The Silver Eagle (3 page)

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.

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.’

Trusting his friend implicitly, Brennus dropped his
pila
by Romulus’ feet. Ripping a torch from the ground, he clattered down the steps. ‘Won’t be long,’ he yelled.

‘I’ll be dead if you are.’ Grimly, Romulus closed one eye and took aim. With the ease of long practice, he threw his first
pilum
in a low, curving arc. It hit the lead Scythian twenty paces away, skewering right through his scale mail and running deep into his chest. He dropped like a pole-axed mule.

But his comrades scarcely paused.

Romulus’ second javelin punched into a stocky Scythian’s belly, taking him out of the equation. His third missed, but the fourth pierced the throat of a warrior with a long black beard. Giving him a little more respect now, three Scythians slowed down and strung shafts to their bows. The four others redoubled their speed.

Seven of the whoresons, Romulus thought, his heart pounding with a combination of madness and fear. Poison arrows too. Bad news. What should I do? Suddenly, Cotta, his trainer in the
ludus
, came to mind.
If all else fails, take the battle to an unsuspecting enemy. The element of surprise is invaluable
. He could think of nothing else, and there was still no sign of Brennus or Tarquinius.

Yelling at the top of his voice, Romulus charged forward.

The Scythians smiled at his recklessness. Here was another fool to kill.

Reaching the first, Romulus used the one-two method of punching with his metal shield boss and following with a thrust of his
gladius
. It worked well. Spinning away from his falling enemy, he heard an arrow strike his
scutum
. Then another. Thankfully, the silk did its job and neither penetrated. A third whistled past his ear. Knowing he had a moment before more were loosed, Romulus peered over the iron rim. Two Scythians were almost on him. The last was a few steps behind, while the trio with bows were fitting their second shafts.

Romulus’ mouth felt bone dry.

Then a familiar battle cry filled his ears.

The Scythians faltered; Romulus risked a glance over his shoulder. Springing from the entrance like a great bear, Brennus had launched himself half a dozen steps forward.

Next came Pacorus, screaming with rage. He was followed closely by the hulking guard, waving his knife over his head.

There was no sign of Tarquinius.