by Ben Kane
Not a sound.
A frisson of fear caressed Romulus’ spine. Since seeing the corpse on the cross, he had thought only of Fabiola and his mother. If Rome was descending into the total anarchy he had seen, what did that bode for his loved ones? Their fragile image in his mind, which he used to stay sane, had begun to disintegrate. This in turn brought him back to reality with a jolt.
Footsore and looking forward to a warm meal, his comrades appeared unaware. Even Novius’ taunts had stopped. Clearly unconcerned, Darius and a junior officer were conferring about something. The column tramped onwards, passing a small inscribed stone tablet sticking out of the ground. There had been similar markers all along their route from the main fort. This last was positioned about half a mile from their destination and as the men saw it, their pace picked up.
Romulus’ jaw clenched. Why had no one else noticed? ‘I don’t like it,’ he hissed to Brennus.
The Gaul looked startled. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he scanned their surroundings. Although nothing was visible, he did not relax. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.
‘It’s too damn quiet.’
Brennus cocked his head and listened. Apart from the noise of iron hobnails crunching off the frozen ground, he too could hear nothing. Suspicion flared in his blue eyes. ‘If you’re going to say something, do it fast.’ He pointed at Darius.
Very soon, the Parthian officer would come into full view of the outpost.
Uneasy, Romulus turned his head to the rear. Blinding light from the setting sun lit up the track, making it almost impossible to see. Yet there was no mistaking the figure on horseback that was watching the patrol from the high point of the defile. It was Scythian.
Romulus blinked. When he looked again, the rider was gone.
Seeing him, Novius drew a finger across his throat.
He studiously ignored the gesture.
‘Are you going to speak to Darius?’ asked Brennus, who had seen nothing.
‘It’s too late. They’re behind us as well,’ Romulus whispered. Quickly he filled the Gaul in.
Stifling a curse, Brennus glanced back, then forward. He felt a brief surge of pride at Romulus’ keen eye. If he was right, they could do little. The Gaul assessed the situation. Their current position was impossible to defend. With slopes on either side, they would be at the mercy of any missiles fired at them. But it was not safe to turn around either. ‘Got no choice, have we?’ he growled. ‘The best place to fight will be the flat ground in front of the fortlet.’
Pleased, Romulus nodded. That had been his thought too. ‘I’d better tell Darius,’ he said.
The optio was surprised when Romulus broke ranks to mutter in his ear, but gave permission for him to advise their commander.
With his yoke waving overhead, Romulus trotted forward until he caught up with the senior centurion. Darius’ horse was ten steps from the edge of the ridge which overlooked their destination.
‘Sir!’
Reining in, the stout Parthian smiled at the sight of Romulus. This was one of the best soldiers in his cohort. ‘What is it?’ he asked in Latin.
‘An ambush, sir,’ replied Romulus. ‘There are Scythians behind us.’
Turning in the saddle, Darius studied the bare landscape. ‘Are you sure?’
Romulus explained what he had seen and the Parthian’s face darkened. ‘Let’s get down there fast,’ he said. ‘We’ll have over two hundred men then. That’ll see off the bastards.’
‘If they’re not dead already,’ Romulus announced, deliberately speaking in Parthian. Everyone needed to be aware of the risks they faced.
Darius’ guards looked alarmed.
‘Explain yourself,’ Darius hissed.
Romulus opened his mouth to do so when instinctively the senior centurion’s horse stopped. It had reached a flat piece of rock, a place where a soldier might stop to glance back at his camp before beginning a journey, or where a weary patrol arriving after a long march could pause to savour their achievement. Behind them, the legionaries halted gratefully, grounding their yokes and shields while the opportunity presented itself.
Together they gazed down at the fortlet, which was now only a short march away. The same playing-card shape of all Roman forts, the small outpost had just one gate, at the front. A tall wooden watchtower was positioned in the centre, with an uninterrupted field of vision around the camp. There were defensive fossae and wooden battlements twice the height of a man; inside the low roof of a barracks could be seen.
