The Road to Rome (2 page)

Thanks to Tarquinius, Romulus was familiar with the story of Ptolemy XII, the father of the current rulers of Egypt, who had been deposed more than a decade before. Desperate, Ptolemy had turned to Rome, offering incredible sums in gold to restore him to the throne. Eventually, Gabinius, the proconsul of Syria, seized the opportunity. That had been at the same time that Romulus, Brennus, his Gaulish friend, and Tarquinius were travelling in Crassus’ army.

‘Aye,’ muttered the legionary. ‘They stayed here after Gabinius returned in disgrace to Rome.’

‘How many are left?’ asked Romulus.

‘A few thousand,’ came the answer. ‘But they’ve got plenty of help. Nubian skirmishers and Judaean mercenaries mostly, and Cretan slingers and archers. All tough bastards.’

‘There are infantry as well,’ said another man. ‘Escaped slaves from our provinces.’

An angry growl met his words.

Romulus and Tarquinius exchanged a look. It was imperative their status, particularly that of Romulus, remained secret. Slaves were not allowed to fight in the regular army. To join the legions, which Romulus’ press-ganging had effectively done for him, carried the death penalty.

‘Those treacherous whoresons won’t stand against us,’ the first legionary proclaimed. ‘We’ll knock seven shades of shit out of them.’

It was the right thing to say. Pleased grins cracked across worried faces.

Romulus held back his instinctive retort. Spartacus’ followers, slaves all, had bettered the legions on numerous occasions. He himself was the match of any three ordinary legionaries. With a new homeland to defend, the enemy slaves could prove tough to defeat. This was not the time, nor the place, to mention such matters, though. When was? Romulus wondered with a tinge of bitterness. Never.

With ready weapons, they waited as the clash became more desperate. Showers of enemy javelins and stones flew into their lines, cutting down men here and there. Lacking shields, Romulus and Tarquinius could only duck down and pray as death whistled overhead. It was most disconcerting. As the casualties grew heavier, spare equipment became available. A stocky soldier in the rank ahead went down with a spear through the neck. Quickly Romulus pulled off the twitching man’s helmet, feeling little remorse. The needs of the living were greater than those of the dead. Even the sweat-soaked felt liner which he jammed on his head first felt like some kind of protection. Tarquinius took the corpse’s
scutum
, and it wasn’t long before Romulus had his own one too, from another victim.

The
optio
grunted in approval. The two ragged wanderers did not just possess good weapons, they also knew their way around military equipment.

‘This is more like it,’ said Romulus, lifting his elongated oval shield by its horizontal grip. Not since the Forgotten Legion’s last battle four years before had they both been fully equipped. He scowled. It was still hard not to feel guilty about Brennus, who had died so that he and Tarquinius might escape.

‘Seen combat before?’ demanded the legionary.

Before Romulus could reply, a shield boss hit him in the back.

‘Forward!’ shouted the
optio
, who had shoved in behind them. ‘The line in front is weakening.’

Pushing against the rows in front, they shuffled towards the enemy. Dozens of
gladii
, the Roman short stabbing swords, were raised in preparation. Shields were lifted until the only part of men’s faces that could be seen was their flickering eyes under their helmet rims. They moved shoulder to shoulder, each protected by his comrades. Tarquinius was to Romulus’ right and the talkative legionary was on his left. Both were responsible for his safety as he was for theirs. It was one of the beauties of the shield wall. Although Romulus was furious with Tarquinius, he did not think that the haruspex would fail in this duty.

He had not appreciated how thin their ranks had become. Suddenly the soldier in front slumped to his knees, and a screaming enemy warrior jumped into the gap, taking Romulus by surprise. Wearing a blunt-peaked Phrygian helmet and a rough-spun tunic, he was not wearing any armour. An oval spined shield and a
rhomphaia
, a strange sword with a long, curved blade, were his only weapons. This was a Thracian peltast, Romulus thought, shocked twice over.

Without thinking, he jumped forward, smashing his
scutum
boss at the other’s face. The move failed as the Thracian met the attack with his own shield. They traded blows for a few moments, each trying to gain an advantage. There was none to be had and Romulus fast developed a healthy respect for his enemy’s angled sword. Thanks to its shape, it could hook over the top of his
scutum
and round the sides to cause serious injury. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, he nearly lost an eye and then barely avoided a nasty injury to his left biceps.

