The Road To Rome

Chapter III: Pharnaces

Pontus, in northern Asia Minor, summer 47 BC Undoing his chinstrap with one hand, Romulus lifted his helmet and felt liner a fraction and wiped his brow clean of sweat. It made a difference, but for only a few heartbeats. He was marching while carrying a fascine, a heavy bundle of brushwood; following Caesar's orders, every soldier in the long column was bearing one, which meant that, despite the mountainous terrain and cool temperature, they were all sweating heavily. The army had been on the move since before dawn, and its temporary camp near the town of Zela was now several miles to the rear.

Romulus peered up at the sun, which occupied the blue sky alone. Not a single cloud was present to shade the earth below. It was early, but there was a fierce intensity to the disc's rays that he had not seen since Parthia. The day was going to get hotter, and with it came the distinct possibility of battle, and death. If only I'd had the strength to forgive Tarquinius before he disappeared, he thought. Now I might never get the chance to say it. Again the grief welled up, and Romulus let it fill him. Constantly trying to batten the feeling down only made it worse.

Every single excruciating moment of that last day and night in Alexandria felt like yesterday. Most vivid of all was Tarquinius' unexpected thunderbolt, the revelation that he had murdered the belligerent noble who had confronted Romulus and Brennus eight years before outside a brothel in Rome. The pair had only fled because they both thought that Romulus was responsible for the killing. Unintentionally, of course.

Tarquinius' guilt still stung Romulus, but he'd have given anything to see the blond-haired haruspex reappear, his double-headed axe slung over his shoulder. Instead, only the gods knew where he was. He could easily have been among the hundreds of legionaries and sailors who had died that night. Yet the three of them had almost made it, Romulus reflected sourly. If it hadn't been for those bastard slingers, Tarquinius would be here by his side.

He and Petronius had dragged the unconscious haruspex out of the shallows and laid him safely on dry ground. Then, screamed at by frantic optiones and centurions, they had joined the battle to defend the island. The ensuing battle was short, vicious and decisive. No infantry in the world could better the Roman legionary in a confined space such as the Heptastadion. The enemy troops had been hurled back on to the mainland, with heavy casualties. It was bittersweet knowledge for Romulus, who, bloodied and battered, had come to find Tarquinius in its aftermath.

Bizarrely, there had been no sign of the haruspex; only a reddened imprint in the sand remained where he had lain. A quick search of the area had revealed nothing either. Even with the glow from the lighthouse and the fire on the docks, there were plenty of places to hide among the boulders on the shore.

In some ways, Romulus had not been surprised by Tarquinius' disappearance. He still wasn't. He had had no further chance to search for his friend at the time. His only option would have been to desert, but, angered by the disappearance of one of his new recruits, Romulus' optio had placed a watch on him night and day. To make matters worse, the following afternoon Caesar's triremes had evacuated the entire army and sailed along the coastline to the east of Alexandria. Full of despair, Romulus was among their number. He'd tried to rally his spirits by imagining that Fabiola had heard his shout and would soon send word to him. It worked — partially.

Having learned a lesson in the Egyptian capital, Caesar had moved to meet his allies, who were led by Mithridates of Pergamum. Although he bore the same name as the king who had once tried Rome to its limits, Mithridates was no relation and was a trusted supporter of Caesar's. Comprised of Syrian and Judaean soldiers, his relief force had already encountered the main Egyptian army, which was commanded by the teenage King Ptolemy and his aides. After an initial setback, Mithridates had sent for help from Caesar, who was delighted to leave Alexandria's claustrophobic streets behind. His legionaries had all felt the same, with the obvious exception of Romulus. Not even a stunning victory against the Egyptians, when thousands of enemy troops died and the young king had drowned, could lift his mood.

