by Ben Kane
This was met with uniform scowls.
‘Another group waiting to butcher us if we run,’ said a sallow-faced veteran with pockmarked cheeks.
‘There are more of them than we thought,’ muttered Secundus. Crouching down, he beckoned.
His men immediately huddled closer and, knowing she had to be guided in such situations, Fabiola did the same.
‘We charge the fuckers,’ declared Secundus confidently. ‘Go straight across the barrier.’
‘Just like old times,’ interjected the sallow-faced man.
There were fierce nods of agreement. Faced with death yet again, the veterans felt the familiar thrill of battle. Along with the pumping adrenalin and the knot of fear in their bellies, it felt good. None of them had ever shirked their duty; they would not do so now.
‘Does the first one over the summit get a corona muralis?’ asked another.
Everyone except the two women laughed.
Secundus saw their confused look. ‘It’s the golden crown given to the first man on top of an enemy wall,’ he explained.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Fabiola, keeping her voice as calm as possible. ‘Tell us.’
Docilosa moved closer and clutched her mistress’ hand; alongside Sextus snarled silently.
Pleased by their willingness, Secundus smiled. ‘We’ll form a small wedge. There are few men who can withstand it,’ he said. ‘These dogs will be no different.’
‘We have no shields,’ said Fabiola stoutly. ‘Does that matter?’
Respect filled the one-armed veteran’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘Both of you will be in the middle.’
‘And on the other side?’
‘We make a run for it. If enough of them are dead, they’ll have lost the stomach for a fight. Otherwise, there’s a small settlement not far beyond the trees which should provide safety.’
‘Should?’ Fabiola enquired archly.
Secundus shrugged. ‘If the gods are smiling on us.’
‘And the slaves?’
Secundus grimaced. ‘They’re untrained and unarmed. Have to take their own chances.’
‘We have no spare weapons. Save yourselves,’ Fabiola ordered the four slaves. ‘Run into the trees when we attack. With luck, they’ll never find you. Head back to Brutus’ house in Rome if you can.’
A couple of them nodded fearfully.
Then mistress and servant stared at each other; Docilosa’s face full of uncertainty.
Another volley of arrows hit the shields of the veterans at the front.
‘Give me a dagger,’ said Docilosa abruptly.
‘That’s the spirit,’ grinned Secundus.
One of his men tugged a pugio from his belt and handed it over.
They did not delay any longer. Keeping their helmeted faces low behind their scuta, the ex-soldiers moved away from the protection of the litter. Fabiola and Docilosa scuttled behind them, with Sextus by their side. The sallow-faced man assumed the lead position, while three others formed each side of the wedge. Ushering Sextus and the two women within, Secundus and the injured veteran closed up the rear.
Cries of alarm rose as their ambushers saw what was about to happen. More arrows flew through the air.
‘Now!’ cried Secundus.
Mud squelched underfoot as they broke into a run.
Twenty paces and the ground began to grow uneven. The wedge’s speed slowed dramatically as each person had to look where they placed their feet. Fabiola concentrated hard on staying upright, knowing that a fall would probably be fatal.
‘Don’t stop!’ yelled Secundus. ‘Keep moving!’
Clambering over rough logs with protruding branches that ripped and tore at their lower legs, the veterans pushed up on to the barrier. They were close enough now to make out the faces of their enemies. In between helping Docilosa find her footing and managing not to lose her own, Fabiola scanned the shouting ruffians, searching for any she might recognise.
Two men hurled themselves at the sallow-faced veteran who led the wedge’s point. The first got a shield boss full in the face and went down screaming. Wary now, his comrade slowed down a trifle. Then he lunged viciously at the ex-legionary’s foot with his curved knife. As the thug bent down, the next man in line leaned over and stabbed him through the chest with his gladius. A gush of blood spattered on to the rocks; now two of their ambushers were out of action.
The wedge advanced slowly up the barrier, arrows and small rocks banging off the shields. Several more thugs slammed into it, trying to reach the veterans. They met swift ends from efficient sword thrusts. All that needed to be done was disable the enemy, Fabiola realised. It was not necessary to kill each one. After a gladius blade had opened a man’s belly or sliced deep into the muscles of his arm or leg, he wasn’t about to pose any further problem. Respect and a little hope filled Fabiola as they continued. It was terrifying, and incredible, to witness. She could easily imagine how an enemy might be punched apart using the ‘V’ shaped formation in a battle.
