by Ben Kane
They marched in silence, stopping occasionally to listen out for the Scythians. At last a familiar rectangular shape appeared out of the gloom. It was the fort.
A tiny sigh of relief escaped Romulus’ lips. He was colder than he could ever remember being. But once they were inside and warmed through again, Tarquinius might reveal what he had seen. The desire to know more was the only thing that had kept him going.
Brennus grinned. Even he was looking forward to a break.
On either side of the massive front gates sat a wooden guard tower. They were matched by similar ones on the corners and smaller observation posts in between. The walls had been constructed from closely packed earth, a useful by-product from the construction of the three deep ditches which surrounded the fort. Filled with spiked iron caltrops, the fossae were also within range of missiles thrown or fired from the timber walkway that ran along the inside of the ramparts. The only passage through them was the beaten-down dirt track to the entrance in the middle of each side.
They tramped down it, expecting to be challenged at any moment.
Surprisingly the huge fort was not a fighting structure: legionaries did not hide behind the protection of walls by choice. The impressive defences were to be used only in the case of unexpected attack. If an enemy presented itself, the officers would marshal the men together on the intervallum, the flat area that ran around the inside of the walls, before marching out to do battle. On open ground, the legionary was the master of all other infantry. And with Tarquinius’ tactics and training, thought Romulus proudly, they could withstand the charge of any force, mounted or on foot.
Man for man, the Forgotten Legion could defeat any enemy.
‘Stop.’ Moving to Brennus’ side, Tarquinius checked Pacorus’ pulse.
‘Is he still alive?’ asked the Gaul.
‘Barely,’ answered Tarquinius, frowning. ‘We must hurry.’
Reality struck as Romulus took in Pacorus’ ashen features. Enough time had passed for the scythicon to do its deadly work. The commander would surely die soon and, as the sole survivors, they would be held responsible. No senior Parthian officer worth his salt would fail to punish the men who had allowed this to happen. They had escaped the Scythians to face certain execution.
Yet Tarquinius had wanted to save Pacorus. And Mithras had revealed a road back to Rome.
As a drowning man clings to a log, Romulus held on to those thoughts.
They were now less than thirty paces from the gate and within range of the sentries’ pila. Still no challenge had been issued to check their progress, which was most irregular. No one was allowed to approach the fort without identifying themselves.
‘The lazy dogs will be huddling around the fire,’ Romulus muttered. Sentinels were only supposed to stay in the warm guardroom at the base of each tower for short periods; just enough to thaw out numb fingers and toes. In practice, they did it as long as the junior officer in charge allowed.
‘Time to wake them up then.’ Raising his axe, Tarquinius stepped forward and repeatedly hammered the butt on the gate’s thick timbers. It made a deep thumping noise.
They waited in silence.
The Etruscan had raised his weapon to demand entrance again when suddenly the distinctive sound of hobnailed sandals clattering off wood reached them from above. As expected, the sentry had not been at his post in the tower. A few moments later, a pale face appeared over the ramparts.
‘Who goes there?’ Fear filled the man’s voice as he peered down at the small group. Visitors to the fort were rare, let alone in the middle of the night. ‘Identify yourselves!’
‘Open up, you fool!’ shouted Romulus impatiently. ‘Pacorus has been injured.’
There was a disbelieving pause.
‘You piece of shit!’ cried Tarquinius. ‘Move!’
The sentry’s shock was palpable. ‘Yes, sir! At once!’ He turned and fled down the staircase to the rooms below, roaring at his comrades.
Moments later the heavy locking bar was being lifted. One of the doors creaked open, revealing several legionaries and an anxious optio. The delay in responding would surely result in some kind of punishment.
But Tarquinius pushed past without a word. Romulus and Brennus followed. Confusion filled the sentries’ faces as they took in the prone shape on the Gaul’s shoulder.
‘Shut the gate!’ Tarquinius bellowed.
‘Where are Pacorus’ warriors, sir?’ asked the optio.
‘Dead,’ snapped Tarquinius. ‘We were ambushed by Scythians at the Mithraeum.’
Shocked gasps met this comment.
