by Ben Kane
Romulus prayed that his vision had been wrong. But his instinct was jangling an inner alarm.
It was time to continue. Instead of the attacking wedge, the legionaries formed up in a more typical marching order. Each century was six wide, fifteen deep. Darius took up his position at the front, his faithful guard alongside.
As they moved off, Romulus’ heart pounded in his chest. He could not stop his eyes moving from side to side. Brennus was similarly alert, but neither said a word to anyone.
Spirits had risen hugely because of their escape, and it wasn’t long before Gordianus began his usual ditty about the legionary in the brothel.
This was too much for Romulus, whose nerves were fraying. There was no point warning any enemies nearby of their presence. ‘Give it a rest,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that a hundred times before.’
‘Shut it, you filth,’ Novius responded. ‘We want to hear about your mother.’
‘And your sisters,’ responded Brennus as quick as a flash.
The others cheered at the jokes.
Novius flushed with anger but his retort was lost in the din as the whole formation responded to Gordianus’ tune.
Romulus’ jaw clenched with anger at the insult. A lowly house slave, his mother had still done her best for him and Fabiola. It had meant suffering Gemellus’ sexual abuse nightly for years, but Velvinna had never complained. Tragically, her efforts had come to nothing when the merchant’s debts reached a critical mass. The twins were sold to raise money. Romulus knew nothing more of his mother, which stung his heart.
Brennus leaned over and spoke in his ear. ‘Don’t listen to them. The poor bastards would laugh at anything right now. And keeping quiet won’t prevent an ambush either. Singing keeps their spirits up.’
Romulus’ anger dissipated. The Gaul was right. Happy soldiers fought better than miserable ones. And they might as well imagine a good time in a whorehouse than being slaughtered by Scythians. He opened his mouth and joined in.
After a dozen verses had been bellowed out, Romulus was feeling more relaxed.
It was then that the colour of the sky changed from blue to black.
Fortunately, he was looking upwards at that moment. Lulled by Gordianus’ bawdy chant, Romulus did not immediately recognise the dense swarm of arrows. When he did, his warning cry was too little, too late.
To avoid being seen, the volley had been sent up in a hugely steep, curving arc. But already the metal points had turned to point downwards. In three or four heartbeats, they would land amongst the unsuspecting legionaries.
‘Arrows incoming!’ Romulus bellowed.
One heartbeat.
At the cry, Darius looked into the air, his face a picture of shock. Behind him, other soldiers too were staring up in a mixture of fascination and fear.
Two heartbeats.
Still the senior centurion did not speak. Death was looking him in the eye, and Darius had no answer.
Three heartbeats.
Someone had to act, or most of the patrol would be killed or injured, thought Romulus. ‘Form testudo!’ he roared, breaking all kinds of rules by shouting an order.
Training instantly took over. The men in the middle squatted down, lifting their heavy scuta over their heads while those on the outside formed a shield wall.
Whirring through the air, the hundreds of wooden shafts came to earth. It was a soft, beautiful and deadly noise. While many sank harmlessly into the silk covers or the ground around the soldiers, plenty of others found the gaps between shields that were still coming together. There was a brief delay and then Romulus’ ears rang with the cries of the injured. Soon he could hear little else. Legionaries cursed and screamed, clawing frantically at the barbed points that had sunk deep into flesh. The dead slumped against their comrades, their shields falling from slack fingers. Although many men were still obeying orders, the testudo had virtually fallen apart.
Biting back a curse, Romulus glanced towards Darius.
The jovial Parthian would never shout an order again. Pierced by half a dozen arrows, he lay motionless ten steps away. A thin line of blood was running from the corner of his mouth, while his right hand reached out towards them in a futile, supplicating gesture. Darius’ bodyguard was sprawled carelessly nearby. Both their faces were frozen in a rictus of shock.
But the attack had just started. More arrows shot up into the sky from either side of them.
At last came a quick response. ‘Form testudo!’ The voice belonged to one of the optiones.
