The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  '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?' His 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 majo
rity 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.

  Longinus strode into the room, energy radiating from him.

  Few looked up.

  The tough soldier came to a halt in front of Crassus and saluted crisply. 'I have done the rounds. The Eighth has lost about a third of its number. Now that they've had water and some rest, my men are in reasonable shape.'

  Crassus sat quite still, his eyes closed.

  'Sir?'

  Still silence.

  'What have you decided?' demanded Longinus.

  Comitianus cleared his throat. 'We have not come to an agreement yet.' He would not meet the other's eyes. 'What do you say?'

  'There is only one real option.' Longinus let the words sink in. 'Retreat to the river immediately. We can reach it before dawn.'

  'My soldiers cannot march tonight,' replied one legate.

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Unsurprised, Longinus glanced at Comitianus.

  'What about Armenia?' the commander of the Sixth ventured.

  'The legate is right, sir.' Coponius' tone wavered. 'Retreating to the mountains makes a lot of sense. There are plenty of streams and the broken ground would make it awkward for the Parthians' horses.'

  'The mountains?' Crassus gazed round the room longingly. 'Where is Publius?'

  There was no answer.

  'Gone, sir,' said Longinus at last. 'To Elysium.'

  'Dead?'

  Longinus nodded.

  A sob escaped Crassus' lips and he bent his neck, ignoring those around him.

  The spirited officer had seen enough. 'With your permission, sir,' he said, 'I would like to lead the army to safety. Tonight.'

  Crassus rocked on his stool and stared at the floor.

  Longinus raised his voice. 'We should retreat under the cover of darkness.'

  There was no response. Crassus, the liberator of Rome, was nothing but a shell.

  Longinus turned to face the others. 'Stay with him,' he said dismissively, 'or follow me. The Eighth is marching to the Euphrates in an hour.'

  Nervous muttering filled the room. He waited, fingers impatiently tapping his sword hilt.

  'There is a local who has aided us on many occasions, sir,' began the prefect, eager to please.

  Longinus raised an eyebrow.

  'Andromachus has proved reliable since we first took Carrhae. Many Parthian attacks have been foiled because of his information.'

  'Let me guess.' Longinus' voice dripped with sarcasm. 'This Andromachus can guide us to safety.'

  'So he says, sir.'

  'Where have I heard that before?'

  Coponius was not to be deterred. 'Apparently the mountains are only five to six hours' march, sir.'

  'Are they, by Jupiter?' said Longinus acidly.

  But the legates began whispering with excitement.

  Even Crassus lifted his head.

  'I know the way to the river!' Longinus bunched a fist. 'These savages are all treacherous sons of whores. We can trust none of them. Remember Ariamnes?'

  There was an ominous silence.

  'Publius,' Crassus broke in. 'Where is Publius?'

  The officers were paralysed with indecision.

  At length Comitianus plucked up the courage to speak. 'Armenia seems a better option,' he said uncertainly. 'That road to the river is totally flat.'

  'It's at least a day's march to the mountains by my reckoning. We can make the Euphrates overnight,' urged Longinus. 'Who is with me?'

  Nobody met his eye.

  The veteran was no longer prepared to tolerate their spineless attitude. 'Fools! You will be massacred.' He stalked out, red cloak flowing in the faint breeze.

  There was a brief, uneasy pause before the group began asking Coponius eagerly about possible salvation. The brave legate was forgotten. It was the only way the rest could reconcile themselves to staying with Crassus.

  The commander of the Eighth was as good as his word. Within the hour, Longinus' legion had gone, marching into the desert in virtual silence. Only the occasional clash of spear against shield betrayed its departure. Few of the exhausted survivors bothered to watch.

  Romulus heard the tramp of feet, jingling mail and muted coughs and got up straight away. Brennus was snoring peacefully, but the Etruscan's eyes were open. Together they walked to the main gate.

  'The Eighth is leaving,' said Romulus. 'Should we go too?'

  The Etruscan's face was enigmatic in the moonlight. 'The penalty for deserting is crucifixion. We should stay.'

  Romulus frowned. It wasn't likely the tired sentries would even notice if three more men fled the town. Discipline was at an all-time low.

  'What about the stars?'

  'They're not telling me much.'

  Romulus shrugged, content to trust his friend. Brennus seemed set on following Tarquinius to the ends of the world if necessary. The big man was like a father to him and that was enough reason to stay.

  The pair returned to the hut, where they found Brennus awake.

  'What's happening?'

  'The Eighth is heading for Zeugma.'

  'Be easy to slip over the wall. No one would see.'

  'No,' said Tarquinius firmly. 'It is less than a day's march to the Euphrates and safety. The men can manage that after a good rest.'

  'It seems cowardly fleeing at night.' Brennus lay back on the dirt floor, closing his eyes. 'I need a good sleep anyway.'

  Romulus pictured the lines of legionaries marching into the darkness. The Eighth had still looked proud, disciplined. Not like the rabble in and around Carrhae. His stomach turned over. Surely it was wiser to retreat when the Parthians could not use their deadly bows? What advantage was there in waiting until the morning? It didn't seem to make sense, but the Etruscan knew best. Wearier than he could ever remember, Romu
lus closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly.

  The haruspex did not speak again before dawn. He sat by the open door, brooding and studying the night sky. Tarquinius did not like misleading his friends, but there was no other way. Olenus had been right all those years before.

  By mid-morning, everyone knew that they should have followed Longinus to the Euphrates. Instead of marching west, the legates had elected to follow Coponius' guide north towards Armenia. Crassus had not given a single command since the previous night and rode his horse in a silent daze. After four hours in the cauldron of fire, the men had reached the limits of endurance. There had been no sign of the Parthians, nor of the promised mountains. Worst of all, no rivers or oases. Most soldiers had emptied their water containers within a few miles and thirst once again had become the enemy.

  Sensing the soldiers' need for a rest, the legates finally ordered a halt. Men collapsed on to the ground, not caring that it was hot enough to burn. Fearing mutiny, the centurions did not attempt to move them for some time.

  Eventually Bassius and the officers began to pace up and down, vine canes in hand. Armenia would get no nearer like this.

  'Get up! Lazy bastards!' The words were the same, but since the superhuman effort of bringing the Second Cohort to safety, Bassius had lost his vigour. It seemed his last reserves had been spent, leaving only willpower to keep him going.

  The legionaries groaned but did as he said. Bassius had earned their respect during the retreat and they were still willing to follow. Other centurions had more difficulty, but at last the battered army managed to get moving.

  Its speed was now painfully slow and as the column ground on, ever more soldiers began to fall out of rank from sheer exhaustion. Some managed to struggle up, but the weaker ones remained sprawled on the baking sand. Cries for help filled the air, but few men had the strength to carry another. It was easier to look away. Tears again formed in Romulus' eyes when he recognised legionaries he had fought with during the campaign. Only Brennus' iron grip on his shoulder prevented him from trying to help many.

  And so it went on. Half-dead figures littered the army's trail, left to cook in the sun. Clouds of vultures swiftly descended when it had passed. Loud, eager cries rose from the ugly birds as fights took place over the best pickings. Whether they waited until the prey was dead no one could tell.