The Road to Rome (16 page)

They brought down the enemy warriors by slashing them across their unarmoured backs, or by hamstringing them. Those following then despatched the injured with simple thrusts of their
gladii
. Yet even this efficiency did not account for all the dead. Plenty of men fell on the steep slope, tripped by tufts of grass or a loose strap on a sandal. They had no chance to get up. The other peltasts and
thureophoroi
simply trampled them into the dust. Their terror had grown so great that sense and reason were lost. All the Pontic soldiers could do was run.

At the bottom, the killing continued. Romulus watched in horror as dozens of warriors were knocked from their feet in the press and then shoved under the water by comrades trying to cross the stream. Wading in up to their thighs, the legionaries slew the drowning men with casual blows from their swords, or even their
scuta
. Still there was no resistance on the enemy’s part, just blind panic. Despite the slaughter, thousands managed to ford the watercourse, fleeing up the hill towards the safety of their fortifications.

Soon there were large numbers of Romans on the far bank. Under the calm instruction of their officers, they reassembled in good order and began marching up to the Pontic camp. The running warriors wailed with terror as they saw that their adversaries had not halted.

Romulus glanced back at the trumpeters, who were descending with everyone else. Would the recall be sounded? After all, the battle was won. Ominously, the
bucinae
remained silent. There was to be no let-up. ‘On! On!’ shouted the centurions. ‘Up the slope! Their position has to be taken!’

Still full of battle lust, Romulus and Petronius charged after the foe.

Little more than four hours after the battle had started, it was over. Pursued right up to their fortifications, the Pontic forces had been granted no chance to regroup at all. After a short but vicious clash, the ramparts were stormed and the gates opened. Thousands of legionaries poured in, intent on more slaughter. In the confusion, King Pharnaces had barely made off with his own life. Riding away with just a few horsemen, his escape only occurred because the victorious Roman soldiers had paused to loot his camp.

It scarcely mattered that Pharnaces was gone, thought Romulus as he stood with Petronius, looking across the valley. Both hillsides were covered with the bodies of the dead and injured. Only a small fraction were Roman
casualties, and any of the enemy host who had survived were now prisoners. He gazed up at the clear blue sky, and the blazing hot sun which filled it. It was barely midday. How swiftly the gods had changed whom they bestowed their favours upon! The whole pantheon were smiling on Caesar and his army today. Romulus bent his head in silent worship. Thank you, Mithras
Sol Invictus
. Thank you Jupiter, and Mars.

‘What a morning,’ said Petronius. His face, arms and
gladius
were covered in spatters of dried blood. ‘Who’d have thought we’d live through that, eh?’

Romulus nodded, unable to speak. As his adrenalin rush subsided, the pain from his head wound redoubled; it was becoming unbearable. He was swaying from side to side like a drunk man.

Petronius saw at once. ‘Lean on me, comrade,’ he said kindly. ‘Let’s head to the stream and get you cleaned up. Then we’ll find a first-aid station where a surgeon can check that wound for you.’

Romulus didn’t argue. He was just grateful for Petronius’ steady arm. There was no one else to help. Like many others, the pair had become separated from their units in the frantic pursuit of the enemy. It did not matter for now: the battle was over, and the cohorts could reassemble back at the camp.

After a slow descent, they reached the brook, which was clogged with hundreds of corpses. Moving upstream to a point where the water still ran clear, the two friends stripped naked and climbed in. Plenty of other legionaries were doing the same, eager to wash away the sweat, dirt and encrusted blood which covered their bodies. Weak and wobbly, Romulus stayed in the shallows and let Petronius clean the wound on his head. Having cold water run over it dulled the pain somewhat, but Romulus was not well. His vision was blurred, and although Petronius was by his side, the veteran’s voice came and went as if he were walking around him.

‘Better get a surgeon now,’ Petronius muttered as he helped Romulus on to the bank. ‘You’ll need a good sleep after that.’

Romulus grinned weakly. ‘I want a few cups of wine first, though.’

‘We’ll find you a skin somehow,’ Petronius replied, not quite able to hide the concern in his eyes. ‘Good lad.’

