The Silver Eagle (17 page)

‘Why did they carry them inside?’ asked Novius.

Romulus looked at him with scorn. The answer was obvious.

Realisation hit the veteran. ‘So there would be no cloud of vultures overhead.’

He nodded.

Suddenly there was more at stake than their feud.

As one, they turned and ran in search of Darius. They had marched into a trap. Now it was surely about to be sprung.

The trio found their commander on his knees in the
optio
’s quarters. He glanced up as they entered, his face twisted with fury. The junior officer lying cradled in his arms had not been treated in quite the same way as the others. Remarkably, he was still alive. A strong man in his thirties, the
optio
had been scalped and entirely flayed. Barely conscious, uncontrollable shivers shook his bloody, ruined frame. He did not have long.

‘Sir,’ Romulus began.

‘They posed as a trading party. Got inside the gates and then produced hidden weapons,’ snarled Darius. ‘Dirty Scythian dogs.’

That made sense, thought Romulus. But there was no time to waste. ‘Sir. They hid the men in here so that the vultures would not warn us off.’

‘Of course,’ gasped the Parthian. ‘And we just walked in, like complete fools.’

‘Best get outside, sir,’ said Novius, his muscles twitching with impatience.

Darius nodded briskly. ‘And this poor creature?’

‘Give him a warrior’s death,’ said Novius.

Rather than let the mortally wounded die in pain, Roman soldiers always performed a final act of mercy.

‘I’ll do it, sir.’ Romulus’ voice echoed loudly in the confined space. Novius and Optatus began to protest. Slaves could not perform this duty.

But a warning look from Darius quelled their objections. ‘This man volunteered first,’ he said, thinking they also wanted the honour. ‘Outside.’

The malevolent legionaries had no choice but to obey. Saluting resentfully, they left, followed by the other two soldiers.

‘Do it quickly.’ Laying the maimed
optio
down with care, Darius passed his hand over his forehead in a blessing and strode from the room.

Lifting his
gladius
, Romulus stepped closer. It was right that this death should be his. Darius was not Roman, while Novius and Optatus were evil men who should end no one’s life. The last two had not volunteered, so it was up to him to give the
optio
a dignified passage to the other side.

The man’s eyelids opened and their gaze met. Both knew what was about to happen.

Admiration filled Romulus. He could see no fear in the
optio
’s face, just calm acceptance.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Elysium awaits.’ Brave men went to the warrior’s paradise.

There was a single nod.

Gently Romulus helped the other to sit up. There was an involuntary gasp, rapidly concealed. Even a small movement must be agonising, he thought. Pity filled him.

‘My name is Aesius.
Optio
in the Second Century, First Cohort, Twentieth Legion,’ managed the injured officer. He looked round enquiringly. ‘And your name?’

‘Romulus, sir.’

Aesius’ twisted face relaxed. ‘A man should know who sends him to heaven.’

From outside came the clash of arms and Darius’ voice, bellowing orders. The Scythians had attacked.

‘Your comrades need you,’ said Aesius.

Romulus knelt and took hold of Aesius’ bloody forearm in the warrior’s greeting. The weak
optio
could barely return the grip, but Romulus saw that the gesture meant a lot. ‘Go well,’ he whispered.

He moved behind Aesius, who lowered his chin on to his chest. This exposed the nape of his neck. Holding the hilt of his
gladius
with both hands, Romulus lifted it high in the air, its sharp tip pointing down. Without pausing, he stabbed into Aesius’ spinal cord, cutting it in two. Death was instantaneous, and the
optio
’s disfigured body slumped silently to the floor.

He was at peace.

His heart heavy, Romulus studied the prone form at his feet. But anger gradually replaced the sorrow. Forty good men had been maimed for no good reason. And outside, more were dying. Bloody sword in hand, he turned and ran from the building. The others had already disappeared, so Romulus sprinted towards the gate. The clash of arms mingled with men’s screams, the noise of horses’ hooves and shouted orders from Darius. Battle had been joined. Wishing that Tarquinius were there too, Romulus emerged from the fortlet to a scene of complete mayhem.

In partial testudo formation, the two centuries were holding firm.

Beyond them galloped large groups of Scythian warriors, loosing arrows at the legionaries as they rode to and fro. It reminded Romulus of Carrhae. But the bearded, tattooed horsemen were dressed differently to the Parthians, with marmot fur or wool cloaks, dark woollen trousers and knee-high felt boots. Few of the dark-skinned horse archers wore armour, yet they were armed to the teeth, carrying short-headed axes, swords and knives as well as their bows. Their mounts were a magnificent deep red colour, and their blue saddles were richly decorated with gold thread. These were wealthier men than the riders who had devastated Crassus’ army.

Romulus glanced at his comrades. Thankfully, the silk coverings on their shields were safely stopping the Scythian arrows. Already their surfaces were peppered with them. But there were a few casualties. Four men had received wounds to their lower legs. Another must have been looking up when the first volley was released. Lying to the unprotected rear with the others, he twitched spasmodically. One hand still clutched the wooden shaft protruding from his throat.

One dead, four injured, thought Romulus grimly. And the fight had barely begun.

Loud screams drew his attention once more. Almost as one, the four legionaries had begun thrashing about, their faces contorted in pain. Their reaction was extreme, confusing Romulus. They all had routine flesh wounds. Then he remembered.
Scythicon
.

Tarquinius had told him how the poison was made. Adders were captured and killed, and left to decompose. Next, sealed vessels of human blood were allowed to putrefy in animal dung. The final mixture of rotting snake, blood and faeces formed a toxic liquid that killed within hours of wounding a man. It meant that every Scythian arrow provided a guarantee of death. How could Pacorus be any different?

