The Silver Eagle

Chapter XII: Pacorus

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

‘Hold!’

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.

Having related the two centuries’ fate, the little legionary paused. His life and that of his comrades hinged upon what transpired next. Cowardice was not tolerated in either the Roman or Parthian armies. Soldiers who ran from a battle were liable to be executed out of hand. Their reasons for surviving had to convince their commander.

And Tarquinius.

Pacorus knew exactly why Novius was uneasy. ‘How is it,’ he said, picking his words very carefully, ‘that you three escaped without any wounds?’

Ishkan translated.

‘The gods were smiling on us, sir,’ Novius replied at once. ‘It wasn’t as if we were the only ones not to be hit. When the testudo collapsed at the end, two other lads broke free with us, but they were struck by arrows as we ran.’

Optatus and Ammias grimaced in unison.

‘Then they both stayed to fight a rearguard action, sir,’ said Novius, bowing his head. ‘Saved our lives.’

Tarquinius studied the little legionary’s face intently, searching for evidence of lies. So far, his story sounded genuine. But he had noticed that Novius’ eyes kept flicking up and to the left. And malice oozed from him like bile from a cut gall bladder. The injured haruspex was unsure why, but he did not like Novius. Or trust him.

‘I see.’ Pacorus said nothing for a few moments. ‘And there were no more survivors?’

Novius glanced uneasily at his companions.

Vahram seized upon the look like a cat on a mouse. ‘There were!’

Ammias gave Novius the faintest of signals, as did Optatus.

The haruspex frowned at their move, which seemed rehearsed. Perhaps because they did not speak fluent Latin, the Parthians appeared not to notice. Had the trio fled the patrol before the final encounter, and watched from a hidden vantage point as their comrades were massacred? Tarquinius waited.

‘We were obviously done for, sir,’ the little legionary admitted. ‘Some men ran. It happens.’

‘Yet you did not,’ said Pacorus.

Novius was shocked. ‘Of course not, sir.’

Partially satisfied, Pacorus looked at Ishkan and the primus pilus. They briefly convened in a huddle to decide if they believed Novius’ account.

It appeared they did, thought Tarquinius bitterly. He did not.

‘I need the names and ranks of any men who fled,’ said Pacorus at length.

Silence.

‘Unless you want a cross each.’

The commander’s threat hung in the air.

‘Forgive us, sir,’ grovelled Novius, genuinely afraid now. ‘We’re loyal soldiers.’

‘Names,’ said Pacorus. ‘Now.’

Novius swallowed hard. ‘I only got a good look at two, sir. Both plain legionaries, but not Romans.’

The commander glared. To him, the nationality of the men under his command was irrelevant.

‘Romulus, sir,’ said Novius hurriedly. ‘And a big Gaulish brute by the name of Brennus.’

Tarquinius bit back the retort which sprang to his lips. He would have given Novius the benefit of the doubt about any other men in the century. Now, though, it was certain that he was a liar. My friends would never run!

Pacorus swelled with anger. How could he forget the young soldier who had refused to give him his shield? It was the last thing he remembered before being struck by the Scythian arrows. ‘Cowardly scum,’ he growled.

‘I know those men too, sir,’ Vahram hissed. His gaze strayed to Tarquinius, who instantly pretended to be unconscious. ‘They’re treacherous bastards. Friends of his.’ He jerked a thumb at the haruspex.

Novius understood enough Parthian to turn his head and see the figure lying by the fire. He smiled in malevolent recognition. It was their own non-Roman centurion, who had been left behind while they went on the patrol. Tarquinius’ battered appearance told its own story. ‘That’s right, sir,’ he said viciously. ‘And the centurion was always showing them extra favours.’

‘Did they escape?’ asked Pacorus.

‘Not sure, sir,’ answered the little legionary. ‘It was right in the middle of the fight, you see.’

Optatus and Ammias shook their heads in agreement.

The commander bared his misshapen, yellow teeth. ‘Let’s hope that the Scythians find the mangy dogs. Or that the gods deliver them to us once more.’

Novius bobbed his head ingratiatingly, concealing the gleam of triumph in his eyes.

The haruspex’ intuition told him the true story. It was the three ragged soldiers who had run from the massacre. Then, at the end, they had seen Romulus and Brennus fight their way free. He did not know whether to rejoice or to cry. His friends might be alive, but they were alone in the frozen wilderness with no supplies. Even if they managed to escape the Scythians, certain death now awaited them if they reached the fort.

And he could do nothing about it.

Utter helplessness swamped Tarquinius, and weakened by his wounds and the cold, he succumbed to unconsciousness.