With control of Egypt in his hands, Caesar returned to Alexandria, and Cleopatra, the king's sister. She had become his lover, so naturally, Caesar installed her as queen. Not that Romulus cared. Frantic, still heartbroken, he had resumed his search for Tarquinius. But weeks had gone by since the battle in the harbour, and whatever trail there might have been had long gone cold. In a city of more than a million people, what chance was there of finding one man? Borrowing whatever money he could from his new comrades, Romulus had spent it in the temples and marketplaces, hoping against hope he would discover something.

Not as much as a snippet.

Two months later, when the legions were leaving the city, Romulus had been in debt to the tune of a year's pay. I did my best, he thought wearily. There was no more I could have done.

Bucinae rang out, dragging Romulus back to the present. The call meant 'Enemy in sight'. At once the army ground to a halt. Thump, thump, thump went the fascines on the ground. Romulus looked to Petronius, who marched on the outside of the rank. After his heroism in saving the other's life, Romulus and Petronius had become firm friends. Petronius had even helped to look for Tarquinius, which Romulus was still grateful for. 'Can you see anything?' he asked.

Everyone was trying to see why they had stopped. There was a palpable hunger in most men's eyes. A battle would make a change from the boredom of the previous few months. Keen to establish his authority over all Rome's vassal territories, Caesar had first visited Judaea and Syria. Intimidated by his troops' mere presence, the local rulers had fallen over themselves to pledge their allegiance. With plentiful tributes collected, the legions' peaceful travels had continued with a voyage to Cilicia on the coast of Asia Minor.

Caesar had then headed for Bithynia and Pontus, where King Pharnaces was stirring up all kinds of trouble. A son of Mithridates, the Lion of Pontus and scourge of Rome twenty years before, Pharnaces was as warlike as his father. While Caesar and his men were trapped in Alexandria, he had raised an army and begun a brutal war against Calvinus, the Roman commander in the area. Inflicting heavy losses on Calvinus, Pharnaces' men had subsequently castrated all Roman civilians who fell into their hands.

Which was why Romulus and his comrades found themselves in a steep-sided valley in northern Pontus just after daybreak. Caesar did not take such affronts lightly, and after months without even a skirmish, his legionaries were feeling bored and restless. They were glad that Pharnaces' increasingly humble overtures of peace had been ignored. Now they were hunting down his army, intent on a confrontation. Caesar's plentiful Republican opponents in Africa and Hispania and political matters in Rome could wait until this matter was dealt with.

Hearing that the enemy was camped near Zela, Caesar led his legions north from the coast at a fierce pace, covering nearly two hundred miles in less than two weeks. It reminded Romulus of the last part of his fateful journey with Crassus' host. The obvious difference was that Caesar was a military genius, a title that his former ally certainly did not deserve. How could a disaster like Carrhae befall the general who foiled defeat and death at every turn? It felt good to serve under Caesar.

To reach Pontus, they had also marched through the province of Galatia. Deiotarus, its ruler, was a fierce, long-time ally of Rome but had supported Pompey at Pharsalus. Recently, he had begged for forgiveness of Caesar, which was duly given. Deiotarus' famed cavalry and ten cohorts of infantry were a welcome addition to the general's three battle-worn, understrength legions. Trained in the Roman manner, his troops were loyal and courageous.

Nearing Zela the day before, the combined forces camped to the west of the town. Deiotarus' Galatian horsemen had then reconnoitred the area, returning with news that Pharnaces' host was located a few miles to the north. Protecting the road to the Pontic capital, Amasia, it was positioned in the same place Mithridates had occupied when he defeated a large Roman army a generation earlier. Clearly this was deliberate, and while few legionaries regarded this as a good omen, they were not unduly worried either. Had Mithridates not succumbed to the Republic's might in the end?

'There!' cried Petronius triumphantly, pointing at the hill slightly off to one side. 'That must be it.'

Tying his chinstrap, Romulus stared at the flat-topped mount. It lay on the other side of an almost dry stream. Atop it, he could discern the outlines of hundreds of tents. The neighing of horses carried faintly through the thin air; mixed with the sound were the shouts of alert sentries. Soon figures began to emerge from the tents, and cries of alarm drowned out the previous noises. The legionaries began muttering excitedly. Their early arrival had caught Pharnaces' army by surprise.

