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Authors: Ben Kane

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical - General, #Historical Fiction, #Fiction - Historical, #Historical, #Historical & Mythological Fiction

The Silver Eagle (7 page)

BOOK: The Silver Eagle
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Confused, Fabiola and Corbulo looked at each other. They sensed movement behind them.

Turning her head, Fabiola saw practically every male slave she owned coming towards them at a run. Gripping scythes, hammers, axes, and even planks of wood, there were at least forty of them. Alarmed by the escapee entering the yard, they had spontaneously come to defend their mistress. And yet not one knew how to fight like the
fugitivarii
. A lump formed in Fabiola’s throat at the risks these unfortunates would take for her.

Reaching her, the slaves fanned out in a long line.

The thugs looked unhappy. Armed or not, they were vastly outnumbered. And after Spartacus’ rebellion twenty years before, everyone knew that slaves could fight.

Fabiola turned to face Scaevola. ‘Get off my
latifundium
,’ she ordered. ‘Now.’

‘I’m not leaving without the fugitive,’ Scaevola growled. ‘Fetch him.’

His head bowed, Corbulo obediently moved a step towards the yard.

‘Stop!’

The
vilicus
jerked upright at Fabiola’s shouted command.

‘You’re not having the poor creature,’ she said, allowing her fury to take complete hold. ‘He stays here.’

Corbulo’s face was a picture of shock.

Scaevola’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What did you say?’ he demanded.

‘You heard,’ snapped Fabiola.

‘The son of a whore belongs to a merchant called Sextus Roscius, not you!’ the
fugitivarius
roared. ‘This is totally illegal.’

‘So is physically assaulting a citizen. But that did not trouble you,’ responded Fabiola sharply. ‘Ask Roscius how much he wants for the boy. I’ll have the money sent the very next day.’

Obviously not used to being thwarted or to losing face, Scaevola’s fists bunched with rage.

They glared at each other for a heart-stopping moment.

‘This is not over,’ the
fugitivarius
muttered from between clenched teeth. ‘No one, especially a jumped-up little bitch like you, crosses Scaevola without payback. You hear me?’

Fabiola lifted her chin. She did not answer.

‘I hope you and your lover have strong locks on your doors,’ he warned. From nowhere, a knife appeared in his right hand. ‘And plenty of guards. You’ll need both.’

His companions laughed unpleasantly, and Fabiola forced herself not to shiver.

Fortified by his mistress’s courage, Corbulo made a gesture. The slaves moved forward, their weapons raised.

Scaevola eyed them all with scorn. ‘We’ll be back,’ he said. Gathering his men, he led them back across the muddy field. The dogs trotted at their heels.

The
vilicus
let out a long, slow breath.

Fabiola stood stiff-backed, watching until the
fugitivarii
were out of sight. Inside, she was panicking. What have I done? I should have let him take the boy. But part of her was glad. Whether her decision had been wise, only time would tell.

‘Mistress?’

She turned to regard the
vilicus
.

‘Scaevola is a very dangerous man.’ Corbulo paused. ‘And he’s on Pompey’s payroll.’

Fabiola flashed him a grateful smile, and the old
vilicus
fell wholly under her spell.

‘The mangy dog meant what he said too,’ he explained. ‘His enemies just disappear. These men . . .’ He indicated the slaves around them. ‘Next time, they won’t be enough.’

‘I know,’ replied Fabiola, wishing that Brutus were by her side.

She had made a real enemy. Journeying to Rome had become an urgent priority.

Chapter III: Vahram

Eastern Margiana, winter 53/52
BC

S
creaming wild battle cries, the Scythians charged headlong at the two friends.

Using the dead Parthian guard’s bow, Brennus had already taken down four, including the archers who had injured Pacorus.

They were still outnumbered by more than nine to one. It’s hopeless, Romulus thought dully. There are far too many. He steeled himself, preparing for the inevitable.

Trying to use as many shafts as possible, Brennus loosed another arrow. Then, with a curse, he threw down his bow and drew his
gladius
.

They moved shoulder to shoulder.

Surprising Romulus utterly, first one and then another bright ball of fire came flying over his head, illuminating the scene wonderfully. The first landed and smashed apart in a great burst of flame, right in front of the Scythians, who looked suitably terrified. The second struck one of the enemy on the arm, setting light to his felt clothing. The blaze spread upwards with terrible speed, burning his neck and face. The man shrieked in agony. A number of his comrades tried to help, but their efforts were hampered by a further pair of burning missiles. The Scythians’ charge came to an abrupt halt.

‘They’re oil lamps,’ cried Romulus, suddenly understanding.

‘It’s Tarquinius,’ replied Brennus, fitting another shaft to his bowstring.

Delighted, Romulus turned to find the haruspex only a few steps away. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I had a vision of Rome,’ Tarquinius revealed. ‘If we can get out of here, there is hope.’

