The Silver Eagle (35 page)

They emerged near the river soon afterwards. A narrow band of ground was clear of combatants; the risk of falling in and drowning kept both sides away.

Romulus’ spirits began to lift. They were all three still alive and unscathed. His chest heaving, he peered at the muddy, roiling water. It flowed swiftly by, impervious to the noise and to the blood being shed only a few steps away. It was a long way to the far side. Branches and other debris swept past, revealing the river’s massive power. Crossing it would be no easy task, especially in heavy armour. He cast his eyes up and down the shore, hoping against hope that he might see a boat.

There were none.

‘Nothing for it but to swim,’ grinned Tarquinius. ‘Can you manage it?’

Romulus and Brennus looked at each other grimly; then they nodded.

Instantly the pair began stripping off their mail shirts. Whatever chance they had would be greatly increased by their removal.

Tarquinius knelt down, shoving his map and other precious items into a pig’s bladder. It had served him well on their arrival in Asia Minor two years before.

Unseen, Vahram waited until Romulus and Brennus were both in just their tunics. Driven by his hatred, the
primus pilus
and his horse had also emerged unharmed from the fray. Still armed with his recurved bow, Vahram calmly drew a shaft from the case on his hip and fitted it to the string. Spooked by the sudden blare of a wounded elephant, his mount jumped as he released.

The move deflected his arrow a tiny fraction.

Romulus heard Brennus gasp as if shocked. In slow motion, he turned to see a barbed metal head protruding from the muscle of his huge friend’s upper left arm. Although it was not the mortal wound that Vahram desired, swimming the river might now be too much for the Gaul. Romulus knew immediately who was responsible. Spinning around, he took in the
primus pilus
in a blink. Dropping his chain mail, Romulus snatched up his
gladius
and charged forward. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed in rage.

Vahram panicked and loosed too soon.

His next arrow flashed past, burying itself in the ground.

And then Romulus was on him. Memories of Felix’ anguished face flashed across his vision, lending him superhuman strength. Focusing his anger, Romulus reached up and took hold of Vahram’s right hand, which was frantically reaching for another shaft. With a powerful downward slice, he lopped it off.

The
primus pilus
screamed in agony and blood gushed from the stump, covering Romulus in a mist of red droplets. With true battle frenzy consuming him for the first time in his life, he did not care. Just one thing was important: killing Vahram. But before he could complete the task, the Parthian’s terrified horse skittered away on dancing hooves. Spinning in a tight circle, it trotted back towards the battle.

Romulus cursed. Even now he was being denied his revenge for Felix’ death.

It was then that a wounded bull elephant emerged into view, one tusk snapped clean away and the other red-tipped with gore. Every few steps, it blew out its ears and raised its trunk, letting out a piercing bugle of anger. Romulus was not the only being affected by battle rage. Its mahout was still in place, occasionally managing to direct his mount towards any legionaries within range. A solitary warrior remained on its back; he was firing arrows as well. The bull’s armoured head and neck bristled with bent
pila
, thrown by the legionaries in a vain attempt to bring it down. Yet what had done most damage was the lucky javelin that had pierced its left eye, half blinding it. The remaining eye now gleamed with a piggy, intelligent fury.

Unused to elephants, Vahram’s horse froze with terror.

Instantly the archer loosed a shaft, which took the Parthian through his left arm and rendered him totally unable to guide his mount away to safety. A cruel smile played across the Indian’s face.

Romulus paused, overcome with awe at what he was about to see.

And Tarquinius gave thanks to Mithras for granting him the strength not to reveal this during his torture.

Moving with surprising speed, the great bull swept forward, wrapping its trunk around Vahram’s body.

A thin, cracked cry left the
primus pilus
’ throat as he was lifted high into the air.

It was the last sound he ever made.

Dashing him to the ground, the elephant immediately knelt down, crushing Vahram beneath its front legs. Then, grabbing the Parthian’s head with its trunk, it decapitated him.

