The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  Publius' Gauls rode beside the slowly moving column, their large horses also beginning to look tired. In stark comparison, the Nabataeans' mounts pranced along, riders chattering busily to each other.

  Brennus pointed. 'Easy for them, eh?'

  'You'll be glad of the Nabataeans when we're facing the main Parthian army,' said Romulus.

  'I suppose. But I don't trust them,' the Gaul growled. 'Forever sniggering and laughing. Look!'

  Romulus didn't like the sly glances being cast in their direction either.

  'A couple of thousand Gaulish cavalry would be more use.'

  'Not if they perform like those fools back there,' said Tarquinius dryly.

  In an attempt to find relief from one of many blisters, Romulus hefted his yoke from one shoulder to another and narrowly missed the head of the man immediately behind.

  'Watch what you're doing,' the soldier swore. 'Or you'll feel the tip of my gladius.'

  Romulus ignored him. 'Why didn't we travel through Armenia?' he asked again. 'Crassus must have known that would be easier.' Tarquinius had not been slow to share his discontent when it became evident the army was not taking the longer, safer route.

  'Impatience. This way to Seleucia takes only four weeks.'

  'A month in this hell?' Brennus rolled his eyes. 'What about water?'

  'Resen, one of my people 's ancestral cities, lies the other way,' added the Etruscan regretfully. He lowered his voice. 'And fewer men would have died in the mountains.'

  Romulus noticed him glance up at the vultures and his suspicions grew further.

  Tarquinius gestured at the Parthians in the distance. 'We should have been facing that lot on our terms, not theirs.'

  'True,' replied the Gaul. 'Broken terrain would suit us far better.'

  'Precisely.'

  'It's what we did to the Romans in the first year,' mused Brennus. 'Attacked them on our own ground.'

  'And now the Parthians are doing it to us,' Romulus chipped in. 'Crassus needs to start using the Nabataeans as protection.'

  Brennus nodded approvingly at the observation while a dark shadow passed unseen over Tarquinius' face. His wish to travel east was being fulfilled, but it would be at far greater cost than the haruspex had first thought.

  True to form, Tarquinius' words were prophetic. In the hours that followed, groups of Parthian archers rode in close, attempting to goad the Gauls into pursuit. If Publius' cavalry responded, more arrow storms rained down. If they did not, the enemy horsemen used them as target practice. Without bows, there was little the Gauls could do to retaliate and after a number of assaults, they had lost scores of men.

  The Nabataeans seemed immune to temptation. Volleys of shafts were released if the Parthians came near, a tactic that worked well. Crassus finally realised this and Ariamnes was ordered to split his cavalry, placing half on each side of the army as a protective screen. The mercenaries were heartened by their allies' presence.

  Slowly the army ground forward into the sandy wasteland.

  But the Parthians immediately adapted the method of harassment. Groups of riders began picking areas the Nabataeans were not protecting at that exact time and their sudden charges from behind large dunes were harder to predict. Men on the outside of each rank became experts at spotting dust clouds driven up by the enemy's horses, early warning that an attack was imminent.

  'Halt! Shields up!' echoed along the line throughout the afternoon. 'Form testudo!'

  Despite their exhaustion, the soldiers had learned to respond fast. Each side of the Roman column would become a wall of shields, the men inside lifting theirs to form a roof, creating cover for all.

  But no matter how fast they responded, fresh screams always rang out as the showers of Parthian arrows came scything down, the shafts finding gaps in the testudo and the men who'd obeyed orders too late. The enemy quickly realised that aiming both above and below the shields was even more effective. Soldiers dropped to the ground clutching throats, arms and legs. The hiss of arrows competed with shrieks of agony in a terrible crescendo.

  Romulus was glad Brennus had insisted that they buy heavy legionary scuta. The Gaulish tribesmen of his cohort carried traditional elongated rectangular shields far thinner than standard army issue and it soon became evident that they were more susceptible to the enemy bows. If the Parthians came within less than fifty paces their arrows penetrated either type with ease. Further away, only the Gauls' shields were vulnerable. It was small consolation. All day the Parthians remained tantalisingly out of range of Roman pila, which were ineffective beyond thirty paces. Fortunately their assaults did not last long, as the enemy were driven off by Nabataean charges or pulled back when they had used all their shafts.

