The Silver Eagle

Chapter XVII: The Final Battle

By the River Hydaspes, India, spring 52 BC

When day broke, the rising sun lit the eastern horizon with a deep shade of crimson. The blood-red tinge actually seemed quite apt to the poorly rested, irritable legionaries. With a sky that colour, Hades could not be far away. Fervent prayers were uttered as men made their last requests of the gods. As always, wives, children and family were high on the list. While those in Italy had no doubt given them up for dead, the soldiers of the Forgotten Legion had survived partly by thinking of home. Now, for the last time, they asked the deities to protect their loved ones. They themselves had little need.

Those who could face it had a light breakfast; they weren’t many. More important were their water bags, which were full to the brim. Combat was thirsty work.

Not long after dawn, Pacorus had them march to their position parallel to the riverbank. Positioned about half a mile away, the temporary marching camp with their tents and spare equipment was simply abandoned. It did not need to be defended. If by a miracle the Forgotten Legion was victorious, its contents would be safe. If not, it did not matter what happened to their yokes, clothes and few valuables.

With the most experienced veterans, the First was positioned in the centre of the line. It was flanked by five more on each side, with seven cohorts and Pacorus’ remaining horsemen held in reserve. His warriors were also kept back, surrounding his position behind the First. A group of Parthian drummers and Roman trumpeters waited on one side, ready to pass on Pacorus’ commands. That was also where the aquilifer was placed: far enough back to protect the silver eagle, but close enough that every man could see it if he turned his head.

Every single tiny scrap of advantage was to be wrung out.

The first five ranks of legionaries were armed with the long spears, while nearly two-thirds had a silk-covered shield. The precious fabric obtained from Isaac, the Judaean merchant they had encountered en route to Margiana, only covered five thousand shields or so. It would have to suffice. At the sides and rear, the soldiers manning the ballistae turned and twisted their machines, making sure the mechanisms were well oiled, the washers tightened to the maximum and the thick gut strings sufficiently taut. Arcs of fire were checked repeatedly, as were the piles of stones alongside. The old hands among the artillerymen had already paced out the ground in front, marking each hundred paces with a distinctively shaped rock or a stake driven almost completely into the earth. It gave them exact range markers, and would make their volleys far more lethal.

Finally, a party was sent to dig out even more of the trench near the river, allowing more torrents of water to pour through and causing all the carefully dug channels to overflow. Then the entire area was covered with small branches, concealing the digging that had gone on. Seeing the result helped to lift the men’s sombre mood a fraction.

They all waited.

It was a beautiful clear morning. The ominous red colour had lightened and then faded away, letting the sky turn its usual blue. The only clouds visible were groups of delicately shaped lines, very high up, but they still managed to dull the bright sunlight and kept the temperature pleasingly cool. The air was calm, and filled with a rich variety of birdsong from the trees along the riverbank. In the distance, a group of wild asses moved through the long grass, flicking their tails to keep flies at bay.

Romulus had already seen Tarquinius standing beside Pacorus, pointing here and there as they discussed the best battle strategy. There was no chance of talking with the haruspex, and Romulus had to hope that he and Brennus would be with him if the end came.

When it came, Romulus thought bitterly. He needed no ability to prophesy here, for the army that came to meet them was vast.

The Indian horsemen were the first to arrive. Riding small, agile ponies, the turbaned warriors carried a variety of weapons from javelins and bows to short spears and round or crescent-shaped shields. Bare-chested, dark-skinned, few wore any armour at all. Instead, a simple loincloth sufficed. Carefully keeping out of arrow range, they watched the Romans with dark, inscrutable eyes. These were skirmishers, highly mobile troops similar to the Gauls who had accompanied Crassus; their versatility could turn the course of a battle. There were at least five thousand of them, while Pacorus had perhaps two hundred and fifty horsemen remaining. Knowing this, many of the enemy confidently rode their horses down to the river to drink.

But they made no attempt to attack the Forgotten Legion. In their eyes, there was no need.

Pacorus kept silent, saving his men and the stones from his ballistae. Every single one was now more precious than gold.

Next to arrive were the battle chariots. Pulled by pairs of horses, they were larger than any Romulus had ever seen. Built from hardwood, and richly decorated with silver and gold inlay on their sides and solid wheels, they were essentially raised, enclosed battle platforms containing a driver and two or three warriors armed with spears and bows.

Romulus counted nearly three hundred of them.

As the chariots joined their cavalry comrades, shouts and jeers were hurled at the Roman lines. More and more voices joined in, until the mighty din filled the air. The exact words of the insults were unclear, but the meaning was crystal clear.

Following normal Roman tactics, the legionaries remained totally quiet. After a while, this had the effect of silencing the Indians and a strange peace reigned as the two sides watched each other warily. Some time later, the air filled with a low thunder.

