The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  At length the legions neared the base of an enormous dune that ran across their path, its sheer bulk halting their progress. Hundreds of feet of sand rose steeply into the air. The soldiers groaned aloud. It would be a long, hard slog.

  'Climb!' The centurions roared, pointing upwards. 'Move!'

  The front ranks shifted their yokes and began ascending. For the moment all they could do was obey. Maybe the promised mountains would be visible from the top.

  Within fifty paces, Romulus saw a telltale cloud rising from behind the slope.

  'Trouble.' Stomach churning, he nudged Brennus.

  Suddenly everyone saw the dust. The army came to an abrupt standstill. Officers screamed in vain as the legionaries stared up with fascinated horror.

  When Parthian archers emerged on top of the dune, a wordless moan escaped men's throats. They would be going no further. As the tired soldiers waited, awestruck, the entire ridge filled with the enemy.

  'We 're finished,' swore Romulus. 'Can't fight them, can we? Might as well lie down and die now.'

  A little shocked, Brennus regained his composure quickly. 'Can't be as bad as it looks,' he said.

  Romulus spun to face Tarquinius, who regarded him steadily. The young soldier was furious. 'Did you know this would happen?' he snapped.

  'No.' It was impossible to tell if the Etruscan was lying or not.

  'Really? There are thousands of the bastards up there,' yelled Romulus. 'How could you miss seeing them?'

  'The art of haruspicy is an uncertain one,' replied Tarquinius with a shrug. 'I've told you that before.'

  Romulus' spirits plummeted. How could they live through another battle like the day before?

  Then the Etruscan pointed.

  A party of horsemen was making its way down the slope, hands held aloft to show they carried no weapons.

  Romulus peered at the riders suspiciously. 'Are they offering parley?'

  'Looks like it,' answered Brennus calmly.

  'The breeze is more favourable now,' added Tarquinius. 'Although thousands more men will die today.'

  'It's time to talk,' Romulus grumbled. 'We don't stand a chance otherwise.'

  The friends held their breath as the Parthians came closer, the horses picking their way through the thick sand.

  Crassus' position was obvious from the number of standards and red-cloaked officers, and the riders halted a hundred paces from it. They waited expectantly.

  To Romulus' surprise, there was no response.

  Men began to grow angry. The endless marching in blistering heat, exhaustion and the lack of water had been followed by the death of thousands at the hands of an unreachable enemy. Now, even when they were about to be slaughtered, it seemed that their leader would not talk to the Parthians. His arrogance had not completely evaporated.

  With no cavalry remaining, Crassus had to rely on his bodyguards to carry orders. At last a pair of this elite came trotting along the column, sweating heavily in their gilded breastplates and leather skirts.

  'Prepare for battle!' one wheezed every few steps. 'Back to the flat ground. Form a continuous line.'

  'Piss off, son of a whore!'

  'Who said that?' Both men skidded to a halt, hands on their swords.

  'Go and fight those bastard Parthians yourself!'

  There was an angry roar and more insults were thrown. So far, these hand-picked soldiers had seen no combat at all, which generated huge resentment among the rank and file.

  'Where 's the ranking centurion?' The more senior bodyguard, an optio, tried to regain control.

  Silently Bassius came forward, his phalerae prominent.

  'Nobody disobeys a direct order from Marcus Licinius Crassus. Arrest those men!'

  'You can call me sir. I didn't spend sixteen damn years in the legions for nothing!'

  'Sir.'

  'Go and do it yourself,' declared Bassius. 'You piece of shit.'

  Huge cheers erupted from his men.

  'Refusing to obey orders, Centurion?'

  Bassius ignored him. 'Why has Crassus not sent a party to negotiate?'

  More delighted shouts rose from the surrounding legionaries.

  The two guards were blind to diplomacy.

  'Crassus does not parley with desert savages.'

  Bassius whipped out his gladius, placing its razor sharp tip under the optio's chin.

  'Tell the general to go and talk with the Parthians. Himself.' He half turned. 'That right, boys?'

