The Silver Eagle

Chapter X: Defeat

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

‘Scum,’ hissed Optatus, his teeth clenched. ‘How dare you join the army?’

Romulus could not take his eyes off the arrow tip. If it even scratched his skin, he would die in screaming agony.

‘Death’s too good for you,’ whispered Optatus. ‘But at least this way will be painful.’

The burly veteran was using his right hand to push towards Romulus’ jugular, which meant that the young soldier’s weaker left arm had to try to prevent him. Stopping him from crying out, Optatus’ other hand was clamped over Romulus’ mouth. Even his sword arm could not remove it. And his enemy’s greater strength meant that the arrow’s hooked point was moving towards his neck with a slow, dreadful inevitability. Romulus struggled not to panic. If he did that, his life would be over. Faced with certain death, his desire to survive suddenly became overwhelming.

Bending his right leg with a jerk, he tried to knee Optatus in the groin.

‘Got to do better than that, boy,’ sneered the veteran, twisting his hips and avoiding injury.

Frantic, Romulus turned his head from side to side. His sword was just out of reach, as was the fire.

Optatus grinned viciously and leaned down on the arrow.

Desperation filled every fibre of Romulus’ being. By stretching out, it might be possible to kick over a burning log, and the noise of that might wake Brennus. He would hurt himself badly, but he could think of nothing else. Marching with burns to one foot could be no worse than death, Romulus thought grimly. The notion of staying alive until at least dawn was enough. Managing to hold the barbed point a few fingers’ width from his neck, he wriggled around, reaching out with his left sandal. It was no use, and terror filled Romulus once more.

Sensing this, the big veteran grimaced with effort and put all of his strength into stabbing Romulus with the lethal metal tip. Then his face changed. In a heartbeat, it went from surprised to relaxed, and he slumped down on top of Romulus, a dead weight. The arrow point buried itself in the ground less than a hand span from the young soldier’s left ear.

Staring at the shaft, Romulus’ eyes bulged with horror. Death had been so close.

Optatus was pulled off with a great heave to reveal Brennus’ grinning face crouched over him. ‘Looked like you needed a little help,’ he whispered, wiping blood off the hilt of his longsword.

‘You’ve only knocked him unconscious?’ whispered Romulus, aghast at Brennus’ restraint. ‘This is a Scythian arrow! The bastard was trying to kill me.’

‘I know,’ replied the Gaul with an apologetic shrug. ‘But we need all the men here to have a chance of breaking out.’ He kicked Optatus. ‘Even him.’

The veterans might not know it, but Brennus was right, thought Romulus bitterly.

Checking that Darius and the officers were still asleep, they dragged Optatus’ bulk back to the space he was sharing with Novius and the others.

Shaken, the little legionary jumped up as they dumped Optatus’ body beside their fire. ‘Wake up!’ he hissed at Ammias and Primitivus.

Their faces befuddled by sleep, his comrades jerked bolt upright.

Romulus and Brennus used their swords to cover both.

Novius regarded the pair warily: now it was they who had the advantage. Two against three, but he was the only one ready to fight.

‘He’s not dead,’ said Brennus coldly.

Novius’ face registered surprise, then shock. He knelt and laid a hand to Optatus’ neck. Finding a pulse, he nodded at Ammias and Primitivus. Both looked very relieved.

‘The scumbag should be though,’ added Romulus, throwing down the Scythian arrow. ‘This is what he came visiting with.’

Ammias flinched and Romulus saw that they had all known about it.

Novius’ expression turned calculating. ‘Why didn’t you kill him?’

Romulus and Brennus did not answer.

‘Whatever it was won’t save your skins,’ Novius sneered. ‘Being nice doesn’t entitle you to mercy.’

‘Dirty slaves,’ said Primitivus contemptuously.

Brennus growled deep in his throat, wishing he had not held back.

Romulus’ anger boiled up, but he did not respond. Keeping silent about the possible Scythian attack was about the only advantage they had. ‘Might as well get what rest we can,’ he said to Brennus. He turned and walked away silently, the Gaul by his side.

‘Fools,’ said the little legionary with a smirk of satisfaction. ‘They’ll be dead before we get back to the fort.’

