The Silver Eagle

Chapter XIII: Betrayal

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

Romulus’ first awareness was of the terrible pain that filled his head. Great waves of it washed over him, utterly draining his energy. Then there would be a short lag phase before another hit. After an age, he felt able to move again. By gently wriggling them, Romulus could feel his fingers and his toes. They were not warm, but at least they still functioned. Aware that he was lying flat on a rough stone floor, the young soldier gingerly opened his eyes.

There was a low roof almost within hand’s reach. It was a cave. Turning his head, the first thing Romulus saw was Brennus’ muscular back, bending over a small fire. Relief filled him. They were still free. Mithras had saved their lives after all.

‘Where are we?’ Romulus croaked, his throat dry with thirst.

The Gaul spun on his heel, a wide grin splitting his blood-covered face. ‘Belenus be thanked!’ he cried. ‘I wasn’t sure if your skull had been cracked.’

Romulus lifted a hand to the back of his head and probed gently. ‘Don’t think so,’ he replied, wincing as his fingers found a fist-sized lump just above the hairline. ‘Damn painful though.’

‘Thankfully this took the worst of it,’ said Brennus, lifting a battered lump of bronze which Romulus vaguely recognised as his helmet. ‘I had difficulty getting it off.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was Primitivus,’ revealed Brennus, his breath visible in the chill air. ‘Crept up and hit you from behind. I slew the fool immediately, but you had already gone down.’

The veterans would stop at nothing. Romulus shook his head in confusion, releasing another wave of agony. ‘Are you injured?’

‘No,’ said the Gaul. ‘This is Primitivus’ blood.’

Romulus was very relieved. ‘How in Hades did we get away?’

‘With Primitivus gone, Novius and his mates tried to make a break for it. Two or three others ran too,’ said Brennus. ‘It distracted many of the Scythians. The remainder were busy attacking what few of our lot weren’t killed or injured. Somehow I was sure that it wasn’t my time to die. I wasn’t sure you were dead either, so I fell down and pulled Primitivus on top of me. The enemy cavalry drove forward, leaving us on open ground. The fighting went on for some time, and no one was looking back. It was just a matter of carrying you over the nearest rise and out of view. After taking a breather, I went up into the broken ground. Found this cave about half a mile away.’

The young soldier could only marvel at his friend’s strength. The distance Brennus had mentioned so casually would have crippled any other man. ‘What about the rest?’

The Gaul’s face darkened. ‘Gone,’ he said heavily. ‘I looked back once and there were maybe fifteen men still standing. But the Scythians were swarming around them like rats. They had no chance.’

Romulus closed his eyes. Even though the legionaries had recently made them outcasts, he felt genuine grief. They had been serving in the same century for over six months, and in the same army for over two years.

‘It wasn’t for nothing,’ growled Brennus. ‘They bought us enough time to escape.’

‘That makes it even worse.’

‘Our burden is heavier because of it,’ Brennus agreed, remembering his uncle’s sacrifice.

‘And just think what the Scythians will do to the bodies.’

‘Don’t think about that. Our getting away means that the gods have not totally forgotten us. We live to fight another day.’

‘True,’ admitted Romulus. ‘What about Novius and the others? Did they make it?’

Brennus’ face darkened. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope not.’

Without blankets, food or equipment, the friends had no choice but to leave the small cave behind. All it provided was shelter and slight relief from the bitter weather. And news of the Scythian incursion had to be carried back quickly. The raiders would attack again soon, perhaps even at the fort. Using the bright stars to guide their path, they tracked steadily west. There was no sign of the enemy, meaning their escape had probably gone unseen. It was just as well. Brennus had retained his longsword, but all Romulus had to defend himself with was his pugio. Neither had shields. An encounter with the fierce warriors would have only one outcome.

The rest in the cave did not sustain Romulus for long on the freezing, difficult march. With his pounding headache, the young soldier was very grateful for Brennus’ broad shoulder to lean on. As time passed, his strength returned somewhat, as did his determination. Besides, marching was the best way to keep even slightly warm. Under their cloaks, their chain mail was an icy deadweight, while their exposed lower legs were chilled to the bone. Sweat condensed instantly on their brows, and the air was so cold that every breath hurt.

