The Forgotten Legion tflc-1

by Ben Kane

  Just as Tarquinius had predicted, the horsemen split smoothly into columns, aiming at gaps between the cohorts. Fear grew palpable in the ranks, men sweated heavily and hands grew clammy on javelin shafts. Behind him Romulus heard a man vomiting. He ignored the sound, lifting his scutum higher, squinting at the approaching riders.

  Battle was about to commence.

  The Parthians rode closer and closer. Soon they could see horses' nostrils flaring, the archers' faces tense as they drew back bowstrings.

  Romulus' remaining pilum felt burning hot.

  'Ready javelins!' There was no trace of fear in Bassius' voice. 'Wait till my command!'

  Every man's right arm went back, ready for the order to release.

  Before it could come, the Parthians fired a volley. It was from much closer range than the day before. Until that moment, the mercenaries had no idea just how powerful the enemy's composite bows were. Waves of arrows swept through the air, punching through Roman scuta like paper. The front rank dissolved, cut down to a man.

  Miraculously, Bassius alone remained standing, shield peppered with arrows. 'Aim short! Loose!' he screamed.

  With a heave, Romulus and the men of the second two ranks swung forward, launching their pila in low curving arcs. They fell in a flurry of wood and metal, finding targets at last. From such a short distance, Roman javelins were also lethal. Horses fell screaming to the sand, throwing their riders. Dozens of warriors were hit, but the force of the charge was such that they were carried past to safety.

  Another brutal volley scythed into the side of the cohort before Bassius had time to respond. And then the Parthians were gone, galloping off to attack another square. The noise of hooves died away, to be replaced by screams.

  At least eighty men lay strewn across the hot sand.

  Romulus gaped at the sight. Scores of soldiers had been killed outright by arrows which had passed through shield and chain mail, ripping into soft flesh beneath. Scuta lay pinned to prone bodies all around and a dense network of wooden shafts peppered the ground. So many had been injured that Romulus looked himself over in disbelief. He had not suffered so much as a scratch. Neither had his friends.

  'They can do that all day,' Tarquinius said calmly.

  His face grim, Brennus muttered and cursed.

  Through clouds of dust, other cohorts were now being subjected to the same attacks as the archers swept around the Roman formations. For the moment, Bassius' depleted unit was an island of calm in the midst of chaos.

  'Romulus! Get over here.'

  Bassius was waving to him, his face knotted in pain. An arrow-riddled scutum hung from his left arm.

  'What can I do, sir?'

  'Cut out this damn thing!' The senior centurion swung out his wounded arm. A barbed head was protruding just below the elbow.

  Romulus winced.

  'Came clean through the shield.' Bassius shook his head. 'Thirty years of war, and I have never seen a bow as powerful.'

  Romulus took the arrow in both hands and snapped it in two near the point. Bassius grunted in pain as the young soldier pulled the shaft backwards. The scutum fell from his grip and a fresh run of blood came from the two small wounds. Using a piece of cloth ripped from his tunic, Romulus bound the area tightly.

  'Good lad,' said Bassius, picking up the shield again.

  'You can't fight like that, sir.'

  The centurion ignored him, moving back into position. 'Form square! There'll be another attack very soon.'

  Romulus rejoined the ranks, wishing Bassius was in charge of more than a cohort. Officers like him were worth far more than Crassus.

  A momentary calm fell on the battlefield as the Parthian archers withdrew, leaving mayhem behind.

  'They've only gone to replenish their arrows.' Tarquinius watched the flocks of vultures gathering above. 'Crassus must seize this chance. The whole army should be in a continuous line, eight or ten ranks deep.' He indicated the battered units. 'Not like this. It's a massacre, not a battle.'

  'How many casualties?' Crassus punched a fist into his palm. Unsettled, his horse skittered sideways, ears flattening.

  'Still being counted, sir.' The junior tribune spoke with trepidation. 'But at least a tenth of every cohort.'

  'A tenth of my army dead or wounded?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'How many Parthians have been killed?'

  'Not sure, sir.' The young officer was pale with fear. 'A few hundred, perhaps.'

