The Forgotten Legion

  Romulus looked at his friends in turn. Their words resounded inside him.

  When fifty soldiers had been assembled, the Parthian commander signalled his guards to stop. As with the sacrifice of the bull, only a few were required as witnesses. Word would spread fast to the remainder.

  Led by the cataphracts and musicians, the column got under way. The legionaries shuffled miserably together, urged on by kicks and spear butts.

  They passed under the immense archway, which was as big as any Romulus had seen in Italy. But it was the exception rather than the rule. Lined by single-storey mud huts, Seleucia's streets were narrow. Constructed of sun-hardened bricks, the tiny dwellings made up the majority of structures. Just an occasional, plain temple was taller. As in Rome, everything was built very close together, the alleyways between filled with rubbish and human waste. Romulus saw no signs of aqueducts or public toilets. It was a simply built city; the Parthians were clearly not a nation of engineers. They were nomadic desert warriors.

  Only the arch and the structure of what must have been King Orodes' residence were impressive enough to exist in Rome. Bare ground extended for some distance around the high, fortified walls of the palace. Towers sat on each corner, with archers patrolling the battlements between. A troop of cataphracts sat on horses beside ornate metal gates, staring impassively as the legionaries filed by. Few could look at the mailed warriors without a shudder of fear.

  As he passed, Tarquinius peered through gaps in the metalwork.

  'Don't draw their attention!' hissed Brennus.

  'They don't care,' replied the Etruscan casually, craning his neck. 'I want a glimpse of the gold Crassus was after. The place is supposed to be dripping with it.'

  But one cataphract had seen enough: dropping his lance tip towards Tarquinius, he then forcefully jerked it away.

  To Romulus' relief, the haruspex ducked his head and shuffled on.

  There was little space for the captives to pass through the waiting crowds. Everyone in Seleucia wanted to revel in the Romans' humiliation. Jeers and shrieks of scorn rang in their ears as they stumbled along. Romulus kept his gaze firmly on the rutted mud beneath his feet. One glance at the brown hate-filled faces had been enough. What was to come would be bad enough without drawing more attention to himself.

  Sharp-edged stones and pebbles flew in low arcs, cutting and bruising their bodies. Rotten vegetables – even the contents of chamber pots – rained down. Snot-nosed children in dirty rags darted in and out of the press to kick at the men. One soldier had his cheek raked open by the nails of a thin woman who stepped into his path. When he tried to stop her, a guard clubbed him unconscious. The crone crowed in triumph, spitting on the limp figure. Legionaries in front and behind were forced to carry their comrade.

  The filth-covered prisoners were driven through the streets for what seemed an eternity, allowing the stunning victory over Crassus' huge army to be savoured by all. At last they reached a large open area, similar in size to Rome's Campus Martius. The temperature soared as the small amount of shade was left behind. Few dared look up as they were forced towards the centre, away from the jeers and missiles. Guards led the way, viciously beating back those foolish enough to block their path.

  Beside a great fire, dozens of Parthians were toiling busily, feeding the hungry flames with logs. An empty stage sat close by. Blows and kicks urged the confused soldiers to stand before it. They formed in weary, beaten lines, wondering, dreading, what was to come. As time passed, more groups arrived, brought from other compounds around the city. Soon there were hundreds of Romans watching – the representatives of ten thousand.

  Romulus had decided no one would see him look beaten. If he was about to be executed, it would be a proud end. Brennus seemed content that Tarquinius was not alarmed. Thus he and his mentors were relatively at ease with their fate, in contrast to the half-starved, sunburnt legionaries waiting for death beside them. The awful defeat at Carrhae had shattered their confidence. Heads hung low; quiet sobs racked the weakest. There was even a faint smell of urine as the tension of the situation grew too great for some.

  Gradually the mob's abuse died away. Even the drums and bells fell silent. A new sound filled the air, one that instinctively drew attention. Moans of agony were coming from beyond the surrounding crowd.

  Dozens of wooden crosses had been erected around the area. From the vertical section of each hung an officer, suspended by ropes holding his forearms to the horizontal crossbar. Periodically the victims pushed up on nailed feet to relieve the pressure on their upper bodies. Then the pain grew too great and they slumped down again, groaning. It was a vicious cycle that would end in total dehydration or suffocation. Death could take days, especially if the victim was physically strong.

  The crowd shouted and laughed, their focus drawn away from the other prisoners. Stones flew at the crucified men. Fresh screams rang out when they found targets. Guards prodded the helpless officers with spears, laughing when blood was drawn. Cries of glee filled the air. The brutal spectacle continued in this fashion for some time. The ordinary soldiers watched appalled, each imagining his own fate.

