Chapter XXVI: Retreat

Parthia, summer 53 BC

Late in the afternoon, Crassus called together his seven legates. For reasons best known to Surena, the Parthians had not attacked for a while. Perhaps he was allowing his men a well-earned rest. The Roman general still possessed enough reason to utilise the breathing space this granted. Crassus' lack of cavalry was rendering the invincible legions helpless. Something had to be done. Fast.

Desperate for ideas, Crassus' bloodshot eyes moved around searchingly. Six of the red-cloaked officers avoided his gaze, staring down at the hot sand. Only Longinus had the courage to return it.

'What shall we do?' Crassus' voice cracked with emotion. 'If we stay they will butcher us.'

'Another charge and the men will crack, sir,' said Longinus immediately. 'Only one thing to do. Retreat.'

There were reluctant nods all round. The situation was dire. Roman armies rarely fled the field, but in this burning desert hell, the rulebook had been rewritten.

'With the baggage train gone, there is no more water. We must fall back to Carrhae.' Longinus spoke with utter conviction.

The others muttered in agreement. Carrhae had deep wells and thick earth walls. It would provide some respite from the lethal Parthian arrows.

'And after that?'

It seemed the death of Publius had rendered the general unable to make any decisions.

'Head north. The broken ground in the mountains will help us. With luck, we may find Artavasdes.'

Crassus' eyes closed. His campaign was in ruins, the plans of equalling Caesar and Pompey dust. 'Sound the retreat,' he whispered.

'The wounded, sir?'

'Leave them.'

'Are you sure, sir?' asked Comitianus, commander of the Sixth. 'I have over five hundred casualties.'

'Do what I say!' screamed Crassus.

'He's right. For once. They would slow us down too much,' said Longinus harshly. 'We have no choice.'

They did not argue further and the grizzled legate barked an order at the nearest soldiers.

Moments later, trumpets sounded the ominous notes that no legionary ever liked to hear. The injured stirred frantically, knowing what was about to happen. Five of Bassius' mercenaries could no longer walk and had been placed at the rear. As the retreat died away, the senior centurion moved to stand by the wounded.

'You have fought bravely today, boys.' Bassius flashed a rare smile. 'Not many options left, though. We have to leave right now and none of you can march. So you can take your chances here,' he paused, 'or choose a swift death.'

The words hung in the hot air.

Unwilling to meet their comrades' eyes, the rest of the men looked at the ground. It was a brutal decision, but the Parthians would be less merciful.

'I'm not ready for Hades yet, sir,' said one, a dark-skinned Egyptian. A bloody bandage was wrapped roughly around his left thigh. 'I'll take a few with me.'

A second soldier also chose to stay, but the remaining three were very badly hurt. Too weak to retreat or fight, they had no choice but the last. Muttering briefly with each other, they pulled themselves upright.

'Make it quick, sir,' one said.

Bassius nodded without replying.

A lump formed in Romulus' throat. He had dispatched opponents in the arena but they had rarely been people he 'd known, trained or fought with. This trio of men had been with them since boarding the Achilles, a lifetime ago. After nearly two years of campaigning, Romulus knew the wounded well enough to really grieve their passing.

The centurion firmly gripped each man's hand once. As he moved to stand behind, all three bowed their heads, exposing their necks. They were receiving a soldier's death, an honourable way to die.

Bassius' gladius hissed from the scabbard. He raised it high, holding the hilt in both hands, the razor-sharp tip pointing towards the ground. With a swift motion the centurion stabbed down and cut the spinal cord. Death was instant: the first body crumpled without a murmur. Silently Bassius moved on to the second and third. The mercy killings did not take long; clearly the veteran had performed this grisly task before.

All over the Roman lines, the same act was being repeated by any officers of conscience. But the Parthians had no intention of letting their enemies retreat in good order and another attack began before everyone could be dealt with.

Quickly Bassius organised his new command of exhausted men into a square. With Sido and five other centurions killed, the veteran had assumed control of the regular cohort as well. None of the dazed junior officers questioned the unusual move. Bassius nodded farewell to the Egyptian and his companion. The pair were sitting back to back, swords at the ready.