Romulus stared. The ramparts were clear of sentries.
That meant one thing. Roman soldiers never deserted their posts.
The garrison was dead.
An experienced soldier, Darius also took in the situation at a glance. He looked questioningly at Romulus. ‘How did you know?’
‘I couldn’t hear anything, sir,’ he explained.
It made perfect sense. Darius scowled, but there was no time to be lost blaming himself for not noticing what one of his ordinary soldiers had. ‘Vahram must know about this,’ he muttered, barking an order at his guards. At once two turned their horses and rode off, separating as they did. In an attempt to outflank the enemy, one went directly south and the other north. The remaining warrior moved closer to the senior centurion, notching an arrow to his bow.
‘Damn it,’ growled Darius. ‘We’ll just go down there as if nothing’s wrong. But I want everyone ready for combat. Advise the optiones and tesserarii, then resume your position.’
Romulus snapped off a salute and hurried to obey. Already warned by his optio, the other junior officers began to move down the ranks, quietly ordering the men to prepare themselves. Surprise, dismay, and last of all anger, filled the legionaries’ faces. Novius looked most put out, as did his companions.
‘Well?’ asked the Gaul.
‘We march on in,’ replied Romulus. ‘Check out the camp.’
Gripping their weapons tightly, the patrol marched along the track, down the incline towards the fortlet. All eyes were upon it, but for different reasons than just a few moments before. Now everyone could see that there was no smoke from cooking fires, no movement on the walkways. It resembled a graveyard.
Closer in, Romulus saw that one of the front doors was leaning slightly ajar. This was final proof that things were amiss. Far from the rest of the legion, all outposts were under strict orders to keep their gates shut at all times. Yet there were no signs of violence, no damage to the exterior structure. No arrows or spears stuck in the timbers, no evidence of fire. Whatever had happened here had not been thanks to a direct assault.
Darius had seen too. Immediately he ordered the optiones to have the men make a protective screen in front of the entrance. Piling their yokes in a heap, the legionaries fanned outwards in a semicircle, four ranks deep. It was done efficiently, without fuss, and soon a solid wall of shields had formed. Above the silk-covered scuta were bronze bowl crested helmets and steady, grim faces. Apart from the soldiers’ lower legs, there was little for an enemy to attack. And, thanks to Tarquinius’ tutoring, the front ranks always dropped to their knees when the threat of missiles was present. They were ready.
To investigate, Darius hand-picked a squad of six men, including Romulus and Brennus. For reasons best known to himself, he also chose Novius and Optatus. The veterans leered at the friends as they leaned their pila against the timber wall. Javelins would be no good at close quarters. Instead they all drew their gladii. Pulling his own blade free, the stout Parthian led them inside the camp. He was totally unaware of the tension between the men behind him. There was a brief delay; no one wanted to have his enemies at his back. Then Romulus darted through the gate with Brennus, leaving the others too far away to try anything. Mouthing silent curses, Novius and Optatus followed.
The dirt beneath their feet was hard-packed from the passage of men in and out of the fortlet, so their hobnailed caligae made no sound. A deathly silence greeted them. The atmosphere within was eerie. Unnerving. Pa
rt of the garrison might be on patrol, but there should have been at least some soldiers visible.
Not one was.
Where are they? thought Romulus. Was it possible that they had abandoned the fortlet?
Apart from the observation tower, a single barracks building and a small latrine block, the only structures were an earth oven under the west wall and a number of altars to the gods positioned here and there. Large, tell-tale dark stains marked the ground, bloody proof that all was not well. There were uneasy murmurs from the others at the sight.
Hairs prickled on the back of Romulus’ neck. There was death here, its presence suddenly overpowering. He looked up, expecting to see clouds of birds of prey hanging high overhead. There weren’t many though, and those present were probably just eyeing the refuse heaps that existed outside the camp. Why were there not more?
Brennus could sense it too. Nostrils flaring, he reached up to touch the hilt of his longsword, which was hanging from his back. In open combat, it was still his favoured weapon.
