The Silver Eagle

Chapter VII: Ambush

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

It was the silence which first drew Romulus’ attention. The fortlet that they had marched all day to reach was at the bottom of a gentle slope in a wide defile, meaning that sound carried up to anyone approaching from the west. Normal noises should have been audible: during daylight, every Roman camp was a hubbub of activity. There were smiths hammering out dents in sword blades, men shouting during weapons drill or trumpets sounding the change of guard. Yet he could hear nothing.

Not a sound.

A frisson of fear caressed Romulus’ spine. Since seeing the corpse on the cross, he had thought only of Fabiola and his mother. If Rome was descending into the total anarchy he had seen, what did that bode for his loved ones? Their fragile image in his mind, which he used to stay sane, had begun to disintegrate. This in turn brought him back to reality with a jolt.

Footsore and looking forward to a warm meal, his comrades appeared unaware. Even Novius’ taunts had stopped. Clearly unconcerned, Darius and a junior officer were conferring about something. The column tramped onwards, passing a small inscribed stone tablet sticking out of the ground. There had been similar markers all along their route from the main fort. This last was positioned about half a mile from their destination and as the men saw it, their pace picked up.

Romulus’ jaw clenched. Why had no one else noticed? ‘I don’t like it,’ he hissed to Brennus.

The Gaul looked startled. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he scanned their surroundings. Although nothing was visible, he did not relax. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘It’s too damn quiet.’

Brennus cocked his head and listened. Apart from the noise of iron hobnails crunching off the frozen ground, he too could hear nothing. Suspicion flared in his blue eyes. ‘If you’re going to say something, do it fast.’ He pointed at Darius.

Very soon, the Parthian officer would come into full view of the outpost.

Uneasy, Romulus turned his head to the rear. Blinding light from the setting sun lit up the track, making it almost impossible to see. Yet there was no mistaking the figure on horseback that was watching the patrol from the high point of the defile. It was Scythian.

Romulus blinked. When he looked again, the rider was gone.

Seeing him, Novius drew a finger across his throat.

He studiously ignored the gesture.

‘Are you going to speak to Darius?’ asked Brennus, who had seen nothing.

‘It’s too late. They’re behind us as well,’ Romulus whispered. Quickly he filled the Gaul in.

Stifling a curse, Brennus glanced back, then forward. He felt a brief surge of pride at Romulus’ keen eye. If he was right, they could do little. The Gaul assessed the situation. Their current position was impossible to defend. With slopes on either side, they would be at the mercy of any missiles fired at them. But it was not safe to turn around either. ‘Got no choice, have we?’ he growled. ‘The best place to fight will be the flat ground in front of the fortlet.’

Pleased, Romulus nodded. That had been his thought too. ‘I’d better tell Darius,’ he said.

The optio was surprised when Romulus broke ranks to mutter in his ear, but gave permission for him to advise their commander.

With his yoke waving overhead, Romulus trotted forward until he caught up with the senior centurion. Darius’ horse was ten steps from the edge of the ridge which overlooked their destination.

‘Sir!’

Reining in, the stout Parthian smiled at the sight of Romulus. This was one of the best soldiers in his cohort. ‘What is it?’ he asked in Latin.

‘An ambush, sir,’ replied Romulus. ‘There are Scythians behind us.’

Turning in the saddle, Darius studied the bare landscape. ‘Are you sure?’

Romulus explained what he had seen and the Parthian’s face darkened. ‘Let’s get down there fast,’ he said. ‘We’ll have over two hundred men then. That’ll see off the bastards.’

‘If they’re not dead already,’ Romulus announced, deliberately speaking in Parthian. Everyone needed to be aware of the risks they faced.

Darius’ guards looked alarmed.

‘Explain yourself,’ Darius hissed.

Romulus opened his mouth to do so when instinctively the senior centurion’s horse stopped. It had reached a flat piece of rock, a place where a soldier might stop to glance back at his camp before beginning a journey, or where a weary patrol arriving after a long march could pause to savour their achievement. Behind them, the legionaries halted gratefully, grounding their yokes and shields while the opportunity presented itself.

Together they gazed down at the fortlet, which was now only a short march away. The same playing-card shape of all Roman forts, the small outpost had just one gate, at the front. A tall wooden watchtower was positioned in the centre, with an uninterrupted field of vision around the camp. There were defensive fossae and wooden battlements twice the height of a man; inside the low roof of a barracks could be seen.

