Eagle of the Empire

by Martin Ferguson

  ‘Adam Hunter, meet Gabriel Quinn, operative and sole member of Bravo Team,’ Charles says, making the introductions.

  ‘You work alone?’ I ask as Gabriel slumps back against a wall.

  ‘Safer that way,’ he replies, taking a hipflask from his pocket and drinking deeply. ‘For everyone, trust me.’ He laughs.

  I can’t be sure if the laughter is from the alcohol I can smell or from his quiet lunacy.

  ‘Why aren’t you helping to find Matt?’ I ask.

  ‘Your brother’s a big boy. He can take care of himself,’ he says without sign of concern. ‘Don’t tell me you worry like that old woman,’ he says with laughter, pointing to Dave, who replies with a middle-finger salute.

  ‘I wanted to speak with you in private,’ Charles says to Gabriel sternly. ‘But since you have no shame, I might as well say it now. If I find you in the operations rooms with a woman again…’

  ‘Please, Charles, we both know it was more than one woman.’ He grins broadly, winking at me. ‘She brought friends.’

  ‘If I find you have broken the rules again, I will have you posted to the wastelands,’ Charles warns.

  ‘Even there, I’m sure Gabriel would find… how is it you put it? Wine, women, and song’ Abbey says from the control tower.

  ‘Indeed.’ He nods in agreement, flashing a grin in her direction.

  ‘This is your third and final warning,’ Charles says to Gabriel.

  ‘Third?’ Tristram laughs quietly. ‘Try twentieth.’

  ‘And you, Mr Hill.’ Charles turns on Tristram. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you smoking on the museum’s grounds. If you must feed your filthy habit, you are to do so far from here. The last thing we need is for you to start a fire.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Tristram says, turning away in annoyance.

  ‘Here to see our latest recruit then?’ Dave mutters to Gabriel sarcastically.

  ‘Curious to see what Matt’s brother is capable of,’ he replies. ‘Besides, the bar doesn’t open for another hour.’

  ‘I bet you want to see if he can break your records too,’ says Abbey over the loudspeaker.

  ‘It’s about time someone did,’ Charles adds, to which Gabriel simply raises a hipflask in mock salute before drinking deep.

  ‘I bet he manages it,’ Abbey announces.

  ‘I don’t,’ Emma adds over the loudspeaker, revealing she is watching alongside Abbey in the control tower.

  ‘Hundred pounds says he doesn’t,’ Gabriel replies with a laugh, offering the hipflask to Dave.

  ‘Deal,’ Abbey eagerly replies.

  ‘No pressure, kid,’ Dave whispers to me as he helps tighten the straps of my kit. ‘Ignore them. Just focus on the damn trial.’

  ‘No worries,’ I reply with little confidence in my voice. The kit I carry is extra weight that will slow and hamper my movements, but it doesn’t matter. If I have to prove myself to these people, then so be it. I have to find Matt.

  ‘You’re all set,’ Tristram tells me. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘He’s gonna need it,’ mocks Gabriel.

  Charles, Tristram, and Gabriel stand at the back of the vast training complex behind a sheet of reinforced glass as Dave returns to the control tower, his military voice booming out over the loudspeakers.

  ‘This trial will feature three essential parts,’ he instructs. ‘The first is the firing range.’

  A wall covered in weaponry and ammunition racked from top to bottom rises from the ground. There are rifles, handguns, shotguns, and even bows; a range from military and policing forces around the world.

  ‘Why all the weapons?’ I ask.

  ‘Were the men you faced in the Roman tomb not armed?’ Dave asks. ‘Jack Bishop and Leon Bransby are far from the worst we have faced.’

  I choose the bow, a recurve just like mine at home. Testing the string, I find it tight and ready for purpose, a quiver of silver-tipped arrows nearby. Feeling the bow, my mind drifts to home, to some of my earliest memories and my father teaching me archery in the back garden. It was originally just to calm me, to focus my hyper and erratic mind on a single task. When technology and computers fail us, this will remain handy, he had told me. Remembering him brings a smile to my face.

  Dave issues orders from the side. ‘Strike down both the stationary and moving targets.

