The Forgotten Legion

'Thank the gods we dug yesterday,' remarked Tarquinius when the order came.

Bre

Grateful not to dig the hot sand, the mercenary cohort fa

Across the desert plain other legions were doing the same. By sunset, the earth ramparts and defensive trenches had been finished. Even after extreme ordeals, the strenuous training and harsh discipline meant the army could still function. Rome could install civilisation anywhere.

As evening passed, the sun changed in colour. It went from yellow to orange, finally turning to blood red. Sitting by his tent, Romulus stared at the horizon, an uneasy feeling in his belly. The day had seen no real combat. Apart from his amazing javelin throw, all the skirmishing had gone the Parthians' way. Despite Tarquinius' warnings, it had been a revelation. With rare exceptions, the stories of warfare he had been weaned on consisted of crushing defeats for anyone foolish enough to resist the Republic. It didn't matter who it was – the rebel king Jugurtha in Africa, Ha

But the sunburnt, exhausted men he could see looked incapable of a major battle. Slack faces stared into space, tired jaws chewed dry food, sunburnt bodies lay everywhere, weapons dropped alongside. Crassus' soldiers did not seem to care what happened to them.

A shiver of fear ran down Romulus' spine. How could an army composed almost entirely of infantry beat one of only cavalry? 'How can Crassus win?' he said out loud.

The Etruscan stopped chewing. 'Simple. By drawing the Parthians into a fixed battle, facing a deep line of soldiers. And when that happens, our horsemen need to be on the wings.'

'Stops the army being flanked,' added Bre

'What would the infantry do?'

'Weather the storm,' replied Tarquinius. 'Shelter behind their shields with the front ranks on their knees.'

Romulus winced. 'To protect their lower legs from arrows?'

'Correct.'

'If they stand fast, it would allow the cavalry to peel round to the enemy's rear in a pincer movement.' Bre

'And the cataphracts?'

Tarquinius grimaced. 'If they are sent in before the Parthians get flanked, things will be very difficult.' He sighed. 'It should all be down to our cavalry.'

Bre

'Indeed.'

Romulus looked sharply at the Etruscan. 'What is it?'

'Bre

'Treacherous savages,' muttered the Gaul.

'How can you be so sure?' asked Romulus.

'Nothing is absolutely certain,' the Etruscan replied. 'But the Nabataeans are no friends of Rome.'

'So what will happen?'

'We must wait. Time will tell,' replied Tarquinius calmly.

'And if there are twelve vultures above us tomorrow?' blurted Romulus.

The Etruscan glanced at him shrewdly. 'Twelve is the Etruscans' sacred number. Often it appears with other signs, which can be good. Or bad.'

Romulus shivered.

Unrolling his blanket, Bre

Romulus breathed in cool desert air. He had grown quite used to his friend's tendency to only partially answer questions. Although Tarquinius' reticence was frustrating, most of his predictions had been correct so far, forcing the young man to start believing what he said. If the Nabataeans left, the army's only defence against the Parthians would be the irregular cavalry and each soldier's scutum, and both had already been shown to be ineffective. It was a sobering thought.

He watched Tarquinius gaze silently at the stars, sure that the soothsayer knew what was going to happen.

Increasingly Romulus thought he did as well.

Chapter XXII: Politics

Campus Martius, Rome, summer 53 BC

While the nobles smiled and nodded, the crowd yelled with anticipation. Brutus' face stayed neutral. The wooden steps creaked as hobnailed caligae clattered up. Burly legionaries in full armour appeared, gazing round suspiciously. Satisfied there was no threat, one beckoned to the men at the foot of the stairs. Several senior military officers, resplendent in gilt breastplates and red cloaks, preceded Pompey. It was all designed to impress. Shouts of approval filled the arena as the tribunes acknowledged the people.

'Pompey is on a mission,' whispered Brutus. 'To remain more popular than Caesar and Crassus. With all the unrest in the city, he 's plotting to become sole consul.'

'Can he do that?'

It was one of Rome's most sacred laws that power should always be shared between two men. And although the consulships had been monopolised by the triumvirate and their allies for years, no one had dared to promote any other change.

Smiling at those around them, Brutus pressed his lips against her ear. 'Of course,' he said quietly. 'He 's deliberately letting the violence from the street gangs spiral out of control. Soon the Senate will have no option but to offer him power. With Crassus in the east, no one else has the soldiers.'

Fabiola made a face. In her lover's eyes there was only one man to lead the Republic.

Caesar. Who was stuck in Gaul, mopping up pockets of tribal resistance.

There was a last clamour from the trumpets. Everyone waited in silence for the master of ceremonies to stand forth.

'Citizens of Rome!'

Loud cheers split the air.

'I give you – the editor of these games! Pom-pey Mag-nus!'

As the praise for Pompey went on and on, Brutus rolled his eyes.

Yet the crude tactic worked. The audience went wild.

A stocky man of medium height with a thick fringe of white hair emerged into the box. His round face was dominated by prominent eyes and a squashed, bulbous nose. Unlike his officers, Pompey wore a white purpleedged toga, mark of the equestrian class. It did not yet pay for leaders to appear in military dress in Rome.

'But Pompey is a ca

Fabiola turned to him. 'Civil war?' There had been rumours for months.

'Be quiet!' hissed Brutus. 'Do not say those words in public.'

Pompey moved to stand where all could see and raised his right arm, waving slowly to the citizens. When the rapturous applause died down, he took his seat on a purple cushion in the front row.

Moments later, the final pair of gladiators walked on to the sand below. It was a long, skilful contest to the death between a secutor and a retiarius. Even Fabiola had to admire the lethal display of martial skill. While watching, she prayed silently that the big Gaul was still with her brother, would protect him from danger. Where they were, the gods only knew.

Brutus explained their moves as the two well-matched men lunged and slashed at each other. To compensate for his lack of armour, the fisherman was more experienced than the secutor, who could defend himself against trident thrusts with his shield. The retiarius had only speed and agility to avoid his opponent's razor-sharp blade.