The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  ‘Ready to feel this in your guts?’ he cried.

  ‘Come and try,’ sneered Romulus, holding up the gladius.

  The two veterans made for him at the trot.

  Romulus breathed deeply, filling his lungs with cold air. His situation was only a fraction less critical than it had been. He glanced over his shoulder to see how Brennus was doing. To his relief, the Gaul was still unhurt. He was dancing around Optatus, ducking and weaving away from thrusts of the big soldier’s sword.

  Again Romulus’ enemies split up, preparing to hit him simultaneously this time.

  His fingers closed tightly around the sword’s bone hilt as he watched them approach. It was times like this which separated cowards from the courageous. There was only one thing to do, thought Romulus. Go on the attack. If he waited until they reached him, it would be over in a few heartbeats. Which one? It took a mere instant to decide. Novius. It was Novius who was smaller.

  Romulus charged straight at the little legionary, whose eyes widened at his audacity. Preparing himself, Novius ducked behind his scutum, protecting himself from his neck to his lower legs. The curved shield’s size meant that it was almost impossible to deliver a fatal blow to the man holding it. But that was not Romulus’ intention. Closing in, he feinted to one side, letting Novius think that he was attacking from his right. The legionary raised his gladius, ready to strike. At the last instant, the young soldier danced the other way and dropped his left shoulder. With an almighty heave, he barged into Novius’ scutum, using his superior body weight to drive the legionary backwards. Used to having a comrade on his left side to defend him, Novius was caught unawares. Then his caligae slipped on a patch of frost and he fell, landing on the flat of his back. The impact drove the air from his lungs, winding him.

  Romulus acted fast. Pulling the heavy scutum up and out of the way, he thrust his sword into his enemy’s throat. Novius’ pupils dilated with shock as the sharp iron blade sliced through soft flesh to grate off the vertebrae in his neck. Bright red blood gushed from the wound, staining the ground beneath. Novius’ mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. Two heartbeats later, he was dead.

  It was a quick end for the malevolent little legionary, thought Romulus. Too quick.

  He looked back. Pelting in, Ammias was only a few paces away. His voice was distorted in a scream of fury. Again Romulus had to retreat without a shield. But his opponent was able to pick up a gladius as he stepped over Novius’ body. They shuffled around, trading blows, each searching for weaknesses in the other. Twice, Ammias shoved his gilt shield boss at Romulus’ face, but the young soldier was ready for the classic move and dodged backwards both times. Frustrated and angered by Novius’ death, the veteran’s attacks grew more frenzied.

  Stay calm, Romulus thought. He’ll make a mistake eventually. They always do.

  From behind him came the unmistakable sound of a man crying out in pain.

  Romulus couldn’t help himself. He turned to see what had happened. Optatus had sliced Brennus across his left arm, opening a long cut from his elbow to his wrist. As blood welled from the wound, the Gaul desperately retreated, trying to avoid further injury.

  Too late, the young soldier remembered Ammias. In slow motion, he spun back. His enemy’s shield boss hit him full in the chest and Romulus heard a dull crack as two of his ribs broke. Used like this, the Roman scutum was an excellent offensive weapon. Stars cascaded across Romulus’ vision and he landed heavily, dropping his sword.

  At once Ammias kicked it out of reach. Snarling with rage, he stooped over Romulus. ‘You killed my friend,’ he growled. ‘And the Gaulish bastard did for Primitivus. Now it’s your turn.’

  Romulus clenched his jaw in an effort not to cry out. Sharp needles were stabbing him with every breath. Sensing his weakness, the grinning veteran kicked him viciously.

  He nearly passed out from the pain.

  ‘Like that?’ gloated Ammias. ‘Slave scum.’

  Romulus could not answer. Through slitted eyes, he saw his opponent’s gladius rise up.

  Roars of approval came from the watching legionaries. The unexpected entertainment was proving to be hugely enjoyable. It was all the better if one of their comrades was victorious.

  Enjoying his moment of victory, Ammias paused.

  Romulus knew that death was an instant away. When the sword came down, his life would be over. A procession of thoughts flashed through his mind. Now there would be no chance to help Brennus. Or Tarquinius. No possible return to Rome. No reunion with Fabiola. And no revenge on Gemellus.