For the second time, the armoured square took shape. This time, though, it was much smaller. Fortunately, both junior officers were experienced men. Screaming orders and with liberal use of their long staffs, they forced the able-bodied men away from the uneven footing that was the injured and slain. It made no sense to trip up on one’s comrade and end up dead as a result. Romulus could not look at the pathetic sight of those they left behind. Yet the optiones knew what they were doing. The plaintive cries for help from the blinded and maimed had to be ignored. In the heat of battle, the best action to take was that which preserved the lives of most.
Knowing what was about to happen, some of the wounded grabbed their shields and tried to cover as much of their bodies as possible. It wasn’t enough: they still died when the second volley landed. By the time the last arrows had fallen, there was nothing more than a bloody pile of feathered corpses beside the testudo.
Brennus did a quick head count. ‘This is not good,’ he said, scowling. ‘Lost nearly fifty men already.’
Romulus nodded, watching the slopes on either side. Any moment now, he thought.
As if answering his call, hundreds of warriors emerged into view. Clad in the same manner as the riders the Romans had butchered early that morning, these were also Scythians. There were infantry, archers on foot and on horseback.
My dream was accurate, Romulus thought with bitter amazement. This force was more than enough to annihilate what remained of the two centuries. What little trust he had had in Mithras withered away.
‘We’re fucked,’ cried Novius, who was still unscathed.
An inarticulate moan of dread rose from the men.
It was hard to argue, but Romulus was damned if he would just let himself be killed. ‘What now, sir?’ he bawled at the older of the two optiones. By virtue of his years served, he was now the commander.
The junior officers looked uncertainly at each other.
The legionaries waited.
Brennus’ smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a steely-eyed, fixed stare. Is this my time? he wondered. If it is, great Belenus, grant protection to Romulus. And let me die well.
The young soldier knew Brennus’ look from experience. It meant that Scythians would die. Many of them. But even the huge Gaul could not kill all the warriors who were swarming down around the testudo, blocking off any escape avenue.
‘Form wedge!’ cried the senior optio at last. What had worked before might do so again. ‘Drive through them and we’ve got a chance.’
His men needed no prompting. If they did not act fast, they would be surrounded completely.
‘Middle ranks, keep your shields up. Forward!’
The desperate soldiers obeyed, instinctively moving at double time.
A hundred paces in front, Scythian foot soldiers were already forming up in deep lines. Romulus eyed the dark-skinned enemy warriors, who were lightly armed compared to the legionaries. Mostly wearing felt hats, few had chain mail or metal helmets. Their only protection was the small round or crescent shields they carried. Armed with spears, swords and axes, they would pose little obstacle to the fast-moving wedge.
‘Those won’t stop us,’ Brennus panted. ‘They’re just light infantry.’
His friend was correct. Confusion filled Romulus. Perhaps his dream did not mean their annihilation after all? If they broke through, nothing stood between them and the fort. What kind of trick was Mithras playing?
They closed in on the Scyt
hians, who immediately launched their spears. The man to Romulus’ right was too slow in lifting his scutum and the next instant, a broad iron blade had taken him through the neck. Without making a sound, he dropped, forcing the men behind him to jump over his body. No one tried to help him. The wound was mortal. Other casualties were similarly ignored. Now, as never before, speed was of the essence. The legionaries loosed a volley of pila at twenty paces, causing dozens of casualties. On they ran.
Romulus fixed his gaze on a bearded, tattooed Scythian with a domed iron helmet.
Twenty steps separated them, then ten.
‘For the Forgotten Legion!’ roared Brennus. ‘For-gotten Le-gion!’
At the top of his voice, every man answered back.
It was the unifying cry for all of them, thought Romulus. They were truly Rome’s lost soldiers, fighting for their very survival at the ends of the earth. Did anyone at home care about them now? Probably not. All they had was each other. And that wasn’t enough. Gritting his teeth, Romulus took a better hold of his horizontal scutum grip. With its heavy iron boss, the Roman shield was a good battering ram.
