by Ben Kane
When it was announced that every man would have to work the next day as well, the grumbling grew even louder. No one dared to question the order, however. Opening one’s mouth guaranteed severe punishment. Besides, it made sense to build defences.
The following dawn, they started. Brennus took to the task with gusto. In his huge hands, a shovel looked like a toy. But the amount of earth that he moved proved otherwise.
The Hydaspes was to shield the Forgotten Legion’s left flank. Under Tarquinius’ direction, the soldiers dug lines of deep curved ditches parallel to the riverbank, but about eight hundred paces away. This was the approximate width of the legion in battle formation. Branches were cut and trimmed, and dug into the bottoms of the defences. Facing outwards like one half of a circle, the trenches would protect the right flank. Without significant numbers of cavalry, this was the haruspex’ way of improvising. Inside the ditches, hundreds more sharpened wooden stakes were buried at an angle in the ground, jutting forward like so many crooked teeth in a crocodile’s jaws. In between them were scattered the caltrops, their iron spikes sticking jauntily into the air.
The dozen ballistae were split up, half facing forward along the line, and the rest placed to cover the area in front of the ditches. If necessary, they could be turned to cover the rear as well. The men that could be spared from other duties searched out suitably sized rocks by the river, and used the mules to haul them back. Pyramidal piles of this ammunition were built up beside each catapult. They varied from the size of a fist to lumps bigger than a man’s head. Aimed and fired correctly, all were deadly. Romulus had watched the artillerymen practising on many occasions and knew that the ballistae would play an important part in the battle.
The last, unexplained task was to dig a narrow yet deep trench from the river; it crossed right in front of where the Forgotten Legion would stand. Scores of long side channels were also excavated, until the ground looked like a field with too many irrigation channels. The final part of the trench, which would allow the Hydaspes to pour in and reach all its tributaries, was finished last. As the final clumps of soil were dug away, the trickle soon became a minor torrent, filling the channels to the brim.
With their purpose made obvious, there were weary smiles all round. By the morning, the area would be a quagmire.
The day of intense physical labour was over, allowing the legionaries to dwell on morbid matters — such as their future. And the battle that loomed ever nearer.
The remnants of Pacorus’ horsemen arrived back that evening, bloody and battered. They had been attacked by a far greater force of Indian cavalry, suffering heavy losses. And they reported that the army that followed in their wake was as large as Tarquinius had predicted. Or larger. It would arrive the next day.
A deep despondency fell on the legionaries. The haruspex had been proved correct yet again. Every single man in the Forgotten Legion but one wished the opposite.
Romulus knew now that he could not escape his fate. He felt it rushing in as if borne on the wings of doom itself. Thoughts of returning to Rome seemed utterly futile, a waste of valuable energy. Better to save it for the fight the next day, when death would find them all on this green plain, by the River Hydaspes. Seventeen seemed too young to die, he thought sadly.
A strange sense of complacency filled Brennus. Word had spread that they were not far from where Alexander’s incredible advance had been halted. ‘This is the end of the world,’ muttered many men as they sat around their fires that night. ‘Even if they could, who would want to travel any further?’
Their unknowing words reverberated deep in the core of the Gaul’s being.
A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.
After nine long years, the gods were finally beginning to reveal their purpose to him.
Chapter XVI: The Road to Gaul
Northern Italy, winter 53/52 BC
Seeing her fear, Secundus moved closer. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s the fugitivarii,’ Fabiola whispered. ‘I know it.’
‘This would be their style,’ he said with a scowl. ‘And they’d be wary of my men. So they creep in like thieves and kill them unawares.’
‘To even the numbers.’
‘Exactly.’ Secundus scanned the nearby trees and bushes. ‘The bastards will have been tracking us since we left.’
‘Should we go back?’
He barked a short, angry laugh. ‘Whoever it was murdered these lads will find it easier to recruit more men there than if we keep moving. Besides, the rioting has spread. Rome is no place for any of us right now.’
