by Ben Kane
Romulus peered up at the sun, which occupied the blue sky alone. Not a single cloud was present to shade the earth below. It was early, but there was a fierce intensity to the disc’s rays that he had not seen since Parthia. The day was going to get hotter, and with it came the distinct possibility of battle, and death. If only I’d had the strength to forgive Tarquinius before he disappeared, he thought. Now I might never get the chance to say it. Again the grief welled up, and Romulus let it fill him. Constantly trying to batten the feeling down only made it worse.
Every single excruciating moment of that last day and night in Alexandria felt like yesterday. Most vivid of all was Tarquinius’ unexpected thunderbolt, the revelation that he had murdered the belligerent noble who had confronted Romulus and Brennus eight years before outside a brothel in Rome. The pair had only fled because they both thought that Romulus was responsible for the killing. Unintentionally, of course.
Tarquinius’ guilt still stung Romulus, but he’d have given anything to see the blond-haired haruspex reappear, his double-headed axe slung over his shoulder. Instead, only the gods knew where he was. He could easily have been among the hundreds of legionaries and sailors who had died that night. Yet the three of them had almost made it, Romulus reflected sourly. If it hadn’t been for those bastard slingers, Tarquinius would be here by his side.
He and Petronius had dragged the unconscious haruspex out of the shallows and laid him safely on dry ground. Then, screamed at by frantic optiones and centurions, they had joined the battle to defend the island. The ensuing battle was short, vicious and decisive. No infantry in the world could better the Roman legionary in a confined space such as the Heptastadion. The enemy troops had been hurled back on to the mainland, with heavy casualties. It was bittersweet knowledge for Romulus, who, bloodied and battered, had come to find Tarquinius in its aftermath.
Bizarrely, there had been no sign of the haruspex; only a reddened imprint in the sand remained where he had lain. A quick search of the area had revealed nothing either. Even with the glow from the lighthouse and the fire on the docks, there were plenty of places to hide among the boulders on the shore.
In some ways, Romulus had not been surprised by Tarquinius’ disappearance. He still wasn’t. He had had no further chance to search for his friend at the time. His only option would have been to desert, but, angered by the disappearance of one of his new recruits, Romulus’ optio had placed a watch on him night and day. To make matters worse, the following afternoon Caesar’s triremes had evacuated the entire army and sailed along the coastline to the east of Alexandria. Full of despair, Romulus was among their number. He’d tried to rally his spirits by imagining that Fabiola had heard his shout and would soon send word to him. It worked – partially.
Having learned a lesson in the Egyptian capital, Caesar had moved to meet his allies, who were led by Mithridates of Pergamum. Although he bore the same name as the king who had once tried Rome to its limits, Mithridates was no relation and was a trusted supporter of Caesar’s. Comprised of Syrian and Judaean soldiers, his relief force had already encountered the main Egyptian army, which was commanded by the teenage King Ptolemy and his aides. After an initial setback, Mithridates had sent for help from Caesar, who was delighted to leave Alexandria’s claustrophobic streets behind. His legionaries had all felt the same, with the obvious exception of Romulus. Not even a stunning victory against the Egyptians, when thousands of enemy troops died and the young king had drowned, could lift his mood.
With control of Egypt in his hands, Caesar returned to Alexandria, and Cleopatra, the king’s sister. She had become his lover, so naturally, Caesar installed her as queen. Not that Romulus cared. Frantic, still heartbroken, he had resumed his search for Tarquinius. But weeks had gone by since the battle in the harbour, and whatever trail there might have been had long gone cold. In a city of more than a million people, what chance was there of finding one man? Borrowing whatever money he could from his new comrades, Romulus had spent it in the temples and marketplaces, hoping against hope he would discover something.
Not as much as a snippet.
Two months later, when the legions were leaving the city, Romulus had been in debt to the tune of a year’s pay. I did my best, he thought wearily. There was no more I could have done.
