by Ben Kane
After a hundred lashes, Tarquinius lost count of the total. He lapsed in and out of consciousness, his tunic and flesh torn to tatters by the long, thin strip of leather with its weighted iron tip. Thick lines of blood ran down his back and on to his legs, congealing around his feet. Tidal waves of agony swamped his whole body. If the gag hadn’t prevented him, he would have bitten through his bottom lip. But he could not stop the involuntary shudders racking him, which made Vahram laugh.
‘Where’s your power now, soothsayer?’ he taunted.
Only the icy wind blowing through the courtyard provided Tarquinius with some relief, numbing his wounds somewhat. But its effect was also deadly. Through the haze of pain, the haruspex knew that if the ordeal continued for much longer, the cold and his injuries would kill him. Without the thick clothing that his tormentors were wearing, no man could last more than a few hours outside.
Vahram knew it too.
Dimly, Tarquinius felt himself being taken down and carried inside. Without ceremony he was dumped by the fire, which released fresh torrents of suffering. While one of the guards stoked the blaze, the others rubbed his feet and arms with blankets until he could feel them again. The haruspex’ extremities tingled and stung as sensation returned to them, and his spirits sank. The ministering that he was receiving proved that his suffering was not over. Vahram was obviously desperate for information and would not stop until he got it.
‘Ready to talk now?’
Tarquinius opened his eyes to find the primus pilus by his side. Vahram undid the gag so that he could speak. ‘What do you want to know?’ he whispered.
Vahram’s lips curved upwards in triumph. ‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘About my future.’
‘Your future?’ Tarquinius croaked. ‘And that of Pacorus?’
Nodding, the primus pilus grew bolder. ‘Who should lead the Forgotten Legion now?’ he murmured. ‘Surely not that cripple in the bed?’
In that instant it was all clear. The haruspex swallowed, his mouth bone dry. With the increasing possibility that Pacorus might survive, Vahram’s hopes were beginning to disappear. His hand was being forced and now the ambitious primus pilus wanted a sign so he could seize command of the Forgotten Legion. If Tarquinius gave it to him, Pacorus would die. And if he did not . . .
Behind the squat Parthian, the blaze was coming back to life. With new logs to consume, flames darted back and forth, searching for the best place to climb upwards.
Following the haruspex’ gaze, Vahram’s face grew eager. Neither spoke for some moments.
In the white light, the rider whom Tarquinius had seen before reappeared. This time, he got a clear look at his visage. It was definitely Vahram. Missing his right hand, he looked terrified. With huge effort, the haruspex kept his expression blank. He could not reveal this without losing his own life. Vahram’s temper was ferocious.
‘Well?’
His sensed dulled by the pain, Tarquinius could not think of a good response. He shook his head.
Snarling with rage, the primus pilus smashed him full across the face with a clenched fist.
The haruspex felt his nose break. Blood filled his mouth and he coughed up a great gobbet on to the carpet. ‘It is unclear,’ he muttered, his teeth stained red. ‘Lately I have been able to see nothing.’
Disbelief twisted Vahram’s face.
In his bed just a few steps away, Pacorus slept on.
‘Take him outside again.’
The warriors hurried to obey. Hauling Tarquinius upright, they dragged him towards the door.
‘Wait!’ They heard the distinctive noise of a dagger being unsheathed.
There was a long pause.
Looking over his shoulder at what Vahram was doing, one of the guards laughed.
Nausea filled Tarquinius. The primus pilus’ cruelty knew no bounds. Measured steps came closer. When the heated blade touched the deepest of the cuts on his back, the haruspex could help himself no longer. A moan ripped free of his mouth.
Pacorus stirred and Vahram realised that he had gone too far inside the chamber. Taking his hand away, he ushered his guards and their burden through the door. Tarquinius was tied to the iron ring once more.
And the red-hot tip was pressed into his flesh over and over again. Vahram leaned in constantly, whispering in the haruspex’ ear. ‘Tell me, and I’ll stop.’
