Chapter XXIV: Publius and Surena

It took nearly half the afternoon for every legion to reach the plain. The desert horsemen sat in the shimmering haze, waiting patiently. Drums and bells kept up a relentless din. The outlandish sound was mindful of wild animals' roars intermingled with the sound of thunder.

It was terrifying.

Having waited the longest, the mercenaries were worst affected by the melting temperatures. Few had any water left and again men began to collapse from dehydration and heat exhaustion. The stronger soldiers did what they could for their comrades before battle commenced. Bassius stalked up and down, cajoling and threatening by turn. His sheer drive helped rally spirits that had fallen to a new low.

With Crassus' army finally in place, a staccato series of notes sounded from the bucinae. The waiting was over.

'You heard!' screamed the centurions. 'Get into position!'

Following routines that had been practised many times, the legions fanned out across the plain in a massive four-sided formation. Simultaneously each cohort formed into another hollow square, three men deep, forty in length and breadth. A hundred paces separated each from its neighbours in front and behind. Crassus, his officers and two veteran cohorts took their position in the empty middle along with the baggage train while the Gaulish and Iberian cavalry moved to sit on the wings. It was a most unusual formation for the start of a battle.

'What is he doing?' Romulus frowned. It was clear what would happen as soon as the attack began.

'Crassus thinks we might be completely outflanked,' said Brennus. 'This prevents it.'

'But not much else,' added Romulus, imagining how the Parthians would respond.

'He is a fool!' Tarquinius peered round angrily. 'Those archers will simply ride between the cohorts and pick us off with ease.'

It was unsettling that they could all see what would happen but Crassus could not. Any respect for authority Romulus had left was disappearing fast.

The Parthian leader was still in no hurry to attack. He waited until the Roman army had stopped manoeuvring.

At an unseen signal, the drums began pounding a heavy, rhythmic beat, different from before. The bells also changed tempo, their volume making even speech impossible. The noise went on and on, intimidating with its sheer energy. Exhausted by sunstroke and the incredible temperature, the dazed soldiers could only stare at the enemy, unsure what to do.

Suddenly, the clamour stopped.

A large group of horsemen in the Parthian centre separated from the rest. Slowly they moved forward to within a few hundred paces of the Roman front ranks, halting in unison.

Romulus peered into the haze. 'Who are they?'

'The cataphracts.' There was respect in Tarquinius' voice. 'Their elite heavy cavalry.'

'Long spears like Greek hoplites carry would soon sort them out,' said Romulus fiercely. 'If we had any.'

'Or a defensive ditch,' added the Gaul.

Tarquinius nodded approvingly.

The weary Romans stared miserably at the enemy, unable to do more than bake in the intense heat. It was almost a relief when the instruments started up again. With a flourish, the Parthian riders whipped off their cloaks, revealing chain mail from neck to mid-thigh. In each soldier's right hand was a heavy lance. The horses were also covered in armour, creating an immense wall of metal. Sunlight bounced off thousands of iron rings, reflecting towards the Romans in waves of blinding light.

Crassus' soldiers found it impossible to look directly at the cataphracts and the dazzling light wasn't the only reason. Fear was creeping into men's hearts.

'Amazing.' Tarquinius pointed excitedly. 'The andabatae in the arena were a mockery of the real thing.'

Romulus had only heard of the mounted gladiators who wore helmets with no eyeholes.

'Roman savages,' said the Gaul. 'Sending blind men into the arena to fight.'

'These riders are a different proposition,' pronounced the Etruscan.

Romulus was amazed by the mail rippling down the horses' flanks. He had never seen anything like it.

The cataphracts waited, maximising their terrifying effect. The drums kept up their dreadful din, deepening the sense of impending doom. Mercenaries and legionaries shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The unease in Crassus' army was becoming palpable, spreading to every man. Normally it was the Romans who scared their enemies by standing in silence before battle.

'Might have a decent fight today.' Brennus hefted his spear impatiently, eager to end their wait. 'Those bastards actually look dangerous.'

Tarquinius smiled humourlessly.

Wishing the battle would just start, Romulus checked his sword was loose in its scabbard, his pilum head securely attached to the shaft. Stay calm, he thought.

For what seemed an eternity, the two armies faced each other, soaking up the intense heat. The tension was unbearable.

And then the noise stopped. Immediately the horse archers moved forward while the heavy cavalry remained where they were.