Then everything became a blur.
A ruffian with long, greasy hair shoulder-charged the smallest veteran on the wedge’s left side. The impact and the uneven ground were sufficient for the short ex-soldier’s caligae to skid on a rock. Stabbing the thug through the chest as he fell, he also collided with the comrade on his left. This in turn caused the last man to stumble, and the wedge broke apart. With more men, they might have managed to haul each other up again, but there simply weren’t enough. Their heavy scuta were now a hindrance rather than a help, leaving the fallen completely at the mercy of their enemies. With roars of triumph, more ambushers swarmed in, spitting the three helpless veterans like boys might spike fallen apples with sticks.
Fabiola’s eyes opened wide with horror. There was no one between her and the ruffians now; the nearest ones were clearly visible. Fabiola recognised none, but was dismayed to count at least six. And there were more attacking the other side. Then Fabiola’s heart stopped. Twenty paces away stood a familiar figure, directing the attack with waves of his long spear. The stocky build, the silver bracelets and four long scabs on his cheek from where she had scratched him. It could be no one else. Scaevola.
Their eyes met.
Making a filthy gesture, Scaevola grinned at her. ‘I wanted to finish our date,’ he shouted.
Fabiola felt sick.
‘Keep going, Mistress!’ Docilosa’s voice hissed in her ear. ‘It’s our only chance.’
Dumbly, she obeyed.
Secundus and one of the others swung around to try and close the gap left by their fallen comrades. Sextus darted forward as well, an over-keen thug immediately dying beneath his gladius. Secundus gave another a great shove in the chest with his scutum, sending him reeling back into the men behind.
At the front, the sallow-faced veteran had reached the top of the barrier. ‘Come on,’ he yelled. ‘We can make it!’
They were the last words he ever spoke.
Scaevola’s spear hurtled through the air, striking him in the neck, below the cheek guard of his bronze helmet. The leaf-shaped blade sliced through the veteran’s flesh to emerge blood-red on the other side. Without a sound, he toppled forward on to the road, ten steps below.
Next to die was the man with the arrow wound. He was followed by another on the wedge’s right side, who was simply overwhelmed by weight of numbers. Secundus, Sextus and just two more were the last men left. Scrambling frantically down over the boulders and logs, the party reached the flat ground beyond. A trio of thugs were waiting for them, weapons raised, while the rest came charging in pursuit.
‘You fools! Don’t let them escape!’
Above the clash of arms, Fabiola recognised Scaevola’s voice.
‘Five aurei to the man who captures the good-looking bitch!’
His desperation meant that they had a chance.
‘Run!’ Fabiola cried. Lifting her dress, she raced forward, through the trees.
Eager to win the huge priz
e, the fugitivarius’ men tore after them.
‘Form rear guard,’ Secundus ordered his two remaining followers. ‘Now!’
Disciplined to the last, they immediately obeyed. Both slowed down and turned to face the enemy. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their shields clunked together in a final sound of defiance.
‘Mithras protect you,’ shouted Secundus.
Without speaking, the pair lifted their gladii in salute.
Looking back, Fabiola saw what would happen. ‘NO!’ she screamed.
‘They are soldiers,’ said Secundus proudly. ‘It is their choice to die this way.’
She had no time to respond. Sextus had taken her arm in a vice-like grip and was propelling her onward. Secundus ran on Fabiola’s other side. With her face fixed in a rictus of terror and rage, Docilosa protected her back.
Just three thugs stood between them and the road north.
Sextus killed the first with a no-nonsense thrust to the chest.
Secundus feinted to the left at another. Unaware that his enemy could not follow through, the ruffian dodged backwards to avoid the expected sword thrust. His feet slipped on a piece of moss and he fell heavily to the ground, dropping his axe.
The last swept around Sextus and came face to face with Docilosa. Shocked to see a woman bearing a weapon, he hesitated.