Realising Caesar's tactic, Romulus chuckled. As he'd learned in the arena, knowledge and preparation contributed significantly to success in war, along with an unerring eye for swiftly taken opportunities. Caesar was master of all three. His order for every man to carry a fascine might have raised a few grumbles, but no one was seriously unhappy. When piled with others, they would form the core of a defensive earthwork.

Romulus wondered what else was in Caesar's mind. From Zela, the legions had followed the road to Amasia, which alternated on both sides of a low-running stream. At the moment, they were on its eastern bank. The watercourse that he could see below the enemy-occupied hill was probably an offshoot of it too, but neither were deep enough to prevent them getting to grips with their opponents. A short distance in front of their position, the valley split, forming a rough 'T' shape. The stream below Pharnaces' army emerged from the left arm, while the road continued due north, over the hills. No one could take this route without risking a flank attack from the enemy. Not that Caesar would try to avoid battle, he thought.

'Those bastards won't give up the high ground,' declared Petronius. 'They'll want us to slog up the slope instead.'

'Caesar's far too canny for that,' said a soldier in the rank behind. 'Even if we did catch the fuckers napping.'

Laughs and loud murmurs of agreement met this comment.

Romulus indicated the slope to their left. 'A position on the top of that is as good as Pharnaces' one.'

Men looked to see who had spoken. The valleys that protected their enemies would also provide their own defence. Each army could then watch the other in a stalemate that might last for days. At Pharsalus, Caesar's legions had faced off against Pompey's for a week before the fighting began.

'That means carrying these damned fascines up there,' growled a voice further back.

'Fool! You'll be glad of them if the enemy attacks,' growled Petronius.

Guffaws and jeers rained down on the anonymous legionary, who fell silent.

The bucinae sounded, silencing the soldiers' mirth. 'About turn!' screamed the centurions. 'Reform your ranks, facing west.' Less than an hour later, the entire army had reached the hilltop. With half the infantry and the Galatian cavalry spread out in a protective screen, the remainder set about digging a ditch to enclose their camp. The earth from this was mixed with the fascines to erect a rampart which was taller than a man. While the Roman legionaries built the front and rear walls, Deiotarus' soldiers constructed the sides. The result of their efforts was not sufficient to withstand a sustained attack, but would do for now.

Some time later, the train of mules which carried the tents and their yokes arrived in the valley below. Leaving the baggage behind had meant the legionaries were ready to fight at a moment's notice. Romulus knew that it was a common ruse of Caesar's. 'Arrive at an unexpected time, and victory is often there to be taken,' he muttered as they marched downhill to escort the mules up. How could it be done here, though?

Their opponents watched them for the rest of the day. Riders galloped up and down the hill opposite, carrying messages and orders to Pharnaces' allies in the area. Deiotarus' cavalry made sallies right up to the Pontic fortifications, finding out as much as possible. Enemy riders did the same to the Roman position. By the time darkness fell, the legionaries were aware that they faced a host more than three times their size. Pharnaces possessed superior cavalry, greater numbers of infantry and other classes of troops not even in Caesar's possession. He had Thracian peltasts, thureophoroi, Judaean skirmishers and slingers from Rhodes. There was heavy horse similar to the Parthian cataphracts, and large numbers of scythed chariots. Confrontation on flat ground had to be avoided at all costs. Storming the enemy's heavily fortified position did not seem a good option either. A nagging sense of unease began tugging at the edges of Romulus' mind.

The sun went down in a blaze of red, illuminating the doubled Roman sentries on the earthen ramparts. There would be no surprise attack under the cover of darkness. Sitting outside their leather tents, the rest of Caesar's soldiers shared acetum, vinegary wine, and bucellatum, the hard biscuit eaten when on campaign. Petronius and the six other soldiers in Romulus' contubernium took their ease by a small fire, laughing and joking. The same scene was being played out all over the camp, yet Romulus did not feel comfortable. Although he had formed a friendship of sorts with his comrades, loneliness still gnawed away at his insides. More than ever, he wished that Brennus were still alive, and that Tarquinius had not disappeared.

