by Ben Kane
Leaning down towards his mount’s ear, the mahout shouted encouragement.
Around came the ball again, tearing the front ranks apart.
The man next to Romulus had his shoulder smashed into pieces by a glancing blow. With rings of chain mail mashed deep into his flesh, he collapsed in a heap, screaming.
Relieved it had not been him, Romulus stabbed at the elephant’s head. It made no difference at all. The beast’s destructive power was matched by the sheer terror it caused. All the Romans’ efforts were in vain: it was like trying to kill a mythical monster. Even Brennus’ powerful thrusts seemed to have little effect. Romulus was beginning to despair when a lucky javelin took the mahout through the chest. Hurled by a legionary several ranks behind, its pyramidal iron head punched through his ribs. Mortally wounded, he toppled sideways from his position.
‘Now’s our chance!’ cried Romulus, remembering Tarquinius’ advice. ‘Attack it!’
The soldiers’ spirits rallied and a dozen long spears were shoved up into the elephant’s neck and shoulders, penetrating its leather armour. Blood streamed from multiple wounds. Bellowing in pain and no longer guided by the mahout, it turned and pounded back into the Indian ranks, trampling men like ripe fruit.
Before the legionaries could even cheer, the enemy infantry slammed into their lines.
Brennus jumped forward. With a huge slice of his gladius, he took off the head of the first man to reach him.
Frantically, Romulus dropped his spear and unslung his scutum. All around him, his comrades were doing the same, but it was too late to form a complete shield wall.
Short and wiry, the dark-skinned soldiers swarmed into the gaps, thrusting and stabbing.
Plunging his shield boss into a bearded Indian’s face, Romulus felt the man’s cheekbone break against the metal. As he reeled back, Romulus thrust his sword into his unprotected midriff. It was a disabling blow and he ignored the Indian as the blade pulled free. Concentrate on the next enemy, he thought. Stay focused.
Even as he killed another man, Romulus knew that the Indians’ attack was too powerful. He fought on regardless. What else was there to do? Like a machine, he cut and thrust with his gladius, always mindful of the soldiers on either side. Beside him, Brennus bellowed like a lunatic, dispatching every Indian who came near.
At last, thanks to good discipline, the shield wall began to re-form in their section of the line. Without the elephants to back them up, the lightly armed Indian foot soldiers were unable to break the First’s formation. Peering around desperately, Romulus could see that their centre was holding fast, but the cohorts on each side were buckling badly under the pressure.
Then the left flank gave way.
Trumpeting in a combination of triumph and rage, a trio of elephants barged forward, followed by hundreds of baying warriors.
Seeing them, Romulus was swamped by a tide of hopelessness. The end was near. The Indians were simply too many. Even the reserves could not stop this.
He and Brennus exchanged a significant look. It said many things to both. Love. Respect. Honour. Pride. But there was no time to vocalise any of them.
Sensing victory, the Indians facing the First Cohort redoubled their attack. Soon half a dozen more men had died beneath Romulus’ and Brennus’ blades. Then it was ten, but the enemy no longer quailed at the danger. The scent of victory was in their nostrils. Screaming incoherently, they pushed forward, uncaring that a certain death awaited those at the front.
As Romulus’ gladius pulled free from the chest of a thin man with prominent ribs, the din of battle suddenly dimmed. From behind him came a voice.
‘Time to go.’
With Romulus’ dying enemy falling in slow motion, there was a moment of safety before another replaced him. He turned his head.
The haruspex was two steps to his rear, his battleaxe gripped in both hands. Amazingly, there was a new energy about him. Gone was the stoop, the age-old weariness. Instead the figure looked more like the Tarquinius of old.
Romulus was stunned. He felt joy and confusion in equal measure at Tarquinius’ reappearance. ‘Leave our comrades?’ he faltered.
‘We cannot run.’ Brennus glanced angrily over his shoulder. ‘You said I would face a battle that no one else could fight. This must be it.’