'Prepare for an enemy charge,' ordered Bassius. 'Close order!'

The mercenaries had been well trained. Quickly the men readied their pila and spears and moved closer, standing shoulder to shoulder. Like tiny cogs in a big machine, thousands of soldiers across the battlefield did the same. Their shields overlapping, the formations presented the Parthians with dozens of armoured squares.

The enemy urged their mounts to a trot, followed by a gallop. The earth shook with the thunder of hooves and Romulus felt his stomach clench. The previous day's attacks would be as nothing compared to this.

Just as Tarquinius had predicted, the horsemen split smoothly into columns, aiming at gaps between the cohorts. Fear grew palpable in the ranks, men sweated heavily and hands grew clammy on javelin shafts. Behind him Romulus heard a man vomiting. He ignored the sound, lifting his scutum higher, squinting at the approaching riders.

Battle was about to commence.

The Parthians rode closer and closer. Soon they could see horses' nostrils flaring, the archers' faces tense as they drew back bowstrings.

Romulus' remaining pilum felt burning hot.

'Ready javelins!' There was no trace of fear in Bassius' voice. 'Wait till my command!'

Every man's right arm went back, ready for the order to release.

Before it could come, the Parthians fired a volley. It was from much closer range than the day before. Until that moment, the mercenaries had no idea just how powerful the enemy's composite bows were. Waves of arrows swept through the air, punching through Roman scuta like paper. The front rank dissolved, cut down to a man.

Miraculously, Bassius alone remained standing, shield peppered with arrows. 'Aim short! Loose!' he screamed.

With a heave, Romulus and the men of the second two ranks swung forward, launching their pila in low curving arcs. They fell in a flurry of wood and metal, finding targets at last. From such a short distance, Roman javelins were also lethal. Horses fell screaming to the sand, throwing their riders. Dozens of warriors were hit, but the force of the charge was such that they were carried past to safety.

Another brutal volley scythed into the side of the cohort before Bassius had time to respond. And then the Parthians were gone, galloping off to attack another square. The noise of hooves died away, to be replaced by screams.

At least eighty men lay strewn across the hot sand.

Romulus gaped at the sight. Scores of soldiers had been killed outright by arrows which had passed through shield and chain mail, ripping into soft flesh beneath. Scuta lay pinned to prone bodies all around and a dense network of wooden shafts peppered the ground. So many had been injured that Romulus looked himself over in disbelief. He had not suffered so much as a scratch. Neither had his friends.

'They can do that all day,' Tarquinius said calmly.

His face grim, Brennus muttered and cursed.

Through clouds of dust, other cohorts were now being subjected to the same attacks as the archers swept around the Roman formations. For the moment, Bassius' depleted unit was an island of calm in the midst of chaos.

'Romulus! Get over here.'

Bassius was waving to him, his face knotted in pain. An arrow-riddled scutum hung from his left arm.

'What can I do, sir?'

'Cut out this damn thing!' The senior centurion swung out his wounded arm. A barbed head was protruding just below the elbow.

Romulus winced.

'Came clean through the shield.' Bassius shook his head. 'Thirty years of war, and I have never seen a bow as powerful.'

Romulus took the arrow in both hands and snapped it in two near the point. Bassius grunted in pain as the young soldier pulled the shaft backwards. The scutum fell from his grip and a fresh run of blood came from the two small wounds. Using a piece of cloth ripped from his tunic, Romulus bound the area tightly.

'Good lad,' said Bassius, picking up the shield again.

'You can't fight like that, sir.'

The centurion ignored him, moving back into position. 'Form square! There'll be another attack very soon.'

Romulus rejoined the ranks, wishing Bassius was in charge of more than a cohort. Officers like him were worth far more than Crassus.

A momentary calm fell on the battlefield as the Parthian archers withdrew, leaving mayhem behind.

'They've only gone to replenish their arrows.' Tarquinius watched the flocks of vultures gathering above. 'Crassus must seize this chance. The whole army should be in a continuous line, eight or ten ranks deep.' He indicated the battered units. 'Not like this. It's a massacre, not a battle.'

'How many casualties?' Crassus punched a fist into his palm. Unsettled, his horse skittered sideways, ears flattening.

'Still being counted, sir.' The junior tribune spoke with trepidation. 'But at least a tenth of every cohort.'

'A tenth of my army dead or wounded?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How many Parthians have been killed?'

'Not sure, sir.' The young officer was pale with fear. 'A few hundred, perhaps.'