Tarquinius was in no mood to reveal more. ‘Advise the duty centurion and then get back to your posts. Keep your eyes peeled.’
The optio and his men hastened to obey. Tarquinius was also a centurion and could have punished them as severely as Pacorus. They would have to find out what had happened later.
Tarquinius hurried down the fort’s main street, the Via Praetoria. Romulus and Brennus followed. On both sides lay parallel rows of long, low wooden barracks, each housing a century of eighty soldiers. Their interiors were identical: large rooms for the centurion, smaller ones for the junior officers and more cramped quarters for the men. Ten contubernia, each of eight soldiers, shared just enough space to fit bunk beds, their equipment and food. Like gladiators, legionaries lived, slept, trained and fought with each other.
‘Romulus!’
Hearing the low shout, he half turned. In the shadows between two of the barrack buildings, Romulus picked out the features of Felix, one of his original unit. ‘What are you doing up?’ he demanded.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Felix replied with a grin. He was already dressed and armed. ‘I was worried about you. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing. Go back to bed,’ replied Romulus curtly. The less anyone else had to do with this, the better.
Instead, Felix darted to Brennus’ side, gasping when he saw the arrows jutting from Pacorus’ flesh. ‘Gods above,’ he breathed. ‘What happened?’
Romulus filled him in while they marched. Felix nodded, grimacing as he heard the details. Though smaller than Romulus and weaker than Brennus, the little Gaul was a fine soldier. Truly stubborn too. When their mercenary cohort had been cut off during the battle at Carrhae, Felix had stayed by their side. Completely surrounded by Parthian archers, just a score of men chose to remain with the three friends and Bassius, their centurion. Felix was one of them. He’s his own master, thought Romulus, glad to have him along.
No one else halted the small party. It was still dark, and most men were asleep. Besides, only a more senior officer would dare question Tarquinius, and none of those were to be seen. At this time of night, they were also in bed. Soon they reached the principia, the headquarters. This was at the intersection of the Via Praetoria with the Via Principia, the road that ran from the east wall to the west, dividing the camp into four equal parts. Here also were Pacorus’ luxurious house and more modest ones for the senior centurions, the Parthian officers who each commanded a cohort. There was a valetudinarium, a hospital, as well as workshops for carpenters, cobblers, potters and a multitude of other professions.
Tradesmen and engineers as well as soldiers, the Romans were almost self-sufficient. It was one of many things that made them so formidable, thought Romulus. Yet Crassus had managed to expose the Republican army’s sole weakness. It retained almost no cavalry, while Parthia’s forces consisted of little else. Tarquinius had spotted this long before Carrhae, followed soon after by Romulus. But ordinary soldiers had no say in tactics, he reflected angrily. Crassus had marched arrogantly into disaster, unwilling or unable to see what might happen to his men.
Which explained why the Forgotten Legion had new masters. Cruel ones.
Romulus sighed. Apart from Darius, his own cohort commander, the majority of the Parthian senior officers were utterly ruthless. What would happen when they saw Pacorus, only the gods knew. But it would not be good.
From t
he principia, it was not far to the high walls of Pacorus’ house. Copying a Roman villa, it was built in the shape of a hollow square. Just inside the front gates were the atrium, the entrance hall, and the tablinum, the reception area. These led on to the central courtyard, which was bordered by a covered walkway giving access to a banqueting hall, bedrooms, bathrooms and offices. Having seen Seleucia, Romulus knew that his captors were not a nation of architects and engineers like the Romans. Apart from the city’s great entrance arch and Orodes’ magnificent palace, the houses there were small and simply built of mud bricks. He could still remember his commander’s amazed reaction when he had first entered the finished structure. Pacorus had been like a child with a new toy. Now, however, he barely stirred as they reached the gates, which were guarded by a dozen Parthians armed with bows and spears. Legionaries were never trusted with this duty.
‘Halt!’ cried the swarthy officer in charge. He peered suspiciously at the body hanging over Brennus’ shoulder. ‘Who have you got there?’
Tarquinius’ gaze did not waver. ‘Pacorus,’ he said quietly.
‘Is he unwell?’
