The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  Several days went by, and Fabiola was able to learn more about the dire situation in the capital. Enough shops were situated near Brutus’ house for her to venture out relatively safely and gather information. There was no sign of Scaevola, and Fabiola began to think he was still in the south, near Pompeii. She relaxed into the role of a country lady, ignorant of recent goings-on. After she had spent a decent sum buying food and other necessities, the grateful shopkeepers were happy to relate all the latest rumours. As Fabiola had suspected, the streets had been taken over by gangs loyal to Clodius and Milo.

  Once the closest of allies, Pompey and the brutal Milo had parted company on bad terms some years before. Now Milo was allied to Cato, one of the few politicians to oppose the shrunken triumvirate’s stranglehold on power. Crassus might be dead, but Caesar and Pompey still controlled the Republic, which was not to the liking of many. Desperate to prevent Pompey becoming consul as the new year began, Cato had put forward Milo as a candidate instead. This was too much for Clodius, and minor disturbances now occurred on a daily basis. Occasional larger pitched battles had claimed the lives of dozens of thugs. Caught in the middle, a number of unlucky residents had also died. The Senate was paralysed, unsure what to do. Most people, one trader told Fabiola, just wanted order restored. And the person to do it was Pompey.

  With his legions.

  ‘Soldiers on the streets of Rome?’ Fabiola cried. The very idea was anathema. To prevent any attempts at overthrowing the Republic, its laws banned all military personnel from entering the capital. ‘Sulla was the last man to do that.’

  ‘I remember it well,’ said a skinny old man who was buying lamp oil. He shivered. ‘Blood ran in the streets for days. No one was safe.’

  The shopkeeper shook his head heavily. ‘I know. But have we any choice?’ He gestured at his empty shelves. ‘If there is nothing to buy, people will starve. What then?’

  Fabiola could not argue with his words. If only Brutus and Caesar were able to intervene, she thought. But there was no chance of that. News had come that meant neither man would be back for many months. Braving snow that was higher than a man, Caesar had ridden through the mountains and successfully rejoined his legions in Gaul. Battle had already been joined against the tribes; Caesar had suffered initial setbacks before a stunning victory had forced Vercingetorix and his army to retreat to the north. Yet the intelligent Gaulish chieftain was unbeaten. Thousands of warriors were still flocking to his banner, so Caesar had no option but to stay put. The situation in Gaul was critical, and Fabiola’s worries about Brutus grew by the day.

  Loud shouts from the street drew her attention back to the present. Fabiola made to leave the shop, but her bodyguards blocked the doorway. Although Docilosa was in bed with an upset stomach, they had been browbeaten enough times. ‘Let me check it out, Mistress,’ said Tullius, the most senior. A short Sicilian with crooked teeth and a bad limp, he was deadly with a gladius.

  She frowned but obeyed. Danger lurked everywhere now.

  ‘Clodius Pulcher is dead!’ Sandals slapped loudly off the ground as the running person drew nearer. ‘Murdered on the Via Appia!’

  Placing his thumb between the forefinger and index finger of his right hand, the shopkeeper made the sign against evil. The old man muttered a prayer.

  Cries of dismay rose from the passers-by who had dared to be out. Windows clattered open as the residents of the flats above street level heard the news. Their voices added to the swelling noise.

  ‘I want to see what’s going on,’ demanded Fabiola.

  Drawing his dagger, Tullius peered outside. One look was enough. With a grunt of satisfaction he darted forward, deliberately knocking over the messenger. Quickly the Sicilian dragged him into the shop, one arm wrapped around his throat, the other holding his knife tightly under the youth’s ribcage.

  Fabiola took in the youngster at a glance. Short, underfed, dressed in rags, he was typical of Rome’s poorest dwellers. No doubt he had been hoping to get a reward from someone for bringing back such dramatic news.

  The captive’s gaze darted wildly from side to side as he took in the shocked shopkeeper, the old man, Fabiola and her other guards. ‘Who’re you?’ he gasped. ‘Not seen you round here before.’

  ‘Shut it, arsehole.’ Tullius poked him with his dagger. ‘Tell the lady what you were screaming about just now.’