When the outline of the crucifix finally appeared, Romulus felt great relief. Reaching it meant that their suffering was nearly over. But by starlight, the frozen body was even more terrifying. It was impossible not to stare at it as they walked past. Flesh now picked from his bones, the legionary was little more than a skeleton. Even his internal organs had been consumed by the hungry vultures. Teeth grinned from a lipless mouth; empty eye sockets seemed to watch their every step. This time though, Romulus saw nothing beyond the bare bones. But the memory of what he’d seen before burned brightly in his mind. And Tarquinius had seen a path home. Mithras, he prayed. Help me return to Rome.

Brennus made the sign against evil. ‘Not a good way to go, eh?’

Romulus shook his head, making his headache worse than ever. ‘No bastard is ever going to do that to me.’

‘Nor me,’ swore Brennus.

Yet crucifixion was one of the punishments they might receive on their return. It was impossible to predict how the volatile primus pilus would react to their cataclysmic news. ‘What should we do?’

‘Trust the gods,’ Brennus advised. ‘Tell the truth. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

Romulus sighed, unable to think of anything else. Brennus’ faith carried him through situations like they were in now. Normally Romulus struggled with this simple approach. Here in god-forsaken Margiana, death seemed the only certainty in life. But they had survived the ambush, and he gave Mithras the full credit for that. Otherwise Brennus would have fought to the death. Afterwards, both of them would have been beheaded by the Scythians.

They tramped on in grim silence.

By the time the fort’s reassuring shape came into sight, the sky was lightening. This time, a vigilant sentry challenged the pair long before they reached the main entrance. Brennus’ bellowed answer, his simple horsehair-crested helmet and their obvious Roman uniforms were enough to see the gate opened. They had reached safety.

Or so they thought.

The pair received none of the welcome they might have expected when the portal creaked ajar. Instead the waiting faces were full of anger and contempt. The instant they had passed within, a ring of legionaries formed around them, their gladii and shields raised threateningly.

‘Hold on a moment,’ bristled Brennus. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The Scythians out there are the damn enemy, not us,’ added Romulus.

‘Really?’ spat a grizzled soldier with one eye. ‘Cowards!’

‘What?’ responded Romulus disbelievingly. ‘Brennus fought his way free. He saved my life!’

‘Liar,’ shouted another sentry.

‘You ran and left your comrades to die,’ cried a third.

‘Novius got back before us,’ Romulus whispered to Brennus, horrified. ‘The scabby shitbag!’ And Brennus escaped because the gods told him to, he told himself.

The Gaul gave him a resigned nod. Things were going from bad to worse.

‘Of course they fled,’ said the one-eyed man viciously. ‘They’re fucking slaves.’

‘I’ve never run from anyone,’ began Brennus angrily. Then an image of his burning village came to mind. I left my wife and child to die. The memory was a weeping sore in his soul. He fell silent.

A chorus of sneers met his weak protest and the Gaul hung his head.

Romulus was about to say more, but one look at the hard, closed faces all around was enough for the words to die in his throat. His pounding head made it even harder to concentrate, so he sealed his lips. Do not desert us, Mithras, Romulus thought desperately. Not now.

‘We should just kill them,’ shouted a voice from the back. ‘Get it over with.’

At this, the friends gripped their weapons and prepared to fight to the death.

‘Quiet!’ barked the optio in charge. ‘Pacorus wants to see this pair immediately. He’ll have something tasty for them up his sleeve, no doubt.’

Cruel laughter filled the air.

Romulus and Brennus looked at each other numbly. It seemed that their commander had survived, which meant that Tarquinius was still alive. Given their hostile reception, though, they might never see him again.

‘Take their weapons,’ said the optio briskly. ‘Tie their arms.’

Eager to obey, men swarmed in and stripped the friends of longsword and pugio. Neither fought back. Defenceless, their wrists were tightly bound behind their backs with thick rope. Urged on with kicks and taunts, they were frogmarched towards the headquarters.

The fort was just beginning to come alive for the day. A cock cried repeatedly from his roost near the stables for the mules. The smell of baking bread reached them from the ovens. Legionaries were emerging from their barracks, yawning and stretching. Throats were being cleared; phlegm spat on the frozen ground. Queues formed outside the latrines; men joked and laughed with each other. Few took any notice of the small party going past.

Until the one-eyed soldier took it upon himself to let everyone know.

‘Look who it is, boys!’ he roared. ‘The escaped slaves!’