While it was still dark, Darius had the men stand to. The moon had set, but the crystal-clear sky overhead was bright with stars. In the freezing air, no sound could be heard from the enemy camp. A party was sent out to gather as many javelins as possible. Although the Roman pila often bent on impact, some inevitably failed to find a target. With the Scythian sentries either asleep or unaware of the creeping soldiers, the mission was a qualified success. Thirty legionaries soon had a second pilum again.

Grateful that the long night was over, the two centuries waited for Darius’ orders. Brennus and Romulus took the time to stretch and rub their chilled muscles thoroughly. Many who saw them did the same. It was techniques like this which gave men the edge in combat.

Darius was in a better mood as he addressed his soldiers. ‘Leave your yokes behind. Without them, this should be simple,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll use a wedge formation to smash through to the track west. Remember your comrades who died here.’ He pointed at the barracks. ‘Kill as many Scythians as you can, but don’t stop.’

Teeth flashed in the darkness as men smiled wolfishly. They stamped their feet in anticipation.

‘Once through their lines, we double time it until I say stop.’

‘That won’t be long then, sir,’ piped up Gordianus from the safety of the ranks.

There was muffled laughter at his joke. Beside the fit, lean legionaries, Darius was a portly figure.

The senior centurion had the grace to smile. ‘I can run when needs must,’ he answered.

Romulus was pleased. This was more like the leader he was used to.

‘We wait for no one,’ said Darius fiercely. ‘Anyone who falls is to be left behind. Including me. Is that clear?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Good.’ Darius strode into the middle of the men, his guard by his side. ‘Form up outside the gate.’

Making as little noise as possible, the legionaries walked out of the fortlet. Without fuss, they positioned themselves into a large V-shape, with Romulus and Brennus at the apex. Not even Novius had protested when the pair demanded this honour; he did not realise it was to show the other soldiers that the two friends were no cowards. The wedge was a useful attacking formation and with men like these at the front, it had more chance of success. Once moving, it was extremely hard for an enemy to stop. But the point was also the most dangerous place to be. Being killed was very likely.

By now, their eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Past the scattered corpses, it was possible to make out the shapes of sleeping men around a few small fires nearby. Groups of hobbled horses stood behind, moving gently from foot to foot. Steam rose from the beasts’ thick coats. Still not a sound reached them from the Scythians.

Romulus grinned. Just like Darius’ refusal to believe in his vision, these warriors could not imagine an attack in darkness. It would be the reason for their death.

‘Ready pila,’ whispered the senior centurion from their midst.

Silently they obeyed.

‘Forward.’

Caligae crunched slowly on the frosty ground, but soon picked up speed. In a few heartbeats, the soldiers were at a trot. Icy air rushed into their faces, chilling their nostrils and throats with each inhalation. No one spoke a word. Every man knew his task, had practised it a thousand times before on the training ground. Shields held high to protect their bodies, they grasped their javelins loosely in their right hands, ready to stab downwards. The charge was all-important. If they broke through, freedom beckoned. Failure would mean death.

Momentarily forgetting the threat from Novius and his comrades, Romulus bared his teeth.

It was thrilling.

Terrifying.

Within fifty paces, they were on the enemy.

Preparing himself, Romulus drew back his pilum. Stooping low, he plunged it into the side of a sleeping form, and jumped over without checking to see if the Scythian was dead. Right now, injuring was good enough. Beside him, Brennus kept pace, stabbing the man’s companion in the chest as he went by. Two more warriors were dispatched similarly and then they were past the first fire and on to three terrified sentries. Dark eyes opened wide with shock. The trio, who had been muttering quietly to each other, were suddenly confronted by an armoured mass of running legionaries, bloodied javelins in hand.

Screams of terror filled the air. They were rapidly cut off, ebbing away into bubbling whispers. But the noise woke the other Scythians. Wrapped in their thick cloaks and blankets, most had been sleeping comfortably. Waking to the sounds of men dying, the startled warriors jumped up and grabbed for their weapons. All was confusion and disorder.

There was no need for silence any longer. Brennus threw back his head and let out a blood-curdling battle cry; in response, the legionaries yelled a deafening roar of defiance.