The legionaries peered upwards, but there were no ominous-looking clouds in sight. Then it dawned on them that the noise was from the sheer number of infantry approaching. As the horizon to the south filled with the shapes of marching men, Romulus gradually picked out groups of archers, slingers and ordinary foot soldiers. The variety of weapons they carried was enormous: it seemed that no two men were armed the same. He saw axes, short swords, spears, even longswords like Brennus’ mighty one. There were pikes, spiked maces and knives with angled blades similar to those used by Thracian gladiators. Like the cavalry, most of the Indians wore no protective clothing at all. Some had leather armour and helmets and carried small, round shields. Just a few were wealthy enough to have mail or scale coats, but all were more lightly protected than the legionaries, with their heavy scuta and thigh-length chain mail. It didn’t matter.

There were at least thirty thousand of them.

The enemy numbers were bad enough, but this was not what had the Roman soldiers shifting uneasily from side to side. The low rumbling sound was not just from the men who drew ever nearer. It was being made by animals. Above the enemy ranks loomed the shapes of great, grey beasts.

Elephants.

There were dozens of them, guided by a mahout wielding a short staff topped with a sharpened hook. Each was wearing on its back a thick red fabric caparison, which was held in place by a band of leather that ran around its broad chest. Two or three archers and spearmen perched on this carpet, gripping tightly with their knees to stay in place. Every tenth beast carried a single passenger who was positioned above large drums hanging on both sides: these men’s sole purpose was to relay orders during battle. The animals’ small ears flapped from side to side as they lumbered along, giving them a deceptively gentle appearance. This contrasted with the heavy layers of moulded leather covering their heads and shoulders. To protect the mahout, a protective fan of the same material protruded upwards from the nape of the neck. As they drew nearer, it was possible to see that many of the elephants’ tusks were tipped with points or swords. A number even had spiked iron balls on chains dangling from their trunks.

They looked unassailable. Invincible. Romulus’ heart sank further, and even Brennus was dismayed; on either side of them, the legionaries looked downright terrified. The junior officers and Parthian centurions shuffled their feet uncertainly.

By now, the use of elephants in the arena was reasonably commonplace. There they killed or maimed at will. Even if he had not seen it for himself, every Roman knew of the huge beasts’ capacity to tear apart men like firewood. The Nubian king Jugurtha had used them in his fight against Rome, and no one ever forgot King Pyrrhus or the Carthaginians, enemies who had used elephants against the legions with devastating effect. It had given them a place in legend. And while Roman allies had used the great beasts alongside legionaries for many years now, most men here had never trained or fought with them.

Elephants were the ultimate battle weapon, able to smash aside almost any opposition — and the Indians knew it.

Romulus could almost sense their confidence as he watched the laughing, chattering men opposite. They were happy to delay the battle until all their forces had arrived.

Fearful muttering began in the Forgotten Legion’s ranks. Prayers and curses mingled in equal numbers. The whole pantheon of gods and goddesses were named: Jupiter, Mars and Minerva. Fortuna and Orcus. Neptune, Aesculapius and Mithras. Even Bacchus got a mention as every possible divine being was called upon. It made no difference. They were alone on the plain.

The solid lines of legionaries began to waver back and forth like reeds in the wind.

‘We’re doomed,’ shouted one.

His cry was infectious.

‘It’s Carrhae all over again!’

Fear changed at once to panic.

Romulus glanced at the terrified faces around him. Despite the cool air, they were sweating. If something was not done fast, the legionaries would flee. And if they did that, he knew exactly what would happen. The Indians would simply run riot. The plain truly would become another Carrhae.

He could see that Brennus thought the same, but neither man knew what to say to their comrades.

‘Take courage,’ shouted a familiar voice.

Heads turned in surprise.

Pushing his way through the ranks, Tarquinius emerged to stand before the frightened soldiers. Pointedly turning his back on the enemy, he held up his hands for silence.

A hush fell over the Forgotten Legion.

‘This is a long way from Italy,’ the haruspex began. ‘A whole world away.’

Nervous laughter met his comment.

‘But that does not mean you should forget who you are. Look behind you,’ he urged. ‘At the silver eagle.’

The legionaries obeyed.

‘It is watching your every move,’ Tarquinius announced loudly.

Sensing the moment’s importance, the Rays of sunlight lit up the metal bird, and the golden thunderbolt in its talons glittered and flashed. No one could fail to be impressed by its imperious stare, thought Romulus, taking heart. Even elephants could not scare the eagle.aquilifer raised his wooden pole high.

Their pride stirred, men looked to each other for reassurance.

‘You are Roman soldiers!’ Tarquinius cried. ‘Who do not run!’

This raised a ragged cheer, but many remained unconvinced.

‘What can we do against those monsters?’ shouted a man near Romulus.

‘The fucking Parthians are no use,’ said another. ‘Their mounts will be terrified.’

Uneasy murmurs met the comment. As many knew, the musty smell of elephants made horses panic. They had to be trained to accept the presence of such strange creatures.

