by Ben Kane
‘Alexander’s army finally came to a halt not far from here,’ said Tarquinius. ‘Because his troops would go no further.’
‘They were wise men,’ the commander answered. ‘Since deepest antiquity, the Indian kings have fielded huge armies. Far bigger than that damn Greek might have had.’
That damn Greek had more military talent in his little finger than you do in your whole rotten body, thought the haruspex.
‘Nothing has changed then,’ added Vahram drily.
‘Where are they, though?’ asked Ishkan.
Nervous eyes turned to Tarquinius.
‘The gods help you if this was a wasted march,’ growled Pacorus.
Vahram gripped his sword hilt, always keen to administer a quick revenge.
Tarquinius did not answer immediately. Surviving the torture had, if anything, helped him to consider everything for longer. Raising his head, the haruspex smelt the air. His eyes never still, he searched the sky.primus pilus’
Over the previous week, the weather had improved steadily. Spring was now well under way. In the fields belonging to the settlements that they had passed, the new wheat and barley was sprouting pale green shoots. Away from the colder climate of the mountains, the plants and trees were beginning to bloom. The river level would have fallen from its winter highs, the haruspex thought. It was about two months before the monsoon began. A perfect time for an army to cross safely.
Vahram was growing impatient, but Pacorus sat quietly astride his black stallion. Although he hated it, he had grown used to Tarquinius’ contemplative manner. Waiting for a few moments more would not change the course of their fate.
Tarquinius’ gaze was drawn to a solitary huge vulture flying over the far bank. Its appearance was striking, and unusual. Black circles dramatised its eyes; the rest of its head was white, while the neck and body were a pale brown colour. Even its long, diamond-shaped tail was distinctive.
Its presence had to be of significance.
Clutching a large tortoise in its talons, the vulture was climbing steadily into the air. When it had reached a height that he judged to be at least two hundred paces, it simply let go. The tortoise plummeted to the ground, its rigid shell guaranteeing a certain death. It was followed in a more leisurely way by the bird.
A striking example of intelligence, Tarquinius thought. A good lesson, when the odds seemed insurmountable.
In the eastern distance, over the trees, he glimpsed banks of massing thunderclouds. Tarquinius gave silent thanks to Tinia and Mithras. Since Vahram’s torture, divining had become more difficult. But his talents had not completely disappeared. ‘We’re late,’ he said. ‘There are shallows two days march to the south. They’re already crossing there.’
Ishkan’s tanned face paled. He knew where the ford was, but there was no way that Tarquinius could have: none of the Parthians would have mentioned it.
This was more proof that Tarquinius’ abilities were indeed real, thought Vahram. It was good that he had not killed the haruspex. Yet, he reflected, what faced them was as ominous as the fate which awaited any who killed such a man. A week earlier, the Forgotten Legion had abandoned the easily defendable pass through the mountains. The plan had been to reach the Hydaspes before the enemy, to deny them the crossing, or at least to make them pay dearly for it. Now, the realisation that the Indians were already on this bank hit home. And on the open ground by the river, their situation seemed even more vulnerable.
Pacorus set his jaw. A brave man, he was not about to run from his duty. Better to die honourably in battle against Parthia’s enemies than suffer an ignominious end at the hands of King Orodes’ executioners. He looked searchingly at Tarquinius. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘There is much to be done.’
Vahram sneered. ‘What can we possibly do, except die?’
‘Teach the Indians a lesson they will never forget,’ growled Pacorus.
Tired and footsore after yet another long march, the legionaries were unhappy at having to erect a marching camp a good mile from the river. The distance meant that those on water-hauling duty would spend far more time driving the mules to and fro than normal.
Romulus wasn’t concerned by the camp’s location. He had seen the Parthian horsemen take off at dawn, and knew that something was up.
When it was announced that every man would have to work the next day as well, the grumbling grew even louder. No one dared to question the order, however. Opening one’s mouth guaranteed severe punishment. Besides, it made sense to build defences.