Desperate to end his own suffering, Tarquinius could not. Except for two details, his normally acute mind had gone blank. Previously he had seen that Pacorus’ role in his and his friends’ future was vital, and tonight the fire had shown that the primus pilus’ life might be in danger. Revealing either of these to Vahram was foolish in the extreme, and he could come up with nothing else. So the torture would go on.
Thankfully the freezing temperature cooled the dagger quickly.
But the primus pilus went straight back inside to the fire.
Weakness overcame Tarquinius and he sagged down, unable to hold himself upright any longer. The rope binding his wrists tightened cruelly, but by now he didn’t even feel that. The pain from the whipping and his burns was threatening to overwhelm him.
Content to wait until their master returned, the guards lounged nearby, chatting idly.
The haruspex’ eyes opened, unfocused. He could feel his strength departing with each heartbeat.
A gust of cold wind hit his face, and he looked upwards.
The night sky of earlier had changed: any sign of the moon and stars had disappeared. Great threatening banks of cloud were building. Deep inside them, flashes of vivid light flared, portents of the storm to come. Loud rumbles could already be heard and the air was heavy with expectation.
A rush of adrenalin coursed through the haruspex’ veins.
Witnessing thunder and lightning was one of the best ways to see the future. The ancient Etruscan books that he had studied so many years before dedicated many volumes to just this type of natural phenomenon. Perhaps he would see something that would pacify the vengeful primus pilus. And save his own life.
Faster than the eye could see, a blinding bolt of light shot out of a cloud bank directly overhead.
His eyes opened wide with shock as a succession of images shot before them.
Scythian riders annihilating a much smaller Roman force.
Five legionaries with raised swords in a circle around Romulus and Brennus.
A corpse hanging from a cross.
A pair of men rolling and tussling beside the dim glow of a fire. In one’s hand was an arrow with a hooked point. Their unknowing companions slept on alongside. The second struggling figure was Romulus.
Light spilled from the bedroom as Vahram emerged, the heated knife clutched in his right hand. He swaggered closer, knowing that Tarquinius could not take much more.
‘Ready to talk?’ he asked softly.
Deep in a trance, Tarquinius did not answer.
Vahram’s lips peeled back with fury and he laid the blade against Tarquinius’ left cheek.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Tarquinius’ lungs filled with air and he screamed. Using the last of his energy, he soared upwards towards the lightning, which was now flashing from the clouds every few moments. Before the end, he had to know.
The arrow threatening Romulus was Scythian. It was covered with scythicon.
The voice came from a long way away. ‘I’ll give you one more chance,’ he said. ‘Should Pacorus die?’primus pilus’
Romulus’ face contorted with effort, but the other man was stronger. Slowly, the hooked point was pushed down towards his unprotected neck.
His energy utterly spent, Tarquinius plummeted down to earth.
It was over. All his predictions had been wrong. Romulus would not return to Rome.
Vahram had had enough. Lifting his dagger to the haruspex’ throat, he moved in until only a finger’s breadth separated their faces.
Bizarrely, Tarquinius smiled. Olenus had been wrong also. His journey would
end here too, in Margiana.
The primus pilus lifted an enquiring eyebrow. Tarquinius’ response was to spit in his face. ‘Die, then,’ snarled Vahram, drawing back the blade.
Chapter X: Defeat
Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
‘Scum,’ hissed Optatus, his teeth clenched. ‘How dare you join the army?’
Romulus could not take his eyes off the arrow tip. If it even scratched his skin, he would die in screaming agony.
‘Death’s too good for you,’ whispered Optatus. ‘But at least this way will be painful.’
The burly veteran was using his right hand to push towards Romulus’ jugular, which meant that the young soldier’s weaker left arm had to try to prevent him. Stopping him from crying out, Optatus’ other hand was clamped over Romulus’ mouth. Even his sword arm could not remove it. And his enemy’s greater strength meant that the arrow’s hooked point was moving towards his neck with a slow, dreadful inevitability. Romulus struggled not to panic. If he did that, his life would be over. Faced with certain death, his desire to survive suddenly became overwhelming.