‘We haven’t got any flaming pigs to set among them either,’ Aemilius quipped.

There was a burst of laughter from those who got the joke. One of the more successful tactics employed against the Carthaginians’ elephants had been to coat swine in grease and pitch before setting them alight and driving the screaming creatures into the enemy’s midst.

If only we had axes, thought Romulus. Another historical method used to disable the great beasts was to run underneath and hamstring them. But Tarquinius possessed the only such weapon in the Forgotten Legion.

‘We haven’t.’ Tarquinius smiled thinly. ‘But Alexander’s hoplites learned to defeat them long ago,’ he revealed. ‘Near this very spot.’

Hope appeared in some faces. Despite all her previous glories, Greece was now under Rome’s control, its formerly invincible phalanxes no match for the legions. Surely they too could equal what a conquered people had done?

‘More recently than that,’ Tarquinius went on, ‘Roman legionaries learned to fight the elephants of Carthage and beat them. Without pigs.’

‘Tell us how,’ shouted Aemilius.

Romulus and Brennus roared in agreement and a more determined air settled over the Roman soldiers.

Tarquinius looked pleased. ‘Use the long spears,’ he said. ‘Keep them bunched together. Aim at the elephants’ sensitive spots: their trunks and eyes. They won’t advance if it’s too painful to do so.’

The nearest legionaries nodded keenly.

‘And every man with pila,’ cried the haruspex, ‘yours is the most important job of all.’

The ears of those at the rear pricked up.

‘The mahouts control these beasts. They sit on the shoulders, just behind the head, and wear little or no armour. All that protects them is the fan of leather in front,’ Tarquinius explained. ‘Kill them, and the elephants will turn and flee.’

Determination began to replace some of the fear.

‘Then it’s just the rest we have to deal with,’ joked Aemilius. ‘No problem, eh?’

It was the right thing to say. Men grinned at each other, taking strength from the knowledge that they had been through hell together before. They even laughed, slapping each other on the shoulders. They accepted that death was likely, but they would not run. That was what cowards did.

High overhead, a raven croaked. It was a good omen, and everyone’s eyes lifted to the sky.

Glancing up with the rest, Romulus watched the black bird swooping through the air from behind their position, controlling its flight with astonishing precision. Its head turned, taking in the legionaries arrayed beneath it. Bizarrely, Romulus had a real sense that it was assessing the battlefield. He could not shake off the feeling.

Seeing him look, Tarquinius also lifted his gaze as the raven crossed into no-man’s-land. Even some of the Indian troops began to stare upwards.

As it flew over the enemy lines, the bird croaked again, a raw, angry cry that pierced the air. It was if the Indians’ presence offended it in some way. Without further warning, the raven pulled in its wings and dived towards the lead elephant. Like a black stone, it hurtled downwards, aiming its powerful beak straight at the beast’s head.

Brennus had seen too. ‘What’s it doing?’

Awestruck by its suicidal bravery, Romulus did not answer.

More and more legionaries began pointing and gesticulating.

‘The raven is helping us,’ cried Tarquinius. ‘It’s a sign from the gods!’

Finally a cheer of approval left the men’s throats.

Even Pacorus and his warriors were watching, agog. ‘Mithras is watching over us,’ a number of warriors shouted. ‘He has sent his Corax to help!’

Delighted by this revelation, Romulus threw up a prayer to his new favourite deity.

Gradually the mahout on the front elephant realised that something was up. When he saw the raven plummeting towards him, he cried out in fear. His shout was enough to unsettle the massive creature; it raised its trunk and blared an alarm. Its companions’ response was immediate. Loud bugles of distress echoed up and down the Indian line, and the mahouts struggled to control their mounts. The response of their infantry and cavalry was most pleasing: to a man they looked terrified.

‘See?’ shouted Tarquinius. ‘They’re frightened of their own beasts! If we can panic them, they will turn and run.’

Now a rousing cheer went up from the legionaries.

When it was less than twenty paces above the elephant’s head, the raven suddenly pulled out of its dive and banked up into the sky again. Scores of Indian archers shot arrows at it, to no avail. Their shafts flew up in dense shoals and fell back to earth, wasted. Flapping strongly, the raven had soon climbed far out of range. Without further ado, it flew off to the west, its odd action a complete mystery.

It’s heading towards Italy, thought Romulus sadly. For some reason, a powerful image of Fabiola struck home, and he took heart.

He missed Tarquinius’ dark eyes upon him.

The black bird left unsettled elephants, angry mahouts and a less confident Indian host in its wake. The lead beast was still most unhappy, and had barged backwards out of line. Screams carried through the air as some of the closely packed infantry were trampled to death.

‘If a raven can scare an elephant like that, imagine what a dozen spears in the face will do!’ Tarquinius raised a clenched fist. ‘The Forgotten Legion!’

Proud of the name he had originally coined, Brennus echoed the cry.