His target shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the point of the wedge was heading straight for him.
It was too late.
Romulus punched upwards with his scutum, smashing the Scythian’s nose. As he reeled back in agony, Romulus’ gladius took him in the chest, and the warrior fell from view. The ranks behind were ready, however, and Romulus’ vision was immediately filled with snarling, bearded faces. Lowering his shield again, Romulus let the wedge’s momentum carry him forward. Although he could only make out Brennus and another legionary on either side, there were about a hundred men pushing behind them.
Swinging his sword wildly, a screaming Scythian threw himself at Romulus, who took the blow on the metal rim of his scutum. As his enemy raised his arm to repeat the blow, Romulus leaned forward and shoved his gladius deep into the man’s armpit. He knew the damage it would cause — sliding between ribs to slice lungs and large blood vessels, perhaps even the heart. The Scythian’s mouth gaped like a fish and a gush of arterial blood followed the blade out. Romulus grimaced with satisfaction as the corpse fell to the ground. Two down, he thought wearily. A few hundred to go. Yet, judging from the loud roars of encouragement from the men at the back, the wedge was still moving forward.
He pushed on.
A pair of similar-looking heavy-set men, brothers possibly, threw themselves at Romulus next. One grabbed the edge of his shield with his bare hands, pulling it down while the other stabbed forward with a long dagger. Romulus twisted to one side, barely avoiding the blade. A powerful slash followed, sliding off the cheek piece of his helmet and opening a shallow cut under his right eye. The first Scythian was still trying to wrest the scutum from him, so Romulus just let go. He couldn’t fight two enemies at once. Staggering under the unexpected weight of the heavy shield, the man was unbalanced and fell backwards.
That left his brother with the dagger, who smiled now that Romulus had no scutum. Dodging forward, he angled his blade at the young soldier’s unprotected lower legs. Romulus had to react fast. The Scythian was too close to stab with his gladius, so he used his shield hand, his left, to punch the other in the side of the head. As the man went down, half stunned, Romulus reversed his grip on the gladius. Gripping its bone hilt with both fists, he turned the blade and plunged it into the Scythian’s back. Iron grated off his ribs as it slid through to pierce a kidney.
An animal scream of pain rang out and Romulus stooped, twisting the blade slightly to make sure.
Struggling to his feet, the second warrior saw his brother writhing on the ground. Rage distorted his face as he threw himself bodily at Romulus. It was a fatal mistake. Using one of Brennus’ moves, Romulus let go of his sword with his left hand and stood, smashing the Scythian across the face with a stiff forearm. It bought him enough time to regain his gladius and step forward, dispatching his swaying enemy with a simple forward thrust.
Romulus turned his head, checking the situation on either side. On his right, Brennus was wading through Scythians like a man possessed. His sheer size intimidated before he even came to blows with each warrior. But the Gaul also possessed great skill with weapons. Romulus watched with awe as Brennus barged into a large Scythian, pushing him back several steps and knocking over two men in the ranks behind. While the warrior tried to defend himself, Brennus stabbed him in the belly. The Scythian fell and the Gaul leaped over him, cracking the bottom of his shield off the head of another man. Knocking the warrior unconscious, the blow also opened a deep cut in his scalp. Romulus knew exactly why. There was no end to Brennus’ tricks. As in the ludus, the rim of his scutum had been sharpened.
‘We’re nearly through!’ yelled Gordianus from his left, pointing with a bloody gladius.
Romulus grinned. Just three ranks stood between them and the road west.
They redoubled their efforts. After a few moments of cut and thrust, the last Scythians in their path had been dispatched. On the sides of the wedge, their comrades were still fighting past warriors, but the spirit had gone out of their lightly armed enemies. As the opposition melted away, the legionaries came to a gradual halt. Seven had fallen, twice that number had minor flesh wounds, but there were still nearly ninety men who could march. Chests heaving, faces purple with effort, they stopped to savour the view.
‘A bare track never looked so inviting,’ said Gordianus, wiping his brow. ‘Well done, lad.’
