The Silver Eagle tllc-2

by Ben Kane

  Brennus smiled proudly at the sharp observation. An expert hunter himself, he had missed seeing the small predator. This was becoming more common. Romulus could now follow animals over bare rock, possessing an uncanny ability to notice the smallest detail. The twig out of place, the blade of grass bent double, the change in prints’ depth when the quarry was wounded. Few men had such skill.

  Brac had been one.

  Old emotion welled up inside Brennus: grief that his young cousin would never have the chance to stand with him like this. Like Brennus’ wife, baby son and his entire Allobroge tribe, Brac was dead, massacred by the Romans eight years before. At exactly the same age Romulus was now. Trying to ease the sharp claws of his ever-present grief, Brennus shook his massive shoulders and silently repeated the Allobroge druid Ultan’s words. The secret prophecy that Tarquinius had somehow known.

  A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.

  And on Margiana’s eastern border, some four months’ march east of Carrhae and more than three thousand miles from Gaul, Brennus had truly done that. It remained to be seen how, and when, his journey would end. His attention was drawn back to the jackal by Romulus’ eagerly pointing arm. ‘Belenus above,’ Brennus breathed. ‘It’s acting like a dog. See?’

  Strangely, the animal was sitting back on its haunches, like a hound might watch its master.

  ‘That’s the gods’ work,’ muttered Romulus, wondering what Tarquinius would make of it. ‘Has to be.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Brennus agreed uneasily. ‘Jackals are scavengers, though; they feed on whatever dead flesh is around.’

  They exchanged a glance.

  ‘Men will die here tonight.’ Brennus shivered. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Romulus pensively. ‘But I think this is a good sign.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Falling silent, Romulus tried to use the snippets that Tarquinius occasionally let fall. Concentrating on his breathing, he focused on the jackal and the air above it, searching for something more than his blue eyes could see. For an age, he did not move, his exhaled breaths clouding round him in a thick, grey layer.

  Brennus let him be.

  Intent on starting a fire, the Parthians were ignoring them.

  At last Romulus turned away. The disappointment on his face was clear.

  Brennus eyed the jackal, which hadn’t moved. ‘Couldn’t see anything?’

  Romulus shook his head sadly. ‘It’s here to watch over us, but I don’t know why. Tarquinius would, though.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the Gaul, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘There are four of us against twenty now.’

  Romulus had to smile at that.

  It was far colder where they were standing, but both felt more kinship with the jackal than with Pacorus’ men. Instead of seeking heat by the fire, they huddled down together by a large boulder.

  In the event, it was that decision which probably saved their lives.

  Tarquinius felt his pulse quicken as they descended the crudely formed earthen steps, which were easy to see thanks to Pacorus’ torch. The narrow staircase had been dug out of the soil, with timber joists to hold up the sides. Neither the commander nor his guard spoke, which suited Tarquinius. He used the time to pray to Tinia, mightiest of the Etruscan gods. And to Mithras, even though he never had before. Mysterious and unknown, Mithraicism had fascinated Tarquinius ever since he had heard of it, in Rome. The religion had only been carried there a decade previously by legionaries who had campaigned in Asia Minor. Highly secretive in nature, Mithras’ followers were sworn to uphold the values of truth, honour and courage. Rites of great suffering had to be endured to move between the levels of devotion. That was all the haruspex knew.

  Of course it was not surprising to see evidence of the warrior deity here, in Margiana. This area was where the cult was strongest, perhaps even where it had originated. The discovery might have been in better circumstances though. Tarquinius smiled sardonically. He and his friends were under threat of immediate death. So it was time to be bold. With luck, the god would not be angered by a request made by a non-initiate, entering a Mithraeum in this unorthodox manner. After all, I am not just a haruspex, he thought proudly. I am a warrior too.

  Great Mithras, I come with a humble heart to worship you. I beg for a sign of your favour. Something to placate your servant, Pacorus. He hesitated for a moment, and then dared all. I also need your guidance to find a path back to Rome.

  Tarquinius sent his prayer up with all the force he could muster.

  The answering silence was deafening.

  He tried not to feel disappointed — but failed.

