The Silver Eagle

by Unknown

  The drained haruspex read his mind. ‘Where are your men?’ he asked quietly.

  Alarm filled Pacorus as he scanned the courtyard, seeing none of his bodyguards. This was the most significant detail so far.

  ‘Vahram sent them away.’

  Pacorus said nothing in response to Tarquinius’ intimation, but the muscles in his jaw bunched. What was the best thing to do? Vahram was a popular figure among the Parthian garrison, and executing him out of hand could prove risky. Obviously Ishkan was loyal, but could he rely on all the other senior centurions? Still not fully recovered, he was just beginning to understand how easily he could have been killed. Concealing his emotions, Pacorus turned to the primus pilus. ‘It was foolish to go this far,’ he barked. ‘He’s useful in his own way.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Vahram waited to see if there was more.

  ‘I want you supervising sentry duty for the next three months,’ the commander ordered. ‘Consider yourself lucky not to be demoted.’

  Vahram saluted, delighted that his punishment was so light. Tarquinius had revealed nothing and now he could continue to plot against Pacorus.

  They were interrupted by the sound of running feet in the avenue outside. A sentry’s challenge rang out, and was answered. Then the front gate creaked open.

  Pacorus stared at Ishkan, who shrugged. Vahram looked similarly puzzled.

  Above, the storm had abated. Tarquinius could determine nothing of relevance in what he saw. They were all in the dark.

  A few moments later, a cloaked legionary emerged into the courtyard, accompanied by one of the Parthian warriors who guarded Pacorus’ quarters. Both saluted and stood to attention.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Pacorus impatiently.

  ‘This is one of the sentries from the main gate, sir,’ said the Parthian. ‘Some of Darius’ men have returned.’

  A cold sweat broke out on Tarquinius’ forehead. Like him, Romulus and Brennus served in Darius’ cohort. Where had they been?

  Confused, the commander turned to Vahram.

  ‘I sent out a patrol two days ago, sir,’ explained the primus pilus. ‘There had been no word from the fortlet to the east.’

  Satisfied, Pacorus indicated that the legionary should speak.

  ‘Three men have just got back, sir,’ he faltered.

  ‘Messengers?’

  ‘No, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘Survivors.’

  All the senior officers gasped. Tarquinius managed to stay silent, but his gaze was locked on the sentry.

  ‘When they got to the fortlet, the garrison had already been massacred, sir. More Scythian raiders, apparently.’

  Tarquinius’ mind was suddenly filled with the image he had seen of a barrack-room floor covered in blood. And of the red flashes against the snowy landscape. Scythians always rode red-coloured horses. His misery deepened.

  ‘They said that Darius sent two riders back with the news,’ the soldier went on.

  ‘We’ve heard nothing,’ interrupted Vahram.

  ‘They’ll have been intercepted,’ said Ishkan grimly.

  Nervous, the sentry waited.

  ‘Go on,’ demanded Pacorus.

  ‘Same lot attacked the patrol, sir. Annihilated it at dawn the next day as it was trying to retreat here.’

  ‘Leaving three soldiers out of . . .’

  ‘Two centuries, sir,’ answered Vahram.

  ‘And Darius? Is he here?’

  The sentry shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  Pacorus scowled. Nearly one hundred and sixty men dead, and now Darius. One of his best officers. ‘How many Scythians?’ he asked.

  The question had to be repeated.

  ‘They said a few thousand, sir,’ said the fearful sentry at last.

  All the colour left Pacorus’ face. ‘Mithras above,’ he muttered, wishing he were fully recovered.

  ‘It’s the middle of winter,’ Vahram ranted. ‘The mountain passes to Scythia are blocked with snow!’

  ‘Where are they?’ Pacorus demanded. ‘These survivors?’

  ‘The duty optio sent them to the valetudinarium, sir,’ replied the sentry. ‘They’re suffering from exposure and frostbite.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn!’ screamed the commander, his face going puce. ‘Bring them here at once!’

  The sentry and the Parthian warrior scuttled from sight, grateful not to have been punished.

