The Forgotten Legion

  Not a single warrior had been killed.

  'The bastards didn't even look where they were riding.' There was respect in Brennus' voice.

  'I told you they weren't infantry.'

  'Have you seen them before?' asked Romulus.

  'Heard rumours in Armenia. They're famous for turning in the saddle and loosing. It's called the "Parthian shot".'

  'Those Gauls didn't stand a chance.'

  'Attacks by the archers weaken an enemy. And when they are in disarray the heavy cavalry get sent in.' Tarquinius grimaced. 'Then they repeat it.'

  'Discipline!' cried Brennus. 'The Roman shield wall can take anything if the soldiers stand fast.' He thumped his shield robustly and immediately began to doubt his own words.

  Tarquinius said nothing. It was unsettling.

  Romulus found it nearly impossible to ignore the dead Gauls, men whose lack of restraint had got them killed. Their bodies were a grim reminder of what happened to those who disobeyed orders. Romulus hoped it would teach Crassus to conserve his cavalry. The Etruscan's veiled comments about the lack of Roman horsemen were starting to make sense and Romulus' unease grew.

  High above in the azure sky, the vultures were circling.

  Tarquinius studied them for a long time.

  Puzzled, Romulus stared up at the broad wingtips silhouetted against the sun. Twelve vultures. No more than he might see on any other day. But when the Etruscan lowered his gaze at last, both he and Brennus noticed that he seemed very troubled.

  'Were you ever wrong, Olenus?' Tarquinius said to himself. 'Twelve.'

  'What did you see?' asked Romulus.

  'I'm not sure,' answered Tarquinius vaguely.

  It was obvious he was holding something back.

  Romulus began to speak again and Brennus lifted a finger to his lips, trying to forget Ultan's prophecy. 'The man will tell us when he's ready,' he said. 'Not before.' Now that he was more than a thousand miles from Transalpine Gaul, the big man found he did not want to know if his death was imminent.

  Romulus shrugged fatalistically. No point pressing the matter. The Etruscan's predictions had got them this far.

  Romulus wiped the sweat off his face. 'How much longer before they stand and face us?' he said angrily. 'Why won't the bastards fight?'

  Far in the distance, a line of riders danced along the horizon.

  The enemy horsemen had pulled away after the abortive Gaulish attack, giving Crassus time to think. But the general would only advance and the hot mercenaries were still trudging through deep sand.

  'They've gone for more arrows,' replied the Etruscan.

  Brennus smiled thinly. 'Be back soon then.'

  Romulus shook a fist at the Parthians. 'Come back and fight!' he roared.

  'It's a simple plan, really.' Tarquinius indicated the men around them. 'They're just tiring us out.'

  One day in the furnace-like heat had taken a huge toll on Crassus' army. Instead of marching in regulation close order, most cohorts had now sagged apart. The sun beat down, sapping strength from the men. Their water bags long since empty, the weaker men were beginning to sway as they walked, while others leaned on their comrades' shoulders. Figures fell out of rank to collapse on the sand. Kicked and beaten by their officers, most struggled to their feet, while some lay unnoticed and were left to die. Such poor discipline would not normally have been tolerated, but the exhausted centurions had given up shouting. It was enough that the legions were still moving forward, although under the weight of his chain mail, shield, javelins and equipment, every soldier was struggling. Except Brennus.

  Publius' Gauls rode beside the slowly moving column, their large horses also beginning to look tired. In stark comparison, the Nabataeans' mounts pranced along, riders chattering busily to each other.

  Brennus pointed. 'Easy for them, eh?'

  'You'll be glad of the Nabataeans when we're facing the main Parthian army,' said Romulus.

  'I suppose. But I don't trust them,' the Gaul growled. 'Forever sniggering and laughing. Look!'

  Romulus didn't like the sly glances being cast in their direction either.

  'A couple of thousand Gaulish cavalry would be more use.'

  'Not if they perform like those fools back there,' said Tarquinius dryly.

  In an attempt to find relief from one of many blisters, Romulus hefted his yoke from one shoulder to another and narrowly missed the head of the man immediately behind.

  'Watch what you're doing,' the soldier swore. 'Or you'll feel the tip of my gladius.'

  Romulus ignored him. 'Why didn't we travel through Armenia?' he asked again. 'Crassus must have known that would be easier.' Tarquinius had not been slow to share his discontent when it became evident the army was not taking the longer, safer route.

  'Impatience. This way to Seleucia takes only four weeks.'

  'A month in this hell?' Brennus rolled his eyes. 'What about water?'

  'Resen, one of my people 's ancestral cities, lies the other way,' added the Etruscan regretfully. He lowered his voice. 'And fewer men would have died in the mountains.'

