The Silver Eagle (50 page)

Urged on now by Caesar himself, the exhausted legionaries were in hot pursuit of their defeated enemies, who were to be denied rest, water and food. The victory, thought Brutus, would be nothing less than total. Once again, Caesar had stolen victory from the jaws of defeat, this time using one of the most inventive tactics in the history of warfare.

Swallowing the warm dregs from his leather water carrier, Brutus grinned.

All they needed was to capture Pompey, and the civil war was virtually over.

In the event, that was not to happen. Although twenty-four thousand soldiers were taken prisoner, with numerous high-ranking officers and senators among them, Pompey and many others made good their escape that night. Included in this number were Petreius, Afrianus and Labienus, Caesar’s former friend and ally on the Gaulish campaign.

Early the next day, Brutus stood on a nearby hill, studying the battlefield. Fabiola was by his side, silently aghast. While not as bloody as Alesia, the human cost of Pharsalus had been high: over six thousand Republican legionaries lay dead below them, while Caesar had lost more than twelve hundred. Uncounted numbers of Republican allied troops were strewn everywhere, worthless in death as they had been in life. Clouds of vultures, eagles and other birds of prey already filled the air overhead.

‘Will they all just rot?’ asked Fabiola, revolted at that thought.

‘No. Look,’ answered Brutus, pointing. Small groups of men could be seen stacking wood in rectangular piles all across the plain. ‘Funeral pyres,’ he said.

Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining the smell of burning flesh. ‘Is it over then?’

Brutus sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid not, my love.’

‘But this . . .’ Fabiola pointed at the carnage below them. ‘Have enough men not died?’

‘The losses are terrible,’ he agreed. ‘Yet the Optimates will not give up this easily. Word has it that they will take ship for Africa, where the Republican cause is still strong.’

Fabiola nodded. About the only area where Caesar had suffered a setback so far was in the province of Africa. The year before, Curio, his former tribune, had made the foolish mistake of being lured away from the coast and into the barren hinterland. There he and his army were annihilated by the cavalry of the king of Numidia, a Republican ally. ‘That will require another campaign,’ she said, wishing the bloodshed were already over. When it was, she could reactivate her plans to take revenge upon Caesar. ‘Won’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Brutus replied simply. ‘But you can go back to Rome at any stage. I’ll make sure you have enough protection.’

Pleased by this, Fabiola kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll stay by you, my love,’ she said, still wary of the potential danger from Scaevola. ‘What of Pompey?’

Brutus frowned. ‘The scouts say he headed east to the Aegean coast, unlike the others. From there, my guess is that he will sail for Parthia, or Egypt.’ He saw her questioning look. ‘The man won’t just give up. He needs more support for his cause.’

‘It will never end! Pompey still has two sons in Hispania. They’ve got to be untrustworthy too,’ cried Fabiola despairingly. ‘Africa, Egypt, Hispania. Can Caesar fight a war on three fronts?’

‘Of course,’ Brutus smiled. ‘And he will win. I know it in my heart.’

Fabiola did not answer, but despair filled her. If Caesar truly was capable of defeating so many foes, he would prove to be the most formidable general ever seen. How could she ever take revenge on someone so powerful? Brutus loved her, she was sure of it, but it seemed doubtful he would ever betray Caesar the way she wanted him to. What chance, therefore, had she of convincing anyone else? Disconsolate, Fabiola stared out over the plain, searching for a clue. For a long time there was nothing. At last she saw it, a single raven flying apart from the other birds, coasting on the warm currents of air which rose from the baking ground below. Rapt, Fabiola watched it for a long time. And then she knew. Thank you, Mithras, she thought triumphantly. The worst enemies were always the ones within. So Brutus and his compatriots were still the key.

‘If he succeeds,’ Fabiola said calculatingly, ‘you cannot trust him ever again. Rome must beware of Caesar.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brutus, confused and a little angry.

‘The arrogance of a man with such ability knows no bounds,’ Fabiola answered. ‘Caesar will make himself king.’

‘King?’ The mere concept was now anathema to every citizen. Almost five hundred years before, the people of Rome had committed their proudest act: overthrowing and then expelling the city’s last monarch.

Fabiola knew one more vital detail.

An ancestor of Brutus had purportedly been the main instigator.

Exulting, she watched the blood drain from Brutus’ face.

‘That can never be,’ he muttered.

Chapter XXVI: The Bestiarius

Off the coast of Ethiopia, summer/autumn 48
BC

R
omulus crashed into the sea on his back. At the last moment, he remembered to hold his breath. Disorientated, he panicked as his heavy chain mail immediately began to pull him into the depths. Soon his lungs felt as if they were about to burst, and it took all Romulus’ effort not to let his reflexes take over. Yet he had no desire to die with a chest full of seawater, and his desperate desire to help Tarquinius gave him extra strength. Righting himself, Romulus kicked his legs vigorously and pushed upwards. To his relief, the salinity aided his buoyancy. Romulus burst through the surface, exhaling as he did so. Air had never tasted so sweet. Wiping his stinging eyes, he frantically scanned the sides of the dhow for his friend.

