by Ben Kane
Seeing the Scythians’ horses reacting uneasily to the screams and cries, Romulus had a brainwave. ‘Throw your javelins,’ he cried, pointing left. ‘They’ll panic!’
The men immediately on his left needed no urging. Slowing down, they drew back and released their pila at the milling mounts. Romulus did likewise. It was impossible to miss: all of the missiles found a target. Rearing up in pain from the metal barbs buried deep in their backs, the injured horses kicked out with their front feet, spun in circles and barged their companions. That was enough. Ripping up the pegs which had tethered their lead ropes to the ground, the group of terrified horses turned and fled into the darkness.
Romulus whooped with glee. Now the Scythians could not pursue them.
‘Good thinking,’ cried Brennus.
Pleased, Romulus knew more still awaited. This was only the start – but it was a good one.
Soon the wedge had forced its way through the enemy camp. In its wake, it left utter mayhem. Scores of warriors lay in blood-soaked blankets, slain before they had even woken up. Others had belly wounds that would take days to kill, or badly cut limbs which completely disabled. Some had even been trampled by their own mounts. Those who were uninjured stood dazedly looking after the Romans, unable to respond.
Not a single legionary had been killed or wounded.
Romulus could not help but be proud. What other soldiers were capable of such a fast-moving manoeuvre in the dark? But this was no time to clap themselves on the back. They had to make as much ground as possible before dawn, and whatever fate that delivered to them.
Darius was in no mood to linger either. There was a moment to wipe their bloody pila on their cloaks and take a gulp of water, and then Darius bellowed, ‘Double time!’
Romulus and Brennus took off, followed by their comrades. In case of pursuit, no change was made to the wedge for the moment. Thanks to the bright stars, following the track west was not difficult. The stones had been beaten down from the regular passage of legionaries, forming a wide, easily discernible stripe across the landscape.
They ran for a long time, until it felt as if their lungs would burst.
Behind them, the sky began to lighten. As the sun climbed into view, it finally became possible to make out their surroundings. Nearby was an inscribed stone tablet.
They were exactly two miles from the fortlet.
Horseless, the Scythians had no chance of catching them now. Roman legionaries could march twenty-four miles in five hours, carrying full kit. Without their heavy yokes to slow them down, the patrol would probably reach the safety of the main fort in less than four.
‘Halt!’ cried Darius, his sweating face purple with effort. To give him his due, the senior centurion had kept up with his men. ‘Down shields. Take a breather.’
The delighted legionaries smiled at the command. Everyone had seen the mile marker and done the maths. They had earned a brief rest. As ordered, their scuta clattered down. Keeping the wedge formation, the soldiers sank to one knee, breathing heavily. Gulps were taken from leather water carriers, helmets and felt liners lifted to dry hair that was wringing with moisture. No one could complain of being cold now.
Romulus grimaced as he scanned the low slopes around them.
‘Not happy?’ asked Brennus under his breath.
‘No.’ There were large areas of flat ground beyond the top of the inclines on either side of the defile. ‘A whole damn army could be waiting up there.’
The Gaul’s gaze followed his. He too had been on many patrols through here and knew every dip and fold of the terrain. ‘It opens out soon,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Get through this section and we’ll quickly see any enemy.’
‘That’s not for nearly a mile,’ Romulus muttered. He turned to see where Darius was. Pleasingly, the Parthian was moving among the men, muttering encouraging words. It was the mark of a good officer to praise those under his command when they had performed well. With the adrenalin rush of their escape subsiding, Darius now seemed unconcerned. Romulus’ warning the day before had meant nothing. In the Parthian’s mind, there was time for a respite before the long march home.
Romulus prayed that his vision had been wrong. But his instinct was jangling an inner alarm.
It was time to continue. Instead of the attacking wedge, the legionaries formed up in a more typical marching order. Each century was six wide, fifteen deep. Darius took up his position at the front, his faithful guard alongside.
