The Forgotten Legion

  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.'

  Romulus' heart filled with pity. It was one of the men from their century. Before he could move out of rank, Brennus' huge fist grabbed him.

  'He's one of ours!'

  'Don't even think about it!' the Gaul hissed. 'They'll gut you like a fish.'

  'We are the only ones who stood our ground,' agreed Tarquinius.

  Romulus watched the nearest warriors. One gave him a wolfish grin as he slid easily from the saddle, a long curved dagger in his hand.

  Staring helplessly at the approaching Parthian, the mercenary panicked. 'Don't leave me here!'

  'You don't even know his name,' said Tarquinius. 'Will you try and save the rest of them too?'

  'He ran, leaving us to die,' growled Brennus. 'Coward.'

  Romulus hardened his heart with difficulty. 'May the gods give you swift passage.'

  'No!' screamed the injured soldier. 'Don't ki . . .' There was an abrupt silence, replaced by a soft spraying noise.

  Romulus turned back.

  The man's throat had been cut. His expression was startled as both carotid arteries showered the sand in a crimson fountain. Toppling slowly to one side, the mercenary's body twitched a few times and lay still.

  Cries of fear rang out as the remainder realised what was about to happen. Yet it was only what they would have done to enemy survivors in the same circumstances.

  'Eyes to the front!' roared Bassius. 'They are all dead men.'

  Romulus did his best to ignore what they were leaving behind. The Parthians moved amongst the fallen like wraiths, killing without mercy, silencing the screams. Only Bassius and his twenty men were being allowed to go free.

  'We have survived one great danger,' said Tarquinius reassuringly.

  Romulus shook his head, forcing himself to believe. What else was there to hold on to?

  The walk back to the Roman lines seemed to take forever. But not a single arrow followed the tiny remnant of the mercenary cohort. Surena had been true to his word. Unlike Crassus, who had flouted a peace treaty in his quest for fame and riches.

  As they drew nearer, it was obvious that the army had finally been marshalled into one continuous front.

  Romulus nudged Tarquinius. 'The general has read your mind.'

  'Too late,' replied the Etruscan. 'The cataphracts will charge soon. One thousand of them.'

  Romulus shuddered. Could anything be more terrible than what he had just witnessed? Brennus saw the young man faltering. 'The gods must be protecting us,' he said bluffly. 'We 're still here!' The Gaul's mind was still spinning at being alive. But only through divine intervention could they have survived the lunacy of that charge.

  Just twenty to thirty paces had been left between cohorts now, allowing each to manoeuvre without leaving space for the Parthians to utilise the gaps. Crassus had placed a huge number of centurions in the front ranks. He knew it was imperative that the legions withstand the next attack and was relying on the seasoned officers' ability to hold the soldiers steady and raise their morale. It was a tactic resorted to only when stakes were high.

  When the group were within javelin range, a great cry went up from the legionaries. Tarquinius pointed; they peered to see what the noise was about.

  Surena had been generous in letting the mercenaries go, but he was now about to use his greatest weapon against Crassus. A troop of cataphracts had ridden into the centre of the ground between the armies. Their chain mail glinted and flashed in the sunlight: a magnificent sight. But this time they had a different purpose. In the lead, a rider brandished Publius' head on a spear, brutal evidence of what the Romans could expect.

  The enemy horsemen rode close enough to let every soldier see exactly whose head had been taken. Another roar of despair rent the air. The Romans had lost not just half their cavalry and two thousand infantry.

  Crassus' son had been slain.

  Behind the Roman centre, Crassus heard the outcry, but failed to respond. Having watched Publius' cavalry charge being cut to pieces, the general's spirits had plummeted. His son's fate was unknown and there was little chance of any help in deciding the legions' next move. Other than that troublesome Longinus, none of his senior officers seemed to have any idea what to do. Their intimidation had been too thorough. But Crassus was damned if he would listen to a mere legate.

  Unsure what to do next, he pushed his horse up to the back ranks, to find out what was going on. Waves of fear rippled through the men at the sight of his black cloak. It was a bad omen to wear this colour at any time, let alone when leading an army into battle.

  Ignoring the frightened soldiers, Crassus focused with difficulty on the cataphracts riding past. Publius' blood-soaked features bobbed up and down on the spear.

  Crassus froze in shock. Then, overcome by grief, the arrogant general disappeared; a shrunken man sagged over his pommel. Great sobs racked the would-be Alexander.

  Making the most of their trophy, the Parthians moved on.

  Remembering all the bad omens, legionaries nearby glanced at Crassus nervously. The repeated signs from above had affected even those who weren't superstitious. The storms at sea. The bull's heart. An eagle standard turning to face the rear. Vultures following the column for days. The Nabataeans' treachery. And now Publius was dead.