A passionate roar followed the haruspex’ words. Swelling as it rolled through the ranks, the legionaries’ response was fuelled as much by desperation as it was by bravery. As at Carrhae, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. They had to stand and fight, or die.

The men’s reasons did not matter, thought Romulus. As he knew from the arena, courage was a mixture of many emotions. What mattered was the belief that there was a chance of survival, however slim. He gripped his spear shaft tightly and held on to the tiny spark of hope in his own heart, gathering himself for the titanic struggle. Mithras, watch over us, he thought.

The Indian leader did not delay his attack any further. There was no reason to. The raven’s odd behaviour had already handed a small advantage to his enemies. The sooner they were crushed, the better. His first mistake was to send in the battle chariots.

Their wheels creaking loudly, they rolled towards the Roman lines at the speed of a man walking fast. Hundreds of infantry accompanied them, filling the spaces between to form a great wall of men and weapons. Musicians played drums, cymbals and bells, and the soldiers chanted as they came on. The noise was incredible. Used to smashing apart enemy formations with this initial charge, the Indians were full of confidence.

Then the chariots reached the covered water channels.

Which had turned the earth into a mud bath.

Simultaneously, all the lead chariots’ solid wheels sank deep into the morass. Cumbersome, hard to manoeuvre and immensely heavy, the battle platforms were not made to travel on anything other than flat, firm ground. The frustrated charioteers whipped on their horses. Valiantly obeying, the steeds pulled a few steps further. Now the chariots sank to the axles, and the attack stalled before it had even come near the waiting legionaries.

Pacorus’ response was instantaneous. ‘Loose!’ he roared at the soldiers manning the ballistae that covered their front.

The grizzled optio in charge had been waiting for this moment, and had already marked the Indians’ distance from his position. It was less than two hundred paces, a good killing range. He barked an order and the six powerful machines twanged as one, hurling pieces of stone bigger than a man’s head in a graceful arc over the Roman lines.

Romulus watched in awe. He had not seen ballistae used much since before Carrhae. The pitched battles fought by the Forgotten Legion were never large enough to require them. Today though, every shot counted. What mattered was causing maximum enemy casualties. Through this was their only chance of victory.

The volley was a good start.

The optio’s range marking was precise. The sixth stone merely smashed the front wheel of a chariot, immobilising it, but the rest found human targets. Men’s heads were cleanly ripped off, chests smashed in, limbs pulverised. The horrified companions of those hit were covered in a red mist of blood from spraying carotids. Their energy still unspent, the boulders went on to tear holes in the chariots’ sides or injure more soldiers before they fell to the ground, throwing up great splashes of mud and water.

The stunned Indians had barely time to react before the ballistae fired again. Yet more chariots were torn asunder, their crews killed or maimed. With his next barrage, the optio had his men load smaller stones and aim at the infantry. It was like watching heavy rain knock down a field of ripe wheat, thought Romulus. Gaping holes opened up in the Indian ranks as the projectiles landed, taking out far greater numbers than the previous volleys. It was a complete slaughter.

‘Stop them with the mud, then massacre the poor bastards,’ said Brennus, grimacing. ‘Very efficient. Very Roman.’

‘They’d do the same to us,’ retorted Romulus.

‘True,’ replied the Gaul. ‘And there’ll be plenty left.’

Keen to conserve the catapults’ rapidly dwindling store of ammunition, Pacorus signalled the optio to cease firing. Their volleys had pulverised the Indian attack. Already the enemy infantry were fleeing in blind panic towards their own lines.

The bucinae signalled that the First and Third Cohorts should advance at once. Leaving their heavy spears behind, they trotted forward, their caligae squelching through the mud. Romulus gritted his teeth. Their purpose was to kill the survivors.

The gruesome task did not take long. It was a necessary evil, reducing enemy numbers and badly affecting their watching comrades’ morale. Fearful and in disarray, the main Indian force looked on as the unfortunates left behind were dispatched by the legionaries. Soon the only living figures in the muddy area were those of Roman soldiers. Indian infantry lay scattered in piles while other bodies festooned the stationary battle platforms, hanging half-in, half-out as if still trying to escape.

The signal to withdraw rang out.

Concerned about the dozens of horses tethered by their traces and struggling in the mud before the immobilised chariots, Romulus was busy chopping through as many leather straps as he could. It was also a way to avoid killing injured, helpless enemy soldiers. He had set free a number of teams when Brennus grabbed him.

‘Come on!’ urged the Gaul. ‘You can’t help them all.’

Romulus glanced at their comrades, already halfway back to their own lines. On the other side, the enraged Indian leader had signalled his mahouts to move forward. With ponderous steps, the now calm elephants began to advance.

‘We don’t want to be caught here when those arrive,’ said Brennus.

Adrenalin pumping, they both laughed at the absurdity of two men fighting an army of elephants. They turned and ran.

