by Ben Kane
But it was the number of dead that drew her eyes, again and again.
Fabiola was utterly horrified. Nothing could have prepared her for it, not even the bloodshed she had witnessed in the arena. The ground was littered with more bodies than seemed possible: this was death on an unreal scale. Here was a glut of food that even the flocks of birds could not deal with. And now the corpses were Roman as well as Gaulish. They were heaped in huge piles, draped over each other like sleeping drunks at a feast. There was blood everywhere — on the slack faces, oozing from the countless gaping wounds, on the discarded swords and spears. Pools of it lay clotted around soldiers who had bled to death. Underfoot, the grass had been trampled down from the passage of men, churned into a red, glutinous mud that stuck to the legionaries’ sandals. A faint buzzing sound permeated the still air, made by the clouds of flies that clustered on every exposed piece of flesh.
Groups of legionaries could be seen moving methodically through the dead, stripping them of weapons and valuables. Occasionally enemy warriors were found alive, but none were being spared. By now, the only ones to remain living on the field were those who could not flee. Badly injured, the Gauls were therefore of no use as slaves. From time to time swords flashed in the sun, and short choking cries bubbled away into nothing.
The number of bodies soon made it impossible for the slaves carrying the litter to continue. Alighting, Fabiola raised a hand to her nose, vainly trying not to inhale. The cloying smell of rotting flesh was already sticking in the back of her throat. She could imagine how bad it would be after two or three more days under the hot sun.
Hastily, the optio directed a number of men to march in front of Fabiola, clearing the way. The walk was still like having to traverse the underworld, but she wasn’t going to stop now. Finally, Brutus was within reach. She would be safe once more.
The Roman circumvallation came into sight, dragging Fabiola’s eyes away from the carnage around her. No one could fail to be impressed by the scale of the engineering And all these features had been constructed in duplicate, on the other side.
Fabiola was astonished by Caesar’s sheer determination. He truly was the amazing general that Brutus had described. A dangerous man. A rapist?
On a large plateau above the fortifications, stood the object of Caesar’s attention: Alesia.
Trying to break through from either direction would have been a suicidal task, Fabiola thought. And defending the ramparts, utterly terrifying.
The optio had not been exaggerating about the scale of the slaughter. It was far greater here than what they had left behind. Her gorge rose, and she struggled not to vomit. Is this what Hades looked like? Had Carrhae been this bad?
Cries of pain drew her attention away from one horror to another.
A short distance away, a group of legionaries was gathered around a moaning, prone figure: an old man, in a robe.
Fabiola watched, horrified, as they drew nearer. He was unarmed, and probably just unfortunate enough to have strayed within their reach.
Javelin tips probed forward, drawing blood and fresh screams. Studded army sandals stamped down on unprotected flesh. Fabiola was sure she heard one of his arms snap. Turning her head made no difference. Cruel laughter filled her ears. Again and again her attention was drawn back to the dreadful scene. The torture went on until the soldiers grew bored. First one man drew his gladius, then another.
Fabiola was moving before she even realised it. Pushing past her surprised legionaries, she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Stop it!’
‘Come back,’ shouted Secundus from behind her. ‘You cannot intervene.’
She ignored him, unwilling to watch such a summary execution. It reminded her too much of what might have happened to Romulus. Fabiola also had a powerful feeling that she should get involved.
Her screams had the desired effect. A couple of the legionaries stopped what they were doing and looked around. Leering unpleasantly, they nudged their comrades.
Ignoring their lustful reactions, Fabiola stalked closer.
Intimidated by her confident manner, the nearest men moved back. But the ringleader, a hardbitten-looking soldier with rusty chain mail and a battered bronze helmet topped by a simple horsehair crest, did not budge one step. Instead, he licked his lips suggestively at the beautiful young woman who had interrupted their sport.
Fabiola went straight on the offensive. Perhaps shame could help. ‘How brave you are to torture an old man like this,’ she hissed. ‘Have you not seen enough killing?’
Laughs of derision met this question.