Bucinae rang out, dragging Romulus back to the present. The call meant ‘Enemy in sight’. At once the army ground to a halt. Thump, thump, thump went the fascines on the ground. Romulus looked to Petronius, who marched on the outside of the rank. After his heroism in saving the other’s life, Romulus and Petronius had become firm friends. Petronius had even helped to look for Tarquinius, which Romulus was still grateful for. ‘Can you see anything?’ he asked.
Everyone was trying to see why they had stopped. There was a palpable hunger in most men’s eyes. A battle would make a change from the boredom of the previous few months. Keen to establish his authority over all Rome’s vassal territories, Caesar had first visited Judaea and Syria. Intimidated by his troops’ mere presence, the local rulers had fallen over themselves to pledge their allegiance. With plentiful tributes collected, the legions’ peaceful travels had continued with a voyage to Cilicia on the coast of Asia Minor.
Caesar had then headed for Bithynia and Pontus, where King Pharnaces was stirring up all kinds of trouble. A son of Mithridates, the Lion of Pontus and scourge of Rome twenty years before, Pharnaces was as warlike as his father. While Caesar and his men were trapped in Alexandria, he had raised an army and begun a brutal war against Calvinus, the Roman commander in the area. Inflicting heavy losses on Calvinus, Pharnaces’ men had subsequently castrated all Roman civilians who fell into their hands.
Which was why Romulus and his comrades found themselves in a steep-sided valley in northern Pontus just after daybreak. Caesar did not take such affronts lightly, and after months without even a skirmish, his legionaries were feeling bored and restless. They were glad that Pharnaces’ increasingly humble overtures of peace had been ignored. Now they were hunting down his army, intent on a confrontation. Caesar’s plentiful Republican opponents in Africa and Hispania and political matters in Rome could wait until this matter was dealt with.
Hearing that the enemy was camped near Zela, Caesar led his legions north from the coast at a fierce pace, covering nearly two hundred miles in less than two weeks. It reminded Romulus of the last part of his fateful journey with Crassus’ host. The obvious difference was that Caesar was a military genius, a title that his former ally certainly did not deserve. How could a disaster like Carrhae befall the general who foiled defeat and death at every turn? It felt good to serve under Caesar.
To reach Pontus, they had also marched through the province of Galatia. Deiotarus, its ruler, was a fierce, long-time ally of Rome but had supported Pompey at Pharsalus. Recently, he had begged for forgiveness of Caesar, which was duly given. Deiotarus’ famed cavalry and ten cohorts of infantry were a welcome addition to the general’s three battle-worn, understrength legions. Trained in the Roman manner, his troops were loyal and courageous.
Nearing Zela the day before, the combined forces camped to the west of the town. Deiotarus’ Galatian horsemen had then reconnoitred the area, returning with news that Pharnaces’ host was located a few miles to the north. Protecting the road to the Pontic capital, Amasia, it was positioned in the same place Mithridates had occupied when he defeated a large Roman army a generation earlier. Clearly this was deliberate, and while few legionaries regarded this as a good omen, they were not unduly worried either. Had Mithridates not succumbed to the Republic’s might in the end?
‘There!’ cried Petronius triumphantly, pointing at the hill slightly off to one side. ‘That must be it.’
Tying his chinstrap, Romulus stared at the flat-topped mount. It lay on the other side of an almost dry stream. Atop it, he could discern the outlines of hundreds of tents. The neighing of horses carried faintly through the thin air; mixed with the sound were the shouts of alert sentries. So
on figures began to emerge from the tents, and cries of alarm drowned out the previous noises. The legionaries began muttering excitedly. Their early arrival had caught Pharnaces’ army by surprise.
Realising Caesar’s tactic, Romulus chuckled. As he’d learned in the arena, knowledge and preparation contributed significantly to success in war, along with an unerring eye for swiftly taken opportunities. Caesar was master of all three. His order for every man to carry a fascine might have raised a few grumbles, but no one was seriously unhappy. When piled with others, they would form the core of a defensive earthwork.