The haruspex nodded. ‘Badly wounded.’
The Parthian darted forward, gasping as he took in Pacorus’ grey features. ‘What evil is this?’ he cried, barking an order. At once his men fanned out, surrounding the party with levelled spears.
Romulus and his friends were careful not to react. Relations with their captors were strained at the best of times, let alone when they were carrying a critically injured Pacorus.
Drawing a dagger, the officer stepped close to Tarquinius. He laid the blade flat against his neck. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he hissed, his teeth bared. ‘Fast.’
There was no immediate reply and the Parthian’s eyes bulged with anger. He moved the razor-sharp metal slightly and cut Tarquinius’ skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
His men gasped at his courage. Most Parthians were terrified of the haruspex.
Keeping silent underlines my power, thought Tarquinius. And this is not my time to die.
Felix stiffened but Romulus jerked his head to stop any reaction. Their friend knew what he was doing. To his relief, the little Gaul relaxed. ‘We were ambushed by Scythians, sir,’ said Romulus loudly. ‘Check his wounds for yourself.’
No one spoke as the officer paced back to Brennus. Close up, no one could miss the distinctive Scythian arrows. But he was not yet satisfied. ‘Where are the rest of the men?’ he demanded.
‘All dead, sir.’
His eyes widened. ‘Why are none of you hurt?’
Romulus kept his composure. ‘They fired volleys of arrows from nowhere, sir. We had shields. We were lucky.’
The Parthian’s gaze darted to Brennus and Felix, but the Gauls were nodding in unison. The officer stared last at Tarquinius, whose dark eyes revealed little. He turned back to Romulus.
‘The commander and Tarquinius survived because they were in the Mithraeum,’ Romulus went on. ‘Brennus and I fought our way to the entrance to try and rescue them.’
The officer waited in stony silence.
‘Pacorus was hit as we were about to escape,’ said Romulus, guiltily remembering his delay in handing over his scutum. If Pacorus lived, he would remember that. But that particular bridge would have to be crossed if it appeared. At least he wasn’t the one with three poison arrows in his flesh. ‘And Brennus carried him back anyway.’
‘Why?’ The Parthian sneered. ‘Scythicon kills everyone. What do you care if the commander dies?’
Unsure what to say, Romulus tensed.
‘He is our leader,’ protested Tarquinius. ‘Without him, the Forgotten Legion is nothing.’
Disbelief flared in the other’s eyes. ‘Expect me to swallow that?’ he growled. There was little reason for any of the Romans to care about the health of their captors. Especially Pacorus. Every man present knew it.
‘I can help Pacorus. Delay me any longer,’ Tarquinius announced, ‘and you risk being the cause of his death.’
Outwitted, the officer stepped back. Having witnessed the extent of his superior’s injuries, he did not want to be accused later of slowing Pacorus’ treatment. However odd the situation might seem, there was only one man in the fort capable of saving their commander.
Tarquinius.
‘Let them pass!’ the Parthian ordered.
His men raised their weapons and one quickly opened the heavy gate, allowing Tarquinius and the others inside. The atrium was simply built, with a baked brick floor rather than the ornate mosaic it would have had in Rome. Unsurprisingly, nobody was to be seen. An austere man for all his cruelty, Pacorus needed few servants.
‘Bring my leather bag from the valetudinarium,’ the haruspex cried, leading the way through the tablinum and into the courtyard. ‘Fast!’
Shouted commands followed them as the officer sent men running to obey.
Word was also being rushed to the senior centurions, thought Romulus sourly. If they weren’t already on their way. He swallowed, offering a fervent prayer to Mithras, a deity he knew little of. And although worshipped by the Parthians, the god had apparently shown Tarquinius a way out of here. There had to be a solution to their increasingly desperate situation. But Romulus could not see it. Help us, Mithras, he prayed. Guide us.
In Pacorus’ large bedroom, they found a fire already burning. Its flames lit up thick wall carpets and embroidered cushions scattered on the floor. Apart from some iron-bound storage chests, a bed covered in animal skins was the only piece of furniture. Startled by their sudden arrival, two servants, local peasants, jumped up guiltily from the floor in front of the brick fireplace. Warming themselves in their master’s quarters would be rewarded with a severe flogging at the least. Their mouths opened with shock and a little relief when they saw Pacorus lying over Brennus’ shoulder. There would be no punishment today.
