The Silver Eagle

‘Should?’ Fabiola enquired archly.

Secundus shrugged. ‘If the gods are smiling on us.’

‘And the slaves?’

Secundus grimaced. ‘They’re untrained and unarmed. Have to take their own chances.’

‘We have no spare weapons. Save yourselves,’ Fabiola ordered the four slaves. ‘Run into the trees when we attack. With luck, they’ll never find you. Head back to Brutus’ house in Rome if you can.’

A couple of them nodded fearfully.

Then mistress and servant stared at each other; Docilosa’s face full of uncertainty.

Another volley of arrows hit the shields of the veterans at the front.

‘Give me a dagger,’ said Docilosa abruptly.

‘That’s the spirit,’ grinned Secundus.

One of his men tugged a pugio from his belt and handed it over.

They did not delay any longer. Keeping their helmeted faces low behind their scuta, the ex-soldiers moved away from the protection of the litter. Fabiola and Docilosa scuttled behind them, with Sextus by their side. The sallow-faced man assumed the lead position, while three others formed each side of the wedge. Ushering Sextus and the two women within, Secundus and the injured veteran closed up the rear.

Cries of alarm rose as their ambushers saw what was about to happen. More arrows flew through the air.

‘Now!’ cried Secundus.

Mud squelched underfoot as they broke into a run.

Twenty paces and the ground began to grow uneven. The wedge’s speed slowed dramatically as each person had to look where they placed their feet. Fabiola concentrated hard on staying upright, knowing that a fall would probably be fatal.

‘Don’t stop!’ yelled Secundus. ‘Keep moving!’

Clambering over rough logs with protruding branches that ripped and tore at their lower legs, the veterans pushed up on to the barrier. They were close enough now to make out the faces of their enemies. In between helping Docilosa find her footing and managing not to lose her own, Fabiola scanned the shouting ruffians, searching for any she might recognise.

Two men hurled themselves at the sallow-faced veteran who led the wedge’s point. The first got a shield boss full in the face and went down screaming. Wary now, his comrade slowed down a trifle. Then he lunged viciously at the ex-legionary’s foot with his curved knife. As the thug bent down, the next man in line leaned over and stabbed him through the chest with his gladius. A gush of blood spattered on to the rocks; now two of their ambushers were out of action.

The wedge advanced slowly up the barrier, arrows and small rocks banging off the shields. Several more thugs slammed into it, trying to reach the veterans. They met swift ends from efficient sword thrusts. All that needed to be done was disable the enemy, Fabiola realised. It was not necessary to kill each one. After a gladius blade had opened a man’s belly or sliced deep into the muscles of his arm or leg, he wasn’t about to pose any further problem. Respect and a little hope filled Fabiola as they continued. It was terrifying, and incredible, to witness. She could easily imagine how an enemy might be punched apart using the ‘V’ shaped formation in a battle.

Then everything became a blur.

A ruffian with long, greasy hair shoulder-charged the smallest veteran on the wedge’s left side. The impact and the uneven ground were sufficient for the short ex-soldier’s caligae to skid on a rock. Stabbing the thug through the chest as he fell, he also collided with the comrade on his left. This in turn caused the last man to stumble, and the wedge broke apart. With more men, they might have managed to haul each other up again, but there simply weren’t enough. Their heavy scuta were now a hindrance rather than a help, leaving the fallen completely at the mercy of their enemies. With roars of triumph, more ambushers swarmed in, spitting the three helpless veterans like boys might spike fallen apples with sticks.

Fabiola’s eyes opened wide with horror. There was no one between her and the ruffians now; the nearest ones were clearly visible. Fabiola recognised none, but was dismayed to count at least six. And there were more attacking the other side. Then Fabiola’s heart stopped. Twenty paces away stood a familiar figure, directing the attack with waves of his long spear. The stocky build, the silver bracelets and four long scabs on his cheek from where she had scratched him. It could be no one else. Scaevola.

Their eyes met.

Making a filthy gesture, Scaevola grinned at her. ‘I wanted to finish our date,’ he shouted.

Fabiola felt sick.

‘Keep going, Mistress!’ Docilosa’s voice hissed in her ear. ‘It’s our only chance.’

Dumbly, she obeyed.

Secundus and one of the others swung around to try and close the gap left by their fallen comrades. Sextus darted forward as well, an over-keen thug immediately dying beneath his gladius. Secundus gave another a great shove in the chest with his scutum, sending him reeling back into the men behind.

At the front, the sallow-faced veteran had reached the top of the barrier. ‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘We can make it!’

They were the last words he ever spoke.

Scaevola’s spear hurtled through the air, striking him in the neck, below the cheek guard of his bronze helmet. The leaf-shaped blade sliced through the veteran’s flesh to emerge blood-red on the other side. Without a sound, he toppled forward on to the road, ten steps below.

Next to die was the man with the arrow wound. He was followed by another on the wedge’s right side, who was simply overwhelmed by weight of numbers. Secundus, Sextus and just two more were the last men left. Scrambling frantically down over the boulders and logs, the party reached the flat ground beyond. A trio of thugs were waiting for them, weapons raised, while the rest came charging in pursuit.

‘You fools! Don’t let them escape!’

Above the clash of arms, Fabiola recognised Scaevola’s voice.

‘Five aurei to the man who captures the good-looking bitch!’

His desperation meant that they had a chance.

‘Run!’ Fabiola cried. Lifting her dress, she raced forward, through the trees.

Eager to win the huge prize, the fugitivarius’ men tore after them.

‘Form rear guard,’ Secundus ordered his two remaining followers. ‘Now!’

Disciplined to the last, they immediately obeyed. Both slowed down and turned to face the enemy. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their shields clunked together in a final sound of defiance.

‘Mithras protect you,’ shouted Secundus.

Without speaking, the pair lifted their gladii in salute.

Looking back, Fabiola saw what would happen. ‘NO!’ she screamed.

‘They are soldiers,’ said Secundus proudly. ‘It is their choice to die this way.’

She had no time to respond. Sextus had taken her arm in a vice-like grip and was propelling her onward. Secundus ran on Fabiola’s other side. With her face fixed in a rictus of terror and rage, Docilosa protected her back.

Just three thugs stood between them and the road north.

Sextus killed the first with a no-nonsense thrust to the chest.

Secundus feinted to the left at another. Unaware that his enemy could not follow through, the ruffian dodged backwards to avoid the expected sword thrust. His feet slipped on a piece of moss and he fell heavily to the ground, dropping his axe.

The last swept around Sextus and came face to face with Docilosa. Shocked to see a woman bearing a weapon, he hesitated.

Docilosa did not. With teeth bared, she buried her pugio to the hilt in his belly.

Grievously wounded, the thug folded over and was gone.

The four survivors had broken clear.