Naturally, his thoughts made no difference. Romulus sighed. Even Petronius, whom he trusted with his life, could never know the real truth about his past. Tonight, though, it was not his origins as a slave that he wanted to share. It was his doubt. Romulus could not get over the casual arrogance of Caesar's soldiers, the certainty in their minds that Pharnaces and his huge army would be defeated. Had that not been the attitude of most of Crassus' legionaries before Carrhae?

Yet to mention his experience in that doomed army would attract attention of the most unwelcome kind. At best he would be branded a liar, at worst a deserter. All Romulus could do was keep his mouth shut and continue to trust in Caesar. The following dawn was crisp and clear, presaging another sunny day. The trumpets sounded, waking the men as normal. Army routine did not change merely because an enemy was nearby. After a light breakfast, most soldiers were given the duty of reinforcing the rampart which surrounded their camp. While the fascines and dug earth had served well for one night, much still needed to be done. Sharpened wooden spikes were fitted to the outside of the fortification, just below the level of the sentries' walkway. Deep pits were excavated in irregular rows, their bottoms decorated with spiked iron caltrops. Slabs of rock were broken apart with hammers and chisels and embedded in the ground, pointing crazily upwards like the teeth in a giant demon's mouth. Romulus was fascinated to discover that these defences had also been deployed at Alesia, running for more than fifteen miles and facing in two directions.

Of course their preparations were necessary: the huge force that faced them was made up of fierce warriors who had already tasted success at the expense of a Roman army. They were on hallowed ground too, the site of an historic victory over Rome by Mithridates. In such situations, defeat was only ever a whisker away.

The ballistae, which had been taken apart for ease of transport, were reassembled. Facing north towards Pharnaces' army, they were positioned on the intervallum, the open ground which ran around the inside of the earthworks. Work parties with mules were sent out to collect stones of suitable size for the two-armed catapults. Artillery was probably Caesar's sole area of superiority, thought Romulus, remembering the withering fire laid down by the Forgotten Legion's ballistae during its last battle.

The memory brought twinges of sadness and guilt. As always, the emotions were followed by gratitude. If Brennus hadn't sacrificed his own life, I would not be here, thought Romulus. This bitter pill made it harder not to blame himself also for what had happened to Tarquinius. Remembering that the haruspex had been the one who wanted to enter the Egyptian capital, he managed to shove away the guilt. Each man was master of his own destiny, and Tarquinius was no different in that respect.

The bright sunshine eventually lifted Romulus' mood. Fortunately, the Twenty-Eighth had been chosen to form the defensive screen in front of the camp. While some of Deiotarus' Galatian cavalry was also given this duty, the majority had been sent out in squadrons to study the surrounding terrain. Delighted with their easy task, the men of the Twenty-Eighth watched their toiling comrades and laughed behind their hands so the officers would not see.

Some time later, Romulus glanced at the enemy position. 'Jupiter's balls,' he cried. 'They're on the move.'

Petronius swore loudly. Across the valley, thousands of men were emerging from behind the Pontic fortifications and forming up. Weapons flashed in the early-morning sunlight, and the creak of chariot wheels and shouted orders travelled through the air. Soon it was obvious that Mithridates' entire army was leaving its camp.

The Roman officers' response was instantaneous. 'Close order! Raise shields!' they roared, pacing up and down the front of the ranks. Hefting their javelins, the legionaries obeyed at once. Although the slope before them was steep, an assault by the enemy would prove dangerous. There was no need to panic, though: descending into the valley and then climbing to their position would take a while. If that happened, their comrades on the ramparts would have ample time to join them.

'It must be a parade,' said Petronius scornfully. 'Mithridates wants to tell his soldiers how brave they are.'

