vivid. That was when Tarquinius had become widely known, nursing the sick and wounded. Moreover, his prophecies invariably came to pass, which had earned him huge respect throughout the Forgotten Legion.

If Tarquinius said that an invasion was imminent, few men would argue.

They would soon need all the luck Fortuna was prepared to throw their way.

Pacorus had indeed taken Tarquinius’ words to heart. That evening, all centurions were ordered to the Praetoria. There it was announced that the legion would march south the next day. Only a small group of warriors and those who were unable to march would be left behind. Every single ballista made by the bored armourers during the quiet winter months was to be taken. Fortunately the tough mules which had accompanied the prisoners east from Seleucia were well fed. Theirs would be a tough job too. As well as food, spare equipment and the engines of war, the pack animals had to carry hay for themselves, the long spears and the tents.