The Silver Eagle (16 page)

When Fabiola had pulled up her dress and looked around, nearly all her men were down, but they had killed twice the number of their attackers. Strangely, the guard whose eye had been taken out was still fighting. Her heart filled with pride at his loyalty and courage. Screaming from a mixture of pain and battle rage, he had disabled two thugs, spilling one’s intestines all over the ground and burying his dagger in the thigh of another.

That left Fabiola and the injured slave against two of the lowlifes, who now looked decidedly less confident. The odds had improved and her spirits lifted a fraction. Jupiter is still watching over us. Do not turn away now, she pleaded. But Fabiola’s hope vanished again as four more men emerged from the alleyway. Drawn by the sound of fighting, they cried out angrily when they saw their comrades lying dead and injured. Dismay was quickly replaced by lust at the realisation that they only faced two enemies, one of whom was a beautiful young woman.

‘Mistress?’

Fabiola turned to face her wounded guard. Runnels of clotted blood covered his left cheek. They had even run into his open mouth, staining his teeth red. But his remaining eye burned fiercely from the clean, right side of his face. The effect was terrifying and must have given him an advantage over the thugs. ‘What is it?’

‘When I’m dead . . .’ He paused, looking genuinely distressed. ‘I don’t want to be dumped on the Esquiline Hill, Mistress.’

Fabiola’s heart went out to him. The slave wasn’t afraid of dying with her. Instead, like many of his kind, he feared the indignity of being thrown into the city’s open pits along with excess waste and the bodies of animals and criminals. Like her brother, he had pride as well as courage. Sadly, she didn’t even know the man’s name. ‘If I survive, and you do not,’ Fabiola declared, ‘then I swear before all the gods that you will have your own grave, with a memorial over it.’

She could not promise any more. The odds were still stacked against them.

He stared at her from his good eye and nodded once.

This was how the bonds of comradeship were formed, Fabiola realised. Someone who would stand by another in the midst of battle, especially when they did not have to, was worthy of friendship. And trust. Whether they were a slave or not was irrelevant.

‘Your name?’ she asked.

‘Sextus, Mistress.’

‘Good.’ Pleased that she would not die with a stranger, Fabiola studied the newcomers. They seemed vaguely familiar, but fortunately none was armed with a bow. There would be an opportunity to injure or kill at least a few before they died. Perhaps one would drop his guard as the fool with the
gladius
had, she thought hopefully. But she doubted the ruse would work again. By the way they held their weapons, the tough-looking men were used to fighting. Sighing, Fabiola moved shoulder to shoulder with Sextus. He smelt of blood and sweat. ‘Let’s charge them,’ she whispered. ‘If we break past, head into the alleyway. It will lead somewhere.’

‘Be easier to defend as well, Mistress,’ Sextus replied. ‘Two men can barely stand alongside each other in there.’

She was delighted by his insight. In such a narrow space, their attackers would not be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers. ‘Jupiter has preserved us both this far,’ she said, taking heart. ‘Now we need Fortuna’s help as well.’

‘The gods have never smiled on me, Mistress. I’m a slave.’ Sextus’ eye was world-weary. ‘But I’ll die rather than let these scum harm you.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm in the thugs’ direction.

There was no more time to talk. Angered by Sextus’ action and full of confidence again, their enemies moved forward purposefully. After all, they now outnumbered their victims by three to one; any fear of injury or death was overcome by their strong desire to rape Fabiola. How hard could it be for half a dozen fighters to overcome a blood-spattered young noblewoman and a badly wounded slave?

Fabiola’s new-found confidence began to desert her. Better armed and disciplined, the new arrivals were clearly more determined than their original attackers. Fear began to take root in her heart. Raising her
gladius
, she shuffled forward, trying to remember the practice moves she had once seen Romulus make. Sextus kept close beside her, probing forward with the spear he had picked up.

One of the thugs laughed; it was an unpleasant, threatening sound.

And Fabiola remembered where she had seen him before.

These were
fugitivarii
.

Almost on cue, a burly figure with brown hair and deep-set eyes strolled from the alley. Dressed in a legionary’s mail shirt, he had thick silver bands circling his wrists. Behind him were another six of his men, all heavily armed.

The tip of Sextus’ spear wavered at the sight; Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth in shock.

Scaevola bowed mockingly.

Her pulse became a trip hammer. This ambush had been planned.

Chapter VII: Ambush

Margiana, winter 53/52
BC

I
t was the silence which first drew Romulus’ attention. The fortlet that they had marched all day to reach was at the bottom of a gentle slope in a wide defile, meaning that sound carried up to anyone approaching from the west. Normal noises should have been audible: during daylight, every Roman camp was a hubbub of activity. There were smiths hammering out dents in sword blades, men shouting during weapons drill or trumpets sounding the change of guard. Yet he could hear nothing.

Not a sound.

A frisson of fear caressed Romulus’ spine. Since seeing the corpse on the cross, he had thought only of Fabiola and his mother. If Rome was descending into the total anarchy he had seen, what did that bode for his loved ones? Their fragile image in his mind, which he used to stay sane, had begun to disintegrate. This in turn brought him back to reality with a jolt.