All he could see was cursing pirates lining the rails. Some were shaking their fists, but others were stringing bows or aiming spears.

‘Quickly!’ screamed Ahmed. ‘You fools! Loose!’

The danger was not over.

Romulus cursed. What hope had he of climbing aboard? Of rescuing Tarquinius before the trireme struck? Certain death from two directions awaited if he even tried. Yet he could not just swim away.

‘I’m here,’ said a voice from behind him.

Romulus nearly jumped out of his skin.

Tarquinius was bobbing a few paces away, a wide grin on his face.

‘How . . . ?’

‘There’s no time for that,’ the haruspex replied. ‘Let’s put some distance between us and the dhow.’

Right on cue, an arrow hit the water between them. It sank harmlessly, but another followed, and then a spear was launched.

Romulus had no desire to linger. Taking a quick look around to establish which way the shore was, he pushed himself through the warm sea with strong strokes.

‘Fucking dogs!’ Ahmed’s voice echoed across the waves. ‘Curse you both to hell and gone!’

More poorly aimed arrows splashed in nearby, but none of the crew had Romulus’ skill with the bow. And the infuriated Nubian could not afford the time to pursue the pair. It had been a perfectly timed moment to flee.

Their armour was not enough to stop them reaching dry land. Soon afterwards, they pulled themselves up an abandoned beach, which was covered in stones and pebbles. As one, they turned to see what had become of the dhow.

They had a grandstand view of the unfolding drama, which was about to reach its climax.

The pirate vessel had managed at last to come about, and was picking up speed towards Arabia, the wind bellying her sails. But it was too late. The dhow’s poor tacking had proved to be its undoing. Before the corsairs could gain any ground eastwards, the trireme had reached ramming speed. And it showed no sign of slowing down. The drum was pounding out a thudding rhythm faster than a man’s heartbeat, forcing the oarsmen to row at an exhausting pace.

‘There’s been no signal to heave to,’ said Romulus.

‘They’re going to ram them regardless.’

‘Poor bastards.’

Raised slightly from the water by the speed of the trireme, the bronze head of the ram became visible as they watched. Both were riveted to the spot. Extending fifteen paces or more in front of the ship, it provided the Roman navy with one of its most devastating forms of attack. Yet Ahmed and his crew were unaware of this. All they could see was the trireme bearing down at an acute angle, aiming for a head-on collision.

Cries of alarm carried across the water, intermingled with the screams of the captive women.

With an incredible crash, the ram hit the dhow near its prow. Even though they were some distance away, it was possible to hear the cracking of timbers. The overwhelming impetus of the Roman vessel drove the smaller boat sharply to one side. Several pirates were thrown overboard from the sheer force of the impact. They flailed about in the water, helplessly watching their comrades, most of whom had been knocked off their feet. Shouts of terror and confusion rang out.

The dhow had been dealt a mortal blow.

To finish it off, the
trierarch
, the Roman captain, roared out a single command. As one, archers on the trireme peppered the other vessel with arrows. Falling among the stunned corsairs like a deadly rain, the volley was devastating. Undisciplined, panicked, the surviving pirates died where they stood or crouched. The unfortunate women fared no better. Remarkably though, Ahmed was still uninjured. Courageous to the last, he shrieked orders in vain at his crew.

The
trierarch
barked out another command, and the catapults twanged in unison. Stone balls swept through the air to crush men’s ribcages; a huge arrow pinned Zebulon to the mast. Only a handful of pirates were left unwounded. Now there would be no need to risk the lives of any marines. This was Roman military efficiency at its brutal best.

Romulus felt a pang of sorrow as he watched. The pirates were dying miserable deaths, unable to even close with the enemy and fight hand to hand. For all that they were bloodthirsty renegades, they had lived and fought together for nearly four years. Romulus felt some degree of kinship with them. And then there were the innocent women. He turned away from the sight, unwilling to watch any more. But a moment later, he was compelled to look back.

Using long poles, the marines pushed the trireme away from the dhow, revealing the gaping hole that had been punched in its hull. Yet the manoeuvre was not being done to admire their handiwork. With the space empty of the ram’s bronze head, seawater was now free to rush in, destroying the
olibanum
and spices the pirates had stolen. And sinking the pirates’ vessel.

Romulus had never seen how devastating the ramming of a ship could be.

The dhow sank in a matter of moments. Soon the only trace remaining was a few spars of wreckage floating on the sea, accompanied by the bobbing heads of four or five survivors. Among them, Romulus recognised Ahmed. But there was to be no mercy. In a final act of ruthlessness, archers on the trireme loosed another volley.

Still the Nubian’s head was visible.

Above the noise and confusion, Romulus fancied that he could hear Ahmed’s voice shouting curses. It was the way he would always remember the pirate captain.

Dozens more arrows hissed down, ending the show.

