by Ben Kane
'Worse than Rome in the summer?'
'Like a baker's oven during Saturnalia. And nothing but sand and rocks as far as you can see.'
'Still better than a crucifix on the Campus Martius,' interjected Brennus.
'True,' replied Tarquinius. 'But Mesopotamia will be like Hades itself.'
'I thought we were going to Jerusalem.'
Tarquinius lowered his voice. 'Not many know it yet, but our general is set on invading the Parthian empire.'
Romulus and Brennus looked at him blankly.
'The Parthians live in the Mesopotamian desert east of Judaea,' explained Tarquinius. 'Beyond the River Euphrates.' Quickly he outlined the geography of the region to them.
Intrigued, Romulus soaked up the information.
'Go on.' Brennus was also interested.
'Rome has been at peace with Parthia for some years, but Crassus intends to change that.'
'How can you know this?' asked the Gaul.
'Before enlisting, I sacrificed a lamb to Tinia. The Romans call him Jupiter,' replied the Etruscan. 'And the liver clearly showed a campaign into Parthia.'
Brennus became less scornful. Ultan had been able to read the future from animals' organs and had accurately predicted many things — including his own tribe 's annihilation. He shivered, remembering the druid's last words to him. 'Why, though?' he asked.
'Simple! Seleucia, the Parthian capital, is wealthy beyond compare.'
'But Crassus is already the richest man in Rome,' said Romulus. He had seen the evidence with his own eyes.
'Money is not the only thing driving Crassus. He's tired of Pompey and Caesar's successes. A successful military campaign is the only way to reclaim some glory.' The Etruscan chuckled in the darkness. 'Popularity with the people. Power over the Senate and equestrian class. That is all that matters in Rome.'
Up till then Romulus had been vaguely aware of the politics and intense rivalry between the members of the ruling classes, but as a slave it had affected him little. Life had been a constant battle for survival, affording him no time to ponder deeper meanings and who controlled what. But Tarquinius' words made perfect sense — the nobility were in control of the campaign, just like the gladiator contests they had left behind.
It did not feel right. He had thought they were free.
'So this is just another Roman invasion.' There was palpable anger in Brennus' voice. 'Will they never be satisfied?'
'Only when they have conquered the world,' Tarquinius replied.
The big man stared up at the stars, brooding.
'Nearly four centuries have passed since my people were vanquished. Yet I still grieve,' Tarquinius whispered. 'Just as you must about the passing of your tribe.'
Brennus' face filled with anger.
The Etruscan raised both hands, palms extended. 'I was passing through Transalpine Gaul a while back. Heard about the Allobroges' final battle. They said that thousands of Romans had been killed.'
Pride flared in Brennus' eyes. 'What makes you think I'm an Allobroge?'
Tarquinius smiled. 'Not much. The pigtails you had till very recently. The longsword. The way you talk.'
The Gaul laughed and Romulus relaxed.
The ship's timbers creaked gently as it moved through the water.
Romulus had rarely considered how the Romans were responsible for the suffering of other peoples. Now, seeing the emotion on Brennus' face, the truth hit him hard. The dozen races of fighters in the ludus had been there only because of the Republic's belligerent tendencies. Like Tarquinius and Brennus, their tribes had been massacred for their wealth and land. Rome was a state based on war and slavery. Romulus suddenly felt ashamed of his blood.
'Some races are destined to be greater than others and they will stop at nothing to achieve it. Such are the Romans,' said Tarquinius, reading his mind. 'That doesn't make you personally responsible for their actions.'
Romulus sighed, remembering Gemellus' rants about the founding principles of the Republic having long been subverted. All that seemed to matter now was for nobles such as Pompey, Caesar and Crassus to retain power, using the blood of ordinary men and slaves to make them rich. It was a chilling realisation. Romulus swore silently that once the campaign was over, he would never again submit to the Roman system.
'What happens is pre-ordained. When it was time, Etruria fell. Now Rome's influence is growing.'
'Nothing happens by chance?' asked Romulus.
'Nothing,' answered Tarquinius confidently. 'Not even you and your sister being sold. Not this journey. Or your future.'