Their Parthian centurion glared furiously at them as they reassumed their position. But it was not the time or place to punish minor infractions like this. It was enough that hundreds of Indians had been killed with no Parthian casualties at all.

Buoyed up by the combined success of the water channels and the catapults’ volleys, the legionaries’ demeanour was much steadier as they watched the elephants approach. The enemy infantry had finally been rallied by their officers and were marching between the grey beasts, using them as protection from attack.

Romulus took in the Indians’ tactic at a glance. The elephants would try to smash apart the Roman shield wall and then the foot soldiers could pour into the gaps. If that happened, the Forgotten Legion would quickly be overwhelmed. He grimaced. It was vital that they used their long spears as Tarquinius had said.

Whooping loudly, the Indian cavalry broke away from their army and cantered off to the west. There was no point trying to charge through the mass of abandoned chariots and corpses, so the Indian leader had ordered a probing attack around his enemies. Romulus was not worried by this. Thanks to the defensive ditches, any attempt to flank the Forgotten Legion would not work. And he doubted the lightly armed horsemen could break through the reserve cohorts either. At least a thousand of the long spears had been held back to use in this exact scenario.

Romulus shifted from foot to foot, trusting in the soldiers at his back, just as they were depending on him and Brennus. Perhaps if they survived, their status as escaped slaves would not be such a badge of hatred for the other legionaries. In his heart, Romulus doubted that would happen. It seemed that in the eyes of citizens and free men, there was an inescapable stain on the character of a former slave. The knowledge left a sour taste in his mouth. He longed to be accepted for what he was — a good soldier.

Using their short staffs to guide their mounts, the mahouts manoeuvred between the stranded chariots full of corpses. The obstacles slowed up their progress, and it bunched the elephants closely. Together with their enormous size, it made them excellent targets.

‘Loose!’ roared the optio by the ballistae.

More stones flew through the air, striking the elephants on their heads and bodies. Some hit the warriors on their backs, hurling them to the ground. The projectiles were not powerful enough to badly injure the huge beasts, but, better than this, they created fear and confusion. Ignoring their frantic mahouts, many elephants immediately whirled around and stampeded into the distance. Any Indian infantry in their path were trampled underfoot without regard.

A pair began fighting fiercely, battering each other with their iron-tipped tusks in an effort to wound or disable. Another barrage of stones landed; one beast was struck in the eye and also ran away, trumpeting in pain. But the rest, better trained, continued tramping forward.

Close behind marched the tightly packed Indian infantry, allowing the Romans to study them properly for the first time. Many men sported cloth turbans, and they wore an incredible variety of garments from loincloths to leather armour and chain mail. Large numbers carried round shields while others carried tall ones fashioned from animal skin. Romulus saw crescent shields similar to those carried by the Scythians, as well as rounded triangular ones. The foot soldiers were armed with spears, long and short swords, axes and knives. Like retiarii in the arena, some even carried tridents. Romulus did not even recognise a number of the weapons: leaf-shaped double-ended blades with a short handle in between, and lengths of thick wood wrapped with bands of iron.

But none of the men struck fear into Romulus’ heart as the elephants did. They were now very near. Terrifyingly, the closest one had a spiked metal ball on a chain attached to the end of its trunk. Romulus could already imagine its destructive power. Suddenly the long spear in his hands, made from Margianian iron and so successful against enemies on horseback, seemed puny.

Following orders, half the legionaries had slung their scuta from their shoulders by their leather carrying straps. Only a two-handed grip on their spears would suffice. To combat the enemy foot soldiers, every second man retained his shield and drew his sword.

Soon the elephant’s musky odour reached their nostrils. It was strong but not unpleasant; Romulus thought he could smell alcohol too. Lines of coloured paint had been drawn around the beast’s eyes, while an ornate silver headdress covering the head completed its exotic and fearsome appearance. Dangling its lethal ball, the prehensile trunk swayed from side to side, its tip scenting the Romans’ alien smell. The mahout shouted and used his goad, forcing the elephant into a shambling run. High above on its back, the warriors readied their bows and spears. Hastily released arrows shot past Romulus, one plunging deep into a legionary’s eye.

His screams did little for the soldiers’ nerves. There were grey faces everywhere now. Men rubbed lucky phallic amulets, cleared their throats nervously and spat on the ground; others whispered prayers to their favourite deities. At least one legionary vomited, his courage frayed to breaking point. The acrid smell of bile mingled with those of the elephant and men’s sweat.

Romulus glanced at Brennus. The Gaul was eyeing him proudly and he ducked his head, embarrassed. A tickling worry began at the back of his mind. Something Tarquinius had said, a long time ago. Could that moment be now?

‘Raise your spears!’ bellowed Aemilius, his nerves still steady. ‘Those at the back, ready pila.’

Wooden shafts clattered together as the front ranks obeyed. Behind them, line after line of right arms swung back, pointing barbed javelin heads upwards. Indian arrows hummed through the air, but the legionaries just had to ignore them. Some struck home, creating small gaps in the line. More shafts followed, accompanied by a volley of stones from the enemy slingers.