Scanning the tough, scarred faces around her, Fabiola realised these were some of Caesar’s veterans. After six years of constant campaigning in Gaul, war and death was all they knew.
Secundus arrived, followed closely by Sextus and the optio. All three were careful to keep their hands away from their weapons.
‘Who the fuck are you to order us about?’ demanded the ringleader. ‘And what business of yours is it anyway?’
His comrades grinned and, as if to prove a point, one of them kicked their victim.
‘How dare you speak to me in that manner?’ screamed Fabiola. ‘I will have you all flogged!’
Confused looks met this outburst.
‘Why wouldn’t we kill him?’ asked a thin soldier.
Peering closer, Fabiola took in what, in her rage, she had not noticed before. Although the old man’s robe was threadbare, there was a sickle slung from his rope belt. A worn leather pouch had been opened and its contents scattered on the ground. Dried herbs lay on small stones polished by long use; beside these were the tiny bones of a mouse. A short dagger with bloodstains on its rusty blade provided the final piece of evidence. Now Fabiola understood why the soldiers were acting so cruelly.
Few figures provoked more fear in Roman hearts than the Gaulish druids. Members of a powerful group learned in ancient lore, they were revered and hated in equal measure by their own people. It was said that Vercingetorix himself relied on one to provide him with predictions of the future.
‘See?’ said the thin legionary. ‘He’s a damn druid.’
‘Not for much longer, he isn’t,’ quipped their ringleader.
There was more laughter.
Moving forward, Fabiola saw that while most of the old man’s wounds were superficial, one was not. Through his clutching fingers, large amounts of blood had soaked through his robe over his belly. Her intervention had come too late. It was a death wound.
And gazing at the druid, she saw that he knew it too.
Bizarrely, he smiled. ‘Some of my visions were true, then,’ he said to himself. ‘A beautiful, black-haired woman who seeks revenge.’
Fabiola’s eyes widened.
Behind her, Secundus was paying keen attention.
No one spoke for a moment.
‘You are close to one beloved of Caesar,’ he rasped suddenly.
The watching legionaries exchanged worried glances. Fabiola’s threat had not just been an empty one. Without further protest, they let her kneel by the druid’s side.
Horrified by the whole situation, Fabiola was also intrigued. Here was a man with more power than any of the charlatans to be found at Jupiter’s temple in Rome. Yet he was dying. She had to find out what else he knew before it was too late.
The druid beckoned to her. ‘Do you still grieve as before?’ he whispered.
An involuntary sob rose in Fabiola’s throat, and she nodded. Mother. Romulus.
He grunted with pain, and Fabiola instinctively reached out to grip one of his gnarled, bloody hands. There was little else she could do.
His next words rocked her world.
‘You had a brother. A soldier who went to the east.’
It was all Fabiola could do not to break down completely. ‘Have you seen him?’
He nodded. ‘On a great battlefield, fighting against a mighty host with massive grey monsters in its midst.’
Romulus was in my vision! Fabiol
a glanced around at Secundus.
Unsurprisingly, he was beaming. Mithras had spoken through her.
Exultant, Fabiola calmed herself. ‘Is he still alive?’
Her words hung in the sultry air.
‘Rome must beware of Caesar.’
Angry snarls met this comment, and the legionaries pressed forward with ready swords. But the old man’s expression had already gone glazed, his eyes unfocused.
‘Is Romulus alive?’ Fabiola squeezed his fingers, to no avail.
A last rattling breath escaped the druid’s lips, and then his body went limp.
‘Good riddance,’ growled the ringleader. ‘Our general is the only man fit to lead the Republic.’ He hawked and spat, before skulking off. His comrades did likewise. There was no sport left here, and by leaving quickly, they would escape punishment. Finding nondescript legionaries like them amidst an army was almost impossible.
Uncaring, Fabiola sagged down, drained of all energy.
There would be no revelation about Romulus.
How was she to bear it?
