The Forgotten Legion

Brennus thumped one fist into the other. 'Then we'll crush them with a charge on the centre.'

'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.'

Brennus frowned. 'If the mangy bastards don't disappear beforehand!'

'Indeed.'

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

'Brennus is right not to trust the Nabataeans. I have been watching our new allies and studying the sky above.' Tarquinius sighed. 'They will probably leave tomorrow.'

'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, Brennus smiled reassuringly. He had come to the conclusion that Ultan's prophecy had to mean something positive. Since escaping his life as a gladiator and travelling to the east, he had survived storms, battles and fiery deserts. Seen incredible cities like Jerusalem and Damascus. Made friends with a powerful soothsayer. He was learning new things every day. It had to be better than killing men in the arena on a daily basis. 'Don't worry,' he said to Romulus. 'The gods will protect us.' He lay down and was asleep within moments.

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 canny soldier,' added Brutus. 'It'll be a close match when he comes up against Caesar.'

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.

Time passed and finally the fisherman drew first blood, a wily throw half covering the secutor with his weighted net. Instantly the trident swept forward, plunging deep into the other's right thigh.

Thinking the end was near, the crowd roared.

Desperately the hunter threw himself forward as the barbed prongs ripped clear of his flesh. Groaning in pain, he reached up with his sword and slashed the retiarius across the belly as he fell.

His opponent also slumped to his knees.

Blood dripped on to the sand from both men.

There was a pause while the two wounded fighters dragged air into their chests, struggling for the energy to continue. People in the audience screamed encouragement, throwing pieces of bread and fruit at them. The secutor was first to stand, throwing off the net and raising his weapon. With a struggle, the retiarius also got up, holding his stomach with one hand, gory trident with the other.

'It will be over soon,' said Brutus, pointing. Both were clearly badly hurt.

Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining Romulus.

The staff officer leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the portly man in front. 'Ten thousand sestertii on the retiarius, Fabius,' he said, his eyes glinting.

Fabius half turned, an amazed look on his red face. 'His guts are about to fall out, Brutus!'

'Scared to lose?'

'You're on,' laughed Fabius and the pair gripped forearms.

Fabiola pouted and caressed Brutus' neck. 'You're wasting money,' she whispered in his ear.