  Felix pointed. 'There 's Bassius. Poor bastard.'

  Romulus and Brennus stared at the veteran who was hanging nearby, his eyes closed. Despite the agonising ordeal, not a sound was passing the centurion's lips. Never had Bassius' courage been more evident.

  Brennus tugged at the cord around his neck. 'I'm going to put him out of his misery.'

  'And end up on a cross yourself?' responded Tarquinius.

  Romulus swore. The same idea had been in his mind but they could never reach Bassius without being killed first.

  'He won't last long,' interjected Felix. 'Crucifixion saps a wounded man's strength very quickly.'

  'The Romans taught them how to crucify,' said the Etruscan.

  Romulus had no answer. He felt shame and disgust that his own people could have passed on such a barbaric torture. But while slaves and criminals were routinely killed this way in Italy, he had never seen it in such numbers. Then he remembered how Crassus had killed the survivors of Spartacus' army. Rome was as cruel as Parthia.

  Brennus spat angrily, preparing to snap his bindings. Images of Conall dying beneath a dozen gladii filled his mind again. Now another valiant man needed to be saved. He had journeyed far enough.

  'Your choice, Brennus.' Tarquinius' voice cut in. 'We still have a long road before us.'

  The big warrior turned, real anguish in his eyes. 'Bassius is a brave soldier. He saved our lives! And he doesn't deserve to die like an animal.'

  'Help him then.'

  There was a pause before Brennus sighed heavily. 'Ultan foretold a very long journey. So have you.'

  'Bassius will die anyway,' said Tarquinius gently. 'Conall and Brac would have too. There is nothing you could have done to change any of it.'

  Brennus' eyes widened. 'You know about my family?'

  The Etruscan nodded.

  'I have not spoken their names for eight years.'

  'Brac was a brave warrior, just like his father. But their time had come.'

  The hairs on Romulus' neck rose. He had only ever gleaned hints of the Gaul's past before.

  Brennus looked distraught.

  'There will be a day when your friends need you.' The Etruscan's voice was deep. 'A time for Brennus to stand and fight. Against terrible odds.'

  There was a long silence.

  'No one could win such a battle. Except Brennus.'

  'It will happen far from here?' His tone was urgent, almost frantic.

  'At the very edge of the world.'

  Brennus smiled slowly and released the rope. 'Ultan was a mighty druid. As are you, Tarquinius. The gods will take our centurion straight to Elysium.'

  'Be sure of it.'

  Romulus could still remember the glance Tarquinius had given the Gaul as they retreated towards Carrhae. Concern for Brennus filled the young soldier's heart as he pieced the comments togeth
er, but then he saw Tarquinius eyeing the fire.

  'What is it for?'

  The Etruscan nodded at a squat iron cauldron perched in the middle of the blaze. Sweating men in leather aprons were labouring to keep the flames burning hotly beneath it. Every so often one would lean over and stir the contents with a long-handled ladle.

  'A while ago they dropped in a gold ingot.'

  Romulus felt a shiver run down his spine.

  The drums began again, but this time the din did not last for long. A flat-bed wagon arrived, pulled by mules and surrounded by heavy cavalry, magnificent in their chain mail. On either side strode a number of guards masquerading as lictores. Each held a fasces, the Roman symbol of justice. But unlike those used in Italy, the bundles of rods they carried were decorated with money bags and their axes with officers' heads.

  'This has all been planned,' he muttered.

  'It's a parody of a military triumph,' explained the Etruscan. 'And it mocks Crassus' greed for riches.'

  There was a collective gasp when the soldiers saw Crassus standing in the cart, tied to a wooden frame by the neck and arms. On his head rested a laurel wreath while his lips and cheeks had been painted with ochre and white lead. A brightly coloured woman's robe completed the indignity, its fabric soaked with human waste and rotten vegetables. The general's eyes were closed, his face resigned. It had been a long journey.

  The prostitutes who had accompanied the senior officers were also present. Stripped naked, cut and bruised, they wailed and clung to each other. During the campaign, Romulus had seen many rapes. And every time he had, awful images of Gemellus grunting on top of his mother had flooded back. It was part of war, but Romulus shuddered at what the women must have endured since Carrhae.

  When the mules came to a halt, screams of fear rang out.

  Parthian warriors swarmed on to the cart and the prostitutes were dragged by the hair on to the stage and shoved down on their knees. Whimpers were met with blows and kicks. Soon only the occasional sob escaped them.