  The youth was happy to obey. ‘Clodius and a group of his men were attacked by Milo’s gladiators. Near an inn just south of the city,’ he said excitedly. ‘Must have been outnumbered two to one.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘No more than an hour ago.’

  ‘Did you witness this?’ Fabiola demanded.

  He nodded. ‘It was an ambush, lady. The gladiators threw javelins first and then swarmed in from all sides.’

  ‘Gladiators?’ Fabiola interrupted, her mind, as ever, darting to Romulus.

  ‘Yes, lady. Memor’s men.’

  She managed not to react. ‘Memor?’ she asked casually.

  He seemed surprised. ‘You know, the lanista of the Ludus Magnus.’

  Fabiola shrugged as if it was unimportant but inside she was reeling. For a short period before Brutus had freed her from the Lupanar, Memor had been one of her clients. She had hated every moment of his visits, but the cruel, dispassionate lanista had been a possible source of information about Romulus. By repeatedly driving him wild with lust, she had managed to discover that her brother had indeed been sold into Memor’s school. And then escaped with a champion fighter. A Gaul. But that was history. She had to keep focused. More important events were unfolding, and Memor seemed to be taking a prominent hand in the ongoing unrest. Why? Anger surged within Fabiola. ‘Was he there?’

  ‘I didn’t see him, lady.’

  ‘Or Milo?’

  ‘He was there at the start, encouraging his men,’ said the youth. ‘Then he left.’

  ‘Milo’s a clever bastard,’ pronounced the shopkeeper. ‘He’ll have gone somewhere very public, with lots of witnesses to prove it.’

  The same goes for Memor, thought Fabiola. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Clodius got hit in the shoulder by a pilum and fell down. Some of his men carried him inside the tavern for shelter. The rest tried to hold off the attackers, but there were too many. The door was kicked in and Clodius got dragged outside, screaming and crying for mercy.’

  Fabiola shuddered at the dramatic and gory image. ‘And you’re certain he’s dead?’

  ‘He didn’t have a chance, lady. They were like a pack of wild dogs.’ The youngster swallowed. ‘There was blood everywhere. Clodius’ men are carrying his body back to the city,’ continued the prisoner. ‘His wife doesn’t even know yet.’

  ‘When she finds out, the gates of Hades will open,’ said the shopkeeper grimly. ‘Fulvia won’t take this lying down.’

  Fabiola’s interest was piqued. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not exactly. But she’s a typical noblewoman,’ he replied. ‘Likes to get her opinion across, if you know what I mean.’

  Fabiola raised an eyebrow.

  The old man tittered.

  Realising what he had said, the proprietor flushed. ‘Not meaning to insult noble ladies, of course.’

  Fabiola graced him with a smile to show that she had taken no offence. ‘Release the boy,’ she ordered Tullius.

  Reluctantly the Sicilian obeyed.

  Unsure what would happen to him, the youth shuffled his feet.

  Fabiola tossed him a denarius and his eyes lit up at the unexpected reward.

  ‘Thank you, lady!’ He bobbed his head and ran off, eager to spread the news.

  ‘We’d best return to the domus, Mistress,’ said Tullius, looking concerned. ‘This means trouble.’

  Fabiola did not protest. The open-fronted shop was no place to linger at a time like this. Saying goodbye to the shopkeeper, they hurried on to the street. It was only a hundred paces to Brutus’ house and the protection of its thick walls an
d iron-studded gates. In the event, that short distance was too far.

  Round the nearest corner swarmed a horde of thugs armed with clubs, swords and spears. Being herded in their midst were many frightened-looking men, women and children: ordinary citizens. Talking in loud, angry voices, the group’s leaders did not immediately see Fabiola and her guards.

  ‘Quick!’ hissed Tullius, gesturing frantically. ‘Back into the shop!’

  Fabiola turned, but slipped on a sliver of wet wood lying in the mud. The resulting splash was enough to catch the attention of the fast-moving rabble. Within a heartbeat, it had reached them. Before the Sicilian had time to do more than help Fabiola up, they were surrounded. Fortunately, the heavies seemed relatively good-natured. Shouts of laughter rang out at her misfortune and rough, unshaven faces pressed in close, leering.