The hairs on Romulus' neck rose. 'How can you know about Fabiola?'
But the Etruscan was in full flow. 'And all the while, the world keeps turning. We are just swept along with it.'
'Every fool knows that the world is flat!' interjected Brennus.
'No. You know much, but the world is round, not flat. That is how we can travel around it without falling off.'
The Gaul was taken aback. 'Where does this knowledge come from?'
'I spent years of my childhood under a great master, Olenus Aesar.' Tarquinius bowed his head.
Satisfied, Brennus nodded respectfully. The secrets of druidic lore had also been taught to Ultan by his predecessor. Perhaps Tarquinius would be able to shed some light on the old man's prophecy?
'I want to learn things like that,' said Romulus eagerly.
'It will all be revealed.' The Etruscan lay down, stretching out his legs on the deck. 'Can you read and write?'
Romulus hesitated. 'No,' he admitted.
'I will teach you.'
He burned to ask more questions, but Tarquinius had turned away to gaze at the night sky. Romulus lay back on his blanket, enjoying the movement of cool air across his skin. Their new friend's revelations had been incredible. Nobody on Achilles had met either of them before today, yet Tarquinius had known about both Fabiola and the Gaul's tribe. And what had happened outside the brothel. Clearly full of mystical ability, the Etruscan could also read and write. These were rare talents.
Being taught to use a stylus would be Romulus' first step towards real freedom. His doubts about leaving Italy began to dissipate. With two friends like Brennus and Tarquinius, there could be little to worry about.
The Gaul was snoring loudly in the darkness, oblivious. The noise kept Romulus awake for some time.
'Tarquinius?' he whispered, still eager to talk.
'What is it?'
'You know where Brennus and I came from. Our backgrounds.' How I killed Caelius, he thought with a shiver.
'Much of it.'
'So tell me what you are hiding.' Though it was dark Romulus could feel the Etruscan's gaze.
'One day. Not now.'
Curiosity filled him, but there had been an air of finality to Tarquinius' response. Romulus closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Several days into the voyage, the fleet was hit by a powerful storm that sank a dozen triremes and scattered the rest far and wide. Hundreds of legionaries and sailors were drowned, but the Achilles did not suffer as much as a scratch to her timbers. Tarquinius said nothing but Brennus began looking at their new friend with awe. Used to tales of rogue soothsayers in the temples, Romulus was less sure. It was autumn, after all.
Whatever the reason for the bad weather, it was an inauspicious start to Crassus' campaign, and rumours of bad luck began to pass between the vessels. Tarquinius did not seem perturbed by these, which seemed to relieve Brennus. But nothing further occurred to worry the superstitious soldiers and Romulus soon forgot about the Etruscan's predictions.
The fleet sailed on, past hundreds of islands forming the coastline of Greece. Seaworthy enough to venture into open water for no more than two or three days, the ships stayed close to shore. The Romans' skill at land warfare did not extend to shipbuilding. Triremes were built to sail along Republican-controlled coasts, keeping the peace — the pax Romanum.
Every sunset the flotilla dropped anchor, allowing the exha
usted oarsmen time to rest. Armed parties were sent ashore to fill water barrels from rivers and streams. The food was just as Brennus predicted — hard tack and sour wine. Few of the new soldiers complained. They were happy just to be fed twice daily.
On a number of occasions, Romulus saw entire beaches covered in the burnt skeletons of ship frames, evidence of the Cilicians crushed by Pompey. The ferocious pirates had preyed on shipping for decades, costing Rome a fortune in lost trade. After a short pursuit around the eastern Mediterranean, Pompey had cornered the renegades ten years previously and crushed them. It had been a hugely popular victory for him.
A few raiders had returned to the area since, but they did not dare attack the vastly superior force. One day Romulus and his companions saw a group of sleek, dangerous looking vessels in the mouth of a small inlet only a few hundred paces away. Dark-skinned men stood watching fearfully from their decks.
But there would be no battle, as Crassus' captains were under strict orders not to delay.
Brennus raised his longsword and beckoned. 'Come and fight!'