But that was the least of his worries right now. A finger of fear tugged at Romulus’ heart. He did not want to die screaming in agony. And the same emotion was evident in the faces of the legionaries in the rear ranks. The cries of the wounded were doing little for morale.

There were at least a hundred figures on horseback pinning them against the fortlet’s wall. Pleasingly, about two score more lay sprawled in the dirt, taken down by the first shower of Roman javelins. Wary of using their last missiles, Darius had not yet ordered another volley. His last bodyguard was using his bow to deadly effect, however. Taking his time, the Parthian was loosing well-aimed arrows, invariably killing a Scythian with each shot. But his efforts would soon come to a halt. The case-like quiver on his left hip only held twenty to thirty shafts.

‘Into line, soldier!’ shouted one of the
optiones
at Romulus.

Spotting Brennus’ huge frame at the front, he shoved his way through to join him. Even on his knees, the Gaul towered over the others. Lowering his
scutum
to meet the others in the shield wall, Romulus knelt down on the cold ground beside his friend. The men in the second rank held their
scuta
angled overhead to protect those in front while those behind covered their own heads. The testudo was an extremely effective defensive formation. Romulus’ misery lifted a fraction. They could hold their own against these attackers.

‘Stand fast! Protect yourselves from their arrows,’ shouted Darius, his perspiring face determined. ‘Let the bastards use them all up. We’ll stay inside the fort, and in the morning we can march out of here.’

At this, there was a loud cheer. Not everyone would fall to the poisoned shafts.

Romulus turned to Brennus. ‘Can’t be that simple,’ he muttered. ‘Can it?’

‘I doubt it,’ replied the Gaul with a scowl.

‘There aren’t enough warriors to wipe us out.’

But there were no more visible, and clearly Darius thought that the riders pounding back and forth in front of them were their only attackers.

The nomads must have heard of the silk protection on their shields, thought Romulus. Word had spread fast through the border region about the Forgotten Legion’s secret weapon, meaning that most tribes were wary of attacking unless in great force. No leader could think that a hundred horse archers would be able to stop two centuries marching out to freedom. Slow them down, yes. Annihilate them, no. And if Darius’ messengers safely delivered their message, reinforcements would arrive by the next afternoon. What was going on?

Romulus peered over the iron rim of his shield, his eyes flicking from left to right. There was a small group of Scythians at the enemy’s rear, directing operations, but no sign of any more warriors.
Mithras, help me!
He took a deep, uncertain breath as his gaze was drawn upwards, over the milling horsemen. Clear blue sky. On the horizon, a few clouds. A faint breeze coming from the north. Attracted by the fighting, vultures were already beginning to circle high above. Romulus considered what he saw for a long time. Dread filled his heart, but eventually he was sure.

‘We need to fight our way out,’ he muttered. ‘Now.’

The big Gaul was surprised. ‘Why? It’s nearly nightfall. Better to do what Darius says.’

Romulus put his lips to Brennus’ ear. ‘The omens are bad.’

Brennus looked confused. This was normally Tarquinius’ territory. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I asked Mithras for help and he gave it,’ whispered Romulus vehemently. ‘These are the scouts for a much larger force that will arrive at dawn tomorrow.’

‘They’re just keeping us here?’

‘Precisely,’ finished Romulus.

Used to Tarquinius’ accurate predictions, Brennus let out a heavy sigh. He scanned Romulus’ features again, searching for proof.

‘I don’t understand either,’ hissed Romulus. ‘But I saw a vision of Rome earlier too.’

The Gaul spat a curse. ‘Very well. Speak to Darius. Tell him what you saw.’

By now, the Scythians had stopped wasting arrows by firing at the silk-covered shields. Instead they were letting them fly in curving arcs that came down to the rear of the testudo. Pushing his way out, Romulus was greeted by the sight of the injured soldiers transfixed to the ground. The unfortunate men who had been treating them had also been hit. Now they would die too. Still uninjured, Darius was standing nearby, with his guard holding a discarded
scutum
over both their heads. Both their horses had been struck by arrows and were charging wildly around the inside of the fortlet. Not for long, thought Romulus grimly. The
scythicon
would already be pumping through their veins.

He darted over. ‘A word if I may, sir?’

‘What is it?’ demanded Darius irritably. He looked harassed and angry.

‘We must retreat, sir,’ he blurted. ‘At once.’

The bodyguard snorted with derision.

Darius was more tolerant. ‘Just as it’s about to get dark?’ Then the senior centurion saw that Romulus was deadly serious. His actions bordered on insubordination, but Darius valued his men, especially this one. Unlike the other Parthian officers, he did not instantly punish all wrongdoers. ‘Do you know what temperature it drops to out here?’ he cried. ‘We’d all freeze.’

‘Perhaps, sir.’ Romulus swallowed, but his stare did not waver. ‘But waiting until the morning will be even worse.’

Darius glanced back at the strong walls of the fortlet. It was a good position to defend for one night. With their grisly contents, no one would sleep in the blood-soaked barracks, but huddled by blazing fires under the shelter of the ramparts, his men would survive well enough until dawn. ‘Why?’

Romulus saw him look. ‘More Scythians are on their way, sir. A lot more.’

Darius stared at him, perplexed. Yet this legionary had seen the rider behind the patrol. And he was Tarquinius’ protégé. ‘How do you know?’

‘I have seen it in the sky.’

The guard hissed with disapproval.

Darius’ dark eyes bored into Romulus. ‘What exactly did you see?’

‘A large host on the march. Soldiers carrying torches to light the way,’ revealed Romulus. ‘Squadrons of horse archers and companies of infantry. Armoured cavalry.’

Darius frowned. It was uncommon for armies to travel by night. Most men were too superstitious to do so: it was the time when demons and evil spirits were abroad.