  It was obvious. The gods had damned Crassus' campaign.

  The huge army stood motionless, the trumpets silent as Publius' head continued its ghastly journey along the front lines. Then men began to waver and break rank, looking for ways of escape. Positioned to their rear, junior officers armed with long staffs beat them back into position, but could not stem the rising fear. Cold fingers of terror were stealing into exhausted hearts and it was contagious. The soldiers needed immediate leadership, but none was forthcoming.

  The murmurs began, spread, rose to panic-stricken shouts.

  'The general has lost his mind with grief!'

  'Crassus has gone mad!'

  'Fall back!'

  'Shut your damn mouths!' screamed the centurion near Romulus, wielding his cane viciously. 'The next man to mention retreat will end with my gladius in his belly! Stand fast.'

  Cowed by their officers, most of the legionaries fell silent. Discipline was still holding – just.

  The troop of cataphracts returned to the Parthian lines. Their quivers refilled, thousands of horse archers immediately began moving towards the Romans. After his master stroke of displaying Publius' head, Surena was now going for the jugular.

  At last Crassus came to his senses and took in the approaching enemy. 'Close order!' he croaked. 'Launch javelins at twenty paces. No more!'

  The messenger by his side scuttled over to the trumpeters. If the orders weren't relayed fast, the Parthians would be on them.

  'What then, general?' One tribune had plucked up enough courage to speak.

  Surprised rather than angry, Crassus waved his hands vaguely in the air. 'Weather this attack. Shower the Parthians with pila. That'll drive them off.'

  The tribune looked confused. 'But their arrows have a greater range than javelins.'

  'Do as I say,' said Crassus dully. 'Nothing can withstand Rome's legions.'

  The officer withdrew, eyes bulging with alarm.

  Crassus had lost his mind.

  Unsure exactly where to go, Bassius led his men to the position held by the Sixth Legion, right of the Roman centre.

  'You've no time to reach the other mercenaries,' shouted a centurion as they came closer. 'Against regulations, but bring your boys in alongside mine.'

  'Very good, comrade. You heard the officer!' Bassius ordered. 'Six men wide, three deep. Move!'

  The group quickly formed up beside the regulars. The barrel-chested centurion who had spoken leaned over to grip Bassius' forearm.

  'Gaius Peregrinus Sido. First Centurion, First Coh
ort.'

  'Marcus Aemilius Bassius. Senior Centurion, Fourth Cohort of Gaulish mercenaries. And veteran of the Fifth.'

  'That was a massacre out there,' said Sido. 'You did well to survive.'

  'The bastards led us into a trap, pure and simple. Their right flank fled, then they swept round and enveloped us. Publius never saw it coming.'

  Sido whistled with respect. 'Why are you not dead?'

  'We didn't run like the rest,' shrugged Bassius. 'And the Parthian leader let us go.'

  'Mars above! That should get you a few drinks back home.'

  'I hope so,' laughed Bassius grimly, eyeing the Parthian archers. It would only be moments before they reached the Roman lines.

  'Our pila don't have the range of their bows,' said Sido heavily. 'What can we do?'

  'We'll need to hold the bastards off till sunset,' replied Bassius. 'Then fall back to Carrhae under cover of darkness and head for the mountains tomorrow.'

  'Retreat?' Sido sighed. 'We can't fight those sons of whores in the open, that's for sure.'

  'Crassus had better see it that way damn quick, or it will mean death for all of us.'

  Since the cataphracts had ridden past, there had been no commands from the centre. Finally the bucinae blared a series of short notes.

  'Close ranks! Prepare for attack!'

  The men at the front needed no prompting. Shields slammed together while the soldiers behind held theirs angled overhead. There was nothing else to do. Legionary scuta could resist normal missiles, but as every man knew only too well, the Parthian bows were different.

  Clouds of dust rose from the horses, filling the atmosphere with a fine choking powder. With the Romans in a continuous line, the archers were unable to ride around each cohort as before. Now they would have to ride along the enemy's front and far fewer could attack at any one time.

  This provided Crassus' legions with only a shade more respite. A wave of riders swept in, releasing hundreds of shafts from fifty paces. The Roman officers did not order volleys of javelins. There was no point. As the Parthian assault withdrew, it was immediately replaced by another. Storms of arrows rained upon on the beleaguered army, piercing wood, metal and flesh without distinction.

  Screams of pain rose up as the barbed tips penetrated scuta, taking out eyes and pinning feet to the sand. And every soldier that fell created a hole in the shield wall. Into these gaps came scores more missiles, the Parthians using every opportunity to decimate their foes. The Romans cowered under their shields with gritted teeth, praying.

