by Ben Kane
‘We come from near Lugdunum,’ growled Brennus from the entrance to the corridor.
Romulus had never been so relieved.
‘Allobroge territory, eh?’ sneered Novius.
‘Yes.’ Brennus stepped into the room, forcing Caius to move backwards. ‘It was.’
Optatus grinned. ‘I remember that campaign well. Your villages burned easily.’
‘Some of the women we raped were passably good-looking,’ added Novius, forcing two fingers in and out of a ring made of his right forefinger and thumb.
The others laughed cruelly and Romulus burned with anger and shame for his friend.
The Gaul’s face went purple with rage but he did not react.
Novius was not to be put off. ‘Why is your accent different to his then?’ He jerked a dismissive thumb at Brennus.
Brennus did not give Romulus time to answer. ‘Because his father was a Roman soldier, like you shitbags,’ he snapped. ‘Explains his name too. Happy?’
Ammias, Primitivus and Optatus glowered but did not reply. They were bullies rather than ringleaders.
‘And the mark?’ persisted Novius.
‘It’s from a gladius,’ answered the Gaul with a show of reluctance. ‘The lad could barely lift a sword, but he tried to fight back when you fuckers were attacking our settlement. Naturally he didn’t want to tell you.’
It was Novius’ turn to look confused. Quickly he did the maths, calculating if Romulus’ age as a boy tallied with the Allobroges’ rebellion nine years before.
It did.
‘We fled south. Worked here and there,’ Brennus went on. ‘Ended up in Crassus’ army. With all our tribe gone, it didn’t matter where in Hades we went.’
It was commonplace for the warriors of defeated tribes to seek employ in the service of Rome. Iberians, Gauls, Greeks and Libyans were among the host of nationalities in its armies. Even Carthaginians joined up these days.
The little legionary was visibly disappointed.
Romulus used the silence to shuffle closer to Brennus. Side by side, they were an imposing pair: the huge Gaul with bulging muscles and his young protege, slightly smaller but just as solidly built. Although Romulus had no more than a dagger, they would account for themselves very well if it came to a fight. The pair glared at the five veterans.
Novius lowered his sword. ‘Only citizens are supposed to serve in the legions,’ he said resentfully. ‘Not tribal vermin like you two.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Caius.
The fact that they had served in a mercenary cohort under Crassus was not mentioned. That Romulus was apparently half-Italian. Or the fact that the Forgotten Legion was not a Roman army unit, but a Parthian one.
‘That’s a different matter,’ Brennus replied smoothly. ‘Here we’re all brothers-in-arms. It’s us against the Parthians, miserable scumbags that they are.’
His words seemed to have the right effect on the veterans; they turned to go, Novius taking up the rear.
Grinning at the Gaul, Romulus began to relax. It was the wrong thing to do.
The little legionary turned at the door. Brennus gave him an evil look, but Novius stood his ground. ‘Odd,’ he said in a strange voice. ‘Very odd.’
With a sinking feeling, Romulus saw that Novius was staring at Brennus’ left calf, which had a prominent purple oval of scar tissue.
‘What is it?’ called Caius from outside the barracks.
‘Instead of branding them on the shoulder, Governor Pomptinus made us mark the captives’ calves on that campaign.’
‘I remember,’ came the response. ‘So what?’
Although he had never asked, Romulus had always wondered why Brennus’ mark was different to other slaves.
‘It was to show they were his property,’ crowed Novius.
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ Caius sounded bored.
‘This brute has a scar just where his brand should be,’ announced Novius delightedly, lifting his sword again. ‘He’s a damn slave too!’
Before he could do more, Brennus lunged forward and shoved the little legionary in the chest. Novius flew out of the door, landing flat on his back. His four friends scattered, their faces alarmed.
‘Piss off, you son of a whore,’ the Gaul said from between clenched teeth. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’
‘Scum!’ Novius wheezed, his face twisted with rage. ‘You’re both escaped slaves.’
Romulus and Brennus did not reply.
‘Felix probably was too,’ the little legionary added as the others reached for their swords.
