by Ben Kane
Now there could be no doubt. A daylight assassination attempt. Poison stored secretly. The rumours that were running through the brothel. A venomous snake in her bed. Coincidence could have nothing to do with it.
Fabiola had racked her brains to work out who might be responsible. There were few possible candidates. To her knowledge, not one client that had visited her had ever left unsatisfied. It was not Jovina either. Money meant everything to the old madam and Fabiola was her best earner. The doormen adored her. Catus and the kitchen slaves simply had no reason to want her dead. That only left the other women and Fabiola could read virtually all of them like a book. Cowed by their enforced prostitution, most were happy enough to live in Fabiola's shadow.
Pompeia. It could only be Pompeia.
Jealousy had overwhelmed the redhead completely. And when attacks outside the Lupanar walls had failed, she had resorted to more stealthy ways of trying to kill her enemy.
'You two are supposed to protect us, not make us disappear,' Fabiola said, patting Vettius' heavily muscled arm. Befriending the two doormen had been one of the best moves she had ever made. She knew both would die rather than let her come to harm.
Vettius grinned in response, but he was still plainly worried. 'I've been with Pompeia when she goes out,' he replied. 'Didn't think much of it before, but the slut's been talking to members of the collegia. And Milo's gangs. She 's even been to the temple of Orcus recently.' The doorman made the sign against evil. 'Only one reason to go in there.'
Vettius' words were worrying. People went to worship the god of death if they had malicious feelings towards someone. Swarms of vendors outside sold small squares of lead sheet to visitors, and nearby scribes would write whatever damning words their customers required. Fabiola had heard that the large pool inside the shrine 's walls was full of the tiny folded curses. She shivered at the thought and muttered a quick prayer to Jupiter for his continued protection.
'Let me kill her.'
At last she felt rage building inside her. This had gone far enough. 'I'll do it,' Fabiola said, meeting Vettius' gaze squarely.
He had opened his mouth to reply when Fabiola pointed at the now motionless snake.
'Cut the head off that thing for me.'
Vettius hurried to obey, pulling a vicious-looking dagger from his belt. When he was done, he looked up.
'Leave me the knife too.'
Vettius smiled and handed it over.
Fabiola gripped the bone hilt tightly, steeling her resolve, imagining Romulus killing to stay alive, first as a gladiator and then as a soldier. The chilling thought helped to give her strength. It seemed that things were not much different here in the Lupanar. Despite Pompeia's treachery, Fabiola remained focused on her one driving purpose in life: to save her brother. In her profession, there was only one way to achieve that: by gaining influence over the rich and powerful.
And no one would get in her way.
Chapter XXVI: Retreat
Parthia, summer 53 BC
Late in the afternoon, Crassus called together his seven legates. For reasons best known to Surena, the Parthians had not attacked for a while. Perhaps he was allowing his men a well-earned rest. The Roman general still possessed enough reason to utilise the breathing space this granted. Crassus' lack of cavalry was rendering the invincible legions helpless. Something had to be done. Fast.
Desperate for ideas, Crassus' bloodshot eyes moved around searchingly. Six of the red-cloaked officers avoided his gaze, staring down at the hot sand. Only Longinus had the courage to return it.
'What shall we do?' Crassus' voice cracked with emotion. 'If we stay they will butcher us.'
'Another charge and the men will crack, sir,' said Longinus immediately. 'Only one thing to do. Retreat.'
There were reluctant nods all round. The situation was dire. Roman armies rarely fled the field, but in this burning desert hell, the rulebook had been rewritten.
'With the baggage train gone, there is no more water. We must fall back to Carrhae.' Longinus spoke with utter conviction.
The others muttered in agreement. Carrhae had deep wells and thick earth walls. It would provide some respite from the lethal Parthian arrows.
'And after that?'
It seemed the death of Publius had rendered the general unable to make any decisions.
'Head north. The broken ground in the mountains will help us. With luck, we may find Artavasdes.'
Crassus' eyes closed. His campaign was in ruins, the plans of equalling Caesar and Pompey dust. 'Sound the retreat,' he whispered.
'The wounded, sir?'
'Leave them.'
'Are you sure, sir?' asked Comitianus, commander of the Sixth. 'I have over five hundred casualties.'
'Do what I say!' screamed Crassus.
'He's right. For once. They would slow us down too much,' said Longinus harshly. 'We have no choice.'
They did not argue further and the grizzled legate barked an order at the nearest soldiers.