Twenty paces separated the two sides.

Screaming blood-curdling battle cries, the Indian infantry broke into a full charge.

A cold sweat broke out on Romulus’ forehead, but his spear tip did not waver. Oddly, Brennus began to laugh, a strange jarring sound coming from deep in his chest. His blue eyes lit up with battle rage; he looked terrifying. Romulus was very glad that the Gaul was fighting with, not against him.

‘Hold steady, lads!’ Aemilius shouted.

To the legionaries’ credit, they did not break.

Blaring with anger from the mahout’s blows, the lead elephant reached the forest of spears. Bending like twigs, half of them simply snapped in two.

Romulus’ vision was entirely filled with flashing metal-tipped tusks, a swinging trunk and the beast’s open, angry mouth. He could see streams of thick, pungent-smelling liquid pouring down the sides of its face, but did not realise their significance. He would find out later that it meant the bull was full of breeding ‘rage’. But all he could do right then was react. And use his spear.

‘Aim at the head!’ screamed Aemilius. ‘Loose javelins!’

A flurry of pila shot up, striking the elephant in the face and wounding the mahout in the right arm. Two of the warriors on its back fell off, injured or killed, but the last continued to fire arrows at the legionaries. Bellowing with rage, the massive creature swung its head and the spiked metal ball spun forward on its chain, sweeping aside more of the long spears as if they were brushwood. As it swung back, the deadly weapon carried a trio of soldiers into the air, crushing the skull of the first and badly injuring the others.

Leaning down towards his mount’s ear, the mahout shouted encouragement.

Around came the ball again, tearing the front ranks apart.

The man next to Romulus had his shoulder smashed into pieces by a glancing blow. With rings of chain mail mashed deep into his flesh, he collapsed in a heap, screaming.

Relieved it had not been him, Romulus stabbed at the elephant’s head. It made no difference at all. The beast’s destructive power was matched by the sheer terror it caused. All the Romans’ efforts were in vain: it was like trying to kill a mythical monster. Even Brennus’ powerful thrusts seemed to have little effect. Romulus was beginning to despair when a lucky javelin took the mahout through the chest. Hurled by a legionary several ranks behind, its pyramidal iron head punched through his ribs. Mortally wounded, he toppled sideways from his position.

‘Now’s our chance!’ cried Romulus, remembering Tarquinius’ advice. ‘Attack it!’

The soldiers’ spirits rallied and a dozen long spears were shoved up into the elephant’s neck and shoulders, penetrating its leather armour. Blood streamed from multiple wounds. Bellowing in pain and no longer guided by the mahout, it turned and pounded back into the Indian ranks, trampling men like ripe fruit.

Before the legionaries could even cheer, the enemy infantry slammed into their lines.

Brennus jumped forward. With a huge slice of his gladius, he took off the head of the first man to reach him.

Frantically, Romulus dropped his spear and unslung his scutum. All around him, his comrades were doing the same, but it was too late to form a complete shield wall.

Short and wiry, the dark-skinned soldiers swarmed into the gaps, thrusting and stabbing.

Plunging his shield boss into a bearded Indian’s face, Romulus felt the man’s cheekbone break against the metal. As he reeled back, Romulus thrust his sword into his unprotected midriff. It was a disabling blow and he ignored the Indian as the blade pulled free. Concentrate on the next enemy, he thought. Stay focused.

Even as he killed another man, Romulus knew that the Indians’ attack was too powerful. He fought on regardless. What else was there to do? Like a machine, he cut and thrust with his gladius, always mindful of the soldiers on either side. Beside him, Brennus bellowed like a lunatic, dispatching every Indian who came near.

At last, thanks to good discipline, the shield wall began to re-form in their section of the line. Without the elephants to back them up, the lightly armed Indian foot soldiers were unable to break the First’s formation. Peering around desperately, Romulus could see that their centre was holding fast, but the cohorts on each side were buckling badly under the pressure.

Then the left flank gave way.

Trumpeting in a combination of triumph and rage, a trio of elephants barged forward, followed by hundreds of baying warriors.

Seeing them, Romulus was swamped by a tide of hopelessness. The end was near. The Indians were simply too many. Even the reserves could not stop this.

He and Brennus exchanged a significant look. It said many things to both. Love. Respect. Honour. Pride. But there was no time to vocalise any of them.

Sensing victory, the Indians facing the First Cohort redoubled their attack. Soon half a dozen more men had died beneath Romulus’ and Brennus’ blades. Then it was ten, but the enemy no longer quailed at the danger. The scent of victory was in their nostrils. Screaming incoherently, they pushed forward, uncaring that a certain death awaited those at the front.

As Romulus’ gladius pulled free from the chest of a thin man with prominent ribs, the din of battle suddenly dimmed. From behind him came a voice.

