The Silver Eagle

Chapter XV: A New Threat

Margiana, winter/spring 53/52 BC

The archers stared down their arrow shafts at Romulus and Brennus, waiting for the command to release. Despite the friends’ chain mail, the short distance between them meant that the barbed iron points would tear their flesh to pieces.

Romulus’ pulse was pounding in the hollow of his throat.

Resignation filled Brennus. The pain of Optatus’ sword cut was as nothing compared to having the satisfaction of victory taken away and replaced with the threat of summary execution. Again. As a gladiator, at least he had been applauded after winning a fight. Here, he was an expendable piece of meat. If he was to die, Brennus wanted it to be as a free man, not as a prisoner or a slave.

Pacorus was about to speak when one of the sentries on the rampart bothered to glance out eastwards. Like his companions, the soldier had been totally absorbed by the combat being fought below his position. His hoarse cry of alarm drew everyone’s attention away from the pair of sweating figures standing over the legionaries’ corpses.

‘A messenger comes!’ he roared. ‘He’s signalling that an enemy is near.’

As with all units on guard duty, there was a trumpeter standing by. Quickly he put his bronze instrument to his lips and blew a short, sharp series of notes that everyone recognised.

The alarm.

Pacorus’ mouth twisted with apprehension. Before they came within shouting range, riders could raise their right arm to warn their comrades of danger. This was clearly what the sentry had seen. ‘Get to the gate,’ he barked at Vahram. ‘Bring him to me at once!’

The squat primus pilus snapped off a salute and trotted away.

Pacorus turned back to Romulus and Brennus, who were still being covered by his archers. ‘How many did you see out there?’

‘One to two thousand, sir,’ answered Romulus confidently. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘Mostly infantry?’ asked Pacorus hopefully. A much weakened people compared to their heyday centuries before, the Scythians were still feared opponents of any army. Especially their skilled horsemen.

‘About half of each, sir.’

Grey-faced, their commander sucked in a ragged breath. His forces were nearly all foot soldiers. ‘Five hundred to a thousand horse,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Mithras damn them all.’

The friends waited.

So did the Parthian bowmen.

The primus pilus arrived with a warrior on a lathered mount a few moments later. His words confirmed those of Romulus. But instead of advancing further towards the fort, the Scythians were heading north again — in the direction of their own lands and the other fortlets. Satisfied for the moment, Pacorus muttered an order to his men, who finally lowered their bows. Suddenly there were more important things on the commander’s mind than the execution of two ordinary soldiers.

The tension in Romulus’ shoulders began to dissipate, and he let out a long, slow breath.

‘Present yourselves to the optio in the first century of the primus pilus’ cohort,’ Pacorus snapped. ‘He can keep an eye on you there.’

‘Gladly, sir,’ said Vahram, leering at them. ‘There’ll be no question of desertion while I’m around.’

Romulus imagined the punishment duties that the sadistic Parthian would come up with. And yet they were alive, he thought gratefully. Brennus nudged him and they ran off, both trying not to let their injuries show. It was best not to wait for Pacorus to reconsider, and what the volatile primus pilus might do later scarcely seemed to matter.

Behind them, they heard Pacorus speak to Vahram. ‘I want the whole legion ready to march in an hour. Have all the long spears issued as well.’

‘Sir.’

‘The silk-covered shields should withstand their poison arrows,’ he went on. ‘And the spears will break their charge.’

It was the last thing that Romulus heard. Rounding a corner on to the Via Principia, they trotted along, ignoring the curious stares thrown in their direction. Soon they found themselves at their new barracks. The most important cohort in the Legion, the First was under Vahram’s personal command. Being the primus pilus was in fact two jobs: running his own unit of six centuries, as well as being the ranking senior centurion in the Forgotten Legion.

The optio of the first century was a dour Capuan called Aemilius and they found him standing in the narrow corridor, yelling orders at his men. He looked surprised to see the pair, as did the legionaries present. Everyone in the camp had heard Novius’ malicious gossip, and sour comments immediately filled the air.