  'Get out of my sight,' Crassus spluttered. 'Before I have you executed!'

  'It's hardly his fault, sir,' said Longinus, who had disobeyed orders yet again to come and remonstrate.

  Hands twitching on his reins, Crassus glared at the legate. Nothing was being said about their argument before the battle started. Even he had realised what was more important now.

  'What are your orders? The Parthians will attack again soon.'

  'Send word to Publius,' cried Crassus abruptly, a wild look in his eyes. 'He must advance on the Parthian right with his cavalry and four cohorts of mercenaries. Create a diversion.'

  Longinus paused. It was not what he would do.

  'Is that clear?' The general's voice was suddenly calm. Too calm. Crassus glanced at the officer in charge of his guards.

  The centurion laid a hand on his gladius.

  Longinus saw the gesture and knew instantly what it meant. Any man who questioned Crassus' orders would now be killed. The legate saluted stiffly and paced over to the nearby scouts.

  'When Publius has driven them back, we will charge the enemy's centre,' yelled Crassus after him.

  Longinus did not reply. He was wondering what difference the ridiculous tactic would make. How could an army of infantry led by an arrogant madman beat a mobile enemy with no interest in fixed battle?

  Romulus' cohort heard Crassus' orders when the messenger arrived moments later. Bucinae repeated the commands, common practice in battle to ensure they were passed on accurately. At once the Gaulish cavalry fanned out in front of Bassius' mercenaries, while the nearest cohort of Cappadocians moved to stand on their right. Two more came in to the rear, forming an arrow shape of cavalry, reinforced by a large square of foot soldiers behind.

  Bassius grinned at his men. 'All right! This is a chance to show the whole army what we are capable of. Leave the yokes!'

  'Take only water flasks,' said Tarquinius, stuffing something inside his tunic. 'We will not return to this position.'

  His two friends quickly discarded all their equipment.

  They did not have long to wait. Even Crassus knew that the time before another devastating Parthian attack was diminishing. The exhausted men could not withstand many like it.

  Cavalry trumpets blared a staccato series of notes.

  Publius assumed his position at the front of his cavalry. The noble 's short figure and brown hair were unremarkable, but his determined face and strong jaw drew attention. 'Advance!' he cried, pointing straight at the Parthians. 'For Rome and for Gaul!'

  Urging their mounts forward, the tribesmen cheered loudly, kicking up sand and stones. Bassius and other centurions shouted at the mercenaries to follow.

  'Let's show those bastards the sharp edge of our swords!'

  There was a muted roar as tired bodies pushed into a trot behind the tough old officer. Despite his wound, Bassius seemed indestructible and his appetite for battle inspired everyone to follow.

  'Ready pila!'

  They ran with their arms cocked, heads bowed to avoid the clouds of dust from the horses' hooves. Romulus glanced at his friends from time to time. Having used both javelins in the first attack, Tarquinius slung his shield on his back, holding the double-headed axe firmly in both hands. Incredibly, he was smiling. Brennus' face was calm, his gaze focused.

  Romulus' spirits rose and he laughed with the madness of it. The arena had been replaced by something even deadlier, but it no longer mattered. By his side were the two mentors who had become his family. Men he would die fo
r and who would die for him. It was a good feeling. Romulus readied the pilum he had picked off the ground, ready to accept the gods' will.

  With enormous effort, the cohort managed to keep up with the trotting horses. Marching on burning sand had been hard enough without having to run. Hot air scorched the soldiers' throats with every breath.

  'Not much further,' panted Romulus when they had gone about five hundred paces.

  The enemy's right flank was coming within the range of the Gauls' spears.

  Tarquinius slowed down, his eyes narrowing.

  Suddenly Publius ordered a full charge, and the infantry found themselves being left behind.

  'Double time!' Bassius threw his arm forward. 'Let's take these fuckers!'

  The men responded with superhuman effort to keep up. But instead of standing to meet the cavalry, the Parthians turned and fled.

  Publius was taken in. 'Charge! Charge!' he screamed in exultation and his men pushed their mounts harder.

