The Silver Eagle (25 page)

There were men feasting around a table, waited on by others bearing drinking cups and plates of what looked like bread marked with an ‘X’. In others she could see Mithras in his Phrygian cap holding hands with an imposing golden figure wearing the seven-rayed crown. Was this the sun? The same god-like creature was in many of the pictures, seated with Mithras behind the dead bull’s body, standing in a horse-drawn chariot, accepting gifts from lesser mortals. Even the floor was decorated. Its tiles were divided into twelve squares, depicting a variety of animals and symbols: twin children, a ram, a bull, a scales and a scorpion among others.

By now, Fabiola was reeling with the wealth of information she had just been exposed to.

She tiptoed across the mosaic, beginning to feel very self-conscious. Although there was no one else in the chamber, it felt as if there were. Her nerves returned, making her palms sweaty. Standing before the trio of altars, Fabiola looked up at Mithras. Had a woman ever stood here in this way? Should she leave? Blood pounded in her ears, but nothing struck her down.

Her eyes were caught by a small phial which was standing on the central plinth. Made of expensive blue glass, it had a delicately wrought top in the shape of a lion’s head. Her hand reached out and picked it up.

This is the moment of truth, Fabiola decided, pulling out the stopper. She lifted the bottle to her nose and inhaled. She smelt a faint, attractive odour and instinctively knew that the contents were there to be drunk during rituals. This is my sacred time, Fabiola thought fiercely. Mithras will understand. Or he will poison me. It was time to place her trust completely in the warrior deity. Her heart raced for a few beats, but Fabiola allowed the sensation of calm that pervaded the chamber to regain control once more. Surely the god had brought her here? Who was she to resist? After the day’s dramatic events, she had nothing to lose. Tipping back her head, Fabiola poured the liquid into her mouth. It tasted light and sweet, with a powerful undercurrent of unfamiliar flavour.

Replacing the phial on the altar, she swallowed.

For a long time, nothing happened. She began to feel disappointed.

Then it seemed to Fabiola that drums began to pound, a simple, repetitive beat which drew her in and down, its rhythm mesmeric. Instead of feeling alarmed, she felt euphoric. Mithras was here, in the room. She could feel him.

The drums’ speed increased, rising to a crescendo of sound that shook the walls. Unaware of where she was, Fabiola stood motionless, absorbing the energy. Gradually the pounding died away, to be replaced by another, quieter sequence. She felt herself falling, falling, but there was no impact of the hard floor against her back. More hypnotic drumming followed, bringing Fabiola seamlessly into another world, an incredible place where she saw through the eyes of a flying bird. Blinking hard and trying to bring back the small chamber made no difference. If she now turned her head, Fabiola could see shiny black feathers sitting perfectly arranged on powerful wings. Had she really become a raven? Strangely, she felt no terror. Instead there was only joy.

It seemed completely natural to soar high in the sunlit sky, riding currents of air that allowed her to reach great speeds or to hang motionless, scanning the ground below. For long moments Fabiola revelled in just being, rejoicing in the freedom that flight granted and the view of the earth laid out as she had never seen before. Rivers wound sinuously through the landscape; hills and ice-capped mountains ran in short, stubby lines or immense, jagged ranges. The green stain of forests covered parts of the vista. Human settlements were scattered here and there; the dirt roads joining them appearing as mere ribbons. Where was she?

Movement on a great plain drew her attention and she flew lower, unseen by the two armies that were regarding each other from a safe standoff range. Along one side of the battlefield ran a river, wider than any she had ever seen. Now Fabiola was sure that it wasn’t Italy. This place was far from anywhere that she knew.

Combat would commence soon, but for the moment the generals were trying to gauge their enemy’s strengths and weaknesses, while their soldiers prayed and wiped the sweat from their clammy foreheads. Before long though, men would begin to die. Judging from the flat terrain and good weather, Fabiola knew that it would be in large numbers.

In the ranks of the host directly beneath her, sunlight sparkled off metal. Eyesight far more powerful than she normally possessed instantly focused on its source. What she saw was so incredible that it seemed beyond belief. There, among the massed ranks of soldiers, Fabiola saw a solitary silver eagle.

Here in an alien land, a Roman standard.

There was nothing else it could be. With powerful, outstretched wings, talons gripping a golden thunderbolt and borne by a man wearing a wolf-skin headdress, this was the talismanic symbol that led every legion into combat. Fabiola studied the figures around the silver eagle, seeing now the rounded bowls of their crested bronze helmets, the elongated, oval
scuta
they bore, the neat lines in which they stood. Surely these were Roman legionaries? But not everything about them fitted. Instead of
pila
, many men carried long, heavy spears, and their metal shield bosses were obscured by fabric. The officers standing to the side of each unit also looked out of place, carrying bows and wearing odd-looking conical hats and embroidered tunics and trousers. If these were legionaries, they were like none that she had ever seen before.