Romulus stared. The ramparts were clear of sentries.

That meant one thing. Roman soldiers never deserted their posts.

The garrison was dead.

An experienced soldier, Darius also took in the situation at a glance. He looked questioningly at Romulus. ‘How did you know?’

‘I couldn’t hear anything, sir,’ he explained.

It made perfect sense. Darius scowled, but there was no time to be lost blaming himself for not noticing what one of his ordinary soldiers had. ‘Vahram must know about this,’ he muttered, barking an order at his guards. At once two turned their horses and rode off, separating as they did. In an attempt to outflank the enemy, one went directly south and the other north. The remaining warrior moved closer to the senior centurion, notching an arrow to his bow.

‘Damn it,’ growled Darius. ‘We’ll just go down there as if nothing’s wrong. But I want everyone ready for combat. Advise the optiones and tesserarii, then resume your position.’

Romulus snapped off a salute and hurried to obey. Already warned by his optio, the other junior officers began to move down the ranks, quietly ordering the men to prepare themselves. Surprise, dismay, and last of all anger, filled the legionaries’ faces. Novius looked most put out, as did his companions.

‘Well?’ asked the Gaul.

‘We march on in,’ replied Romulus. ‘Check out the camp.’

Gripping their weapons tightly, the patrol marched along the track, down the incline towards the fortlet. All eyes were upon it, but for different reasons than just a few moments before. Now everyone could see that there was no smoke from cooking fires, no movement on the walkways. It resembled a graveyard.

Closer in, Romulus saw that one of the front doors was leaning slightly ajar. This was final proof that things were amiss. Far from the rest of the legion, all outposts were under strict orders to keep their gates shut at all times. Yet there were no signs of violence, no damage to the exterior structure. No arrows or spears stuck in the timbers, no evidence of fire. Whatever had happened here had not been thanks to a direct assault.

Darius had seen too. Immediately he ordered the optiones to have the men make a protective screen in front of the entrance. Piling their yokes in a heap, the legionaries fanned outwards in a semicircle, four ranks deep. It was done efficiently, without fuss, and soon a solid wall of shields had formed. Above the silk-covered scuta were bronze bowl crested helmets and steady, grim faces. Apart from the soldiers’ lower legs, there was little for an enemy to attack. And, thanks to Tarquinius’ tutoring, the front ranks always dropped to their knees when the threat of missiles was present. They were ready.

To investigate, Darius hand-picked a squad of six men, including Romulus and Brennus. For reasons best known to himself, he also chose Novius and Optatus. The veterans leered at the friends as they leaned their pila against the timber wall. Javelins would be no good at close quarters. Instead they all drew their gladii. Pulling his own blade free, the stout Parthian led them inside the camp. He was totally unaware of the tension between the men behind him. There was a brief delay; no one wanted to have his enemies at his back. Then Romulus darted through the gate with Brennus, leaving the others too far away to try anything. Mouthing silent curses, Novius and Optatus followed.

The dirt beneath their feet was hard-packed from the passage of men in and out of the fortlet, so their hobnailed caligae made no sound. A deathly silence greeted them. The atmosphere within was eerie. Unnerving. Part of the garrison might be on patrol, but there should have been at least some soldiers visible.

Not one was.

Where are they? thought Romulus. Was it possible that they had abandoned the fortlet?

Apart from the observation tower, a single barracks building and a small latrine block, the only structures were an earth oven under the west wall and a number of altars to the gods positioned here and there. Large, tell-tale dark stains marked the ground, bloody proof that all was not well. There were uneasy murmurs from the others at the sight.

Hairs prickled on the back of Romulus’ neck. There was death here, its presence suddenly overpowering. He looked up, expecting to see clouds of birds of prey hanging high overhead. There weren’t many though, and those present were probably just eyeing the refuse heaps that existed outside the camp. Why were there not more?

Brennus could sense it too. Nostrils flaring, he reached up to touch the hilt of his longsword, which was hanging from his back. In open combat, it was still his favoured weapon.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Darius. They were now very near the barracks.

They froze, ears pricked.

A low sound reached them. There was no mistaking the moan of an injured man. A survivor.