  By mid-afternoon more than forty mercenaries had been killed and injured. The dead sprawled in the sand, fresh meat for the vultures above. As the army marched past, the wounded were left with a few guards. When the baggage train arrived, they were loaded into the wagons, their screams and cries adding to the general sense of fear and unease.

  And the sun beat down mercilessly, an oven from which there was no escape. Crassus' army was being drained of its ability to fight.

  Romulus' first taste of battlefield combat was not what he 'd expected. Cotta's lessons about armies meeting on a flat plain and lines of men clashing in shield walls were far from this. He ground his teeth as comrades continued falling to Parthian arrows. Even fights in the arena seemed easy now. There they were one on one, man to man. The tactic of wearing down an opponent was new to him. It was torture enduring attacks without being able to fight back.

  Matters came to a head for Romulus when a lone Parthian archer returned after his comrades had just been driven off. Riding parallel, he began firing shafts at the irregulars from just outside javelin range. Half a dozen arrows later, five men lay dead and another had been maimed. The marching soldiers cringed behind their shields, each hoping he would not be next.

  'Son of a whore!' Romulus yelled. He prepared himself to break rank, but Brennus quickly pulled him back.

  'Wait!'

  'I can kill him,' Romulus said, taking a deep breath. It was time to take a stand: too many of their comrades had been slain.

  'He'll loose three arrows before you go ten steps!'

  Romulus shook off the Gaul's hand proudly. 'I'm a man, not a boy, Brennus. I make my own decisions.'

  The comment sank home more than he could know and Brennus released his grip. The lad's just like Brac, he thought.

  Tarquinius did not look surprised.

  Hefting the pila he had been training with for months, Romulus stepped out of formation.

  'Get back into line, soldier!' yelled Bassius.

  Ignoring the order, Romulus stabbed his second pilum into the sand and locked eyes with the Parthian. The archer's confidence was now so great that his horse had slowed to a walk and he smiled as Romulus drew back to throw.

  Brennus held his breath but the arrogant rider did not even raise his bow in response.

  'Waste of time,' said a soldier two ranks behind. 'He 's too far away.'

  The centurion was about to bellow again, but paused.

  With a grunt of effort, Romulus hurled the javelin. It curved upwards in a huge arc before coming down to skewer the Parthian through the chest. There was a roar of approval as the archer toppled slowly off his horse. It was an incredible throw and the mercenaries' spirits visibly lifted.

  Romulus resumed his position and Brennus clapped him on the shoulder. 'Fine shot.'

  He flushed with pleasure.

  By late afternoon, the dreadful heat began to abate and the Parthians finally pulled away. Only fifteen miles had been covered instead of the regulation twenty, but Crassus called a halt before even more men collapsed. Despite their total exhaustion, every other soldier had to help build a marching camp.

  'Thank the gods we dug yesterday,' remarked Tarquinius when the order came.

  Brennus allowed himself a gulp from his water con
tainer. 'It'll be us again tomorrow.'

  Grateful not to dig the hot sand, the mercenary cohort fanned out in a curved screen with half the Sixth Legion. Their job was to protect the remainder as the camp was built. The unlucky legionaries shed heavy yokes, cursing loudly as they got to work with shovels.

  Across the desert plain other legions were doing the same. By sunset, the earth ramparts and defensive trenches had been finished. Even after extreme ordeals, the strenuous training and harsh discipline meant the army could still function. Rome could install civilisation anywhere.

  As evening passed, the sun changed in colour. It went from yellow to orange, finally turning to blood red. Sitting by his tent, Romulus stared at the horizon, an uneasy feeling in his belly. The day had seen no real combat. Apart from his amazing javelin throw, all the skirmishing had gone the Parthians' way. Despite Tarquinius' warnings, it had been a revelation. With rare exceptions, the stories of warfare he had been weaned on consisted of crushing defeats for anyone foolish enough to resist the Republic. It didn't matter who it was — the rebel king Jugurtha in Africa, Hannibal of Carthage — all came to grief at the hands of Rome.