He was very glad now that Mustafa had been left behind in Cana. With luck, his fate would be different to the rest of the crew. As always, Romulus wondered if the haruspex had known what would happen.

‘Let’s go,’ said Tarquinius.

With a start, Romulus came to his senses.

‘Before the
trierarch
sees us and sends some men ashore.’

‘Of course.’ He had been so wrapped up watching the one-sided battle that he had forgotten about the hostile reception they too would get from the Romans. After what they had witnessed, it was unlikely that any time would be granted to explain their status. Opting for discretion, the two friends crouched down and beat a path away from the trireme’s sleek shape. A gentle rocky slope led them up off the beach. Once over the crest, they were out of sight.

The warm sun beat down, drying them fast. But all they had with them was their clothes, chain mail and swords. Tarquinius also had his axe. There was one half-full water bag and no food. Neither had a bow, so hunting would be difficult.

We’re alive, thought Romulus grimly. That’s what counts. ‘How did you get away?’ he demanded.

‘I managed to grab one of Ahmed’s legs and knock him over.’

‘Without him splitting you in two?’

Tarquinius shrugged eloquently.

‘You could make it in the arena,’ laughed Romulus, clapping him on the shoulder.

The haruspex grimaced. ‘I’m getting too old for that,’ he said.

Romulus ignored his answer. It was not something he wanted to consider. A confident and assured young man now, he still relied on the other for psychological support.

‘Africa,’ announced Tarquinius with a grand gesture.

It was an amazing sight.

Before them, rich grassland rolled off to the west and north. A range of smooth, undulating hills filled the southern horizon. Small trees and scrubby bushes were dotted here and there. Irregularly shaped termite mounds projected upwards, fat red fingers of packed earth. The birdlife was richer here than anywhere Romulus had ever seen: as well as seabirds, there were honeyguides, orioles, kingfishers and countless other varieties. The animal life was no less varied. Several types of antelope, large and small, paced along, grazing as they went. Nearby, a group of magnificent horse-like creatures covered in wide black and white stripes was doing likewise, their tails flicking away flies. A herd of elephants stood around a waterhole, using their trunks to drink noisily and spray themselves with water. Elegant white birds walked along their backs, searching for parasites. If hit by a stream of water, they would indignantly fly away to alight upon another individual.

The peaceful scene was a stark contrast to the last occasion that they had seen elephants. Romulus did not want to dwell on that thought. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, pointing at the striped animals.

‘Zebras,’ came the reply.

Tarquinius’ knowledge never failed to surprise Romulus. ‘How in the name of Hades do you know that?’

‘I saw one presented at a triumph for Pompey in Rome,’ replied Tarquinius.

‘And those?’ Romulus pointed at three strange-looking animals, which were feeding off the branches on the upper reaches of the trees. Their short coats were sandy-coloured with dark brown patches of different shades, and they had immensely long necks and legs. A short, upright mane ran up their necks and odd, stubby horns protruded from the tops of their heads.

‘Giraffes.’

‘Are they dangerous?’

‘Not really,’ laughed the haruspex. ‘They’re plant-eaters.’

Romulus flushed, embarrassed. ‘There must be lions, though.’ He had seen close up what the large cats could do to a man. Meeting one in the wild was not something he particularly wished to do.

‘Those we must look out for,’ agreed the haruspex. ‘As well as rhinos, buffaloes and leopards. It’s a pity that we have no spears.’

‘I’ve seen lions and leopards before, obviously,’ said Romulus, his eyes wide at the density of wildlife. ‘But not the others.’

This was an invitation for Tarquinius to begin one of his lessons. Naturally enough, he did not just mention the flora and fauna, but also the histories of Ethiopia and Egypt and the details of their civilizations and peoples.

When he had finished, Romulus felt more at home in this new and alien land, which had a much longer and richer past than his own. Like many others however, it was gradually falling under Rome’s influence. ‘How far is it to Alexandria?’

‘Many hundreds of miles.’

The scale of what faced them began to sink in. ‘Must we walk the whole way?’ he asked.

‘Possibly. It is unclear.’

‘Best make a start, eh?’ sighed Romulus.

They began to march north. Towards Egypt.

By the time they reached the waterhole, the elephants had gone. The shallow pool had been left muddied by the massive beasts, but there was nothing else on offer. Slaking their thirst and filling the leather water carrier, they moved on. Hunger was also gnawing at their bellies. In the circumstances though, that could wait. Putting a good distance between themselves and the trireme just off the coast was far more important than searching for food. While there was no sign of pursuit, both were careful to keep glancing in the direction from which they had come.

The morning passed without event, and Romulus began to relax. Keeping roughly parallel to the shore, they had covered perhaps eight or nine miles; they had escaped. Or so it seemed.

The young soldier felt little elation, however. Travelling on foot through Ethiopia and then Egypt, without proper weapons or enough companions, would be a Herculean task. While a similar distance, their journey down the Indus had been easier because it was by boat. This, on the other hand, felt akin to the odyssey that the Forgotten Legion had endured after Carrhae.

At least they had not been alone then.