Footsore and looking forward to a warm meal, his comrades appeared unaware. Even Novius’ taunts had stopped. Clearly unconcerned, Darius and a junior officer were conferring about something. The column tramped onwards, passing a small inscribed stone tablet sticking out of the ground. There had been similar markers all along their route from the main fort. This last was positioned about half a mile from their destination and as the men saw it, their pace picked up.

Romulus’ jaw clenched. Why had no one else noticed? ‘I don’t like it,’ he hissed to Brennus.

The Gaul looked startled. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he scanned their surroundings. Although nothing was visible, he did not relax. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘It’s too damn quiet.’

Brennus cocked his head and listened. Apart from the noise of iron hobnails crunching off the frozen ground, he too could hear nothing. Suspicion flared in his blue eyes. ‘If you’re going to say something, do it fast.’ He pointed at Darius.

Very soon, the Parthian officer would come into full view of the outpost.

Uneasy, Romulus turned his head to the rear. Blinding light from the setting sun lit up the track, making it almost impossible to see. Yet there was no mistaking the figure on horseback that was watching the patrol from the high point of the defile. It was Scythian.

Romulus blinked. When he looked again, the rider was gone.

Seeing him, Novius drew a finger across his throat.

He studiously ignored the gesture.

‘Are you going to speak to Darius?’ asked Brennus, who had seen nothing.

‘It’s too late. They’re behind us as well,’ Romulus whispered. Quickly he filled the Gaul in.

Stifling a curse, Brennus glanced back, then forward. He felt a brief surge of pride at Romulus’ keen eye. If he was right, they could do little. The Gaul assessed the situation. Their current position was impossible to defend. With slopes on either side, they would be at the mercy of any missiles fired at them. But it was not safe to turn around either. ‘Got no choice, have we?’ he growled. ‘The best place to fight will be the flat ground in front of the fortlet.’

Pleased, Romulus nodded. That had been his thought too. ‘I’d better tell Darius,’ he said.

The
optio
was surprised when Romulus broke ranks to mutter in his ear, but gave permission for him to advise their commander.

With his yoke waving overhead, Romulus trotted forward until he caught up with the senior centurion. Darius’ horse was ten steps from the edge of the ridge which overlooked their destination.

‘Sir!’

Reining in, the stout Parthian smiled at the sight of Romulus. This was one of the best soldiers in his cohort. ‘What is it?’ he asked in Latin.

‘An ambush, sir,’ replied Romulus. ‘There are Scythians behind us.’

Turning in the saddle, Darius studied the bare landscape. ‘Are you sure?’

Romulus explained what he had seen and the Parthian’s face darkened. ‘Let’s get down there fast,’ he said. ‘We’ll have over two hundred men then. That’ll see off the bastards.’

‘If they’re not dead already,’ Romulus announced, deliberately speaking in Parthian. Everyone needed to be aware of the risks they faced.

Darius’ guards looked alarmed.

‘Explain yourself,’ Darius hissed.

Romulus opened his mouth to do so when instinctively the senior centurion’s horse stopped. It had reached a flat piece of rock, a place where a soldier might stop to glance back at his camp before beginning a journey, or where a weary patrol arriving after a long march could pause to savour their achievement. Behind them, the legionaries halted gratefully, grounding their yokes and shields while the opportunity presented itself.

Together they gazed down at the fortlet, which was now only a short march away. The same playing-card shape of all Roman forts, the small outpost had just one gate, at the front. A tall wooden watchtower was positioned in the centre, with an uninterrupted field of vision around the camp. There were defensive
fossae
and wooden battlements twice the height of a man; inside the low roof of a barracks could be seen.

Romulus stared. The ramparts were clear of sentries.

That meant one thing. Roman soldiers never deserted their posts.

The garrison was dead.

An experienced soldier, Darius also took in the situation at a glance. He looked questioningly at Romulus. ‘How did you know?’

‘I couldn’t hear anything, sir,’ he explained.

It made perfect sense. Darius scowled, but there was no time to be lost blaming himself for not noticing what one of his ordinary soldiers had. ‘Vahram must know about this,’ he muttered, barking an order at his guards. At once two turned their horses and rode off, separating as they did. In an attempt to outflank the enemy, one went directly south and the other north. The remaining warrior moved closer to the senior centurion, notching an arrow to his bow.

‘Damn it,’ growled Darius. ‘We’ll just go down there as if nothing’s wrong. But I want everyone ready for combat. Advise the
optiones
and
tesserarii
, then resume your position.’

Romulus snapped off a salute and hurried to obey. Already warned by his
optio
, the other junior officers began to move down the ranks, quietly ordering the men to prepare themselves. Surprise, dismay, and last of all anger, filled the legionaries’ faces. Novius looked most put out, as did his companions.

‘Well?’ asked the Gaul.

‘We march on in,’ replied Romulus. ‘Check out the camp.’