In return, Romulus had sliced a shallow cut across the Thracian’s sword arm. He grimaced with satisfaction. While the gash did not disable, it reduced the other’s ability to fight. Blood oozed from the wound, running down on to the peltast’s sword hilt. The man spat a curse as they cut and thrust at one another repeatedly, neither able to get past his opponent’s shield. Soon Romulus saw that the Thracian could not lift his weapon without wincing. It was a little window of opportunity, and one he was not about to let slip.

Shoving his left leg and his
scutum
forward, Romulus swung his
gladius
over in a powerful, arcing blow that threatened to decapitate. The peltast had to meet it, or lose the right side of his face. Sending up a clash of sparks, the two iron blades met. Romulus’ swept the other’s down, towards the ground. A groan escaped the Thracian’s lips and Romulus knew he had him. It was time to finish it, while his enemy’s pain was all-consuming. Using his forward momentum, Romulus lunged forward, putting all his body weight behind the shield.

His power was too much for the peltast, who lost his footing and tumbled backwards, losing his shield in the fall. In an instant Romulus was crouched over him, his right arm drawn back and ready. They exchanged the briefest of looks, similar to that which an executioner gives his intended victim; there is no response other than the widening of pupils. A quick downward thrust of Romulus’
gladius
and the Thracian was dead.

Jerking upright, Romulus lifted his
scutum
just in time. His enemy had already been replaced by an unshaven, long-haired man in Roman military dress. Another one of Gabinius’ men.

‘Traitor,’ hissed Romulus. ‘Fighting your own kind now?’

‘I’m fighting for my homeland,’ growled the enemy soldier. His Latin proved Romulus’ theory. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Stung, he had no answer.

‘Following Caesar,’ snarled the talkative legionary. ‘The best general in the world.’

This was met with a sneer, and Romulus took his chance. He stabbed forward, thrusting his sword over the top of his distracted foe’s mail shirt and deep into his neck. With a scream, the man dropped from sight, allowing Romulus to see the enemy lines briefly. He wished he hadn’t. There were Egyptian soldiers as far as the eye could see and they were all moving determinedly forward.

‘How many cohorts have we here?’ asked Romulus. ‘Four?’

‘Yes.’ The legionary closed up with him again. Thanks to their heavy casualties, they were now part of the front rank. With Tarquinius and the others, they prepared to meet the next onslaught, a combined wave of legionaries and lightly armed Nubians. ‘They’re all under strength, though.’

Their new enemies were clad only in loincloths; many wore a single long feather in their hair. The black-skinned warriors carried large oval hide shields and broad-bladed spears. Some, the more wealthy among them,
wore decorated headbands and gold arm rings. These individuals also wore short swords tucked into their fabric belts and carried longbows. Quivers poked over each man’s left shoulder. Knowing the limited range of the Roman javelin, they stopped fifty paces away and calmly fitted arrows to their strings. Their comrades waited patiently.

Romulus was relieved to see that the Nubians weren’t using compound weapons, as the Parthians did. The shafts from those could penetrate a
scutum
with ease. It wasn’t much consolation. ‘How weak are we, exactly?’ he demanded.

‘With the fifth cohort that’s guarding our triremes, we number about fifteen hundred.’ The legionary saw Romulus’ surprise. ‘What do you expect?’ he snarled. ‘Many of us have been campaigning for seven years. Gaul, Britannia, Gaul again.’

Romulus looked at Tarquinius grimly. These men were hardbitten veterans, but they were badly outnumbered. All he got was an apologetic shrug. He ground his teeth. They were only here because Tarquinius had ignored his advice, insistent on checking out the dock and the library. Still, he had seen Fabiola. If he died in this skirmish, it would be in the knowledge that his sister was alive and well.

The first volley of Nubian arrows shot up into the air, hissing down in a graceful, deadly shower.

‘Shields up!’ shouted the officers.

An instant later, the stream of enemy missiles struck their raised
scuta
with familiar thumping sounds. To Romulus’ relief, almost none had the power to drive through, so few men were hit. His pulse increased, though, as he noticed some of the stone and iron arrowheads were smeared with a thick, dark paste. Poison! The last time he had seen that was when fighting the Scythians in Margiana. Even a tiny scratch from one of their barbed tips caused a man to die in screaming agony. Romulus felt even more glad of the
scutum
in his fist.