The haruspex regarded him steadily. ‘It is not over yet,’ he said.
The Gaul stared at him, then nodded once.
Romulus’ face twisted with anguish. He could not bear it: his hunch was correct.
Before Romulus could utter a word, Tarquinius spoke again. ‘We must leave at once, or our chance will be lost. There is safety on the far bank of the river.’
Their gaze followed his outstretched arm to the other side, which was completely deserted. To reach it, they would have to fight their way through the bitter hand-to-hand struggle between the elephants and the doomed legionaries of the left flank.
‘If we stay?’ Romulus asked.
‘Certain death. You must each choose,’ the haruspex replied, his dark eyes inscrutable. ‘But the road to Rome lies over there. I saw it in the Mithraeum.’
Mithras has kept faith with me! Grief and joy were tearing Romulus in two. He wanted to return home, but not at this price.
Brennus gave him a huge shove. ‘We’re going, and that’s final.’
Almost of their own accord, Romulus’ feet began to move. He felt numb.
With great difficulty, they managed to turn and shove their way through the packed ranks, ignoring the objections that followed. Romulus found it hardest to meet the legionaries’ angry stares.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded one.
‘Cowards!’ cried another.
‘Typical fucking slaves,’ added the man to his right.
Romulus flushed with shame at the familiar insult.
More rained down before the most vocal soldier’s voice came to an abrupt, choking halt.
Brennus’ right hand had taken an iron grip on his throat. ‘The haruspex here has told us we must follow our destiny to the left flank,’ he snarled. ‘Like to join us?’
The legionary shook his head dumbly.
Satisfied, Brennus released him.
No one else dared to speak, and the trio ducked their heads, pushing on. When they reached the edge of the First Cohort, it suddenly became easier to move. The narrow gap between it and the next unit which allowed manoeuvring in battle was still present. Tarquinius darted down it, away from the front line. The two friends followed. In less than a hundred paces, they were clear.
Behind the cohorts was a small open area. It was here that the ballistae stood.
And it was also where Pacorus, Vahram and the last of the reserves were gathered.
Romulus threw a hate-filled glance at the primus pilus, whose eyes somehow locked with his.
Barely taking time to notify Pacorus, Vahram whipped his horse into a gallop. ‘After them!’ he screamed at the nearest warriors. ‘A talent to the man who brings me any of their heads.’
The amount of gold mentioned was worth more than a lifetime’s pay for the average soldier. Every Parthian who heard responded, charging wildly in pursuit.
Thankfully, within twenty steps they had been subsumed into the heaving confusion of men and beasts that was the left flank. The cries of injured soldiers and shouted orders from the officers mixed with loud trumpeting and the metallic clash of arms. The only discernible detail was that the Roman lines were being inexorably, inevitably, driven backwards. Throwing in the reserve cohorts had failed, and shields and swords could only withstand the weight of angry elephants for so long. Craning his head, Romulus saw that the nearest behemoths were almost within javelin range. If they did not hurry, they too would meet the same fate as the legionaries at the front. Judging by the screams, it was not a pleasant way to die.
On they went, occasionally having to use the flat edges of their weapons to create a space. Romulus no longer felt dishonour at this. Theirs was a primeval s
truggle for survival, and since Optatus’ discovery of their status, none of these men had done anything but show hatred towards them. The last comments by the soldiers of his own cohort said it all. Romulus’ comradeship with the Forgotten Legion was dead. And Tarquinius had seen a possible road to Rome for him. It was time to take what the gods had offered.
They emerged near the river soon afterwards. A narrow band of ground was clear of combatants; the risk of falling in and drowning kept both sides away.
Romulus’ spirits began to lift. They were all three still alive and unscathed. His chest heaving, he peered at the muddy, roiling water. It flowed swiftly by, impervious to the noise and to the blood being shed only a few steps away. It was a long way to the far side. Branches and other debris swept past, revealing the river’s massive power. Crossing it would be no easy task, especially in heavy armour. He cast his eyes up and down the shore, hoping against hope that he might see a boat.