  Had Jupiter and Mithras protected him for so long, only for him to die like a dog?

  Scrabbling with his fingernails at the hard earth, Romulus managed to scoop up a small handful.

  Grimacing, the veteran thrust downwards.

  Ignoring the agony from his ribs, Romulus rolled to one side, sweeping up his arm at the same time. Ammias’ move brought him within reach, and at the last moment, the young soldier opened his hand. Particles of dirt filled his enemy’s eyes and his gladius plunged into the ground, missing Romulus by a handbreadth.

  Blinded, Ammias cried out in agony.

  Romulus seized the moment and punched him in the solar plexus, badly bruising his right fist against the veteran’s chain mail.

  Letting go of his sword hilt, Ammias went down, his mouth open in an ‘O’ of surprise.

  A shocked silence fell over the assembled soldiers.

  Holding his ribs with his left hand, Romulus got to his knees.

  Beside him, Ammias was rolling around, trying to find his gladius.

  Romulus got there first. Pulling it free with a grunt of effort, he smashed the flat of the blade across his enemy’s face. There was a sound of cartilage breaking, which was followed by a strangled cry. Ammias reeled backwards, clutching his ruined nose. Blood poured from between his fingers; his eyes were inflamed and full of grit. He was no longer capable of fighting. Romulus briefly considered killing him. After all, Ammias was one of the men who had tried to murder him on multiple occasions, had been instrumental in turning the whole legion against him. But he was unarmed and unable to defend himself. Ripping Ammias’ scutum from his grip, Romulus stood.

  He was no cold-blooded murderer. And Brennus needed his help.

  With his opponent already weakened by blood loss, Optatus was doing his level best to kill the Gaul. It was only Brennus’ huge strength that had allowed him to continue resisting the legionary’s skilful attacks. When Optatus saw Romulus running over, his efforts redoubled. Punches with his shield were followed instantly by thrusts of his gladius. It was a deadly one-two combination and difficult to resist for long.

  Ignoring the waves of pain from his broken ribs as best he could, Romulus neared the pair. Finally Optatus had to turn and face him.

  ‘On your own now,’ said Romulus, buying time. ‘How do you like that?’

  Optatus could see the young soldier’s sides heaving, could imagine why he was winded. ‘Two injured slaves,’ he replied, his top lip lifting with contempt. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

  It was a bad mistake. While they were talking, Brennus had retrieved Novius’ sword and shield. Despite his injury, the Gaul was now a second deadly opponent.

  A moment later, the friends were poised on either side of the big legionary.

  Optatus was no coward. He made no attempt to surrender or to run. Instead, he turned this way and that, wondering who would attack first.

  But Romulus and Brennus held back. Both were reluctant to kill Optatus.

  Sensing their indecision, the veteran lunged forward at Romulus.

  He moved back a step, taking the blow on his shield. Optatus did not let up, thrusting again and again at Romulus’ face with his gladius. Without doubt, he was the toughest of the legionaries. If he could overcome the young soldier, there was a chance of his beating Brennus.

  The Gaul could not stand by any longer. As Optatus drew back another time, he leaned in and sliced the v
eteran’s left hamstring with his blade.

  Optatus collapsed with a loud groan, instinctively holding up his shield to protect himself. Still he asked for no quarter. Yet, lying on his back, he now had no chance at all.

  Grudging admiration filled Romulus at his bravery. He looked to Pacorus for a similar reaction. Brennus did likewise.

  It was not forthcoming. The commander’s face was creased with anger. Novius and his cronies had lied to him. Romulus’ and Brennus’ clemency to the veterans clearly demonstrated that. He snapped out an order and his archers raised their bows.

  Romulus realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ he cried.

  Brennus closed his eyes. He had seen things like this all too often.

  A dozen arrows hummed through the air. Six pinned Optatus to the ground, while the remainder spitted Ammias through the chest and abdomen. Both were killed instantly.

  Silence fell over the intervallum. Reaching into their quivers, the warriors fitted new shafts to their bowstrings.