'Get out of my sight,' Crassus spluttered. 'Before I have you executed!'

'It's hardly his fault, sir,' said Longinus, who had disobeyed orders yet again to come and remonstrate.

Hands twitching on his reins, Crassus glared at the legate. Nothing was being said about their argument before the battle started. Even he had realised what was more important now.

'What are your orders? The Parthians will attack again soon.'

'Send word to Publius,' cried Crassus abruptly, a wild look in his eyes. 'He must advance on the Parthian right with his cavalry and four cohorts of mercenaries. Create a diversion.'

Longinus paused. It was not what he would do.

'Is that clear?' The general's voice was suddenly calm. Too calm. Crassus glanced at the officer in charge of his guards.

The centurion laid a hand on his gladius.

Longinus saw the gesture and knew instantly what it meant. Any man who questioned Crassus' orders would now be killed. The legate saluted stiffly and paced over to the nearby scouts.

'When Publius has driven them back, we will charge the enemy's centre,' yelled Crassus after him.

Longinus did not reply. He was wondering what difference the ridiculous tactic would make. How could an army of infantry led by an arrogant madman beat a mobile enemy with no interest in fixed battle?

Romulus' cohort heard Crassus' orders when the messenger arrived moments later. Bucinae repeated the commands, common practice in battle to ensure they were passed on accurately. At once the Gaulish cavalry fanned out in front of Bassius' mercenaries, while the nearest cohort of Cappadocians moved to stand on their right. Two more came in to the rear, forming an arrow shape of cavalry, reinforced by a large square of foot soldiers behind.

Bassius grinned at his men. 'All right! This is a chance to show the whole army what we are capable of. Leave the yokes!'

'Take only water flasks,' said Tarquinius, stuffing something inside his tunic. 'We will not return to this position.'

His two friends quickly discarded all their equipment.

They did not have long to wait. Even Crassus knew that the time before another devastating Parthian attack was diminishing. The exhausted men could not withstand many like it.

Cavalry trumpets blared a staccato series of notes.

Publius assumed his position at the front of his cavalry. The noble 's short figure and brown hair were unremarkable, but his determined face and strong jaw drew attention. 'Advance!' he cried, pointing straight at the Parthians. 'For Rome and for Gaul!'

Urging their mounts forward, the tribesmen cheered loudly, kicking up sand and stones. Bassius and other centurions shouted at the mercenaries to follow.

'Let's show those bastards the sharp edge of our swords!'

There was a muted roar as tired bodies pushed into a trot behind the tough old officer. Despite his wound, Bassius seemed indestructible and his appetite for battle inspired everyone to follow.

'Ready pila!'

They ran with their arms cocked, heads bowed to avoid the clouds of dust from the horses' hooves. Romulus glanced at his friends from time to time. Having used both javelins in the first attack, Tarquinius slung his shield on his back, holding the double-headed axe firmly in both hands. Incredibly, he was smiling. Brennus' face was calm, his gaze focused.

Romulus' spirits rose and he laughed with the madness of it. The arena had been replaced by something even deadlier, but it no longer mattered. By his side were the two mentors who had become his family. Men he would die for and who would die for him. It was a good feeling. Romulus readied the pilum he had picked off the ground, ready to accept the gods' will.

With enormous effort, the cohort managed to keep up with the trotting horses. Marching on burning sand had been hard enough without having to run. Hot air scorched the soldiers' throats with every breath.

'Not much further,' panted Romulus when they had gone about five hundred paces.

The enemy's right flank was coming within the range of the Gauls' spears.

Tarquinius slowed down, his eyes narrowing.

Suddenly Publius ordered a full charge, and the infantry found themselves being left behind.

'Double time!' Bassius threw his arm forward. 'Let's take these fuckers!'

The men responded with superhuman effort to keep up. But instead of standing to meet the cavalry, the Parthians turned and fled.

Publius was taken in. 'Charge! Charge!' he screamed in exultation and his men pushed their mounts harder.

Three of the mercenary cohorts fell even further behind, but Bassius' did not. His soldiers kept pace with the old centurion, now running as if Cerberus himself was after him.

In apparent disarray, the entire Parthian right flank fell back, drawing on the Roman attack. Convinced he had scared them into retreating, Publius heedlessly led the Gauls onward.

He did not see the Parthian commander's gesture.