Bending his right leg with a jerk, he tried to knee Optatus in the groin.
‘Got to do better than that, boy,’ sneered the veteran, twisting his hips and avoiding injury.
Frantic, Romulus turned his head from side to side. His sword was just out of reach, as was the fire.
Optatus grinned viciously and leaned down on the arrow.
Desperation filled every fibre of Romulus’ being. By stretching out, it might be possible to kick over a burning log, and the noise of that might wake Brennus. He would hurt himself badly, but he could think of nothing else. Marching with burns to one foot could be no worse than death, Romulus thought grimly. The notion of staying alive until at least dawn was enough. Managing to hold the barbed point a few fingers’ width from his neck, he wriggled around, reaching out with his left sandal. It was no use, and terror filled Romulus once more.
Sensing this, the big veteran grimaced with effort and put all of his strength into stabbing Romulus with the lethal metal tip. Then his face changed. In a heartbeat, it went from surprised to relaxed, and he slumped down on top of Romulus, a dead weight. The arrow point buried itself in the ground less than a hand span from the young soldier’s left ear.
Staring at the shaft, Romulus’ eyes bulged with horror. Death had been so close.
Optatus was pulled off with a great heave to reveal Brennus’ grinning face crouched over him. ‘Looked like you needed a little help,’ he whispered, wiping blood off the hilt of his longsword.
‘You’ve only knocked him unconscious?’ whispered Romulus, aghast at Brennus’ restraint. ‘This is a Scythian arrow! The bastard was trying to kill me.’
‘I know,’ replied the Gaul with an apologetic shrug. ‘But we need all the men here to have a chance of breaking out.’ He kicked Optatus. ‘Even him.’
The veterans might not know it, but Brennus was right, thought Romulus bitterly.
Checking that Darius and the officers were still asleep, they dragged Optatus’ bulk back to the space he was sharing with Novius and the others.
Shaken, the little legionary jumped up as they dumped Optatus’ body beside their fire. ‘Wake up!’ he hissed at Ammias and Primitivus.
Their faces befuddled by sleep, his comrades jerked bolt upright.
Romulus and Brennus used their swords to cover both.
Novius regarded the pair warily: now it was they who had the advantage. Two against three, but he was the only one ready to fight.
‘He’s not dead,’ said Brennus coldly.
Novius’ face registered surprise, then shock. He knelt and laid a hand to Optatus’ neck. Finding a pulse, he nodded at Ammias and Primitivus. Both looked very relieved.
‘The scumbag should be though,’ added Romulus, throwing down the Scythian arrow. ‘This is what he came visiting with.’
Ammias flinched and Romulus saw that they had all known about it.
Novius’ expression turned calculating. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’
Romulus and Brennus did not answer.
‘Whatever it was won’t save your skins,’ Novius sneered. ‘Being nice doesn’t entitle you to mercy.’
‘Dirty slaves,’ said Primitivus contemptuously.
Brennus growled deep in his throat, wishing he had not held back.
Romulus’ anger boiled up, but he did not respond. Keeping silent about the possible Scythian attack was about the only advantage they had. ‘Might as well get what rest we can,’ he said to Brennus. He turned and walked away silently, the Gaul by his side.
‘Fools,’ said the little legionary with a smirk of satisfaction. ‘They’ll be dead before we get back to the fort.’
While it was still dark, Darius had the men stand to. The moon had set, but the crystal-clear sky overhead was bright with stars. In the freezing air, no sound could be heard from the enemy camp. A party was sent out to gather as many javelins as possible. Although the Roman pila often bent on impact, some inevitably failed to find a target. With the Scythian sentries either asleep or unaware of the creeping soldiers, the mission was a qualified success. Thirty legionaries soon had a second pilum again.
Grateful that the long night was over, the two centuries waited for Darius’ orders. Brennus and Romulus took the time to stretch and rub their chilled muscles thoroughly. Many who saw them did the same. It was techniques like this which gave men the edge in combat.