  ‘Just like in the military,’ Tristram adds, unable to contain his excitement as he watches with eyes wide in expectation.

  ‘No worries,’ I simply say, readying myself. I check the glasses one last time and align an arrow upon the bow.

  ‘Ready?’ Abbey asks through my headset.

  I take a deep breath, calming myself.

  ‘Yeah. Do it.’

  ‘GO!’

  The targets rise from the ground and I strike each one down in turn, loosing arrows with speed and urgency. Then there are mobile targets, moving in all directions and growing more difficult to strike. They appear behind obstacles and walls, and I fear I will run out of arrows.

  ‘One more and you will hit the required score,’ Abbey encourages me through the headset. I hit the next target dead in its centre.

  The range lowers into the ground to be replaced by the running track I have endured before.

  ‘Four mile track, go!’ Abbey yells and I throw the bow behind me and drop the quiver as I begin the run. The gradient increases with each mile until sweat is streaming down my face, my legs aching already.

  ‘Cargo net next,’ she says, the netting rising up, and I jump straight into it, clambering up and on.

  Climbing walls, balance beams, more running, more jumping, high wires, monkey bars, and rope climbs. I endure it all, pushing on, thinking only of Matt and forcing the pain and tiredness in my body to the back of my mind. The added weight of the equipment slows me down as expected but I force myself on until suddenly posts rise in front of me and to my sides, loaded crossbows at their tops.

  ‘What the hell are they?’ I ask in shock.

  ‘What do you think?’ Abbey replies, unable to contain a laugh through my headset. ‘Expect the unexpected. Did you not face similar traps in the Roman crypts of all places?’

  ‘Fair point,’ I mumble, ducking and diving to avoid the bolts of the crossbows. Hurling myself past many, I evade all but one that catches in my fully loaded rucksack.

  ‘A little close, don’t you think?’ Abbey asks as I run on.

  ‘Not close enough,’ I say as I roll away from another bolt soaring towards me, pushing myself up and into a sprint. I have to duck again though as a wall of flame rises and soars towards me. Dropping flat to the ground, the flames pass over me, and I feel the sheer heat on every inch of my skin until it is behind me.

  ‘You’re making good progress, Adam,’ Abbey tells me as I force myself up again. ‘You’ve even got Gabriel worried you’ll beat his times.’

  The running track returns and I follow a winding course littered with rocks and other obstacles, pushing on into a sprint as I near the end.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Abbey tells me. ‘Next is a water dive into a tunnel. You swim a hundred metres and then go under the water until you emerge on the far side of the tunnel.’

  I don’t hear half her words, skidding to a halt as the water opens up before me. The fear tears into me, hands shaking, stomach churning, head spinning.

  ‘Adam, what are you doing?’

  ‘I…I can’t…’ I stammer, barely able to get out the words. I take a step back, unable to do it.

  ‘Adam, you must go into the water to complete the trial,’ Dave orders over the loudspeaker.

  I don’t move or speak. I can’t, rooted to the spot.

  ‘Dive into the water, Adam!’ Dave yells at me.

  ‘NO!’ I scream back at them, stepping away from the water’s edge. I throw off the rucksack, sending it crashing against the control tower as I storm away, angry and humiliated.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Abbey asks, but I pull off the glasses and throw them to Charles w
ithout a word.

  ‘Well, that was mightily disappointing,’ Gabriel mutters. ‘What a waste of time.’

  ‘Return to the hole you crawled out of, Gabriel,’ Abbey yells at him over the loudspeaker.

  ‘Gladly.’ He smirks. ‘Seek me out when you have work for me, or when you have more school kids to embarrass.’

  I ignore him and all the others, thundering past them.

  ‘Mr Hunter, if you want to find your brother, you must complete the trials,’ Charles yells after me.

  ‘I can’t,’ is all I can say. I’m furious with myself for my weakness.

  20

  SLAVE—Capua

  We train day and night. In endless heat and pouring rains. The crack of the doctores’ lash drives us on. Three of our number die within the first days. One falls in training, throat torn open in an unwise manoeuvre against an opponent far more skilled. Another fades in the heat, body and soul too weak to survive. The last caught in attempt to escape the ludus.