Romulus wondered what else was in Caesar’s mind. From Zela, the legions had followed the road to Amasia, which alternated on both sides of a low-running stream. At the moment, they were on its eastern bank. The watercourse that he could see below the enemy-occupied hill was probably an offshoot of it too, but neither were deep enough to prevent them getting to grips with their opponents. A short distance in front of their position, the valley split, forming a rough ‘T’ shape. The stream below Pharnaces’ army emerged from the left arm, while the road continued due north, over the hills. No one could take this route without risking a flank attack from the enemy. Not that Caesar would try to avoid battle, he thought.
‘Those bastards won’t give up the high ground,’ declared Petronius. ‘They’ll want us to slog up the slope instead.’
‘Caesar’s far too canny for that,’ said a soldier in the rank behind. ‘Even if we did catch the fuckers napping.’
Laughs and loud murmurs of agreement met this comment.
Romulus indicated the slope to their left. ‘A position on the top of that is as good as Pharnaces’ one.’
Men looked to see who had spoken. The valleys that protected their enemies would also provide their own defence. Each army could then watch the other in a stalemate that might last for days. At Pharsalus, Caesar’s legions had faced off against Pompey’s for a week before the fighting began.
‘That means carrying these damned fascines up there,’ growled a voice further back.
‘Fool! You’ll be glad of them if the enemy attacks,’ growled Petronius.
Guffaws and jeers rained down on the anonymous legionary, who fell silent.
The bucinae sounded, silencing the soldiers’ mirth. ‘About turn!’ screamed the centurions. ‘Reform your ranks, facing west.’
Less than an hour later, the entire army had reached the hilltop. With half the infantry and the Galatian cavalry spread out in a protective screen, the remainder set about digging a ditch to enclose their camp. The earth from this was mixed with the fascines to erect a rampart which was taller than a man. While the Roman legionaries built the front and rear walls, Deiotarus’ soldiers constructed the sides. The result of their efforts was not sufficient to withstand a sustained attack, but would do for now.
Some time later, the train of mules which carried the tents and their yokes arrived in the valley below. Leaving the baggage behind had meant the legionaries were ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Romulus knew that it was a common ruse of Caesar’s. ‘Arrive at an unexpected time, and victory is often there to be taken,’ he muttered as they marched downhill to escort the mules up. How could it be done here, though?
Their opponents watched them for the rest of the day. Riders galloped up and down the hill opposite, carrying messages and orders to Pharnaces’ allies in the area. Deiotarus’ cavalry made sallies right up to the Pontic fortifications, finding out as much as possible. Enemy riders did the same to the Roman position. By the time darkness fell, the legionaries were aware that they faced a host more than three times their size. Pharnaces possessed superior cavalry, greater numbers of infantry and other classes of troops not even in Caesar’s possession. He had Thracian peltasts, thureophoroi, Judaean skirmishers and slingers from Rhodes. There was heavy horse similar to the Parthian cataphracts, and large numbers of scythed chariots. Confrontation on flat ground had to be avoided at all costs. Storming the enemy’s heavily fortified position did not seem a good option either. A nagging sense of unease began tugging at the edges of Romulus’ mind.
The sun went down in a blaze of red, illuminating the doubled Roman sentries on the earthen ramparts. There would be no surprise attack under the cover of darkness. Sitting outside their leather tents, the rest of Caesar’s soldiers shared acetum, vinegary wine, and bucellatum, the hard biscuit eaten when on campaign. Petronius and the six other soldiers in Romulus’ contubernium took their ease by a small fire, laughing and joking. The same scene was being played out all over the camp, yet Romulus did not feel comfortable. Although he had formed a friendship of sorts with his comrades, loneliness still gnawed away at his insides. More than ever, he wished that Brennus were still alive, and that Tarquinius had not disappeared.
Naturally, his thoughts made no difference. Romulus sighed. Even Petronius, whom he trusted with his life, could never know the real truth about his past. Tonight, though, it was not his origins as a slave that he wanted to share. It was his doubt. Romulus could not get over the casual arrogance of Caesar’s soldiers, the certainty in their minds that Pharnaces and his huge army would be defeated. Had that not been the attitude of most of Crassus’ legionaries before Carrhae?