'Maybe he wants Caesar to deploy more men out here,' Romulus countered.

Petronius frowned. 'To slow down the construction of the fortifications?'

Romulus inclined his head. If their entire force constantly had to defend their camp, it would never get built.

'He's probably just showing off his army. Boosting their confidence. It is much bigger than ours, after all,' muttered Petronius.

This was quite plausible. Romulus grinned, glad of the Roman legionary's psychological advantage over other troops.

The pair glanced at their camp, wondering how their general would respond. It was not long before a red-cloaked figure had climbed on to the ramparts, followed by a group of senior officers and a single trumpeter. A loud cheer rose up at the sight of Caesar, who was deliberately making himself visible while getting a better view of the enemy. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes, Caesar peered into the distance. He studied Mithridates' host for a long time.

Romulus did likewise. At the very front he could make out groups of slingers and archers, the missile troops which led most attacks, their purpose to cause as many casualties as possible. Behind them, the war chariots formed up in the centre, with thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi arrayed in a tight square close behind. On the left wing sat the Pontic heavy cavalry, while on the other an unruly mass of lightly armed Thracian horsemen assembled.

'That looks like battle order to me,' Romulus muttered.

'It does,' agreed the other with a suspicious growl. 'Here comes Mithridates now.'

Rapt, they watched a rider on a magnificent black stallion emerge from the camp gates to rousing cheers from the waiting host. He was followed by a number of mailed warriors on similar steeds. Crying out in a deep voice, Mithridates moved slowly across the front of the host. Loud, admiring shouts rang out in response and the distinctive sound of swords being hammered off shields mixed with that of clashing cymbals and pounding drums. Like those in any army, the Pontic soldiers revelled in the attention of their master. Reaching the centre, Mithridates spent a long time enjoining the charioteers, and Romulus' unease grew. By the time the king had addressed his entire force, the noise levels on the other side of the valley had grown to a threatening crescendo.

'Let them shout,' said Petronius contemptuously. 'It makes no odds to us.'

Perturbed, Romulus took a look at Caesar, whose stance had not changed. Nothing seems to panic this general, he thought with relief.

Caesar turned to confer with his officers. After a few moments, he faced the Twenty-Eighth, every man of which was watching him intently. 'They're just showing off, comrades,' he declared confidently. 'It's nothing to worry about. There'll be no battle today. Finishing our fortifications is far more important.' At his words, an audible sigh of relief went up. Satisfied, Caesar clambered down to the intervallum and disappeared.

'As you were,' shouted the officers. 'Back to work.'

Once again, pickaxes and shovels rose and fell. Carrying rocks for the ballistae, the braying mules were urged forward towards the walls. A surveyor emerged from the front gate, talking with a colleague. Behind him scuttled a slave clutching the groma, the device that helped his master to lay out a rectangular grid of the camp every day. A pair of straight, crossed sticks on a vertical pole, the groma had a lead weight dangling from the end of each of its four arms.

Relaxing, Petronius and the rest of Romulus' comrades began chatting among themselves. Once again, their job was the easiest on offer. The optiones and centurions did little to stop the idle banter. If Caesar was unconcerned, so were they.

Romulus' study of the enemy did not let up, however. Mithridates continued talking, and at last a long, rousing cheer went up from his assembled troops. Romulus cursed.

'Caesar got it wrong,' he blurted. 'The bastards are going to attack.'

Petronius gave him an incredulous glance, but this changed as he too studied the Pontic host. Other men began to notice as well.

Mithridates had already moved to one side, allowing the slingers and archers to lope down the slope first. Next came the scythed chariots, their axles creaking loudly. Alongside those trotted the heavy cavalry and the Thracian horsemen, forming a second wave of men and steeds. Taking up the rear were the peltasts and other infantry. Romulus' main concern, though, was the Pontic chariots and the massive amount of mounted support they had on each wing. If Mithridates' army was making the crazy decision to attack uphill, he and his comrades would struggle to hold back an all-out attack. Most of Deiotarus' riders were absent still.