  ‘This cannot go unanswered,’ Pacorus growled, waving Vahram and Ishkan into his chamber. Almost as an afterthought, he looked back at Tarquinius. ‘Cut those ropes,’ he ordered Ishkan’s men. ‘Carry him in here.’

  The haruspex gritted his teeth as he was borne none too gently inside and laid by the fire for the second time. While his body was torn and bruised, and his mind exhausted, he was anxious to hear all the news from the returned legionaries. Yet every breath, shallow or deep, hurt. Using all his powers of concentration, Tarquinius managed to keep himself alert while the Parthians waited. Pacorus quickly sat down on his bed, while Ishkan and Vahram took their places on stools alongside. Their low muttering filled the air. Some response would have to be made to the Scythian incursion. And fast. Although it was not campaigning weather, the tribesmen could not be left to ravage the area unchecked.

  Tarquinius only cared about whether his friends had been on the ill-fated patrol or not. Everything else, even his own life, paled into insignificance.

  After what seemed an age, there was a heavy knock at the door.

  ‘Enter!’ cried Pacorus.

  A trio of legionaries shuffled in, their faces chapped and feet still blue with cold. They looked distinctly intimidated at being in the presence of the Forgotten Legion’s commander. Most low-rankers never came face to face with Pacorus, except to be punished. And unless their story was plausible, that was a distinct possibility. Pushed forward by a number of warriors, the men reluctantly moved to stand before the Parthian officers. They did not notice the bloodied man lying in a heap by the fire.

  Tarquinius recognised them at once, and his heart sank. Novius, Optatus and Ammias were from his own century, which meant that Romulus and Brennus were dead. He lay back, rare tears welling in his eyes. After years of protection, Tinia had utterly forsaken him and those whom he loved. And Mithras, the god whom he had begun to trust, was no different.

  ‘Make your report,’ ordered Pacorus.

  Naturally it was Novius who spoke. He related the story of the patrol with minimal emotion. Like many legionaries, he spoke little Parthian, so Ishkan translated. After Darius, he was the senior centurion who spoke most Latin. Apart from an occasional interruption from Pacorus or Vahram, the story was delivered to a silent, horrified audience. The final battle was particularly emotive for Tarquinius, who could almost see his friends dying beneath the showers of poisoned Scythian arrows.

  Having related the two centuries’ fate, the little legionary paused. His life and that of his comrades hinged upon what transpired next. Cowardice was not tolerated in either the Roman or Parthian armies. Soldiers who ran from a battle were liable to be executed out of hand. Their reasons for surviving had to convince their commander.

  And Tarquinius.

  Pacorus knew exactly why Novius was uneasy. ‘How is it,’ he said, picking his words very carefully, ‘that you three escaped without any wounds?’

  Ishkan translated.

  ‘The gods were smiling on us, sir,’ Novius replied at once. ‘It wasn’t as if we were the only ones not to be hit. When the testudo collapsed at the end, two other lads broke free with us, but they were struck by arrows as we ran.’

  Optatus and Ammias grimaced in unison.

  ‘Then they both stayed to fight a rearguard action, sir,’ said Novius, bowing his head. ‘Saved our lives.’

  Tarquinius studied the little legionary’s face intently, searching for evidence of lies. So far, his story sounded genuine. But he had noticed that Novius’ eyes kept flicking up and to the left. And malice oozed from him like bile from a cut gall blad
der. The injured haruspex was unsure why, but he did not like Novius. Or trust him.

  ‘I see.’ Pacorus said nothing for a few moments. ‘And there were no more survivors?’

  Novius glanced uneasily at his companions.

  Vahram seized upon the look like a cat on a mouse. ‘There were!’

  Ammias gave Novius the faintest of signals, as did Optatus.

  The haruspex frowned at their move, which seemed rehearsed. Perhaps because they did not speak fluent Latin, the Parthians appeared not to notice. Had the trio fled the patrol before the final encounter, and watched from a hidden vantage point as their comrades were massacred? Tarquinius waited.

  ‘We were obviously done for, sir,’ the little legionary admitted. ‘Some men ran. It happens.’

  ‘Yet you did not,’ said Pacorus.

  Novius was shocked. ‘Of course not, sir.’