Using the tip of his sword, the Parthian flipped open the flimsy door. It made a hollow sound as it banged off the wall. Inside, the floor was slick with blood. Drag marks led towards the small rooms shared by the contubernia of eight men. With only a half-century in this fort, there would be five such, and a larger chamber for the optio in command. Wrinkling his face with distaste, Darius jerked his head at Romulus, Novius and another soldier. ‘You three go left,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll go right.’ Taking Optatus and the fifth legionary, he entered.

Brennus was left outside.

Romulus gripped the bone handle of his sword tightly. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he thought, protect me. The narrow corridor echoed to the sound of their caligae as Romulus led the way, with the others one step behind. All held their shields high, their gladii ready. He was acutely aware of Novius at his unprotected back.

‘Don’t worry, slave,’ hissed the veteran. ‘I want to see your face as you die.’

Romulus spun round, glaring. He longed to end the vendetta right then.

‘Found anything?’ bellowed Darius in an odd voice.

The question broke the spell.

‘Not yet, sir,’ Romulus answered, turning back. His voice died in his throat as he reached the first chamber.

There was no need to worry about being attacked. Each room was exactly the same. Their limbs at awkward angles, mangled corpses lay heaped untidily on top of each other. All the legionaries had been stripped naked, their mail shirts and faded russet tunics discarded on the floor alongside. Clotted blood lay in great pools around the still bodies and mounds of clothing.

Even Novius looked disgusted. ‘Who does this to an enemy?’

‘Scythians,’ Romulus said calmly. Tarquinius had told him about their barbaric customs.

‘Fucking savages.’

Every body was mutilated in the same manner: beheaded as well as partially skinned. Patches of skin were missing from chests, backs and legs, and there was no sign of the soldiers’ heads. Romulus knew why. According to Tarquinius, the Scythians measured a warrior’s courage by the number of heads he carried back from battle. They also used the tops of enemy skulls as drinking vessels, covering them in leather and even gilding them inside, while skins were used as drying cloths and scalps as decorative handkerchiefs on their horses’ bridles. Revulsion filled Romulus at this level of savagery. Breathing through his mouth, he realised that he could smell very little. Even though these men had clearly been dead for more than a day, the bitter cold had prevented much decay.

‘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’ protege. ‘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.

Romulus pointed at the enemy riders, who had pulled back for a rest. ‘They’re just delaying us, sir. Until the others arrive.’

Now the stout Parthian scowled. He was one of the few senior centurions who had bothered to learn any Latin and could understand Tarquinius; he had a great deal of respect for the haruspex, even though he was a foreigner. But it seemed ridiculous that the young man standing before him could possess the same mystical ability. Romulus was a soldier, not a soothsayer. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful to you for spotting the Scythian, lad,’ Darius growled. ‘Your action saved many lives.’

Flushing, Romulus ducked his head.

‘But you actually saw that warrior earlier,’ the Parthian went on. ‘Whereas these others are a figment of your imagination.’

He began to protest.

Darius’ face hardened. ‘Scythians do not move during the hours of darkness. Or make large-scale attacks in wintertime.’

‘What about the attack at the Mithraeum?’ Romulus countered. ‘Sir.’

Darius’ eyes bulged with anger at the other’s confidence.

‘Mithras showed me the Scythians,’ said Romulus, risking everything. ‘I prayed to him and he answered.’

‘How dare you?’ the Parthian snarled. ‘Only initiates may worship Mithras, you insolent dog.’

His guard laid a hand to his sword.

Romulus hung his head. He had failed. Despite his friendly manner, their senior centurion was just another Parthian.

‘Consider yourself lucky not to be whipped. Or worse,’ Darius snapped. ‘Resume your position.’

The guard smirked.

Hiding his anger, Romulus stalked back to his place in the front rank. The fool, he thought. Darius was blinded by his refusal to admit that his god might favour a non-Parthian. Yet Romulus felt sure that was where his vision had come from.

‘Keep your damn mouth shut too,’ Darius called out. ‘Not a word to anyone.’

Under his shield nearby, Novius sniggered unpleasantly. To Romulus’ disappointment, none of the veterans had been hit. Even if they survived the Scythian attack, he still had them to contend with.

Brennus’ reaction surprised Romulus. Instead of being furious, as he was, his friend simply shrugged.

‘The Scythian reinforcements will outnumber us more than ten to one,’ Romulus said.