‘I’ll be fine after a few days,’ protested Romulus, reaching for his tunic.

‘That’s the spirit, comrade,’ said a strange voice. ‘Caesar’s legionaries don’t ever give up!’

‘Especially those from the Sixth!’ cried another.

There was a rousing cheer.

The two friends turned. Another group of soldiers had arrived, also intent on washing off the grime of battle. Romulus recognised none of them. With rusty, battered chain mail and notched swords, the men’s arrogant ease spoke volumes. A number of them had flesh wounds, but none were badly hurt. These were some of the legionaries who, vastly outnumbered, had stopped the right flank from dissolving before the Cappadocian attack. The Sixth Legion.

Their leader was a strongly built brute with black hair. Several bronze and silver
phalerae
were strapped to his chest over his mail. Stepping closer, he eyed Romulus’ long, gaping wound with a critical stare. ‘A
rhomphaia
did that. Caught you unawares, eh?’

Embarrassed, Romulus nodded.

The soldier clapped him on the shoulder. ‘But you survived! Killed the bastard who did it too, I expect.’

‘I did,’ Romulus declared proudly.

‘It’ll never happen to you again either,’ the other confided. ‘Good legionaries learn fast, and I can tell you’re one of those. Like us.’

The newcomers gave him approving looks, and Romulus’ heart swelled with pride. Here were some of Caesar’s finest, accepting him as one of their own.

‘Been wounded before too, I see,’ said the burly legionary. He pointed a thick finger at the purple welt on Romulus’ right thigh. ‘Who’d you get that from?’

His wits addled, Romulus wasn’t thinking straight. ‘From a Goth,’ he answered truthfully.

He didn’t see Petronius’ surprised reaction.

The soldier stopped. ‘Which legion are you boys in again?’

‘The Twenty-Eighth,’ replied Petronius warily, sensing danger. He began trying to usher Romulus away.

‘Wait.’ It was an order, not a request.

Avoiding eye contact, Petronius stopped.

‘The Twenty-Eighth never served in Gaul or Germania,’ the black-haired legionary growled.

‘No.’ Romulus knew enough of his new unit’s history to answer, although he had no idea where this was going. ‘It didn’t.’

‘So where the fuck did you ever fight a Goth then?’ the other demanded angrily.

Romulus stared at him as if he were an imbecile. ‘In the
ludus
.’

The big legionary’s face was a picture of shock and outrage. ‘What did you say?’

Romulus looked at Petronius, who looked similarly stunned. Finally realising what he’d said, his hand reached down for his
gladius
. It wasn’t there – he was still naked, and his weapon was lying on top of his clothing a few steps away.

‘I don’t believe this,’ snarled the soldier, raising his bloody sword. ‘A slave in the Twenty-Eighth? Can’t let that go unanswered, can we?’

Shouts of indignation left the men’s throats as they swarmed in, seizing Romulus by the arms. He was too weak to resist, and when Petronius tried to intervene, he was clubbed to the ground in a hail of blows and kicks.

The immense danger of the situation began to sink into Romulus’ fog of pain.

The black-haired legionary’s next words proved it.

‘I reckon we should finish off today properly,’ he cried. ‘Nothing like watching a crucifixion with a skin of wine.’

At this, there was a loud cheer.

The temple of Orcus, Rome

S
extus roared in agony as Scaevola pulled free his blade. Still clutching his own weapon, he collapsed to the floor in a heap. Fabiola screamed. Sextus’ cloak and tunic were already saturated in blood. More was pooling on the mosaic tiles around him, filling the tiny cracks between each coloured piece. Even if his wound wasn’t mortal, Sextus would soon die from this loss. Yet she had to defend herself first. Unsheathing her
pugio
, Fabiola pointed it towards the
fugitivarius
. It felt like a child’s toy. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ she said, hating her quavering voice.

‘What’s that, bitch?’ Scaevola asked, stepping over the injured Sextus, who could only watch. ‘I came here to ask for your life, and look! Orcus has answered my prayer before I’ve even left the premises.’ He grinned, revealing sharp brown teeth. ‘A man can’t ask for more than that.’