The element of speed and surprise was vital, thought Romulus as they pounded on. The Scythians were still half-asleep and unable to fight back properly. It must have seemed as if demons had descended upon their encampment. They simply did not have a chance. Hobnailed caligae stamped down on upturned faces, breaking noses and splitting lips; pila stabbed down into soft, unprotected flesh, and were ripped free to use again. Legionaries used the iron rims of their scuta to smash down on enemy heads. It was most satisfying to revenge themselves for the deaths of the unfortunates in the fortlet. Nonetheless, they kept running.

Seeing the Scythians’ horses reacting uneasily to the screams and cries, Romulus had a brainwave. ‘Throw your javelins,’ he cried, pointing left. ‘They’ll panic!’

The men immediately on his left needed no urging. Slowing down, they drew back and released their pila at the milling mounts. Romulus did likewise. It was impossible to miss: all of the missiles found a target. Rearing up in pain from the metal barbs buried deep in their backs, the injured horses kicked out with their front feet, spun in circles and barged their companions. That was enough. Ripping up the pegs which had tethered their lead ropes to the ground, the group of terrified horses turned and fled into the darkness.

Romulus whooped with glee. Now the Scythians could not pursue them.

‘Good thinking,’ cried Brennus.

Pleased, Romulus knew more still awaited. This was only the start — but it was a good one.

Soon the wedge had forced its way through the enemy camp. In its wake, it left utter mayhem. Scores of warriors lay in blood-soaked blankets, slain before they had even woken up. Others had belly wounds that would take days to kill, or badly cut limbs which completely disabled. Some had even been trampled by their own mounts. Those who were uninjured stood dazedly looking after the Romans, unable to respond.

Not a single legionary had been killed or wounded.

Romulus could not help but be proud. What other soldiers were capable of such a fast-moving manoeuvre in the dark? But this was no time to clap themselves on the back. They had to make as much ground as possible before dawn, and whatever fate that delivered to them.

Darius was in no mood to linger either. There was a moment to wipe their bloody pila on their cloaks and take a gulp of water, and then Darius bellowed, ‘Double time!’

Romulus and Brennus took off, followed by their comrades. In case of pursuit, no change was made to the wedge for the moment. Thanks to the bright stars, following the track west was not difficult. The stones had been beaten down from the regular passage of legionaries, forming a wide, easily discernible stripe across the landscape.

They ran for a long time, until it felt as if their lungs would burst.

Behind them, the sky began to lighten. As the sun climbed into view, it finally became possible to make out their surroundings. Nearby was an inscribed stone tablet.

They were exactly two miles from the fortlet.

Horseless, the Scythians had no chance of catching them now. Roman legionaries could march twenty-four miles in five hours, carrying full kit. Without their heavy yokes to slow them down, the patrol would probably reach the safety of the main fort in less than four.

‘Halt!’ cried Darius, his sweating face purple with effort. To give him his due, the senior centurion had kept up with his men. ‘Down shields. Take a breather.’

The delighted legionaries smiled at the command. Everyone had seen the mile marker and done the maths. They had earned a brief rest. As ordered, their scuta clattered down. Keeping the wedge formation, the soldiers sank to one knee, breathing heavily. Gulps were taken from leather water carriers, helmets and felt liners lifted to dry hair that was wringing with moisture. No one could complain of being cold now.

Romulus grimaced as he scanned the low slopes around them.

‘Not happy?’ asked Brennus under his breath.

‘No.’ There were large areas of flat ground beyond the top of the inclines on either side of the defile. ‘A whole damn army could be waiting up there.’

The Gaul’s gaze followed his. He too had been on many patrols through here and knew every dip and fold of the terrain. ‘It opens out soon,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Get through this section and we’ll quickly see any enemy.’

‘That’s not for nearly a mile,’ Romulus muttered. He turned to see where Darius was. Pleasingly, the Parthian was moving among the men, muttering encouraging words. It was the mark of a good officer to praise those under his command when they had performed well. With the adrenalin rush of their escape subsiding, Darius now seemed unconcerned. Romulus’ warning the day before had meant nothing. In the Parthian’s mind, there was time for a respite before the long march home.

Romulus prayed that his vision had been wrong. But his instinct was jangling an inner alarm.