‘And it’ll take weeks for Pompey’s legions to arrive,’ said Fabiola. If the rumours sweeping the city as they left were correct, the sole consul would by now be dictator for the year. Nervous of the situation, the Senate had finally acted. But Pompey’s armies were scattered throughout the Republic; most were in Hispania and Greece, while others were dispersed across Italy.
‘Time we don’t have,’ Secundus declared. ‘Best move on.’
‘Fast,’ added one of the others.
Sextus bared his teeth in agreement.
Fabiola did not argue. The graphic evidence of what might happen if they did nothing was still lying before her.
Despite the frozen soil, it did not take the veterans long to bury their comrades. Fabiola was struck by their efficiency as she watched them swiftly shovel out a pair of deep holes, inter the blood-soaked bodies and cover them with earth. Their weapons were also buried. Everyone stood around while Secundus said a few words. But there was no time to carve a wooden grave marker. Servius and Antoninus had disappeared as if they had never existed.
Yet the plain graves were still more than most slaves got, Fabiola thought sadly. Like the excess city waste and the bodies of executed criminals, they were simply discarded in stinking, open pits. After a battle, a similar fate awaited the dead soldiers of the losing side. Like Romulus, at Carrhae. Or wherever the battle she had seen in her vision would take place.
She climbed miserably into the litter, followed by a stone-faced Docilosa. Secundus barked an order to move out.
Nothing further happened that day and Secundus made sure that the party reached a town by nightfall. Not wanting others to know their intended route to Gaul, it had been his aim to avoid human contact where possible. The night attack had changed things; safety now lay in numbers. Secundus hurried them to the best inn to be found, a low-roofed timber affair with a bar room full of unsavoury types and a muddy yard enclosed by stables. Curious glances followed the two women as they quickly descended from the litter, raising the hoods on the dark-coloured military lacernae which Secundus had provided. They had been reduced to skulking like thieves.
Once a simple meal had been provided for Fabiola and Docilosa in their room, Secundus left two men outside their door with Sextus. He and the others shared the neighbouring chamber, but regularly came to check on them. With Docilosa in bed early, there was time for him to talk to Fabiola in private. Secundus seemed increasingly convinced of her right to become a Mithraic devotee, and had begun revealing fascinating details about the secretive religion, including its central beliefs and rituals. Keen to be part of a cult which recognised slaves as equals, Fabiola soaked it all up.
Eight more days passed in this fashion: journeying without pause, followed by a poor night’s sleep in a flea-ridden, uncomfortable bed. By the morning of the ninth day, Fabiola was beginning to wonder if her fears had been overreaction. The violent storm and the sentries’ murders had sent her mood into the black depths. Perhaps now though their deaths could be put down to bandits: a random event that would not be repeated. The border with Gaul was a week’s march away, and the thought of seeing Brutus again filled her with joy.
Even Secundus and Sextus seemed happier. Only Docilosa remained in bad spirits. Not even the prospect of better weather could please her. All along the roads, the frost was melting. Snowdrops were already poking free of the short grass bene
ath. When the sun emerged from behind the clouds, there was a new warmth in its rays. Spring was coming at last. Birds sang in the trees, alerting the world to the fact. Fabiola could not stop herself from smiling at Docilosa’s continued grim demeanour as the litter bumped and creaked along.
Later, she would regret not paying more attention to it.
Their choice came in the afternoon, not long after the road had entered a narrow valley. Tall trees hemmed in the way ahead, their bare lower branches reaching out threateningly at head height. Entering, the bright sunshine all but disappeared, leaving a small strip of sky visible overhead. Between the closely positioned, gnarled trunks on either side were huge boulders covered in moss, the remnants of an ancient rock fall. Few birds or animals were visible, leaving a deathly silence over the wood. It was most unwelcoming.
Unusually, Sextus had left Fabiola’s side to check out the way ahead with two men acting as scouts. Secundus conferred with them upon their return while Sextus stood alongside, nodding his head. According to the three, there was little choice but to press on. The alternative route around the defile would set them back a day or more.