Ignoring them, Romulus relayed their orders and saluted.

‘Pacorus himself sent you?’ Aemilius repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Romulus, stiffening to attention again. Brennus did likewise.

If it was humanly possible, they had to get on Aemilius’ good side from the start. Otherwise the two most senior officers in the century would be out for their blood. And that was before the legionaries became involved.

Aemilius rubbed his chin, thinking. ‘Escaped slaves, eh?’

All the men listening craned their heads to see.

There was no point denying it any longer. ‘Yes, sir,’ Romulus replied, although he no longer felt like one. Training as a soldier, fighting battles and surviving this far had given him a seasoned confidence beyond that of an ordinary slave.

Slavery had never sat easily on Brennus’ broad shoulders, but he held his tongue too. Here, remaining silent was the same as agreeing with Romulus.

While the nearby soldiers hissed with disapproval, Aemilius did not react. Romulus hid his surprise at this. It was a tiny spark of hope.

‘You were on Darius’ patrol?’

Both nodded.

‘And what they say,’ said the optio, his stare piercing, ‘is it true? Did you run away?’

‘No, sir,’ protested Romulus fiercely.

‘The men who did are lying dead on the intervallum, sir,’ added Brennus. ‘We just bested the three of them, unarmed.’

Gasps of disbelief filled the corridor. The First Cohort’s barracks was beside the Praetoria, a long distance from the front gate. Busy with routine duties, none here had witnessed the dramatic duel.

Aemilius’ eyebrows rose. ‘Did you, by Jupiter?’

‘Ask any of the other officers, sir,’ urged Romulus.

‘We’re no cowards,’ said Brennus.

Something told Romulus that the optio was a fair-minded man. He threw caution to the wind. ‘The gods helped us.’

The Gaul shook his shaggy head in agreement. After what they had been through, it did seem that way.

Superstitious mutters rippled between the legionaries.

Aemilius looked dubious. ‘I’ve seen you two on the training ground before,’ he said. ‘You’re good. Very good. More likely that’s why you’re standing here now.’

Romulus kept silent, breathing into the waves of pain from his ribs.

Aemilius relaxed. Then, noticing the deep cut on Brennus’ left forearm, he frowned. ‘You can’t hold a shield with that.’

‘Bit of strapping and I’ll be fine, sir. Don’t want to miss the fight,’ answered Brennus stolidly. ‘There are some deaths to be avenged.’

‘Whose?’

‘The men of our century, sir,’ Romulus interjected.

A slow smile appeared on the optio’s face. These two soldiers were brave at least. Time would tell if they were liars or not. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Have it seen to in the valetudinarium. Your young friend here can go to the armoury for kit and weapons.’

Romulus and Brennus hurried to obey.

There was a battle to fight.

In the event, the expected clash with the Scythians did not occur. Realising perhaps that the response to their attack would be rapid and ruthless, the nomadic warriors had pulled back from where they had been spotted by the Parthian rider. Pacorus’ order for the men to carry enough supplies for several days turned out to be a fortunate one, as the legionaries marched fruitlessly after an enemy which had the advantage of being many miles away at the start of their pursuit. The exercise proved to be nothing more than an extended training march in winter conditions. Naturally, the soldiers were not pleased by this, but they had to obey.

After three days, with his men’s food running low, the Parthian commander was forced to call a halt. But he was determined not to give up. Upon their return to the fort, six cohorts were immediately provided with enough rations for a month and sent out again. Much of the winter passed in this fashion: searching an empty, frozen landscape for a wraithlike enemy. There were occasional skirmishes with the Scythians, but nothing decisive.

Like all the others, Romulus and Brennus took part in the sorties, marching alongside Aemilius and his men. Forced to join a contubernium, they had achieved grudging acceptance from the six legionaries with whom they lived, slept and ate every day. Yet there was no friendship and the other men in the century shunned them entirely. It was no better amongst the rest of the cohorts. Like Romulus and Brennus, Caius had fully recovered from his wound, and he was ceaseless in his efforts to foment bad feeling against the two friends. No one made direct attacks on them, but the threat was always there. They could not leave each other’s company, even to visit the latrines or baths.