  Partially satisfied, Pacorus looked at Ishkan and the primus pilus. They briefly convened in a huddle to decide if they believed Novius’ account.

  It appeared they did, thought Tarquinius bitterly. He did not.

  ‘I need the names and ranks of any men who fled,’ said Pacorus at length.

  Silence.

  ‘Unless you want a cross each.’

  The commander’s threat hung in the air.

  ‘Forgive us, sir,’ grovelled Novius, genuinely afraid now. ‘We’re loyal soldiers.’

  ‘Names,’ said Pacorus. ‘Now.’

  Novius swallowed hard. ‘I only got a good look at two, sir. Both plain legionaries, but not Romans.’

  The commander glared. To him, the nationality of the men under his command was irrelevant.

  ‘Romulus, sir,’ said Novius hurriedly. ‘And a big Gaulish brute by the name of Brennus.’

  Tarquinius bit back the retort which sprang to his lips. He would have given Novius the benefit of the doubt about any other men in the century. Now, though, it was certain that he was a liar. My friends would never run!

  Pacorus swelled with anger. How could he forget the young soldier who had refused to give him his shield? It was the last thing he remembered before being struck by the Scythian arrows. ‘Cowardly scum,’ he growled.

  ‘I know those men too, sir,’ Vahram hissed. His gaze strayed to Tarquinius, who instantly pretended to be unconscious. ‘They’re treacherous bastards. Friends of his.’ He jerked a thumb at the haruspex.

  Novius understood enough Parthian to turn his head and see the figure lying by the fire. He smiled in malevolent recognition. It was their own non-Roman centurion, who had been left behind while they went on the patrol. Tarquinius’ battered appearance told its own story. ‘That’s right, sir,’ he said viciously. ‘And the centurion was always showing them extra favours.’

  ‘Did they escape?’ asked Pacorus.

  ‘Not sure, sir,’ answered the little legionary. ‘It was right in the middle of the fight, you see.’

  Optatus and Ammias shook their heads in agreement.

  The commander bared his misshapen, yellow teeth. ‘Let’s hope that the Scythians find the mangy dogs. Or that the gods deliver them to us once more.’

  Novius bobbed his head ingratiatingly, concealing the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  The haruspex’ intuition told him the true story. It was the three ragged soldiers who had run from the massacre. Then, at the end, they had seen Romulus and Brennus fight their way free. He did not know whether to rejoice or to cry. His friends might be alive, but they were alone in the frozen wilderness with no supplies. Even if they managed to escape the Scythians, certain death now awaited them if they reached the fort.

  And he could do nothing about it.

  Utter helplessness swamped Tarquinius, and weakened by his wounds and the cold, he succumbed to unconsciousness.

  Chapter XIII: Betrayal

  Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

  Romulus’ first awareness was of the terrible pain that filled his head. Great waves of it washed over him, utterly draining his energy. Then there would be a short lag phase before another hit. After an age, he felt able to move again. By gently wriggling them, Romulus could feel his fingers and his toes. They were not warm, but at least they still functioned. Aware that he was lying flat on a rough stone floor, the young soldier gingerly opened his eyes.

  There was a low roof almost within hand’s reach. It was a cave. Turning his head, the first thing Romulus saw was Brennus’ muscular back, bending over a small fire. Relief filled him. They were still free. Mithras had saved their lives after all.

  ‘Where are we?’ Romulus croaked, his throat dry with thirst.

  The Gaul spun on his heel, a wide grin splitting his blood-covered face. ‘Belenus be thanked!’ he cried. ‘I wasn’t sure if your skull had been cracked.’

  Romulus lifted a hand to the back of his head and probed gently. ‘Don’t think so,’ he replied, wincing as his fingers found a fist-sized lump just above the hairline. ‘Damn painful though.’

  ‘Thankfully this took the worst of it,’ said Brennus, lifting a battered lump of bronze which Romulus vaguely recognised as his helmet. ‘I had difficulty getting it off.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was Primitivus,’ revealed Brennus, his breath visible in the chill air. ‘Crept up and hit you from behind. I slew the fool immediately, but you had already gone down.’