  ‘So die all those who lie to me,’ shouted Pacorus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘I am the commander of the Forgotten Legion!’

  Unwilling to meet his furious stare, the audience of soldiers looked down. Even Vahram avoided Pacorus’ eyes.

  Romulus and Brennus moved closer together, uncertain how the volatile Parthian would react next.

  Another order from the commander rang out.

  At full draw, the archers’ bows swung to cover the two friends.

  Chapter XIV: A New Ally

  Rome, winter 53/52 BC

  ‘Only devotees may enter the Mithraeum,’ said Secundus in a hard voice. ‘And death is the penalty for those who break that rule.’

  Fabiola trembled. In this, the centre of his power, she saw him in an entirely different light. Now Secundus was a tall, powerful figure, his authority exuding from every pore. Produced from a wooden chest, a golden staff had appeared in his left hand and a red Phrygian cap sat on his head. This was no impoverished army cripple, begging for a coin to feed himself. The face that Secundus gave to the world outside was a complete façade.

  Ringing them angrily, his men shouted in agreement.

  ‘Take her up to the courtyard,’ Secundus ordered. ‘Make it quick.’

  Without a chance to explain herself further, Fabiola was bundled towards the passageway to the stairs.

  By entering the Mithraeum, she had unknowingly crossed an invisible line. Mithras had shown her where Romulus might be, but now she was going to die. As her brother would, if he was present at the battle she had seen. If the vision was real at all, Fabiola thought bitterly. What had the strange-tasting liquid done to her mind?

  Curious to know before the end, she threw a question at Secundus. ‘What’s in the phial?’

  The veterans holding her faltered.

  ‘Wait!’ snapped Secundus. His face had gone pinched. ‘You drank from this?’ he said slowly, lifting the blue glass from the altar top.

  She nodded.

  Seeing that it was empty, Secundus’ nostrils flared with fury.

  Swords slid from scabbards at the new outrage, but he raised a hand to stop any hasty action. ‘Did you see anything?’ he asked quietly.

  Fabiola tensed, aware that everything hinged upon her answer. Faced with death, she wanted life.

  ‘Answer me,’ muttered Secundus, ‘or, by Mithras, I will slay you here and now.’

  Fabiola closed her eyes, asking the warrior god for his help. The truth, she thought. Tell the truth. ‘I became a raven,’ she said loudly, thinking that the men listening would laugh. ‘Flying high over a strange land.’

  Disbelieving gasps met her comment. She heard the word ‘Corax’ whispered repeatedly.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Secundus barked. ‘A raven?’

  Fabiola stared into his eyes. ‘I am.’

  He looked confused.

  ‘How can this be?’ demanded one veteran.

  ‘A woman as a sacred bird?’ cried another.

  The chamber resounded with questions.

  Secundus raised his arms for quiet. Remarkably, his men obeyed. ‘Tell me everything you saw,’ he said to Fabiola. ‘Do not leave out a single detail.’

  Taking a deep breath, she began.

  No one spoke as Fabiola recounted her vision. When she had finished, there was a stunned silence.

  Secundus moved to stand before the three altars and the depiction of the tauroctony. Kneeling, he bent his head.

  No one spoke, but the grip on Fabiola’s arms relaxed slightly. A sidelong glance at the veterans holding her revealed fear, and awe, in their expressions. She did not know what to think. If they believed in her vision, did that mean it could be relied upon?

  After a few moments, Secundus bowed from the waist and got to his feet.

  All his men tensed, eager to hear if the god had spoken.

  ‘She is not to be harmed,’ Secundus said, his eyes moving steadily around the room. ‘Anyone who drinks the homa and then dreams a raven is favoured by Mithras.’

  The faces around Fabiola registered shock, disbelief and anger.

  ‘Even a woman?’ said the guard who had admitted them earlier. ‘But it’s forbidden!’

  More dissenting voices joined in.

  Secundus raised his arms for quiet, but the clamour grew louder.

  ‘This is blasphemy,’ shouted a figure near the back.

  ‘Kill her!’

  A knot formed in Fabiola’s stomach. These tough ex-soldiers would show as little mercy as Scaevola’s fugitivarii.