‘My lads saw no sign of anyone,’ Secundus announced. ‘And this section only lasts for a short distance before opening out again.’
Unsure, Fabiola chewed her lip.
‘They both have noses for trouble like a hound on the scent,’ Secundus went on. ‘We’ll be through it in half an hour. No more.’
Sextus grinned encouragingly.
The temptation was too much for Fabiola. If Sextus, her good-luck talisman, was happy, then it must be safe. Ignoring Docilosa’s grumbles, she nodded her assent.
A trio of Secundus’ men led the way, bows at the ready. Next came the litter, borne by the sweating slaves, flanked closely on either side by a pair of veterans. The narrowness of the road and the sweeping branches meant that these men were forced to stoop regularly as they walked. Taking up the rear were Sextus, Secundus and the last two of his followers. It was far from an ideal way to continue, thought Fabiola as she peered out and almost lost an eye to the sharp end on a half-decayed branch.
Time dragged in the semi-darkness. In an effort to lift the mood, Fabiola tried engaging Docilosa in conversation about the possibility of finding Sabina, her daughter. The child had been taken from her at the tender age of six, sold as an acolyte to one of the temples. It was a bad choice of topic. Docilosa’s sour expression deepened, remaining unchanged no matter what Fabiola said. She determined to try and track down Sabina if she ever got the chance. It would be worth paying good money just to see Docilosa smile.
Docilosa sensed it first. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked sharply.
Deep in thought, Fabiola did not react.
The litter came to an abrupt halt, jolting her into awareness.
There was silence for a moment, and then the air filled with terrifying screams. They came from all around them, and Fabiola froze.
‘Fabiola!’
She came alive at the sound of Secundus’ voice.
Soft hissing noises were followed by thumps and shouts of pain. Arrows, thought Fabiola. An ambush. Would the gods never leave her alone?
‘Get out! Quickly!’
Docilosa looked terrified, but Fabiola took her arm and forced her to follow. Death awaited them if they stayed put. Pulling aside the curtain, she forced her way through a dense clump of branches to the ground. Muttering to herself, Docilosa came too. Sextus was waiting, and protectively ushered them forward. He looked shame-faced.
Ducking down, Fabiola moved to the front of the litter. Three of Secundus’ men were crouched there, holding their shields together to form a protective screen. Alarm filled her. The road ahead had been blocked with a combination of large rocks and pieces of fallen deadwood, completely preventing the slaves from carrying the litter past. And from behind the barrier’s protection, cloaked figures were firing volleys of arrows at the ex-legionaries. Thanks to the low-hanging branches and the poor light, their faces were obscured. Whatever their ambushers’ identity, they had moved fast to set the trap after the scouts had returned.
Her head turned this way and that, trying to assess the situation. There was only one body in clear sight, that of a veteran. An arrow jutted from his open mouth, a fatal shot that would have given an instant of blinding pain before total oblivion. She couldn’t see the remaining five, or Secundus.
‘Where is he?’ she asked.
‘On the other side of the litter,’ replied one of the ex-soldiers grimly. ‘Kneeling behind his scutum like us.’
‘We can’t stay here,’ protested Fabiola. ‘They’ll pick us off one by one.’
Reinforcing her point, two barbed shafts thumped into the litter just over their heads. The slaves moaned in fear. Jeers and insults from their attackers followed.
Sextus and the three veterans stared at her mutely. Fabiola realised that low-rankers were used to following orders, not initiating them. They would hardly obey her either — a woman whom they did not trust. Fabiola was therefore very relieved when Secundus appeared behind her. Given the choice of whether to bear arms or protect himself, he had opted for the safer option of using a shield. He was accompanied by five others, one of whom had a broken arrow protruding from his left arm. It meant that the sole fatality so far was the unfortunate lying in front of the litter.
They all waited to see what Secundus would say.
‘There’s only one way out,’ he said. ‘And it isn’t by retreating.’