Confused, Fabiola had begun to climb away from the forces beneath her when a powerful image of a huge, pig-tailed warrior suddenly came to mind. He was flanked by a slim, blond-haired man who carried a double-headed axe. Memories stirred in the depths of the young woman’s soul, struggling to emerge into the raven’s consciousness. Then it was clear.
The Gaul was here. With another guide.
Fabiola’s heart sang with joy.

Romulus might be alive!

But there was no time to search for him.

‘What are you doing here?’ cried an angry voice.

Someone took hold of Fabiola, turning her wing into a hand once more.

No
, she thought desperately.
Leave me here! Great Mithras, let me find my brother. See him, in the flesh.
Fabiola pulled away, resuming her shape and swooping down on a fortunate draught of air. Free for a dozen heartbeats, she shot across the open ground in the plain’s centre, horrified to see that the other army outnumbered the Roman one many times. Infantry armed with every weapon under the sun were flanked by skirmishers carrying slings and bows. There were thousands of archers, both in chariots and on horseback. Worst of all, three squadrons of enormous grey, armoured creatures waited in the enemy’s midst, flapping ears, long trunks and fearsome tusks tipped with metal adding to their fearsome aura. They had to be elephants, Fabiola thought. Each carrying two or three bowmen on their broad backs, these animals were the hammer blow that would drive terror into the hearts of the bravest soldiers. Who in the world would stand against them? Fabiola glanced back at the Roman soldiers, who had looked so brave and prepared as she had soared over their heads. Now, before the imposing host with its vast beasts, they appeared puny and insignificant. There could only be one result once battle was joined.

Overcome with grief, Fabiola did not believe that the god could be so cruel. To let her discover that Romulus might be alive and then to show her the instrument of his destruction in the same moment was more than she could bear. Her response was immediate, instinctive. Pulling her wings in tightly, she dropped her head and pointed her beak downwards, aiming straight for the lead elephant. Air whistled past Fabiola, streamlining her shape even further.

Down, down, down she dived.

Fabiola was soon close enough to see the wrinkles in its thick skin and the deeply curved bows carried by the men on its back. Perhaps she could take out an eye and send it off on a trail of death amongst its own men. The fall was immense – potentially fatal – but Fabiola did not care any longer. Anything was better than this pain. Plummeting like a black stone, with rage burning brightly in her heart, she consigned herself to oblivion.

This time, she was grabbed by both arms. Shouts filled her ears.

Fabiola could not help herself. Despite her frantic attempts, the plain covered in armed men disappeared. Crying tears of frustration and despair, she opened her eyes.

She was back in the underground chamber, which was now packed with veterans. Two were pinioning her arms while Secundus stood a couple of paces away, shaking with anger. ‘What have you done?’ he shouted. ‘We save your miserable hide and you repay us by desecrating our temple?’

Fabiola looked at the men holding her. Both their faces wore the same furious look. What had been suspicion earlier was now rightful outrage. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her misery brimming over.

‘That’s not nearly enough,’ Secundus replied grimly. ‘You must be punished.’

His men growled in accordance.

‘And there is only one penalty.’

Chapter XII: Pacorus

Margiana, winter 53/52
BC

‘
H
old!’

The shout reverberated in the confined space of the courtyard.

Surprised, Vahram paused and turned his head. Only half aware of what was going on, the haruspex followed his gaze.

Ishkan was framed in the entrance. Torches held aloft by his men illuminated the gory scene. The snow around Tarquinius was stained red. The thin, middle-aged senior centurion looked disgusted at the sight. ‘What are you doing?’ he snapped.

‘Flogging this snake for information,’ Vahram replied, furious that he had been disturbed. ‘He’s plotting against us.’

‘Did the commander order this?’ asked Ishkan.

‘Naturally,’ blustered Vahram.

‘And he said to kill the haruspex?’

‘If necessary, yes,’ growled the
primus pilus
.

Ishkan raised his eyebrows. ‘Where is Pacorus, then?’ He looked around. ‘I would have thought he’d watch.’

‘He’s not well enough to be outside for long,’ said Vahram icily. ‘And I am his deputy.’

‘Of course you are, sir,’ Ishkan answered, suspicion flaring in his eyes. ‘But let’s just check with him, shall we?’

Realising that his ruse would be discovered the instant that Ishkan woke Pacorus, Vahram panicked. Stepping away from Tarquinius’ limp body, he blocked the doorway to the bedchamber.

The dark-haired senior centurion frowned. He lifted a hand and immediately his followers raised their weapons.

