Ben Kane: The Silver Eagle

‘So we just wait?’ demanded Romulus, his temper rising.

‘That’s right,’ replied the warrior, taking a step forward. Several of the others copied him, their hands falling to their quivers. ‘We all stay here until Pacorus says so. Clear?’

They glared at each other. Although the Parthians and the legionaries had now fought together a number of times, there was little love lost between the captors and captives. As far as the Romans were concerned, there never would be. Romulus felt the same way. These men had helped slaughter his comrades at Carrhae.

He felt Brennus’ arm on his. ‘Leave it,’ said the Gaul calmly. ‘Now’s not the time.’

Brennus’ intervention was a simple gut reaction. Over the previous four years, Romulus had become like a son to him. Since they had been thrown together, the Gaul had found his own tortured existence much easier. Romulus provided him with a reason not to die. And now, thanks to Brennus’ repetitive and unrelenting training, the seventeen-year-old was a skilful fighter. Tarquinius’ efforts meant that Romulus was also well educated; he could even read and write. It was only occasionally, when he was severely provoked, that Romulus’ temper got the better of him. I was like that once, Brennus thought.

Taking a deep breath, Romulus stalked off, leaving the Parthian smirking at his companions. He hated always having to back down. Especially when he had the chance of witnessing something so important. But, as usual, walking away was the prudent choice. ‘Why did Tarquinius bother dragging us along?’

‘Back-up.’

‘Against whom? Those miserable dogs?’ Incredulously, Romulus indicated the Parthians. ‘There are twenty of them. With bows.’

‘Bad odds, it’s true,’ shrugged the Gaul. ‘He doesn’t have anyone else to ask, though.’

‘It’s more than that,’ Romulus shot back. ‘Tarquinius must have a reason. We need to be here.’

Brennus turned his blond shaggy head this way and that, taking in the barren landscape. It was vanishing into the darkness of another bitter night. ‘I don’t know what,’ he concluded. ‘This is a godforsaken spot. Nothing out here but dirt and rocks.’

Romulus was about to agree when his attention was caught by two spots of light reflecting the radiance from the torches. He froze, squinting into the gloom. At the limit of his vision was a jackal, watching them. Motionless, only the creature’s bright eyes revealed that it was not a statue. ‘We’re not alone,’ he hissed delightedly. ‘There! Look.’

Brennus smiled proudly at the sharp observation. An expert hunter himself, he had missed seeing the small predator. This was becoming more common. Romulus could now follow animals over bare rock, possessing an uncanny ability to notice the smallest detail. The twig out of place, the blade of grass bent double, the change in prints’ depth when the quarry was wounded. Few men had such skill.

Brac had been one.

Old emotion welled up inside Brennus: grief that his young cousin would never have the chance to stand with him like this. Like Brennus’ wife, baby son and his entire Allobroge tribe, Brac was dead, massacred by the Romans eight years before. At exactly the same age Romulus was now. Trying to ease the sharp claws of his ever-present grief, Brennus shook his massive shoulders and silently repeated the Allobroge druid Ultan’s words. The secret prophecy that Tarquinius had somehow known.

A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.

And on Margiana’s eastern border, some four months’ march east of Carrhae and more than three thousand miles from Gaul, Brennus had truly done that. It remained to be seen how, and when, his journey would end. His attention was drawn back to the jackal by Romulus’ eagerly pointing arm. ‘Belenus above,’ Brennus breathed. ‘It’s acting like a dog. See?’

Strangely, the animal was sitting back on its haunches, like a hound might watch its master.

‘That’s the gods’ work,’ muttered Romulus, wondering what Tarquinius would make of it. ‘Has to be.’

‘You could be right,’ Brennus agreed uneasily. ‘Jackals are scavengers, though; they feed on whatever dead flesh is around.’

They exchanged a glance.

‘Men will die here tonight.’ Brennus shivered. ‘I can feel it.’

‘Maybe,’ said Romulus pensively. ‘But I think this is a good sign.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’ Falling silent, Romulus tried to use the snippets that Tarquinius occasionally let fall. Concentrating on his breathing, he focused on the jackal and the air above it, searching for something more than his blue eyes could see. For an age, he did not move, his exhaled breaths clouding round him in a thick, grey layer.

Brennus let him be.

Intent on starting a fire, the Parthians were ignoring them.

At last Romulus turned away. The disappointment on his face was clear.

Brennus eyed the jackal, which hadn’t moved. ‘Couldn’t see anything?’

Romulus shook his head sadly. ‘It’s here to watch over us, but I don’t know why. Tarquinius would, though.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the Gaul, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘There are four of us against twenty now.’

Romulus had to smile at that.

It was far colder where they were standing, but both felt more kinship with the jackal than with Pacorus’ men. Instead of seeking heat by the fire, they huddled down together by a large boulder.

In the event, it was that decision which probably saved their lives.

Tarquinius felt his pulse quicken as they descended the crudely formed earthen steps, which were easy to see thanks to Pacorus’ torch. The narrow staircase had been dug out of the soil, with timber joists to hold up the sides. Neither the commander nor his guard spoke, which suited Tarquinius. He used the time to pray to Tinia, mightiest of the Etruscan gods. And to Mithras, even though he never had before. Mysterious and unknown, Mithraicism had fascinated Tarquinius ever since he had heard of it, in Rome. The religion had only been carried there a decade previously by legionaries who had campaigned in Asia Minor. Highly secretive in nature, Mithras’ followers were sworn to uphold the values of truth, honour and courage. Rites of great suffering had to be endured to move between the levels of devotion. That was all the haruspex knew.

Of course it was not surprising to see evidence of the warrior deity here, in Margiana. This area was where the cult was strongest, perhaps even where it had originated. The discovery might have been in better circumstances though. Tarquinius smiled sardonically. He and his friends were under threat of immediate death. So it was time to be bold. With luck, the god would not be angered by a request made by a non-initiate, entering a Mithraeum in this unorthodox manner. After all, I am not just a haruspex, he thought proudly. I am a warrior too.

Great Mithras, I come with a humble heart to worship you. I beg for a sign of your favour. Something to placate your servant, Pacorus. He hesitated for a moment, and then dared all. I also need your guidance to find a path back to Rome.

Tarquinius sent his prayer up with all the force he could muster.

The answering silence was deafening.

He tried not to feel disappointed — but failed.

Eighty-four stairs later, they reached the bottom.

A wash of stale air wafted up the tunnel. It was a mixture of men’s sweat, incense and burnt wood. Tarquinius’ nostrils twitched, and goose bumps formed on his arms. There was palpable power here. If the god was in a favourable mood, perhaps his divining skills did have a chance of being revived.

Half turning, Pacorus noticed his reaction and smiled. ‘Mithras is mighty indeed,’ he said. ‘And I will know if you are lying.’