It was time to continue. Instead of the attacking wedge, the legionaries formed up in a more typical marching order. Each century was six wide, fifteen deep. Darius took up his position at the front, his faithful guard alongside.

As they moved off, Romulus’ heart pounded in his chest. He could not stop his eyes moving from side to side. Brennus was similarly alert, but neither said a word to anyone.

Spirits had risen hugely because of their escape, and it wasn’t long before Gordianus began his usual ditty about the legionary in the brothel.

This was too much for Romulus, whose nerves were fraying. There was no point warning any enemies nearby of their presence. ‘Give it a rest,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that a hundred times before.’

‘Shut it, you filth,’ Novius responded. ‘We want to hear about your mother.’

‘And your sisters,’ responded Brennus as quick as a flash.

The others cheered at the jokes.

Novius flushed with anger but his retort was lost in the din as the whole formation responded to Gordianus’ tune.

Romulus’ jaw clenched with anger at the insult. A lowly house slave, his mother had still done her best for him and Fabiola. It had meant suffering Gemellus’ sexual abuse nightly for years, but Velvinna had never complained. Tragically, her efforts had come to nothing when the merchant’s debts reached a critical mass. The twins were sold to raise money. Romulus knew nothing more of his mother, which stung his heart.

Brennus leaned over and spoke in his ear. ‘Don’t listen to them. The poor bastards would laugh at anything right now. And keeping quiet won’t prevent an ambush either. Singing keeps their spirits up.’

Romulus’ anger dissipated. The Gaul was right. Happy soldiers fought better than miserable ones. And they might as well imagine a good time in a whorehouse than being slaughtered by Scythians. He opened his mouth and joined in.

After a dozen verses had been bellowed out, Romulus was feeling more relaxed.

It was then that the colour of the sky changed from blue to black.

Fortunately, he was looking upwards at that moment. Lulled by Gordianus’ bawdy chant, Romulus did not immediately recognise the dense swarm of arrows. When he did, his warning cry was too little, too late.

To avoid being seen, the volley had been sent up in a hugely steep, curving arc. But already the metal points had turned to point downwards. In three or four heartbeats, they would land amongst the unsuspecting legionaries.

‘Arrows incoming!’ Romulus bellowed.

One heartbeat.

At the cry, Darius looked into the air, his face a picture of shock. Behind him, other soldiers too were staring up in a mixture of fascination and fear.

Two heartbeats.

Still the senior centurion did not speak. Death was looking him in the eye, and Darius had no answer.

Three heartbeats.

Someone had to act, or most of the patrol would be killed or injured, thought Romulus. ‘Form testudo!’ he roared, breaking all kinds of rules by shouting an order.

Training instantly took over. The men in the middle squatted down, lifting their heavy scuta over their heads while those on the outside formed a shield wall.

Whirring through the air, the hundreds of wooden shafts came to earth. It was a soft, beautiful and deadly noise. While many sank harmlessly into the silk covers or the ground around the soldiers, plenty of others found the gaps between shields that were still coming together. There was a brief delay and then Romulus’ ears rang with the cries of the injured. Soon he could hear little else. Legionaries cursed and screamed, clawing frantically at the barbed points that had sunk deep into flesh. The dead slumped against their comrades, their shields falling from slack fingers. Although many men were still obeying orders, the testudo had virtually fallen apart.

Biting back a curse, Romulus glanced towards Darius.

The jovial Parthian would never shout an order again. Pierced by half a dozen arrows, he lay motionless ten steps away. A thin line of blood was running from the corner of his mouth, while his right hand reached out towards them in a futile, supplicating gesture. Darius’ bodyguard was sprawled carelessly nearby. Both their faces were frozen in a rictus of shock.

But the attack had just started. More arrows shot up into the sky from either side of them.

At last came a quick response. ‘Form testudo!’ The voice belonged to one of the optiones.

For the second time, the armoured square took shape. This time, though, it was much smaller. Fortunately, both junior officers were experienced men. Screaming orders and with liberal use of their long staffs, they forced the able-bodied men away from the uneven footing that was the injured and slain. It made no sense to trip up on one’s comrade and end up dead as a result. Romulus could not look at the pathetic sight of those they left behind. Yet the optiones knew what they were doing. The plaintive cries for help from the blinded and maimed had to be ignored. In the heat of battle, the best action to take was that which preserved the lives of most.