As they moved off, Romulus’ heart pounded in his chest. He could not stop his eyes moving from side to side. Brennus was similarly alert, but neither said a word to anyone.
Spirits had risen hugely because of their escape, and it wasn’t long before Gordianus began his usual ditty about the legionary in the brothel.
This was too much for Romulus, whose nerves were fraying. There was no point warning any enemies nearby of their presence. ‘Give it a rest,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that a hundred times before.’
‘Shut it, you filth,’ Novius responded. ‘We want to hear about your mother.’
‘And your sisters,’ responded Brennus as quick as a flash.
The others cheered at the jokes.
Novius flushed with anger but his retort was lost in the din as the whole formation responded to Gordianus’ tune.
Romulus’ jaw clenched with anger at the insult. A lowly house slave, his mother had still done her best for him and Fabiola. It had meant suffering Gemellus’ sexual abuse nightly for years, but Velvinna had never complained. Tragically, her efforts had come to nothing when the merchant’s debts reached a critical mass. The twins were sold to raise money. Romulus knew nothing more of his mother, which stung his heart.
Brennus leaned over and spoke in his ear. ‘Don’t listen to them. The poor bastards would laugh at anything right now. And keeping quiet won’t prevent an ambush either. Singing keeps their spirits up.’
Romulus’ anger dissipated. The Gaul was right. Happy soldiers fought better than miserable ones. And they might as well imagine a good time in a whorehouse than being slaughtered by Scythians. He opened his mouth and joined in.
After a dozen verses had been bellowed out, Romulus was feeling more relaxed.
It was then that the colour of the sky changed from blue to black.
Fortunately, he was looking upwards at that moment. Lulled by Gordianus’ bawdy chant, Romulus did not immediately recognise the dense swarm of arrows. When he did, his warning cry was too little, too late.
To avoid being seen, the volley had been sent up in a hugely steep, curving arc. But already the metal points had turned to point downwards. In three or four heartbeats, they would land amongst the unsuspecting legionaries.
‘Arrows incoming!’ Romulus bellowed.
One heartbeat.
At the cry, Darius looked into the air, his face a picture of shock. Behind him, other soldiers too were staring up in a mixture of fascination and fear.
Two heartbeats.
Still the senior centurion did not speak. Death was looking him in the eye, and Darius had no answer.
Three heartbeats.
Someone had to act, or most of the patrol would be killed or injured, thought Romulus. ‘Form testudo!’ he roared, breaking all kinds of rules by shouting an order.
Training instantly took over. The men in the middle squatted down, lifting their heavy scuta over their heads while those on the outside formed a shield wall.
Whirring through the air, the hundreds of wooden shafts came to earth. It was a soft, beautiful and deadly noise. While many sank harmlessly into the silk covers or the ground around the soldiers, plenty of others found the gaps between shields that were still coming together. There was a brief delay and then Romulus’ ears rang with the cries of the injured. Soon he could hear little else. Legionaries cursed and screamed, clawing frantically at the barbed points that had sunk deep into flesh. The dead slumped against their comrades, their shields falling from slack fingers. Although many men wer
e still obeying orders, the testudo had virtually fallen apart.
Biting back a curse, Romulus glanced towards Darius.
The jovial Parthian would never shout an order again. Pierced by half a dozen arrows, he lay motionless ten steps away. A thin line of blood was running from the corner of his mouth, while his right hand reached out towards them in a futile, supplicating gesture. Darius’ bodyguard was sprawled carelessly nearby. Both their faces were frozen in a rictus of shock.
But the attack had just started. More arrows shot up into the sky from either side of them.
At last came a quick response. ‘Form testudo!’ The voice belonged to one of the optiones.
For the second time, the armoured square took shape. This time, though, it was much smaller. Fortunately, both junior officers were experienced men. Screaming orders and with liberal use of their long staffs, they forced the able-bodied men away from the uneven footing that was the injured and slain. It made no sense to trip up on one’s comrade and end up dead as a result. Romulus could not look at the pathetic sight of those they left behind. Yet the optiones knew what they were doing. The plaintive cries for help from the blinded and maimed had to be ignored. In the heat of battle, the best action to take was that which preserved the lives of most.