‘There’s only one punishment for that,’ snarled Caius.
‘Crucifixion,’ finished Optatus.
Primitivus and Ammias, their companions, raised their gladii in unison at that prospect. Five faces filled with hatred ringed the doorway.
Romulus’ stomach constricted into a knot. He had seen the brutal method of execution carried out many times. It was a slow, agonising death.
‘Just try it,’ Brennus bellowed. His temper was fully up, and he stood in the door like a raging bull. Only one man could attack him at a time. ‘Who’s first?’
None of the veterans moved. They were no fools.
Romulus pelted back to their room, scooping up his scutum and sword. There was no chance to don his chain mail, but armed like this, he felt more of a match for their new enemies. When he got to the entrance, Brennus had come back inside.
‘Bastards,’ he growled. ‘They’re gone. For now.’
‘They’ll tell everyone,’ said Romulus, struggling not to panic. The Parthian officers didn’t care about their history, but it would not be popular among the others in their century. Or, for that matter, the whole legion.
‘I know.’
‘What can we do?’
‘Not much.’ The Gaul sighed heavily. ‘Stay alert. Watch each other’s backs.’
This felt all too familiar. Neither spoke for a moment as they considered their options.
There were none. Escape was out of the question: it was deepest winter. Where would they go anyway? And Tarquinius, the one man who might be able to help, was still incarcerated with Pacorus. They were alone.
Glumly, Romulus studied the burnished iron of his gladius. He was going to be sleeping with it from now on.
It took Novius little more than an hour to tell every man in their century what had happened. He didn’t stop there. The little legionary seemed possessed as he moved between the low-roofed barrack buildings, spreading his gossip. Caius, Optatus and the others were just as busy. Informing over nine thousand men took time, but gossip travelled fast and by nightfall, Romulus felt sure that their secret was well and truly public news.
The hardest thing to take was the reaction of his comrades in the barracks. Eighty of them ate and slept cheek by jowl, sharing their equipment, food and lice. Although the unit had been formed after Carrhae, there was a real sense of camaraderie. Felix had been part of it too. Far from Rome, they only had each other.
That no longer applied to Romulus and Brennus.
Or Tarquinius.
Men tarred them all with the same brush and the altar to Aesculapius and Mithras was dismantled the same day, its offerings taken back. Who would pray for a man with slaves as friends? Yet when the legionaries had nothing to pray for, they had nothing to hope for either — so they needed something to fill the void. Unfortunately, that turned out to be distrust of the two friends.
Suddenly Romulus and Brennus were responsible for all the men’s misfortune.
Crucifixion was not that likely. To earn that punishment, Romulus or Brennus would have to fall foul of a Parthian officer. But there were countless other ways a man could be killed. Petty arguments were commonplace and with every man in the Forgotten Legion a trained soldier, they could be ended quite easily. Poisoning food, the norm in Rome, was not as popular as the use of weapons. Because men dropped their guard when in the latrines or bathhouse, being jumped in those locations was common.
The narrow gaps between the rows of barracks were also dangerous places. More than once Romulus had come across bodies covered in stab wounds just a few steps from their quarters.
But the most immediate danger was where they slept. Eight men had to share a small, cramped space and when one quarter of those were being ostracised, it made life very difficult. On hearing the news, a pair of legionaries had instantly moved to another contubernium that was two short. Their disgusted faces upset Romulus hugely. That left Gordianus, a balding veteran, and three soldiers on one side of the room, the friends on the other. Gordianus, the obvious leader now, had not said much in response to Novius’ revelation.
This kept his companions quiet, for which Romulus was grateful. He could take silent resentment. While it was doubtful that any of their own contubernium would try to kill them, they could not be trusted. Like a viper sliding through the grass, Novius was forever appearing unexpectedly, muttering in men’s ears and poisoning their minds. The little legionary had taken to hanging around in the barracks corridor, idly picking his nails with his dagger. When he wasn’t there, Caius or Optatus were. While none made any overt signs of violence, it was most disconcerting. If Romulus and Brennus responded by killing any of their enemies, they would be severely punished. And there were too many of them to risk a night attack. Cutting five men’s throats quietly was an impossible task.