Eyes full of tears, Romulus could not look back.

'They are brave men.' There was real respect in Tarquinius' face. 'And this is how they have decided to die.'

'Doesn't make it any easier to leave them,' he retorted.

'Stay if you wish,' said the Etruscan. 'That is your choice. Perhaps this is why I could not be sure about all three of us surviving?' His dark eyes were unreadable.

'Now is not the time for you to die,' added Brennus confidently. 'What purpose would it serve?'

Romulus considered the idea, but it seemed pointless. The wounded had freely chosen how they would end their lives and dying with them would prove nothing. There were still many things he wanted to achieve. With a heavy heart, he marched away.

Bassius' incredible willpower held his mixed group together as they left the battlefield behind. To the soldiers' relief, Parthian horsemen did not pursue them for long. Romulus eventually glanced round to see groups of warriors riding in circles, whooping with glee. One waved a familiar shape in the air. It was the ultimate disgrace — a legion's silver eagle, fallen into enemy hands. At the sight, his spirits fell even further.

Beneath the horses' hooves, the huge plain was covered with dead and injured as far as one could see. It was a charnel house. Flies swarmed on to dry staring eyes, gaping mouths, bleeding sword cuts. Nearly fifteen thousand Roman soldiers would never return to Italy. Above them, clouds of vultures now hung on the thermals. The air was filled with the smell of manure, blood and sweat. It had been a bad day for the Republic.

'Lots of men are still alive.'

'We can't help them now,' said Brennus sadly.

'Olenus saw this seventeen years ago,' uttered Tarquinius with some satisfaction. 'He would have liked to see the Romans come to this.'

Romulus was shocked. 'Those are our comrades!'

'What do I care?' the Etruscan replied. 'Rome butchered my people and devastated our cities.'

'But not those men! They did not!'

To his surprise, Tarquinius was nonplussed. 'Wise words,' he admitted. 'May their suffering be short.'

Placated by the compromise from someone who hated all that the Republic stood for, Romulus could still not block out the screams. And there was only one person responsible for it all, he thought angrily.

Crassus.

'Your teacher predicted this battle?' Brennus was amazed.

'And he saw us on a long march to the east,' revealed the Etruscan. 'I had begun to doubt his prediction, but now. '

Their eyes widened.

'The gods work in strange ways,' Brennus muttered.

Romulus sighed. There would be no easy return to Rome.

'It is not completely certain.' A faraway look appeared in Tarquinius' eyes, one that Romulus and the Gaul had come to know well. 'The army may yet return to the Euphrates. Much still depends on Crassus.'

'Gods above! Why go that way?' Romulus gestured truculently into the desert. 'Safety. Italy. Everything lies to our west.'

'We would see temples built by Alexander.' For a moment, Tarquinius seemed unaware of their presence. 'And the great city of Barbaricum on the Indian Ocean.'

'Beyond where any Allobroge has ever gone,' whispered Brennus. 'Or will ever go.'

'No one can avoid destiny, Brennus,' said Tarquinius suddenly.

The Gaul went pale beneath his tan.

'Brennus?' Romulus had never seen his friend like this.

'The druid told me that the day I left the village,' he whispered.

'Druids. Haruspices,' announced Tarquinius, clapping the Gaul on the back. 'We are one and the same thing.'

Brennus nodded, full of awe.

He missed the sadness that flitted across Tarquinius' face.

He knows what will happen, thought Romulus. But this was not the time for long conversations. It was time to retreat, or die.

The sun was low in the sky, but hours remained before darkness would offer the exhausted Romans any protection. Slowly the legions limped away from the devastation, harassed by occasional arrows from zealous Parthians. Most warriors remained behind, killing the Roman wounded and looting the dead.

It was a bitter irony. Untold numbers were still dying on the battlefield, giving their comrades the opportunity to escape.

The defeated army straggled north to the walls of Carrhae; at every pace, injured soldiers fell by the wayside. Few had any strength left to help those who collapsed. Anyone not strong enough to march simply perished. Holding his cohort together with roars and screams, Bassius even used the flat of his sword to keep the exhausted men moving. Romulus' respect for him grew even further.