The following dawn, they started. Brennus took to the task with gusto. In his huge hands, a shovel looked like a toy. But the amount of earth that he moved proved otherwise.
The Hydaspes was to shield the Forgotten Legion’s left flank. Under Tarquinius’ direction, the soldiers dug lines of deep curved ditches parallel to the riverbank, but about eight hundred paces away. This was the approximate width of the legion in battle formation. Branches were cut and trimmed, and dug into the bottoms of the defences. Facing outwards like one half of a circle, the trenches would protect the right flank. Without significant numbers of cavalry, this was the haruspex’ way of improvising. Inside the ditches, hundreds more sharpened wooden stakes were buried at an angle in the ground, jutting forward like so many crooked teeth in a crocodile’s jaws. In between them were scattered the caltrops, their iron spikes sticking jauntily into the air.
The dozen ballistae were split up, half facing forward along the line, and the rest placed to cover the area in front of the ditches. If necessary, they could be turned to cover the rear as well. The men that could be spared from other duties searched out suitably sized rocks by the river, and used the mules to haul them back. Pyramidal piles of this ammunition were built up beside each catapult. They varied from the size of a fist to lumps bigger than a man’s head. Aimed and fired correctly, all were deadly. Romulus had watched the artillerymen practising on many occasions and knew that the ballistae would play an important part in the battle.
The last, unexplained task was to dig a narrow yet deep trench from the river; it crossed right in front of where the Forgotten Legion would stand. Scores of long side channels were also excavated, until the ground looked like a field with too many irrigation channels. The final part of the trench, which would allow the Hydaspes to pour in and reach all its tributaries, was finished last. As the final clumps of soil were dug away, the trickle soon became a minor torrent, filling the channels to the brim.
With their purpose made obvious, there were weary smiles all round. By the morning, the area would be a quagmire.
The day of intense physical labour was over, allowing the legionaries to dwell on morbid matters – such as their future. And the battle that loomed ever nearer.
The remnants of Pacorus’ horsemen arrived back that evening, bloody and battered. They had been attacked by a far greater force of Indian cavalry, suffering heavy losses. And they reported that the army that followed in their wake was as large as Tarquinius had predicted. Or larger. It would arrive the next day.
A deep despondency fell on the legionaries. The haruspex had been proved correct yet again. Every single man in the Forgotten Legion but one wished the opposite.
Romulus knew now that he could not escape his fate. He felt it rushing in as if borne on the wings of doom itself. Thoughts of returning to Rome seemed utterly futile, a waste of valuable energy. Better to save it for the fight the next day, when death would find them all on this green plain, by the River Hydaspes. Seventeen seemed too young to die, he thought sadly.
A strange sense of complacency filled Brennus. Word had spread that they were not far from where Alexander’s incredible advance had been halted. ‘This is the end of the world,’ muttered many men as they sat around their fires that night. ‘Even if they could, who would want to travel any further?’
Their unknowing words reverberated deep in the core of the Gaul’s being.
A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone.
Or will ever go.
After nine long years, the gods were finally beginning to reveal their purpose to him.
Chapter XVI: The Road to Gaul
Northern Italy, winter 53/52 BC
Seeing her fear, Secundus moved closer. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s the fugitivarii,’ Fabiola whispered. ‘I know it.’
‘This would be their style,’ he said with a scowl. ‘And they’d be wary of my men. So they creep in like thieves and kill them unawares.’
‘To even the numbers.’
‘Exactly.’ Secundus scanned the nearby trees and bushes. ‘The bastards will have been tracking us since we left.’
‘Should we go back?’
He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Whoever it was murdered these lads will find it easier to recruit more men there than if we keep moving. Besides, the rioting has spread. Rome is no place for any of us right now.’
‘And it’ll take weeks for Pompey’s legions to arrive,’ said Fabiola. If the rumours sweeping the city as they left were correct, the sole consul would by now be dictator for the year. Nervous of the situation, the Senate had finally acted. But Pompey’s armies were scattered throughout the Republic; most were in Hispania and Greece, while others were dispersed across Italy.