Romulus closed his eyes. He had never seen a man die more brutally, yet somehow it felt quite apt. When he looked up again a single heartbeat later, the bull was making straight for him.

Romulus felt his heart hammer in his chest. Without chain mail and armed only with a
gladius
, his life was over too.

A massive hand covered in blood pushed him to one side. ‘This is my quarrel, brother,’ said the Gaul quietly. ‘A time for Brennus to stand and fight.’

Romulus stared into the other’s calm blue eyes.

‘I will run no more.’

The words brooked no argument.

Ever since he had gained an insight into Tarquinius’ abilities, this moment was what Romulus had dreaded. Now it was here. Fat tears of grief welled up, but his protest died away. In Brennus’ gaze he saw only bravery, love and acceptance.

And the gods had decreed it. Mithras had brought them here.

‘Return to Rome,’ Brennus ordered. ‘Find your family.’

His throat closed with lead, Romulus could not answer.

Like a hero of old, the pigtailed Gaul stepped forward, his longsword ready. Without his chain mail, he was a magnificent sight. Huge muscles rippled and tensed under his sweat-soaked military tunic. Runnels of blood covered his left arm, but he had snapped off and drawn out the Indian shaft.

‘You were right, Ultan,’ Brennus whispered, looking up at the magnificent beast now rearing above him. Bunching his left fist, he breathed into the pain that radiated from his arrow wound. ‘A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.’

‘Romulus.’ The voice was insistent. ‘Romulus.’

The young soldier let Tarquinius lead him the few steps to the edge. He did not look back. Holding only his weapon, Romulus jumped into the river with Tarquinius.

As the cold water closed over his head, his ears rang with Brennus’ last battle cry.

‘FOR LIATH!’ he roared. ‘FOR CONALL, AND FOR BRAC!’

Chapter XVIII: Pompey’s General

Northern Italy, spring 52
BC

B
y the time that the legionaries reached them, Fabiola had regained control of her emotions. The forty men clattered to a halt, shields and
pila
at the ready. Sextus and Docilosa were very careful not to raise their bloodied weapons. Any perceived threat would result in a volley of javelins. Yet the soldiers’ disciplined appearance was infinitely more appealing than that of Scaevola and his crew. There would be no out-of-hand rape here. Ignoring the soldiers’ eager stares, Fabiola took her time, fixing her hair back into place with a couple of decorated ivory pins and lifting the neck of her dress to a more modest level. Then she beamed at the
optio
in charge, who had made his way to the front. Brazening their way out of the situation might yet be possible.

‘Centurion,’ Fabiola purred, deliberately giving him a higher rank. ‘You have our thanks.’

While the
optio
flushed proudly, his men tittered with amusement.

He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and they fell silent. ‘What happened, my lady?’

‘Those ruffians you saw,’ Fabiola began, ‘they ambushed us in the woods. Killed almost all my slaves and bodyguards.’ Not entirely acting, she let her lip tremble at the memory.

‘The roads are dangerous everywhere, lady,’ he muttered in sympathy.

‘But they ran when you appeared,’ said Fabiola, batting her eyelashes.

Embarrassed now, the
optio
looked down.

Secundus hid a smile. As if the
fugitivarii
would have attacked them in front of an entire legion, he thought.

Awed by her beauty, the
optio
said nothing for a moment. A short man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, he carefully considered the four figures, their clothes torn and covered with bloodstains. ‘Might I ask where you are bound?’ he asked eventually.

‘Ravenna,’ lied Fabiola. ‘To see my aged aunt.’

Satisfied, he nodded.

Fabiola thought she had succeeded. ‘If we might proceed then?’ she said. ‘The next town is not far. I will be able to purchase more slaves there.’

‘That won’t be possible, lady.’

‘Why ever not?’ she demanded, her voice rising.

The
optio
cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I have my orders.’

‘Which are?’

‘To take you in,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘The centurion said so.’

Fabiola looked at Secundus, who gave her a tiny shrug.

The
optio
’s superior might want them questioned further, but they could not exactly refuse.