Vahram’s trio of men looked to him for directions, but there were at least a dozen warriors with Ishkan, all of whom were armed with bows. Unless they wanted to die, there was nothing to do but see how the standoff panned out. They relaxed, keeping their hands away from their sword hilts.

Outmanoeuvred, the
primus pilus
scowled and stood to one side.

Leaving his warriors to watch Vahram, Ishkan opened the door. He was not gone long.

Covered by a blanket and supported by the senior centurion, a shivering Pacorus emerged into the light.

Vahram cursed under his breath. Things were getting out of control. He should have just killed the damn haruspex.

Pacorus regarded Tarquinius’ bloodied face and body with a mixture of emotions. He cared little for the haruspex’ health, but valued his abilities. Moreover, he did not like his inferiors acting without his direct authority. Anger finally dominated on the commander’s thin, grey face. ‘What have you to say about this?’ he snapped at Vahram.

The eyes flashed to Tarquinius. Although his word was worth more, Pacorus would be highly suspicious of him if the haruspex mentioned his plans.
primus pilus
’

Barely aware of the delicate situation, Tarquinius forced out an incoherent moan and let some bloody spit dribble from his lips.

Unsure of himself, Vahram made a snap decision. Hopefully, Tarquinius was in no state to talk. ‘I came in to see how you were, sir. Found the whoreson crouched over the fireplace muttering your name.’

Aware that he had slept through whatever Tarquinius had been doing, Pacorus sucked in a nervous breath. He had first-hand experience of the haruspex’ frightening powers. ‘Has he said why?’

‘No, sir.’ Vahram shook his head angrily. ‘Not a word.’

‘Yet you did not think to check with me?’ responded Pacorus. ‘And tried to prevent another senior centurion from bringing the matter to my attention?’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ Vahram said weakly.

With a dismissive snort, the commander shuffled over. He was followed solicitously by Ishkan.

Tarquinius lifted his head to stare Pacorus in the face. Grey rings of exhaustion had formed under his dark eyes, and his broken nose had swollen beyond all recognition. The burn on his cheek was red raw and oozing clear fluid. Remarkably, in spite of his injuries, there was still an air of mystery about him.

Pacorus flinched at the haruspex’ appearance. This was the man who had saved his life, and he was not ungrateful for that. Yet there was no trust between them. ‘Well?’

Tarquinius jerked his head, indicating Pacorus should come closer.

Ishkan frowned warily but did not intervene. Tied-up, the half-dead haruspex posed no threat. Yet Vahram looked most unhappy.

‘It was
his
name I was saying,’ whispered Tarquinius. ‘The
primus pilus
immediately wanted to know why. If I had told him, he would have killed me.’

‘Looks like he was going to do that anyway,’ Pacorus answered drily.

‘Yes, sir,’ gasped the haruspex. ‘And I was just about to break when Ishkan arrived. Do not trust him.’

Pacorus looked back at Vahram, who instantly affected not to be interested. ‘Why not?’

‘He wants to lead the Forgotten Legion.’

The commander stiffened. ‘Have you proof of this?’

Tarquinius was still able to raise his eyebrows.

Pacorus tapped a finger against his teeth, thinking. It was no surprise to him that the
primus pilus
might want to usurp his position. But it was also an easy way for Tarquinius to sow the seeds of doubt and distrust among his captors.

The drained haruspex read his mind. ‘Where are your men?’ he asked quietly.

Alarm filled Pacorus as he scanned the courtyard, seeing none of his bodyguards. This was the most significant detail so far.

‘Vahram sent them away.’

Pacorus said nothing in response to Tarquinius’ intimation, but the muscles in his jaw bunched. What was the best thing to do? Vahram was a popular figure among the Parthian garrison, and executing him out of hand could prove risky. Obviously Ishkan was loyal, but could he rely on all the other senior centurions? Still not fully recovered, he was just beginning to understand how easily he could have been killed. Concealing his emotions, Pacorus turned to the
primus pilus
. ‘It was foolish to go this far,’ he barked. ‘He’s useful in his own way.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Vahram waited to see if there was more.

‘I want you supervising sentry duty for the next three months,’ the commander ordered. ‘Consider yourself lucky not to be demoted.’

Vahram saluted, delighted that his punishment was so light. Tarquinius had revealed nothing and now he could continue to plot against Pacorus.

They were interrupted by the sound of running feet in the avenue outside. A sentry’s challenge rang out, and was answered. Then the front gate creaked open.

Pacorus stared at Ishkan, who shrugged. Vahram looked similarly puzzled.

Above, the storm had abated. Tarquinius could determine nothing of relevance in what he saw. They were all in the dark.

A few moments later, a cloaked legionary emerged into the courtyard, accompanied by one of the Parthian warriors who guarded Pacorus’ quarters. Both saluted and stood to attention.

