The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  Meanwhile, Mithridates had escaped yet again. Returning to Pontus, he raised new armies and defeated the local Roman forces there. Bogged down in Armenia, where he was now fighting a guerrilla war, Lucullus had been powerless to respond. To make matters worse, mutiny broke out among his own troops, who by now had been on campaign with him for six long years. Like all legionaries, they had endured harsh discipline and constant danger for little pay. During another long, cold winter under canvas, rumours arose about the generous treatment that Pompey's veterans had received. Despite the efforts of Tarquinius and the other officers, they swept through the legions. And fuelling the discontent was an arrogant and disgruntled young patrician called Clodius Pulcher. He was Lucullus' brother-in-law and Tarquinius had disliked him on sight. Sending his troublesome relation packing, Lucullus dragged his mutinous army to Pontus by sheer force of will, but was no longer able to trust it in combat against Mithridates.

  While there was little actual resistance left in the area, no complete victory had been obtained. In situations like this, Rome was merciless.

  Pompey Magnus was immediately dispatched to the rescue with the largest force ever sent to the east. Upon the newcomer's arrival, Tarquinius watched with the rest of the soldiers as Pompey stripped Lucullus of both his command and his legions, reducing him to a private citizen. It was a demeaning end for the able general.

  Pompey swiftly mopped up the last pockets of resistance, driving Mithridates into the hills, a broken man. Armenia became a new Roman province, Tigranes a mere client king. Peace was restored to Asia Minor and the wily Pompey took all the credit. By this time, Tarquinius had spent four years in the legions. It had been a surprise to find that military life suited him. The camaraderie, the foreign languages and cultures, even the fighting provided the young Etruscan with much more than his former life on the latifundium. Or so he had thought. Since joining up, he had avoided the few chances to perform divinations that had come along, even choosing not to study the weather patterns.

  First he had tried to explain it as a way of keeping a low profile, but finally Tarquinius realised that it had all been an attempt to forget his grief, to pretend that Olenus had not gone for ever. This revelation had made the Etruscan desert the army, determined to rediscover himself. Leaving his unit without permission was a crime punishable by death, and had instantly made Tarquinius a fugitive. This knowledge did not trouble him. As long as he did not draw attention to himself, the haruspex knew that he could pass virtually anywhere without being detected. His disappearance would cause little fuss: he had been just another of the rank and file in Rome's legions.

  And so Tarquinius visited the temples of nearby Lydia, seeking evidence of links with the Rasenna, his people. He found little more than the occasional shrine to Tinia and a few crumbling tombs. This was enough to prove that the Etruscans had lived there, but not whether they had previously come from somewhere else. Unable to draw himself away from the Mediterranean yet, the young haruspex journeyed to Rhodes and encountered the great philosopher Posidonius, whose opinion on the ascendancy of Rome had interested him greatly. Visits to North Africa and the ruins of Carthage followed, then Hispania and Gaul. Always he took great care to avoid military camps and the men who populated them. Rome sent its soldiers all over the known world, and even in far-flung outposts it was remotely possible he might encounter someone who knew him as a deserter.

  It did not matter where Tarquinius laid his head. Every night he was haunted by images of Caelius, his former master.

  Eventually Rome draws you back. A desire for revenge.

  Olenus had been correct. More than a decade after he had left Italy, Tarquinius returned, bent on one thing. Retribution. A price had to be exacted for the death of his mentor.

  Deep in thought, Tarquinius did not hear the loud voice until it was practically upon him.

  'Make way!' cried a huge bodyguard stalking in front of an imposing litter borne by four muscular slaves. Liberal strokes of a cane whipped the shoulders of anyone slow to obey him. 'Make way for Crassus, the conqueror of Spartacus!'

  'I thought that was Pompey,' quipped a man nearby.

  There were roars of amusement from those who heard. Crassus was still famously angry at the manner in which his rival Pompey had stolen the credit for crushing the slave rebellion fifteen years previously.