The optio turned and glared, but it was too late. The harm had been done. Sleep-filled faces twisted with anger and insults were hurled through the air. More than one gob of spit flew in their direction. Over and over, the same phrases were repeated and Romulus burned with anger and shame to hear them.

‘Cowards!’

‘You left your friends to die!’

‘Crucify them!’

Men swarmed on to the Via Praetoria, surrounding the optio and his men. Jostling and shoving, they tried to reach the prisoners. The sentries did not put up much resistance.

Romulus shrank away from the mauling hands. Having survived the horror of the patrol, it was utterly demoralising to be on the receiving end of such vitriol. But dying at the hands of a lynch mob held even less appeal. Brennus, his shoulders slumped, barely seemed to notice. This is my reward for running from my family, he thought. The gods’ final revenge. There will be no cleansing redemption in battle.

‘Stand back!’ ordered the optio, using energetic swipes of his staff to beat the enraged legionaries on their arms and shoulders. ‘Anyone who harms them gets fifty lashes!’

Sullenly the soldiers moved away, allowing the group to continue its journey to the Praetoria. Even the Parthian guards there looked down their noses at the two friends. The reaction of those inside the imposing gate was exactly the same. The doorways of the offices and storerooms positioned on three sides of the square forehall soon filled with disapproving faces. The nerve centre of the fort, this was where the quartermaster and a host of junior officers and clerks worked to keep the Forgotten Legion running smoothly. Few of them ever saw combat, but their attitude was just as extreme as the other soldiers. Desertion during combat was one of the most cowardly acts a legionary could commit. Death was the only punishment.

Their lives depended on Pacorus as never before.

They were taken inside the large chamber which directly faced the entrance. The optio made his report to the centurion who had been in charge of the fort overnight. Immediately a runner was sent to fetch Pacorus and the senior centurions.

Romulus found himself looking over at the shrine, where the legion’s silver eagle and its other standards were kept. Positioned to one side of the main offices, it was guarded night and day by a pair of sentries. Heavy curtains obscured the standards from view. He longed to prostrate himself before the metal bird and ask for its help. Here, in the centre of the fort, was where its power was strongest. But it was a faint hope. No one was about to let a slave accused of running from the enemy pray to the most sacred item belonging to the legion.

Instead, Romulus pictured the silver eagle in his head. With its protectively outstretched wings, it was a powerful symbol of Rome. He did not cease praying to Mithras though. Surely the god would understand the importance of the bird to him? He was a Roman soldier and followed the legion’s symbol with fierce pride. That did not diminish his belief in the warrior god who regarded all men in the same light. Equally, Romulus felt that the eagle would value his courage over the fact that he was a slave.

‘So!’ Pacorus’ voice reached them first. ‘The cowards have returned.’ Accompanied by Ishkan, Vahram and all the other senior officers, the legion’s commander stalked into view. A large party of warriors trotted behind them. Only Darius was missing. The early hour had not stopped any of the Parthians from wanting to be present. Romulus was struck by how ill Pacorus still looked, but twin red points of anger marked his hollow cheeks. Rage was giving him the energy to be here.

There was no sign of Tarquinius, the man whose hard work had brought Pacorus back from the brink. Disappointment swamped Romulus. Another mountain had been placed in their way. If the haruspex had been restored to favour, they might have stood a better chance.

When the officers had come to a halt, the optio and his men shoved Romulus and Brennus forward.

‘What have you to say?’ demanded Pacorus harshly.

‘Before you are crucified,’ added Vahram with a cruel smile.

‘Scum,’ said Ishkan.

Romulus looked at Brennus and was shocked to see dumb acceptance of their fate. ‘This is my destiny,’ whispered the Gaul. ‘I deserted my own family and people when they needed me.’

‘No,’ hissed Romulus. ‘It wasn’t your fault! Your journey is not over.’ But there was no time to persuade his friend. He was on his own.

The optio struck Romulus heavily across the shoulder blades with his staff. ‘Answer the commander!’

He clenched his teeth to stop himself wheeling around and attacking the junior officer. The Parthians would know the truth at least. ‘It wasn’t us who ran, sir.’

Vahram threw back his head and laughed. Pacorus and the others just looked incredulous.

‘It’s true.’ Romulus took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. Somehow he pushed away the pain in his head, focusing instead on their critical situation. It was vital that he persuade the Parthians of their story. ‘Where are the liars who accused us of running, sir? At least let us hear the accusation from their mouths.’