'They prey on the weak,' Tarquinius observed. 'Not a fleet with thousands of soldiers.'
'It's been too long since I had a bout!'
The Etruscan turned his gaze back to the pirates.
'There 'll be all the fighting you need very soon.' Bassius had heard the outburst and stepped in, thinking he was preventing a quarrel. 'Quieten down.'
'Yes, sir.' The Gaul's face dropped.
'Come on, Brennus.' By now, Romulus knew the tempering effect he had on his friend. 'Show me those moves you were talking about. That all right, Senior Centurion?'
Bassius knew the journey was boring two of his best soldiers. 'I want no injuries,' he said gruffly. 'Cover your weapons.'
The pair hurried to obey. Realising there was going to be some action, the recruits quickly formed a circle on the deck. Brennus and Romulus practised every morning and by now everyone had deduced that they were trained fighters. Both men had already spent time helping Bassius teach the more eager ones some basic techniques.
Brennus crouched down, scowling ferociously. 'Let's take some wind out of your sails.'
Romulus pointed at the Gaul's belly. 'Getting fat with all this lying about!'
Laughing, the big warrior raised his longsword, its lethal edge covered in leather.
Romulus moved towards him slowly, bare feet sure on the hot deck.
Watching Brennus and his young protege spar, Tarquinius smiled. It had been many years since he trusted anyone, but the pair of runaways were becoming good friends.
Olenus' words had returned to him many times since their meeting. A voyage to Lydia by ship. There two gladiators become your friends. 'You were wrong, Olenus. For once,' the Etruscan whispered wryly. 'I met them on the way. Not when I got there.'
Having sailed hundreds of miles from the heel of Italy to the shores of Asia Minor, Crassus' triremes finally entered a wide, shallow uninhabited bay, filling it from one end to another. A long beach lined the sea's edge. The ground above was a less welcoming burnt ochre. The sun hung in a bright blue windless sky, casting intense heat on sunburnt soldiers and sailors. In the crystal clear water below the Achilles, Romulus could see fish swimming round the large stone anchor.
A protective cordon of legionaries was sent ashore to ensure the force landed without danger of attack. Then organised chaos reigned for two days as the army disembarked, carrying tons of equipment and food off by hand. Only the mules, braying and angry as ever, swam to the beach of their own accord.
Bassius' irregulars had to wade in through chest-high water. Unable to swim, Romulus, Brennus and the others pushed uneasily towards the land while Tarquinius swam confidently around them, laughing. Emerging on to the sand, the Etruscan swept back his long hair, drying it with his hands. As he did, Romulus noticed a red triangular mark on the side of his neck.
Quickly Tarquinius let his blond locks fall back into place.
'What's that?'
'Just a birthmark.'
'It's an unusual shape.'
Ignoring him, Tarquinius crouched down, sorting through the items he had placed in a pig's bladder before they jumped off the Achilles' deck.
Curiosity filled Romulus, but he got no chance to ask. Bassius was already roaring at them, keen to get his men into marching order.
Crassus supervised the operation from higher ground above the shoreline. An enormous pavilion had been erected, allowing the general every comfort while the soldiers toiled in baking temperatures below. Filled with carpets, tables, beds and partitioned rooms, the leather tent would serve as his command centre for the duration of the campaign. There were even a number of prostitutes, brought by his son Publius to pleasure senior officers.
A red flag — the vexillum — hung limply from a pole embedded in the ground. It showed every soldier Crassus' position. Hand-picked legionaries stood guard day and night, while messengers and trumpeters were positioned nearby to relay orders.
Bassius commanded one cohort — six centuries — of irregulars. Ten cohorts had been formed to fight with the regulars and the old centurion's unit had been attached to the Sixth Legion. Once all the men were on dry land, Bassius bellowed and screamed to get them across the sand to their position. The Sixth was already waiting, each well drilled cohort ranked behind the next.
'Move it!' Bassius was unimpressed at the sloppiness of his four hundred and eighty recruits. He and the other centurions had been training them on board, but it was not yet enough. 'By Jupiter, the real soldiers are laughing at us!'