Docilosa did not. With teeth bared, she buried her pugio to the hilt in his belly.
Grievously wounded, the thug folded over and was gone.
The four survivors had broken clear.
But Scaevola and the rest of his men were closing in. There were nearly a dozen cursing figures running along the road behind.
With fear giving them an extra turn of speed, they pelted along between the thinning trees. And then they were out, bright sunlight falling on their sweating, desperate faces. The valley had opened out, its slopes falling away to meet the open plain beyond.
A plain which was now occupied by a Roman legion.
Fabiola could not believe her eyes.
A wide protective screen of legionaries was standing guard while their comrades toiled behind them, digging with their shovels. Using the earth from the defensive fossae, they would next erect the marching camp’s ramparts. Safe in the knowledge that there were few if any enemies in Italy, most of the soldiers on watch were chatting to each other.
But it would not be long before they were spotted.
Scaevola had seen the troops too. Calling his men back to the protection of the trees, the fugitivarius watched in helpless rage as Fabiola and her companions moved beyond his reach.
Sextus and Docilosa were delighted, but Secundus swore out loud. And Fabiola’s face turned thunderous.
‘Who are they?’ asked Docilosa, confused by her mistress’ reaction.
‘Pompey’s men,’ Fabiola replied in a flat tone. ‘Marching south to Rome.’
The shouts of eager sentries reached them at last. Bucinae rang out, and a half-century of men under an optio swiftly formed up to come and guide them in.
Fabiola searched the sky for a sign. She could see nothing. Not even a raven, Mithras’ bird, which was common in hilly areas.
Misery overcame the young woman, and a sob escaped finally escaped her lips.
One bitter enemy had been exchanged for another.
Chapter XVII: The Final Battle
By the River Hydaspes, India, spring 52 BC
When day broke, the rising sun lit the eastern horizon with a deep shade of crimson. The blood-red tinge actually seemed quite apt to the poorly rested, irritable legionaries. With a sky that colour, Hades could not be far away. Fervent prayers were uttered as men made their last requests of the gods. As always, wives, children and family were high on the list. While those in Italy had no doubt given them up for dead, the soldiers of the Forgotten Legion had survived partly by thinking of home. Now, for the last time, they asked the deities to protect their loved ones. They themselves had little need.
Those who could face it had a light breakfast; they weren’t many. More important were their water bags, which were full to the brim. Combat was thirsty work.
Not long after dawn, Pacorus had them march to their position parallel to the riverbank. Positioned about half a mile away, the temporary marching camp with their tents and spare equipment was simply abandoned. It did not need to be defended. If by a miracle the Forgotten Legion was victorious, its contents would be safe. If not, it did not matter what happened to their yokes, clothes and few valuables.
With the most experienced veterans, the First was positioned in the centre of the line. It was flanked by five more on each side, with seven cohorts and Pacorus’ remaining horsemen held in reserve. His warriors were also kept back, surrounding his position behind the First. A group of Parthian drummers and Roman trumpeters waited on one side, ready to pass on Pacorus’ commands. That was also where the aquilifer was placed: far enough back to protect the silver eagle, but close enough that every man could see it if he turned his head.
Every single tiny scrap of advantage was to be wrung out.
The first five ranks of legionaries were armed with the long spears, while nearly two-thirds had a silk-covered shield. The precious fabric obtained from Isaac, the Judaean merchant they had encountered en route to Margiana, only covered five thousand shields or so. It would have to suffice. At the sides and rear, the soldiers manning the ballistae turned and twisted their machines, making sure the mechanisms were well oiled, the washers tightened to the maximum and the thick gut strings sufficiently taut. Arcs of fire were checked repeatedly, as were the piles of stones alongside. The old hands among the artillerymen had already paced out the ground in front, marking each hundred paces with a distinctively shaped rock or a stake driven almost completely into the earth. It gave them exact range markers, and would make their volleys far more lethal.
Finally, a party was sent to dig out even more of the trench near the river, allowing more torrents of water to pour through and causing all the carefully dug channels to overflow. Then the entire area was covered with small branches, concealing the digging that had gone on. Seeing the result helped to lift the men’s sombre mood a fraction.
They all waited.