Pacorus was taken aback.

‘That’s fair enough, sir,’ said Ishkan.

‘Why bother?’ protested Vahram. ‘Look at them! It’s obvious that the dogs are guilty.’

The commander gave his senior centurion a measured stare before lifting a hand. An optio ran off to do his bidding.

Thank you, Mithras. Romulus breathed a small sigh of relief. Obviously all was not well between Pacorus and the primus pilus. If he could utilise that factor to their advantage, there might be some hope yet.

‘Tell us what happened then,’ ordered Vahram curtly. ‘While we wait.’

Romulus did as he was told. By the time he had finished, Ishkan at least appeared to believe him. But Pacorus, and particularly Vahram, seemed utterly unmoved.

Despairing, Brennus was of no help. He stood beside Romulus, looking at the floor.

The Parthians began to speak quick-fire in their own language. From the gesticulations and arm-waving, it was obvious that the primus pilus wanted them both dead. Ishkan was more measured, speaking in a deep, calm voice, while Pacorus stood with eyes narrowed, pondering.

At length the optio returned. Novius, Optatus and Ammias were two steps behind him. They had clearly been asleep until a few moments earlier. But all weariness fell away when they saw Romulus and Brennus. Novius’ face twisted with hate, and he muttered something to his companions.

‘This young soldier says that you were lying,’ announced Pacorus without preamble. ‘That in fact you and your comrades were the ones to run.’

Furious, Optatus opened his mouth to speak, but Novius laid a hand on his arm.

‘Of course he does, sir,’ the little legionary said smoothly. ‘But his word can’t be trusted. He and his friend are damn slaves. Not citizens like us.’

Optatus and Ammias nodded righteously. In Rome, slaves’ testament was only valid if it had been obtained by torture.

Pacorus seemed confused, so Ishkan leaned over and whispered in his ear. He had heard about the two friends’ isolation in the days preceding the patrol.

‘Idiot,’ the commander snapped. ‘You are all my prisoners. Who or what you were before Carrhae is irrelevant.’

‘Not to us, sir,’ replied Novius fiercely. ‘It’s very important.’

‘That’s right,’ added Ammias. ‘Sir.’

Shrewd enough to see how much it meant to the legionaries, Pacorus turned to Romulus. ‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘You are slaves?’

There was little point in lying. This was all about who was telling the truth. ‘We are,’ he said heavily.

Brennus shot him an alarmed glance, but Romulus stayed calm.

‘I knew it!’ Novius crowed with delight. His friends looked similarly jubilant.

Pacorus waited.

‘That doesn’t mean I ran away,’ Romulus growled. ‘Courage belongs to all men.’

‘True,’ Pacorus answered. ‘But I cannot tell which of you is lying.’ He turned to the primus pilus. ‘The whole damn thing is far more trouble than I need. Crucify them all.’

Vahram saluted with gusto. This would be a duty he would take great pleasure in. It was of little matter to him how many legionaries who went up on crosses. And, as friends of Tarquinius, he deeply distrusted the huge Gaul and his protege. The primus pilus waved his hand and the Parthian warriors swarmed around Novius and his companions.

They looked terrified.

Pacorus frowned at the three veterans’ reactions. They were very different to those of Romulus and Brennus, who seemed accepting of their fate. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ The commander pointed at Novius, Optatus and Ammias. ‘You lot will fight the slaves,’ he said. ‘To the death.’

The little legionary looked uncertainly at his comrades.

Three against two, thought Romulus. Those odds aren’t too bad. Even the Gaul lifted his head. But Romulus eyed Pacorus with suspicion. Why this sudden change of heart?

Suddenly Vahram, who had been visibly disappointed, grinned. He guessed what was coming.

Pacorus wasn’t finished. ‘Slaves are not soldiers,’ he went on. ‘They should not bear weapons. It will be three swords against two pairs of bare hands.’

Romulus’ mouth opened while Novius could barely conceal his glee.

‘The gods will decide who is telling the truth,’ said Pacorus.

‘When?’ asked Ishkan.

The commander rubbed his hands together. ‘Right now,’ he answered. ‘Why not?’

Brennus’ shoulders lifted at last. This way I can die fighting, he thought.

Romulus clenched his jaw, determined to die like a man.