  Romulus noticed him glance up at the vultures and his suspicions grew further.

  Tarquinius gestured at the Parthians in the distance. 'We should have been facing that lot on our terms, not theirs.'

  'True,' replied the Gaul. 'Broken terrain would suit us far better.'

  'Precisely.'

  'It's what we did to the Romans in the first year,' mused Brennus. 'Attacked them on our own ground.'

  'And now the Parthians are doing it to us,' Romulus chipped in. 'Crassus needs to start using the Nabataeans as protection.'

  Brennus nodded approvingly at the observation while a dark shadow passed unseen over Tarquinius' face. His wish to travel east was being fulfilled, but it would be at far greater cost than the haruspex had first thought.

  True to form, Tarquinius' words were prophetic. In the hours that followed, groups of Parthian archers rode in close, attempting to goad the Gauls into pursuit. If Publius' cavalry responded, more arrow storms rained down. If they did not, the enemy horsemen used them as target practice. Without bows, there was little the Gauls could do to retaliate and after a number of assaults, they had lost scores of men.

  The Nabataeans seemed immune to temptation. Volleys of shafts were released if the Parthians came near, a tactic that worked well. Crassus finally realised this and Ariamnes was ordered to split his cavalry, placing half on each side of the army as a protective screen. The mercenaries were heartened by their allies' presence.

  Slowly the army ground forward into the sandy wasteland.

  But the Parthians immediately adapted the method of harassment. Groups of riders began picking areas the Nabataeans were not protecting at that exact time and their sudden charges from behind large dunes were harder to predict. Men on the outside of each rank became experts at spotting dust clouds driven up by the enemy's horses, early warning that an attack was imminent.

  'Halt! Shields up!' echoed along the line throughout the afternoon. 'Form testudo!'

  Despite their exhaustion, the soldiers had learned to respond fast. Each side of the Roman column would become a wall of shields, the men inside lifting theirs to form a roof, creating cover for all.

  But no matter how fast they responded, fresh screams always rang out as the showers of Parthian arrows came scything down, the shafts finding gaps in the testudo and the men who'd obeyed orders too late. The enemy quickly realised that aiming both above and below the shields was even more effective. Soldiers dropped to the ground clutching throats, arms and legs. The hiss of arrows competed with shrieks of agony in a terrible crescendo.

  Romulus was glad Brennus had insisted that they buy heavy legionary scuta. The Gaulish tribesmen of his cohort carried traditional elongated rectangular shields far thinner than standard army issue and it soon became evident that they were more susceptible to the enemy bows. If the Parthians came within less than fifty paces their arrows penetrated either type wi
th ease. Further away, only the Gauls' shields were vulnerable. It was small consolation. All day the Parthians remained tantalisingly out of range of Roman pila, which were ineffective beyond thirty paces. Fortunately their assaults did not last long, as the enemy were driven off by Nabataean charges or pulled back when they had used all their shafts.

  By mid-afternoon more than forty mercenaries had been killed and injured. The dead sprawled in the sand, fresh meat for the vultures above. As the army marched past, the wounded were left with a few guards. When the baggage train arrived, they were loaded into the wagons, their screams and cries adding to the general sense of fear and unease.

  And the sun beat down mercilessly, an oven from which there was no escape. Crassus' army was being drained of its ability to fight.

  Romulus' first taste of battlefield combat was not what he 'd expected. Cotta's lessons about armies meeting on a flat plain and lines of men clashing in shield walls were far from this. He ground his teeth as comrades continued falling to Parthian arrows. Even fights in the arena seemed easy now. There they were one on one, man to man. The tactic of wearing down an opponent was new to him. It was torture enduring attacks without being able to fight back.

  Matters came to a head for Romulus when a lone Parthian archer returned after his comrades had just been driven off. Riding parallel, he began firing shafts at the irregulars from just outside javelin range. Half a dozen arrows later, five men lay dead and another had been maimed. The marching soldiers cringed behind their shields, each hoping he would not be next.

  'Son of a whore!' Romulus yelled. He prepared himself to break rank, but Brennus quickly pulled him back.

  'Wait!'

  'I can kill him,' Romulus said, taking a deep breath. It was time to take a stand: too many of their comrades had been slain.

  'He'll loose three arrows before you go ten steps!'

  Romulus shook off the Gaul's hand proudly. 'I'm a man, not a boy, Brennus. I make my own decisions.'

  The comment sank home more than he could know and Brennus released his grip. The lad's just like Brac, he thought.

  Tarquinius did not look surprised.

  Hefting the pila he had been training with for months, Romulus stepped out of formation.

  'Get back into line, soldier!' yelled Bassius.

  Ignoring the order, Romulus stabbed his second pilum into the sand and locked eyes with the Parthian. The archer's confidence was now so great that his horse had slowed to a walk and he smiled as Romulus drew back to throw.