Fabiola did not answer. She didn’t have the skill to fight off a powerful man like Scaevola with only a knife. And how could she leave Sextus behind? Feeling terrible, she backed away. If she could reach the entrance hall, there were bound to be people about. Priests, priestesses, or other members of the public. Someone who could help them.

Sensing what she was up to, Scaevola lunged after her, slashing and cutting with his
gladius
. ‘Why don’t you run?’ he taunted. ‘I’ll even give you a little head start.’

His leering face made Fabiola shake with uncontrollable fear. No matter where she went, or what she did, the
fugitivarius
seemed to pop up. It was all she could do to keep moving backwards. Frantic, she glanced over her shoulder. It was at least twenty paces to the large doors which led on to the hall. Too far. Despair overtook her. What had she been thinking? To ask
Orcus for help and then immediately insult his priestess had been beyond foolish. This had to be the deity’s answer. Right on cue, Scaevola thrust his sword at her midriff. Fabiola threw herself sideways; she escaped being gutted by a fingerbreadth.

I have angered the gods, and now I’m going to die in this dark corridor, she thought dully. Caesar will never pay for what he has done. I’ll never see Romulus again. The last thought pained Fabiola most, and her feet came to a standstill. The
pugio
fell from her nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor.

Scaevola crept closer. ‘I’m going to gut you first, and then carry you outside,’ he whispered. ‘How would you like to be fucked while you’re dying, you little whore?’

Fabiola stared at him, her eyes dark pools of misery. She could imagine nothing worse.

The
fugitivarius
drew back his blade. ‘Let’s get the first bit over with then.’

‘Hold!’ shrieked a voice taut with fury. ‘What sacrilege is this?’

They both turned to see Sabina standing over Sextus’ prone form. Her hands were red with his blood, and her wide face was outraged.

‘He did it,’ Fabiola stuttered, pointing at Scaevola. ‘Attacked us as we walked along the corridor.’

‘I’ve sworn to kill this woman,’ snarled the
fugitivarius
. ‘Came here to pray for that. And look – Orcus himself delivered her to me.’ Self-righteousness oozed from every word.

‘How dare you assume to know what the god does!’ screamed Sabina, spittle flying from her lips. ‘Only his priests or priestesses may speak for him. For any other to do so is heresy.’

Scaevola swallowed uneasily.

Sabina levelled an accusing finger at him. ‘You have already drawn blood inside the temple, which is forbidden. A huge offering will have to be made for Orcus to forgive that, and if this man dies,’ she said, indicating Sextus, ‘you will be cursed with the most terrible fate imaginable. For all eternity.’

His eyes darted to Fabiola, promising rape and murder anew.

It was all she could do not to lose control of her bladder.

‘The same would apply if you murder her,’ hissed Sabina, her voice threatening. ‘Think carefully.’

Despite himself, Scaevola flinched. Even the murderous were ruled by superstition.

Drawn by Sabina’s cries, several priests spilled into the corridor from the main hallway. They gasped in horror at the sight of Scaevola holding a bloody sword over Fabiola.

‘Fetch the
lictores
to arrest this dirtbag,’ shouted Sabina. ‘He has grievously injured a slave and offered violence to this devotee.’

Casting frightened looks over his shoulder, one darted off at once. The others shuffled about, unsure what to do. As priests, none were armed or trained to fight men like Scaevola.

Nonetheless, his
gladius
lowered to point at the floor. ‘You win once more,’ he spat at Fabiola, his face purple with fury. ‘But that’s the last instance. From now on, best watch your back night and day. We’ll have a fine time together before I slit your throat.’

Realising that she was not going to die there and then, some of Fabiola’s courage returned. ‘Get out,’ she answered in a flat tone. ‘You vermin.’

Furious, the
fugitivarius
hawked and spat a gob of phlegm in her face. Then, with his sword raised threateningly, he shouldered his way past the watching priests and out of the door. Awed by his confidence, they did not try to stop him.