‘What’s that?’ hissed Darius. They were now very near the barracks.
They froze, ears pricked.
A low sound reached them. There was no mistaking the moan of an injured man. A survivor.
Using the tip of his sword, the Parthian flipped open the flimsy door. It made a hollow sound as it banged off the wall. Inside, the floor was slick with blood. Drag marks led towards the small rooms shared by the contubernia of eight men. With only a half-century in this fort, there would be five such, and a larger chamber for the optio in command. Wrinkling his face with distaste, Darius jerked his head at Romulus, Novius and another soldier. ‘You three go left,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll go right.’ Taking Optatus and the fifth legionary, he entered.
Brennus was left outside.
Romulus gripped the bone handle of his sword tightly. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he thought, protect me. The narrow corridor echoed to the sound of their caligae as Romulus led the way, with the others one step behind. All held their shields high, their gladii ready. He was acutely aware of Novius at his unprotected back.
‘Don’t worry, slave,’ hissed the veteran. ‘I want to see your face as you die.’
Romulus spun round, glaring. He longed to end the vendetta right then.
‘Found anything?’ bellowed Darius in an odd voice.
The question broke the spell.
‘Not yet, sir,’ Romulus answered, turning back. His voice died in his throat as he reached the first chamber.
There was no need to worry about being attacked. Each room was exactly the same. Their limbs at awkward angles, mangled corpses lay heaped untidily on top of each other. All the legionaries had been stripped naked, their mail shirts and faded russet tunics discarded on the floor alongside. Clotted blood lay in great pools around the still bodies and mounds of clothing.
Even Novius looked disgusted. ‘Who does this to an enemy?’
‘Scythians,’ Romulus said calmly. Tarquinius had told him about their barbaric customs.
‘Fucking savages.’
Every body was mutilated in the same manner: beheaded as well as partially skinned. Patches of skin were missing from chests, backs and legs, and there was no sign of the soldiers’ heads. Romulus knew why. According to Tarquinius, the Scythians measured a warrior’s courage by the number of heads he carried back from battle. They also used the tops of enemy skulls as drinking vessels, covering them in leather and even gilding them inside, while skins were used as drying cloths and scalps as decorative handkerchiefs on their horses’ bridles. Revulsion filled Romulus at this level of savagery. Breathing through his mouth, he realised that he could smell very little. Even though these men had clearly been dead for more than a day, the bitter cold had prevented much decay.
‘Why did they carry them inside?’ asked Novius.
Romulus looked at him with scorn. The answer was obvious.
Realisation hit the veteran. ‘So there would be no cloud of vultures overhead.’
He nodded.
Suddenly there was more at stake than their feud.
As one, they turned and ran in search of Darius. They had marched into a trap. Now it was surely about to be sprung.
The trio found their commander on his knees in the optio’s quarters. He glanced up as they entered, his face twisted with fury. The junior officer lying cradled in his arms had not been treated in quite the same way as the others. Remarkably, he was still alive. A strong man in his thirties, the optio had been scalped and entirely flayed. Barely conscious, uncontrollable shivers shook his bloody, ruined frame. He did not have long.
‘Sir,’ Romulus began.
‘They posed as a trading party. Got inside the gates and then produced hidden weapons,’ snarled Darius. ‘Dirty Scythian dogs.’
That made sense, thought Romulus. But there was no time to waste. ‘Sir. They hid the men in here so that the vultures would not warn us off.’
‘Of course,’ gasped the Parthian. ‘And we just walked in, like complete fools.’
‘Best get outside, sir,’ said Novius, his muscles twitching with impatience.
Darius nodded briskly. ‘And this poor creature?’
‘Give him a warrior’s death,’ said Novius.
Rather than let the mortally wounded die in pain, Roman soldiers always performed a final act of mercy.
‘I’ll do it, sir.’ Romulus’ voice echoed loudly in the confined space. Novius and Optatus began to protest. Slaves could not perform this duty.
But a warning look from Darius quelled their objections. ‘This man volunteered first,’ he said, thinking they also wanted the honour. ‘Outside.’