  ‘Come with us!’ cried a bearded man who appeared to be one of the mob’s leaders. His tone offered no option of refusal.

  Tullius looked helplessly at his mistress. If he or his men touched their weapons, they would be killed out of hand.

  Fabiola knew it too. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down her dress. ‘Where?’

  The answer was instant. ‘To the Forum!’

  She peered at the people who were being forced to accompany the gang members: their faces were twisted with fear. Law and order was completely breaking down, and there was no one to stand up for normal people like them. ‘Why?’ Fabiola asked stoutly.

  ‘To witness what those bastards did to Clodius!’ shouted the bearded thug. ‘His body will be displayed for all to see.’

  A furious roar met his words and Fabiola’s heart sank. News of the murder had already reached the city. The young man had not been the first to return.

  ‘Respect must be paid to the dead.’ The gang leader raised his sword in the air. ‘Before we rid this city of that bastard Milo. And everyone who follows him!’

  This time the mob’s response was an inarticulate roar. Primeval. Terrifying.

  Fabiola could almost feel the Republic’s foundations shake beneath the rabble’s anger. Her own heart was thumping with fear, but it was pointless trying to resist.

  The crowd moved off at speed, taking Fabiola and her men with it.

  Chapter V: Discovery

  Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

  An entire cohort was sent out to the Mithraeum at dawn, but found only corpses. The surviving Scythians had disappeared on horseback, and their original purpose was presumed to be an attempt to assassinate Pacorus. Long-range patrols were mounted throughout the area, but found no evidence of enemy forces. Gradually the tension in the fort eased, although Vahram, now acting commander, insisted that the sentries were doubled day and night.

  Nothing more was seen of the Scythians.

  Weeks passed without any news of Tarquinius. There was no word of Pacorus either; complete secrecy reigned over the commander’s house and only Parthians were allowed within. The senior centurions were deeply angry at what had happened and spoke only to those they trusted: in other words, to none of the Roman prisoners. Of course, Romulus and Brennus had told their roommates about the attack; the news spread like wildfire. Rumours filled the camp on a daily basis. Only one thing was clear. Because there had been no reprisals, Pacorus was still alive. Tarquinius’ care was having at least some effect, but nobody knew more.

  To ensure that they did not flee, Romulus and Brennus were closely watched at all times. No other overt threat was made, but their situation remained desperate. Vahram’s threat was no idle one, and most Parthians made sure to remind the pair of it at every opportunity. They were constantly taunted with the manner of Felix’ death as well. This sting to their pride was particularly hard to ignore: after all, their friend’s murder had not been avenged, and it might never be. With a clenched jaw, Brennus dealt with the menaces silently. Romulus kept them at bay by praying daily to Mithras. He thought of home too, and of what exactly Tarquinius might have seen. Knowing it involved returning to Rome helped immensely.

  All kinds of fantasies went through his head, from discovering his mother and Fabiola to torturing Gemellus. Taking on Vahram in a duel and killing him slowly was another favourite. Romulus also had time to relive the brawl that had caused him to flee the capital. During it, he had apparently killed a nobleman with a crack to the head from his sword hilt. At the time, panicked and desperate to avoid crucifixion, Romulus had not given it much consideration. Now, the veteran of innumerable battles, he knew that unless he was no judge of his own strength, the blow had probably not been enough to kill. When he asked Brennus, the big Gaul confirmed that he had only punched the angry noble a couple of times. It was a troubling realisation, because it meant that he, Romulus, was innocent. Which meant that he had had no reason to flee in the first place. So who had killed Rufus Caelius? It was impossible to know the truth of it, yet Romulus became consumed by thoughts of what might have been if the nobleman had not been slain. Although he talked it over repeatedly with Brennus, the Gaul was less concerned about what had happened. His destiny all along had been to take a great journey, and Brennus was convinced that was why he was in Margiana. Romulus did not have that comfort.

  All he had was Tarquinius’ advice to trust in Mithras, about whom he knew very little.