  Several of Bassius' mercenaries fell wounded in the prolonged onslaught. Following the centurion's lead, the others snapped the shafts off and pulled them out when they could. Men roared in agony as blood poured from their wounds. The air was filled with the moans, galloping hooves and the hiss of feathered shafts: a terrifying cacophony.

  Romulus had grown used to the shrieking, but the number of combatants was far greater than he could have ever imagined. This was death on a grand scale, the sheer magnitude of slaughter impossible to comprehend. Cannae must have been something like this, he thought. A battle that the Republic had lost.

  The attacks lasted as long as the enemy had arrows. Whenever the Parthians had exhausted their supply, they simply rode back to the camel train for more. There were enough archers to ensure that any breaks were few and far between. At various stages, the frustrated centurions ordered javelins be thrown, but the horsemen were rarely close enough. Hundreds of pila flew through the air to land on the sand, wasted and useless.

  After hours of this endless cycle, Roman morale was falling fast. In the ranks of the Sixth alone, nearly a thousand men had been killed. Hundreds more lay injured on the baking hot sand. The air was now thick with dread and the officers were finding it increasingly difficult to keep their units in position.

  On the left wing, the Iberian cavalry had fled, unwilling to suffer the same fate as the Gauls. With no sign of Ariamnes and his Nabataeans, the Romans retained no horsemen at all. The rest of Crassus' army had been battered to a pulp, left unable to respond in any way.

  Cohort after cohort stood reeling under the onslaught. Parched. Exhausted. Wavering. And about to run.

  But instead of another attack, the drums and bells began to sound. While the noise rose in an unearthly crescendo, the horse archers pulled back. Unsure what was happening, the uninjured Roman soldiers waited, their nerves wire-taut. Thanks to the dust cloud that had taken up a permanent place between the two forces, the Parthian army was invisible to them.

  For what seemed an eternity, nothing happened.

  Then the instruments fell abruptly silent. Surena was a shrewd judge of men and it was time for the hammer blow.

  Beneath Romulus' feet the sand began to tremble. Still nothing could be discerned before them.

  Then he knew.

  'Cataphracts!'

  The senior centurion stared at Romulus blankly.

  'A charge by heavy cavalry, sir!'

  Bassius turned to Sido and swore. 'They will smash us apart! Everyone still with pila to the front.'

  The other centurion nodded jerkily. He had seen the cataphracts and could well imagine their capability.

  'All men with javelins move forward! Hurry!'

  Brennus pushed his way through, keen to get to grips with the enemy. He was sure now that his journey was being watched over by the gods themselves. Therefore there was a purpose to it – to all he had sacrificed. Now it was time to fight.

  Having thrown their pila already, Romulus and Tarquinius stayed put.

  'Other ranks, close up,' ordered Bassius. 'Use your spears to stab the horses' bellies. Gut them! Take their fucking eyes out! Rip the riders off!'

  'Stand fast!' Sido raised a bloody gladius in the air. 'For Rome!'

  The soldiers managed a ragged cheer and hurriedly formed up. Romulus and Tarquinius found themselves in the second rank, a few paces behind Brennus. The Gaul had elbowed his way to stand near the two centurions.

  The ground shook from the drumming of hooves and a low thunder filled the air. Bassius had just enough time to shout, 'Shields up! Pila ready!' before the Parthians emerged from the concealing gloom. Riding in a wedge formation, the desert horsemen were already at full gallop. In response to a shouted order, their heavy lances lowered as one. The centurions had no chance to order a volley of javelins. With devastating force, a thousand heavy cavalry punched into the Roman lines. Sido and those at the front were smashed aside or trampled underfoot while the men behind received a lance in the chest.

  Romulus watched in horror as the unstoppable tide poured through the cohort's centre, driving all before it. He struggled to reach the fighting, but the press was so great there was little to do but watch. Here and there a soldier stabbed a horse in the eye with a pilum. The mounts reared up in pain, their hooves dashing out the brains of those nearby. Cataphracts clutched frantically at the reins as vengeful legionaries pulled them from the saddle. There was no mercy. Swords ripped into Parthian throats; blood gushed on the sand.

  He glimpsed Brennus pulling a mailed warrior down with brute force and stabbing him in the face. Bassius and a few others managed to hamstring half a dozen horses, dispatching the riders with ease. And somehow Tarquinius had wormed his way through the tightly packed ranks to the fighting. Romulus had seen his friend use the battleaxe on several occasions, but never tired of watching the Etruscan's skill and grace. The sinewy figure spun and chopped, wielding the massive weapon with ease. Its curved iron heads flashed to and fro and Parthians screamed as hands and arms were severed. Horses went down thrashing, their back legs slashed to pieces.