‘What is it?’ cried Pacorus impatiently.

‘This is one of the sentries from the main gate, sir,’ said the Parthian. ‘Some of Darius’ men have returned.’

A cold sweat broke out on Tarquinius’ forehead. Like him, Romulus and Brennus served in Darius’ cohort. Where had they been?

Confused, the commander turned to Vahram.

‘I sent out a patrol two days ago, sir,’ explained the
primus pilus
. ‘There had been no word from the fortlet to the east.’

Satisfied, Pacorus indicated that the legionary should speak.

‘Three men have just got back, sir,’ he faltered.

‘Messengers?’

‘No, sir.’ There was a pause. ‘Survivors.’

All the senior officers gasped. Tarquinius managed to stay silent, but his gaze was locked on the sentry.

‘When they got to the fortlet, the garrison had already been massacred, sir. More Scythian raiders, apparently.’

Tarquinius’ mind was suddenly filled with the image he had seen of a barrack-room floor covered in blood. And of the red flashes against the snowy landscape. Scythians always rode red-coloured horses. His misery deepened.

‘They said that Darius sent two riders back with the news,’ the soldier went on.

‘We’ve heard nothing,’ interrupted Vahram.

‘They’ll have been intercepted,’ said Ishkan grimly.

Nervous, the sentry waited.

‘Go on,’ demanded Pacorus.

‘Same lot attacked the patrol, sir. Annihilated it at dawn the next day as it was trying to retreat here.’

‘Leaving three soldiers out of . . .’

‘Two centuries, sir,’ answered Vahram.

‘And Darius? Is he here?’

The sentry shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

Pacorus scowled. Nearly one hundred and sixty men dead, and now Darius. One of his best officers. ‘How many Scythians?’ he asked.

The question had to be repeated.

‘They said a few thousand, sir,’ said the fearful sentry at last.

All the colour left Pacorus’ face. ‘Mithras above,’ he muttered, wishing he were fully recovered.

‘It’s the middle of winter,’ Vahram ranted. ‘The mountain passes to Scythia are blocked with snow!’

‘Where are they?’ Pacorus demanded. ‘These survivors?’

‘The duty
optio
sent them to the
valetudinarium
, sir,’ replied the sentry. ‘They’re suffering from exposure and frostbite.’

‘I don’t give a damn!’ screamed the commander, his face going puce. ‘Bring them here at once!’

The sentry and the Parthian warrior scuttled from sight, grateful not to have been punished.

‘This cannot go unanswered,’ Pacorus growled, waving Vahram and Ishkan into his chamber. Almost as an afterthought, he looked back at Tarquinius. ‘Cut those ropes,’ he ordered Ishkan’s men. ‘Carry him in here.’

The haruspex gritted his teeth as he was borne none too gently inside and laid by the fire for the second time. While his body was torn and bruised, and his mind exhausted, he was anxious to hear all the news from the returned legionaries. Yet every breath, shallow or deep, hurt. Using all his powers of concentration, Tarquinius managed to keep himself alert while the Parthians waited. Pacorus quickly sat down on his bed, while Ishkan and Vahram took their places on stools alongside. Their low muttering filled the air. Some response would have to be made to the Scythian incursion. And fast. Although it was not campaigning weather, the tribesmen could not be left to ravage the area unchecked.

Tarquinius only cared about whether his friends had been on the ill-fated patrol or not. Everything else, even his own life, paled into insignificance.

After what seemed an age, there was a heavy knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ cried Pacorus.

A trio of legionaries shuffled in, their faces chapped and feet still blue with cold. They looked distinctly intimidated at being in the presence of the Forgotten Legion’s commander. Most low-rankers never came face to face with Pacorus, except to be punished. And unless their story was plausible, that was a distinct possibility. Pushed forward by a number of warriors, the men reluctantly moved to stand before the Parthian officers. They did not notice the bloodied man lying in a heap by the fire.

Tarquinius recognised them at once, and his heart sank. Novius, Optatus and Ammias were from his own century, which meant that Romulus and Brennus were dead. He lay back, rare tears welling in his eyes. After years of protection, Tinia had utterly forsaken him and those whom he loved. And Mithras, the god whom he had begun to trust, was no different.

‘Make your report,’ ordered Pacorus.

Naturally it was Novius who spoke. He related the story of the patrol with minimal emotion. Like many legionaries, he spoke little Parthian, so Ishkan translated. After Darius, he was the senior centurion who spoke most Latin. Apart from an occasional interruption from Pacorus or Vahram, the story was delivered to a silent, horrified audience. The final battle was particularly emotive for Tarquinius, who could almost see his friends dying beneath the showers of poisoned Scythian arrows.