There were none.
‘Nothing for it but to swim,’ grinned Tarquinius. ‘Can you manage it?’
Romulus and Brennus looked at each other grimly; then they nodded.
Instantly the pair began stripping off their mail shirts. Whatever chance they had would be greatly increased by their removal.
Tarquinius knelt down, shoving his map and other precious items into a pig’s bladder. It had served him well on their arrival in Asia Minor two years before.
Unseen, Vahram waited until Romulus and Brennus were both in just their tunics. Driven by his hatred, the primus pilus and his horse had also emerged unharmed from the fray. Still armed with his recurved bow, Vahram calmly drew a shaft from the case on his hip and fitted it to the string. Spooked by the sudden blare of a wounded elephant, his mount jumped as he released.
The move deflected his arrow a tiny fraction.
Romulus heard Brennus gasp as if shocked. In slow motion, he turned to see a barbed metal head protruding from the muscle of his huge friend’s upper left arm. Although it was not the mortal wound that Vahram desired, swimming the river might now be too much for the Gaul. Romulus knew immediately who was responsible. Spinning around, he took in the primus pilus in a blink. Dropping his chain mail, Romulus snatched up his gladius and charged forward. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed in rage.
Vahram panicked and loosed too soon.
His next arrow flashed past, burying itself in the ground.
And then Romulus was on him. Memories of Felix’ anguished face flashed across his vision, lending him superhuman strength. Focusing his anger, Romulus reached up and took hold of Vahram’s right hand, which was frantically reaching for another shaft. With a powerful downward slice, he lopped it off.
The primus pilus screamed in agony and blood gushed from the stump, covering Romulus in a mist of red droplets. With true battle frenzy consuming him for the first time in his life, he did not care. Just one thing was important: killing Vahram. But before he could complete the task, the Parthian’s terrified horse skittered away on dancing hooves. Spinning in a tight circle, it trotted back towards the battle.
Romulus cursed. Even now he was being denied his revenge for Felix’ death.
It was then that a wounded bull elephant emerged into view, one tusk snapped clean away and the other red-tipped with gore. Every few steps, it blew out its ears and raised its trunk, letting out a piercing bugle of anger. Romulus was not the only being affected by battle rage. Its mahout was still in place, occasionally managing to direct his mount towards any legionaries within range. A solitary warrior remained on its back; he was firing arrows as well. The bull’s armoured head and neck bristled with bent pila, thrown by the legionaries in a vain attempt to bring it down. Yet what had done most damage was the lucky javelin that had pierced its left eye, half blinding it. The remaining eye now gleamed with a piggy, intelligent fury.
Unused to elephants, Vahram’s horse froze with terror.
Instantly the archer loosed a shaft, which took the Parthian through his left arm and rendered him totally unable to guide his mount away to safety. A cruel smile played across the Indian’s face.
Romulus paused, overcome with awe at what he was about to see.
And Tarquinius gave thanks to Mithras for granting him the strength not to reveal this during his torture.
Moving with surprising speed, the great bull swept forward, wrapping its trunk around Vahram’s body.
A thin, cracked cry left the primus pilus’ throat as he was lifted high into the air.
It was the last sound he ever made.
Dashing him to the ground, the elephant immediately knelt down, crushing Vahram beneath its front legs. Then, grabbing the Parthian’s head with its trunk, it decapitated him.
Romulus closed his eyes. He had never seen a man die more brutally, yet somehow it felt quite apt. When he looked up again a single heartbeat later, the bull was making straight for him.
Romulus felt his heart hammer in his chest. Without chain mail and armed only with a gladius, his life was over too.
A massive hand covered in blood pushed him to one side. ‘This is my quarrel, brother,’ said the Gaul quietly. ‘A time for Brennus to stand and fight.’
Romulus stared into the other’s calm blue eyes.