The gods had granted them another faint chance.

Without further ado, they were marched out to the intervallum. Pacorus wanted as many men as possible to witness the combat, so the centuries from the nearest barracks were hastily assembled as well. The soldiers needed little encouragement. They poured out into the dawn air, eager to watch the unscheduled entertainment. Instead of the rope square used in the ludus, or the wooden enclosure of the arena, the fighting space was formed by dozens of legionaries, holding their scuta before them. Parthian warriors were stationed at regular intervals around the perimeter, their bows drawn. Another group stood protectively around Pacorus and the senior centurions.

Romulus and Brennus were untied and left to stand in one corner. Rubbing their wrists to restore the circulation in their hands, the two friends paid no attention to the curious stares of the men around them. The insults that filled the air were harder to ignore. These were their former comrades. Romulus burned to deny the charges being thrown at them, but he saved his energy, every scrap of which would be needed in the next few moments. Diagonally opposite were Novius, Ammias and Optatus. The veterans’ armour and weapons had been fetched, and the three were busy donning their mail shirts and bronze helmets. With his left thigh still strapped, Caius was near his friends, his face full of relief that he was not part of it.

Romulus racked his brains for their best option. Somehow at least one of them had to arm himself. Quickly. It would not take their experienced enemies long to injure and kill two unarmed men.

‘We split up,’ whispered Brennus.

Romulus could not believe his ears. ‘Our only hope is to stick together,’ he protested.

‘I’m bigger. Two of the bastards will go for me,’ said the Gaul confidently. ‘That gives you the chance to take a weapon from the third.’

It didn’t seem much of an option.

‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll manage,’ Brennus answered grimly. ‘Just get a sword.’

Romulus had no better alternative, and he had no time to think of one.

The veterans had armed themselves. With chain mail, shields and gladii, they were now a fearsome prospect.

‘Begin!’ shouted Pacorus.

There was a pause.

The commander bellowed an order and his men raised their bows. ‘They will loose on the count of three,’ he said. ‘One. ’

Fury filled Romulus. In the ludus, Memor’s archers had forced him to fight a vicious Goth called Lentulus. That combat had also been to the death. But at least then I was armed, he thought. His heart pounded in his chest. What chance had they?

The three legionaries rushed to stand side by side. Drawing their swords, they brought their scuta together to form a small shield wall.

‘Two.’

They began to advance, their faces grim and set.

Satisfied, Pacorus fell silent.

This is better than crucifixion, thought Brennus, adrenalin pumping through him. ‘Now,’ he muttered and darted away to one side.

Obeying, Romulus shot off in the opposite direction.

Pleasingly, Novius’ and his comrades’ faces were the picture of surprise. But they regained their composure fast. After the slightest pause, Novius and Ammias followed Romulus. Rolling his shoulders, Optatus went for Brennus.

Romulus cursed. The Gaul’s plan had not worked. The veterans also planned to take down the weaker man first.

Him.

‘Can’t even fight with each other, eh?’ Novius sneered as they drew nearer.

‘We’re not the ones who ran,’ retorted Romulus. ‘You are. Damn liars.’

Ammias actually looked guilty.

‘Shut your mouth,’ hissed Novius, lunging forward with his gladius. ‘Filthy slave.’

Angering the little legionary might provide a chink of opportunity, thought Romulus, dodging to the left. A quick thrust from Ammias followed and desperately he shuffled backwards. Gloating, Novius and his comrade split up.

Romulus had a brief moment before he was assailed from in front and behind. Novius was the more dangerous of his opponents, and might see through the only trick he could think of. The young soldier acted immediately. He ran forward and at the last moment, threw himself down on the ground just in front of Ammias, rolling forward to collide with his legs. The risky plan worked, and the veteran fell forward, cursing. Laden down with weapons and his chain mail, he was momentarily helpless. Wriggling free, Romulus jumped to his feet and delivered a huge kick to his enemy’s unprotected groin. Ammias screamed and dropped his sword.

It was the opportunity he had been praying for.

Romulus leaned over and grabbed the veteran’s gladius. But there was no chance of getting the shield as well. He pulled back to avoid a lethal thrust from Novius, who had swept forward to aid his friend. Romulus moved away, sliding his sandals carefully to make sure he did not lose his footing on the icy ground. The little legionary did not pursue him, instead helping up Ammias, who looked more embarrassed than anything. Romulus’ manoeuvre had been something only a novice would fall for. Wincing in pain, Ammias pulled out his pugio and waved it at him.