  Unsurprisingly, none of the Parthians would talk to him about their god. Watched constantly, he had no chance of trying to visit the Mithraeum either. Then Romulus managed to procure a small statue from a wizened old man who came into the fort on a regular basis to sell knickknacks. All the ancient told him was that Mithras wore a Phrygian cap, and that the life of the bull he was sacrificing gave birth to humankind, the animals and birds of the earth, and its crops and foods. Romulus pressed him hard for more information, and discovered that there were seven stages of devotion. After this, the seller totally clammed up. ‘You look brave and honest,’ were his last words. ‘If you are, Mithras will reveal more.’

  At this, the window of hope in Romulus’ heart opened a fraction.

  He placed the carved figure on the special shrine which had been erected by the barracks entrance. Although it was dedicated to Aesculapius, the god of medicine, Romans were happy to worship more than one deity at the same time. Romulus spent every spare moment he had on his knees before the image of Mithras, praying for some good news about Tarquinius, and that he might discover how to return to Rome. Nothing was forthcoming, but he did not lose faith. Since childhood, life had dealt him one hard knock after another. Witnessing Gemellus rape his mother nightly. Being sold into the savagery of the ludus. The duel against Lentulus, a far more experienced fighter. A deadly mass combat in the arena. Escaping Rome after the brawl. Army life and the horrors of Carrhae. Captivity in Parthia and then the long march to Margiana. But each time death threatened, the gods had lifted him from harm’s way. Consequently, Romulus was prepared to devote all his attention to Mithras. What else could he do?

  During his time at the shrine, Romulus was touched by the devotion shown by his comrades. In normal circumstances, the Romans would have been pleased if Pacorus died, but now prayers for his recovery were offered up by the dozen. Almost all the men in the century stopped by the altar each day. Word of the threat to Tarquinius’ life spread fast and there were visits from countless other soldiers as well. Soon the simple stone top was dotted with sestertii, denarii and even lucky amulets: offerings that men would not part with lightly. Everything that had been minted or made in Italy was now priceless. It proved to Romulus and Brennus how important Tarquinius was to the Forgotten Legion’s sense of wellbeing.

  One cold afternoon, Romulus was performing his devotions as usual. Deep in prayer and with his eyes closed, he became aware of loud muttering behind him. Presuming it was other soldiers asking for divine help, he ignored the noise. But when they started sniggering, he looked around. Five legionaries were standing just outside the door, peering in at him. Romulus recognised them; they were from a contubernium in his century. All had served in
the legions for many years. Tellingly, he had seen none make any offerings at the altar.

  ‘Praying for the soothsayer?’ asked Caius, a tall, thin man with few teeth and bad breath. ‘Our centurion.’

  Romulus did not like Caius’ tone. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘Been gone a while, hasn’t he?’ sneered Optatus, leaning against the doorpost. A strongly built figure almost as large as Brennus, he had a permanently unfriendly manner.

  Romulus felt a tickle of unease. All five had been out on the training ground. They were in chain mail and were fully armed, whereas he was clad in just his tunic, with only a dagger for protection. ‘I suppose so,’ he said slowly, gazing from one to the other.

  ‘Treacherous bastard,’ said Novius, the smallest of the five. Despite his stature, he was an expert swordsman. Romulus had seen him in action before. ‘Be conniving with Pacorus, won’t he?’

  ‘Coming up with more ways to have us slaughtered,’ added Caius. ‘Like he did at Carrhae.’

  Romulus could scarcely believe his ears, but the others’ heads were nodding angrily. ‘What did you say?’ he spat.

  ‘You heard.’ Caius’ lips lifted, revealing red, inflamed gums. ‘Crassus didn’t lose the battle. He was a good general.’

  ‘So how did it happen?’ Romulus retorted hotly.

  ‘That treacherous Nabataean didn’t help, but it was more likely your Etruscan friend, meddling with evil spirits.’ Novius rubbed at the phallus amulet hanging from his neck. ‘He’s always bringing bad luck on us.’

  His companions muttered in agreement.

  Absolutely astonished that men could think like this, Romulus realised it was best not to respond. The discontented legionaries were looking for a scapegoat. With his long blond hair, single gold earring and odd manner, Tarquinius was an obvious target. Arguing would make things worse. Turning his back on them, he leaned forward, bowing to the small stone figure of Aesculapius on the altar.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Optatus. ‘Where did you get that?’