Full of gratitude at the other’s acceptance, Romulus did not reply.
Gordianus saw Brennus’ worried look. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Above the screams of the injured and the battle cries of the Scythian infantry to their rear, Romulus heard the sound of pounding hooves. His skin crawled, remembering Carrhae.
‘Cavalry,’ he said in a monotone.
Alarmed, Gordianus’ eyes darted back to the track in front, which was still empty.
Questions from the other legionaries filled the air, but Romulus ignored them.
They could all hear it now.
Brennus stood calmly, thinking of his wife and son, who had died without him being there to defend them. Of his uncle, who had died saving him. Of his cousin, whose life Brennus had failed to save. Only death could assuage the guilt he felt over these losses. And if he saved Romulus’ life while doing so, he would not have died in vain.
When the first horsemen came into view, Brennus actually smiled.
They were followed by at least two hundred more. Wearing polished scale armour that covered their bodies right down to their thighs, the Scythians were armed with lances, short-headed axes, swords and recurved composite bows. Maximising the full dramatic effect of their appearance, the riders reined in their red-coloured horses and stopped. About two hundred and fifty paces of snow-covered ground separated them from the battered Roman soldiers. Enough distance to reach a full charge.
I have accurately predicted the future, thought Romulus bitterly. But I did not see this.
Nearby, Novius blanched. What chance had they now?
He was not alone in his reaction. Finally taking in what awaited them, Romulus’ spirits plummeted. The divination was my best. And last. We will surely die now. With infantry and archers about to engage them from behind, and the cavalry blocking their way forward, there was nowhere to go. Except to Elysium. From somewhere, Romulus summoned the dregs of his faith in the warrior god. Mithras! Do not forsake us! We are worthy of your favour.
‘How did those bastards get here?’ shouted the older optio. Scythia lay to the south-east, with a long range of mountains between it and Margiana. The communicating passes would be blocked by snow for months.
There was only one answer.
‘They came around the peaks, sir,’ replied Romulus. Only that could explain the Scythians’ presence in midwinter.
‘Why now?’ demanded the optio.
‘To catch us unawares,’ Brennus said. ‘Who would e
xpect an attack of this size at this time of year?’
‘The gods must be angry,’ spat Gordianus, making the sign against evil. Without anger, he glanced at Romulus. They were now comrades again. ‘Have we some hope?’
‘Hardly any,’ he answered.
Fearful mutters rose as this passed back through the ranks.
‘Let’s hope that Darius’ riders made it back then,’ said Gordianus. ‘Or the whole legion could be in danger.’
Behind the wedge, the massed ranks of Scythians were closing in. Simultaneously, the lead cavalryman flicked his reins, forcing his horse into a walk. The trot would be next, followed by the canter.
Their fate was about to be sealed.
‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Romulus.
The optio looked uncertain. Normally there was a centurion present to tell him what to do.
‘If the horses get any speed up, they’ll cut us to pieces, sir,’ said Romulus.
The optio’s eyes flickered from side to side. On the heights were yet more warriors, with archers ranked behind. Escape that way meant fighting uphill, while being showered with arrows.
‘Let’s hit them quickly, sir,’ said Romulus. ‘That way, there’s a chance of smashing through.’
‘Charge them?’ queried the optio disbelievingly.
‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus glanced back at his frightened-looking comrades. Being hit at the gallop by the approaching horses would undoubtedly break them. And if that happened, the Scythian infantry would soon finish the job. ‘Now,’ he urged.
Unused to such pressure, the optio hesitated.
Brennus’ grip on his sword tightened. Romulus’ idea was the best, the sole, choice. If their erstwhile commander did not act, he would intervene. Lethally, if necessary.
Ignoring the confused junior officer, Gordianus turned to his comrades. He too thought Romulus was right. ‘We’ve only one chance,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no way back or on either side.’
‘What should we do?’ cried a voice a few ranks back.
‘Charge those fucking horses,’ cried Gordianus. ‘Before they reach top speed.’