  Eighty-four stairs later, they reached the bottom.

  A wash of stale air wafted up the tunnel. It was a mixture of men’s sweat, incense and burnt wood. Tarquinius’ nostrils twitched, and goose bumps formed on his arms. There was palpable power here. If the god was in a favourable mood, perhaps his divining skills did have a chance of being revived.

  Half turning, Pacorus noticed his reaction and smiled. ‘Mithras is mighty indeed,’ he said. ‘And I will know if you are lying.’

  Tarquinius met his stare. ‘You will not be displeased,’ he said quietly.

  Pacorus restrained himself from saying more. Originally, he had been awed by Tarquinius’ ability to anticipate the future, and to pluck the solutions to overwhelming problems from thin air. Although he would not openly admit it, the Forgotten Legion’s initial successes in driving out the marauding tribes had almost exclusively been thanks to the haruspex. But some months ago, Tarquinius’ accurate predictions had dried up, to be replaced with vague, generalised comments. At first Pacorus had been unconcerned, but this had soon changed. He needed the prophecies because his position as commander of Parthia’s eastern border was a double-edged sword. While a huge promotion from his previous rank, it came laden with expectation. Pacorus relied on divine help just to survive.

  Attacks by war bands from neighbouring lands had been frequent for some time. The reason for this was simple. In anticipation of Crassus’ invasion, all local garrisons had been emptied more than twelve months previously. King Orodes, the Parthian ruler, had diverted every available man to the west, leaving the frontier region with few defences. The nomadic tribes had quickly seized the opportunity to rape and pillage every settlement within easy reach of the border. Growing bold on the back of success, soon they were vying to carve up Margiana.

  Pacorus’ mission from Orodes was simple: to smash all opposition and restore the peace. Fast. This he had done. But his very success jeopardised his position: the king was wary of any officer who became too effective. Even General Surena, the leader who had achieved the stunning victory at Carrhae, had not been safe. Nervous of Surena’s new-found popularity, Orodes had ordered his execution not long after the battle. The news kept officers such as Pacorus in constant uncertainty: eager to please, unsure how to proceed — and desperate for aid from sources such as Tarquinius.

  Fear is my last psychological advantage over Pacorus, thought the haruspex. Even that had worn thin. Weariness filled him. If the god revealed nothing, he would have to come up with something believable, enough to convince the ruthless Parthian not to kill them all. But after months of stringing Pacorus along, Tarquinius doubted his imagination was capable of any more.

  They walked in silence along a passageway constructed in the same way as the staircase. At length, it opened out into a long, narrow chamber.

  Pacorus moved left and right, lighting oil lamps which sat in small alcoves.

  As light flooded the room, Tarquinius took in the paintings on the walls, the low seats on each side and the heavy wooden posts supporting the low roof. Inevitably though, his eyes were drawn to the end of the Mithraeum, where a trio of altars was positioned below the dramatic, brightly painted image of a cloaked figure in a Phrygian cap crouched over a kneeling bull while plunging a knife deep into the beast’s chest.
Mithras. Stars glittered from his dark green cloak; a mysterious figure bearing a flaming torch stood witness on each side of him.

  ‘The tauroctony,’ whispered Pacorus, bending his head reverently. ‘By killing the sacred bull, Mithras gave life to the world.’

  Behind him, Tarquinius sensed the guard bowing. He did the same.

  Slowly Pacorus led the way to the altars. Muttering a brief prayer, he bent from the waist. ‘The god is present,’ he said, stepping aside. ‘Let us hope he reveals something to you.’

  Tarquinius closed his eyes and gathered his strength. Unusually, his palms were sweaty. Never had there been an occasion where he needed help more. He had made momentous predictions before now, many of them, but not under the threat of immediate execution. And in here, there was no wind, no cloud, no flocks of birds to observe, not even an animal to sacrifice. I am alone, the haruspex thought. Instinctively, he knelt. Great Mithras, help me!

  He looked up at the godly figure depicted above him. There was a knowing expression in its hooded eyes. What can you offer me? it seemed to say. Other than himself, Tarquinius had no answer. I will be your faithful servant.