Romulus’ heart soared, and Brennus laughed out loud.

‘What did you see?’ Romulus asked.

Tarquinius ignored the question. ‘Pick up Pacorus,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’

‘Why?’ Romulus demanded in a low voice. ‘The bastard’s going to die anyway. Let’s run for it.’

‘No,’ Tarquinius answered, hurling two more oil lamps. ‘The journey south would kill us in this weather. We must stay in the fort.’

Screams of terror rose from the enemy warriors as the lamps landed.

‘Those are the last ones.’

They had to move. Cursing under his breath, Romulus took hold of Pacorus’ feet. Brennus did likewise with his arms. Lifting him as gently as they could, they slung him over Brennus’ shoulder. Pacorus lolled like a child’s toy, the blood from his wounds soaking into the Gaul’s cloak. By far the strongest of the three, only Brennus would be able to run for any distance with such a load.

‘Which way?’ shouted Romulus, peering around. The cliff face was to their back, so they could only go north, south or east.

Tarquinius pointed.

North. Their trust in the haruspex still strong, neither Romulus nor Brennus argued. They trotted into the darkness, leaving utter confusion in their wake.

Fortunately, the weather aided their escape. Dense flurries of snow began to fall, severely reducing the visibility and covering their trail. There was no pursuit, and Romulus presumed that the Scythians knew how close their camp was. Although he did too, his keen sense of direction soon went awry; he was very glad that Tarquinius seemed to know exactly which way to go. The temperature was dropping even further as the snow began to collect on the ground. If they strayed even a small distance off course, there was little chance of ever reaching the Roman fort. It and the clusters of mud-brick huts nearby were the only dwellings for many miles. Parthia’s population was not large, with less than a tenth of it living on its far eastern borders. Few chose to dwell here other than the garrisons of soldiers, and captives who had no choice.

They marched in silence, stopping occasionally to listen out for the Scythians. At last a familiar rectangular shape appeared out of the gloom. It was the fort.

A tiny sigh of relief escaped Romulus’ lips. He was colder than he could ever remember being. But once they were inside and warmed through again, Tarquinius might reveal what he had seen. The desire to know more was the only thing that had kept him going.

Brennus grinned. Even he was looking forward to a break.

On either side of the massive front gates sat a wooden guard tower. They were matched by similar ones on the corners and smaller observation posts in between. The walls had been constructed from closely packed earth, a useful by-product from the construction of the three deep ditches which surrounded the fort. Filled with spiked iron caltrops, the
fossae
were also within range of missiles thrown or fired from the timber walkway that ran along the inside of the ramparts. The only passage through them was the beaten-down dirt track to the entrance in the middle of each side.

They tramped down it, expecting to be challenged at any moment.

Surprisingly the huge fort was not a fighting structure: legionaries did not hide behind the protection of walls by choice. The impressive defences were to be used only in the case of unexpected attack. If an enemy presented itself, the officers would marshal the men together on the
intervallum,
the flat area that ran around the inside of the walls, before marching out to do battle. On open ground, the legionary was the master of all other infantry. And with Tarquinius’ tactics and training, thought Romulus proudly, they could withstand the charge of any force, mounted or on foot.

Man for man, the Forgotten Legion could defeat any enemy.

‘Stop.’ Moving to Brennus’ side, Tarquinius checked Pacorus’ pulse.

‘Is he still alive?’ asked the Gaul.

‘Barely,’ answered Tarquinius, frowning. ‘We must hurry.’

Reality struck as Romulus took in Pacorus’ ashen features. Enough time had passed for the
scythicon
to do its deadly work. The commander would surely die soon and, as the sole survivors, they would be held responsible. No senior Parthian officer worth his salt would fail to punish the men who had allowed this to happen. They had escaped the Scythians to face certain execution.

Yet Tarquinius had wanted to save Pacorus. And Mithras had revealed a road back to Rome.

As a drowning man clings to a log, Romulus held on to those thoughts.

They were now less than thirty paces from the gate and within range of the sentries’
pila
. Still no challenge had been issued to check their progress, which was most irregular. No one was allowed to approach the fort without identifying themselves.

‘The lazy dogs will be huddling around the fire,’ Romulus muttered. Sentinels were only supposed to stay in the warm guardroom at the base of each tower for short periods; just enough to thaw out numb fingers and toes. In practice, they did it as long as the junior officer in charge allowed.

‘Time to wake them up then.’ Raising his axe, Tarquinius stepped forward and repeatedly hammered the butt on the gate’s thick timbers. It made a deep thumping noise.

They waited in silence.

The Etruscan had raised his weapon to demand entrance again when suddenly the distinctive sound of hobnailed sandals clattering off wood reached them from above. As expected, the sentry had not been at his post in the tower. A few moments later, a pale face appeared over the ramparts.

‘Who goes there?’ Fear filled the man’s voice as he peered down at the small group. Visitors to the fort were rare, let alone in the middle of the night. ‘Identify yourselves!’