Knowing what was about to happen, some of the wounded grabbed their shields and tried to cover as much of their bodies as possible. It wasn’t enough: they still died when the second volley landed. By the time the last arrows had fallen, there was nothing more than a bloody pile of feathered corpses beside the testudo.

Brennus did a quick head count. ‘This is not good,’ he said, scowling. ‘Lost nearly fifty men already.’

Romulus nodded, watching the slopes on either side. Any moment now, he thought.

As if answering his call, hundreds of warriors emerged into view. Clad in the same manner as the riders the Romans had butchered early that morning, these were also Scythians. There were infantry, archers on foot and on horseback.

My dream was accurate, Romulus thought with bitter amazement. This force was more than enough to annihilate what remained of the two centuries. What little trust he had had in Mithras withered away.

‘We’re fucked,’ cried Novius, who was still unscathed.

An inarticulate moan of dread rose from the men.

It was hard to argue, but Romulus was damned if he would just let himself be killed. ‘What now, sir?’ he bawled at the older of the two optiones. By virtue of his years served, he was now the commander.

The junior officers looked uncertainly at each other.

The legionaries waited.

Brennus’ smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a steely-eyed, fixed stare. Is this my time? he wondered. If it is, great Belenus, grant protection to Romulus. And let me die well.

The young soldier knew Brennus’ look from experience. It meant that Scythians would die. Many of them. But even the huge Gaul could not kill all the warriors who were swarming down around the testudo, blocking off any escape avenue.

‘Form wedge!’ cried the senior optio at last. What had worked before might do so again. ‘Drive through them and we’ve got a chance.’

His men needed no prompting. If they did not act fast, they would be surrounded completely.

‘Middle ranks, keep your shields up. Forward!’

The desperate soldiers obeyed, instinctively moving at double time.

A hundred paces in front, Scythian foot soldiers were already forming up in deep lines. Romulus eyed the dark-skinned enemy warriors, who were lightly armed compared to the legionaries. Mostly wearing felt hats, few had chain mail or metal helmets. Their only protection was the small round or crescent shields they carried. Armed with spears, swords and axes, they would pose little obstacle to the fast-moving wedge.

‘Those won’t stop us,’ Brennus panted. ‘They’re just light infantry.’

His friend was correct. Confusion filled Romulus. Perhaps his dream did not mean their annihilation after all? If they broke through, nothing stood between them and the fort. What kind of trick was Mithras playing?

They closed in on the Scythians, who immediately launched their spears. The man to Romulus’ right was too slow in lifting his scutum and the next instant, a broad iron blade had taken him through the neck. Without making a sound, he dropped, forcing the men behind him to jump over his body. No one tried to help him. The wound was mortal. Other casualties were similarly ignored. Now, as never before, speed was of the essence. The legionaries loosed a volley of pila at twenty paces, causing dozens of casualties. On they ran.

Romulus fixed his gaze on a bearded, tattooed Scythian with a domed iron helmet.

Twenty steps separated them, then ten.

‘For the Forgotten Legion!’ roared Brennus. ‘For-gotten Le-gion!’

At the top of his voice, every man answered back.

It was the unifying cry for all of them, thought Romulus. They were truly Rome’s lost soldiers, fighting for their very survival at the ends of the earth. Did anyone at home care about them now? Probably not. All they had was each other. And that wasn’t enough. Gritting his teeth, Romulus took a better hold of his horizontal scutum grip. With its heavy iron boss, the Roman shield was a good battering ram.

His target shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the point of the wedge was heading straight for him.

It was too late.

Romulus punched upwards with his scutum, smashing the Scythian’s nose. As he reeled back in agony, Romulus’ gladius took him in the chest, and the warrior fell from view. The ranks behind were ready, however, and Romulus’ vision was immediately filled with snarling, bearded faces. Lowering his shield again, Romulus let the wedge’s momentum carry him forward. Although he could only make out Brennus and another legionary on either side, there were about a hundred men pushing behind them.