  But the sunburnt, exhausted men he could see looked incapable of a major battle. Slack faces stared into space, tired jaws chewed dry food, sunburnt bodies lay everywhere, weapons dropped alongside. Crassus' soldiers did not seem to care what happened to them.

  A shiver of fear ran down Romulus' spine. How could an army composed almost entirely of infantry beat one of only cavalry? 'How can Crassus win?' he said out loud.

  The Etruscan stopped chewing. 'Simple. By drawing the Parthians into a fixed battle, facing a deep line of soldiers. And when that happens, our horsemen need to be on the wings.'

  'Stops the army being flanked,' added Brennus.

  'What would the infantry do?'

  'Weather the storm,' replied Tarquinius. 'Shelter behind their shields with the front ranks on their knees.'

  Romulus winced. 'To protect their lower legs from arrows?'

  'Correct.'

  'If they stand fast, it would allow the cavalry to peel round to the enemy's rear in a pincer movement.' Brennus thumped one fist into the other. 'Then we'll crush them with a charge on the centre.'

  'And the cataphracts?'

  Tarquinius grimaced. 'If they are sent in before the Parthians get flanked, things will be very difficult.' He sighed. 'It should all be down to our cavalry.'

  Brennus frowned. 'If the mangy bastards don't disappear beforehand!'

  'Indeed.'

  Romulus looked sharply at the Etruscan. 'What is it?'

  'Brennus is right not to trust the Nabataeans. I have been watching our new allies and studying the sky above.' Tarquinius sighed. 'They will probably leave tomorrow.'

  'Treacherous savages,' muttered the Gaul.

  'How can you be so sure?' asked Romulus.

  'Nothing is absolutely certain,' the Etruscan replied. 'But the Nabataeans are no friends of Rome.'

  'So what will happen?'

  'We must wait. Time will tell,' replied Tarquinius calmly.

  'And if there are twelve vultures above us tomorrow?' blurted Romulus.

  The Etruscan glanced at him shrewdly. 'Twelve is the Etruscans' sacred number. Often it appears with other signs, which can be good. Or bad.'

  Romulus shivered.

  Unrolling his blanket, Brennus smiled reassuringly. He had come to the conclusion that Ultan's prophecy had to mean something positive. Since escaping his life as a gladiator and travelling to the east, he had survived storms, battles and fiery deserts. Seen incredible cities like Jerusalem and Damascus. Made friends with a powerful soothsayer. He was learning new things every day. It had to be better than killing men in the arena on a daily basis. 'Don't worry,' he said to Romulus. 'The gods will protect us.' He lay down and was asleep within moments.

  Romulus breathed in cool desert air. He had grown quite used to his friend's tendency to only partially answer questions. Although Tarquinius' reticence was frustrating, most of his predictions had been correct so far, forcing the young man to start believing what he said. If the Nabataeans left, the army's only defence against the Parthians would be the irregular cavalry and each soldier's scutum, and both had already been shown to be ineffective. It was a sobering thought.

  He watched Tarquinius gaze silently at the stars, sure that the soothsayer knew what was going to happen.

  Increasingly Romulus thought he did as well.

  Chapter XXII: Politics

  Campus Martius, Rome, summer 53 BC

  While the nobles smiled and nodded, the crowd yelled with anticipation. Brutus' face stayed neutral. The wooden steps creaked as hobnailed caligae clattered up. Burly legionaries in full armour appeared, gazing round suspiciously. Satisfied there was no threat, one beckoned to the men at the foot of the stairs. Several senior military officers, resplendent in gilt breastplates and red cloaks, preceded Pompey. It was all designed to impress. Shouts of approval filled the arena as the tribunes acknowledged the people.

