The Silver Eagle

by Ben Kane

  It was a shrewd plan, thought Fabiola.

  Years of absence from Rome had allowed Julius Caesar to write himself an undeniably impressive curriculum vitae: the conquest of Gaul and the immense wealth it yielded. Following this came incursions to Germania and Britannia, short but forceful campaigns to hammer home Rome’s military superiority to the natives of those areas. Kept up to date with every victory by Caesar’s messengers, the plebeians loved him for his dash and his martial tendencies.

  Yet it was not enough: he was not daily on the ground in the city, pressing flesh, showing his face to the public, courting powerful nobles’ and senators’ favour. Bribes and the work of his minions could only do so much. Caesar still needed the influence of his surviving partner in the triumvirate: Pompey Magnus. Who, delighted by Crassus’ death in Parthia, was paying lip service to his erstwhile ally while simultaneously making friends with every little faction in the Senate. Few of these loved Caesar, Rome’s most illustrious general. As someone who had flouted the law before, he was too real a threat to the Republic. And now, with the political situation in real flux and anarchy threatening, Caesar was bogged down in Gaul for the foreseeable future. The offer of tough men in the capital would be tempting indeed.

  ‘You have my thanks,’ Fabiola said gratefully. ‘But there will be bandits on the way. And Scaevola and his fugitivarii might follow us.’

  Seeing her involuntary glance at his stump, the veteran laughed. ‘It won’t just be me. We’ll have whatever comrades I can persuade.’

  It only took Fabiola a moment to decide. The road north would be full of danger, and the situation in Gaul even more perilous. But what real option did she have?

  Fabiola extended her arm in the man’s fashion. Secundus smiled and accepted the grip.

  Leaving the city turned out to be a wise plan. The sun had barely risen before plumes of smoke filled the sky. Yet more buildings were going up in flames. The mob was making the most of the fact that the Senate was paralysed by a combination of corruption, indecision and infighting. As civilian politicians, the senators were unprepared for, and rightly fearful of, such blatant, armed insurrection. The Republic’s military was almost never needed within Italy itself, and to avoid attempts on power, legionary garrisons were prohibited within many miles of Rome. This rule left the city vulnerable to precisely such civil unrest. Now, having burned down the capital’s most important building, Clodius’ men were brimming with confidence. And when Milo’s gladiators regrouped, they would want only one thing. Revenge.

  Chaos had descended on Rome.

  More violence was as inevitable as dusk followed dawn. Only trained soldiers could quell the bloodthirsty mobs, could bring safety to the warrens of dangerous streets and alleyways. Secundus and his men were too few to bring the situation under control. Crassus was gone to Hades and Caesar was far away. Without Pompey Magnus’ involvement, Rome’s future looked very bleak indeed. Unless they wished to see more public structures such as the markets and law courts, or even their own homes, burned down around their ears, the senators and nobles would have no choice but to ask for his help.

  As they left the city walls behind, Fabiola remembered Brutus’ prediction of this exact manoeuvre by Pompey. This was the man who had outwitted Crassus to take the credit for quelling the Spartacus rebellion, and then done the same to the general Lucullus, after he had almost crushed Mithridates’ uprising in Asia Minor. Pompey was not about to be beaten to the ultimate prize. Bringing armed legionaries into the Forum Romanum for the first time since Sulla would give Pompey physical control of the Republic itself.

  Yet the Senate had no other choice.

  Five days later, it was as if the violence had never been. The screams of people caught up in the rioting had been replaced by birdsong, the creaking of the litter and the muttering of Secundus and his men. Leaning her head out of the litter’s side, Fabiola peered into the distance. Docilosa clicked her tongue disapprovingly, but Fabiola ignored her. Horrified at what had happened to Fabiola on the street, her middle-aged servant had refused point blank to be left behind. Glad to have the female company, Fabiola had not put up much protest. Now though, after bumping up and down for hours on end, she was bored. Snatching an occasional glance outside was perhaps not wise, but Fabiola needed to do so to stay sane.