‘Why not?’ asked Fabiola. At least they knew the route that lay behind. Who knew what was ahead?
‘I heard voices back there.’
‘So did I,’ added the oldest of the group.
This was met with uniform scowls.
‘Another group waiting to butcher us if we run,’ said a sallow-faced veteran with pockmarked cheeks.
‘There are more of them than we thought,’ muttered Secundus. Crouching down, he beckoned.
His men immediately huddled closer and, knowing she had to be guided in such situations, Fabiola did the same.
‘We charge the fuckers,’ declared Secundus confidently. ‘Go straight across the barrier.’
‘Just like old times,’ interjected the sallow-faced man.
There were fierce nods of agreement. Faced with death yet again, the veterans felt the familiar thrill of battle. Along with the pumping adrenalin and the knot of fear in their bellies, it felt good. None of them had ever shirked their duty; they would not do so now.
‘Does the first one over the summit get a corona muralis?’ asked another.
Everyone except the two women laughed.
Secundus saw their confused look. ‘It’s the golden crown given to the first man on top of an enemy wall,’ he explained.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Fabiola, keeping her voice as calm as possible. ‘Tell us.’
Docilosa moved closer and clutched her mistress’ hand; alongside Sextus snarled silently.
Pleased by their willingness, Secundus smiled. ‘We’ll form a small wedge. There are few men who can withstand it,’ he said. ‘These dogs will be no different.’
‘We have no shields,’ said Fabiola stoutly. ‘Does that matter?’
Respect filled the one-armed veteran’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘Both of you will be in the middle.’
‘And on the other side?’
‘We make a run for it. If enough of them are dead, they’ll have lost the stomach for a fight. Otherwise, there’s a small settlement not far beyond the trees which should provide safety.’
‘Should?’ Fabiola enquired archly.
Secundus shrugged. ‘If the gods are smiling on us.’
‘And the slaves?’
Secundus grimaced. ‘They’re untrained and unarmed. Have to take their own chances.’
‘We have no spare weapons. Save yourselves,’ Fabiola ordered the four slaves. ‘Run into the trees when we attack. With luck, they’ll never find you. He
ad back to Brutus’ house in Rome if you can.’
A couple of them nodded fearfully.
Then mistress and servant stared at each other; Docilosa’s face full of uncertainty.
Another volley of arrows hit the shields of the veterans at the front.
‘Give me a dagger,’ said Docilosa abruptly.
‘That’s the spirit,’ grinned Secundus.
One of his men tugged a pugio from his belt and handed it over.
They did not delay any longer. Keeping their helmeted faces low behind their scuta, the ex-soldiers moved away from the protection of the litter. Fabiola and Docilosa scuttled behind them, with Sextus by their side. The sallow-faced man assumed the lead position, while three others formed each side of the wedge. Ushering Sextus and the two women within, Secundus and the injured veteran closed up the rear.
Cries of alarm rose as their ambushers saw what was about to happen. More arrows flew through the air.
‘Now!’ cried Secundus.
Mud squelched underfoot as they broke into a run.
Twenty paces and the ground began to grow uneven. The wedge’s speed slowed dramatically as each person had to look where they placed their feet. Fabiola concentrated hard on staying upright, knowing that a fall would probably be fatal.
‘Don’t stop!’ yelled Secundus. ‘Keep moving!’
Clambering over rough logs with protruding branches that ripped and tore at their lower legs, the veterans pushed up on to the barrier. They were close enough now to make out the faces of their enemies. In between helping Docilosa find her footing and managing not to lose her own, Fabiola scanned the shouting ruffians, searching for any she might recognise.
Two men hurled themselves at the sallow-faced veteran who led the wedge’s point. The first got a shield boss full in the face and went down screaming. Wary now, his comrade slowed down a trifle. Then he lunged viciously at the ex-legionary’s foot with his curved knife. As the thug bent down, the next man in line leaned over and stabbed him through the chest with his gladius. A gush of blood spattered on to the rocks; now two of their ambushers were out of action.