‘Time we don’t have,’ Secundus declared. ‘Best move on.’
‘Fast,’ added one of the others.
Sextus bared his teeth in agreement.
Fabiola did not argue. The graphic evidence of what might happen if they did nothing was still lying before her.
Despite the frozen soil, it did not take the veterans long to bury their comrades. Fabiola was struck by their efficiency as she watched them swiftly shovel out a pair of deep holes, inter the blood-soaked bodies and cover them with earth. Their weapons were also buried. Everyone stood around while Secundus said a few words. But there was no time to carve a wooden grave marker. Servius and Antoninus had disappeared as if they had never existed.
Yet the plain graves were still more than most slaves got, Fabiola thought sadly. Like the excess city waste and the bodies of executed criminals, they were simply discarded in stinking, open pits. After a battle, a similar fate awaited the dead soldiers of the losing side. Like Romulus, at Carrhae. Or wherever the battle she had seen in her vision would take place.
She climbed miserably into the litter, followed by a stone-faced Docilosa. Secundus barked an order to move out.
Nothing further happened that day and Secundus made sure that the party reached a town by nightfall. Not wanting others to know their intended route to Gaul, it had been his aim to avoid human contact where possible. The night attack had changed things; safety now lay in numbers. Secundus hurried them to the best inn to be found, a low-roofed timber affair with a bar room full of unsavoury types and a muddy yard enclosed by stables. Curious glances followed the two women as they quickly descended from the litter, raising the hoods on the dark-coloured military lacernae which Secundus had provided. They had been reduced to skulking like thieves.
Once a simple meal had been provided for Fabiola and Docilosa in their room, Secundus left two men outside their door with Sextus. He and the others shared the neighbouring chamber, but regularly came to check on them. With Docilosa in bed early, there was time for him to talk to Fabiola in private. Secundus seemed increasingly convinced of her right to become a Mithraic devotee, and had begun revealing fascinating details about the secretive religion, including its central beliefs and rituals. Keen to be part of a cult which recognised slaves as equals, Fabiola soaked it all up.
Eight more days passed in this fashion: journeying without pause, followed by a poor night’s sleep in a flea-ridden, uncomfortable bed. By the morning of the ninth day, Fabiola was beginning to wonder if her fears had been overreaction. The violent storm and the sentries’ murders had sent her mood into the black depths. Perhaps now though their deaths could be put down to bandits: a random event that would not be repeated. The border with Gaul was a week’s march away, and the thought of seeing Brutus again filled her with joy.
Even Secundus and Sextus seemed happier. Only Docilosa remained in bad spirits. Not even the prospect of better weather could please her. All along the roads, the frost was melting. Snowdrops were already poking free of the short grass beneath. When the sun emerged from behind the clouds, there was a new warmth in its rays. Spring was coming at last. Birds sang in the trees, alerting the world to the fact. Fabiola could not stop herself from smiling at Docilosa’s continued grim demeanour as the litter bumped and creaked along.
Later, she would regret not paying more attention to it.
Their choice came in the afternoon, not long after the road had entered a narrow valley. Tall trees hemmed in the way ahead, their bare lower branches reaching out threateningly at head height. Entering, the bright sunshine all but disappeared, leaving a small strip of sky visible overhead. Between the closely positioned, gnarled trunks on either side were huge boulders covered in moss, the remnants of an ancient rock fall. Few birds or animals were visible, leaving a deathly silence over the wood. It was most unwelcoming.
Unusually, Sextus had left Fabiola’s side to check out the way ahead with two men acting as scouts. Secundus conferred with them upon their return while Sextus stood alongside, nodding his head. According to the three, there was little choice but to press on. The alternative route around the defile would set them back a day or more.
‘My lads saw no sign of anyone,’ Secundus announced. ‘And this section only lasts for a short distance before opening out again.’