Moments later, trumpets sounded the ominous notes that no legionary ever liked to hear. The injured stirred frantically, knowing what was about to happen. Five of Bassius' mercenaries could no longer walk and had been placed at the rear. As the retreat died away, the senior centurion moved to stand by the wounded.
'You have fought bravely today, boys.' Bassius flashed a rare smile. 'Not many options left, though. We have to leave right now and none of you can march. So you can take your chances here,' he paused, 'or choose a swift death.'
The words hung in the hot air.
Unwilling to meet their comrades' eyes, the rest of the men looked at the ground. It was a brutal decision, but the Parthians would be less merciful.
'I'm not ready for Hades yet, sir,' said one, a dark-skinned Egyptian. A bloody bandage was wrapped roughly around his left thigh. 'I'll take a few with me.'
A second soldier also chose to stay, but the remaining three were very badly hurt. Too weak to retreat or fight, they had no choice but the last. Muttering briefly with each other, they pulled themselves upright.
'Make it quick, sir,' one said.
Bassius nodded without replying.
A lump formed in Romulus' throat. He had dispatched opponents in the arena but they had rarely been people he 'd known, trained or fought with. This trio of men had been with them since boarding the Achilles, a lifetime ago. After nearly two years of campaigning, Romulus knew the wounded well enough to really grieve their passing.
The centurion firmly gripped each man's hand once. As he moved to stand behind, all three bowed their heads, exposing their necks. They were receiving a soldier's death, an honourable way to die.
Bassius' gladius hissed from the scabbard. He raised it high, holding the hilt in both hands, the razor-sharp tip pointing towards the ground. With a swift motion the centurion stabbed down and cut the spinal cord. Death was instant: the first body crumpled without a murmur. Silently Bassius moved on to the second and third. The mercy killings did not take long; clearly the veteran had performed this grisly task before.
All over the Roman lines, the same act was being repeated by any officers of conscience. But the Parthians had no intention of letting their enemies retreat in good order and another attack began before everyone could be dealt with.
Quickly Bassius organised his new command of exhausted men into a square. With Sido and five other centurions killed, the veteran had assumed control of the regular cohort as well. None of the dazed junior officers questioned the unusual move. Bassius nodded farewell to the Egyptian and his companion. The pair were sitting back to back, swords at the ready.
Eyes full of tears, Romulus could not look back.
'They are brave men.' There was real respect in Tarquinius' face. 'And this is how they have decided to die.'
'Doesn't make it any easier to leave them,' he retorted.
'Stay if you wish,' said the Etruscan. 'That is your choice. Perhaps this is why I could not be sure about all three of us surviving?' Hi
s dark eyes were unreadable.
'Now is not the time for you to die,' added Brennus confidently. 'What purpose would it serve?'
Romulus considered the idea, but it seemed pointless. The wounded had freely chosen how they would end their lives and dying with them would prove nothing. There were still many things he wanted to achieve. With a heavy heart, he marched away.
Bassius' incredible willpower held his mixed group together as they left the battlefield behind. To the soldiers' relief, Parthian horsemen did not pursue them for long. Romulus eventually glanced round to see groups of warriors riding in circles, whooping with glee. One waved a familiar shape in the air. It was the ultimate disgrace – a legion's silver eagle, fallen into enemy hands. At the sight, his spirits fell even further.
Beneath the horses' hooves, the huge plain was covered with dead and injured as far as one could see. It was a charnel house. Flies swarmed on to dry staring eyes, gaping mouths, bleeding sword cuts. Nearly fifteen thousand Roman soldiers would never return to Italy. Above them, clouds of vultures now hung on the thermals. The air was filled with the smell of manure, blood and sweat. It had been a bad day for the Republic.
'Lots of men are still alive.'
'We can't help them now,' said Brennus sadly.
'Olenus saw this seventeen years ago,' uttered Tarquinius with some satisfaction. 'He would have liked to see the Romans come to this.'
Romulus was shocked. 'Those are our comrades!'
'What do I care?' the Etruscan replied. 'Rome butchered my people and devastated our cities.'
'But not those men! They did not!'
To his surprise, Tarquinius was nonplussed. 'Wise words,' he admitted. 'May their suffering be short.'
Placated by the compromise from someone who hated all that the Republic stood for, Romulus could still not block out the screams. And there was only one person responsible for it all, he thought angrily.
Crassus.