Chapter XX: Barbaricum
Barbaricum, on the Indian Ocean, summer 52 BC
Squatting by the edge of the rough-hewn wooden dock, Romulus spat angrily into the sea. The journey south had aged him. There were dark rings of exhaustion under his blue eyes and a light growth of stubble covered his jaw. His black hair had grown longer. Although he did not know it, Romulus was now an imposing sight. His military tunic might be ragged and dirty, but his height, heavily muscled arms and legs and sheathed gladius marked him out as a man not to cross.
Tarquinius’ gaze fell away from the men he had been watching. He took in Romulus’ mood at a glance. ‘Brennus chose his own fate,’ he said quietly. ‘You could not stop him.’
Unsurprised at his mind being read, Romulus did not answer. Instead he watched the mixture of objects floating in the water with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. Typical of any large port, there were rotting fish heads, broken pieces of timber, small pieces of discarded fishing net and over-ripe fruit bobbing about between the wooden hulls of the moored ships.
The shouts and cries of merchants, stallholders, slave-dealers and their prospective customers filled the warm, salty air. Just a hundred paces away was part of the immense market which formed the basis for Barbaricum’s existence. Despite the oppressive temperatures and high humidity, the place was thronged. Bearded traders in turbans were selling indigo, different varieties of pepper and other spices from open sacks. Naked except for their chains, scores of men, women and children stood miserably on blocks, waiting like so many cattle. Neat piles of tortoiseshell were stacked higher than a man. Polished tusks lying in pairs were mute evidence that not every elephant became a beast of war. Trestle tables were covered in pieces of turquoise, lapis lazuli, agate and other semi-precious stones. There was silk yarn and cloth, cotton in bales and sheets of finely woven muslin. It was a veritable cornucopia.
But the ships that would carry all these goods away were of more interest to Romulus and Tarquinius. Tied up in their dozens, shallow-draughted fishing boats with small single masts knocked gently against larger merchant vessels with neatly reefed sails. Many of the craft were of unfamiliar shape to Romulus, but the haruspex had mentioned feluccas and native galleys. Here and there he saw sharp-prowed, lateen-rigged ships, their armed, unsavoury-looking crews eyeing each other warily. These were not honest traders. Without a bronze ram or banks of oars, the dhows still reminded him of Roman triremes. Of fighting ships.
It was a group of men from one of these that Tarquinius was studying intently.
But what did it matter anyway? Once more, Romulus’ misery settled over him like a cloak. He briefly considered letting himself fall in, to sink beneath the slick, greasy surface. Then his guilt might end.
‘It is not your fault that he died,’ said the haruspex softly.
The words sprang to Romulus’ lips unbidden. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘It’s yours.’
Tarquinius recoiled as if struck.
‘You knew,’ shouted Romulus, uncaring that men’s heads were turning in their direction. ‘Since that night after Carrhae. Didn’t you?’
‘I-’ the haruspex began, but it did not stop Romulus’ flow of rage. It had been pent up since the battle — since leaving Brennus to face an elephant on his own.
‘We could have gone with Longinus and marched back to the Euphrates.’ Romulus pressed his fists against his head, wishing that were the truth. ‘At least they had a chance of escaping. But you said that we should stay. So we did.’
Tarquinius’ dark eyes grew sad.
‘And then Brennus died, when he did not need to.’ Romulus closed his eyes and his voice tailed away into a whisper. ‘He could have escaped.’
‘And left you?’ Tarquinius’ voice was low but incredulous. ‘Brennus would never have done that.’
There was a long silence, during which the onlookers grew bored and turned away.
Even that was probably part of Tarquinius’ plans, Romulus thought bitterly. Avoiding attention was always a good idea. At that very moment, however, he did not care who saw or heard their conversation.