Gripping their weapons tightly, the patrol marched along the track, down the incline towards the fortlet. All eyes were upon it, but for different reasons than just a few moments before. Now everyone could see that there was no smoke from cooking fires, no movement on the walkways. It resembled a graveyard.

Closer in, Romulus saw that one of the front doors was leaning slightly ajar. This was final proof that things were amiss. Far from the rest of the legion, all outposts were under strict orders to keep their gates shut at all times. Yet there were no signs of violence, no damage to the exterior structure. No arrows or spears stuck in the timbers, no evidence of fire. Whatever had happened here had not been thanks to a direct assault.

Darius had seen too. Immediately he ordered the
optiones
to have the men make a protective screen in front of the entrance. Piling their yokes in a heap, the legionaries fanned outwards in a semicircle, four ranks deep. It was done efficiently, without fuss, and soon a solid wall of shields had formed. Above the silk-covered
scuta
were bronze bowl crested helmets and steady, grim faces. Apart from the soldiers’ lower legs, there was little for an enemy to attack. And, thanks to Tarquinius’ tutoring, the front ranks always dropped to their knees when the threat of missiles was present. They were ready.

To investigate, Darius hand-picked a squad of six men, including Romulus and Brennus. For reasons best known to himself, he also chose Novius and Optatus. The veterans leered at the friends as they leaned their
pila
against the timber wall. Javelins would be no good at close quarters. Instead they all drew their
gladii
. Pulling his own blade free, the stout Parthian led them inside the camp. He was totally unaware of the tension between the men behind him. There was a brief delay; no one wanted to have his enemies at his back. Then Romulus darted through the gate with Brennus, leaving the others too far away to try anything. Mouthing silent curses, Novius and Optatus followed.

The dirt beneath their feet was hard-packed from the passage of men in and out of the fortlet, so their hobnailed
caligae
made no sound. A deathly silence greeted them. The atmosphere within was eerie. Unnerving. Part of the garrison might be on patrol, but there should have been at least some soldiers visible.

Not one was.

Where are they? thought Romulus. Was it possible that they had abandoned the fortlet?

Apart from the observation tower, a single barracks building and a small latrine block, the only structures were an earth oven under the west wall and a number of altars to the gods positioned here and there. Large, tell-tale dark stains marked the ground, bloody proof that all was not well. There were uneasy murmurs from the others at the sight.

Hairs prickled on the back of Romulus’ neck. There was death here, its presence suddenly overpowering. He looked up, expecting to see clouds of birds of prey hanging high overhead. There weren’t many though, and those present were probably just eyeing the refuse heaps that existed outside the camp. Why were there not more?

Brennus could sense it too. Nostrils flaring, he reached up to touch the hilt of his longsword, which was hanging from his back. In open combat, it was still his favoured weapon.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Darius. They were now very near the barracks.

They froze, ears pricked.

A low sound reached them. There was no mistaking the moan of an injured man. A survivor.

Using the tip of his sword, the Parthian flipped open the flimsy door. It made a hollow sound as it banged off the wall. Inside, the floor was slick with blood. Drag marks led towards the small rooms shared by the
contubernia
of eight men. With only a half-century in this fort, there would be five such, and a larger chamber for the
optio
in command. Wrinkling his face with distaste, Darius jerked his head at Romulus, Novius and another soldier. ‘You three go left,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll go right.’ Taking Optatus and the fifth legionary, he entered.

Brennus was left outside.

Romulus gripped the bone handle of his sword tightly. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he thought, protect me. The narrow corridor echoed to the sound of their
caligae
as Romulus led the way, with the others one step behind. All held their shields high, their
gladii
ready. He was acutely aware of Novius at his unprotected back.

‘Don’t worry, slave,’ hissed the veteran. ‘I want to see your face as you die.’

Romulus spun round, glaring. He longed to end the vendetta right then.

‘Found anything?’ bellowed Darius in an odd voice.

The question broke the spell.

‘Not yet, sir,’ Romulus answered, turning back. His voice died in his throat as he reached the first chamber.

There was no need to worry about being attacked. Each room was exactly the same. Their limbs at awkward angles, mangled corpses lay heaped untidily on top of each other. All the legionaries had been stripped naked, their mail shirts and faded russet tunics discarded on the floor alongside. Clotted blood lay in great pools around the still bodies and mounds of clothing.

Even Novius looked disgusted. ‘Who does this to an enemy?’

‘Scythians,’ Romulus said calmly. Tarquinius had told him about their barbaric customs.

‘Fucking savages.’

Every body was mutilated in the same manner: beheaded as well as partially skinned. Patches of skin were missing from chests, backs and legs, and there was no sign of the soldiers’ heads. Romulus knew why. According to Tarquinius, the Scythians measured a warrior’s courage by the number of heads he carried back from battle. They also used the tops of enemy skulls as drinking vessels, covering them in leather and even gilding them inside, while skins were used as drying cloths and scalps as decorative handkerchiefs on their horses’ bridles. Revulsion filled Romulus at this level of savagery. Breathing through his mouth, he realised that he could smell very little. Even though these men had clearly been dead for more than a day, the bitter cold had prevented much decay.