Unsure, Fabiola chewed her lip.
‘They both have noses for trouble like a hound on the scent,’ Secundus went on. ‘We’ll be through it in half an hour. No more.’
Sextus grinned encouragingly.
The temptation was too much for Fabiola. If Sextus, her good-luck talisman, was happy, then it must be safe. Ignoring Docilosa’s grumbles, she nodded her assent.
A trio of Secundus’ men led the way, bows at the ready. Next came the litter, borne by the sweating slaves, flanked closely on either side by a pair of veterans. The narrowness of the road and the sweeping branches meant that these men were forced to stoop regularly as they walked. Taking up the rear were Sextus, Secundus and the last two of his followers. It was far from an ideal way to continue, thought Fabiola as she peered out and almost lost an eye to the sharp end on a half-decayed branch.
Time dragged in the semi-darkness. In an effort to lift the mood, Fabiola tried engaging Docilosa in conversation about the possibility of finding Sabina, her daughter. The child had been taken from her at the tender age of six, sold as an acolyte to one of the temples. It was a bad choice of topic. Docilosa’s sour expression deepened, remaining unchanged no matter what Fabiola said. She determined to try and track down Sabina if she ever got the chance. It would be worth paying good money just to see Docilosa smile.
Docilosa sensed it first. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked sharply.
Deep in thought, Fabiola did not react.
The litter came to an abrupt halt, jolting her into awareness.
There was silence for a moment, and then the air filled with terrifying screams. They came from all around them, and Fabiola froze.
‘Fabiola!’
She came alive at the sound of Secundus’ voice.
Soft hissing noises were followed by thumps and shouts of pain. Arrows, thought Fabiola. An ambush. Would the gods never leave her alone?
‘Get out! Quickly!’
Docilosa looked terrified, but Fabiola took her arm and forced her to follow. Death awaited them if they stayed put. Pulling aside the curtain, she forced her way through a dense clump of branches to the ground. Muttering to herself, Docilosa came too. Sextus was waiting, and protectively ushered them forward. He looked shame-faced.
Ducking down, Fabiola moved to the front of the litter. Three of Secundus’ men were crouched there, holding their shields together to form a protective screen. Alarm filled
her. The road ahead had been blocked with a combination of large rocks and pieces of fallen deadwood, completely preventing the slaves from carrying the litter past. And from behind the barrier’s protection, cloaked figures were firing volleys of arrows at the ex-legionaries. Thanks to the low-hanging branches and the poor light, their faces were obscured. Whatever their ambushers’ identity, they had moved fast to set the trap after the scouts had returned.
Her head turned this way and that, trying to assess the situation. There was only one body in clear sight, that of a veteran. An arrow jutted from his open mouth, a fatal shot that would have given an instant of blinding pain before total oblivion. She couldn’t see the remaining five, or Secundus.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘On the other side of the litter,’ replied one of the ex-soldiers grimly. ‘Kneeling behind his scutum like us.’
‘We can’t stay here,’ protested Fabiola. ‘They’ll pick us off one by one.’
Reinforcing her point, two barbed shafts thumped into the litter just over their heads. The slaves moaned in fear. Jeers and insults from their attackers followed.
Sextus and the three veterans stared at her mutely. Fabiola realised that low-rankers were used to following orders, not initiating them. They would hardly obey her either – a woman whom they did not trust. Fabiola was therefore very relieved when Secundus appeared behind her. Given the choice of whether to bear arms or protect himself, he had opted for the safer option of using a shield. He was accompanied by five others, one of whom had a broken arrow protruding from his left arm. It meant that the sole fatality so far was the unfortunate lying in front of the litter.
They all waited to see what Secundus would say.
‘There’s only one way out,’ he said. ‘And it isn’t by retreating.’
‘Why not?’ asked Fabiola. At least they knew the route that lay behind. Who knew what was ahead?
‘I heard voices back there.’
‘So did I,’ added the oldest of the group.