Almost as one, hundreds of archers turned, drawing their lethal bows to full stretch. With a guttural cry, the officer swept down his arm. Arrows shot forward in a dark swarm, hissing through the air to land with soft thumping sounds. Dozens of Gauls were knocked to the ground. Without pausing for breath, the Parthians loosed for a second time. Feathering man and mount without distinction, the torrent of missiles brought the charge to a juddering halt.

Bassius' men reached the mounds of bodies within moments. It was a horrific sight: the sand covered with dead and injured riders, horses rearing in agony with wooden shafts protruding from chests, rumps, eyes. Many stampeded into the distance, trampling everything underfoot. The deadly rain was still falling, slaughtering the Gauls. Survivors milled about, horseless and bewildered.

Desperately trying to rally his cavalry, Publius was wheeling in circles at the front. Quite abruptly he released the reins and toppled slowly from the saddle, clutching his throat. An arrow had taken him through the neck.

A huge cry of dismay went up from the remaining Gauls.

The situation was hopeless. Brennus realised it at once and looked to the rear, seeking a way out. But it was too late. Hundreds of Parthians were already sweeping round to envelop Bassius' mercenaries and the remnants of Publius' horsemen.

The old centurion had also seen their escape route disappear. 'Form testudo!' he cried.

Discipline still holding, the mercenaries clumped together. Shields clattered off each other, the metal bosses glinting as an armoured square took shape. Men along the sides formed a wall of scuta while those in the middle crouched low, covering their heads completely. The testudo was not an attacking formation, but an extremely effective defensive one — against everything except Parthian arrows.

They watched from behind their shields while the Gauls were cut to pieces. Unable to retreat and unwilling to advance, Publius' cavalry was annihilated before their eyes.

As the last tribesmen fell, warriors began to close in on the testudo. Romulus saw a Parthian jump down beside the body of Crassus' son, knife in hand. There was a huge cheer a few moments later as he stood, Publius' bloody head dangling from his fist. A second warrior rode over and fixed the gory trophy to the tip of his spear.

Fear mushroomed, infecting all. Gazing fixedly at Publius' head, a handful of soldiers broke away from the testudo's protection. They were instantly cut down, striking terror into the rest.

The square wobbled and began to fall apart.

'Close up!' screamed Bassius, but his orders were to no avail. More mercenaries broke free, dropping their heavy shields.

'Publius is dead!' they shouted.

The cohorts behind were still advancing, had not even reached the Parthians. Suddenly the air was filled with cries of panic. Dozens of soldiers appeared through the dust, fleeing in blind panic towards them.

The Cappadocians did what most would do. They turned and ran.

The advance became a retreat as four cohorts bolted heedlessly towards the Roman lines. Straight into another screen of waiting Parthians.

All had fled save the twenty men around Bassius.

'Form testudo!' There was a note of pride in the senior centurion's voice.

Romulus, Brennus, Tarquinius and the remaining mercenaries moved closer to make a small square.

'Roman soldiers do not run!' Bassius yelled. 'Especially when the whole army is watching!' He pointed at the enemy. 'We will stand and fight!'

Through clouds of sand and grit, Romulus saw Parthians riding rings round the fleeing mercenaries. Arrows scythed through the air, cutting them down. Curved swords flashed in the sunlight, opening gaping wounds in men's backs. Hooves trampled the fallen into the sand, face down. Few of the terrified soldiers even lifted their weapons to retaliate.

The group watched helplessly as what had been a rout now became a slaughter. It was over very quickly. Except for those huddled with Bassius, Publius' cavalry and the four cohorts had been completely destroyed in a stunning example of battle tactics.

The sun beat down, unrelenting. Not a cloud was visible. The air was windless. Oppressive. Dead.

Under the raised scuta, the temperature was climbing fast. It would soon be unbearable. But Parthian arrows awaited any who stood up.

'Anyone got water?' asked Felix hopefully. The little Gaul who shared the friends' tent was one of the few to stand fast.

Romulus handed over his water bag, still a quarter full.

Felix took a mouthful and passed it back. 'That won't last much longer.'

'Doesn't need to,' muttered one of the others. 'Elysium is waiting for us.'

'We'll take plenty of them too,' said Felix grimly.

'That's the spirit,' bellowed Bassius.

Hearing this, the mercenaries roared at the tops of their voices. They would die bravely. Like warriors. Like Romans.

Horrifying screams echoed all around them as wounded men thrashed about. Blood saturated the yellow sand, turning it a deep red. Innumerable corpses lay scattered like broken dolls.

