‘Could be,’ said Secundus angrily. ‘Damn smart ones though, to get so close without any of us knowing. Antoninus and Servius were good men.’

Fabiola went white. She knew a man who was a real expert at tracking.

Scaevola.

Chapter XV: A New Threat

Margiana, winter/spring 53/52 BC

The archers stared down their arrow shafts at Romulus and Brennus, waiting for the command to release. Despite the friends’ chain mail, the short distance between them meant that the barbed iron points would tear their flesh to pieces.

Romulus’ pulse was pounding in the hollow of his throat.

Resignation filled Brennus. The pain of Optatus’ sword cut was as nothing compared to having the satisfaction of victory taken away and replaced with the threat of summary execution. Again. As a gladiator, at least he had been applauded after winning a fight. Here, he was an expendable piece of meat. If he was to die, Brennus wanted it to be as a free man, not as a prisoner or a slave.

Pacorus was about to speak when one of the sentries on the rampart bothered to glance out eastwards. Like his companions, the soldier had been totally absorbed by the combat being fought below his position. His hoarse cry of alarm drew everyone’s attention away from the pair of sweating figures standing over the legionaries’ corpses.

‘A messenger comes!’ he roared. ‘He’s signalling that an enemy is near.’

As with all units on guard duty, there was a trumpeter standing by. Quickly he put his bronze instrument to his lips and blew a short, sharp series of notes that everyone recognised.

The alarm.

Pacorus’ mouth twisted with apprehension. Before they came within shouting range, riders could raise their right arm to warn their comrades of danger. This was clearly what the sentry had seen. ‘Get to the gate,’ he barked at Vahram. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

The squat primus pilus snapped off a salute and trotted away.

Pacorus turned back to Romulus and Brennus, who were still being covered by his archers. ‘How many did you see out there?’

‘One to two thousand, sir,’ answered Romulus confidently. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘Mostly infantry?’ asked Pacorus hopefully. A much weakened people compared to their heyday centuries before, the Scythians were still feared opponents of any army. Especially their skilled horsemen.

‘About half of each, sir.’

Grey-faced, their commander sucked in a ragged breath. His forces were nearly all foot soldiers. ‘Five hundred to a thousand horse,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Mithras damn them all.’

The friends waited.

So did the Parthian bowmen.

The primus pilus arrived with a warrior on a lathered mount a few moments later. His words confirmed those of Romulus. But instead of advancing further towards the fort, the Scythians were heading north again – in the direction of their own lands and the other fortlets. Satisfied for the moment, Pacorus muttered an order to his men, who finally lowered their bows. Suddenly there were more important things on the commander’s mind than the execution of two ordinary soldiers.

The tension in Romulus’ shoulders began to dissipate, and he let out a long, slow breath.

‘Present yourselves to the optio in the first century of the primus pilus’ cohort,’ Pacorus snapped. ‘He can keep an eye on you there.’

‘Gladly, sir,’ said Vahram, leering at them. ‘There’ll be no question of desertion while I’m around.’

Romulus imagined the punishment duties that the sadistic Parthian would come up with. And yet they were alive, he thought gratefully. Brennus nudged him and they ran off, both trying not to let their injuries show. It was best not to wait for Pacorus to reconsider, and what the volatile primus pilus might do later scarcely seemed to matter.

Behind them, they heard Pacorus speak to Vahram. ‘I want the whole legion ready to march in an hour. Have all the long spears issued as well.’

‘Sir.’

‘The silk-covered shields should withstand their poison arrows,’ he went on. ‘And the spears will break their charge.’

It was the last thing that Romulus heard. Rounding a corner on to the Via Principia, they trotted along, ignoring the curious stares thrown in their direction. Soon they found themselves at their new barracks. The most important cohort in the Legion, the First was under Vahram’s personal command. Being the primus pilus was in fact two jobs: running his own unit of six centuries, as well as being the ranking senior centurion in the Forgotten Legion.

The optio of the first century was a dour Capuan called Aemilius and they found him standing in the narrow corridor, yelling orders at his men. He looked surprised to see the pair, as did the legionaries present. Everyone in the camp had heard Novius’ malicious gossip, and sour comments immediately filled the air.

Ignoring them, Romulus relayed their orders and saluted.

‘Pacorus himself sent you?’ Aemilius repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Romulus, stiffening to attention again. Brennus did likewise.

If it was humanly possible, they had to get on Aemilius’ good side from the start. Otherwise the two most senior officers in the century would be out for their blood. And that was before the legionaries became involved.

Aemilius rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘Escaped slaves, eh?’

All the men listening craned their heads to see.

There was no point denying it any longer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Romulus replied, although he no longer felt like one. Training as a soldier, fighting battles and surviving this far had given him a seasoned confidence beyond that of an ordinary slave.

Slavery had never sat easily on Brennus’ broad shoulders, but he held his tongue too. Here, remaining silent was the same as agreeing with Romulus.

While the nearby soldiers hissed with disapproval, Aemilius did not react. Romulus hid his surprise at this. It was a tiny spark of hope.

‘You were on Darius’ patrol?’

Both nodded.

‘And what they say,’ said the optio, his stare piercing, ‘is it true? Did you run away?’

‘No, sir,’ protested Romulus fiercely.

‘The men who did are lying dead on the intervallum, sir,’ added Brennus. ‘We just bested the three of them, unarmed.’

Gasps of disbelief filled the corridor. The First Cohort’s barracks was beside the Praetoria, a long distance from the front gate. Busy with routine duties, none here had witnessed the dramatic duel.

Aemilius’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did you, by Jupiter?’

‘Ask any of the other officers, sir,’ urged Romulus.

‘We’re no cowards,’ said Brennus.

Something told Romulus that the optio was a fair-minded man. He threw caution to the wind. ‘The gods helped us.’

The Gaul shook his shaggy head in agreement. After what they had been through, it did seem that way.

Superstitious mutters rippled between the legionaries.

Aemilius looked dubious. ‘I’ve seen you two on the training ground before,’ he said. ‘You’re good. Very good. More likely that’s why you’re standing here now.’

Romulus kept silent, breathing into the waves of pain from his ribs.

Aemilius relaxed. Then, noticing the deep cut on Brennus’ left forearm, he frowned. ‘You can’t hold a shield with that.’

‘Bit of strapping and I’ll be fine, sir. Don’t want to miss the fight,’ answered Brennus stolidly. ‘There are some deaths to be avenged.’

‘Whose?’

‘The men of our century, sir,’ Romulus interjected.

A slow smile appeared on the optio’s face. These two soldiers were brave at least. Time would tell if they were liars or not. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Have it seen to in the valetudinarium. Your young friend here can go to the armoury for kit and weapons.’

Romulus and Brennus hurried to obey.

There was a battle to fight.