‘Time to go.’

With Romulus’ dying enemy falling in slow motion, there was a moment of safety before another replaced him. He turned his head.

The haruspex was two steps to his rear, his battleaxe gripped in both hands. Amazingly, there was a new energy about him. Gone was the stoop, the age-old weariness. Instead the figure looked more like the Tarquinius of old.

Romulus was stunned. He felt joy and confusion in equal measure at Tarquinius’ reappearance. ‘Leave our comrades?’ he faltered.

‘We cannot run.’ Brennus glanced angrily over his shoulder. ‘You said I would face a battle that no one else could fight. This must be it.’

The haruspex regarded him steadily. ‘It is not over yet,’ he said.

The Gaul stared at him, then nodded once.

Romulus’ face twisted with anguish. He could not bear it: his hunch was correct.

Before Romulus could utter a word, Tarquinius spoke again. ‘We must leave at once, or our chance will be lost. There is safety on the far bank of the river.’

Their gaze followed his outstretched arm to the other side, which was completely deserted. To reach it, they would have to fight their way through the bitter hand-to-hand struggle between the elephants and the doomed legionaries of the left flank.

‘If we stay?’ Romulus asked.

‘Certain death. You must each choose,’ the haruspex replied, his dark eyes inscrutable. ‘But the road to Rome lies over there. I saw it in the Mithraeum.’

Mithras has kept faith with me! Grief and joy were tearing Romulus in two. He wanted to return home, but not at this price.

Brennus gave him a huge shove. ‘We’re going, and that’s final.’

Almost of their own accord, Romulus’ feet began to move. He felt numb.

With great difficulty, they managed to turn and shove their way through the packed ranks, ignoring the objections that followed. Romulus found it hardest to meet the legionaries’ angry stares.

‘Where are you going?’ demanded one.

‘Cowards!’ cried another.

‘Typical fucking slaves,’ added the man to his right.

Romulus flushed with shame at the familiar insult.

More rained down before the most vocal soldier’s voice came to an abrupt, choking halt.

Brennus’ right hand had taken an iron grip on his throat. ‘The haruspex here has told us we must follow our destiny to the left flank,’ he snarled. ‘Like to join us?’

The legionary shook his head dumbly.

Satisfied, Brennus released him.

No one else dared to speak, and the trio ducked their heads, pushing on. When they reached the edge of the First Cohort, it suddenly became easier to move. The narrow gap between it and the next unit which allowed manoeuvring in battle was still present. Tarquinius darted down it, away from the front line. The two friends followed. In less than a hundred paces, they were clear.

Behind the cohorts was a small open area. It was here that the ballistae stood.

And it was also where Pacorus, Vahram and the last of the reserves were gathered.

Romulus threw a hate-filled glance at the primus pilus, whose eyes somehow locked with his.

Barely taking time to notify Pacorus, Vahram whipped his horse into a gallop. ‘After them!’ he screamed at the nearest warriors. ‘A talent to the man who brings me any of their heads.’

The amount of gold mentioned was worth more than a lifetime’s pay for the average soldier. Every Parthian who heard responded, charging wildly in pursuit.

Thankfully, within twenty steps they had been subsumed into the heaving confusion of men and beasts that was the left flank. The cries of injured soldiers and shouted orders from the officers mixed with loud trumpeting and the metallic clash of arms. The only discernible detail was that the Roman lines were being inexorably, inevitably, driven backwards. Throwing in the reserve cohorts had failed, and shields and swords could only withstand the weight of angry elephants for so long. Craning his head, Romulus saw that the nearest behemoths were almost within javelin range. If they did not hurry, they too would meet the same fate as the legionaries at the front. Judging by the screams, it was not a pleasant way to die.

On they went, occasionally having to use the flat edges of their weapons to create a space. Romulus no longer felt dishonour at this. Theirs was a primeval struggle for survival, and since Optatus’ discovery of their status, none of these men had done anything but show hatred towards them. The last comments by the soldiers of his own cohort said it all. Romulus’ comradeship with the Forgotten Legion was dead. And Tarquinius had seen a possible road to Rome for him. It was time to take what the gods had offered.

They emerged near the river soon afterwards. A narrow band of ground was clear of combatants; the risk of falling in and drowning kept both sides away.

Romulus’ spirits began to lift. They were all three still alive and unscathed. His chest heaving, he peered at the muddy, roiling water. It flowed swiftly by, impervious to the noise and to the blood being shed only a few steps away. It was a long way to the far side. Branches and other debris swept past, revealing the river’s massive power. Crossing it would be no easy task, especially in heavy armour. He cast his eyes up and down the shore, hoping against hope that he might see a boat.

There were none.

‘Nothing for it but to swim,’ grinned Tarquinius. ‘Can you manage it?’

Romulus and Brennus looked at each other grimly; then they nodded.