Several weeks had passed since their journey from the battlefield, yet now, as then, Romulus was consumed by one thing. Had the haruspex known about, or planned, their whole experience since joining Crassus’ army? Had he and Brennus been nothing more than unknowing pawns, acting out an already written script? It was a question that Tarquinius repeatedly refused to answer. Overcome with grief after Brennus’ heroic sacrifice, Romulus had simply gone along with him. Swimming across the Hydaspes was an ordeal in itself, and the passage south that had followed was even more arduous. Without helmets, chain mail or shields, with only their gladii and Tarquinius’ battleaxe for protection, the two weary soldiers had been forced to travel mainly by night. Otherwise their pale skins and inability to speak the local languages would have marked them out as foreigners, easy prey for even the ignorant villagers whose land they passed. Strangers such as they might carry money or riches.
Fortunately, their combined skills had been sufficient to hunt or steal just enough food to live on without often being detected. It was trying to avoid centres of human population that was hardest. The fertile land near the River Indus, which the Hydaspes had joined, was densely inhabited. Most communities were situated close to the river, the main source of water for agriculture and life in general. And the pair had no choice but to follow its course. The grief-stricken Romulus had no idea which way to go, and even Tarquinius knew only to head south. The Periplus, the ancient map given to him by Olenus, had sketchy details for this part of the world. Consequently, they had to creep their way around all the villages in pitch darkness, risking discovery each and every night. More than once, dogs had raised the alarm, forcing them to retreat and wait for another chance, as lurking thieves do.
The process was mentally and physically exhausting for both, and five days later they had made the decision to steal a small boat from a fishing hamlet. It had proved to be the riskiest but most profitable move of the entire journey. None of the sleeping denizens had noticed until it was far too late, and those who did awaken were not foolish enough to pursue the pair along the river in the pitch black. Romulus’ and Tarquinius’ new boat had two crudely made oars, which meant that they could travel whenever they chose. They stayed close to the shore, only risking the strong current mid-river when other vessels were encountered. The ragged nets on board had allowed them to fish daily, providing a simple, if boring diet.
Conversation had been limited after Romulus had accused Tarquinius of failing to prevent Brennus’ death. Taking the haruspex’ refusal to answer as a confession, Romulus had lapsed into a furious silence that was only broken by questions about food or their direction of travel. As a result, their arrival in the exotic metropolis of Barbaricum had been muted, but neither could deny that it was an important milestone. Cities had become an alien place to them.
It was more than a year since they had been paraded through the streets of Seleucia, the capital of Parthia. Margiana, where the Forgotten Legion had served as a border force, held nothing more than a few towns and the tiny settlements along the Indus were scarcely more than hamlets. In contrast, this massive city was protected by strong walls, fortified towers and a large garrison. As in Rome, most inhabitants were poor labourers or shopkeepers, but instead of living in blocks of cramped flats, they dwelled in primitive one-storey mud huts. There was no sign of a sewage system: rubbish and human waste lay everywhere on the muddy streets.
Barbaricum also lacked the proliferation of huge temples that existed in Rome, but it was still an impressive sight. Flashy palaces abounded, the homes of wealthy nobles and merchants. And the enormous covered market near the docks was a sight to behold. The portion near them formed just a tiny fraction of the whole bazaar. Romulus had been awestruck by the variety of goods, living or inanimate, human or animal, on offer there. Yet this was one of India’s main trading centres, a seaport where every kind of merchandise under the sun came to be bought and sold before being transported away to far-off lands. It was living, breathing proof that Rome was only a tiny part of the world.
As if reminding him of that, a line of heavily laden porters emerged from the maze of narrow alleyways that opened on to the harbour. Led by a self-important-looking man in a short, belted robe who was carrying a bamboo cane, they pushed through the clamouring crowds, eventually reaching a large merchantman with two masts which lay alongside the main dock. Following close behind the column was a group of guards armed with spears, swords and clubs. They fanned out protectively as the valuable merchandise was lowered to the ground. There was a brief pause as the merchant conferred with the ship’s captain and then the porters began the laborious task of carrying their loads up the narrow gangplank.
Romulus felt a thrill of excitement. From here, ships sailed westwards once a year, on the monsoon wind, to Egypt. And from there, a man could journey to Rome. All they needed now was to find a captain who would give them passage.