Crouching behind shields they now knew to be useless, the survivors waited for the inevitable attack. As the dust began to settle, hundreds of Parthians rode in from all sides. They were boxed in completely.

But no arrows were launched as a lone rider in fine robes rode towards the testudo, his horse picking its way delicately between the bodies. The Parthian officer reined in at a safe distance and watched them, his eyes inscrutable.

'Bastards!' cried Bassius. 'Come and get us!'

As Romulus and his comrades screamed their rage and defiance, he and Brennus exchanged a meaningful look. When the Parthian gave the order, death would take all of them. It would be no glorious end — just a volley from the lethal composite bows. There would still be no surrender.

Farewell, Mother. The gods be with you, Fabiola.

A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. And here at least I can die without having to run from my loved ones.

The dark-skinned man stared long and hard. Outnumbered and surrounded by mounds of their own dead, his enemies still had not laid down their weapons. Speaking in an unfamiliar tongue, he pointed back towards Crassus' army.

'What is he saying?'

'Probably telling us to run. Son of a whore,' said Felix, curling his lip. 'So they can kill us too.'

The Parthian gestured again at the Roman lines.

Tarquinius turned to Bassius. 'We can go, sir.'

The senior centurion regarded him blankly while the others gaped.

'You understand him?' hissed Romulus.

'Parthian is very similar to ancient Etruscan,' he muttered.

'The bastards could have killed us five times over,' admitted Bassius.

Tarquinius called out in the same language and the officer listened carefully before replying.

With raised eyebrows, Bassius waited until the brief conversation had finished. 'What was that about, Optio?'

'I asked him who he was, sir.'

'And?'

'He is Surena, the leader of the Parthian army.'

There was a collective sharp intake of breath.

Tarquinius raised his voice. 'Surena said we are all brave men, who do not deserve to die today. He is giving us safe passage.'

Heads lifted at the prospect of survival and Brennus let out a great sigh. His journey was not over.

'Can we trust him?' asked Felix.

'We haven't a chance in Hades waiting here,' said Bassius grimly. 'Break testudo! Form up in two files!'

The soldiers lowered their shields with trepidation, fully expecting a volley of arrows to be loosed.

Nothing happened.

Impassive bearded faces surrounded the twenty survivors of three thousand. Silently the riders nearest the Roman legions pulled apart, opening an avenue wide enough for men to pass through two abreast.

It seemed too good to be true.

'Follow me, boys! Nice and slowly,' announced the centurion calmly. 'We can't let the bastards think we 're scared.' Bassius moved off between the ranks of archers, his head held high. Despite his wound and the crushing defeat, the veteran's spirit burned undimmed, and his men followed gladly. Romulus could have sworn some of the warriors inclined their heads with respect as the ragged mercenaries passed, their scuta and javelins held in the marching position.

They had to tramp over the fallen to get by and every soldier following Bassius knew what their fate would be. But with Parthian horsemen watching from a few feet away, there was nothing they could do.

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 Cohort.'

'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.

Tarquinius was not merely a soothsayer.

But for the most part the Parthian attack had been successful. As the cataphracts smashed through the rear ranks, a great hole was left gaping in the Sixth Legion. Hundreds of casualties sprawled on the bloody sand, howling in agony. Lances and bent pila jutted from the dead of both sides. In the section where Romulus and his friends were positioned, all the regular centurions had been killed, leaving the soldiers leaderless and confused.

The sheer power of the charge had destroyed more than the Roman line. It was the final straw for legionaries whose confidence had been steadily eroded all day. Many were veterans who had fought against every enemy the Republic could find and tasted victory in many countries. But Crassus had presented them with a foe they could not fight on equal terms: horse archers who killed from a distance; heavy cavalry which trampled with impunity.

The cataphracts turned on the open ground behind the army. Cries of terror greeted them as they pounded the sand back towards the Romans. Driving through another part of the Sixth, the mailed riders hacked scores more infantry to pieces with their longswords, then disappeared into the clouds of dust.

Everyone knew they would be back.

Another assault by the archers followed. Shortly after that, the cataphracts hit the Tenth Legion alongside the Sixth. The charge had the same devastating effect. When it was over, the survivors stood reeling with shock, their heads turning involuntarily, hopefully, hopelessly to the rear.

It was only a matter of time before Crassus' army broke and ran.

Загрузка...