Instantly the pair began stripping off their mail shirts. Whatever chance they had would be greatly increased by their removal.

Tarquinius knelt down, shoving his map and other precious items into a pig’s bladder. It had served him well on their arrival in Asia Minor two years before.

Unseen, Vahram waited until Romulus and Brennus were both in just their tunics. Driven by his hatred, the primus pilus and his horse had also emerged unharmed from the fray. Still armed with his recurved bow, Vahram calmly drew a shaft from the case on his hip and fitted it to the string. Spooked by the sudden blare of a wounded elephant, his mount jumped as he released.

The move deflected his arrow a tiny fraction.

Romulus heard Brennus gasp as if shocked. In slow motion, he turned to see a barbed metal head protruding from the muscle of his huge friend’s upper left arm. Although it was not the mortal wound that Vahram desired, swimming the river might now be too much for the Gaul. Romulus knew immediately who was responsible. Spinning around, he took in the primus pilus in a blink. Dropping his chain mail, Romulus snatched up his gladius and charged forward. ‘You bastard!’ he screamed in rage.

Vahram panicked and loosed too soon.

His next arrow flashed past, burying itself in the ground.

And then Romulus was on him. Memories of Felix’ anguished face flashed across his vision, lending him superhuman strength. Focusing his anger, Romulus reached up and took hold of Vahram’s right hand, which was frantically reaching for another shaft. With a powerful downward slice, he lopped it off.

The primus pilus screamed in agony and blood gushed from the stump, covering Romulus in a mist of red droplets. With true battle frenzy consuming him for the first time in his life, he did not care. Just one thing was important: killing Vahram. But before he could complete the task, the Parthian’s terrified horse skittered away on dancing hooves. Spinning in a tight circle, it trotted back towards the battle.

Romulus cursed. Even now he was being denied his revenge for Felix’ death.

It was then that a wounded bull elephant emerged into view, one tusk snapped clean away and the other red-tipped with gore. Every few steps, it blew out its ears and raised its trunk, letting out a piercing bugle of anger. Romulus was not the only being affected by battle rage. Its mahout was still in place, occasionally managing to direct his mount towards any legionaries within range. A solitary warrior remained on its back; he was firing arrows as well. The bull’s armoured head and neck bristled with bent pila, thrown by the legionaries in a vain attempt to bring it down. Yet what had done most damage was the lucky javelin that had pierced its left eye, half blinding it. The remaining eye now gleamed with a piggy, intelligent fury.

Unused to elephants, Vahram’s horse froze with terror.

Instantly the archer loosed a shaft, which took the Parthian through his left arm and rendered him totally unable to guide his mount away to safety. A cruel smile played across the Indian’s face.

Romulus paused, overcome with awe at what he was about to see.

And Tarquinius gave thanks to Mithras for granting him the strength not to reveal this during his torture.

Moving with surprising speed, the great bull swept forward, wrapping its trunk around Vahram’s body.

A thin, cracked cry left the primus pilus’ throat as he was lifted high into the air.

It was the last sound he ever made.

Dashing him to the ground, the elephant immediately knelt down, crushing Vahram beneath its front legs. Then, grabbing the Parthian’s head with its trunk, it decapitated him.

Romulus closed his eyes. He had never seen a man die more brutally, yet somehow it felt quite apt. When he looked up again a single heartbeat later, the bull was making straight for him.

Romulus felt his heart hammer in his chest. Without chain mail and armed only with a gladius, his life was over too.

A massive hand covered in blood pushed him to one side. ‘This is my quarrel, brother,’ said the Gaul quietly. ‘A time for Brennus to stand and fight.’

Romulus stared into the other’s calm blue eyes.

‘I will run no more.’

The words brooked no argument.

Ever since he had gained an insight into Tarquinius’ abilities, this moment was what Romulus had dreaded. Now it was here. Fat tears of grief welled up, but his protest died away. In Brennus’ gaze he saw only bravery, love and acceptance.

And the gods had decreed it. Mithras had brought them here.

‘Return to Rome,’ Brennus ordered. ‘Find your family.’

His throat closed with lead, Romulus could not answer.

Like a hero of old, the pigtailed Gaul stepped forward, his longsword ready. Without his chain mail, he was a magnificent sight. Huge muscles rippled and tensed under his sweat-soaked military tunic. Runnels of blood covered his left arm, but he had snapped off and drawn out the Indian shaft.

‘You were right, Ultan,’ Brennus whispered, looking up at the magnificent beast now rearing above him. Bunching his left fist, he breathed into the pain that radiated from his arrow wound. ‘A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.’

‘Romulus.’ The voice was insistent. ‘Romulus.’

The young soldier let Tarquinius lead him the few steps to the edge. He did not look back. Holding only his weapon, Romulus jumped into the river with Tarquinius.

As the cold water closed over his head, his ears rang with Brennus’ last battle cry.

‘For Liath!’ he roared. ‘For Conall, and for Brac!’