  Secundus watched without reacting. Eventually there was a brief lull in the noise.

  ‘I am the Pater,’ he announced in a firm voice. ‘Am I not?’

  Men nodded their heads. The angry mutters died away, leaving a sullen silence.

  ‘Have I led you astray before?’

  No one answered.

  ‘Well then,’ said Secundus. ‘Trust me now. Release her.’

  To Fabiola’s amazement, the veterans holding her arms let go. They moved away awkwardly, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘Come here.’ Secundus, the Pater, was beckoning to her.

  Feeling relieved yet scared, she moved to his side.

  ‘Back to your beds,’ ordered Secundus. ‘I will take charge of her.’

  With plenty of backward glances, the hard-faced men did as they were told. A few moments later, Fabiola and Secundus were the only ones left in the underground chamber.

  Fabiola raised an eyebrow. ‘The Pater?’

  ‘In the eyes of Mithras, I am their father,’ he answered. ‘As the most senior member of this temple, I am responsible for its security.’ Alone, Secundus seemed even more intimidating. He regarded her sternly. ‘You breached our trust to come in here without permission. Consider yourself lucky to be alive.’

  Tears formed in Fabiola’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘It is done,’ said Secundus in a more forgiving tone. ‘Mithras works in strange ways.’

  ‘You believe me?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

  ‘I see no deceit in you. And you dreamt a raven.’

  Fabiola had to ask. ‘Was my vision real?’

  ‘It was sent by the god,’ he replied evasively. ‘Yet the homa can take us far away. Too far sometimes.’

  ‘I saw Roman soldiers. And my brother’s friends,’ she protested. ‘About to fight a battle that no one could win. No one.’ Fat tears rolled down Fabiola’s cheeks.

  ‘What you observed may never happen,’ said Secundus calmly.

  ‘Or it has done so already,’ she retorted, filled with bitterness.

  ‘That is true,’ he acknowledged. ‘Visions can show all possibilities.’

  Fabiola hunched her shoulders, trying to hold in the grief.

  ‘It is remarkable to have such a powerful dream after drinking homa for the first time,’ said Secundus. ‘And surely a sign from the god.’

  ‘Your men don’t seem convinced.’

&nbs
p; ‘They will obey my orders,’ said Secundus, frowning. ‘For the moment.’

  Fabiola was somewhat relieved.

  His next words were startling. ‘The first step in Mithraicism is to become a Corax. A raven. Many initiates never even see one.’ He stared at her. ‘Your vision means that we have met for a purpose.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mithras reveals many things to me.’ Secundus smiled, infuriating Fabiola. She felt as if he was playing with her. ‘What are your plans?’

  Fabiola reflected for a moment. She had originally intended to return to the latifundium. That was now impossible. So was staying in Rome. The uncertain political situation was proving to be even more dangerous than she had imagined and Scaevola was still at large in the city. Denied twice, the fugitivarius would not give up his pursuit of her now. Fabiola had no doubt about that. Yet without protection, where could she go? ‘I don’t know,’ Fabiola replied, eyeing the figure of Mithras hopefully.

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘My men wouldn’t stand for it.’

  Fabiola was not surprised. She had broken one of the veterans’ most sacred rules, and the threats shouted at her would not go away.

  ‘More than one wants you dead for what was done here tonight.’

  She was at his, and Mithras’, mercy. Closing her eyes, Fabiola waited for Secundus to go on.

  ‘Your lover is in Gaul with Caesar,’ he said. ‘Trying to quell Vercingetorix’s rebellion.’

  Her heart rate quickened. ‘He is.’

  ‘Brutus can protect you.’

  ‘It’s hundreds of miles to the border,’ Fabiola faltered. ‘Even more beyond that.’

  ‘I will guide you,’ he announced.

  She controlled her shock. ‘Why would you do this?’

  ‘Two reasons,’ grinned Secundus. He bowed towards the tauroctony. ‘One is that the god desires me to.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Caesar needs all the help he can get in Rome,’ he answered with a sly wink. ‘We’ll see what he says to the offer of more than fifty veterans’ swords. If he agrees, we’ll get the recognition and pensions we deserve.’