  The other person who had declined to stay in Rome was walking directly alongside. Despite his horrific wound, Sextus had insisted he accompany Fabiola north. The one-eyed slave followed her like a shadow; it was a most comforting feeling. Apart from Docilosa, no one was allowed within three steps of her without his nod of approval.

  Passing between rows of empty fields, the paved road stretched on to the grey horizon. Far from the nearest town, there were few other travellers in sight. Those that were abroad generally hurried past with the hoods of their cloaks turned up. With no official force to protect ordinary citizens in Rome or outside it, the Republic’s roads were dangerous, by day or night.

  The countryside was regularly dotted with latifundia, their lands lying fallow until the spring. Like Fabiola’s, each was made up of a central building complex with the obligatory vineyards, olive groves and fruit trees. Dense groves of oaks and cypresses grew near the entrances; large packs of guard dogs ran loose around all the properties. Secundus and his men had frequently been obliged to throw stones at the fierce animals. Gangs of armed men in grubby tunics also lounged at the gates to many of the villas: protection against robbers. In these dangerous times, rich landowners guarded their estates even more closely than normal.

  The parties of unshaven heavies eyed the litter and its accompanying guard of twelve men with suspicion, but dared not delay their passage, even when their hounds were stoned into submission. The distinctive bronze crested helmets, the thigh-length mail and army weapons marked out the tough-looking figures as veterans. They were all equipped with bows to boot, which made any attempt to rob them especially perilous. At these times, Fabiola was careful not to show her face. Presuming the passenger in the litter to be a wealthy nobleman or merchant, the thugs sullenly stood back.

  In this fashion, they had travelled without trouble. Every night, Secundus chose a place for their camp as far from the road as possible. Avoiding attention was their main aim. Once he was happy with their position, the tents were swiftly put up. It did not take Secundus’ eleven followers long to hammer the iron pegs into the ground and erect them. Until this journey, Fabiola had never seen the eight-man leather tents used by legionaries on the march. She and Docilosa had one to themselves, the men shared two others and the four slaves who carried the litter slept in a fourth. Refusing all other offers, Sextus spent every night wrapped in a blanket at the entrance to Fabiola’s. Inside, the women’s sleeping arrangements were simple: the bedding consisted of cushions and blankets from the litter. The Spartan decoration was still more than she was used to from her childhood. As then, there were few opportunities to bathe. This did not trouble Fabiola either: the weather was so cold that washing did not appeal much.

  There had been no sign of Scaevola since they had left Rome. Fabiola prayed daily that the malevolent fugitivarius had not managed to regroup his men sufficiently to mount a pursuit. So far, her prayers had been answered. If their run of good luck continued, the main problems to overcome would be the Pompeian forces that lay to the north, and any rogue tribesmen in Gaul.

  Although spring was around the corner, the days were still short. Finding a suitable spot to stop for the night, Secundus called an early halt to their march that afternoon. Sticking his head inside the litter, he beckoned to Fabiola. ‘It’s safe to come out now,’ he said.

  Gratefully she emerged into the cold air. Being able to stretch her legs in daylight was a real pleasure. Today Secundus had picked a secluded location by a river. Although it was only a hundred paces from a bridge over the fast-flowing water, it was protected by a grove of trees. Despite their bare branches, they provided plenty of cover. With darkness about to fall in the n
ext hour, their camp would remain well hidden overnight.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ Secundus advised.

  Fabiola had no intention of doing so. Even with Sextus at her back, she did not feel safe unless there were plenty of armed men in view. They walked to the river, which swept past, swollen by winter rainfall in the Apennine Mountains. Huge pieces of wood spun in lazy circles, revealing the immense power of the water carrying them by. Like most Romans, Fabiola could not swim. Falling into the torrent would mean certain death by drowning. She shuddered at the thought and turned away. Anxious to lift her sombre mood, she looked up at the sky.

  Clouds were scudding across it, illuminated from beneath by the setting sun. The strong wind was from the north, and it promised more snow. Fabiola knew this from the grey-yellow colour of the clouds, and from the biting chill that numbed her fingers and toes. Their journey was going to get even more difficult, she thought wearily. Unease sneaked over her, and Fabiola hurried back to the tents, eager to get away from the threatening weather. Sextus followed, also glancing unhappily into the darkening air.