Darius was in a better mood as he addressed his soldiers. ‘Leave your yokes behind. Without them, this should be simple,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll use a wedge formation to smash through to the track west. Remember your comrades who died here.’ He pointed at the barracks. ‘Kill as many Scythians as you can, but don’t stop.’
Teeth flashed in the darkness as men smiled wolfishly. They stamped their feet in anticipation.
‘Once through their lines, we double time it until I say stop.’
‘That won’t be long then, sir,’ piped up Gordianus from the safety of the ranks.
There was muffled laughter at his joke. Beside the fit, lean legionaries, Darius was a portly figure.
The senior centurion had the grace to smile. ‘I can run when needs must,’ he answered.
Romulus was pleased. This was more like the leader he was used to.
‘We wait for no one,’ said Darius fiercely. ‘Anyone who falls is to be left behind. Including me. Is that clear?’
Everyone nodded.
‘Good.’ Darius strode into the middle of the men, his guard by his side. ‘Form up outside the gate.’
Making as little noise as possible, the legionaries walked out of the fortlet. Without fuss, they positioned themselves into a large V-shape, with Romulus and Brennus at the apex. Not even Novius had protested when the pair demanded this honour; he did not realise it was to show the other soldiers that the two friends were no cowards. The wedge was a useful attacking formation and with men like these at the front, it had more chance of success. Once moving, it was extremely hard for an enemy to stop. But the point was also the most dangerous place to be. Being killed was very likely.
By now, their eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Past the scattered corpses, it was possible to make out the shapes of sleeping men around a few small fires nearby. Groups of hobbled horses stood behind, moving gently from foot to foot. Steam rose from the beasts’ thick coats. Still not a sound reached them from the Scythians.
Romulus grinned. Just like Darius’ refusal to believe in his vision, these warriors could not imagine an attack in darkness. It would be the reason for their death.
‘Ready pila,’ whispered the senior centurion from their midst.
Silently they obeyed.
‘Forward.’
Caligae crunched slowly on the frosty ground, but soon picked up speed. In a few heartbeats, the soldiers were at a trot. Icy air rushed into their faces, chilling their nostrils and throats with each inhalation. No one spoke a wor
d. Every man knew his task, had practised it a thousand times before on the training ground. Shields held high to protect their bodies, they grasped their javelins loosely in their right hands, ready to stab downwards. The charge was all-important. If they broke through, freedom beckoned. Failure would mean death.
Momentarily forgetting the threat from Novius and his comrades, Romulus bared his teeth.
It was thrilling.
Terrifying.
Within fifty paces, they were on the enemy.
Preparing himself, Romulus drew back his pilum. Stooping low, he plunged it into the side of a sleeping form, and jumped over without checking to see if the Scythian was dead. Right now, injuring was good enough. Beside him, Brennus kept pace, stabbing the man’s companion in the chest as he went by. Two more warriors were dispatched similarly and then they were past the first fire and on to three terrified sentries. Dark eyes opened wide with shock. The trio, who had been muttering quietly to each other, were suddenly confronted by an armoured mass of running legionaries, bloodied javelins in hand.
Screams of terror filled the air. They were rapidly cut off, ebbing away into bubbling whispers. But the noise woke the other Scythians. Wrapped in their thick cloaks and blankets, most had been sleeping comfortably. Waking to the sounds of men dying, the startled warriors jumped up and grabbed for their weapons. All was confusion and disorder.
There was no need for silence any longer. Brennus threw back his head and let out a blood-curdling battle cry; in response, the legionaries yelled a deafening roar of defiance.
The element of speed and surprise was vital, thought Romulus as they pounded on. The Scythians were still half-asleep and unable to fight back properly. It must have seemed as if demons had descended upon their encampment. They simply did not have a chance. Hobnailed caligae stamped down on upturned faces, breaking noses and splitting lips; pila stabbed down into soft, unprotected flesh, and were ripped free to use again. Legionaries used the iron rims of their scuta to smash down on enemy heads. It was most satisfying to revenge themselves for the deaths of the unfortunates in the fortlet. Nonetheless, they kept running.