Carrhae was a desert town that existed purely because of its deep subterranean wells. Knowing the settlement would prove useful when the invasion began, Crassus had sent in an occupying force the year before. Its small encampment outside the thick earthen walls was ignored as the thousands of defeated Roman troops reached Carrhae. Men poured through the gates in a great tide, seizing houses and food from the unfortunate residents. The brutal thrusts of gladii instantly ended any resistance.

The majority had to camp outside. A few centurions tried to insist that the temporary ditches and ramparts that traditionally followed a day's march were built. They failed. The soldiers had been through too much to spend three hours digging hot sand. It was all the officers could do to get sentries positioned a few hundred paces into the desert.

The sun had set and with it temperatures dropped sharply, a stiff breeze adding to the chill. Outside the town, those not fortunate enough to have found cover spent the night huddled together in the open. All the tents had been lost with the baggage train. Now the injured began to die of cold, dehydration and fatigue. There was nothing anyone could do.

Romulus and his friends commandeered a miserable mud-walled hut, turning the residents on to the street rather than killing them. Soon they lay sleeping like dead men. Not even the danger of a Parthian attack was enough to keep them awake.

Elsewhere in the town, the largest building had belonged to the local chieftain before Roman occupation and was now the quarters for the garrison commander. Crassus gathered the legates there for a council of war.

The bare walls, dirt floor and rough wooden furniture revealed that Carrhae was far from wealthy. Rush torches guttered from brackets, casting flickering shadows on the weary figures. The six bloodstained officers sat with blank faces, some with head in hands, beakers of water and hard bread untouched before them. It was a far cry from Crassus' luxurious command tent, long since disappeared with the mules.

Nobody knew what to say or do. The legates were stunned. Defeat was not something that Roman soldiers were used to. Instead of achieving a crushing victory and the sacking of Seleucia, they had succumbed to Parthian wrath. They were stranded deep in enemy territory, their army in tatters.

Crassus sat quietly on a low stool, taking no part in what little conversation was going on. Simply calling the officers together seemed to have taken up the last of his energy. Beside him sat the garrison commander, overawed by the presence of so many senior figures. Prefect Gaius Quintus Coponius had not seen the extent of the slaughter, but the fleeing Iberian cavalry had brought him the shocking news on their way back to the Euphrates. Later he had witnessed the beaten legionaries staggering into the town. It was not a sight he would forget.

Longinus strode into the room, energy radiating from him.

Few looked up.

The tough soldier came to a halt in front of Crassus and saluted crisply. 'I have done the rounds. The Eighth has lost about a third of its number. Now that they've had water and some rest, my men are in reasonable shape.'

Crassus sat quite still, his eyes closed.

'Sir?'

Still silence.

'What have you decided?' demanded Longinus.

Comitianus cleared his throat. 'We have not come to an agreement yet.' He would not meet the other's eyes. 'What do you say?'

'There is only one real option.' Longinus let the words sink in. 'Retreat to the river immediately. We can reach it before dawn.'

'My soldiers cannot march tonight,' replied one legate.

There were murmurs of agreement.

Unsurprised, Longinus glanced at Comitianus.

'What about Armenia?' the commander of the Sixth ventured.

'The legate is right, sir.' Coponius' tone wavered. 'Retreating to the mountains makes a lot of sense. There are plenty of streams and the broken ground would make it awkward for the Parthians' horses.'

'The mountains?' Crassus gazed round the room longingly. 'Where is Publius?'

There was no answer.

'Gone, sir,' said Longinus at last. 'To Elysium.'

'Dead?'

Longinus nodded.

A sob escaped Crassus' lips and he bent his neck, ignoring those around him.

The spirited officer had seen enough. 'With your permission, sir,' he said, 'I would like to lead the army to safety. Tonight.'

Crassus rocked on his stool and stared at the floor.

Longinus raised his voice. 'We should retreat under the cover of darkness.'

There was no response. Crassus, the liberator of Rome, was nothing but a shell.

