The Silver Eagle

Crossing it would be no easy task, especially in heavy armour. He cast his eyes up and down the shore, hoping against hope that he might see a boat.

There were none.

‘Nothing for it but to swim,’ grinned Tarquinius. ‘Can you manage it?’

Romulus and Brennus looked at each other grimly; then they nodded.

Instantly the pair began stripping off their mail shirts. Whatever chance they had would be greatly increased by their removal.

Tarquinius knelt down, shoving his map and other precious items into a pig’s bladder. It had served him well on their arrival in Asia Minor two years before.

Unseen, Vahram waited until Romulus and Brennus were both in just their tunics. Driven by his hatred, the primus pilus and his horse had also emerged unharmed from the fray. Still armed with his recurved bow, Vahram calmly drew a shaft from the case on his hip and fitted it to the string. Spooked by the sudden blare of a wounded elephant, his mount jumped as he released.

The move deflected his arrow a tiny fraction.

Romulus heard Brennus gasp as if shocked. In slow motion, he turned to see a barbed metal head protruding from the muscle of his huge friend’s upper left arm. Although it was not the mortal wound that Vahram desired, swimming the river might now be too much for the Gaul. Romulus knew immediately who was responsible. Spinning around, he took in the primus pilus in a blink. Dropping his chain mail, Romulus snatched up his gladius and charged forward. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed in rage.

Vahram panicked and loosed too soon.

His next arrow flashed past, burying itself in the ground.

And then Romulus was on him. Memories of Felix’ anguished face flashed across his vision, lending him superhuman strength. Focusing his anger, Romulus reached up and took hold of Vahram’s right hand, which was frantically reaching for another shaft. With a powerful downward slice, he lopped it off.

The primus pilus screamed in agony and blood gushed from the stump, covering Romulus in a mist of red droplets. With true battle frenzy consuming him for the first time in his life, he did not care. Just one thing was important: killing Vahram. But before he could complete the task, the Parthian’s terrified horse skittered away on dancing hooves. Spinning in a tight circle, it trotted back towards the battle.

Romulus cursed. Even now he was being denied his revenge for Felix’ death.

It was then that a wounded bull elephant emerged into view, one tusk snapped clean away and the other red-tipped with gore. Every few steps, it blew out its ears and raised its trunk, letting out a piercing bugle of anger. Romulus was not the only being affected by battle rage. Its mahout was still in place, occasionally managing to direct his mount towards any legionaries within range. A solitary warrior remained on its back; he was firing arrows as well. The bull’s armoured head and neck bristled with bent pila, thrown by the legionaries in a vain attempt to bring it down. Yet what had done most damage was the lucky javelin that had pierced its left eye, half blinding it. The remaining eye now gleamed with a piggy, intelligent fury.

Unused to elephants, Vahram’s horse froze with terror.

Instantly the archer loosed a shaft, which took the Parthian through his left arm and rendered him totally unable to guide his mount away to safety. A cruel smile played across the Indian’s face.

Romulus paused, overcome with awe at what he was about to see.

And Tarquinius gave thanks to Mithras for granting him the strength not to reveal this during his torture.

Moving with surprising speed, the great bull swept forward, wrapping its trunk around Vahram’s body.

A thin, cracked cry left the primus pilus’ throat as he was lifted high into the air.

It was the last sound he ever made.

Dashing him to the ground, the elephant immediately knelt down, crushing Vahram beneath its front legs. Then, grabbing the Parthian’s head with its trunk, it decapitated him.

Romulus closed his eyes. He had never seen a man die more brutally, yet somehow it felt quite apt. When he looked up again a single heartbeat later, the bull was making straight for him.

Romulus felt his heart hammer in his chest. Without chain mail and armed only with a gladius, his life was over too.

A massive hand covered in blood pushed him to one side. ‘This is my quarrel, brother,’ said the Gaul quietly. ‘A time for Brennus to stand and fight.’

Romulus stared into the other’s calm blue eyes.

‘I will run no more.’

The words brooked no argument.

Ever since he had gained an insight into Tarquinius’ abilities, this moment was what Romulus had dreaded. Now it was here. Fat tears of grief welled up, but his protest died away. In Brennus’ gaze he saw only bravery, love and acceptance.

And the gods had decreed it. Mithras had brought them here.

‘Return to Rome,’ Brennus ordered. ‘Find your family.’

His throat closed with lead, Romulus could not answer.

Like a hero of old, the pigtailed Gaul stepped forward, his longsword ready. Without his chain mail, he was a magnificent sight. Huge muscles rippled and tensed under his sweat-soaked military tunic. Runnels of blood covered his left arm, but he had snapped off and drawn out the Indian shaft.

‘You were right, Ultan,’ Brennus whispered, looking up at the magnificent beast now rearing above him. Bunching his left fist, he breathed into the pain that radiated from his arrow wound. ‘A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.’

‘Romulus.’ The voice was insistent. ‘Romulus.’

The young soldier let Tarquinius lead him the few steps to the edge. He did not look back. Holding only his weapon, Romulus jumped into the river with Tarquinius.

As the cold water closed over his head, his ears rang with Brennus’ last battle cry.

‘For Liath!’ he roared. ‘For Conall, and for Brac!’

Chapter XVIII: Pompey’s General

Northern Italy, spring 52 BC

By the time that the legionaries reached them, Fabiola had regained control of her emotions. The forty men clattered to a halt, shields and pila at the ready. Sextus and Docilosa were very careful not to raise their bloodied weapons. Any perceived threat would result in a volley of javelins. Yet the soldiers’ disciplined appearance was infinitely more appealing than that of Scaevola and his crew. There would be no out-of- hand rape here. Ignoring the soldiers’ eager stares, Fabiola took her time, fixing her hair back into place with a couple of decorated ivory pins and lifting the neck of her dress to a more modest level. Then she beamed at the optio in charge, who had made his way to the front. Brazening their way out of the situation might yet be possible.

‘Centurion,’ Fabiola purred, deliberately giving him a higher rank. ‘You have our thanks.’

While the optio flushed proudly, his men tittered with amusement.

He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and they fell silent. ‘What happened, my lady?’

‘Those ruffians you saw,’ Fabiola began, ‘they ambushed us in the woods. Killed almost all my slaves and bodyguards.’ Not entirely acting, she let her lip tremble at the memory.

‘The roads are dangerous everywhere, lady,’ he muttered in sympathy.

‘But they ran when you appeared,’ said Fabiola, batting her eyelashes.

Embarrassed now, the optio looked down.

Secundus hid a smile. As if the fugitivarii would have attacked them in front of an entire legion, he thought.

Awed by her beauty, the optio said nothing for a moment. A short man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, he carefully considered the four figures, their clothes torn and covered with