‘We can’t avoid our fate,’ replied Brennus solemnly. A day when your friends need you. A time to stand and fight. No one could win such a battle. Except Brennus. Would tomorrow be that day?

Romulus suspected he knew the reason behind Brennus’ calm. Ever since Tarquinius had revealed the druid’s prediction to the Gaul, he had secretly worried about losing his friend here, in Margiana. Mithras had shown Tarquinius that there was a road back to Rome. But was it for all three of them? His stomach knotted, Romulus considered the sky once more. What he had seen had changed utterly. The cloud patterns, wind speed and birds visible now made no sense at all. Perhaps he and Brennus would die here, while Tarquinius survived? Romulus’ head spun until it hurt. He heartily wished that the haruspex were with them, to provide guidance. But he wasn’t. For all they knew, he could be dead. An idea surfaced. ‘We could make a run for it tonight,’ he muttered. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘Back to the fort?’ asked Brennus. ‘We’d be executed for desertion.’

Romulus dared not vocalise it. He had been thinking of heading south, towards the coast. Shame filled him that he could have even thought of leaving Tarquinius behind. Like Brennus, the haruspex had taught him so much.

‘Trust in the gods,’ said Brennus, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘They know best.’

But Mithras might be playing with me, thought Romulus. Punishing a non-initiate for daring to worship him. What better way to do that than show a man his doom? Romulus’ guts twisted with worry again as he remembered the Scythian host in his vision.

‘And don’t get hit by an arrow.’

He grimaced at the Gaul’s bleak humour.

Brennus was not finished. ‘Look around you,’ he commanded.

Romulus obeyed, taking in the set faces of the legionaries all around them. There was fear there, but also a steely determination. No names or insults were being called now. Unlike Novius and his cronies, these were men who would stand and fight with him and Brennus, to the end if necessary. Even if they no longer thought it themselves, they were his brothers-in-arms.

That counted for a lot.

Romulus clenched his jaw.

In response, he got an almighty nudge. ‘That’s the spirit.’

He gave Brennus a grateful smile.

The pair settled down to watch the Scythians, many of whom had now dismounted. Occasionally an eager warrior would gallop in close to the Roman lines and release a few arrows, but the rest seemed content to keep the status quo. Using brushwood, some had even started fires. Darkness was beginning to fall and the air was chilling rapidly. It would not be long before the temperature dropped far below freezing. Knowing this, Darius withdrew his men inside the fortlet and closed the gate. Once sentries were in place on the ramparts and fires had been started, there was not much else to be done. Dawn would decide their fate.

Few men slept well. Knowing what lay in the nearby barracks didn’t help. Neither did the piercing cold, which was just kept at bay by the fires and their woollen blankets. Nightmares, numb fingers and toes were inevitable, as were aching, painful muscles. But they were warm enough to stay alive. That was all the legionaries needed.

Romulus lay awake for hours, while beside him the Gaul snored loudly. Brennus had offered to keep watch, but the young soldier was so wound up that he had refused. Eventually weariness began to get the better of him though, and his lids slowly closed. He plunged straight into a nightmare that played out his vision of Rome again in horrifying detail. Mobs of armed plebeians and gladiators ran hither and thither, attacking anyone in sight. Bodies lay scattered in crimson piles. Swords rose and fell; men clutched at gaping wounds. Screams competed with the clash of metal on metal and the air was filled with smoke. Flames licked up the sides of the Senate building itself. Finally Romulus saw Fabiola. Surrounded by a few bodyguards, his twin was caught up in the midst of it. Her face was terrified.

His body covered in a cold sweat, Romulus’ eyes jerked open. The images had been terrifyingly vivid. Was Mithras playing another cruel trick on him? Was it just a dream? Or was it real?

He stiffened. There was movement nearby.

It was not Brennus: he still lay alongside, deeply asleep.

Careful not to lose his night vision by looking at the embers of the fire, Romulus turned his head. The small movement saved his life. With a great leap, Optatus landed on top of him, stabbing at his face with an arrow. Romulus grabbed the burly veteran’s arms — a reflex action — and they rolled over, struggling for control of the shaft.

Starlight revealed a dark liquid coating the arrow’s hooked point and terror constricted Romulus’ throat. It was a Scythian arrow. And Optatus was far stronger than he.