  Drawing his gladius with a scowl, the bodyguard swung round to see who had made the insolent remark. Used to shouting insults, the citizen ducked his head, making himself anonymous in the crowd. While they had little say in what went on in their name, the people of Rome were free to make their opinions known. Politicians had to live with such taunts and the graphic, poorly spelt graffiti that was often daubed on the walls of public buildings or their own homes. The perpetrators were rarely caught. Venting his fury, the guard reached out and slapped the flat of his blade across the nearest street urchin's back. The loud yelp this produced brought a sour smile to his face.

  Tarquinius watched keenly as the litter came to a halt at the foot of the steps. Inside was the man who had paid Caelius a fortune for the information about the bronze liver and Tarquin's sword. He was therefore indirectly responsible for Olenus' death. Those around the Etruscan also craned their heads to see. Crassus was one of the most prominent nobles in Rome and although less popular than Pompey, he was so rich that everyone at least admired him. Or envied him.

  Lifting the cloth of the litter's side, the bodyguard indicated to his master that they had arrived. There was a brief pause and then a short, greyhaired man wearing a fine toga emerged. He stood to acknowledge the crowd for a moment, his piercing gaze judging their mood. Public approval was important to all those who wished to achieve high office. And Crassus did. Everyone knew that. The stranglehold that he, Pompey and Julius Caesar had on the reins of power was growing ever tighter. While the rivalry between the members of the triumvirate remained behind the scenes, the city was constantly awash with rumours. It seemed that each man wanted sole power. At virtually any cost.

  'People of Rome,' Crassus began dramatically. 'I have come to the temple of great Castor to seek his blessing.'

  There was a sigh of anticipation.

  'I wish the great horseman himself to give me a sign,' announced Crassus. 'A divine seal of approval.'

  He waited.

  Tarquinius looked around, seeing the tension rise in men's faces. Crassus is learning to work the mob, he thought.

  'For what, Master?' It was the man who had cracked the joke about Pompey. Even he wanted to know why Crassus had come to pay homage.

  Pleased by the question, Crassus rubbed his beaked nose. 'A sign that I will gain great glory for Rome!'

  This produced an instant cheer.

  'As governor of Syria, I will expand the Republic's borders to the east,' said Crassus boldly. 'Crush the savages who mock us. Who threaten our civilised ways!'

  Roars of agreement rose into the air.

  This was a common theme. If Rome considered herself in peril, then woe betide those who were perceived to be responsible. The mightiest power on the Mediterranean in an age, Carthage had dared to wage war against the Republic two centuries before. It had taken three long wars, but eventually its cities had been ground into dust by the legions.

  Tarquinius had to respect the casual arrogance of even the lowliest citizen. They were scared of nothing. And though most had no understanding of why Crassus craved the leadership of Syria, the idea of military glory appealed to all. It did not matter that there had actually been no insults made, no envoys killed in the east. Romans instinctively respected war. Since deepest antiquity, its people had fought for it every year, returning to their farms each autumn.

  'And when I come back,' Crassus continued, 'I will double the distribution of grain!'

  This produced an even better response. Thanks to the precipitous decline in the price of agricultural goods, most of the population were now landless and dependent on congiaria, handouts of food and money, fo
r their survival. The current amount of grain allowed was not enough for a family to survive for a year and any promise to increase it would be met with instant approval.

  Crassus smiled with satisfaction and mounted the steps to the entrance, the cries sweeping behind him in a great wave of sound. At the top, a grovelling priest waited to usher him inside. The clamour was gradually replaced by excited muttering as the crowd discussed what they had just witnessed.

  Tarquinius understood exactly what was going on. The visit to the temple had been completely staged. This was the busiest time of day in the Forum. If Crassus had wished to say his prayers in private, he would only have needed to arrive a few hours earlier or later. The ante was obviously upping in the struggle for dominance. Keen to emulate the military successes of his rivals, Crassus was beginning to reveal his hand. Tarquinius lifted his eyes upwards, squinting in the bright sunshine. A fair breeze. Few clouds. Soon the air would change, bringing rain.

  Crassus will travel east with an army, he thought. To Parthia and beyond.

  And I will go with him.

  'Tarquinius!'

  He was so unused to hearing his own name that for a moment the haruspex did not react.

