Romulus stared. The ramparts were clear of sentries.
That meant one thing. Roman soldiers never deserted their posts.
The garrison was dead.
An experienced soldier, Darius also took in the situation at a glance. He looked questioningly at Romulus. ‘How did you know?’
‘I couldn’t hear anything, sir,’ he explained.
It made perfect sense. Darius scowled, but there was no time to be lost blaming himself for not noticing what one of his ordinary soldiers had. ‘Vahram must know about this,’ he muttered, barking an order at his guards. At once two turned their horses and rode off, separating as they did. In an attempt to outflank the enemy, one went directly south and the other north. The remaining warrior moved closer to the senior centurion, notching an arrow to his bow.
‘Damn it,’ growled Darius. ‘We’ll just go down there as if nothing’s wrong. But I want everyone ready for combat. Advise the optiones and tesserarii, then resume your position.’
Romulus snapped off a salute and hurried to obey. Already warned by his optio, the other junior officers began to move down the ranks, quietly ordering the men to prepare themselves. Surprise, dismay, and last of all anger, filled the legionaries’ faces. Novius looked most put out, as did his companions.
‘Well?’ asked the Gaul.
‘We march on in,’ replied Romulus. ‘Check out the camp.’
Gripping their weapons tightly, the patrol marched along the track, down the incline towards the fortlet. All eyes were upon it, but for different reasons than just a few moments before. Now everyone could see that there was no smoke from cooking fires, no movement on the walkways. It resembled a graveyard.
Closer in, Romulus saw that one of the front doors was leaning slightly ajar. This was final proof that things were amiss. Far from the rest of the legion, all outposts were under strict orders to keep their gates shut at all times. Yet there were no signs of violence, no damage to the exterior structure. No arrows or spears stuck in the timbers, no evidence of fire. Whatever had happened here had not been thanks to a direct assault.
Darius had seen too. Immediately he ordered the optiones to have the men make a protective screen in front of the entrance. Piling their yokes in a heap, the legionaries fanned outwards in a semicircle, four ranks deep. It was done efficiently, without fuss, and soon a solid wall of shields had formed. Above the silk-covered scuta were bronze bowl crested helmets and steady, grim faces. Apart from the soldiers’ lower legs, there was little for an enemy to attack. And, thanks to Tarquinius’ tutoring, the front ranks always dropped to their knees when the threat of missiles was present. They were ready.
To investigate, Darius hand-picked a squad of six men, including Romulus and Brennus. For reasons best known to himself, he also chose Novius and Optatus. The veterans leered at the friends as they leaned their pila against the timber wall. Javelins would be no good at close quarters. Instead they all drew their gladii. Pulling his own blade free, the stout Parthian led them inside the camp. He was totally unaware of the tension between the men behind him. There was a brief delay; no one wanted to have his enemies at his back. Then Romulus darted through the gate with Brennus, leaving the others too far away to try anything. Mouthing silent curses, Novius and Optatus followed.
The dirt beneath their feet was hard-packed from the passage of men in and out of the fortlet, so their hobnailed caligae made no sound. A deathly silence greeted them. The atmosphere within was eerie. Unnerving. Part of the garrison might be on patrol, but there should have been at least some soldiers visible.
Not one was.
Where are they? thought Romulus. Was it possible that they had abandoned the fortlet?
Apart from the observation tower, a single barracks building and a small latrine block, the only structures were an earth oven under the west wall and a number of altars to the gods positioned here and there. Large, tell-tale dark stains marked the ground, bloody proof that all was not well. There were uneasy murmurs from the others at the sight.
Hairs prickled on the back of Romulus’ neck. There was death here, its presence suddenly overpowering. He looked up, expecting to see clouds of birds of prey hanging high overhead. There weren’t many though, and those present were probably just eyeing the refuse heaps that existed outside the camp. Why were there not more?
Brennus could sense it too. Nostrils flaring, he reached up to touch the hilt of his longsword, which was hanging from his back. In open combat, it was still his favoured weapon.
‘What’s that?’ hissed Darius. They were now very near the barracks.
They froze, ears pricked.
A low sound reached them. There was no mistaking the moan of an injured man. A survivor.
Using the tip of his sword, the Parthian flipped open the flimsy door. It made a hollow sound as it banged off the wall. Inside, the floor was slick with blood. Drag marks led towards the small rooms shared by the contubernia of eight men. With only a half-century in this fort, there would be five such, and a larger chamber for the optio in command. Wrinkling his face with distaste, Darius jerked his head at Romulus, Novius and another soldier. ‘You three go left,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll go right.’ Taking Optatus and the fifth legionary, he entered.
Brennus was left outside.
Romulus gripped the bone handle of his sword tightly. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, he thought, protect me. The narrow corridor echoed to the sound of their caligae as Romulus led the way, with the others one step behind. All held their shields high, their gladii ready. He was acutely aware of Novius at his unprotected back.
‘Don’t worry, slave,’ hissed the veteran. ‘I want to see your face as you die.’
Romulus spun round, glaring. He longed to end the vendetta right then.
‘Found anything?’ bellowed Darius in an odd voice.
The question broke the spell.
‘Not yet, sir,’ Romulus answered, turning back. His voice died in his throat as he reached the first chamber.
There was no need to worry about being attacked. Each room was exactly the same. Their limbs at awkward angles, mangled corpses lay heaped untidily on top of each other. All the legionaries had been stripped naked, their mail shirts and faded russet tunics discarded on the floor alongside. Clotted blood lay in great pools around the still bodies and mounds of clothing.
Even Novius looked disgusted. ‘Who does this to an enemy?’
‘Scythians,’ Romulus said calmly. Tarquinius had told him about their barbaric customs.
‘Fucking savages.’
Every body was mutilated in the same manner: beheaded as well as partially skinned. Patches of skin were missing from chests, backs and legs, and there was no sign of the soldiers’ heads. Romulus knew why. According to Tarquinius, the Scythians measured a warrior’s courage by the number of heads he carried back from battle. They also used the tops of enemy skulls as drinking vessels, covering them in leather and even gilding them inside, while skins were used as drying cloths and scalps as decorative handkerchiefs on their horses’ bridles. Revulsion filled Romulus at this level of savagery. Breathing through his mouth, he realised that he could smell very little. Even though these men had clearly been dead for more than a day, the bitter cold had prevented much decay.
‘Why did they carry them inside?’ asked Novius.
Romulus looked at him with scorn. The answer was obvious.