Trumpets sounded once the mercenaries were in place and the front ranks moved forward, following the regulars. Four legions had landed on the same beach weeks before, erecting vast temporary camps some distance inland. The Sixth had not marched for long before reaching them. The playing-card-shaped forts consisted of earthen ramparts the height of a man. Soil used in the construction came from deep trenches that ran round the perimeter. Sentries stood guard in tall wooden watchtowers on the corners. Only one entrance broke the middle of each side. Two straight roads connected the four gates, cutting the camp into equal parts. The legion's headquarters were situated at their intersection and around this every century had an allocated position which never varied.
More commands blared from the bucinae. Swiftly half the legion fanned out in a screen around the rest.
'Time for some real work,' Bassius shouted. 'Lay down all equipment except weapons and shovels.'
The senior centurion knew what he was doing. Leading them to a section of what would be the perimeter, he liaised briefly with a regular officer. Soon Bassius' men were sweating and cursing as they dug.
Romulus had seldom seen such industry as he watched the legionaries nearby digging ditches and ramparts, hundreds of figures working in unison. It seemed soldiers of the Republic were not just fighters, but labourers and engineers as well.
Romulus' pride at being Roman began to return despite the fact that both of his friends' peoples had been crushed by its might. It was hard not to be stirred by the precision and discipline shown by Crassus' army. Every single man seemed to know exactly what to do. Three hours later, line upon line of tents went up in orderly fashion inside the new ramparts' protection. Each century took its place, marked by a unique cloth standard. Bassius positioned the mercenaries beside Publius' cavalry.
On the Achilles, they had been issued with a large leather tent used by regular legionaries but it had not been needed until now. Bassius had seemed content that Romulus, Brennus and Tarquinius should serve in the same contubernium, a group of eight men who lived and cooked together. The friends had got to know their five comrades on the voyage. Varro, Genucius and Felix were dour peasants from Cisalpine Gaul, driven from their land by the Romans. Joseph and Appius were short, wily men from Egypt, exiled for crimes they would only hint at.
They had not been relaxing round their tents for long when Bassius asked permission of one of the tribunes to start tr
aining his cohort. The veteran had had enough of twiddling his thumbs. Flanked by the five other centurions, Bassius stood with hands on hips, glaring at the sweating mercenaries.
'Time to start some proper military training. You've had long enough sitting on your arses.'
Most soldiers looked unhappy but Brennus rubbed his hands with glee.
'Form up! Attention!'
The irregulars quickly shuffled into rank, staring ahead as they had been had taught.
'Stand up!' Bassius stalked between the lines, straightening backs, tapping chins with his vine cane. 'Pretend to have spines, even if you haven't!'
At last the old centurion was satisfied and, directing a number of men to carry with them heavy wooden stakes procured from the quartermaster, Bassius led the cohort out of the busy camp, on to the flat ground in front.
Other centurions had similar ideas. The area was full of irregulars running, jumping and sparring with each other. After long weeks at sea, the officers of Crassus' army knew they had to get the men quickly into shape. It would be two months before the whole host was ready to march to the east, a short time to turn farmers into trained soldiers.
'Looks like some time at the palus again!'
'Gods above!' laughed Brennus. 'As if we need that. A good run would be more like it.'
Once the stakes had been hammered into the iron-hard ground, Bassius and his comrades began to instruct groups of recruits in basic weapons training. Romulus and his friends only had to cut and thrust at the palus once or twice before Bassius judged them hugely experienced. The three stood watching as the bemused Gauls were put through their paces. The veteran had obtained training equipment, wooden swords and wicker shields twice as heavy as the real thing and he worked the sweating men hard. It was the same method taught in gladiator school.
'What do you think you're doing?' Bassius roared at the trio a few moments later. 'No standing around! Four laps of the perimeter. At the trot!'
Romulus stayed beside the grinning Gaul as they ran along the defensive trench around the camp.
Brennus began loosening his shoulders. 'Just what we need,' he said.
Tarquinius remained silent, observing the legions as they moved into position. Romulus could hear him muttering.