Swinging his sword wildly, a screaming Scythian threw himself at Romulus, who took the blow on the metal rim of his scutum. As his enemy raised his arm to repeat the blow, Romulus leaned forward and shoved his gladius deep into the man’s armpit. He knew the damage it would cause — sliding between ribs to slice lungs and large blood vessels, perhaps even the heart. The Scythian’s mouth gaped like a fish and a gush of arterial blood followed the blade out. Romulus grimaced with satisfaction as the corpse fell to the ground. Two down, he thought wearily. A few hundred to go. Yet, judging from the loud roars of encouragement from the men at the back, the wedge was still moving forward.

He pushed on.

A pair of similar-looking heavy-set men, brothers possibly, threw themselves at Romulus next. One grabbed the edge of his shield with his bare hands, pulling it down while the other stabbed forward with a long dagger. Romulus twisted to one side, barely avoiding the blade. A powerful slash followed, sliding off the cheek piece of his helmet and opening a shallow cut under his right eye. The first Scythian was still trying to wrest the scutum from him, so Romulus just let go. He couldn’t fight two enemies at once. Staggering under the unexpected weight of the heavy shield, the man was unbalanced and fell backwards.

That left his brother with the dagger, who smiled now that Romulus had no scutum. Dodging forward, he angled his blade at the young soldier’s unprotected lower legs. Romulus had to react fast. The Scythian was too close to stab with his gladius, so he used his shield hand, his left, to punch the other in the side of the head. As the man went down, half stunned, Romulus reversed his grip on the gladius. Gripping its bone hilt with both fists, he turned the blade and plunged it into the Scythian’s back. Iron grated off his ribs as it slid through to pierce a kidney.

An animal scream of pain rang out and Romulus stooped, twisting the blade slightly to make sure.

Struggling to his feet, the second warrior saw his brother writhing on the ground. Rage distorted his face as he threw himself bodily at Romulus. It was a fatal mistake. Using one of Brennus’ moves, Romulus let go of his sword with his left hand and stood, smashing the Scythian across the face with a stiff forearm. It bought him enough time to regain his gladius and step forward, dispatching his swaying enemy with a simple forward thrust.

Romulus turned his head, checking the situation on either side. On his right, Brennus was wading through Scythians like a man possessed. His sheer size intimidated before he even came to blows with each warrior. But the Gaul also possessed great skill with weapons. Romulus watched with awe as Brennus barged into a large Scythian, pushing him back several steps and knocking over two men in the ranks behind. While the warrior tried to defend himself, Brennus stabbed him in the belly. The Scythian fell and the Gaul leaped over him, cracking the bottom of his shield off the head of another man. Knocking the warrior unconscious, the blow also opened a deep cut in his scalp. Romulus knew exactly why. There was no end to Brennus’ tricks. As in the ludus, the rim of his scutum had been sharpened.

‘We’re nearly through!’ yelled Gordianus from his left, pointing with a bloody gladius.

Romulus grinned. Just three ranks stood between them and the road west.

They redoubled their efforts. After a few moments of cut and thrust, the last Scythians in their path had been dispatched. On the sides of the wedge, their comrades were still fighting past warriors, but the spirit had gone out of their lightly armed enemies. As the opposition melted away, the legionaries came to a gradual halt. Seven had fallen, twice that number had minor flesh wounds, but there were still nearly ninety men who could march. Chests heaving, faces purple with effort, they stopped to savour the view.

‘A bare track never looked so inviting,’ said Gordianus, wiping his brow. ‘Well done, lad.’

Full of gratitude at the other’s acceptance, Romulus did not reply.

Gordianus saw Brennus’ worried look. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Above the screams of the injured and the battle cries of the Scythian infantry to their rear, Romulus heard the sound of pounding hooves. His skin crawled, remembering Carrhae.

‘Cavalry,’ he said in a monotone.

Alarmed, Gordianus’ eyes darted back to the track in front, which was still empty.

Questions from the other legionaries filled the air, but Romulus ignored them.

They could all hear it now.

Brennus stood calmly, thinking of his wife and son, who had died without him being there to defend them. Of his uncle, who had died saving him. Of his cousin, whose life Brennus had failed to save. Only death could assuage the guilt he felt over these losses. And if he saved Romulus’ life while doing so, he would not have died in vain.