‘Ready to feel this in your guts?’ he cried.

‘Come and try,’ sneered Romulus, holding up the gladius.

The two veterans made for him at the trot.

Romulus breathed deeply, filling his lungs with cold air. His situation was only a fraction less critical than it had been. He glanced over his shoulder to see how Brennus was doing. To his relief, the Gaul was still unhurt. He was dancing around Optatus, ducking and weaving away from thrusts of the big soldier’s sword.

Again Romulus’ enemies split up, preparing to hit him simultaneously this time.

His fingers closed tightly around the sword’s bone hilt as he watched them approach. It was times like this which separated cowards from the courageous. There was only one thing to do, thought Romulus. Go on the attack. If he waited until they reached him, it would be over in a few heartbeats. Which one? It took a mere instant to decide. Novius. It was Novius who was smaller.

Romulus charged straight at the little legionary, whose eyes widened at his audacity. Preparing himself, Novius ducked behind his scutum, protecting himself from his neck to his lower legs. The curved shield’s size meant that it was almost impossible to deliver a fatal blow to the man holding it. But that was not Romulus’ intention. Closing in, he feinted to one side, letting Novius think that he was attacking from his right. The legionary raised his gladius, ready to strike. At the last instant, the young soldier danced the other way and dropped his left shoulder. With an almighty heave, he barged into Novius’ scutum, using his superior body weight to drive the legionary backwards. Used to having a comrade on his left side to defend him, Novius was caught unawares. Then his caligae slipped on a patch of frost and he fell, landing on the flat of his back. The impact drove the air from his lungs, winding him.

Romulus acted fast. Pulling the heavy scutum up and out of the way, he thrust his sword into his enemy’s throat. Novius’ pupils dilated with shock as the sharp iron blade sliced through soft flesh to grate off the vertebrae in his neck. Bright red blood gushed from the wound, staining the ground beneath. Novius’ mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water. Two heartbeats later, he was dead.

It was a quick end for the malevolent little legionary, thought Romulus. Too quick.

He looked back. Pelting in, Ammias was only a few paces away. His voice was distorted in a scream of fury. Again Romulus had to retreat without a shield. But his opponent was able to pick up a gladius as he stepped over Novius’ body. They shuffled around, trading blows, each searching for weaknesses in the other. Twice, Ammias shoved his gilt shield boss at Romulus’ face, but the young soldier was ready for the classic move and dodged backwards both times. Frustrated and angered by Novius’ death, the veteran’s attacks grew more frenzied.

Stay calm, Romulus thought. He’ll make a mistake eventually. They always do.

From behind him came the unmistakable sound of a man crying out in pain.

Romulus couldn’t help himself. He turned to see what had happened. Optatus had sliced Brennus across his left arm, opening a long cut from his elbow to his wrist. As blood welled from the wound, the Gaul desperately retreated, trying to avoid further injury.

Too late, the young soldier remembered Ammias. In slow motion, he spun back. His enemy’s shield boss hit him full in the chest and Romulus heard a dull crack as two of his ribs broke. Used like this, the Roman scutum was an excellent offensive weapon. Stars cascaded across Romulus’ vision and he landed heavily, dropping his sword.

At once Ammias kicked it out of reach. Snarling with rage, he stooped over Romulus. ‘You killed my friend,’ he growled. ‘And the Gaulish bastard did for Primitivus. Now it’s your turn.’

Romulus clenched his jaw in an effort not to cry out. Sharp needles were stabbing him with every breath. Sensing his weakness, the grinning veteran kicked him viciously.

He nearly passed out from the pain.

‘Like that?’ gloated Ammias. ‘Slave scum.’

Romulus could not answer. Through slitted eyes, he saw his opponent’s gladius rise up.

Roars of approval came from the watching legionaries. The unexpected entertainment was proving to be hugely enjoyable. It was all the better if one of their comrades was victorious.

Enjoying his moment of victory, Ammias paused.

Romulus knew that death was an instant away. When the sword came down, his life would be over. A procession of thoughts flashed through his mind. Now there would be no chance to help Brennus. Or Tarquinius. No possible return to Rome. No reunion with Fabiola. And no revenge on Gemellus.

