The Forgotten Legion

Latifundia, massive estates owned by the rich, dotted Campania and Apulia, the regions south of Rome. Romulus was amazed by the fields and hillsides covered in wheat, vines, olive and fruit trees. At night the groves supplied them with apples, plums and pears, juicy food that the young man had rarely tasted before. In daylight, impotent rage filled Romulus as he spied the countless miserable slaves working the farms, their ankles manacled together. Supervisors stood over each group, their whips ready to use at the slightest opportunity.

Every estate was the same.

Romulus quickly realised that the whole country ran on slave labour. No wonder Rome was so wealthy, when tens of thousands of its subjects had to work for nothing. The two friends had endless debates as they marched, Romulus imagining that they had killed Memor and started a second slave rebellion instead of ruining it all by visiting Publius' tavern. He still had very mixed feelings about that night. Because they had gone out, he had met Julia. Although he knew it was only an infatuation, the thought of her still made his heart flutter. The feeling was mixed with guilt at what might have been. If they had refrained from going out, perhaps they would have been marching past those very latifundia by now, freeing the slaves instead of skulking past like animals.

Bre

A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. The phrase had become Bre

The two friends covered nearly three hundred miles in less than twenty days.

There had been plenty of time to brood.

Seeing the slave population had increased both men's desire to discard all memories of their own captivity. Romulus' and Bre

Bre

The crude sutures would leave a rough scar, nothing like the neat work of the Greek surgeons in Rome who were paid by wealthy ex-slaves to remove their brands. Romulus didn't care. Memor's proof of ownership was gone for ever. But when he pulled out his own knife a moment later and reached for the Gaul's leg, Bre

'We can't both have a freshly stitched wound. Burn mine. Logs fall out of fires all the time.'

Romulus protested weakly, but he knew his friend was right. There was no mercy for escaped slaves. To avoid suspicion, they had to be different. He heated the dagger until the blade was glowing a dull red and then gritting his teeth, applied it to Bre

The huge Gaul grimaced, allowing the searing pain to cleanse away some of the memories of slavery. 'We 'll stay here for a while,' he a

His smile was infectious and Romulus gri

One last ordeal, but now they were truly free.

Brundisium's harbour was humming with activity. A large town, it had been transformed by the arrival of Crassus' army. Thousands of soldiers, tons of equipment and weapons filled the narrow jetties, waiting to embark for Asia Minor. The skyline was a forest of masts. Dozens of triremes rocked gently in the water, tied close together. Sailors swarmed back and forth, cursing the clumsiness of their passengers.

Mules brayed as they were forced down wooden gangways on to ships. Officers barked orders, pushing and shoving men into line. Messengers scurried between units, relaying orders.

Bre

He stared calculatingly at the dirty pair as they came to a halt.

'Farmers, eh?'

'That's right, sir.'

Romulus kept silent, taking in the phalerae hanging from the moulded leather breastplate and the silver torque round his neck. This was clearly a brave man.

'Well armed, aren't you?' He pointed at the heavy spears, the bow, swords and daggers, the well-made shields.

'We 're from Transalpine Gaul, sir,' explained Bre

'Hmmm. Thought you were a Gaul.' The officer eyed Bre

'The great general is leading an army to Jerusalem. I'm told the booty will be good.'

'So all the new recruits say.' The centurion scratched short grey stubble, looking Bre

'No, sir.' The Gaul kept a blank face, Romulus copying him. Aping the Roman military cut, both men had cut their hair short that morning.

'Slaves are forbidden to join the military under any circumstances. It is a crime punishable by death. Understand?'

'We are free men, sir.'

The officer grunted, considering the tally on the calfskin parchment before him. 'And the lad?'

'Fights better than most grown men, sir.'

'Does he, by Jupiter?'

'Taught him myself, sir.'

'A bit young, but I suppose he's as big as most.' The centurion pushed forward a stylus. 'You enlist for three years minimum. Stay with the army for twenty and you'll be granted Roman citizenship. The pay is a hundred denarii per year in equal instalments every four months. Depending on the situation.'

'Situation, sir?' Romulus spoke for the first time, affecting Bre

'If we're in the middle of a damn war, you don't get paid!'

'A hundred denarii?' Romulus turned to his friend with disbelief. The purse from Pompey alone had contained five times that amount.

Bre

The centurion laughed, misinterpreting the remark. 'A lot of money,' he said. 'Crassus' son Publius is a generous man. He wants the finest infantry to fight beside his cavalry.'

Romulus gri

'You provide your own clothes and weapons. Costs for equipment, food and the burial club get deducted from pay. And when I tell you to do something, do it fast! Otherwise you'll feel this across your backs.' He slapped a vine cane on the sacks of flour. 'I command the cohort, but I'm also your centurion! Clear?'