'Your teacher predicted this battle?' Brennus was amazed.
'And he saw us on a long march to the east,' revealed the Etruscan. 'I had begun to doubt his prediction, but now . . .'
Their eyes widened.
'The gods work in strange ways,' Brennus muttered.
Romulus sighed. There would be no easy return to Rome.
'It is not completely certain.' A faraway look appeared in Tarquinius' eyes, one that Romulus and the Gaul had come to know well. 'The army may yet return to the Euphrates. Much still depends on Crassus.'
'Gods above! Why go that way?' Romulus gestured truculently into the desert. 'Safety. Italy. Everything lies to our west.'
'We would see temples built by Alexander.' For a moment, Tarquinius seemed unaware of their presence. 'And the great city of Barbaricum on the Indian Ocean.'
'Beyond where any Allobroge has ever gone,' whispered Brennus. 'Or will ever go.'
'No one can avoid destiny, Brennus,' said Tarquinius suddenly.
The Gaul went pale beneath his tan.
'Brennus?' Romulus had never seen his friend like this.
'The druid told me that the day I left the village,' he whispered.
'Druids. Haruspices,' announced Tarquinius, clapping the Gaul on the back. 'We are one and the same thing.'
Brennus nodded, full of awe.
He missed the sadness that flitted across Tarquinius' face.
He knows what will happen, thought Romulus. But this was not the time for long conversations. It was time to retreat, or die.
The sun was low in the sky, but hours remained before darkness would offer the exhausted Romans any protection. Slowly the legions limped away from the devastation, harassed by occasional arrows from zealous Parthians. Most warriors remained behind, killing the Roman wounded and looting the dead.
It was a bitter irony. Untold numbers were still dying on the battlefield, giving their comrades the opportunity to escape.
The defeated army straggled north to the walls of Carrhae; at every pace, injured soldiers fell by the wayside. Few had any strength left to help those who collapsed. Anyone not strong enough to march simply perished. Holding his cohort together with roars and screams, Bassius even used the flat of his sword to keep the exhausted men moving. Romulus' respect for him grew even further.
Carrhae was a desert town that existed purely because of its deep subterranean wells. Knowing the settlement would prove useful when the invasion began, Crassus had sent in an occupying force the year before. Its small encampment outside the thick earthen walls was ignored as the thousands of defeated Roman troops reached Carrhae. Men poured through the gates in a great tide, seizing houses and food from the unfortunate residents. The brutal thrusts of gladii instantly ended any resistance.
The majority had to camp outside. A few centurions tried to insist that the temporary ditches and ramparts that traditionally followed a day's march were built. They failed. The soldiers had been through too much to spend three hours digging hot sand. It was all the officers could do to get sentries positioned a few hundred paces into the desert.
The sun had set and with it temperatures dropped sharply, a stiff breeze adding to the chill. Outside the town, those not fortunate enough to have found cover spent the night huddled together in the open. All the tents had been lost with the baggage train. Now the injured began to die of cold, dehydration and fatigue. There was nothing anyone could do.
Romulus and his friends commandeered a miserable mud-walled hut, turning the residents on to the street rather than killing them. Soon they lay sleeping like dead men. Not even the danger of a Parthian attack was enough to keep them awake.
Elsewhere in the town, the largest building had belonged to the local chieftain before Roman occupation and was now the quarters for the garrison commander. Crassus gathered the legates there for a council of war.
The bare walls, dirt floor and rough wooden furniture revealed that Carrhae was far from wealthy. Rush torches guttered from brackets, casting flickering shadows on the weary figures. The six bloodstained officers sat with blank faces, some with head in hands, beakers of water and hard bread untouched before them. It was a far cry from Crassus' luxurious command tent, long since disappeared with the mules.
Nobody knew what to say or do. The legates were stunned. Defeat was not something that Roman soldiers were used to. Instead of achieving a crushing victory and the sacking of Seleucia, they had succumbed to Parthian wrath. They were stranded deep in enemy territory, their army in tatters.
Crassus sat quietly on a low stool, taking no part in what little conversation was going on. Simply calling the officers together seemed to have taken up the last of his energy. Beside him sat the garrison commander, overawed by the presence of so many senior figures. Prefect Gaius Quintus Coponius had not seen the extent of the slaughter, but the fleeing Iberian cavalry had brought him the shocking news on their way back to the Euphrates. Later he had witnessed the beaten legionaries staggering into the town. It was not a sight he would forget.