Longinus turned to face the others. 'Stay with him,' he said dismissively, 'or follow me. The Eighth is marching to the Euphrates in an hour.'

Nervous muttering filled the room. He waited, fingers impatiently tapping his sword hilt.

'There is a local who has aided us on many occasions, sir,' began the prefect, eager to please.

Longinus raised an eyebrow.

'Andromachus has proved reliable since we first took Carrhae. Many Parthian attacks have been foiled because of his information.'

'Let me guess.' Longinus' voice dripped with sarcasm. 'This Andromachus can guide us to safety.'

'So he says, sir.'

'Where have I heard that before?'

Coponius was not to be deterred. 'Apparently the mountains are only five to six hours' march, sir.'

'Are they, by Jupiter?' said Longinus acidly.

But the legates began whispering with excitement.

Even Crassus lifted his head.

'I know the way to the river!' Longinus bunched a fist. 'These savages are all treacherous sons of whores. We can trust none of them. Remember Ariamnes?'

There was an ominous silence.

'Publius,' Crassus broke in. 'Where is Publius?'

The officers were paralysed with indecision.

At length Comitianus plucked up the courage to speak. 'Armenia seems a better option,' he said uncertainly. 'That road to the river is totally flat.'

'It's at least a day's march to the mountains by my reckoning. We can make the Euphrates overnight,' urged Longinus. 'Who is with me?'

Nobody met his eye.

The veteran was no longer prepared to tolerate their spineless attitude. 'Fools! You will be massacred.' He stalked out, red cloak flowing in the faint breeze.

There was a brief, uneasy pause before the group began asking Coponius eagerly about possible salvation. The brave legate was forgotten. It was the only way the rest could reconcile themselves to staying with Crassus.

The commander of the Eighth was as good as his word. Within the hour, Longinus' legion had gone, marching into the desert in virtual silence. Only the occasional clash of spear against shield betrayed its departure. Few of the exhausted survivors bothered to watch.

Romulus heard the tramp of feet, jingling mail and muted coughs and got up straight away. Brennus was snoring peacefully, but the Etruscan's eyes were open. Together they walked to the main gate.

'The Eighth is leaving,' said Romulus. 'Should we go too?'

The Etruscan's face was enigmatic in the moonlight. 'The penalty for deserting is crucifixion. We should stay.'

Romulus frowned. It wasn't likely the tired sentries would even notice if three more men fled the town. Discipline was at an all-time low.

'What about the stars?'

'They're not telling me much.'

Romulus shrugged, content to trust his friend. Brennus seemed set on following Tarquinius to the ends of the world if necessary. The big man was like a father to him and that was enough reason to stay.

The pair returned to the hut, where they found Brennus awake.

'What's happening?'

'The Eighth is heading for Zeugma.'

'Be easy to slip over the wall. No one would see.'

'No,' said Tarquinius firmly. 'It is less than a day's march to the Euphrates and safety. The men can manage that after a good rest.'

'It seems cowardly fleeing at night.' Brennus lay back on the dirt floor, closing his eyes. 'I need a good sleep anyway.'

Romulus pictured the lines of legionaries marching into the darkness. The Eighth had still looked proud, disciplined. Not like the rabble in and around Carrhae. His stomach turned over. Surely it was wiser to retreat when the Parthians could not use their deadly bows? What advantage was there in waiting until the morning? It didn't seem to make sense, but the Etruscan knew best. Wearier than he could ever remember, Romulus closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly.

The haruspex did not speak again before dawn. He sat by the open door, brooding and studying the night sky. Tarquinius did not like misleading his friends, but there was no other way. Olenus had been right all those years before.

By mid-morning, everyone knew that they should have followed Longinus to the Euphrates. Instead of marching west, the legates had elected to follow Coponius' guide north towards Armenia. Crassus had not given a single command since the previous night and rode his horse in a silent daze. After four hours in the cauldron of fire, the men had reached the limits of endurance. There had been no sign of the Parthians, nor of the promised mountains. Worst of all, no rivers or oases. Most soldiers had emptied their water containers within a few miles and thirst once again had become the enemy.