‘Make light,’ snapped Tarquinius. ‘Bring clean blankets and sheets. And plenty of boiling water.’
The fearful men did not dare answer. One scurried off while the other lit a taper and touched it to each of the bronze oil lamps positioned around the walls. The illumination revealed a wooden shrine in one corner. It was covered with the stubs of candles: like anyone else, Pacorus needed the gods sometimes. Sitting on it was a small statue of a cloaked man in a blunt-peaked Phrygian hat, twisting the head of a kneeling bull upwards towards the knife gripped in his free hand. The god was unfamiliar to Romulus, yet he somehow knew who it was. ‘Mithras?’ he breathed.
Tarquinius nodded.
Romulus bent his head in respect, praying hard.
Aided by Felix, Brennus moved towards the bed.
Tarquinius eyed the figurine curiously. Before entering the Mithraeum, he had only seen an image of Mithras once, in Rome. It had belonged to a one-armed veteran who helped him to search for the killer of Olenus, his mentor. Secundus, had that been the cripple’s name? A good man, the haruspex remembered, but secretive about his religion. Ever since, Tarquinius had longed to know more about Mithraicism. Now, in one night, he had been inside a temple and had a vision from the god himself. And if Pacorus lived, yet more might be revealed. Through him, Tarquinius might also discover information about the Etruscans’ origins. A stream of orange-yellow sparks rose as a log noisily cracked in two. Tarquinius’ eyes narrowed and he studied the tiny points of fire as they turned in graceful spirals and twists before disappearing up the chimney. It was a good sign.
Romulus saw the haruspex watching the blaze and took hope.
Great Mithras, Tarquinius prayed reverently. Although this wounded man is my enemy, he is your disciple. Grant me the ability to save him. Without your help, he will surely die.
Felix and Brennus laid the unconscious Parthian on to his bed.
The remaining servant gaped as Tarquinius drew his dagger.
His response provoked a chuckle. ‘As if I’d kill him now.’ The haruspex leaned over and began slicing open Pacorus’ blood-soaked clothing, l
eaving the wooden shafts in place. A few moments later, the Parthian was as naked as the day he was born. His normally brown skin had gone a grey, unhealthy-looking colour, and it was hard to see the shallow movements of his chest.
Romulus closed his eyes at their commander’s horrifying injuries. Around each, the flesh had already turned bright red – the first sign that the scythicon was having an effect. But the worst area was his chest wound. It was a miracle that Pacorus had not been killed outright by the arrow, which had punched between two ribs to lie very close to the heart.
‘That means death,’ said Brennus quietly.
Tarquinius lifted his eyebrows, silently contemplating his task.
Felix sucked in a long, slow breath. ‘Why did you bother carrying him back?’
‘He has to survive,’ answered Tarquinius. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re all dead men.’
His trust in the haruspex absolute, Brennus waited. This was the man who had known – incredibly – what his druid had predicted, before his whole tribe had been massacred.
But the little Gaul looked worried.
Romulus knew how he felt. Yet Tarquinius was right. The extremely cold weather meant that any long journeys were far too dangerous without proper supplies. They had had little choice but to return here. Now their fates rested with the nearly dead man lying before them. Or rather, in Tarquinius’ ability to save him. Looking at Pacorus’ injuries, it seemed an impossible peak to climb. Automatically, Romulus’ gaze flickered to the statue on the altar. Mithras, we need your help!
It was then that a group of excited, upset servants arrived, led by the peasant who had fled on their arrival. Bearing blankets, linen sheets and steaming bronze bowls of water, they laid down their loads near the bed. At once they were urged from the room by Romulus. Only the two original men remained, to hold up more lamps by the bed, in turn providing the haruspex with light. Moments later a guard arrived, carrying Tarquinius’ medicine bag. He blanched at Pacorus’ appearance. Muttering a prayer, he backed away hastily and took up a position by the door.