Soon the roiling mass of chariots and horsemen had reached the bottom of the opposite slope. There was a pregnant pause and, in the lines of the Twenty-Eighth, everyone held their breath. Would the enemy move off along the valley floor, or make the fateful decision to charge upwards, towards their lines?

Romulus was glad to see that their optio was now observing too, but neither he nor any of the centurions seemed alarmed yet. It wasn't that surprising, he supposed. Attacking up a hill was most unwise. Romulus scowled, worried that this was more than just an enemy manoeuvre. There was no harm being prepared, in warning Caesar. Was the officers' belief in him so strong that they couldn't see what was happening right before their eyes?

The lead slingers and archers leapt into the water, quickly followed by their comrades. Holding their bows and slings high, they soon waded across, looking up at the Roman position. Horses whinnied as they were forced into the stream, yet the heavy cavalry maintained good order while crossing. Typical of irregular troops, the Thracians traversed in a disorganised mob, shouting and laughing. Loud rumbling noises and splashes ascended from the chariots, which were also being driven into the calf-high water without hesitation. On an area of flattish ground, the Pontic soldiers reassembled, quickly reassuming their original positions. All were now glancing upwards, while their officers pointed and shouted commands.

'They couldn't be that stupid,' breathed Petronius.

'I wouldn't be so sure,' replied Romulus grimly.

There was a short delay as the last enemy warriors urged their mounts into line. Then, started by the lead charioteers, an angry shout left their throats and, as one, they began to move forwards. Uphill.

'Jupiter!' Petronius exclaimed. 'They're mad.'

Their centurion finally acted. 'We're under attack!' he shouted. 'Sound the alarm!'

Raising his instrument to his lips, the nearest trumpeter blew a short, sharp series of notes over and over again. The response of the Twenty-Eighth was fast, the officers ushering the cohorts into close order while reducing the gap with its neighbour on each side. Deiotarus' horsemen — scarcely a hundred strong — moved together uneasily. Then the legionaries working on the ditches and ramparts took in the closely packed ranks climbing the slope. Led by their officers, they charged on to the intervallum and ran for their shields and pila.

It was slow, thought Romulus. Far too slow.

The protection they needed — the remainder of Deiotarus' cavalry — was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, it would take the legions in the camp half an hour to find all their kit, assemble and march out to do battle. By that time the Twenty-Eighth would have been annihilated. Looking around, Romulus could see the same shocked realisation appearing on men's faces. Yet they had to stay put: without their protection, their ill-prepared comrades inside the walls would suffer the same fate.

The confident atmosphere that had prevailed all morning evaporated. What had seemed like a cushy number was going to be the death of them all. No one spoke as they watched the enemy moving uphill, taking their time to conserve their horses' energy. Having fought the Romans before, Mithridates' men would know that they were at no risk from javelins until they were within thirty paces, perhaps fifty down an incline like this. The ballistae were still within the walls, so there was no means of preventing the enemy from ascending the slope unchallenged. The Pontic horse would have ample time to regroup before charging. Romulus' mouth felt dry at the prospect.

An uneasy silence reigned over the Twenty-Eighth; angry shouts and cries rose from the camp as the rest of the army struggled to get ready. Six centuries of roughly eighty men had to join up to form a cohort; ten of these assembled units made a legion. While the process happened smoothly, it took time. A good general did not march his men out to battle unprepared, thought Romulus. He and his comrades would just have to manage.

It was not long before the enemy host had come to within two hundred paces of their position. Now Romulus could make out the slingers and the archers. Clad in simple wool tunics, they were similar to the mercenaries he had fought against in Egypt. Each man carried two slings, one for short range and another for longer distances. The spare was wrapped around their necks while a leather pouch on a strap contained their ammunition. Many also carried knives. Dressed in white tunics, the archers were better armed. As well as their recurved bows, many wore swords on their red leather belts. With occasional hide or linen cuirasses and helmets, these were troops which could close with the enemy as well as fire arrows from a distance.