  A swelling roar of approval moved down the line, the soldiers drumming their swords off scuta to show support. Those further away guessed what was going on and joined in. Romulus and Brennus did likewise. What was the point of dying in the Mesopotamian desert? They might as well retreat to Syria and survive.

  A faint breeze had sprung up and Tarquinius saw that a number of small clouds had appeared in the sky. Engrossed with the standoff, no one else saw him frown. There were twelve.

  The optio was a brave man. 'Crassus ignores demands from scum.'

  'I've fought in more than ten wars, you miserable dog,' said Bassius, pressing harder with his gladius and breaking the skin. A drop of blood rolled down the iron.

  He winced but did not back away.

  'Crassus had best do what we say.' Bassius paused. 'Or he might end up like Publius.'

  The optio glanced at his comrade.

  Dozens of legionaries tensed and the second soldier carefully let go of his sword hilt. The men around them pounded harder on their shields. Crassus had promised them everything but delivered only hardship and death. Thousands of Parthians now waited to complete their annihilation. If the general would not parley, they would take matters into their own hands.

  'You heard them.' The old centurion gestured at the column's centre. 'Now go and tell Crassus.'

  Slowly the two guards moved away from the raised weapon and stalked back to Crassus' position. Bassius watched for a few moments before stepping into line.

  'Jupiter!' Romulus let out a breath. 'Ever seen anything like that?'

  Brennus shook his head. 'Shows just how bad it is, for a man like Bassius to mutiny.'

  'Crassus decimated a unit that ran from Spartacus,' said Tarquinius. 'Interesting to see what he does about this.'

  'He'll talk. If the fool doesn't,' replied Brennus calmly, 'the entire army will rise up.'

  The Gaul was right. Crassus finally realised that his soldiers had suffered enough. The racket alone would have conveyed their depth of anger and it was not long before a party detached itself from the centre. Led by the swarthy Andromachus, Crassus and his legates rode across the sand towards the waiting Parthians, their heads bowed. Even the horsehair plumes on the officers' helmets were sagging. Not a sound broke the silence as the sun beat down on the dramatic scene. Motionless, the archers sat high above. Watching. Waiting. Ready to attack.

  For some time the two groups talked, their words inaudible because of the distance. With Andromachus acting as interpreter, Crassus and his officers listened to Surena's terms.

  Romulus clenched his jaw. 'Let's hope that the fool gets us a safe pass, or we will all be food for vultures.'

  'They will be wanting guarantees that he won't invade again,' said Tarquinius.

  'What kind?' asked Romulus.

  Brennus spat on the hot sand. 'Prisoners.'

  The young man's stomach lurched. Was this what Tarquinius had meant? Romulus had no time to dwell on the disconcerting thought.

  Above them, a vicious melee suddenly broke out. Andromachus and the Parthians had produced concealed weapons and killed three legates. While the soldiers watched helplessly, Crassus was knocked from his horse with a blow to the head. Instantly two warriors jumped down and threw his senseless body on to a horse. Leaving their companions to finish off the remaining Romans, they galloped away up the dune.

  The stunned legionaries watched as their sole chance of salvation disappeared. One senior officer had managed to pull his horse around and ride back, but the
others lay lifeless on the sand.

  The army had been left with only one legate.

  'We are done for,' groaned a voice nearby.

  Brennus drew his longsword, his face calm.

  'Treacherous bastards,' said Romulus bitterly.

  'They must have been planning it all along,' remarked Tarquinius. 'That I did not see.'

  The horsemen above had already split into two files, each aiming at one side of the Roman column. Surena had prepared the final blow.

  Romulus pulled his gladius free, regretting that he would never get revenge on Gemellus. They would be lucky to survive the next hour.

  Then Tarquinius glanced at the sky and to his relief, spoke with absolute certainty. 'We three will not die today.' He lowered his voice. 'Many will. But not us.'

  A great gust of relief escaped Romulus' lips.

  Brennus grinned from ear to ear, his faith stronger than ever.

  There was a collective moan when the soldiers realised that the previous day's slaughter was about to be repeated. What seemed like hope had only been deceit.