It was an extremely wearing existence, and Romulus grew heartily sick of it. He and Brennus could not fight the entire legion. Desertion was their one option, although there was virtually nowhere to go. Well over a thousand miles of barren wilderness lay between the fort and the city of Seleucia in the west. It was hundreds more beyond that to Roman territory. To the north and east were unknown areas, populated by savage tribes like the Sogdians and Scythians. The land of Serica, where silk came from, lay even further eastwards, but he did not know where. Romulus had a single idea: to head south, through the kingdom of the Bactrians. Occasionally some of the Parthian warriors mentioned a great city called Barbaricum, where a mighty river met the sea. Romulus had seen it once on the Periplus, Tarquinius’ ancient, annotated map. He knew that Barbaricum was a bustling trade centre, where precious items such as spices, silk, jewels and ivory were bought and sold. From it, ships apparently sailed to Egypt, carrying goods that were worth a king’s ransom in Italy and Greece.

But Romulus had no idea how to reach it: the only possible route home.

And he would not leave without Tarquinius. Neither would Brennus. There was still no sign of the haruspex anyway. He was alive, yet, as before, he was kept under close guard in Pacorus’ quarters. Any attempt to free him would doubtless end in disaster, and so the pair watched, waited and endured for many cold months. All they could do was pray to the gods.

Spring arrived, and the six cohorts which were out on patrol surprised the Scythians in their camp. Utilising the dusk for an unusually timed attack, Vahram led his men to a stunning victory. Almost the entire force of raiders was annihilated in one short, brutal encounter. With little threat remaining, the primus pilus hurried back to the fort the next day. He was doing everything in his power to regain Pacorus’ approval. A pair of riders was sent on in advance to relay the good news.

When they returned, Pacorus was waiting at the fort’s main entrance with a party of his warriors. He called Vahram to his side and exchanged a few words with him before indicating that the legionaries should enter. As the ranks of the First Cohort began passing by, the commander dipped his head in acknowledgement. He seemed genuinely pleased by their victory.

Anger filled Romulus at the sight of the swarthy Parthian in his richly cut cloak, the picture of arrogant superiority. He longed to plunge his javelin into his chest, but of course he wouldn’t: he might gain his vengeance, but Tarquinius would still be a prisoner. The young soldier dared not act. He and Brennus had been fortunate to escape with their lives and avoid the commander since. He hoped that Pacorus had forgotten them for now. With Mithras’ blessing, it would stay that way. All the two friends could do was keep their heads down.

The First Cohort came to an abrupt halt and Romulus almost walked into the soldier ahead of him. Confused, men stood on tiptoe to see what was happening. A loud commotion came from the front. Angry shouts were met by a low, insistent voice which held one’s attention.

Recognition tickled the edges of Romulus’ memory.

Taller than nearly everyone, Brennus raised a hand to his eyes.

‘See anything?’ asked Romulus.

‘No,’ came the annoyed reply.

‘What’s going on?’ snarled Pacorus impatiently at the nearest centurion. ‘Move on!’

The officer scurried to obey, using liberal strokes of his vine cane on his men, but no one would budge.

A stooped figure wrapped in a heavy blanket emerged from the gateway. Shuffling rather than walking, it limped towards Pacorus. Superstitious gasps rose from the soldiers as they saw who it was.

Positioned on the outside of the rank, Romulus could see more than the Gaul. Sadness and euphoria filled him at the same time.

All the colour drained from Brennus’ face. ‘Is it.?’ he began.

‘Yes,’ answered Romulus simply.

They had not seen him for months, but only one person in the camp had the ability to cause such confusion.

Angry that his order had not been obeyed, Pacorus snapped out another. Two of his men ran to stand before the figure, challenging it first in Parthian and then in bad Latin. There was no answer.