  'Pompey is on a mission,' whispered Brutus. 'To remain more popular than Caesar and Crassus. With all the unrest in the city, he 's plotting to become sole consul.'

  'Can he do that?'

  It was one of Rome's most sacred laws that power should always be shared between two men. And although the consulships had been monopolised by the triumvirate and their allies for years, no one had dared to promote any other change.

  Smiling at those around them, Brutus pressed his lips against her ear. 'Of course,' he said quietly. 'He 's deliberately letting the violence from the street gangs spiral out of control. Soon the Senate will have no option but to offer him power. With Crassus in the east, no one else has the soldiers.'

  Fabiola made a face. In her lover's eyes there was only one man to lead the Republic.

  Caesar. Who was stuck in Gaul, mopping up pockets of tribal resistance.

  There was a last clamour from the trumpets. Everyone waited in silence for the master of ceremonies to stand forth.

  'Citizens of Rome!'

  Loud cheers split the air.

  'I give you — the editor of these games! Pom-pey Mag-nus!'

  As the praise for Pompey went on and on, Brutus rolled his eyes.

  Yet the crude tactic worked. The audience went wild.

  A stocky man of medium height with a thick fringe of white hair emerged into the box. His round face was dominated by prominent eyes and a squashed, bulbous nose. Unlike his officers, Pompey wore a white purpleedged toga, mark of the equestrian class. It did not yet pay for leaders to appear in military dress in Rome.

  'But Pompey is a canny soldier,' added Brutus. 'It'll be a close match when he comes up against Caesar.'

  Fabiola turned to him. 'Civil war?' There had been rumours for months.

  'Be quiet!' hissed Brutus. 'Do not say those words in public.'

  Pompey moved to stand where all could see and raised his right arm, waving slowly to the citizens. When the rapturous applause died down, he took his seat on a purple cushion in the front row.

  Moments later, the final pair of gladiators walked on to the sand below. It was a long, skilful contest to the death between a secutor and a retiarius. Even Fabiola had to admire the lethal display of martial skill. While watching, she prayed silently that the big Gaul was still with her brother, would protect him from danger. Where they were, the gods only knew.

  Brutus explained their moves as the two well-matched men lunged and slashed at each other. To compensate for his lack of armour, the fisherman was more experienced than the secutor, who could defend himself against trident thrusts with his shield. The retiarius had only speed and agility to avoid his opponent's razor-sharp blade.

  Time passed and finally the fisherman drew first blood, a wily throw half covering the secutor with his weighted net. Instantly the trident swept forward, plunging deep into the other's right thigh.

  Thinking the end was near, the crowd roared.

  D
esperately the hunter threw himself forward as the barbed prongs ripped clear of his flesh. Groaning in pain, he reached up with his sword and slashed the retiarius across the belly as he fell.

  His opponent also slumped to his knees.

  Blood dripped on to the sand from both men.

  There was a pause while the two wounded fighters dragged air into their chests, struggling for the energy to continue. People in the audience screamed encouragement, throwing pieces of bread and fruit at them. The secutor was first to stand, throwing off the net and raising his weapon. With a struggle, the retiarius also got up, holding his stomach with one hand, gory trident with the other.

  'It will be over soon,' said Brutus, pointing. Both were clearly badly hurt.

  Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining Romulus.

  The staff officer leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the portly man in front. 'Ten thousand sestertii on the retiarius, Fabius,' he said, his eyes glinting.

  Fabius half turned, an amazed look on his red face. 'His guts are about to fall out, Brutus!'

  'Scared to lose?'

  'You're on,' laughed Fabius and the pair gripped forearms.

  Fabiola pouted and caressed Brutus' neck. 'You're wasting money,' she whispered in his ear.

  He winked. 'Never underestimate a fisherman — especially a wounded one.'

  Although the secutor could not move fast, he was still armed with sword and shield. Shuffling after the retiarius, he cut and slashed rapidly, parrying occasional trident thrusts with little difficulty. The fisherman made sporadic attempts to retrieve his net but was blocked every time. He seemed quite weak, barely fending off the hunter's aggressive efforts.