  The wind speed increased through the evening, until it had become a shrieking voice that drowned out all sound. Extra pegs had to be placed to hold the tents securely to the ground. Secundus ordered the sentries doubled, positioning them close enough so they could see each other. Chilled to the bone, Fabiola and Docilosa went to bed fully dressed and even earlier than normal. It was rare to stay up past sunset anyway. What was there to do by the light of guttering oil lamps now, other than brood? Which is what the young woman found herself doing anyway.

  Even if they reached Gaul without further mishap, who knew if they would find Brutus amid the carnage and mayhem? With the whole country in revolt against the Romans, travel had become more dangerous than in Italy. Bands of brigands competed with dispossessed tribesmen for whatever pickings could be found. While the men accompanying her were solid veterans, they would not be able to withstand a large Gaulish war party.

  Fabiola sighed. What point was there in worrying about the future? Right now, surviving from one day to the next was enough to deal with. Tomorrow was another day. Trying to keep this sentiment to the forefront of her mind, she finally fell asleep.

  Cries of alarm roused her from a deep slumber. Thankfully, the howling wind had died away. Dull light penetrated through the tent fabric, telling Fabiola it was early morning. Throwing off the thick blankets, she pulled her pugio from under her pillow. Never again would Fabiola be overcome as she had been on the street in Rome.

  Docilosa was also awake. ‘What are you doing, Mistress?’ she asked, looking alarmed.

  Without answering, Fabiola moved to the door and partially unlaced the flap, which allowed her to see the area in front of their tent. ‘Sextus is gone.’

  ‘It could be dangerous,’ warned Docilosa. ‘Stay here.’

  Ignoring her, the young woman stepped into the morning air. To her relief, Sextus was only a few steps away. Clutching his gladius with white knuckles, his gaze was fixed on the blood-soaked figure which lay in the thick snow just beyond the next tent. Fabiola joined him.

  Secundus and two of his men were crouched over the body.

  It was one of the sentries. And his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The frozen snow around him had turned red, a shocking clash of colours in the dawn light.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Don’t know, Mistress,’ answered Sextus grimly. ‘I’ve heard nothing all night.’

  Noticing Fabiola, Secundus turned to face her. His face looked older than she remembered. His hands were covered in blood.

  ‘His name was Antoninus,’ the veteran said heavily. ‘He served with me for ten years.’

  Fabiola’s heart went out to him. ‘Who did it?’

  Secundus shrugged. ‘The same bastards who killed Servius, I guess.’

  Shocked, she looked at him questioningly.

  ‘There’s another one over there,’ he revealed. ‘Both were covered in snow, so it must have happened during the storm. Any footprints have been well covered.’

  Fear clenched Fabiola’s stomach. ‘Bandits?’ she asked.

  ‘Could be,’ said Secundus angrily. ‘Damn smart ones though, to get so close without any of us knowing. Antoninus and Servius were good men.’

  Fabiola went white. She knew a man who was a real expert at tracking.

  Scaevola.

  Chapter XV: A New Threat

  Margiana, winter/spring 53/52 BC

  The archers stared down their arrow shafts at Romulus and Brennus, waiting for the command to release. Despite the friends’ chain mail, the short distance between them meant that the barbed iron points would tear their flesh to pieces.

  Romulus’ pulse was pounding in the hollow of his throat.

  Resignation filled Brennus. The pain of Optatus’ sword cut was as nothing compared to having the satisfaction of victory taken away and replaced with the threat of summary execution. Again. As a gladiator, at least he had been applauded after winning a fight. Here, he was an expendable piece of meat. If he was to die, Brennus wanted it to be as a free man, not as a prisoner or a slave.

  Pacorus was about to speak when one of the sentries on the rampart bothered to glance out eastwards. Like his companions, the soldier had been totally absorbed by the combat being fought below his position. His hoarse cry of alarm drew everyone’s attention away from the pair of sweating figures standing over the legionaries’ corpses.