‘Very well,’ she said, acceding gracefully. ‘Lead on.’

Pleased, the junior officer barked an order. Parting smoothly in the middle, his men positioned themselves on either side of Fabiola and her little party.

Before walking away, she glanced at the trees. Nothing. Scaevola and his
fugitivarii
had disappeared.

Fabiola knew that it would not be the last time that they met. She’d have to kill the merciless slave-catcher on the next occasion, or he would do the same to her.

In the event, Fabiola’s fear about not being allowed to continue her journey proved correct. The centurion who greeted them nearer the marching camp was no less impressed by her beauty than the
optio
, but he was far more assured in his manner. Fabiola’s request to proceed was brushed aside with a courteous yet firm refusal.

‘There aren’t many travellers about, lady,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I’m sure the legate would appreciate a chat with you. Find out what’s going on. Offer some advice, maybe.’

‘He’d hardly bother with me,’ Fabiola protested.

‘On the contrary,’ came the reply. ‘The legate is a man of fine taste who would want me to offer you his hospitality.’

‘That is most gracious,’ said Fabiola, bowing her neck to conceal her dread. ‘And his name?’

‘Marcus Petreius, lady,’ the centurion answered proudly. ‘One of Pompey’s best generals.’

Again the
optio
took charge.

The walk to the temporary camp did not take long. Never having seen one constructed before, Fabiola watched the working soldiers with interest. Three deep
fossae
were already finished, their bottoms decorated with caltrops. Now the legionaries were finishing off the ramparts, which were the height of two tall men. Tamping down the earth with flattening blows of their shovels, they formed a firm surface to walk upon. Stakes chopped from freshly felled trees decorated the corners, forming protective areas for the sentries. As with a permanent fort, one entrance was being situated in the middle of each side. With the legion on the march, there were no wooden gates to use. Instead, one wall angled just in front of the other where they met, forming a narrow corridor. Fabiola counted twenty paces as they passed through it. Piles of cut branches were being stacked nearby; these would be used to fill the gap once night fell.

Inside the camp, leather tents were being erected in long, neat lines. There was minimal fuss as hundreds of men worked side by side. Their officers watched, vine canes at the ready for anyone who slowed down. Secundus explained to Fabiola what was going on as they walked by. A simple standard marked the spot where every centurion’s tent stood. Each
contubernium
then set up theirs alongside by turn, in the same place as their room in a permanent barracks would be.

Fabiola marvelled at the organisation being displayed, and her sense of unease was slightly dispelled. She noticed Secundus enjoying the scenes that he must have partaken in so many times in his army career.

A wide path led straight from the entrance to the centre, where even bigger canvas pavilions already stood. This was the legion’s command post, and to one side stood the luxurious quarters of its legate, Marcus Petreius. As the most important officer, his tent had been erected immediately after the headquarters were thrown up. A red At least twenty hand-picked legionaries stood guard outside it, while messengers ran to and fro, relaying Petreius’ orders to his senior centurions. A pair of saddled horses were tethered nearby, happily eating from nosebags. The couriers who rode them stood idly by, gossiping with each other.
vexillum
had been stabbed into the ground by the entrance.

The
optio
led his men straight to the main tent. Coming to a halt near the centurion in charge of the guards, he saluted and stood to attention.

The officer smiled when he saw Fabiola. This was far more pleasing than some fat, balding merchant come to beg assistance. Swallowing a piece of bread, he strolled over.

There was a brief conversation as the
optio
reported his news.

‘My lady,’ said the duty centurion with a courteous bow. ‘No doubt you will wish to clean up before meeting the legate.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Fabiola gratefully. It was vital that she make a good impression.

‘Come inside.’ He indicated she should follow him. ‘Your slaves can find somewhere to sleep with the mule drivers and camp followers.’

Secundus bit back his retort. This was no time to draw attention to himself.

But Fabiola bridled with anger at his dismissive attitude. ‘They are my servants, not slaves,’ she said loudly.