  Centurions and junior officers seized the initiative, ordering retreat down the slope. With Crassus gone, there would be no clear orders from the trumpeters. Men shuffled desperately to the flat ground, peering over their shoulders. A ragged line, three ranks deep, assembled in close formation at the bottom of the dune. Shields were raised against the storm of deadly missiles that would soon be hissing down.

  Crassus' once proud army huddled together, preparing to die under the burning Mesopotamian sun. Few legionaries had any will to fight remaining.

  The one-sided battle did not last long. Countless Parthian arrows filled the air, punching through scuta, decimating those beneath. With no means of retaliation, all the soldiers could do was to be killed where they stood. Any who broke and ran were soon butchered. Soon Roman casualties sprawled on the hot sand in their hundreds.

  By the time cataphracts were sent in for the first time, the end was nigh. The heavy cavalry pounded down the slope, ploughing into the Roman centre. Lances ripped into men's chests, horses trampled bodies into the ground, swords hacked deep into flesh. A massive gap remained where their unstoppable momentum had carried the Parthians through.

  The legionaries could not take much more before they were utterly routed.

  The one surviving legate ordered his legion's eagle dipped to show the desire to surrender. Romulus would never forget the symbol of Roman military might being lowered to the sand. Since he had first seen them in Brundisium, proudly borne aloft by the standard-bearers, the silver birds had stirred Romulus' blood. As a slave and then a gladiator, he had never encountered anything to really inspire him. His worship of Jupiter was like that of everyone else — hope and belief in the intangible. But the eagles were solid metal, and hard evidence of the Republic's military might: something for him to have faith in. After all, he was a Roman. His mother was Italian and so was the bastard who had raped her. Why should he not follow the eagle into battle as the regular legionaries did?

  He saw many break down in tears at the shame of the defeat. Some officers attacked the Parthians blindly, preferring to die fighting than live with the ignominy, but most soldiers surrendered with relief. The desert warriors surrounded the beaten Romans, their sweating horses pressing in close. The survivors were herded together like sheep while dark brown eyes stared from behind fully drawn bows. None dared resist any longer. These were arrows that had defeated an army of thirty-five thousand men.

  All unit standards, potent symbols of power, were seized and the Parthians forced everyone to throw down their swords. Those not swift enough to obey were killed on the spot. Brennus dropped his longsword with reluctance, but the Etruscan seemed less concerned about his battleaxe and Romulus soon knew why. Groups of archers dismounted and began to pick up the weapons, tying them together in bundles. Camels were being loaded with the gladii and remaining pila. The weapons were going with the captives, evidence that their fate had already been decided. Tarquinius expected to retrieve his axe later. It gave Romulus hope.

  But nearly half the force involved in the final battle had been killed. The remainder — approximately ten thousand legionaries and mercenaries — were now prisoners. Defeated and dejected, the soldiers were left with nothing but their clothes and armour. Once disarmed, it was simple for the Parthians to tie ropes round each man's neck.

  In long lines of human misery, they were marched south towards Seleucia. As he trudged away, Romulus did not look back at the carnage.

  Behind him, hundreds of vultures were starting to land.

  Chapter XXVII: Crassus

  Seleucia, capital of the Parthian Empire, summer 53 BC

  Life in the circular stockade where Romulus and hundreds of soldiers were incarcerated had become almost routine. Positioned near a great brick archway leading into the city, the prison of thick logs was twice Brennus' height. The men sat miserably on hard dirt inside, packed so tightly they were barely able to stretch out their legs. Rumour had it that the other captives were being held in many similar locations around Seleucia. Even unarmed, the Parthians did not trust the Romans in very large groups.

  Replaced by new suffering, Carrhae and the terrible march south had already become a distant memory. Freezing nights followed the searing hot days, increasing the hardship for wounded and whole alike. There was no shelter in the compound. The Roman soldiers shivered together in the dark and burned in the sun. All known officers had been taken elsewhere, leaving only a few low-rankers to rally spirits.