  ‘A messenger comes!’ he roared. ‘He’s signalling that an enemy is near.’

  As with all units on guard duty, there was a trumpeter standing by. Quickly he put his bronze instrument to his lips and blew a short, sharp series of notes that everyone recognised.

  The alarm.

  Pacorus’ mouth twisted with apprehension. Before they came within shouting range, riders could raise their right arm to warn their comrades of danger. This was clearly what the sentry had seen. ‘Get to the gate,’ he barked at Vahram. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

  The squat primus pilus snapped off a salute and trotted away.

  Pacorus turned back to Romulus and Brennus, who were still being covered by his archers. ‘How many did you see out there?’

  ‘One to two thousand, sir,’ answered Romulus confidently. ‘Perhaps more.’

  ‘Mostly infantry?’ asked Pacorus hopefully. A much weakened people compared to their heyday centuries before, the Scythians were still feared opponents of any army. Especially their skilled horsemen.

  ‘About half of each, sir.’

  Grey-faced, their commander sucked in a ragged breath. His forces were nearly all foot soldiers. ‘Five hundred to a thousand horse,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Mithras damn them all.’

  The friends waited.

  So did the Parthian bowmen.

  The primus pilus arrived with a warrior on a lathered mount a few moments later. His words confirmed those of Romulus. But instead of advancing further towards the fort, the Scythians were heading north again – in the direction of their own lands and the other fortlets. Satisfied for the moment, Pacorus muttered an order to his men, who finally lowered their bows. Suddenly there were more important things on the commander’s mind than the execution of two ordinary soldiers.

  The tension in Romulus’ shoulders began to dissipate, and he let out a long, slow breath.

  ‘Present yourselves to the optio in the first century of the primus pilus’ cohort,’ Pacorus snapped. ‘He can keep an eye on you there.’

  ‘Gladly, sir,’ said Vahram, leering at them. ‘There’ll be no question of desertion while I’m around.’

  Romulus imagined the punishment duties that the sadistic Parthian would come up with. And yet they were alive, he thought gratefully. Brennus nudged him and they ran off, both trying not to let their injuries show. It was best not to wait for Pacorus to reconsider, and what the volatile primus pilus might do later scarcely seemed to matter.

  Behind them, they heard Pacorus speak to
Vahram. ‘I want the whole legion ready to march in an hour. Have all the long spears issued as well.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘The silk-covered shields should withstand their poison arrows,’ he went on. ‘And the spears will break their charge.’

  It was the last thing that Romulus heard. Rounding a corner on to the Via Principia, they trotted along, ignoring the curious stares thrown in their direction. Soon they found themselves at their new barracks. The most important cohort in the Legion, the First was under Vahram’s personal command. Being the primus pilus was in fact two jobs: running his own unit of six centuries, as well as being the ranking senior centurion in the Forgotten Legion.

  The optio of the first century was a dour Capuan called Aemilius and they found him standing in the narrow corridor, yelling orders at his men. He looked surprised to see the pair, as did the legionaries present. Everyone in the camp had heard Novius’ malicious gossip, and sour comments immediately filled the air.

  Ignoring them, Romulus relayed their orders and saluted.

  ‘Pacorus himself sent you?’ Aemilius repeated.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Romulus, stiffening to attention again. Brennus did likewise.

  If it was humanly possible, they had to get on Aemilius’ good side from the start. Otherwise the two most senior officers in the century would be out for their blood. And that was before the legionaries became involved.

  Aemilius rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘Escaped slaves, eh?’

  All the men listening craned their heads to see.

  There was no point denying it any longer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Romulus replied, although he no longer felt like one. Training as a soldier, fighting battles and surviving this far had given him a seasoned confidence beyond that of an ordinary slave.

  Slavery had never sat easily on Brennus’ broad shoulders, but he held his tongue too. Here, remaining silent was the same as agreeing with Romulus.

  While the nearby soldiers hissed with disapproval, Aemilius did not react. Romulus hid his surprise at this. It was a tiny spark of hope.