  His body hangs from the walls, hands nailed to the stone, disembowelled and left to bleed to death as a warning to others. There is no escape except for death.

  Hader warns us that there will never be another Spartacus, King of Escaped Slaves. I still remember my father’s tales of the Thracian’s exploits and the punishment given to all who followed him; crucifixions lining the Appian Way from Rome to Capua. The slave revolt began in the very city I now stand a slave.

  The training is hard, even for a centurion of the legion. The recruits learn to fight by the Doctores’ instructions, gladiators retired from the arena and now giving instruction to those who would fight upon the sands. Punishment by the lash is frequent, even for those already skilled in the use of sword and shield and bloodied on the sands of the arenas.

  Though Hader urges us to forget our past lives, it is impossible for me. The betrayal of my men and the desecration of my legion haunts me, the still healing scars on my back and arm are a constant reminder. Worse still, is the fear for my wife. If my name was remembered, Vespasian could easily hunt Lucilla down as further punishment to me. I would send word by messenger to her, as I know those standing as gladiators do to their loved ones, but I cannot until I earn coin from victories in the arenas.

  No matter the dreams that rob me of sleep, I must rise each day to train. Heavy wooden weaponry is provided to build strength, much as the legion trains newly enlisted recruits. Death awaits any who do not make progress, such is the severity of life in the ludus. If we do not earn our master coin then we are worthless to him and will provide feed to the dogs as he often warns. For many days, I simply do what is ordered, lacking effort and focus, body still healing and mind wracked with guilt. It is when the boy who spoke out of turn on his first day, Garus, falls for the fifth time that day that I speak. He gives the missio, two fingers raised in surrender as a plea for mercy. It makes my blood boil. Surrender on the battlefield, as in the arena, will likely mean death.

  ‘Keep your shield raised, you fool,’ I yell at him, forcing Garus up and facing him myself. ‘Protect flank or see yourself fall in your first fight.’

  I show Garus what I mean, ordering him to attack and blocking his pitiful assault with ease.

  ‘Now you,’ I command as I lunge forward, his shield barely blocking the lunges of my wooden blade.

  We repeat again and again until both of us are sweating from our efforts.

  ‘Gratitude,’ Garus thanks me. ‘Your lessons are well received.’

  ‘Well, you’ve learnt enough times how to fall on your arse. About time you learnt other skills.’

  He is not the last I instruct that day on how to stand and defend against oncoming attacks. I follow the style of Optio Acer from when he taught me, which now feels a lifetime ago. In a way, it feels like I am honouring my fallen brother by passing on his lessons. It isn’t long before I attract the attention of the established gladiators as well as the Dominus.

  ‘Doctore!’ our Dominus barks from the villa’s balcony above. His finger is pointed down towards me. ‘I would have words with that man!’

  With weaponry removed and hands bound in chains, I am led up from the ludus to the villa above, always four guards with me to ensure obedience. The villa is much different to the dark dredges of the ludus below; there are feasts of food and wine on every table, and dozens of slaves devoted to the whim of every nobleman and woman. Statues to the gods stand in every room, watching. It is heaven above the hells where I train and slumber.

  ‘I knew from first purchase you would be different – and difficult,’ Hader greets as I enter his chamber. There are books piled high on the table and floor, parchments and maps held down with coins. ‘Others warned me against it, my own wife among them. They said you were an abomination. Living but dead – cursed.’

  ‘Yet you made purchase anyway?’ I ask, breaking slave laws by talking without permission. I do not care for their rules.

  Hader does not scorn, instead there is a wry smile on his lips.

  ‘You are new to your slave bonds,’ he says. ‘That is clear from your loose tongue. Slave, you are already proving your worth upon the sands below. The men, your future brothers, they name you Centurion for lack of name. To me you were sold as a deserter. Not a name to strike fear into an opponent.’

  He’s waiting for a response but I remain sullen. He is mocking me, and there’s no point putting up a fight.