‘I will run no more.’
The words brooked no argument.
Ever since he had gained an insight into Tarquinius’ abilities, this moment was what Romulus had dreaded. Now it was here. Fat tears of grief welled up, but his protest died away. In Brennus’ gaze he saw only bravery, love and acceptance.
And the gods had decreed it. Mithras had brought them here.
‘Return to Rome,’ Brennus ordered. ‘Find your family.’
His throat closed with lead, Romulus could not answer.
Like a hero of old, the pigtailed Gaul stepped forward, his longsword ready. Without his chain mail, he was a magnificent sight. Huge muscles rippled and tensed under his sweat-soaked military tunic. Runnels of blood covered his left arm, but he had snapped off and drawn out the Indian shaft.
‘You were right, Ultan,’ Brennus whispered, looking up at the magnificent beast now rearing above him. Bunching his left fist, he breathed into the pain that radiated from his arrow wound. ‘A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.’
‘Romulus.’ The voice was insistent. ‘Romulus.’
The young soldier let Tarquinius lead him the few steps to the edge. He did not look back. Holding only his weapon, Romulus jumped into the river with Tarquinius.
As the cold water closed over his head, his ears rang with Brennus’ last battle cry.
‘For Liath!’ he roared. ‘For Conall, and for Brac!’
Chapter XVIII: Pompey’s General
Northern Italy, spring 52 BC
By the time that the legionaries reached them, Fabiola had regained control of her emotions. The forty men clattered to a halt, shields and pila at the ready. Sextus and Docilosa were very careful not to raise their bloodied weapons. Any perceived threat would result in a volley of javelins. Yet the soldiers’ disciplined appearance was infinitely more appealing than that of Scaevola and his crew. There would be no out-of-hand rape here. Ignoring the soldiers’ eager stares, Fabiola took her time, fixing her hair back into place with a couple of decorated ivory pins and lifting the neck of her dress to a more modest level. Then she beamed at the optio in charge, who had made his way to the front. Brazening their way out of the situation might yet be possible.
‘Centurion,’ Fabiola purred, deliberately giving him a higher rank. ‘You have our thanks.’
While the optio flushed proudly, his men tittered with amusement.
He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and they fell silent. ‘What happened, my lady?’
‘Those ruffians you saw,’ Fabiola began, ‘they ambushed us in the woods. Killed almost all my slaves and bodyguards.’ Not entirely acting, she let her lip tremble at the memory.
‘The roads are dangerous everywhere, lady,’
he muttered in sympathy.
‘But they ran when you appeared,’ said Fabiola, batting her eyelashes.
Embarrassed now, the optio looked down.
Secundus hid a smile. As if the fugitivarii would have attacked them in front of an entire legion, he thought.
Awed by her beauty, the optio said nothing for a moment. A short man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, he carefully considered the four figures, their clothes torn and covered with bloodstains. ‘Might I ask where you are bound?’ he asked eventually.
‘Ravenna,’ lied Fabiola. ‘To see my aged aunt.’
Satisfied, he nodded.
Fabiola thought she had succeeded. ‘If we might proceed then?’ she said. ‘The next town is not far. I will be able to purchase more slaves there.’
‘That won’t be possible, lady.’
‘Why ever not?’ she demanded, her voice rising.
The optio cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I have my orders.’
‘Which are?’
‘To take you in,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘The centurion said so.’
Fabiola looked at Secundus, who gave her a tiny shrug.
The optio’s superior might want them questioned further, but they could not exactly refuse.
‘Very well,’ she said, acceding gracefully. ‘Lead on.’
Pleased, the junior officer barked an order. Parting smoothly in the middle, his men positioned themselves on either side of Fabiola and her little party.
Before walking away, she glanced at the trees. Nothing. Scaevola and his fugitivarii had disappeared.
Fabiola knew that it would not be the last time that they met. She’d have to kill the merciless slave-catcher on the next occasion, or he would do the same to her.