Sensing the soldiers' need for a rest, the legates finally ordered a halt. Men collapsed on to the ground, not caring that it was hot enough to burn. Fearing mutiny, the centurions did not attempt to move them for some time.

Eventually Bassius and the officers began to pace up and down, vine canes in hand. Armenia would get no nearer like this.

'Get up! Lazy bastards!' The words were the same, but since the superhuman effort of bringing the Second Cohort to safety, Bassius had lost his vigour. It seemed his last reserves had been spent, leaving only willpower to keep him going.

The legionaries groaned but did as he said. Bassius had earned their respect during the retreat and they were still willing to follow. Other centurions had more difficulty, but at last the battered army managed to get moving.

Its speed was now painfully slow and as the column ground on, ever more soldiers began to fall out of rank from sheer exhaustion. Some managed to struggle up, but the weaker ones remained sprawled on the baking sand. Cries for help filled the air, but few men had the strength to carry another. It was easier to look away. Tears again formed in Romulus' eyes when he recognised legionaries he had fought with during the campaign. Only Brennus' iron grip on his shoulder prevented him from trying to help many.

And so it went on. Half-dead figures littered the army's trail, left to cook in the sun. Clouds of vultures swiftly descended when it had passed. Loud, eager cries rose from the ugly birds as fights took place over the best pickings. Whether they waited until the prey was dead no one could tell.

At length the legions neared the base of an enormous dune that ran across their path, its sheer bulk halting their progress. Hundreds of feet of sand rose steeply into the air. The soldiers groaned aloud. It would be a long, hard slog.

'Climb!' The centurions roared, pointing upwards. 'Move!'

The front ranks shifted their yokes and began ascending. For the moment all they could do was obey. Maybe the promised mountains would be visible from the top.

Within fifty paces, Romulus saw a telltale cloud rising from behind the slope.

'Trouble.' Stomach churning, he nudged Brennus.

Suddenly everyone saw the dust. The army came to an abrupt standstill. Officers screamed in vain as the legionaries stared up with fascinated horror.

When Parthian archers emerged on top of the dune, a wordless moan escaped men's throats. They would be going no further. As the tired soldiers waited, awestruck, the entire ridge filled with the enemy.

'We 're finished,' swore Romulus. 'Can't fight them, can we? Might as well lie down and die now.'

A little shocked, Brennus regained his composure quickly. 'Can't be as bad as it looks,' he said.

Romulus spun to face Tarquinius, who regarded him steadily. The young soldier was furious. 'Did you know this would happen?' he snapped.

'No.' It was impossible to tell if the Etruscan was lying or not.

'Really? There are thousands of the bastards up there,' yelled Romulus. 'How could you miss seeing them?'

'The art of haruspicy is an uncertain one,' replied Tarquinius with a shrug. 'I've told you that before.'

Romulus' spirits plummeted. How could they live through another battle like the day before?

Then the Etruscan pointed.

A party of horsemen was making its way down the slope, hands held aloft to show they carried no weapons.

Romulus peered at the riders suspiciously. 'Are they offering parley?'

'Looks like it,' answered Brennus calmly.

'The breeze is more favourable now,' added Tarquinius. 'Although thousands more men will die today.'

'It's time to talk,' Romulus grumbled. 'We don't stand a chance otherwise.'

The friends held their breath as the Parthians came closer, the horses picking their way through the thick sand.

Crassus' position was obvious from the number of standards and red-cloaked officers, and the riders halted a hundred paces from it. They waited expectantly.

To Romulus' surprise, there was no response.

Men began to grow angry. The endless marching in blistering heat, exhaustion and the lack of water had been followed by the death of thousands at the hands of an unreachable enemy. Now, even when they were about to be slaughtered, it seemed that their leader would not talk to the Parthians. His arrogance had not completely evaporated.

With no cavalry remaining, Crassus had to rely on his bodyguards to carry orders. At last a pair of this elite came trotting along the column, sweating heavily in their gilded breastplates and leather skirts.

'Prepare for battle!' one wheezed every few steps. 'Back to the flat ground. Form a continuous line.'

'Piss off, son of a whore!'

'Who said that?' Both men skidded to a halt, hands on their swords.