It was a beautiful clear morning. The ominous red colour had lightened and then faded away, letting the sky turn its usual blue. The only clouds visible were groups of delicately shaped lines, very high up, but they still managed to dull the bright sunlight and kept the temperature pleasingly cool. The air was calm, and filled with a rich variety of birdsong from the trees along the riverbank. In the distance, a group of wild asses moved through the long grass, flicking their tails to keep flies at bay.
Romulus had already seen Tarquinius standing beside Pacorus, pointing here and there as they discussed the best battle strategy. There was no chance of talking with the haruspex, and Romulus had to hope that he and Brennus would be with him if the end came.
When it came, Romulus thought bitterly. He needed no ability to prophesy here, for the army that came to meet them was vast.
The Indian horsemen were the first to arrive. Riding small, agile ponies, the turbaned warriors carried a variety of weapons from javelins and bows to short spears and round or crescent-shaped shields. Bare-chested, dark-skinned, few wore any armour at all. Instead, a simple loincloth sufficed. Carefully keeping out of arrow range, they watched the Romans with dark, inscrutable eyes. These were skirmishers, highly mobile troops similar to the Gauls who had accompanied Crassus; their versatility could turn the course of a battle. There were at least five thousand of them, while Pacorus had perhaps two hundred and fifty horsemen remaining. Knowing this, many of the enemy confidently rode their horses down to the river to drink.
But they made no attempt to attack the Forgotten Legion. In their eyes, there was no need.
Pacorus kept silent, saving his men and the stones from his ballistae. Every single one was now more precious than gold.
Next to arrive were the battle chariots. P
ulled by pairs of horses, they were larger than any Romulus had ever seen. Built from hardwood, and richly decorated with silver and gold inlay on their sides and solid wheels, they were essentially raised, enclosed battle platforms containing a driver and two or three warriors armed with spears and bows.
Romulus counted nearly three hundred of them.
As the chariots joined their cavalry comrades, shouts and jeers were hurled at the Roman lines. More and more voices joined in, until the mighty din filled the air. The exact words of the insults were unclear, but the meaning was crystal clear.
Following normal Roman tactics, the legionaries remained totally quiet. After a while, this had the effect of silencing the Indians and a strange peace reigned as the two sides watched each other warily. Some time later, the air filled with a low thunder.
The legionaries peered upwards, but there were no ominous-looking clouds in sight. Then it dawned on them that the noise was from the sheer number of infantry approaching. As the horizon to the south filled with the shapes of marching men, Romulus gradually picked out groups of archers, slingers and ordinary foot soldiers. The variety of weapons they carried was enormous: it seemed that no two men were armed the same. He saw axes, short swords, spears, even longswords like Brennus’ mighty one. There were pikes, spiked maces and knives with angled blades similar to those used by Thracian gladiators. Like the cavalry, most of the Indians wore no protective clothing at all. Some had leather armour and helmets and carried small, round shields. Just a few were wealthy enough to have mail or scale coats, but all were more lightly protected than the legionaries, with their heavy scuta and thigh-length chain mail. It didn’t matter.
There were at least thirty thousand of them.
The enemy numbers were bad enough, but this was not what had the Roman soldiers shifting uneasily from side to side. The low rumbling sound was not just from the men who drew ever nearer. It was being made by animals. Above the enemy ranks loomed the shapes of great, grey beasts.
Elephants.
There were dozens of them, guided by a mahout wielding a short staff topped with a sharpened hook. Each was wearing on its back a thick red fabric caparison, which was held in place by a band of leather that ran around its broad chest. Two or three archers and spearmen perched on this carpet, gripping tightly with their knees to stay in place. Every tenth beast carried a single passenger who was positioned above large drums hanging on both sides: these men’s sole purpose was to relay orders during battle. The animals’ small ears flapped from side to side as they lumbered along, giving them a deceptively gentle appearance. This contrasted with the heavy layers of moulded leather covering their heads and shoulders. To protect the mahout, a protective fan of the same material protruded upwards from the nape of the neck. As they drew nearer, it was possible to see that many of the elephants’ tusks were tipped with points or swords. A number even had spiked iron balls on chains dangling from their trunks.