Yet to mention his experience in that doomed army would attract attention of the most unwelcome kind. At best he would be branded a liar, at worst a deserter. All Romulus could do was keep his mouth shut and continue to trust in Caesar.
The following dawn was crisp and clear, presaging another sunny day. The trumpets sounded, waking the men as normal. Army routine did not change merely because an enemy was nearby. After a light breakfast, most soldiers were given the duty of reinforcing the rampart which surrounded their camp. While the fascines and dug earth had served well for one night, much still needed to be done. Sharpened wooden spikes were fitted to the outside of the fortification, just below the level of the sentries’ walkway. Deep pits were excavated in irregular rows, their bottoms decorated with spiked iron caltrops. Slabs of rock were broken apart with hammers and chisels and embedded in the ground, pointing crazily upwards like the teeth in a giant demon’s mouth. Romulus was fascinated to discover that these defences had also been deployed at Alesia, running for more than fifteen miles and facing in two directions.
Of course their preparations were necessary: the huge force that faced them was made up of fierce warriors who had already tasted success at the expense of a Roman army. They were on hallowed ground too, the site of an historic victory over Rome by Mithridates. In such situations, defeat was only ever a whisker away.
The ballistae, which had been taken apart for ease of transport, were reassembled. Facing north towards Pharnaces’ army, they were positioned on the intervallum, the open ground which ran around the inside of the earthworks. Work parties with mules were sent out to collect stones of suitable size for the two-armed catapults. Artillery was probably Caesar’s sole area of superiority, thought Romulus, remembering the withering fire laid down by the Forgotten Legion’s ballistae during its last battle.
The memory brought twinges of sadness and guilt. As always, the emotions were followed by gratitude. If Brennus hadn’t sacrificed his own life, I would not be here, thought Romulus. This bitter pill made it harder not to blame himself also for what had happened to Tarquinius. Remembering that the haruspex had been the one who wanted to enter the Egyptian capital, he managed to shove away the guilt. Each man was master of his own destiny, and Tarquinius was no different in that respect.
The bright sunshine eventually lifted Romulus’ mood. Fortunately, the Twenty-Eighth had been chosen to form the defensive screen in front of the camp. While some of Deiotarus’ Galatian cavalry was also given this duty, the majority had been sent out in squadrons to study the surrounding terrain. Delighted with their easy task, the men of the Twenty-Eighth watched their toiling comrades and laughed behind their hands so the officers would not see.
Some time later, Romulus glanced at the enemy position. �
��Jupiter’s balls,’ he cried. ‘They’re on the move.’
Petronius swore loudly. Across the valley, thousands of men were emerging from behind the Pontic fortifications and forming up. Weapons flashed in the early-morning sunlight, and the creak of chariot wheels and shouted orders travelled through the air. Soon it was obvious that Mithridates’ entire army was leaving its camp.
The Roman officers’ response was instantaneous. ‘Close order! Raise shields!’ they roared, pacing up and down the front of the ranks. Hefting their javelins, the legionaries obeyed at once. Although the slope before them was steep, an assault by the enemy would prove dangerous. There was no need to panic, though: descending into the valley and then climbing to their position would take a while. If that happened, their comrades on the ramparts would have ample time to join them.
‘It must be a parade,’ said Petronius scornfully. ‘Mithridates wants to tell his soldiers how brave they are.’
‘Maybe he wants Caesar to deploy more men out here,’ Romulus countered.
Petronius frowned. ‘To slow down the construction of the fortifications?’
Romulus inclined his head. If their entire force constantly had to defend their camp, it would never get built.
‘He’s probably just showing off his army. Boosting their confidence. It is much bigger than ours, after all,’ muttered Petronius.
This was quite plausible. Romulus grinned, glad of the Roman legionary’s psychological advantage over other troops.
The pair glanced at their camp, wondering how their general would respond. It was not long before a red-cloaked figure had climbed on to the ramparts, followed by a group of senior officers and a single trumpeter. A loud cheer rose up at the sight of Caesar, who was deliberately making himself visible while getting a better view of the enemy. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes, Caesar peered into the distance. He studied Mithridates’ host for a long time.