So Romulus and Brennus cooked together every day and stood outside the latrines with a ready sword while the other went inside. They went on sentry duty simultaneously, and only one slept at a time. It was exhausting and demoralising.
‘This is worse than the ludus,’ muttered Brennus on the second night. ‘Remember?’
Romulus nodded bitterly.
‘There we could at least bolt the door on my cell.’
‘And Figulus and Gallus had few friends,’ Romulus added.
‘Not thousands!’ The Gaul gave a short, sarcastic laugh.
And so it went on. Romulus’ prayers to Mithras grew ever more frantic, but their situation did not change. The days stretched into a week, and the pair grew haggard and irritable. There was one occasion when Novius and his friends attempted to jump them in the alleyway outside the barracks, but Romulus’ quick knife throw stopped the attack in its tracks. Caius’ left thigh was now heavily bandaged, and the veterans’ relentless hounding slackened somewhat. But the respite would merely be temporary. They would not be able to keep up their guard for ever.
Both were therefore relieved when, one frosty morning, Vahram ordered two centuries — theirs and another — out on patrol. For a few days, there had been no news from one of the legion’s outposts that were positioned east of the main camp. The seven fortlets, each with a garrison of a half-century and a handful of Parthian warriors with horses, had been built in strategic positions overlooking various approach routes into Margiana from the north and east. High mountains protected the south and south-east. There was usually little news from the small forts, but twice a week riders were sent back regardless. Whatever their faults, Pacorus and Vahram kept themselves well informed of everything going on in the area. The need for this had been bloodily reinforced by the attack at the Mithraeum.
Romulus’ and Brennus’ feelings were not echoed by their comrades as they prepared for the patrol. Loud curses filled the warm, close air as yokes were dug out of the tiny storerooms behind the sleeping space for each contubernium. Their destination was only twenty miles away, but Roman soldiers always travelled prepared. Besides, Vahram had ordered rations for four days. The yokes, long, forked pieces of wood, carried everything from a cooking pot and spare equipment to sleeping blankets. Along with his armour and heavy scutum, they brought the weight carried by each man to over sixty pounds.
‘This is bloody pointless,’ Gordianus grumbled, lifting another legionary’s mail shirt over his head so he could put it on. ‘A fool’s errand.’
‘We’ll meet the messenger halfway there,’ said the man he was helping. ‘And watch the prick piss himself with laughter as he watches us walk back.’
There were vociferous mutters of agreement. Who wanted to leave the safety and warmth of the fort for no reason? It was probably all down to a couple of lame horses.
‘I don’t know,’ said a familiar voice. ‘A lot of things can happen on patrol.’
Romulus looked up to find Novius standing in the doorway. Behind him were their other main tormentors, Caius and Optatus.
Automatically the young soldier’s hand reached for his gladius; Brennus did likewise.
‘Relax.’ Novius’ smile was evil. ‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’
Romulus had had enough. Lifting his sword, he stood up and moved towards the little legionary. ‘I’ll gut you now,’ he swore.
Novius laughed and was gone, followed by his comrades.
‘Gods above,’ said Romulus wearily. ‘I can’t take this much longer.’
Brennus’ red-rimmed eyes told him the same story.
At first, little was said by anyone the next morning. It was cold and miserable, and marching while carrying full kit was not easy. While the men were well able for the task, it was necessary to get into a good rhythm. Inevitably, Gordianus began to sing. Smiles broke out as the tune was recognised, a familiar ditty involving a sex-starved legionary and every whore in a large brothel. There were endless verses and a bawdy chorus to roar at the end of each. The soldiers were happy to join in: it passed the time, which often dragged on such patrols.
Normally Romulus enjoyed singing the refrain, with its countless sexual positions and innuendos. Today, though, he was gloomily imagining what might happen during the patrol. If they encountered any trouble, Novius could use the opportunity to strike. In the midst of a pitched battle, it was all too easy to stab a man in the back without anyone noticing.