Knowing what was about to happen, some of the wounded grabbed their shields and tried to cover as much of their bodies as possible. It wasn’t enough: they still died when the second volley landed. By the time the last arrows had fallen, there was nothing more than a bloody pile of feathered corpses beside the testudo.
Brennus did a quick head count. ‘This is not good,’ he said, scowling. ‘Lost nearly fifty men already.’
Romulus nodded, watching the slopes on either side. Any moment now, he thought.
As if answering his call, hundreds of warriors emerged into view. Clad in the same manner as the riders the Romans had butchered early that morning, these were also Scythians. There were infantry, archers on foot and on horseback.
My dream was accurate, Romulus thought with bitter amazement. This force was more than enough to annihilate what remained of the two centuries. What little trust he had had in Mithras withered away.
‘We’re fucked,’ cried Novius, who was still unscathed.
An inarticulate moan of dread rose from the men.
It was hard to argue, but Romulus was damned if he would just let himself be killed. ‘What now, sir?’ he bawled at the older of the two optiones. By virtue of his years served, he was now the commander.
The junior officers looked uncertainly at each other.
The legionaries waited.
Brennus’ smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a steely-eyed, fixed stare. Is this my time? he wondered. If it is, great Belenus, grant protection to Romulus. And let me die well.
The young soldier knew Brennus’ look from experience. It meant that Scythians would die. Many of them. But even the huge Gaul could not kill all the warriors who were swarming down around the testudo, blocking off any escape avenue.
‘Form wedge!’ cried the senior optio at last. What had worked before might do so again. ‘Drive through them and we’ve got a chance.’
His men needed no prompting. If they did not act fast, they would be surrounded completely.
‘Middle ranks, keep your shields up. Forward!’
The desperate soldiers obeyed, instinctively moving at double time.
A hundred paces in front, Scythian foot soldiers were already forming up in deep lines. Romulus eyed the dark-skinned enemy warriors, who were lightly armed compared to the legionaries. Mostly wearing felt hats, few had chain mail or metal helmets. Their only protection was the small round or crescent shields they carried. Armed with spears, swords and axes, they would pose little obstacle to the fast-moving wedge.
‘Those won’t stop us,’ Brennus panted. ‘They’re just light infantry.’
His friend was correct. Confusion filled Romulus. Perhaps his dream did not mean their annihilation after all? If they broke through, nothing stood between them and the fort. What kind of trick was Mithras playing?
They closed in on the Scythians, who immediately launched their spears. The man to Romulus’ right was too slow in lifting his scutum and the next instant, a broad iron blade had taken him through the neck. Without making a sound, he dropped, forcing the men behind him to jump over his body. No one tried to help him. The wound was mortal. Other casualties were similarly ignored. Now, as never before, speed was of the essence. The legionaries loosed a volley of pila at twenty paces, causing dozens of casualties. On they ran.
Romulus fixed his gaze on a bearded, tattooed Scythian with a domed iron helmet.
Twenty steps separated them, then ten.
‘For the Forgotten Legion!’ roared Brennus. ‘FOR-GOTTEN LE-GION!’
At the top of his voice, every man answered back.
It was the unifying cry for all of them, thought Romulus. They were truly Rome’s lost soldiers, fighting for their very survival at the ends of the earth. Did anyone at home care about them now? Probably not. All they had was each other. And that wasn’t enough. Gritting his teeth, Romulus took a better hold of his horizontal scutum grip. With its heavy iron boss, the Roman shield was a good battering ram.
His target shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the point of the wedge was heading straight for him.
It was too late.
Romulus punched upwards with his scutum, smashing the Scythian’s nose. As he reeled back in agony, Romulus’ gladius took him in the chest, and the warrior fell from view. The ranks behind were ready, however, and Romulus’ vision was immediately filled with snarling, bearded faces. Lowering his shield again, Romulus let the wedge’s momentum carry him forward. Although he could only make out Brennus and another legionary on either side, there were about a hundred men pushing behind them.