Another command rang out and one warrior stepped forward, roughly pulling away the blanket from the newcomer’s head. Obviously weak, he tottered backwards and nearly fell. Somehow he regained his balance and stepped forward. The Parthians blocked the move at once, but the man stood proudly, staring at Pacorus across their outstretched arms.

As Tarquinius’ face was revealed to those nearby, Romulus bit back the cry of horror that sprang to his lips. The haruspex had aged ten years. There were grey streaks in his long blond hair and new worry lines furrowed his entire face, giving him the appearance of an old man. The blanket had slipped away from his now bony shoulders, exposing his flesh, which was beaten and badly bruised. But the worst thing of all was the red, recently healed burn on Tarquinius’ left cheek. It was the shape of a knife blade.

‘They’ve tortured him,’ hissed Romulus, moving out of rank.

The Gaul’s great hand gripped his right arm, stopping him.

Romulus’ protest died away. ‘Each man’s fate is his own’ was one of the haruspex’ staple sayings. It was not his place to intervene. And Tarquinius had engineered this situation.

‘You!’ said Pacorus with a sneer. ‘Come to see what my troops have done without you?’

His warriors laughed.

Tarquinius licked his dry, cracked lips and Romulus’ heart ached.

‘Enough!’ barked the commander. ‘Move on,’ he shouted at the centurions.

‘Hold.’ Tarquinius’ voice was not loud, but every man heard what he said. Remarkably, no one moved.

Pacorus swelled with fury, yet the two Parthians holding the haruspex also seemed less certain.

‘The Scythians have been defeated,’ said Tarquinius. ‘That danger is gone.’

Pacorus could not stop the smirk that formed on his lips. He raised his arms in triumph, and his warriors cheered. Even the legionaries looked pleased.

Tarquinius waited until they had all stopped. ‘What of the Indians though?’ he asked softly.

Shock replaced the happiness in men’s faces. The five words hung in the air, which had suddenly turned clammy. Romulus glanced at Brennus, who shrugged.

‘The Indians?’ Pacorus laughed, but it rang hollow. ‘They would have to defeat the Bactrians before coming anywhere near Margiana.’

‘They have already done so.’

Pacorus’ complexion turned pale grey. ‘Spring has only just started,’ he retorted.

‘A hundred miles to the south, the snows have melted early,’ came the instant response. ‘And Bactria’s army has been crushed.’

The commander was visibly deflated.

‘A huge army is on the move towards us,’ Tarquinius continued. ‘The Indian king Azes desires more land. Unchecked, he will sweep through Margiana.’

Pacorus’ miserable expression spoke volumes. Tarquinius had mentioned this once, a long time ago. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Thirty thousand infantry,’ intoned the haruspex. ‘And perhaps five thousand cavalry. Battle chariots too.’

Shouts of disbelief rose into the air from the nearest legionaries.

‘A small threat,’ growled Pacorus, trying to shrug it off.

Tarquinius’ eyes were dark pits. ‘There are also elephants. One hundred of them at least.’

Now the soldiers began to look scared and the Parthian’s shoulders slumped.

Romulus’ joy at seeing his mentor again began to dissolve. This was the doom of the Forgotten Legion. And of his friends too. He knew it. Wrapped in new misery, he did not notice Brennus’ reaction.

There was a long silence before Pacorus finally regained control of his emotions. ‘Back to barracks. At once!’ he muttered. Morale would be affected if even more was revealed, but judging by the unhappy voices among the ranks of the First, that was already happening.

The centurions and optiones hurriedly obeyed. With kicks and curses, and blows from their vine canes, they got the men moving.

‘We must talk,’ the commander said to Tarquinius.

The haruspex gravely inclined his head. Despite his horrific injuries, there was still an air of gravitas about him.

Romulus and Brennus marched on. Tarquinius’ head turned as they came alongside. Romulus’ eyes and his met, before Tarquinius’ gaze moved to Brennus. He grinned at them, and it was impossible not to respond. The greatest threat to their lives might lie ahead, but they were all still alive.