  He waited for a long time.

  Nothing.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Pacorus harshly, his voice echoing in the confined space.

  Desolation swamped Tarquinius. His mind was a complete blank.

  Furious, Pacorus uttered a few words to his guard, who stepped in close.

  This is it, Tarquinius thought angrily. Olenus was wrong in thinking I would journey back from Margiana. Instead, I am to die alone, in a Mithraeum. Romulus and Brennus will be slain too. My whole life has been wasted.

  And then, from nowhere, an image seared his retinas.

  Nearly a hundred armed men creeping in on a score of Parthian warriors sitting around a fire. Tarquinius’ skin crawled. Talking among themselves, the Parthians were totally unaware.

  ‘Danger,’ he blurted, jumping up. ‘There is great danger approaching.’

  The guard paused, his knife still ready for use.

  ‘From where?’ demanded Pacorus. ‘Sogdia? Bactria?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ cried the haruspex. ‘Here! Now!’

  Pacorus’ eyebrows rose disbelievingly.

  ‘We must warn the others,’ urged Tarquinius. ‘Return to the fort, before it’s too late.’

  ‘It’s night-time, in midwinter,’ scoffed Pacorus. ‘Twenty of the finest men in Parthia are on watch outside. So are your friends. And nine thousand of my soldiers are only a mile away. What possible danger can there be?’

  His guard leered.

  ‘They are about to be attacked,’ answered Tarquinius simply. ‘Soon.’

  ‘What? This is how you cover up your incompetence?’ shouted Pacorus, his colour rising. ‘You’re a damn liar!’

  Instead of denying the accusation, Tarquinius closed his eyes and brought back the image he had just seen. Somehow he did not allow panic to take hold. I need more, great Mithras.

  ‘Finish it,’ Pacorus ordered.

  Tarquinius could sense the knife approaching, but he remained still. This was the ultimate test of his divining ability. There was nothing else he could do, no more he could ask of the god. Cool air brushed Tarquinius’ neck as the guard’s arm rose high. He thought of his innocent friends above. Forgive me.

  Carrying down the tunnel, the unmistakable sound of a man shouting the alarm reached their ears.

  Shock filled Pacorus’ face, but he regained control fast. ‘Treacherous dog. Told your friends to cry out after a certain time, eh?’

  Tarquinius shook his head in silent denial.

  There was a long pause before the air filled with blood-curdling yells. Far more noise than two men could make.

  Pacorus blanched. He hesitated for a moment, then turned and ran from the chamber, his guard close on his heels.

  Rising, Tarquinius was about to follow, when he felt a surge of power.

  The god’s revelation was not over.

  But his friends were in mortal danger.

  Guilt mixed with anger, and desire for knowledge. He knelt again. There was time.

  A little time.

  A long half-hour passed. The temperature, which had been hovering just below freezing all day, fell much further. Using a stockpile of timber left there for the purpose, the Parthian warriors fed the blazing fire until it was the height of a man. While a few stood guard on a perimeter roughly thirty paces out, the remainder hunched around it, talking between themselves. Few even glanced at Romulus and Brennus, the interlopers.

  The two friends stamped up and down, doing their best to keep warm. It was a futile battle. Still they felt no inclination to join the Parthians, whose attitude towards them was at best contemptuous. Brennus fell into a deep reverie about his future while Romulus studied the jackal, hoping to understand its reasons for staying. His efforts were in vain. Finally the animal stood up, shook itself in a leisurely manner and trotted off to the south. It was lost to sight instantly.

  Later, Romulus would remember the timing with awe.

  ‘Gods above,’ muttered Brennus, his teeth chattering. ‘I hope Tarquinius is done soon. Otherwise we’re going to have to join those bastards by the fire.’

  ‘He won’t be long,’ Romulus replied confidently. ‘Pacorus has reached the end of his tether with him.’

  Everyone in the Forgotten Legion knew that when their commander lost his temper, men were executed.

  ‘The prick’s been looking twitchy,’ agreed Brennus, counting the Parthians for the umpteenth time. There are too many of them, he decided. ‘Probably order us all killed next. Shame the jackal didn’t stick around to help, eh?’