'Go and fight those bastard Parthians yourself!'

There was an angry roar and more insults were thrown. So far, these hand-picked soldiers had seen no combat at all, which generated huge resentment among the rank and file.

'Where 's the ranking centurion?' The more senior bodyguard, an optio, tried to regain control.

Silently Bassius came forward, his phalerae prominent.

'Nobody disobeys a direct order from Marcus Licinius Crassus. Arrest those men!'

'You can call me sir. I didn't spend sixteen damn years in the legions for nothing!'

'Sir.'

'Go and do it yourself,' declared Bassius. 'You piece of shit.'

Huge cheers erupted from his men.

'Refusing to obey orders, Centurion?'

Bassius ignored him. 'Why has Crassus not sent a party to negotiate?'

More delighted shouts rose from the surrounding legionaries.

The two guards were blind to diplomacy.

'Crassus does not parley with desert savages.'

Bassius whipped out his gladius, placing its razor sharp tip under the optio's chin.

'Tell the general to go and talk with the Parthians. Himself.' He half turned. 'That right, boys?'

A swelling roar of approval moved down the line, the soldiers drumming their swords off scuta to show support. Those further away guessed what was going on and joined in. Romulus and Brennus did likewise. What was the point of dying in the Mesopotamian desert? They might as well retreat to Syria and survive.

A faint breeze had sprung up and Tarquinius saw that a number of small clouds had appeared in the sky. Engrossed with the standoff, no one else saw him frown. There were twelve.

The optio was a brave man. 'Crassus ignores demands from scum.'

'I've fought in more than ten wars, you miserable dog,' said Bassius, pressing harder with his gladius and breaking the skin. A drop of blood rolled down the iron.

He winced but did not back away.

'Crassus had best do what we say.' Bassius paused. 'Or he might end up like Publius.'

The optio glanced at his comrade.

Dozens of legionaries tensed and the second soldier carefully let go of his sword hilt. The men around them pounded harder on their shields. Crassus had promised them everything but delivered only hardship and death. Thousands of Parthians now waited to complete their annihilation. If the general would not parley, they would take matters into their own hands.

'You heard them.' The old centurion gestured at the column's centre. 'Now go and tell Crassus.'

Slowly the two guards moved away from the raised weapon and stalked back to Crassus' position. Bassius watched for a few moments before stepping into line.

'Jupiter!' Romulus let out a breath. 'Ever seen anything like that?'

Brennus shook his head. 'Shows just how bad it is, for a man like Bassius to mutiny.'

'Crassus decimated a unit that ran from Spartacus,' said Tarquinius. 'Interesting to see what he does about this.'

'He'll talk. If the fool doesn't,' replied Brennus calmly, 'the entire army will rise up.'

The Gaul was right. Crassus finally realised that his soldiers had suffered enough. The racket alone would have conveyed their depth of anger and it was not long before a party detached itself from the centre. Led by the swarthy Andromachus, Crassus and his legates rode across the sand towards the waiting Parthians, their heads bowed. Even the horsehair plumes on the officers' helmets were sagging. Not a sound broke the silence as the sun beat down on the dramatic scene. Motionless, the archers sat high above. Watching. Waiting. Ready to attack.

For some time the two groups talked, their words inaudible because of the distance. With Andromachus acting as interpreter, Crassus and his officers listened to Surena's terms.

Romulus clenched his jaw. 'Let's hope that the fool gets us a safe pass, or we will all be food for vultures.'

'They will be wanting guarantees that he won't invade again,' said Tarquinius.

'What kind?' asked Romulus.

Brennus spat on the hot sand. 'Prisoners.'

The young man's stomach lurched. Was this what Tarquinius had meant? Romulus had no time to dwell on the disconcerting thought.

Above them, a vicious melee suddenly broke out. Andromachus and the Parthians had produced concealed weapons and killed three legates. While the soldiers watched helplessly, Crassus was knocked from his horse with a blow to the head. Instantly two warriors jumped down and threw his senseless body on to a horse. Leaving their companions to finish off the remaining Romans, they galloped away up the dune.