When the first horsemen came into view, Brennus actually smiled.

They were followed by at least two hundred more. Wearing polished scale armour that covered their bodies right down to their thighs, the Scythians were armed with lances, short-headed axes, swords and recurved composite bows. Maximising the full dramatic effect of their appearance, the riders reined in their red-coloured horses and stopped. About two hundred and fifty paces of snow-covered ground separated them from the battered Roman soldiers. Enough distance to reach a full charge.

I have accurately predicted the future, thought Romulus bitterly. But I did not see this.

Nearby, Novius blanched. What chance had they now?

He was not alone in his reaction. Finally taking in what awaited them, Romulus’ spirits plummeted. The divination was my best. And last. We will surely die now. With infantry and archers about to engage them from behind, and the cavalry blocking their way forward, there was nowhere to go. Except to Elysium. From somewhere, Romulus summoned the dregs of his faith in the warrior god. Mithras! Do not forsake us! We are worthy of your favour.

‘How did those bastards get here?’ shouted the older optio. Scythia lay to the south-east, with a long range of mountains between it and Margiana. The communicating passes would be blocked by snow for months.

There was only one answer.

‘They came around the peaks, sir,’ replied Romulus. Only that could explain the Scythians’ presence in midwinter.

‘Why now?’ demanded the optio.

‘To catch us unawares,’ Brennus said. ‘Who would expect an attack of this size at this time of year?’

‘The gods must be angry,’ spat Gordianus, making the sign against evil. Without anger, he glanced at Romulus. They were now comrades again. ‘Have we some hope?’

‘Hardly any,’ he answered.

Fearful mutters rose as this passed back through the ranks.

‘Let’s hope that Darius’ riders made it back then,’ said Gordianus. ‘Or the whole legion could be in danger.’

Behind the wedge, the massed ranks of Scythians were closing in. Simultaneously, the lead cavalryman flicked his reins, forcing his horse into a walk. The trot would be next, followed by the canter.

Their fate was about to be sealed.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Romulus.

The optio looked uncertain. Normally there was a centurion present to tell him what to do.

‘If the horses get any speed up, they’ll cut us to pieces, sir,’ said Romulus.

The optio’s eyes flickered from side to side. On the heights were yet more warriors, with archers ranked behind. Escape that way meant fighting uphill, while being showered with arrows.

‘Let’s hit them quickly, sir,’ said Romulus. ‘That way, there’s a chance of smashing through.’

‘Charge them?’ queried the optio disbelievingly.

‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus glanced back at his frightened-looking comrades. Being hit at the gallop by the approaching horses would undoubtedly break them. And if that happened, the Scythian infantry would soon finish the job. ‘Now,’ he urged.

Unused to such pressure, the optio hesitated.

Brennus’ grip on his sword tightened. Romulus’ idea was the best, the sole, choice. If their erstwhile commander did not act, he would intervene. Lethally, if necessary.

Ignoring the confused junior officer, Gordianus turned to his comrades. He too thought Romulus was right. ‘We’ve only one chance,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no way back or on either side.’

‘What should we do?’ cried a voice a few ranks back.

‘Charge those fucking horses,’ cried Gordianus. ‘Before they reach top speed.’

The men looked dismayed, but did not protest.

Gordianus seized the moment. ‘Let’s do it!’

A defiant roar rose into the air. Novius and his cronies alone looked unhappy.

Romulus did not delay any longer. ‘Form wedge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

The dull-witted optio had no time to respond. Desperate to survive, the legionaries launched themselves forward, carrying him with them.

Romulus kept his position at the front of the wedge. Brennus was pounding along on his right and Gordianus on his left. Soon they were running at full tilt, their shields held high against Scythian arrows. Those behind could not run and hold their scuta over their heads, which meant speed was vital. Once the mounted archers started releasing, the men in the middle would begin to die.

The Scythians responded to the Roman charge by urging their horses into a canter. All had arrows already fitted to their bowstrings. To a man, they drew back and prepared to release.

Less than a hundred paces separated the two sides.

