chariots behind, and the heavily armed horsemen on either side, who would do that. Although he knew of the Persians' disastrous attempt to use scythed chariots against Alexander at Gaugamela, Romulus still felt uneasy. The men around him had not been shown how to fight such vehicles, as Alexander's had. Pulled by four armoured horses and controlled by a single warrior, they had curved blades as long as a man's arm protruding from the end of the traces and from both wheels. They promised devastation.
Nor had the Persian chariots been backed up by heavy cavalry, as the Pontic ones were. These horsemen could sweep around to their rear and thus prevent any retreat. Dread surged through Romulus at the memory of the Parthian cataphracts. With conical iron helmets, scale mail which reached below the knee, and carrying long javelins, those opposite closely resembled the mailed warriors who had smashed apart Crassus' legions with such impunity. The sun's rays flashed off the chain mail covering their horses' chests and flanks, reflecting blinding light into the legionaries' faces.
The threat posed by Pharnaces' army was sinking in around Romulus. Men were looking very uneasy. If they knew what I had seen at Carrhae, he thought, many would run now. Thankfully they didn't, so their wavering lines held. Their optio looked to the centurion, who cleared his throat self-consciously. 'Steady, lads,' he ordered. 'We won't have to hold the bastards for long. Caesar is on his way.'
'Fucking well better be,' commented Petronius.
Nervous laughter rippled through the ranks.
They had little opportunity for any further contemplation as the Pontic archers and slingers loosed their first volley. Hundreds of arrows and stones shot up, darkening the sky. This was the opening gambit of most battles, aimed at causing maximum casualties and softening up the enemy before a charge. Although his shield was made of layers of hardened wood and covered with leather, Romulus still felt his jaw clench.
'Front rank, on your knees!' shouted the officers. 'The rest of you, shields up!'
Hundreds of scuta banged off each other as men rushed to protect themselves. Those at the very front, including Romulus and Petronius, did not do the same. Instead they dropped to the ground, allowing their shields to cover them completely, while the men in the second row angled theirs obliquely before them. Those further to the rear held their scuta directly over their heads. This was a method used by the Forgotten Legion to withstand Parthian arrows, and Romulus was pleased to note that Caesar used it too. The normal deployment — with the front row remaining on their feet — allowed many soldiers to suffer injuries to their lower legs from well-aimed shafts.
There was a heartbeat's delay, and then the air filled with gentle whirring sounds as the arrows came down to earth. An instant later, loud crashes announced the stones' arrival too. His muscles tight with tension, Romulus waited, knowing what the next noise would be. He hated it as much as the first time he had heard it. Listening to men scream was much harder to do now than during the rage and immediacy of one-on-one combat, when it became part of the red-hot blur of battle.
Sure enough, strangled cries of pain broke out everywhere. Soldiers collapsed, thrashing at the shafts which had found the gap between shields to pierce their flesh. Others had gained enough momentum to drive through the legionaries' scuta and into their arms and faces. Fortunately, most of the stones just clattered off the shields and bounced away, but a few did find targets, cracking bones and denting helmets. Given the number of missiles released, it was inevitable that there were fatalities. Not many, but the unlucky few slumped to the dirt, their weapons falling from slack hands.
Romulus' dream of getting to Rome was fading. He gazed uneasily at the massed enemy ranks, asking for Mithras' continued favour.
Everyone else was praying to their favourite gods too.
Their work done, the slingers and archers fell back. It was time for the chariots to attack. Romulus could make out at least fifty. Enough to hit most of the Twenty-Eighth head on, while the Thracians and Pontic heavy cavalry rode around to their undefended rear. Their situation was grim now, even critical. Still there was no sign of Caesar or the other legions.
Flicking their reins, the charioteers encouraged their horses into a trot. At last it was possible to make them out clearly. Clad in composite scale cuirasses and laminated armpieces, their crested Attic helmets were not dissimilar to those worn by junior Roman officers. Each carried a long-handled whip, which he used to encourage his mounts to the trot. A moment later, it was the canter. Having conserved their steeds' energy, they had room to ask everything of them. With jingling traces and the blades on their wheels spinning and flashing, the chariots surged forward. Although the slope was steep, the ground was not that uneven and they were able to pick up speed quite fast. With loud whoops and cheers, the cavalry forces split off to the sides, eager to complete the pincer movement. Last of all came thousands of peltasts and thureophoroi, their weapons raised in readiness. Theirs would be the final job, to charge into the Roman lines after the chariots and horsemen had smashed them apart, and prevent any attempt to regroup.
The fear among the legionaries grew palpable, and again the Twenty-Eighth began to waver, despite the officers' muttered reassurances and threats. More centurions moved to stand in the front rank, and the standard- bearers lifted their wooden poles for everyone to see. The tactic helped somewhat. No one ran — yet. Men looked nervously to their comrades, muttered anxious prayers and eyed the heavens. They were all about to die: chopped apart by the chariots or cut down where they stood by the horsemen. Where in the name of Hades was Caesar?
At last the centurions at the back ordered the soldiers there to turn about and face the enemy. If only we had some of the long spears which the Forgotten Legion used, thought Romulus. Those weapons had been able to stop any cavalry. Instead they had just their scuta, swords and a pair of javelins each. In less than twenty heartbeats, the chariots would hit their lines. Then they would be hit from the rear by hundreds of cavalry, before the enemy foot soldiers finished the job. Romulus spat on the ground. He hoped that their deaths bought enough time for Caesar and the other legions to emerge fully prepared.
Less than a hundred paces remained between the tightly packed chariots and the Roman front ranks. They left nowhere to go. It was a case of being run down by fast-moving armoured horses, or cut apart by the blades they pulled. The grinning charioteers knew it too, and urged their teams to greater speeds.
'Ready pila!' bellowed the centurions. The fearful soldiers obeyed, cocking back their right arms and preparing to release.
Now the legionaries could see the steeds' nostrils flaring with effort, their heads bobbing up and down. Their hooves pounded on the hard ground, and their harness jingled. Romulus fancied he could almost hear the scythed blades whirr as they spun round on the wheels.
Fifty paces until they struck. Time began to move in a blur. A wheel on one chariot struck a rock, sending it up at a crazy angle and throwing its driver free. It overturned, dragging its horses into those of another team. Both chariots careered crazily to a halt and a hoarse cheer went up from the legionaries. But the rest were still closing in fast. Behind Romulus, a man cursed their bad luck, Caesar and all the gods. Another began to wail with fear. Anxious to release his javelin, Petronius shifted from foot to foot beside Romulus.
Twenty-five paces, thought Romulus. He could clearly see the stubble on the face of the charioteer heading for them. Good killing distance for their pila, and their only chance to make some dent in the enemy numbers. He looked to the centurion, whose mouth was opening to give the order. Before he could give it, a piece of lead took the officer in the centre of the forehead. Released by a slinger as a parting shot, it was as clean a kill as Romulus had ever seen. The crack with which the small piece of metal struck left no doubt as to its lethality. The centurion dropped soundlessly, without giving the order to release.
Romulus' head spun frantically, searching for the optio, but he was at the rear with the tesserarius, ensuring that no one tried to flee.
All around them, the other centuries were throwing their javelins. Tall as a man, their long wooden shafts were topped by a pyramidal iron tip which could punch through shields and armour to kill. In graceful clouds, they climbed into the air, falling among the charioteers in a shower of lethal points. Many enemy warriors were struck down, losing control of their teams of horses, which panicked and collided with one another. The three which would reach Romulus and his comrades were unaffected, though, and the charioteers grinned with satisfaction.
Behind them ran thousands of peltasts and infantry.
Of Caesar there was no sign.