  'Tesserarius!' cried the same voice.

  Tarquinius stiffened and his eyes quickly focused on a familiar figure shoving his way through the onlookers. The unshaven man was about thirty-five, of average height, with hair close cut in the military style. A drink-stained tunic failed to conceal the wiry muscle of his arms and legs, while a belt with a short dagger proved the newcomer was a soldier. The Etruscan spun on his heel, but already his left arm had been taken in a firm grip.

  'Forgotten all your old comrades?' sneered the man.

  Feigning surprise, Tarquinius turned back. 'Legionary Marcus Gallo,' he said calmly, cursing his decision to remain inconspicuous. It meant that his own knife was out of reach in his pack. 'Finally been thrown out of the army for drunkenness?'

  Gallo's lip curled. 'I'm on official leave. Deserter scum,' he hissed. 'Remember what they do to men like you? I'm sure the centurion would be delighted to demonstrate.' He glanced around blearily, clearly looking for his drinking companions.

  They were nowhere to be seen — yet. But with so many people in the vicinity, attention had immediately been drawn by the accusation. Tarquinius' pulse quickened. He took a deep breath, asking for the gods' forgiveness. The Etruscan had little choice. Gallo's grip was like a vice on his arm. If he did nothing, he would be hanging on a cross by sunset, an example to all.

  'You drunken fool!' Tarquinius cried, smiling broadly. 'Have you forgotten how I saved your miserable life in Pontus?'

  The swift, humorous response was exactly what was needed. Frowns were replaced by laughs and most of those nearby looked away. Gallo scowled and opened his mouth to rebut Tarquinius' comment.

  Before he could say a word, the haruspex stepped in close and drew the other's dagger with his right hand. Pretending that they were embracing like old friends, Tarquinius shoved the blade between Gallo's ribs, straight into his heart. The legionary's eyes bulged with surprise and his mouth gaped like a fish out of water. Tarquinius kissed him on the cheek as Gallo's grip fell away, allowing him to hold the mortally injured man upright with his left arm. In the close-packed throng, no one saw what was happening.

  'I'm sorry,' he whispered, but his words fell on deaf ears.

  Gallo's features went slack and a dribble of spit ran from his lips.

  The haruspex twisted the dagger to make sure.

  There was a burst of laughter from the crowd as a ripe tomato flew through the air to hit Crassus' bodyguard in the face. It was followed by a hail of red fruit. Intent on revenge, the bruised street urchin had returned with plenty of reinforcements. Wearing little more than rags, the gang of filthy children screamed with glee as they hurled their stolen tomatoes at the guard. He cursed and swept his blade at them, but they easily dodged his half-blinded attempts. Men smiled and pointed, shouting encouragement at both sides. Nobody was paying attention to the two soldiers any longer.

  It was the perfect opportunity for Tarquinius. Gently he lowered Gallo to the ground, turning him face down so that the red stain on his chest wasn't visible. Then he plunged into the crowd, taking a direct line towards the nearest street off the Forum. Within two dozen paces, he would no longer be discernible to those on the temple steps. Even if the fools noticed, they wouldn't be able to catch him.

  But the chance encounter with Gallo had been a close escape. It must not happen again. Tarquinius stepped into an alleyway and took off his bloody cloak, wrapping it around the axe. He would have to be even more cautious and from now on, the distinctive weapon would stay in his lodgings. No one must suspect who the Etruscan was and why he was in Rome.

  The smell of cooking pork from a nearby stall reached Tarquinius' nostrils and his stomach rumbled in response. Reaching into his purse, the haruspex walked calmly towards the tantalising odour. A smile played across his lips.

  Parthia. Olenus had been right yet again.

  Chapter IX: Lentulus

  Ludus Magnus gladiator school, 56 BC

  Romulus did not feel safe climbing into his cot with Lentulus only a few feet away, but he had nowhere else to go. The ludus was full of tough men, none of whom had offered him shelter after the fight. Not even Cotta.

  He cursed.