Brennus’ nudge darkened his mood even further. They had reached a crossroads five miles from the fort; the Gaul was pointing at a crucifix that stood on a small mound to one side. Pacorus had ordered it positioned so that all who passed would see it. Like those outside the front gates, the cross had just two purposes: to slowly kill condemned men, and to give graphic warning of the punishments at Parthia’s disposal.
The crucifixes were rarely empty. Falling asleep on duty, disobeying an order or angering Pacorus: all were common reasons for legionaries to die on the simple wooden structures. Even Parthian warriors who incurred his wrath were sometimes executed in this manner.
Gordianus’ voice died away, his song unfinished.
Romulus closed his eyes, trying not to imagine himself and Brennus ending their lives in such a way. With Pacorus’ life hanging in the balance, it was still a distinct possibility — if Novius and his lot didn’t do the job first.
Despite the early hour, there were carrion birds clustered all around the crucifix: on the ground, on the horizontal crossbar, even on the lifeless shoulders of their prey. Bare-headed vultures pecked irritably at each other while ravens darted in opportunistically to take what they could. Overhead, the huge wingspans of eagles could be seen, gliding serenely in anticipation of a good meal.
By now, everyone’s gaze was on the frozen corpse that sagged forward, its head hanging. Thick ropes were tied around the dead man’s arms and long iron nails pierced his feet. Everyone knew him: it was a young legionary from Ishkan’s cohort who had been caught stealing bread from the ovens two days before. Dragged on to the intervallum before the whole legion, he had first been beaten with flails until his tunic was shredded and his back a red, bleeding ruin. Then, naked except for a loincloth, the wretch was forced to carry his cross from the fort to the lonely crossroads. Ten men from every cohort had accompanied him as witnesses. By the time they had reached the desolate spot, his torn, bare feet were blue with cold. This was not enough to dull the pain of the sharp nails being driven through them.
Romulus vividly remembered the man’s thin, cracked screams.
Around him, the other legionaries’ fac
es were full of dull resentment — except those of Novius and his friends, who were laughing behind cupped hands.
Darius, their stout senior centurion, sensed the bad feeling and urged his men to march faster. They needed little encouragement. As the soldiers came alongside, the nearest vultures lifted their bloated bodies into the air with lazy wing beats. Others further away just waddled out of reach. In the depths of winter, food was hard to come by, and the birds were reluctant to leave this ready feast. There would be no let-up until a skeleton hung from the cross.
Romulus could not tear his gaze away from the frozen body. The only part to remain inviolate was its groin, covered by the loincloth. Empty eye sockets stared into nothingness; peck marks covered its cheeks, chest and arms. Its mouth was open in a last, silent rictus of pain and terror. Half-torn-off strips of flesh hung uneaten from its thighs, where the largest muscles were. Even its feet had been chewed, probably by a resourceful jackal standing on its hind legs. Had the man been alive when the vultures first landed? Felt the sensation of breaking bone as powerful jaws closed on his frozen toes?
It was revolting, but compelling.
Romulus blinked.
Beneath the horror, there was more.
Over the previous weeks, there had been time to study the air currents and the cloud formations over the fort. Romulus had become meticulous, noting every bird and animal, observing the pattern of snowfall and the way ice formed on the river that flowed past the fort. Having watched Tarquinius, he knew that literally everything could be important, could provide some information. It frustrated him immensely that little seemed to make sense. But by following the haruspex’ instructions, predicting the weather had at last became simple enough. Of course this was of interest but Romulus wanted to know far more than when the next storm would strike. Annoyingly, though, he had seen nothing about Tarquinius, Pacorus or Novius and the other veterans. Nothing useful.
Now perhaps, there was an opportunity.
Romulus focused again on the corpse.
A single, shocking image of Rome flashed before his eyes. Suddenly he felt a real link to Italy, as if the savagery of the crucifixion had been a form of sacrifice. Was this what happened when the haruspex killed hens or goats? Real awareness surged through Romulus for the first time.