Yet neither type would pose a threat to the legionaries' shield wall, Romulus thought. It was the men in the chariots behind, and the heavily armed horsemen on either side, who would do that. Although he knew of the Persians' disastrous attempt to use scythed chariots against Alexander at Gaugamela, Romulus still felt uneasy. The men around him had not been shown how to fight such vehicles, as Alexander's had. Pulled by four armoured horses and controlled by a single warrior, they had curved blades as long as a man's arm protruding from the end of the traces and from both wheels. They promised devastation.

Nor had the Persian chariots been backed up by heavy cavalry, as the Pontic ones were. These horsemen could sweep around to their rear and thus prevent any retreat. Dread surged through Romulus at the memory of the Parthian cataphracts. With conical iron helmets, scale mail which reached below the knee, and carrying long javelins, those opposite closely resembled the mailed warriors who had smashed apart Crassus' legions with such impunity. The sun's rays flashed off the chain mail covering their horses' chests and flanks, reflecting blinding light into the legionaries' faces.

The threat posed by Pharnaces' army was sinking in around Romulus. Men were looking very uneasy. If they knew what I had seen at Carrhae, he thought, many would run now. Thankfully they didn't, so their wavering lines held. Their optio looked to the centurion, who cleared his throat self-consciously. 'Steady, lads,' he ordered. 'We won't have to hold the bastards for long. Caesar is on his way.'

'Fucking well better be,' commented Petronius.

Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks.

They had little opportunity for any further contemplation as the Pontic archers and slingers loosed their first volley. Hundreds of arrows and stones shot up, darkening the sky. This was the opening gambit of most battles, aimed at causing maximum casualties and softening up the enemy before a charge. Although his shield was made of layers of hardened wood and covered with leather, Romulus still felt his jaw clench.

'Front rank, on your knees!' shouted the officers. 'The rest of you, shields up!'

Hundreds of scuta banged off each other as men rushed to protect themselves. Those at the very front, including Romulus and Petronius, did not do the same. Instead they dropped to the ground, allowing their shields to cover them completely, while the men in the second row angled theirs obliquely before them. Those further to the rear held their scuta directly over their heads. This was a method used by the Forgotten Legion to withstand Parthian arrows, and Romulus was pleased to note that Caesar used it too. The normal deployment — with the front row remaining on their feet — allowed many soldiers to suffer injuries to their lower legs from well-aimed shafts.

There was a heartbeat's delay, and then the air filled with gentle whirring sounds as the arrows came down to earth. An instant later, loud crashes announced the stones' arrival too. His muscles tight with tension, Romulus waited, knowing what the next noise would be. He hated it as much as the first time he had heard it. Listening to men scream was much harder to do now than during the rage and immediacy of one-on-one combat, when it became part of the red-hot blur of battle.

Sure enough, strangled cries of pain broke out everywhere. Soldiers collapsed, thrashing at the shafts which had found the gap between shields to pierce their flesh. Others had gained enough momentum to drive through the legionaries' scuta and into their arms and faces. Fortunately, most of the stones just clattered off the shields and bounced away, but a few did find targets, cracking bones and denting helmets. Given the number of missiles released, it was inevitable that there were fatalities. Not many, but the unlucky few slumped to the dirt, their weapons falling from slack hands.

Romulus' dream of getting to Rome was fading. He gazed uneasily at the massed enemy ranks, asking for Mithras' continued favour.

Everyone else was praying to their favourite gods too.

Their work done, the slingers and archers fell back. It was time for the chariots to attack. Romulus could make out at least fifty. Enough to hit most of the Twenty-Eighth head on, while the Thracians and Pontic heavy cavalry rode around to their undefended rear. Their situation was grim now, even critical. Still there was no sign of Caesar or the other legions.