  Tarquinius seemed content to wait, making few comments about wind or weather. No one else knew what their fate would be. They had been spared so far, but it still seemed likely the Parthians would execute them all. Thousands of comrades had been left to rot in the desert, a shame each man felt keenly. It was Roman custom to inter the dead with pomp and ceremony. Normally only criminals were left in the open and Romulus could vividly recall the putrid smell from corpses littering the pits on the eastern slopes of the Esquiline. Only the gods knew what Carrhae would have been like.

  The prisoners were fed barely enough to survive. Chaos descended each time the guards shoved inside to leave provisions on the ground. Men were reduced to beasts, fighting over stale crusts and brackish water. It was thanks to Tarquinius' increasing stature that the friends ate and drank at all. Helped by Romulus, the Etruscan moved tirelessly among the wounded every day, cleaning wounds and administering herbs from a small leather pouch that he had miraculously saved from their captors. As soldiers became aware of his mystical ability, respect for the Etruscan soared even higher and food was kept back for him. It was through someone like the haruspex that a way might be found out of the hell they were in.

  Many of the injured succumbed to dehydration and the bloated corpses were only hauled away by the Parthians if the prisoners carried them to the gate. To prevent disease spreading to the nearby city, the guards had constructed a huge pyre, constantly ablaze to cope with the number of dead. At night its ghostly light revealed thin, hungry faces. The smell of burning flesh was all-pervading, its acrid odour adding to the men's distress.

  'Bastards should have executed us,' raged Romulus at dawn on the twelfth day. 'A few weeks and we'll all end up like them.'

  More than twenty legionaries lay dead nearby.

  'Patience,' counselled Tarquinius. 'The air is moving. Soon we will know more.'

  Romulus nodded reluctantly but Felix was enraged at the sight of his comrades' corpses. 'What I'd give for a weapon,' he said, thumping the timbers with frustration.

  The little Gaul's action caught the eye of a guard, who waved his spear in a clear gesture to stand back.

  'Quiet!' hissed Brennus. He would wait as long as Tarquinius was happy to. 'You don't want to die like that legionary.'

  The decomposing figure hanging from the T-shaped wooden structure outside was a brutal example of Parthian discipline. Two days before, a burly veteran of the Sixth had spat at the
feet of a guard. He had been dragged outside immediately and fastened to a cross.

  With thick iron nails driven through his feet, the soldier had been unable to stand for long. Nor could he hang from his transfixed hands. Shifting from one agonising position to another, the victim was soon screaming. The cruel spectacle had carried on for half the morning. Satisfied that the prisoners had seen enough, the guard had abruptly ended the man's suffering with a spear thrust and had left his body in place to serve as a reminder.

  Felix sat down.

  The Parthian resumed his patrol around the perimeter.

  'We are still alive and that means they have something planned,' said the Etruscan.

  'Public execution,' growled Felix. 'That's what the Gauls would do.'

  'Not for us ordinary soldiers.'

  Romulus remained unconvinced. 'In Rome we'd end up in the arena. Are these savages any different?'

  'They have no gladiators, no beast hunts. This is not Italy.' Tarquinius was emphatic. 'Listen!'

  The Parthian bells and drums had not stopped since dawn. Since their arrival in Seleucia there had been triumphant noises most days, but this was different. Growing ever louder, the clamour had an ominous feel to it. The temperature had been climbing steadily as the sun rose into the clear blue sky and the sweating soldiers were beginning to feel uneasy.

  Brennus got to his feet, looking towards the maze of streets that led into the city. 'It's getting nearer.'

  Silence hung over the stockade as the din approached. Dirty, bandaged and sunburnt, the survivors of the Sixth got to their feet one by one as the guards chattered excitedly outside.

  'What is it, Tarquinius?' Like many, Felix had realised the Etruscan had knowledge of the Parthians.

  Eager for any information, a cluster of men formed around him.

  Tarquinius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'There has been no formal celebration yet.'

  'What about Crassus?' asked Romulus. Since the battle, there had been no sign of their general. No doubt he would play an important part.