Sextus’ eyes widened, and pride filled his face.

The centurion stiffened, and then inclined his head. ‘As you say, lady. I will have a tent prepared for them among the soldiers of my own cohort.’

‘Good,’ answered Fabiola. ‘Like myself, they will require hot water and food.’

‘Of course.’ He could not protest further.

Docilosa unsuccessfully tried to hide her smirk.

Curtly ordering one of his men to accompany Fabiola’s companions, the centurion made to lead her into the tent.

Secundus stayed by her side.

Surprised, Fabiola turned to him.

‘You still need protection, lady,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, touched by his loyalty. ‘Mithras will protect me.’

Fabiola’s answer satisfied Secundus and he stood back, watching as she followed the centurion inside. A silent prayer of his own went up to the warrior god. The beautiful young woman would have to be very careful what she said. If Petreius got even the tiniest whiff that they were heading north to join with Caesar, there would be little mercy shown. He had heard the legionaries talking as they walked into the fort. Outright hostilities had not yet commenced, but Caesar was already regarded as an enemy.

Ushering Fabiola to a large partitioned room, the centurion bowed. ‘I will have hot water and drying cloths brought, lady,’ he muttered. ‘We have no women’s apparel, I’m afraid.’

‘Of course not,’ Fabiola laughed, trying to put him at his ease. ‘A wash will suffice until my dress can be cleaned.’

Discomfited, he ducked his head and left.

Fabiola looked around, pleased at the level of luxury on offer. Being on campaign did not mean that Petreius had to do without any of life’s necessities. Thick carpets and animal skins covered the floor, while richly patterned wall hangings concealed the canvas of the tent’s sides. The roof was high, supported by a network of long poles. From these hung ropes suspending elegant bronze oil lamps overhead. Yet more stood on decorated stone plinths, illuminating the chamber well. A weapons rack near her held a number of
gladii
with beautifully carved wood and bone hilts. Even their sheaths were ornate, the beaten gold on their surfaces depicting scenes from Greek mythology. Occupying a central position was a well-carved bust of Pompey. Having seen him in Rome, Fabiola recognised his bulbous eyes and mop of curly hair.

Iron-bound wooden chests had been placed around the periphery, while a heavy desk sat in the centre, a comfortable-looking leather-backed camp chair behind it. Tightly rolled scrolls lay scattered on the desktop, and Fabiola’s heart quickened. This was Petreius’ private working space, and vital information about Pompey’s plans might be included in the cylinders of parchment in front of her.

She longed to understand them. Like most slaves, or former slaves, Fabiola was illiterate. Gemellus had seen no value in educating those who served him. Only Servilius, his bookkeeper, had known how to read and write. And Jovina, the wily crone who owned the Lupanar, actively discouraged the prostitutes from learning. Uneducated women were far easier to intimidate and coerce. At Fabiola’s request, Brutus had started teaching her, but there had been so little time before he was called away.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a pair of young, shaven-headed slaves who silently delivered a large cauldron of steaming hot water, drying cloths and a beaten bronze mirror on a stand. Also offered was a metal tray with small vials of olive oil, a curved
strigil
and two finely carved boxwood combs laid upon it. The embarrassed slaves bobbed their heads and withdrew, avoiding Fabiola’s gaze all the while. Having a beautiful young woman to serve rather than soldiers was clearly too much for them.

Fabiola stripped and washed herself down with warm water, before rubbing oil all over her skin. Lastly she used the
strigil
to take off the grime and dirt that covered her body from the ambush and pursuit. Although not as relaxing as a bath, it felt good to wash. All that was missing was a phial of perfume, but like all her possessions, such things were lying back in the litter. While Scaevola would have no use for these items, there would be no opportunity to go back for them either.

Pulling on her damp, sweaty dress once more, she grimaced at its feel against her skin. At least there weren’t too many spots of blood on it. Smoothing back her hair, Fabiola looked into the mirror and combed it as best she could.

‘Aphrodite herself has come to visit us,’ said a deep voice behind her.