And then they had tramped past, under the arched gateway and the sentries on the ramparts. A maelstrom of emotions could be felt in the First’s ranks. The legionaries’ elation at their stunning victory had been utterly diluted by the haruspex’ ominous words. After Novius’ accusations, Tarquinius had automatically been tarred with the same brush as Romulus and Brennus. Being incarcerated, no one could accuse him of being an escaped slave, yet he was guilty by association. But kinder memories of the terrible march east from Seleucia were also vivid. That was when Tarquinius had become widely known, nursing the sick and wounded. Moreover, his prophecies invariably came to pass, which had earned him huge respect throughout the Forgotten Legion.

If Tarquinius said that an invasion was imminent, few men would argue.

They would soon need all the luck Fortuna was prepared to throw their way.

Pacorus had indeed taken Tarquinius’ words to heart. That evening, all centurions were ordered to the Praetoria. There it was announced that the legion would march south the next day. Only a small group of warriors and those who were unable to march would be left behind. Every single ballista made by the bored armourers during the quiet winter months was to be taken. Fortunately the tough mules which had accompanied the prisoners east from Seleucia were well fed. Theirs would be a tough job too. As well as food, spare equipment and the engines of war, the pack animals had to carry hay for themselves, the long spears and the tents.

The announcement was quickly disseminated by the grim-faced centurions. Although Parthian, they too were dismayed by Pacorus’ decision. Going on campaign this early in the year was not an appealing prospect. Yet the news wasn’t of much surprise to the weary legionaries. They had been looking forward to celebrating their victory over the Scythians, and the pleasure of sleeping in their own beds. Instead, they were brooding over Tarquinius’ words, which had already been repeated a dozen times in every barracks. One perilous battle was to be followed by another, yet more ominous. As darkness fell, thousands of prayers rose up into the empty, windless sky. Few men slept well.

Romulus in particular lay awake for much of the night, considering his future. It seemed utterly hopeless. Everyone was out for their blood: Pacorus, Vahram, Caius and now the Indians. For every danger that he survived, two more seemed to spring up. As ever, deserting seemed pointless, while trying to rescue Tarquinius was tantamount to suicide. Marching to face the Indians was the only option. South, into the unknown, to a battle that no one could win. A dense gloom enveloped Romulus. But Mithras had seen fit to keep him alive this far, and Tarquinius would be travelling with the legion. Perhaps there was a faint chance.

Brennus did not like talking much. Instead he had fallen asleep and was snoring contentedly nearby, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

Wrapped up in his own troubles, Romulus still did not notice his friend’s relaxed manner.

And in the courtyard of Pacorus’ quarters, Tarquinius studied the stars filling the heavens. Try as he might, the haruspex could not see past the battle that lay ahead.

As at Carrhae, the slaughter would be immense. Too many men would die to allow the paths of three single individuals to be discerned on their own. But where were the visions that had showed the possibility of returning to Rome? Had Olenus, his mentor, been wrong?

Tarquinius too was filled with unease.

As Romulus and Brennus emerged from the confining sides of the narrow pass and the men in front began to descend, they were granted a view of the land that awaited them. Eleven days had passed and the Forgotten Legion was about to complete its traversal of the mountains to the south of its fort. With Pacorus’ expert knowledge of the area, the legionaries had marched safely through a narrow defile, well below the snowline.

‘Great visibility,’ said the Gaul, pointing due east. ‘I’d say fifty miles at least.’

It was hard to disagree. With a cloudless sky overhead, the crystal-pure air allowed them to see every tiny detail below them. Rivers thundered down from the peaks to divide the landscape into huge, irregular portions. This was more fertile land than that to the north. Small villages were dotted throughout, their patchwork fields spread unevenly around the houses. On the foothills that ran down from the mountains were thick clumps of trees. Unlike the Romans, the Parthians and Bactrians did not build roads, but plenty of well-worn tracks joined the areas of human inhabitation. It was not dissimilar to parts of southern Italy.

Pleased mutters rose from the other soldiers: there was no sign of a huge host.

Romulus sighed. He did not know which was worse — the expectation of doom, or the actuality of it.