  Romulus was about to reply when his gaze fell on the two furthest sentries. Wraithlike figures had appeared behind them, bearing long knives. He watched disbelievingly for a heartbeat before opening his mouth to shout a warning. But it was too late. The Parthians toppled backwards and out of sight, silent sprays of red jetting from their cut throats.

  None of their companions noticed.

  ‘To arms!’ Romulus roared. ‘We are under attack from the east!’

  Alarmed, the other warriors scrambled to their feet, reaching for their weapons and staring out into the pitch darkness.

  From it, fearsome yells rose into the freezing air.

  Brennus was beside Romulus in an instant. ‘Wait,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t move yet.’

  ‘They’re spotlit by the fire,’ said Romulus, understanding.

  ‘Fools,’ muttered Brennus.

  The first arrows descended as they watched. Fired from beyond the firelight, they fell in a dense, deadly rain. A perfectly laid ambush, it was bizarrely beautiful to watch. More than half the Parthians were killed outright by the volley, and several others were wounded. The remainder frantically grabbed their bows and loosed shaft after blind shaft in response.

  Romulus raised his silk-covered scutum and was about to race forward, but Brennus’ great paw stopped him again. ‘Tarquinius. ’ he protested.

  ‘Is safe underground for the moment.’

  Romulus relaxed a fraction.

  ‘They’ll charge next,’ the Gaul said as the terrifying shouts increased in volume. ‘And when they do, let’s give them a little surprise of our own.’

  Brennus’ guess was correct. What he had not foreseen was the number of attackers.

  There was another shower of arrows and then the enemy came in at a run. Dozens of them. With bows like those of the Parthians slung over their shoulders, they waved swords, knives and vicious-looking short-headed axes. Dressed in felt hats, ornate scale mail and knee-high boots, the brown-skinned men could only be one nationality: Scythian. Romulus and Brennus had already encountered the fierce nomads in skirmishes on the border. Although their empire’s heyday had passed, the Scythians still made unrelenting enemies. And their hooked arrow heads were coated in a deadly poison called scythicon. Anyone even scratched with it died in agonising pain.r />
  Brennus cursed quietly, and Romulus’ stomach clenched.

  Tarquinius was still in the Mithraeum, and they could not just leave him to his fate. Yet if they tried to rescue the haruspex, certain death would come to all of them. There were at least fifty Scythians visible now, and more were appearing. Bitterness filled Romulus at the randomness of life. The idea of returning to Rome now seemed laughable.

  ‘They can’t have missed the noise,’ Brennus whispered. ‘Pacorus is no coward. He’ll come charging out at any moment. And there’s only one way to save their lives.’

  ‘Go in, quick and silent,’ said Romulus.

  Pleased, Brennus nodded. ‘Hit any Scythians by the temple’s entrance. Grab Tarquinius and the others. Then make a run for it.’

  Clinging to his words, Romulus led the way.

  They ran hard and fast, their cold muscles aching with the effort. Thankfully, adrenalin soon kicked in, giving them extra speed. Javelins in hand, both cocked their right arms back, preparing to throw when the time was right. Engrossed with the surviving Parthians, the Scythians were not even looking outwards. They had encircled their foes, and were closing in.

  With a century behind us, thought Romulus wistfully, we’d smash them into pieces. Now though, they had to trust that Tarquinius emerged at the right time and they could escape into the night. It was a slim hope.

  Like two avenging ghosts, they closed in on the Mithraeum’s unguarded entrance.

  Still they were not seen.

  Cries of fear filled the air as the last Parthians realised that their fate was sealed.

  A few steps from the hole, Romulus was beginning to think that they might just do it. Then a lightly built Scythian straightened up from a prone Parthian, wiping his sword on the corpse’s clothing. His mouth opened and closed as he saw them. Snapping out an order, the Scythian rushed forward. Nine men followed, some quickly sheathing their weapons and unslinging their bows.

  ‘You look for Tarquinius,’ yelled Romulus as they skidded to a stop by the opening. ‘I’ll hold them.’