Swinging his sword wildly, a screaming Scythian threw himself at Romulus, who took the blow on the metal rim of his scutum. As his enemy raised his arm to repeat the blow, Romulus leaned forward and shoved his gladius deep into the man’s armpit. He knew the damage it would cause – sliding between ribs to slice lungs and large blood vessels, perhaps even the heart. The Scythian’s mouth gaped like a fish and a gush of arterial blood followed the blade out. Romulus grimaced with satisfaction as the corpse fell to the ground. Two down, he thought wearily. A few hundred to go. Yet, judging from the loud roars of encouragement from the men at the back, the wedge was still moving forward.
He pushed on.
A pair of similar-looking heavy-set men, brothers possibly, threw themselves at Romulus next. One grabbed the edge of his shield with his bare hands, pulling it down while the other stabbed forward with a long dagger. Romulus twisted to one side, barely avoiding the blade. A powerful slash followed, sliding off the cheek piece of his helmet and opening a shallow cut under his right eye. The first Scythian was still trying to wrest the scutum from him, so Romulus just let go. He couldn’t fight two enemies at once. Staggering under the unexpected weight of the heavy shield, the man was unbalanced and fell backwards.
That left his brother with the dagger, who smiled now that Romulus had no scutum. Dodging forward, he angled his blade at the young soldier’s unprotected lower legs. Romulus had to react fast. The Scythian was too close to stab with his gladius, so he used his shield hand, his left, to punch the other in the side of the head. As the man went down, half stunned, Romulus reversed his grip on the gladius. Gripping its bone hilt with both fists, he turned the blade and plunged it into the Scythian’s back. Iron grated off his ribs as it slid through to pierce a kidney.
An animal scream of pain rang out and Romulus stooped, twisting the blade slightly to make sure.
Struggling to his feet, the second warrior saw his brother writhing on the ground. Rage distorted his face as he threw himself bodily at Romulus. It was a fatal mistake. Using one of Brennus’ moves, Romulus let go of his sword with his left hand and stood, smashing the Scythian acros
s the face with a stiff forearm. It bought him enough time to regain his gladius and step forward, dispatching his swaying enemy with a simple forward thrust.
Romulus turned his head, checking the situation on either side. On his right, Brennus was wading through Scythians like a man possessed. His sheer size intimidated before he even came to blows with each warrior. But the Gaul also possessed great skill with weapons. Romulus watched with awe as Brennus barged into a large Scythian, pushing him back several steps and knocking over two men in the ranks behind. While the warrior tried to defend himself, Brennus stabbed him in the belly. The Scythian fell and the Gaul leaped over him, cracking the bottom of his shield off the head of another man. Knocking the warrior unconscious, the blow also opened a deep cut in his scalp. Romulus knew exactly why. There was no end to Brennus’ tricks. As in the ludus, the rim of his scutum had been sharpened.
‘We’re nearly through!’ yelled Gordianus from his left, pointing with a bloody gladius.
Romulus grinned. Just three ranks stood between them and the road west.
They redoubled their efforts. After a few moments of cut and thrust, the last Scythians in their path had been dispatched. On the sides of the wedge, their comrades were still fighting past warriors, but the spirit had gone out of their lightly armed enemies. As the opposition melted away, the legionaries came to a gradual halt. Seven had fallen, twice that number had minor flesh wounds, but there were still nearly ninety men who could march. Chests heaving, faces purple with effort, they stopped to savour the view.
‘A bare track never looked so inviting,’ said Gordianus, wiping his brow. ‘Well done, lad.’
Full of gratitude at the other’s acceptance, Romulus did not reply.
Gordianus saw Brennus’ worried look. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Above the screams of the injured and the battle cries of the Scythian infantry to their rear, Romulus heard the sound of pounding hooves. His skin crawled, remembering Carrhae.