The stunned legionaries watched as their sole chance of salvation disappeared. One senior officer had managed to pull his horse around and ride back, but the others lay lifeless on the sand.

The army had been left with only one legate.

'We are done for,' groaned a voice nearby.

Brennus drew his longsword, his face calm.

'Treacherous bastards,' said Romulus bitterly.

'They must have been planning it all along,' remarked Tarquinius. 'That I did not see.'

The horsemen above had already split into two files, each aiming at one side of the Roman column. Surena had prepared the final blow.

Romulus pulled his gladius free, regretting that he would never get revenge on Gemellus. They would be lucky to survive the next hour.

Then Tarquinius glanced at the sky and to his relief, spoke with absolute certainty. 'We three will not die today.' He lowered his voice. 'Many will. But not us.'

A great gust of relief escaped Romulus' lips.

Brennus grinned from ear to ear, his faith stronger than ever.

There was a collective moan when the soldiers realised that the previous day's slaughter was about to be repeated. What seemed like hope had only been deceit.

Centurions and junior officers seized the initiative, ordering retreat down the slope. With Crassus gone, there would be no clear orders from the trumpeters. Men shuffled desperately to the flat ground, peering over their shoulders. A ragged line, three ranks deep, assembled in close formation at the bottom of the dune. Shields were raised against the storm of deadly missiles that would soon be hissing down.

Crassus' once proud army huddled together, preparing to die under the burning Mesopotamian sun. Few legionaries had any will to fight remaining.

The one-sided battle did not last long. Countless Parthian arrows filled the air, punching through scuta, decimating those beneath. With no means of retaliation, all the soldiers could do was to be killed where they stood. Any who broke and ran were soon butchered. Soon Roman casualties sprawled on the hot sand in their hundreds.

By the time cataphracts were sent in for the first time, the end was nigh. The heavy cavalry pounded down the slope, ploughing into the Roman centre. Lances ripped into men's chests, horses trampled bodies into the ground, swords hacked deep into flesh. A massive gap remained where their unstoppable momentum had carried the Parthians through.

The legionaries could not take much more before they were utterly routed.

The one surviving legate ordered his legion's eagle dipped to show the desire to surrender. Romulus would never forget the symbol of Roman military might being lowered to the sand. Since he had first seen them in Brundisium, proudly borne aloft by the standard-bearers, the silver birds had stirred Romulus' blood. As a slave and then a gladiator, he had never encountered anything to really inspire him. His worship of Jupiter was like that of everyone else — hope and belief in the intangible. But the eagles were solid metal, and hard evidence of the Republic's military might: something for him to have faith in. After all, he was a Roman. His mother was Italian and so was the bastard who had raped her. Why should he not follow the eagle into battle as the regular legionaries did?

He saw many break down in tears at the shame of the defeat. Some officers attacked the Parthians blindly, preferring to die fighting than live with the ignominy, but most soldiers surrendered with relief. The desert warriors surrounded the beaten Romans, their sweating horses pressing in close. The survivors were herded together like sheep while dark brown eyes stared from behind fully drawn bows. None dared resist any longer. These were arrows that had defeated an army of thirty-five thousand men.

All unit standards, potent symbols of power, were seized and the Parthians forced everyone to throw down their swords. Those not swift enough to obey were killed on the spot. Brennus dropped his longsword with reluctance, but the Etruscan seemed less concerned about his battleaxe and Romulus soon knew why. Groups of archers dismounted and began to pick up the weapons, tying them together in bundles. Camels were being loaded with the gladii and remaining pila. The weapons were going with the captives, evidence that their fate had already been decided. Tarquinius expected to retrieve his axe later. It gave Romulus hope.

But nearly half the force involved in the final battle had been killed. The remainder — approximately ten thousand legionaries and mercenaries — were now prisoners. Defeated and dejected, the soldiers were left with nothing but their clothes and armour. Once disarmed, it was simple for the Parthians to tie ropes round each man's neck.

In long lines of human misery, they were marched south towards Seleucia. As he trudged away, Romulus did not look back at the carnage.

Behind him, hundreds of vultures were starting to land.

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