  Brennus held his breath but the arrogant rider did not even raise his bow in response.

  'Waste of time,' said a soldier two ranks behind. 'He 's too far away.'

  The centurion was about to bellow again, but paused.

  With a grunt of effort, Romulus hurled the javelin. It curved upwards in a huge arc before coming down to skewer the Parthian through the chest. There was a roar of approval as the archer toppled slowly off his horse. It was an incredible throw and the mercenaries' spirits visibly lifted.

  Romulus resumed his position and Brennus clapped him on the shoulder. 'Fine shot.'

  He flushed with pleasure.

  By late afternoon, the dreadful heat began to abate and the Parthians finally pulled away. Only fifteen miles had been covered instead of the regulation twenty, but Crassus called a halt before even more men collapsed. Despite their total exhaustion, every other soldier had to help build a marching camp.

  'Thank the gods we dug yesterday,' remarked Tarquinius when the order came.

  Brennus allowed himself a gulp from his water container. 'It'll be us again tomorrow.'

  Grateful not to dig the hot sand, the mercenary cohort fanned out in a curved screen with half the Sixth Legion. Their job was to protect the remainder as the camp was built. The unlucky legionaries shed heavy yokes, cursing loudly as they got to work with shovels.

  Across the desert plain other legions were doing the same. By sunset, the earth ramparts and defensive trenches had been finished. Even after extreme ordeals, the strenuous training and harsh discipline meant the army could still function. Rome could install civilisation anywhere.

  As evening passed, the sun changed in colour. It went from yellow to orange, finally turning to blood red. Sitting by his tent, Romulus stared at the horizon, an uneasy feeling in his belly. The day had seen no real combat. Apart from his amazing javelin throw, all the skirmishing had gone the Parthians' way. Despite Tarquinius' warnings, it had been a revelation. With rare exceptions, the stories of warfare he had been weaned on consisted of crushing defeats for anyone foolish enough to resist the Republic. It didn't matter who it was – the rebel king Jugurtha in Africa, Hannibal of Carthage – all came to grief at the hands of Rome.

  But the sunburnt, exhausted men he could see looked incapable of a major battle. Slack faces stared into space, tired jaws chewed dry food, sunburnt bodies lay everywhere, weapons dropped alongside. Crassus' soldiers did not seem to care what happened to them.

  A shiver of fear ran down Romulus' spine. How could an army composed almost entirely of infantry beat one of only cavalry? 'How can Crassus win?' he said out loud.

  The Etruscan stopped chewing. 'Simple. By drawing the Parthians into a fixed battle, facing a deep line of soldiers. And when that happens, our horsemen need to be on the wings.'

  'Stops the army being flanked,' added Brennus.

  'What would the infantry do?'

  'Weather the storm,' replied Tarquinius. 'Shelter behind their shields with the front ranks on their knees.'

  Romulus winced. 'To protect their lower legs from arrows?'

  'Correct.'

  'If they stand fast, it would allow the cavalry to peel round to the enemy's rear in a pincer movement.' Brennus thumped one fist into the other. 'Then we'll crush them with a charge on the centre.'

  'And the cataphracts?'

  Tarquinius grimaced. 'If they are sent in before the Parthians get flanked, things will be very difficult.' He sighed. 'It should all be down to our cavalry.'

  Brennus frowned. 'If the mangy bastards don't disappear beforehand!'

  'Indeed.'

  Romulus looked sharply at the Etruscan. 'What is it?'

  'Brennus is right not to trust the Nabataeans. I have been watching our new allies and studying the sky above.' Tarquinius sighed. 'They will probably leave tomorrow.'

  'Treacherous savages,' muttered the Gaul.

  'How can you be so sure?' asked Romulus.

  'Nothing is absolutely certain,' the Etruscan replied. 'But the Nabataeans are no friends of Rome.'

  'So what will happen?'

  'We must wait. Time will tell,' replied Tarquinius calmly.

  'And if there are twelve vultures above us tomorrow?' blurted Romulus.

  The Etruscan glanced at him shrewdly. 'Twelve is the Etruscans' sacred number. Often it appears with other signs, which can be good. Or bad.'

  Romulus shivered.

  Unrolling his blanket, Brennus smiled reassuringly. He had come to the conclusion that Ultan's prophecy had to mean something positive. Since escaping his life as a gladiator and travelling to the east, he had survived storms, battles and fiery deserts. Seen incredible cities like Jerusalem and Damascus. Made friends with a powerful soothsayer. He was learning new things every day. It had to be better than killing men in the arena on a daily basis. 'Don't worry,' he said to Romulus. 'The gods will protect us.' He lay down and was asleep within moments.