Another volley followed before the Nubians began trotting towards Caesar’s lines. Unencumbered by heavy equipment such as the rogue legionaries were carrying, they quickly picked up pace. Screaming ferocious battle cries, the enemy warriors soon reached a sprint. They were followed by Gabinius’ former soldiers, who would deliver the hammer blow. Romulus gritted his teeth and wished that Brennus were still with
them. The enemy formation was at least ten ranks deep, while Caesar’s lines now were barely half that.

Right on cue, the trumpets blew a short series of blasts. From the rear came the shouted order, ‘Retreat to the ships!’ The voice was calm and measured, quite at odds with the urgency of the situation.

‘That’s Caesar,’ explained the legionary with a proud grin. ‘Never panics.’

At once their lines began edging sideways, towards the western harbour. It was only a short distance, but they could not let down their guard at all. Seeing this attempt to escape, the Nubians yelled with anger and sprang forward again.

‘Keep going,’ cried the centurion nearest Romulus. ‘Stop just before they hit. Stay in formation and drive them back. Then move on.’

Romulus eyed the triremes, which numbered about twenty. There would be room on board for all – but where would they go?

As ever, Tarquinius butted in with the answer. ‘To the Pharos.’ He pointed at the lighthouse. ‘Over there, the Heptastadion is only fifty or sixty paces across.’

His confidence restored, Romulus grinned. ‘We can defend that until doomsday.’

Yet the ships were still out of reach and, a heartbeat later, the Nubians struck the Roman formation with such force that the front ranks were driven back several steps. Screams filled the night air and soldiers cursed the bad luck sent them by the gods. Romulus saw a legionary to his left take a spear through one calf and go down thrashing. Horrendously, another had a blade pierce both cheeks to emerge on the other side of his face. Blood jetted from the wounds as the weapon was withdrawn. Dropping his
scutum
and sword, the soldier raised both hands to his ruined face and let out a thin, piercing cry. Romulus lost sight of both injured men as a mass of Nubians slammed up against his section.

Angry red mouths shouted insults in a foreign tongue. Hide shields smacked off
scuta
and broad spear blades flickered back and forth, searching for Roman flesh. Romulus’ nostrils were filled with the black warriors’ musty body odour. Quickly he killed the first man within reach, sliding his
gladius
under the man’s sternum in one easy move. His next opponent was no harder to despatch; he practically ran on to Romulus’ sword. The Nubian was dead before he’d even realised it.

On Romulus’ right, Tarquinius was also dispatching warriors with ease, but to his left, the talkative legionary was struggling. Beset by two hulking Nubians, he soon took a spear through his right shoulder, which crippled him. He had no chance as one of his enemies pulled down his shield while the other stabbed him through the throat. It was the last thing the first Nubian did. Romulus lopped off his right hand, the one holding the spear, and with the backstroke opened the warrior’s flesh from his groin to his shoulder. A legionary from the rank behind moved forward to fill the gap and together they killed the second warrior.

The dead were replaced immediately.

We need cavalry, thought Romulus as he fought on. Or some catapults. A different tactic to help their cause, which was growing desperate. Small numbers of legionaries had reached the triremes and were swarming aboard, but the majority remained trapped in a fight which they could not win. Panic flared in men’s hearts and instinctively they moved backwards. Centurions roared at them to stand fast, and the standard-bearers shook their poles, trying to restore confidence, but it was no good. More ground was given away. Scenting blood, the enemy redoubled their efforts.

Romulus did not like it. He could see the situation unravelling fast.

‘Keep moving!’ cried a voice from behind him. ‘Hold your formation. Take heart, comrades. Caesar is here!’

Romulus risked a look over his shoulder.

A lithe figure in gilded breastplate and red general’s cloak was pushing through to join them. His horsehair-crested helmet was especially well wrought, with silver and gold filigree worked into the cheek pieces. Caesar was carrying a
gladius
with an ornate ivory hilt and an ordinary
scutum
. Romulus took in a narrow face with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and piercing, dark eyes. Caesar’s features reminded him of someone, but he had no time to dwell on the thought. He took heart from Caesar’s calm manner, however. Like the centurions, he was prepared to put his life on the line, and where a leader like Caesar stood, soldiers would not run.