  A tall bearded man in a black robe climbed into view and gestured for silence. The crowd obeyed and the priest began speaking in a low, deep voice. Palpable anger could be heard in every word. His speech drove watching Parthians into a frenzy and they swarmed forward at the prisoners. Guards had to use real force to drive them back, wounding many with their spears.

  'Rabble-rousing,' said Brennus. 'So the real entertainment can begin.'

  'He is talking about what happens to any who threaten Parthia.' The Etruscan translated quickly. 'Crassus was the aggressor. But their mighty gods helped them defeat the Roman invaders. Now they require a reward.'

  Romulus looked at the stage and shivered. The campaign had been damned from the start and only a fool would have disregarded the plethora of bad omens. But Crassus had ignored every last one, his monumental arrogance leading thousands of men to their deaths. He was still revolted by what was about to happen to their general. But there was nothing he could do. The young soldier breathed deeply to calm himself.

  At last the bearded priest finished, content the audience understood the impending ritual. Only moans from the crucified officers and prostitutes now broke the eerie silence.

  Every legionary's gaze was fixed on Crassus and the unfortunate women. A faint smile played across the priest's lips as he drew a long dagger from his belt. Moving to stand behind the first whore, he spoke a few more words.

  Loud cheers rose up.

  She twisted round to see, crying in anticipation and terror. Brutally her head was wrenched back to face the mob. With a smooth movement, he slashed the woman's throat.

  Abruptly, the screams stopped.

  Arms and legs jerked spasmodically as a fountain of blood sprayed from the gaping neck wound, covering guards and prisoners alike. The Parthian released his grip and a warrior propelled the corpse off the stage with a huge kick. Roman soldiers scattered to avoid the mutilated body landing on them.

  One by one, the prostitutes suffered the same fate. Soon only Crassus remained alive. The platform ran with blood, bodies lay heaped in front, but still the crowd bayed for more.

  Parthia wanted its revenge.

  'Savages,' growled Brennus.

  Romulus was thinking of Fabiola. For all he knew, she might have been one of the women killed. His hard-won calm was gone: he was seething. Suddenly all he wanted was to be free. To call no man master. Not Gemellus. Not Memor, Crassus or any Parthian. He glanced at the nearest guards, wondering how fast they would react if attacked. He could choose his own fate.

  'You will return to Rome,' hissed Tarquinius. 'I have seen your destiny. It does not end here.'

  They locked eyes as a deafening roll of drums announced the end of the ritual.

  Stay strong. Like Fabiola. I will survive.

  'Look.' The Gaul gestured at the stage.

  The guards did not bother to untie the last prisoner. Instead they picked up the frame and placed it on the platform. A deep, almost primeval roar greeted the action.

  It was time for Crassus to pay.

  Sensing the end, he screamed and kicked his legs futilely. The ropes binding him were thick and strong and soon Crassus sagged against the rough timbers, his face grey with exhaustion and fear. During the struggle, his wreath had tipped sideways over one eye and the warriors pointed, smirking.

  Again the priest began to speak, a tirade of fury against the man who had invaded Parthia. As spittle flew from his lips, the spectators howled with anger and surged against the guards' crossed spears once more. Tarquinius considered translating the words, but the soldiers around him needed little explanation of what was going on. And only a handful looked sorry for Crassus.

  When the Parthian had finished his oration, he waited for silence to fall. Finally the mob fell back.

  The general looked up and focused on the mass of ragged prisoners. By their uniforms, he would know they could only be Roman soldiers.

  All that greeted him were insults.

  Crassus' head slumped as the certainty of his fate began to sink in. Even his own men would not save him.

  Anger still burned within Romulus. He could have happily killed Crassus in combat, but a public display like this went totally against his nature. It was as brutal as the worst depravities of the arena. He glanced at Brennus and could tell the Gaul felt the same way.

  As always, Tarquinius seemed completely calm.

  A smith leaned over the fire and dipped a ladle into the cauldron. Fat white globules of molten gold spilled from the lip as it emerged, narrowly missing his feet. With arms outstretched, he walked slowly towards the stage.

  The crowd shrieked with anticipation and Romulus looked away.

  Two guards bent Crassus' head backwards, forcing his chin up on to an angled wooden crossbar. Using loops of rope, it was bound to face the sky. The priest moved alongside and inserted a small metal vice between the prisoner's jaws. He cranked it open, baring teeth and tongue.

  Crassus screamed as he realised what was about to happen. He continued wailing as the smith ascended the steps, his burning load held at arm's length.

  The priest gestured impatiently.

  'Gold cools fast,' said Tarquinius.

  Crassus' eyes flicked from side to side as the heat approached and the frame jerked as he tried frantically to get away.

  The ladle rose high above his head and paused.