Arrows shot up in graceful arcs and whistled down amongst the legionaries. The man directly behind Brennus went down, shot through the cheek. More shafts thumped into Romulus’ and Gordianus’ shields, making them awkward to carry, but there was no chance to rip them out. The veteran began muttering a prayer to Mars, the god of war.

Sweat ran down Romulus’ face and into the cut below his right eye. The salt stung, and he used the pain to focus himself. Some of the legionaries still had javelins left, he thought. Hit any of the Scythians and they’ll fall off. Open up the formation. Maybe give us enough room to get through. Mithras, protect us. Give us the strength to survive.

Fifty paces.

‘Ready pila,’ he yelled. ‘At my command, loose at will.’

Brennus smiled proudly. Romulus was turning into a leader.

Used to obeying orders, all those with javelins cocked their right arms back. Throwing while running was something they had all been trained to do.

Another flurry of arrows landed. Men made soft, choking noises as metal points skewered their throats; they screamed as eyeballs ruptured. Others were hit in the lower legs where their shields left them exposed. The falling bodies tripped up those immediately behind, and the legionaries at the rear had to just trample over them regardless. Injured, dying or simply winded, it was every man for himself now.

Thirty paces. Good javelin range.

‘Aim at the front riders,’ shouted Romulus one more time. ‘Loose!’

It was difficult enough to aim a pilum accurately when standing still. At the run, it was much harder. At Romulus’ command, eight or ten flew forward at the approaching horsemen. Most landed short. Just two found their mark, both striking the tattooed lead rider in the chest. Killed instantly, he toppled sideways and fell off. His body was trampled at once by the horses behind.

Gordianus cheered.

As Romulus had hoped, the dead man’s mount turned away from the Roman wedge, eager to escape. Now there was a small gap in the enemy ranks. He aimed straight for it.

But the other Scythians kept up a relentless fire of arrows. At twenty paces, they were hardly able to miss the unfortunate legionaries. With every step, men dropped into the snow, their blood staining it a deep red.

Someone tried to speak, but the words were unintelligible. Romulus turned his head. Gordianus had been hit at the top of his left shoulder, just above where his chain mail shirt ended.

The veteran’s face was stunned. He tried again to speak, but couldn’t. His hand rose to the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh, then fell away. Gordianus knew that pulling out the arrow would only kill him quicker.

Grief filled Romulus, but there was nothing he could do. Gordianus was a dead man.

Dropping his gladius, the veteran leaned over and firmly gripped Romulus’ shoulder with his right hand. His lips framed two silent words: ‘My friend.’

With a leaden heart, Romulus nodded.

With the last of his strength, Gordianus pushed him away. As he did, a Scythian spear took him in his exposed left side. At such close range, it punched straight through the chain mail. Gordianus’ eyes opened wide and he slumped to his knees.

Unable to watch, Romulus turned away.

‘Steady, lad,’ Brennus shouted. ‘I’m still here.’

But the battle was not going well. Horsemen were sweeping down the sides of the shrunken wedge, loosing arrows from point-blank range. Their effect was terrifying and devastating. There was no let-up in the onslaught either. With a tight turning circle, the horses were simply riding around, repeating their attacks time and again.

By now, the wedge had ground to a halt. With every casualty, another gap was created in the shield wall, making it even harder to stop the Scythian arrows and spears. Romulus judged that fewer than forty legionaries remained uninjured. And they were rapidly losing the will to fight.

Then he saw why. A horde of infantry was closing in from the rear to seal their fate.

Romulus shook his head. Mithras had turned his face away. Of Jupiter there was no sign. This was where they would die. ‘It’s over,’ he said wearily.

‘It’s never over,’ roared Brennus. Grabbing a pilum from a dead soldier at his feet, he hurled it at an approaching rider. His effort was magnificent, hitting the Scythian in the chest with such force that he was thrown backwards off his mount.

Almost immediately another replaced him.

The Gaul scowled; to Romulus it just seemed another example of how the gods had discarded them.

Brennus’ mouth opened in a sudden warning. His hand reached up to grab the hilt of his longsword.

There was a heavy impact and Romulus’ vision doubled. Blinding pain filled his head and his knees crumpled, letting him fall to the ground.

‘No!’ cried Brennus. ‘You stupid bastard!’

It was the last thing Romulus heard.