  Memor was probably hoping the argument would be settled that night with a quiet knife between the ribs for one of them. It was not how Romulus wished to finish the quarrel, but the Goth could not be trusted. Unsure what to do, he lingered in the starlit yard long after other fighters had returned to their cells. The spot where Flavus had died was still obvious, marked by several dark stains on the sand. Romulus shuddered. It had been so easy to stab the murmillo, but the enormity of the killing was beginning to sink in.

  He was truly a gladiator now.

  'First time?'

  Romulus turned with a start to see Brennus peering round his door.

  'Yes.' He paused before the words came in a rush. 'I gave Flavus a chance. Told him to release Astoria, but he didn't think I was serious.'

  'The prick deserved to die. Unlike many you'll meet. You do have to kill them though, or you'll end up dead.'

  Romulus eyed the largest bloodstain, imagining lying injured on the sand. Flavus' life had bled away in a few agonising moments. Regret surged through his veins. The murmillo had not done anything to him directly. Then he remembered Flavus' offer to the other gladiators.

  'They wanted to rape Astoria,' he muttered.

  The Gaul frowned. 'Is that why you stabbed him?'

  'Partly.' Guilt mixed with anger in the young man's face. I should have told Brennus before all this, he thought.

  Brennus looked confused so he explained about Lentulus' boasts.

  The big fighter was visibly pleased. 'No one else tried to help, did they?'

  Romulus shook his head. 'I wish it had been Gemellus, though.'

  'Who?'

  'The merchant who sold me. Bastard also sold my sister to a whorehouse. Gods alone know what he 's done to Mother.'

  Brennus' eyes darkened with old memories. 'Life can be bloody hard.' He stuck out a massive paw. 'I'm glad you finished Flavus off.'

  Romulus took the grip. 'There 's just Lentulus to deal with now.'

  'Nothing to worry about,' Brennus said conspiratorially. 'Romulus, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good name.'

  'Does killing get any easier?' Romulus spoke with a little awe.

  'In some ways.' Brennus laughed hollowly. 'I try not to worry about it any more. Fight. Kill fast. Get it over with.'

  Romulus found himself liking the Gaul, but he detected real sadness in his voice. Despite his fearsome reputation, Brennus seemed to be an honourable man.

  'Need somewhere to sleep?'

  He nodded.

  'I wouldn't want to close my eyes with that little bastard near me either.' Brennus indicated
that Romulus should enter his cell. 'Sleep on the floor in here. It's far from comfortable, but nobody will slit your throat.'

  Romulus studied the darkened yard uneasily. He wasn't sure what to do.

  'It's the least I can do.' Brennus beckoned. 'You helped save my woman.'

  Romulus had no real option apart from returning to his own bed. He shrugged and walked curiously into Brennus' quarters. The floor was clear of bodies; the murmillones had been dragged off to the mortuary like so much meat. Astoria was busy with a bucket of water and a cloth, but there was still the occasional splash of blood.

  The room was plain, holding little furniture. A decent-sized bed sat at one end, a couple of wool rugs scattered nearby. Bread and meat lay unfinished on a battered wooden table. Two racks at the foot of the cot held more weapons than he thought one man could own. Shields and spears were stacked untidily against the walls and other pieces of equipment filled any remaining spaces. It was the living space of a champion gladiator.

  As he entered, Astoria beamed at him. 'Thank you again, Romulus.'

  'It was nothing.' Romulus bobbed his head, embarrassed.

  'It was more than that. The man had a knife at my throat.'

  Romulus grinned, remembering the magnificent sight of Astoria's naked body as much as Flavus' blade.

  'It was well done.' Brennus waved a bandaged hand at the thickest carpet. 'Take a seat. We can fix up something more permanent later. I don't think you'll be rushing back to a cell with any other fighters for a while.'

  Astoria handed him a piece of bread and a thick slice of beef. Brennus moved to a whetstone in one corner, sharpening a longsword with practised strokes.

  Romulus watched. Few other gladiators in the ludus used a similar one. 'Why do you use that?'

  'It's the blade of my own people.' Brennus proudly raised the long piece of iron. 'And there's no better weapon in the world!' He pointed it at Romulus. 'More reach than those little knives you Romans use. Of course it needs strength to wield properly.'