  Three of the mercenary cohorts fell even further behind, but Bassius' did not. His soldiers kept pace with the old centurion, now running as if Cerberus himself was after him.

  In apparent disarray, the entire Parthian right flank fell back, drawing on the Roman attack. Convinced he had scared them into retreating, Publius heedlessly led the Gauls onward.

  He did not see the Parthian commander's gesture.

  Almost as one, hundreds of archers turned, drawing their lethal bows to full stretch. With a guttural cry, the officer swept down his arm. Arrows shot forward in a dark swarm, hissing through the air to land with soft thumping sounds. Dozens of Gauls were knocked to the ground. Without pausing for breath, the Parthians loosed for a second time. Feathering man and mount without distinction, the torrent of missiles brought the charge to a juddering halt.

  Bassius' men reached the mounds of bodies within moments. It was a horrific sight: the sand covered with dead and injured riders, horses rearing in agony with wooden shafts protruding from chests, rumps, eyes. Many stampeded into the distance, trampling everything underfoot. The deadly rain was still falling, slaughtering the Gauls. Survivors milled about, horseless and bewildered.

  Desperately trying to rally his cavalry, Publius was wheeling in circles at the front. Quite abruptly he released the reins and toppled slowly from the saddle, clutching his throat. An arrow had taken him through the neck.

  A huge cry of dismay went up from the remaining Gauls.

  The situation was hopeless. Brennus realised it at once and looked to the rear, seeking a way out. But it was too late. Hundreds of Parthians were already sweeping round to envelop Bassius' mercenaries and the remnants of Publius' horsemen.

  The old centurion had also seen their escape route disappear. 'Form testudo!' he cried.

  Discipline still holding, the mercenaries clumped together. Shields clattered off each other, the metal bosses glinting as an armoured square took shape. Men along the sides formed a wall of scuta while those in the middle crouched low, covering their heads completely. The testudo was not an attacking formation, but an extremely effective defensive one — against everything except Parthian arrows.

  They watched from behind their shields while the Gauls were cut to pieces. Unable to retreat and unwilling to advance, Publius' cavalry was annihilated before their eyes.

  As the last tribesmen fell, warriors began to close in on the testudo. Romulus saw a Parthian jump down beside the body of Crassus' son, knife in hand. There was a huge cheer a few moments later as he stood, Publius' bloody head dangling from his fist. A second warrior rode over and fixed the gory trophy to the tip of his spear.

  Fear mushroomed, infecting all. Gazing fixedly at Publius' head, a handful of soldiers broke away from the testudo's protection. They were instantly cut down, striking terror into the rest.

  The square wobbled and began to fall apart.

  'Close up!' screamed Bassius, but his orders were to no avail. More mercenaries broke free, dropping their heavy shields.

  'Publius is dead!' they shouted.

  The cohorts behind were still advancing, had not even reached the Parthians. Suddenly the air was filled with cries of panic. Dozens of soldiers appeared through the dust, fleeing in blind panic towards them.

  The Cappadocians did what most would do. They turned and ran.

  The advance became a retreat as four cohorts bolted heedlessly towards the Roman lines. Straight into another screen of waiting Parthians.

  All had fled save the twenty men around Bassius.

  'Form testudo!' There was a note of pride in the senior centurion's voice.

  Romulus, Brennus, Tarquinius and the remaining mercenaries moved closer to make a small square.

  'Roman soldiers do not run!' Bassius yelled. 'Especially when the whole army is watching!' He pointed at the enemy. 'We will stand and fight!'

  Through clouds of sand and grit, Romulus saw Parthians riding rings round the fleeing mercenaries. Arrows scythed through the air, cutting them down. Curved swords flashed in the sunlight, opening gaping wounds in men's backs. Hooves trampled the fallen into the sand, face down. Few of the terrified soldiers even lifted their weapons to retaliate.

  The group watched helplessly as what had been a rout now became a slaughter. It was over very quickly. Except for those huddled with Bassius, Publius' cavalry and the four cohorts had been completely destroyed in a stunning example of battle tactics.

  The sun beat down, unrelenting. Not a cloud was visible. The air was windless. Oppressive. Dead.