‘Open up, you fool!’ shouted Romulus impatiently. ‘Pacorus has been injured.’

There was a disbelieving pause.

‘You piece of shit!’ cried Tarquinius. ‘Move!’

The sentry’s shock was palpable. ‘Yes, sir! At once!’ He turned and fled down the staircase to the rooms below, roaring at his comrades.

Moments later the heavy locking bar was being lifted. One of the doors creaked open, revealing several legionaries and an anxious
optio
. The delay in responding would surely result in some kind of punishment.

But Tarquinius pushed past without a word. Romulus and Brennus followed. Confusion filled the sentries’ faces as they took in the prone shape on the Gaul’s shoulder.

‘Shut the gate!’ Tarquinius bellowed.

‘Where are Pacorus’ warriors, sir?’ asked the
optio
.

‘Dead,’ snapped Tarquinius. ‘We were ambushed by Scythians at the Mithraeum.’

Shocked gasps met this comment.

Tarquinius was in no mood to reveal more. ‘Advise the duty centurion and then get back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled.’

The
optio
and his men hastened to obey. Tarquinius was also a centurion and could have punished them as severely as Pacorus. They would have to find out what had happened later.

Tarquinius hurried down the fort’s main street, the Via Praetoria. Romulus and Brennus followed. On both sides lay parallel rows of long, low wooden barracks, each housing a century of eighty soldiers. Their interiors were identical: large rooms for the centurion, smaller ones for the junior officers and more cramped quarters for the men. Ten
contubernia
, each of eight soldiers, shared just enough space to fit bunk beds, their equipment and food. Like gladiators, legionaries lived, slept, trained and fought with each other.

‘Romulus!’

Hearing the low shout, he half turned. In the shadows between two of the barrack buildings, Romulus picked out the features of Felix, one of his original unit. ‘What are you doing up?’ he demanded.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Felix replied with a grin. He was already dressed and armed. ‘I was worried about you. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. Go back to bed,’ replied Romulus curtly. The less anyone else had to do with this, the better.

Instead, Felix darted to Brennus’ side, gasping when he saw the arrows jutting from Pacorus’ flesh. ‘Gods above,’ he breathed. ‘What happened?’

Romulus filled him in while they marched. Felix nodded, grimacing as he heard the details. Though smaller than Romulus and weaker than Brennus, the little Gaul was a fine soldier. Truly stubborn too. When their mercenary cohort had been cut off during the battle at Carrhae, Felix had stayed by their side. Completely surrounded by Parthian archers, just a score of men chose to remain with the three friends and Bassius, their centurion. Felix was one of them. He’s his own master, thought Romulus, glad to have him along.

No one else halted the small party. It was still dark, and most men were asleep. Besides, only a more senior officer would dare question Tarquinius, and none of those were to be seen. At this time of night, they were also in bed. Soon they reached the
principia
, the headquarters. This was at the intersection of the Via Praetoria with the Via Principia, the road that ran from the east wall to the west, dividing the camp into four equal parts. Here also were Pacorus’ luxurious house and more modest ones for the senior centurions, the Parthian officers who each commanded a cohort. There was a
valetudinarium
, a hospital, as well as workshops for carpenters, cobblers, potters and a multitude of other professions.

Tradesmen and engineers as well as soldiers, the Romans were almost self-sufficient. It was one of many things that made them so formidable, thought Romulus. Yet Crassus had managed to expose the Republican army’s sole weakness. It retained almost no cavalry, while Parthia’s forces consisted of little else. Tarquinius had spotted this long before Carrhae, followed soon after by Romulus. But ordinary soldiers had no say in tactics, he reflected angrily. Crassus had marched arrogantly into disaster, unwilling or unable to see what might happen to his men.

Which explained why the Forgotten Legion had new masters. Cruel ones.

Romulus sighed. Apart from Darius, his own cohort commander, the majority of the Parthian senior officers were utterly ruthless. What would happen when they saw Pacorus, only the gods knew. But it would not be good.

From the
principia
, it was not far to the high walls of Pacorus’ house. Copying a Roman villa, it was built in the shape of a hollow square. Just inside the front gates were the
atrium
, the entrance hall, and the
tablinum
, the reception area. These led on to the central courtyard, which was bordered by a covered walkway giving access to a banqueting hall, bedrooms, bathrooms and offices. Having seen Seleucia, Romulus knew that his captors were not a nation of architects and engineers like the Romans. Apart from the city’s great entrance arch and Orodes’ magnificent palace, the houses there were small and simply built of mud bricks. He could still remember his commander’s amazed reaction when he had first entered the finished structure. Pacorus had been like a child with a new toy. Now, however, he barely stirred as they reached the gates, which were guarded by a dozen Parthians armed with bows and spears. Legionaries were never trusted with this duty.

BOOK: The Silver Eagle
4.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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