Brennus threw a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘We’re all still alive,’ he said. ‘Breathe the air. Enjoy the view. You might as well.’

He managed a small smile.

From the following dawn, they advanced steadily, covering a good fifteen miles before dark. The next day it was twenty, and the day after that, a few more. No one knew exactly where they were going, but the rumour was that their destination was the River Hydaspes.

This was proved correct when, after nearly a week’s march, an enormous watercourse eventually halted the Forgotten Legion’s progress. Running almost directly north-south, it was at least a quarter of a mile wide. A less imposing barrier than the mountains, the river still acted as a formidable natural border.

Tarquinius sat astride his mule, watching the water glide past at speed. Around him were Pacorus and many of the senior centurions on their horses. A ring of dusty warriors stood ready at their backs, secretly relieved to rest. To get a better view, the commander’s party had advanced to the river’s edge. Low trees and heavy vegetation grew right down to the water on both sides, restricting the view of the far bank.

‘The Hydaspes,’ announced Pacorus, gesturing expansively. ‘The eastern limit of the Parthian Empire.’

‘Alexander’s army finally came to a halt not far from here,’ said Tarquinius. ‘Because his troops would go no further.’

‘They were wise men,’ the commander answered. ‘Since deepest antiquity, the Indian kings have fielded huge armies. Far bigger than that damn Greek might have had.’

That damn Greek had more military talent in his little finger than you do in your whole rotten body, thought the haruspex.

‘Nothing has changed then,’ added Vahram drily.

‘Where are they, though?’ asked Ishkan.

Nervous eyes turned to Tarquinius.

‘The gods help you if this was a wasted march,’ growled Pacorus.

Vahram gripped his sword hilt, always keen to administer a quick revenge.

Tarquinius did not answer immediately. Surviving the torture had, if anything, helped him to consider everything for longer. Raising his head, the haruspex smelt the air. His eyes never still, he searched the sky.primus pilus’

Over the previous week, the weather had improved steadily. Spring was now well under way. In the fields belonging to the settlements that they had passed, the new wheat and barley was sprouting pale green shoots. Away from the colder climate of the mountains, the plants and trees were beginning to bloom. The river level would have fallen from its winter highs, the haruspex thought. It was about two months before the monsoon began. A perfect time for an army to cross safely.

Vahram was growing impatient, but Pacorus sat quietly astride his black stallion. Although he hated it, he had grown used to Tarquinius’ contemplative manner. Waiting for a few moments more would not change the course of their fate.

Tarquinius’ gaze was drawn to a solitary huge vulture flying over the far bank. Its appearance was striking, and unusual. Black circles dramatised its eyes; the rest of its head was white, while the neck and body were a pale brown colour. Even its long, diamond-shaped tail was distinctive.

Its presence had to be of significance.

Clutching a large tortoise in its talons, the vulture was climbing steadily into the air. When it had reached a height that he judged to be at least two hundred paces, it simply let go. The tortoise plummeted to the ground, its rigid shell guaranteeing a certain death. It was followed in a more leisurely way by the bird.

A striking example of intelligence, Tarquinius thought. A good lesson, when the odds seemed insurmountable.

In the eastern distance, over the trees, he glimpsed banks of massing thunderclouds. Tarquinius gave silent thanks to Tinia and Mithras. Since Vahram’s torture, divining had become more difficult. But his talents had not completely disappeared. ‘We’re late,’ he said. ‘There are shallows two days march to the south. They’re already crossing there.’

Ishkan’s tanned face paled. He knew where the ford was, but there was no way that Tarquinius could have: none of the Parthians would have mentioned it.

This was more proof that Tarquinius’ abilities were indeed real, thought Vahram. It was good that he had not killed the haruspex. Yet, he reflected, what faced them was as ominous as the fate which awaited any who killed such a man. A week earlier, the Forgotten Legion had abandoned the easily defendable pass through the mountains. The plan had been to reach the Hydaspes before the enemy, to deny them the crossing, or at least to make them pay dearly for it. Now, the realisation that the Indians were already on this bank hit home. And on the open ground by the river, their situation seemed even more vulnerable.