  Under the raised scuta, the temperature was climbing fast. It would soon be unbearable. But Parthian arrows awaited any who stood up.

  'Anyone got water?' asked Felix hopefully. The little Gaul who shared the friends' tent was one of the few to stand fast.

  Romulus handed over his water bag, still a quarter full.

  Felix took a mouthful and passed it back. 'That won't last much longer.'

  'Doesn't need to,' muttered one of the others. 'Elysium is waiting for us.'

  'We'll take plenty of them too,' said Felix grimly.

  'That's the spirit,' bellowed Bassius.

  Hearing this, the mercenaries roared at the tops of their voices. They would die bravely. Like warriors. Like Romans.

  Horrifying screams echoed all around them as wounded men thrashed about. Blood saturated the yellow sand, turning it a deep red. Innumerable corpses lay scattered like broken dolls.

  Crouching behind shields they now knew to be useless, the survivors waited for the inevitable attack. As the dust began to settle, hundreds of Parthians rode in from all sides. They were boxed in completely.

  But no arrows were launched as a lone rider in fine robes rode towards the testudo, his horse picking its way delicately between the bodies. The Parthian officer reined in at a safe distance and watched them, his eyes inscrutable.

  'Bastards!' cried Bassius. 'Come and get us!'

  As Romulus and his comrades screamed their rage and defiance, he and Brennus exchanged a meaningful look. When the Parthian gave the order, death would take all of them. It would be no glorious end — just a volley from the lethal composite bows. There would still be no surrender.

  Farewell, Mother. The gods be with you, Fabiola.

  A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. And here at least I can die without having to run from my loved ones.

  The dark-skinned man stared long and hard. Outnumbered and surrounded by mounds of their own dead, his enemies still had not laid down their weapons. Speaking in an unfamiliar tongue, he pointed back towards Crassus' army.

  'What is he saying?'

  'Probably telling us to run. Son of a whore,' said Felix, curling his lip. 'So they can kill us too.'

  The Parthian gestured again at the Roman lines.

  Tarquinius turned to Bassius. 'We can go, sir.'

  The senior centurion regarded him blankly while the others gaped.

  'You understand him?' hissed Romulus.

  'Parthian is very si
milar to ancient Etruscan,' he muttered.

  'The bastards could have killed us five times over,' admitted Bassius.

  Tarquinius called out in the same language and the officer listened carefully before replying.

  With raised eyebrows, Bassius waited until the brief conversation had finished. 'What was that about, Optio?'

  'I asked him who he was, sir.'

  'And?'

  'He is Surena, the leader of the Parthian army.'

  There was a collective sharp intake of breath.

  Tarquinius raised his voice. 'Surena said we are all brave men, who do not deserve to die today. He is giving us safe passage.'

  Heads lifted at the prospect of survival and Brennus let out a great sigh. His journey was not over.

  'Can we trust him?' asked Felix.

  'We haven't a chance in Hades waiting here,' said Bassius grimly. 'Break testudo! Form up in two files!'

  The soldiers lowered their shields with trepidation, fully expecting a volley of arrows to be loosed.

  Nothing happened.

  Impassive bearded faces surrounded the twenty survivors of three thousand. Silently the riders nearest the Roman legions pulled apart, opening an avenue wide enough for men to pass through two abreast.

  It seemed too good to be true.

  'Follow me, boys! Nice and slowly,' announced the centurion calmly. 'We can't let the bastards think we 're scared.' Bassius moved off between the ranks of archers, his head held high. Despite his wound and the crushing defeat, the veteran's spirit burned undimmed, and his men followed gladly. Romulus could have sworn some of the warriors inclined their heads with respect as the ragged mercenaries passed, their scuta and javelins held in the marching position.

  They had to tramp over the fallen to get by and every soldier following Bassius knew what their fate would be. But with Parthian horsemen watching from a few feet away, there was nothing they could do.

  When the injured realised that some of their comrades were escaping, desperate calls for help rang out. 'Help me up,' cried one, his left leg pinned to the ground by an arrow. 'I can make it back.'