Had Jupiter and Mithras protected him for so long, only for him to die like a dog?

Scrabbling with his fingernails at the hard earth, Romulus managed to scoop up a small handful.

Grimacing, the veteran thrust downwards.

Ignoring the agony from his ribs, Romulus rolled to one side, sweeping up his arm at the same time. Ammias’ move brought him within reach, and at the last moment, the young soldier opened his hand. Particles of dirt filled his enemy’s eyes and his gladius plunged into the ground, missing Romulus by a handbreadth.

Blinded, Ammias cried out in agony.

Romulus seized the moment and punched him in the solar plexus, badly bruising his right fist against the veteran’s chain mail.

Letting go of his sword hilt, Ammias went down, his mouth open in an ‘O’ of surprise.

A shocked silence fell over the assembled soldiers.

Holding his ribs with his left hand, Romulus got to his knees.

Beside him, Ammias was rolling around, trying to find his gladius.

Romulus got there first. Pulling it free with a grunt of effort, he smashed the flat of the blade across his enemy’s face. There was a sound of cartilage breaking, which was followed by a strangled cry. Ammias reeled backwards, clutching his ruined nose. Blood poured from between his fingers; his eyes were inflamed and full of grit. He was no longer capable of fighting. Romulus briefly considered killing him. After all, Ammias was one of the men who had tried to murder him on multiple occasions, had been instrumental in turning the whole legion against him. But he was unarmed and unable to defend himself. Ripping Ammias’ scutum from his grip, Romulus stood.

He was no cold-blooded murderer. And Brennus needed his help.

With his opponent already weakened by blood loss, Optatus was doing his level best to kill the Gaul. It was only Brennus’ huge strength that had allowed him to continue resisting the legionary’s skilful attacks. When Optatus saw Romulus running over, his efforts redoubled. Punches with his shield were followed instantly by thrusts of his gladius. It was a deadly one-two combination and difficult to resist for long.

Ignoring the waves of pain from his broken ribs as best he could, Romulus neared the pair. Finally Optatus had to turn and face him.

‘On your own now,’ said Romulus, buying time. ‘How do you like that?’

Optatus could see the young soldier’s sides heaving, could imagine why he was winded. ‘Two injured slaves,’ he replied, his top lip lifting with contempt. ‘I’ll kill you both!’

It was a bad mistake. While they were talking, Brennus had retrieved Novius’ sword and shield. Despite his injury, the Gaul was now a second deadly opponent.

A moment later, the friends were poised on either side of the big legionary.

Optatus was no coward. He made no attempt to surrender or to run. Instead, he turned this way and that, wondering who would attack first.

But Romulus and Brennus held back. Both were reluctant to kill Optatus.

Sensing their indecision, the veteran lunged forward at Romulus.

He moved back a step, taking the blow on his shield. Optatus did not let up, thrusting again and again at Romulus’ face with his gladius. Without doubt, he was the toughest of the legionaries. If he could overcome the young soldier, there was a chance of his beating Brennus.

The Gaul could not stand by any longer. As Optatus drew back another time, he leaned in and sliced the veteran’s left hamstring with his blade.

Optatus collapsed with a loud groan, instinctively holding up his shield to protect himself. Still he asked for no quarter. Yet, lying on his back, he now had no chance at all.

Grudging admiration filled Romulus at his bravery. He looked to Pacorus for a similar reaction. Brennus did likewise.

It was not forthcoming. The commander’s face was creased with anger. Novius and his cronies had lied to him. Romulus’ and Brennus’ clemency to the veterans clearly demonstrated that. He snapped out an order and his archers raised their bows.

Romulus realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ he cried.

Brennus closed his eyes. He had seen things like this all too often.

A dozen arrows hummed through the air. Six pinned Optatus to the ground, while the remainder spitted Ammias through the chest and abdomen. Both were killed instantly.

Silence fell over the intervallum. Reaching into their quivers, the warriors fitted new shafts to their bowstrings.

‘So die all those who lie to me,’ shouted Pacorus, the veins in his neck bulging. ‘I am the commander of the Forgotten Legion!’

Unwilling to meet his furious stare, the audience of soldiers looked down. Even Vahram avoided Pacorus’ eyes.

Romulus and Brennus moved closer together, uncertain how the volatile Parthian would react next.

Another order from the commander rang out.

At full draw, the archers’ bows swung to cover the two friends.