Two heartbeats.
Still the senior centurion did not speak. Death was looking him in the eye, and Darius had no answer.
Three heartbeats.
Someone had to act, or most of the patrol would be killed or injured, thought Romulus. ‘Form testudo!’ he roared, breaking all kinds of rules by shouting an order.
Training instantly took over. The men in the middle squatted down, lifting their heavy scuta over their heads while those on the outside formed a shield wall.
Whirring through the air, the hundreds of wooden shafts came to earth. It was a soft, beautiful and deadly noise. While many sank harmlessly into the silk covers or the ground around the soldiers, plenty of others found the gaps between shields that were still coming together. There was a brief delay and then Romulus’ ears rang with the cries of the injured. Soon he could hear little else. Legionaries cursed and screamed, clawing frantically at the barbed points that had sunk deep into flesh. The dead slumped against their comrades, their shields falling from slack fingers. Although many men were still obeying orders, the testudo had virtually fallen apart.
Biting back a curse, Romulus glanced towards Darius.
The jovial Parthian would never shout an order again. Pierced by half a dozen arrows, he lay motionless ten steps away. A thin line of blood was running from the corner of his mouth, while his right hand reached out towards them in a futile, supplicating gesture. Darius’ bodyguard was sprawled carelessly nearby. Both their faces were frozen in a rictus of shock.
But the attack had just started. More arrows shot up into the sky from either side of them.
At last came a quick response. ‘Form testudo!’ The voice belonged to one of the optiones.
For the second time, the armoured square took shape. This time, though, it was much smaller. Fortunately, both junior officers were experienced men. Screaming orders and with liberal use of their long staffs, they forced the able-bodied men away from the uneven footing that was the injured and slain. It made no sense to trip up on one’s comrade and end up dead as a result. Romulus could not look at the pathetic sight of those they left behind. Yet the optiones knew what they were doing. The plaintive cries for help from the blinded and maimed had to be ignored. In the heat of battle, the best action to take was that which preserved the lives of most.
Knowing what was about to happen, some of the wounded grabbed their shields and tried to cover as much of their bodies as possible. It wasn’t enough: they still died when the second volley landed. By the time the last arrows had fallen, there was nothing more than a bloody pile of feathered corpses beside the testudo.
Brennus did a quick head count. ‘This is not good,’ he said, scowling. ‘Lost nearly fifty men already.’
Romulus nodded, watching the slopes on either side. Any moment now, he thought.
As if answering his call, hundreds of warriors emerged into view. Clad in the same manner as the riders the Romans had butchered early that morning, these were also Scythians. There were infantry, archers on foot and on horseback.
My dream was accurate, Romulus thought with bitter amazement. This force was more than enough to annihilate what remained of the two centuries. What little trust he had had in Mithras withered away.
‘We’re fucked,’ cried Novius, who was still unscathed.
An inarticulate moan of dread rose from the men.
It was hard to argue, but Romulus was damned if he would just let himself be killed. ‘What now, sir?’ he bawled at the older of the two optiones. By virtue of his years served, he was now the commander.
The junior officers looked uncertainly at each other.
The legionaries waited.
Brennus’ smile had disappeared, to be replaced by a steely-eyed, fixed stare. Is this my time? he wondered. If it is, great Belenus, grant protection to Romulus. And let me die well.
The young soldier knew Brennus’ look from experience. It meant that Scythians would die. Many of them. But even the huge Gaul could not kill all the warriors who were swarming down around the testudo, blocking off any escape avenue.
‘Form wedge!’ cried the senior optio at last. What had worked before might do so again. ‘Drive through them and we’ve got a chance.’
His men needed no prompting. If they did not act fast, they would be surrounded completely.
‘Middle ranks, keep your shields up. Forward!’
The desperate soldiers obeyed, instinctively moving at double time.
A hundred paces in front, Scythian foot soldiers were already forming up in deep lines. Romulus eyed the dark-skinned enemy warriors, who were lightly armed compared to the legionaries. Mostly wearing felt hats, few had chain mail or metal helmets. Their only protection was the small round or crescent shields they carried. Armed with spears, swords and axes, they would pose little obstacle to the fast-moving wedge.
‘Those won’t stop us,’ Brennus panted. ‘They’re just light infantry.’
His friend was correct. Confusion filled Romulus. Perhaps his dream did not mean their annihilation after all? If they broke through, nothing stood between them and the fort. What kind of trick was Mithras playing?
They closed in on the Scythians, who immediately launched their spears. The man to Romulus’ right was too slow in lifting his scutum and the next instant, a broad iron blade had taken him through the neck. Without making a sound, he dropped, forcing the men behind him to jump over his body. No one tried to help him. The wound was mortal. Other casualties were similarly ignored. Now, as never before, speed was of the essence. The legionaries loosed a volley of pila at twenty paces, causing dozens of casualties. On they ran.
Romulus fixed his gaze on a bearded, tattooed Scythian with a domed iron helmet.
Twenty steps separated them, then ten.
‘For the Forgotten Legion!’ roared Brennus. ‘For-gotten Le-gion!’
At the top of his voice, every man answered back.
It was the unifying cry for all of them, thought Romulus. They were truly Rome’s lost soldiers, fighting for their very survival at the ends of the earth. Did anyone at home care about them now? Probably not. All they had was each other. And that wasn’t enough. Gritting his teeth, Romulus took a better hold of his horizontal scutum grip. With its heavy iron boss, the Roman shield was a good battering ram.
His target shifted uneasily, suddenly aware that the point of the wedge was heading straight for him.
It was too late.
Romulus punched upwards with his scutum, smashing the Scythian’s nose. As he reeled back in agony, Romulus’ gladius took him in the chest, and the warrior fell from view. The ranks behind were ready, however, and Romulus’ vision was immediately filled with snarling, bearded faces. Lowering his shield again, Romulus let the wedge’s momentum carry him forward. Although he could only make out Brennus and another legionary on either side, there were about a hundred men pushing behind them.
Swinging his sword wildly, a screaming Scythian threw himself at Romulus, who took the blow on the metal rim of his scutum. As his enemy raised his arm to repeat the blow, Romulus leaned forward and shoved his gladius deep into the man’s armpit. He knew the damage it would cause — sliding between ribs to slice lungs and large blood vessels, perhaps even the heart. The Scythian’s mouth gaped like a fish and a gush of arterial blood followed the blade out. Romulus grimaced with satisfaction as the corpse fell to the ground. Two down, he thought wearily. A few hundred to go. Yet, judging from the loud roars of encouragement from the men at the back, the wedge was still moving forward.