The malevolent legionaries had no choice but to obey. Saluting resentfully, they left, followed by the other two soldiers.
‘Do it quickly.’ Laying the maimed optio down with care, Darius passed his hand over his forehead in a blessing and strode from the room.
Lifting his gladius, Romulus stepped closer. It was right that this death should be his. Darius was not Roman, while Novius and Optatus were evil men who should end no one’s life. The last two had not volunteered, so it was up to him to give the optio a dignified passage to the other side.
The man’s eyelids opened and their gaze met. Both knew what was about to happen.
Admiration filled Romulus. He could see no fear in the optio’s face, just calm acceptance.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Elysium awaits.’ Brave men went to the warrior’s paradise.
There was a single nod.
Gently Romulus helped the other to sit up. There was an involuntary gasp, rapidly concealed. Even a small movement must be agonising, he thought. Pity filled him.
‘My name is Aesius. Optio in the Second Century, First Cohort, Twentieth Legion,’ managed the injured officer. He looked round enquiringly. ‘And your name?’
‘Romulus, sir.’
Aesius’ twisted face relaxed. ‘A man should know who sends him to heaven.’
From outside came the clash of arms and Darius’ voice, bellowing orders. The Scythians had attacked.
‘Your comrades need you,’ said Aesius.
Romulus knelt and took hold of Aesius’ bloody forearm in the warrior’s greeting. The weak optio could barely return the grip, but Romulus saw that the gesture meant a lot. ‘Go well,’ he whispered.
He moved behind Aesius, who lowered his chin on to his chest. This exposed the nape of his neck. Holding the hilt of his gladius with both hands, Romulus lifted it high in the air, its sharp tip pointing down. Without pausing, he stabbed into Aesius’ spinal cord, cutting it in two. Death was instantaneous, and the optio’s disfigured body slumped silently to the floor.
He was at peace.
His heart heavy, Romulus studied the prone form at his feet. But anger gradually replaced the sorrow. Forty good men had been maimed for no good reason. And outside, more were dying. Bloody sword in hand, he turned and ran from the building. The others had already disappeared, so Romulus sp
rinted towards the gate. The clash of arms mingled with men’s screams, the noise of horses’ hooves and shouted orders from Darius. Battle had been joined. Wishing that Tarquinius were there too, Romulus emerged from the fortlet to a scene of complete mayhem.
In partial testudo formation, the two centuries were holding firm.
Beyond them galloped large groups of Scythian warriors, loosing arrows at the legionaries as they rode to and fro. It reminded Romulus of Carrhae. But the bearded, tattooed horsemen were dressed differently to the Parthians, with marmot fur or wool cloaks, dark woollen trousers and knee-high felt boots. Few of the dark-skinned horse archers wore armour, yet they were armed to the teeth, carrying short-headed axes, swords and knives as well as their bows. Their mounts were a magnificent deep red colour, and their blue saddles were richly decorated with gold thread. These were wealthier men than the riders who had devastated Crassus’ army.
Romulus glanced at his comrades. Thankfully, the silk coverings on their shields were safely stopping the Scythian arrows. Already their surfaces were peppered with them. But there were a few casualties. Four men had received wounds to their lower legs. Another must have been looking up when the first volley was released. Lying to the unprotected rear with the others, he twitched spasmodically. One hand still clutched the wooden shaft protruding from his throat.
One dead, four injured, thought Romulus grimly. And the fight had barely begun.
Loud screams drew his attention once more. Almost as one, the four legionaries had begun thrashing about, their faces contorted in pain. Their reaction was extreme, confusing Romulus. They all had routine flesh wounds. Then he remembered. Scythicon.
Tarquinius had told him how the poison was made. Adders were captured and killed, and left to decompose. Next, sealed vessels of human blood were allowed to putrefy in animal dung. The final mixture of rotting snake, blood and faeces formed a toxic liquid that killed within hours of wounding a man. It meant that every Scythian arrow provided a guarantee of death. How could Pacorus be any different?