Pacorus set his jaw. A brave man, he was not about to run from his duty. Better to die honourably in battle against Parthia’s enemies than suffer an ignominious end at the hands of King Orodes’ executioners. He looked searchingly at Tarquinius. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘There is much to be done.’

Vahram sneered. ‘What can we possibly do, except die?’

‘Teach the Indians a lesson they will never forget,’ growled Pacorus.

Tired and footsore after yet another long march, the legionaries were unhappy at having to erect a marching camp a good mile from the river. The distance meant that those on water-hauling duty would spend far more time driving the mules to and fro than normal.

Romulus wasn’t concerned by the camp’s location. He had seen the Parthian horsemen take off at dawn, and knew that something was up.

When it was announced that every man would have to work the next day as well, the grumbling grew even louder. No one dared to question the order, however. Opening one’s mouth guaranteed severe punishment. Besides, it made sense to build defences.

The following dawn, they started. Brennus took to the task with gusto. In his huge hands, a shovel looked like a toy. But the amount of earth that he moved proved otherwise.

The Hydaspes was to shield the Forgotten Legion’s left flank. Under Tarquinius’ direction, the soldiers dug lines of deep curved ditches parallel to the riverbank, but about eight hundred paces away. This was the approximate width of the legion in battle formation. Branches were cut and trimmed, and dug into the bottoms of the defences. Facing outwards like one half of a circle, the trenches would protect the right flank. Without significant numbers of cavalry, this was the haruspex’ way of improvising. Inside the ditches, hundreds more sharpened wooden stakes were buried at an angle in the ground, jutting forward like so many crooked teeth in a crocodile’s jaws. In between them were scattered the caltrops, their iron spikes sticking jauntily into the air.

The dozen ballistae were split up, half facing forward along the line, and the rest placed to cover the area in front of the ditches. If necessary, they could be turned to cover the rear as well. The men that could be spared from other duties searched out suitably sized rocks by the river, and used the mules to haul them back. Pyramidal piles of this ammunition were built up beside each catapult. They varied from the size of a fist to lumps bigger than a man’s head. Aimed and fired correctly, all were deadly. Romulus had watched the artillerymen practising on many occasions and knew that the ballistae would play an important part in the battle.

The last, unexplained task was to dig a narrow yet deep trench from the river; it crossed right in front of where the Forgotten Legion would stand. Scores of long side channels were also excavated, until the ground looked like a field with too many irrigation channels. The final part of the trench, which would allow the Hydaspes to pour in and reach all its tributaries, was finished last. As the final clumps of soil were dug away, the trickle soon became a minor torrent, filling the channels to the brim.

With their purpose made obvious, there were weary smiles all round. By the morning, the area would be a quagmire.

The day of intense physical labour was over, allowing the legionaries to dwell on morbid matters — such as their future. And the battle that loomed ever nearer.

The remnants of Pacorus’ horsemen arrived back that evening, bloody and battered. They had been attacked by a far greater force of Indian cavalry, suffering heavy losses. And they reported that the army that followed in their wake was as large as Tarquinius had predicted. Or larger. It would arrive the next day.

A deep despondency fell on the legionaries. The haruspex had been proved correct yet again. Every single man in the Forgotten Legion but one wished the opposite.

Romulus knew now that he could not escape his fate. He felt it rushing in as if borne on the wings of doom itself. Thoughts of returning to Rome seemed utterly futile, a waste of valuable energy. Better to save it for the fight the next day, when death would find them all on this green plain, by the River Hydaspes. Seventeen seemed too young to die, he thought sadly.

A strange sense of complacency filled Brennus. Word had spread that they were not far from where Alexander’s incredible advance had been halted. ‘This is the end of the world,’ muttered many men as they sat around their fires that night. ‘Even if they could, who would want to travel any further?’

Their unknowing words reverberated deep in the core of the Gaul’s being.

A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.

After nine long years, the gods were finally beginning to reveal their purpose to him.