She could not promise any more. The odds were still stacked against them.
He stared at her from his good eye and nodded once.
This was how the bonds of comradeship were formed, Fabiola realised. Someone who would stand by another in the midst of battle, especially when they did not have to, was worthy of friendship. And trust. Whether they were a slave or not was irrelevant.
‘Your name?’ she asked.
‘Sextus, Mistress.’
‘Good.’ Pleased that she would not die with a stranger, Fabiola studied the newcomers. They seemed vaguely familiar, but fortunately none was armed with a bow. There would be an opportunity to injure or kill at least a few before they died. Perhaps one would drop his guard as the fool with the gladius had, she thought hopefully. But she doubted the ruse would work again. By the way they held their weapons, the tough-looking men were used to fighting. Sighing, Fabiola moved shoulder to shoulder with Sextus. He smelt of blood and sweat. ‘Let’s charge them,’ she whispered. ‘If we break past, head into the alleyway. It will lead somewhere.’
‘Be easier to defend as well, Mistress,’ Sextus replied. ‘Two men can barely stand alongside each other in there.’
She was delighted by his insight. In such a narrow space, their attackers would not be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers. ‘Jupiter has preserved us both this far,’ she said, taking heart. ‘Now we need Fortuna’s help as well.’
‘The gods have never smiled on me, Mistress. I’m a slave.’ Sextus’ eye was world-weary. ‘But I’ll die rather than let these scum harm you.’ He hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm in the thugs’ direction.
There was no more time to talk. Angered by Sextus’ action and full of confidence again, their enemies moved forward purposefully. After all, they now outnumbered their victims by three to one; any fear of injury or death was overcome by their strong desire to rape Fabiola. How hard could it be for half a dozen fighters to overcome a blood-spattered young noblewoman and a badly wounded slave?
Fabiola’s new-found confidence began to desert her. Better armed and disciplined, the new arrivals were clearly more determined than their original attackers. Fear began to take root in her heart. Raising her gladius, she shuffled forward, trying to remember the practice moves she had once seen Romulus make. Sextus kept close beside her, probing forward with the spear he had picked up.
One of the thugs laughed; it was an unpleasant, threatening sound.
And Fabiola remembered where she had seen him before.
These were fugitivarii.
Almost on cue, a burly figure with brown hair and deep-set eyes strolled from the alley. Dressed in a legionary’s mail shirt, he had thick silver bands circling his wrists. Behind him were another six of his men, all heavily armed.
The tip of Sextus’ spear wavered at the sight; Fabiola’s hand rose to her mouth in shock.
Scaevola bowed mockingly.
Her pulse became a trip hammer. This ambush had been planned.
Chapter VII: Ambush
Margiana, winter 53/52 BC
It was the silence which first drew Romulus’ attention. The fortlet that they had marched all day to reach was at the bottom of a gentle slope in a wide defile, meaning that sound carried up to anyone approaching from the west. Normal noises should have been audible: during daylight, every Roman camp was a hubbub of activity. There were smiths hammering out dents in sword blades, men shouting during weapons drill or trumpets sounding the change of guard. Yet he could hear nothing.
Not a sound.
A frisson of fear caressed Romulus’ spine. Since seeing the corpse on the cross, he had thought only of Fabiola and his mother. If Rome was descending into the total anarchy he had seen, what did that bode for his loved ones? Their fragile image in his mind, which he used to stay sane, had begun to disintegrate. This in turn brought him back to reality with a jolt.
Footsore and looking forward to a warm meal, his comrades appeared unaware. Even Novius’ taunts had stopped. Clearly unconcerned, Darius and a junior officer were conferring about something. The column tramped onwards, passing a small inscribed stone tablet sticking out of the ground. There had been similar markers all along their route from the main fort. This last was positioned about half a mile from their destination and as the men saw it, their pace picked up.
Romulus’ jaw clenched. Why had no one else noticed? ‘I don’t like it,’ he hissed to Brennus.
The Gaul looked startled. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he scanned their surroundings. Although nothing was visible, he did not relax. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.
‘It’s too damn quiet.’
Brennus cocked his head and listened. Apart from the noise of iron hobnails crunching off the frozen ground, he too could hear nothing. Suspicion flared in his blue eyes. ‘If you’re going to say something, do it fast.’ He pointed at Darius.
Very soon, the Parthian officer would come into full view of the outpost.
Uneasy, Romulus turned his head to the rear. Blinding light from the setting sun lit up the track, making it almost impossible to see. Yet there was no mistaking the figure on horseback that was watching the patrol from the high point of the defile. It was Scythian.
Romulus blinked. When he looked again, the rider was gone.
Seeing him, Novius drew a finger across his throat.
He studiously ignored the gesture.
‘Are you going to speak to Darius?’ asked Brennus, who had seen nothing.
‘It’s too late. They’re behind us as well,’ Romulus whispered. Quickly he filled the Gaul in.
Stifling a curse, Brennus glanced back, then forward. He felt a brief surge of pride at Romulus’ keen eye. If he was right, they could do little. The Gaul assessed the situation. Their current position was impossible to defend. With slopes on either side, they would be at the mercy of any missiles fired at them. But it was not safe to turn around either. ‘Got no choice, have we?’ he growled. ‘The best place to fight will be the flat ground in front of the fortlet.’
Pleased, Romulus nodded. That had been his thought too. ‘I’d better tell Darius,’ he said.
The optio was surprised when Romulus broke ranks to mutter in his ear, but gave permission for him to advise their commander.
With his yoke waving overhead, Romulus trotted forward until he caught up with the senior centurion. Darius’ horse was ten steps from the edge of the ridge which overlooked their destination.
‘Sir!’
Reining in, the stout Parthian smiled at the sight of Romulus. This was one of the best soldiers in his cohort. ‘What is it?’ he asked in Latin.
‘An ambush, sir,’ replied Romulus. ‘There are Scythians behind us.’
Turning in the saddle, Darius studied the bare landscape. ‘Are you sure?’
Romulus explained what he had seen and the Parthian’s face darkened. ‘Let’s get down there fast,’ he said. ‘We’ll have over two hundred men then. That’ll see off the bastards.’
‘If they’re not dead already,’ Romulus announced, deliberately speaking in Parthian. Everyone needed to be aware of the risks they faced.
Darius’ guards looked alarmed.
‘Explain yourself,’ Darius hissed.
Romulus opened his mouth to do so when instinctively the senior centurion’s horse stopped. It had reached a flat piece of rock, a place where a soldier might stop to glance back at his camp before beginning a journey, or where a weary patrol arriving after a long march could pause to savour their achievement. Behind them, the legionaries halted gratefully, grounding their yokes and shields while the opportunity presented itself.
Together they gazed down at the fortlet, which was now only a short march away. The same playing-card shape of all Roman forts, the small outpost had just one gate, at the front. A tall wooden watchtower was positioned in the centre, with an uninterrupted field of vision around the camp. There were defensive fossae and wooden battlements twice the height of a man; inside the low roof of a barracks could be seen.