  The veterans would stop at nothing. Romulus shook his head in confusion, releasing another wave of agony. ‘Are you injured?’

  ‘No,’ said the Gaul. ‘This is Primitivus’ blood.’

  Romulus was very relieved. ‘How in Hades did we get away?’

  ‘With Primitivus gone, Novius and his mates tried to make a break for it. Two or three others ran too,’ said Brennus. ‘It distracted many of the Scythians. The remainder were busy attacking what few of our lot weren’t killed or injured. Somehow I was sure that it wasn’t my time to die. I wasn’t sure you were dead either, so I fell down and pulled Primitivus on top of me. The enemy cavalry drove forward, leaving us on open ground. The fighting went on for some time, and no one was looking back. It was just a matter of carrying you over the nearest rise and out of view. After taking a breather, I went up into the broken ground. Found this cave about half a mile away.’

  The young soldier could only marvel at his friend’s strength. The distance Brennus had mentioned so casually would have crippled any other man. ‘What about the rest?’

  The Gaul’s face darkened. ‘Gone,’ he said heavily. ‘I looked back once and there were maybe fifteen men still standing. But the Scythians were swarming around them like rats. They had no chance.’

  Romulus closed his eyes. Even though the legionaries had recently made them outcasts, he felt genuine grief. They had been serving in the same century for over six months, and in the same army for over two years.

  ‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ growled Brennus. ‘They bought us enough time to escape.’

  ‘That makes it even worse.’

  ‘Our burden is heavier because of it,’ Brennus agreed, remembering his uncle’s sacrifice.

  ‘And just think what the Scythians will do to the bodies.’

  ‘Don’t think about that. Our getting away means that the gods have not totally forgotten us. We live to fight another day.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Romulus. ‘What about Novius and the others? Did they make it?’

  Brennus’ face darkened. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope not.’

  Without blankets, food or equipment, the friends had no choice but to leave the small cave behind. All it provided was shelter and slight relief from the bitter weather. And news of the Scythian incursion had to be carried back quickly. The raiders would attack again soon, perhaps even at the fort. Using the bright stars to guide their path, they tracked steadily west. There was no sign of the enemy, meaning their escape had probably gone unseen. It was just as well. Brennus had retained his longsword, but all Romulus had to defend himself with was his pugio. Neither
had shields. An encounter with the fierce warriors would have only one outcome.

  The rest in the cave did not sustain Romulus for long on the freezing, difficult march. With his pounding headache, the young soldier was very grateful for Brennus’ broad shoulder to lean on. As time passed, his strength returned somewhat, as did his determination. Besides, marching was the best way to keep even slightly warm. Under their cloaks, their chain mail was an icy deadweight, while their exposed lower legs were chilled to the bone. Sweat condensed instantly on their brows, and the air was so cold that every breath hurt.

  When the outline of the crucifix finally appeared, Romulus felt great relief. Reaching it meant that their suffering was nearly over. But by starlight, the frozen body was even more terrifying. It was impossible not to stare at it as they walked past. Flesh now picked from his bones, the legionary was little more than a skeleton. Even his internal organs had been consumed by the hungry vultures. Teeth grinned from a lipless mouth; empty eye sockets seemed to watch their every step. This time though, Romulus saw nothing beyond the bare bones. But the memory of what he’d seen before burned brightly in his mind. And Tarquinius had seen a path home. Mithras, he prayed. Help me return to Rome.

  Brennus made the sign against evil. ‘Not a good way to go, eh?’

  Romulus shook his head, making his headache worse than ever. ‘No bastard is ever going to do that to me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ swore Brennus.

  Yet crucifixion was one of the punishments they might receive on their return. It was impossible to predict how the volatile primus pilus would react to their cataclysmic news. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Trust the gods,’ Brennus advised. ‘Tell the truth. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Romulus sighed, unable to think of anything else. Brennus’ faith carried him through situations like they were in now. Normally Romulus struggled with this simple approach. Here in god-forsaken Margiana, death seemed the only certainty in life. But they had survived the ambush, and he gave Mithras the full credit for that. Otherwise Brennus would have fought to the death. Afterwards, both of them would have been beheaded by the Scythians.