The Silver Eagle

But Scaevola and the rest of his men were closing in. There were nearly a dozen cursing figures running along the road behind.

With fear giving them an extra turn of speed, they pelted along between the thinning trees. And then they were out, bright sunlight falling on their sweating, desperate faces. The valley had opened out, its slopes falling away to meet the open plain beyond.

A plain which was now occupied by a Roman legion.

Fabiola could not believe her eyes.

A wide protective screen of legionaries was standing guard while their comrades toiled behind them, digging with their shovels. Using the earth from the defensive fossae, they would next erect the marching camp’s ramparts. Safe in the knowledge that there were few if any enemies in Italy, most of the soldiers on watch were chatting to each other.

But it would not be long before they were spotted.

Scaevola had seen the troops too. Calling his men back to the protection of the trees, the fugitivarius watched in helpless rage as Fabiola and her companions moved beyond his reach.

Sextus and Docilosa were delighted, but Secundus swore out loud. And Fabiola’s face turned thunderous.

‘Who are they?’ asked Docilosa, confused by her mistress’ reaction.

‘Pompey’s men,’ Fabiola replied in a flat tone. ‘Marching south to Rome.’

The shouts of eager sentries reached them at last. Bucinae rang out, and a half- century of men under an optio swiftly formed up to come and guide them in.

Fabiola searched the sky for a sign. She could see nothing. Not even a raven, Mithras’ bird, which was common in hilly areas.

Misery overcame the young woman, and a sob escaped finally escaped her lips.

One bitter enemy had been exchanged for another.

Chapter XVII: The Final Battle

By the River Hydaspes, India, spring 52 BC

When day broke, the rising sun lit the eastern horizon with a deep shade of crimson. The blood-red tinge actually seemed quite apt to the poorly rested, irritable legionaries. With a sky that colour, Hades could not be far away. Fervent prayers were uttered as men made their last requests of the gods. As always, wives, children and family were high on the list. While those in Italy had no doubt given them up for dead, the soldiers of the Forgotten Legion had survived partly by thinking of home. Now, for the last time, they asked the deities to protect their loved ones. They themselves had little need.

Those who could face it had a light breakfast; they weren’t many. More important were their water bags, which were full to the brim. Combat was thirsty work.

Not long after dawn, Pacorus had them march to their position parallel to the riverbank. Positioned about half a mile away, the temporary marching camp with their tents and spare equipment was simply abandoned. It did not need to be defended. If by a miracle the Forgotten Legion was victorious, its contents would be safe. If not, it did not matter what happened to their yokes, clothes and few valuables.

With the most experienced veterans, the First was positioned in the centre of the line. It was flanked by five more on each side, with seven cohorts and Pacorus’ remaining horsemen held in reserve. His warriors were also kept back, surrounding his position behind the First. A group of Parthian drummers and Roman trumpeters waited on one side, ready to pass on Pacorus’ commands. That was also where the aquilifer was placed: far enough back to protect the silver eagle, but close enough that every man could see it if he turned his head.

Every single tiny scrap of advantage was to be wrung out.

The first five ranks of legionaries were armed with the long spears, while nearly two-thirds had a silk-covered shield. The precious fabric obtained from Isaac, the Judaean merchant they had encountered en route to Margiana, only covered five thousand shields or so. It would have to suffice. At the sides and rear, the soldiers manning the ballistae turned and twisted their machines, making sure the mechanisms were well oiled, the washers tightened to the maximum and the thick gut strings sufficiently taut. Arcs of fire were checked repeatedly, as were the piles of stones alongside. The old hands among the artillerymen had already paced out the ground in front, marking each hundred paces with a distinctively shaped rock or a stake driven almost completely into the earth. It gave them exact range markers, and would make their volleys far more lethal.

Finally, a party was sent to dig out even more of the trench near the river, allowing more torrents of water to pour through and causing all the carefully dug channels to overflow. Then the entire area was covered with small branches, concealing the digging that had gone on. Seeing the result helped to lift the men’s sombre mood a fraction.

They all waited.

It was a beautiful clear morning. The ominous red colour had lightened and then faded away, letting the sky turn its usual blue. The only clouds visible were groups of delicately shaped lines, very high up, but they still managed to dull the bright sunlight and kept the temperature pleasingly cool. The air was calm, and filled with a rich variety of birdsong from the trees along the riverbank. In the distance, a group of wild asses moved through the long grass, flicking their tails to keep flies at bay.

Romulus had already seen Tarquinius standing beside Pacorus, pointing here and there as they discussed the best battle strategy. There was no chance of talking with the haruspex, and Romulus had to hope that he and Brennus would be with him if the end came.

When it came, Romulus thought bitterly. He needed no ability to prophesy here, for the army that came to meet them was vast.

The Indian horsemen were the first to arrive. Riding small, agile ponies, the turbaned warriors carried a variety of weapons from javelins and bows to short spears and round or crescent-shaped shields. Bare-chested, dark-skinned, few wore any armour at all. Instead, a simple loincloth sufficed. Carefully keeping out of arrow range, they watched the Romans with dark, inscrutable eyes. These were skirmishers, highly mobile troops similar to the Gauls who had accompanied Crassus; their versatility could turn the course of a battle. There were at least five thousand of them, while Pacorus had perhaps two hundred and fifty horsemen remaining. Knowing this, many of the enemy confidently rode their horses down to the river to drink.

But they made no attempt to attack the Forgotten Legion. In their eyes, there was no need.

Pacorus kept silent, saving his men and the stones from his ballistae. Every single one was now more precious than gold.

Next to arrive were the battle chariots. Pulled by pairs of horses, they were larger than any Romulus had ever seen. Built from hardwood, and richly decorated with silver and gold inlay on their sides and solid wheels, they were essentially raised, enclosed battle platforms containing a driver and two or three warriors armed with spears and bows.

Romulus counted nearly three hundred of them.

As the chariots joined their cavalry comrades, shouts and jeers were hurled at the Roman lines. More and more voices joined in, until the mighty din filled the air. The exact words of the insults were unclear, but the meaning was crystal clear.

Following normal Roman tactics, the legionaries remained totally quiet. After a while, this had the effect of silencing the Indians and a strange peace reigned as the two sides watched each other warily. Some time later, the air filled with a low thunder.

The legionaries peered upwards, but there were no ominous-looking clouds in sight. Then it dawned on them that the noise was from the sheer number of infantry approaching. As the horizon to the south filled with the shapes of marching men, Romulus gradually picked out groups of archers, slingers and ordinary foot soldiers. The variety of weapons they carried was enormous: it seemed that no two men were armed the same. He saw axes, short swords, spears, even longswords like Brennus’ mighty one. There were pikes, spiked maces and knives with