The announcement was quickly disseminated by the grim-faced centurions. Although Parthian, they too were dismayed by Pacorus’ decision. Going on campaign this early in the year was not an appealing prospect. Yet the news wasn’t of much surprise to the weary legionaries. They had been looking forward to celebrating their victory over the Scythians, and the pleasure of sleeping in their own beds. Instead, they were brooding over Tarquinius’ words, which had already been repeated a dozen times in every barracks. One perilous battle was to be followed by another, yet more ominous. As darkness fell, thousands of prayers rose up into the empty, windless sky. Few men slept well.
Romulus in particular lay awake for much of the night, considering his future. It seemed utterly hopeless. Everyone was out for their blood: Pacorus, Vahram, Caius and now the Indians. For every danger that he survived, two more seemed to spring up. As ever, deserting seemed pointless, while trying to rescue Tarquinius was tantamount to suicide. Marching to face the Indians was the only option. South, into the unknown, to a battle that no one could win. A dense gloom enveloped Romulus. But Mithras had seen fit to keep him alive this far, and Tarquinius would be travelling with the legion. Perhaps there was a faint chance.
Brennus did not like talking much. Instead he had fallen asleep and was snoring contentedly nearby, a tiny smile playing on his lips.
Wrapped up in his own troubles, Romulus still did not notice his friend’s relaxed manner.
And in the courtyard of Pacorus’ quarters, Tarquinius studied the stars filling the heavens. Try as he might, the haruspex could not see past the battle that lay ahead.
As at Carrhae, the slaughter would be immense. Too many men would die to allow the paths of three single individuals to be discerned on their own. But where were the visions that had showed the possibility of returning to Rome? Had Olenus, his mentor, been wrong?
Tarquinius too was filled with unease.
As Romulus and Brennus emerged from the confining sides of the narrow pass and the men in front began to descend, they were granted a view of the land that awaited them. Eleven days had passed and the Forgotten Legion was about to complete its traversal of the mountains to the south of its fort. With Pacorus’ expert knowledge of the area, the legionaries had marched safely through a narrow defile, well below the snowline.
‘Great visibility,’ said the Gaul, pointing due east. ‘I’d say fifty miles at least.’
It was hard to disagree. With a cloudless sky overhead, the crystal-pure air allowed them to see every tiny detail below them. Rivers thundered down from the peaks to divide the landscape into huge, irregular portions. This was more fertile land than that to the north. Small villages were dotted throughout, their patchwork fields spread unevenly around the houses. On the foothills that ran down from the mountains were thick clumps of trees. Unlike the Romans, the Parthians and Bactrians did not build roads, but plenty of well-worn tracks joined the areas of human inhabitation. It was not dissimilar to parts of southern Italy.
Pleased mutters rose from the other soldiers: there was no sign of a huge host.
Romulus sighed. He did not know which was worse — the expectation of doom, or the actuality of it.
Brennus threw a comforting arm around his shoulders. ‘We’re all still alive,’ he said. ‘Breathe the air. Enjoy the view. You might as well.’
He managed a small smile.
From the following dawn, they advanced steadily, covering a good fifteen miles before dark. The next day it was twenty, and the day after that, a few more. No one knew exactly where they were going, but the rumour was that their destination was the River Hydaspes.
This was proved correct when, after nearly a week’s march, an enormous watercourse eventually halted the Forgotten Legion’s progress. Running almost directly north-south, it was at least a quarter of a mile wide. A less imposing barrier than the mountains, the river still acted as a formidable natural border.
Tarquinius sat astride his mule, watching the water glide past at speed. Around him were Pacorus and many of the senior centurions on their horses. A ring of dusty warriors stood ready at their backs, secretly relieved to rest. To get a better view, the commander’s party had advanced to the river’s edge. Low trees and heavy vegetation grew right down to the water on both sides, restricting the view of the far bank.
‘The Hydaspes,’ announced Pacorus, gesturing expansively. ‘The eastern limit of the Parthian Empire.’
‘Alexander’s army finally came to a halt not far from here,’ said Tarquinius. ‘Because his troops would go no further.’
‘They were wise men,’ the commander answered. ‘Since deepest antiquity, the Indian kings have fielded huge armies. Far bigger than that damn Greek might have had.’
‘Nothing has changed then,’ added Vahram drily.
‘Where are they, though?’ asked Ishkan.
Nervous eyes turned to Tarquinius.
‘The gods help you if this was a wasted march,’ growled Pacorus.
Vahram gripped his sword hilt, always keen to administer a quick revenge.
Tarquinius did not answer immediately. Surviving the torture had, if anything, helped him to consider everything for longer. Raising his head, the haruspex smelt the air. His eyes never still, he searched the sky.
Over the previous week, the weather had improved steadily. Spring was now well under way. In the fields belonging to the settlements that they had passed, the new wheat and barley was sprouting pale green shoots. Away from the colder climate of the mountains, the plants and trees were beginning to bloom. The river level would have fallen from its winter highs, the haruspex thought. It was about two months before the monsoon began. A perfect time for an army to cross safely.
Vahram was growing impatient, but Pacorus sat quietly astride his black stallion. Although he hated it, he had grown used to Tarquinius’ contemplative manner. Waiting for a few moments more would not change the course of their fate.
Tarquinius’ gaze was drawn to a solitary huge vulture flying over the far bank. Its appearance was striking, and unusual. Black circles dramatised its eyes; the rest of its head was white, while the neck and body were a pale brown colour. Even its long, diamond-shaped tail was distinctive.
Its presence had to be of significance.
Clutching a large tortoise in its talons, the vulture was climbing steadily into the air. When it had reached a height that he judged to be at least two hundred paces, it simply let go. The tortoise plummeted to the ground, its rigid shell guaranteeing a certain death. It was followed in a more leisurely way by the bird.
A striking example of intelligence, Tarquinius thought. A good lesson, when the odds seemed insurmountable.
In the eastern distance, over the trees, he glimpsed banks of massing thunderclouds. Tarquinius gave silent thanks to Tinia and Mithras. Since Vahram’s torture, divining had become more difficult. But his talents had not completely disappeared. ‘We’re late,’ he said. ‘There are shallows two days march to the south. They’re already crossing there.’
Ishkan’s tanned face paled. He knew where the ford was, but there was no way that Tarquinius could have: none of the Parthians would have mentioned it.
This was more proof that Tarquinius’ abilities were indeed real, thought Vahram. It was good that he had not killed the haruspex. Yet, he reflected, what faced them was as ominous as the fate which awaited any who killed such a man. A week earlier, the Forgotten Legion had abandoned the easily defendable pass through the mountains. The plan had been to reach the Hydaspes before the enemy, to deny them the crossing, or at least to make them pay dearly for it. Now, the realisation that the Indians were already on this bank hit home. And on the open ground by the river, their situation seemed even more vulnerable.
Pacorus set his jaw. A brave man, he was not about to run from his duty. Better to die honourably in battle against Parthia’s enemies than suffer an ignominious end at the hands of King Orodes’ executioners. He looked searchingly at Tarquinius. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘There is much to be done.’
Vahram sneered. ‘What can we possibly do, except die?’
‘Teach the Indians a lesson they will never forget,’ growled Pacorus.
Tired and footsore after yet another long march, the legionaries were unhappy at having to erect a marching