Flicking their reins, the charioteers encouraged their horses into a trot. At last it was possible to make them out clearly. Clad in composite scale cuirasses and laminated armpieces, their crested Attic helmets were not dissimilar to those worn by junior Roman officers. Each carried a long-handled whip, which he used to encourage his mounts to the trot. A moment later, it was the canter. Having conserved their steeds' energy, they had room to ask everything of them. With jingling traces and the blades on their wheels spinning and flashing, the chariots surged forward. Although the slope was steep, the ground was not that uneven and they were able to pick up speed quite fast. With loud whoops and cheers, the cavalry forces split off to the sides, eager to complete the pincer movement. Last of all came thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi, their weapons raised in readiness. Theirs would be the final job, to charge into the Roman lines after the chariots and horsemen had smashed them apart, and prevent any attempt to regroup.

The fear among the legionaries grew palpable, and again the Twenty-Eighth began to waver, despite the officers' muttered reassurances and threats. More centurions moved to stand in the front rank, and the standard-bearers lifted their wooden poles for everyone to see. The tactic helped somewhat. No one ran — yet. Men looked nervously to their comrades, muttered anxious prayers and eyed the heavens. They were all about to die: chopped apart by the chariots or cut down where they stood by the horsemen. Where in the name of Hades was Caesar?

At last the centurions at the back ordered the soldiers there to turn about and face the enemy. If only we had some of the long spears which the Forgotten Legion used, thought Romulus. Those weapons had been able to stop any cavalry. Instead they had just their scuta, swords and a pair of javelins each. In less than twenty heartbeats, the chariots would hit their lines. Then they would be hit from the rear by hundreds of cavalry, before the enemy foot soldiers finished the job. Romulus spat on the ground. He hoped that their deaths bought enough time for Caesar and the other legions to emerge fully prepared.

Less than a hundred paces remained between the tightly packed chariots and the Roman front ranks. They left nowhere to go. It was a case of being run down by fast-moving armoured horses, or cut apart by the blades they pulled. The grinning charioteers knew it too, and urged their teams to greater speeds.

'Ready pila!' bellowed the centurions. The fearful soldiers obeyed, cocking back their right arms and preparing to release.

Now the legionaries could see the steeds' nostrils flaring with effort, their heads bobbing up and down. Their hooves pounded on the hard ground, and their harness jingled. Romulus fancied he could almost hear the scythed blades whirr as they spun round on the wheels.

Fifty paces until they struck. Time began to move in a blur. A wheel on one chariot struck a rock, sending it up at a crazy angle and throwing its driver free. It overturned, dragging its horses into those of another team. Both chariots careered crazily to a halt and a hoarse cheer went up from the legionaries. But the rest were still closing in fast. Behind Romulus, a man cursed their bad luck, Caesar and all the gods. Another began to wail with fear. Anxious to release his javelin, Petronius shifted from foot to foot beside Romulus.

Twenty-five paces, thought Romulus. He could clearly see the stubble on the face of the charioteer heading for them. Good killing distance for their pila, and their only chance to make some dent in the enemy numbers. He looked to the centurion, whose mouth was opening to give the order. Before he could give it, a piece of lead took the officer in the centre of the forehead. Released by a slinger as a parting shot, it was as clean a kill as Romulus had ever seen. The crack with which the small piece of metal struck left no doubt as to its lethality. The centurion dropped soundlessly, without giving the order to release.

Romulus' head spun frantically, searching for the optio, but he was at the rear with the tesserarius, ensuring that no one tried to flee.

All around them, the other centuries were throwing their javelins. Tall as a man, their long wooden shafts were topped by a pyramidal iron tip which could punch through shields and armour to kill. In graceful clouds, they climbed into the air, falling among the charioteers in a shower of lethal points. Many enemy warriors were struck down, losing control of their teams of horses, which panicked and collided with one another. The three which would reach Romulus and his comrades were unaffected, though, and the charioteers grinned with satisfaction.

Behind them ran thousands of peltasts and infantry.

Of Caesar there was no sign.