  ‘Now I see you take it upon yourself to train my men – as any Doctore would,’ Hader continues, pouring himself wine. ‘They look to you, the best among my latest recruits, despite your age. And fine Doctore I think you will make if you live long enough. Plenty of years upon the sands for you still to come, but is this your wish for future days, to train rather than seize glory in the arena?’

  ‘I desire neither,’ I state, wary of betraying my heart’s true wish. He finds it anyway, without further words from me.

  ‘Freedom then?’

  Though my face be as iron he sees it, and nods his head sagely.

  ‘I see it. Freedom is what you seek. Maybe you think me not so wise, for all men in your circumstance would surely desire the same – but you’d be surprised. Most men here, no matter what they say, just want to die.’ He drinks deep from his gold goblet, never breaking his look from my face. ‘But you, you’re not going to die. I can see that. There are only two reasons a fire like that burns – revenge, or love.’

  ‘Yes,’ is all I can say.

  ‘Which is it?’

  I remain silent, but he is not deterred. ‘When was the last time you laid eyes on one another?’

  ‘Three years, before the legion set out upon campaign. It is long since I last had word.’

  ‘And you would do anything to be reunited with your woman again?’

  ‘I would fight the gods.’

  ‘Good,’ he says with a smile growing wider. ‘Fight for me. Join the brotherhood of the House of Hader. Make us both rich men, Centurion. As one of my warriors, victories will be rewarded with coin, and with enough, you shall gain your freedom. Live, fight, and win, and you will not only see your wife again but you will be a wealthy man.’

  ‘I fought alongside brothers before and they were slain for uncommitted crimes,’ I state boldly. ‘Their honour and memory were desecrated by a madman’s whim.’

  ‘I am not our Emperor Vespasian,’ Hader says. ‘Here you have a choice. Win or lose; which shall it be?’

  ‘I have but one request,’ I say, stepping too far again.

  ‘Slaves do not make requests of their Dominus!’ he says. ‘You have guts, Centurion. Perhaps that is why I am beginning to like you. Because of that, I would hear your demand, though do not expect it to be fulfilled.’

  ‘The other men, your warriors, they have messages sent to loved ones for exchange of coin. I possess none but would send word to my wife.’

  ‘So, you would have coin from my own pocket, too?’ Hader bellows with laughter. ‘I knew you to be different, Centurion. No othe
r slave under my command would be so brazen.’

  ‘I do not desire coin, just favour to lift my heart and give me purpose.’ The pleading in my voice betrays me.

  ‘Prove yourself worthy in the arena in the next games. Win for me and I will see a messenger sent to your wife. You have my word.’

  ‘I will not lose. Gratitude, Dominus.’

  21

  ADAM—The British Museum, London, England

  I walk aimlessly at first, my head a storm of anger and embarrassment until I find myself in the main garage used by the teams of the museum. There are a dozen vehicles of all manner, including Dave’s, motorcycles and quad bikes. Amongst them, I find something that snaps me to focus.

  Standing before me is a copper red convertible. It’s Matt’s car, his most prized possession, shining bright and spotless. It’s as much a part of Matt as his journal. Now it’s here, cold, empty, waiting for its owner to return.

  Next to it is my father’s bike, his pride and joy. Now it’s a wreck, body smashed, exhaust missing, wheels more square than round. It’s a wonder I emerged from the crash in as good a condition as I did looking at the ruin of my father’s bike. Seeing the battered bike and Matt’s convertible abandoned suddenly spikes emotion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt. I’ve failed.’

  Quickly, anger replaces sorrow. I pick up the nearest object, a chair, and slam it into the wall behind me, smashing it to pieces of splintered wood. My head swims with rage. I jump into the driver’s seat of Matt’s car and slam my hands into the steering wheel.

  ‘There you are,’ Emma’s voice calls out across the garage. Her face is red with anger. ‘What the hell happened to you?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Are you deaf as well as stupid?’ she demands, storming towards me. When she sees my face, she slows.

  ‘Do you want me to leave you alone?’ Emma asks.

  ‘No,’ I mutter with a shake of my head, opening the passenger’s door for her.

  ‘Here,’ she says, throwing Matt’s journal over to me. ‘It’s pointless us keeping hold of it if we can’t read it. You need to talk, or perhaps we could contact your mother?