'Those bastards won't give up the high ground,' declared Petronius. 'They'll want us to slog up the slope instead.'

'Caesar's far too canny for that,' said a soldier in the rank behind. 'Even if we did catch the fuckers napping.'

Laughs and loud murmurs of agreement met this comment.

Romulus indicated the slope to their left. 'A position on the top of that is as good as Pharnaces' one.'

Men looked to see who had spoken. The valleys that protected their enemies would also provide their own defence. Each army could then watch the other in a stalemate that might last for days. At Pharsalus, Caesar's legions had faced off against Pompey's for a week before the fighting began.

'That means carrying these damned fascines up there,' growled a voice further back.

'Fool! You'll be glad of them if the enemy attacks,' growled Petronius.

Guffaws and jeers rained down on the anonymous legionary, who fell silent.

The bucinae sounded, silencing the soldiers' mirth. 'About turn!' screamed the centurions. 'Reform your ranks, facing west.' Less than an hour later, the entire army had reached the hilltop. With half the infantry and the Galatian cavalry spread out in a protective screen, the remainder set about digging a ditch to enclose their camp. The earth from this was mixed with the fascines to erect a rampart which was taller than a man. While the Roman legionaries built the front and rear walls, Deiotarus' soldiers constructed the sides. The result of their efforts was not sufficient to withstand a sustained attack, but would do for now.

Some time later, the train of mules which carried the tents and their yokes arrived in the valley below. Leaving the baggage behind had meant the legionaries were ready to fight at a moment's notice. Romulus knew that it was a common ruse of Caesar's. 'Arrive at an unexpected time, and victory is often there to be taken,' he muttered as they marched downhill to escort the mules up. How could it be done here, though?

Their opponents watched them for the rest of the day. Riders galloped up and down the hill opposite, carrying messages and orders to Pharnaces' allies in the area. Deiotarus' cavalry made sallies right up to the Pontic fortifications, finding out as much as possible. Enemy riders did the same to the Roman position. By the time darkness fell, the legionaries were aware that they faced a host more than three times their size. Pharnaces possessed superior cavalry, greater numbers of infantry and other classes of troops not even in Caesar's possession. He had Thracian peltasts, thureophoroi, Judaean skirmishers and slingers from Rhodes. There was heavy horse similar to the Parthian cataphracts, and large numbers of scythed chariots. Confrontation on flat ground had to be avoided at all costs. Storming the enemy's heavily fortified position did not seem a good option either. A nagging sense of unease began tugging at the edges of Romulus' mind.

The sun went down in a blaze of red, illuminating the doubled Roman sentries on the earthen ramparts. There would be no surprise attack under the cover of darkness. Sitting outside their leather tents, the rest of Caesar's soldiers shared acetum, vinegary wine, and bucellatum, the hard biscuit eaten when on campaign. Petronius and the six other soldiers in Romulus' contubernium took their ease by a small fire, laughing and joking. The same scene was being played out all over the camp, yet Romulus did not feel comfortable. Although he had formed a friendship of sorts with his comrades, loneliness still gnawed away at his insides. More than ever, he wished that Brennus were still alive, and that Tarquinius had not disappeared.

Naturally, his thoughts made no difference. Romulus sighed. Even Petronius, whom he trusted with his life, could never know the real truth about his past. Tonight, though, it was not his origins as a slave that he wanted to share. It was his doubt. Romulus could not get over the casual arrogance of Caesar's soldiers, the certainty in their minds that Pharnaces and his huge army would be defeated. Had that not been the attitude of most of Crassus' legionaries before Carrhae?

Yet to mention his experience in that doomed army would attract attention of the most unwelcome kind. At best he would be branded a liar, at worst a deserter. All Romulus could do was keep his mouth shut and continue to trust in Caesar. The following dawn was crisp and clear, presaging another sunny day. The trumpets sounded, waking the men as normal. Army routine did not change merely because an enemy was nearby. After a light breakfast, most soldiers were given the duty of reinforcing the rampart which surrounded their camp. While the fascines and dug earth had served well for one night, much still needed to be done. Sharpened wooden spikes were fitted to the outside of the fortification, just below the level of the sentries' walkway. Deep pits were excavated in irregular rows, their bottoms decorated with spiked iron caltrops. Slabs of rock were broken apart with hammers and chisels and embedded in the ground, pointing crazily upwards like the teeth in a giant demon's mouth. Romulus was fascinated to discover that these defences had also been deployed at Alesia, running for more than fifteen miles and facing in two directions.

Of course their preparations were necessary: the huge force that faced them was made up of fierce warriors who had already tasted success at the expense of a Roman army. They were on hallowed ground too, the site of an historic victory over Rome by Mithridates. In such situations, defeat was only ever a whisker away.

The ballistae, which had been taken apart for ease of transport, were reassembled. Facing north towards Pharnaces' army, they were positioned on the intervallum, the open ground which ran around the inside of the earthworks. Work parties with mules were sent out to collect stones of suitable size for the two-armed catapults. Artillery was probably Caesar's sole area of superiority, thought Romulus, remembering the withering fire laid down by the Forgotten Legion's ballistae during its last battle.

The memory brought twinges of sadness and guilt. As always, the emotions were followed by gratitude. If Brennus hadn't sacrificed his own life, I would not be here, thought Romulus. This bitter pill made it harder not to blame himself also for what had happened to Tarquinius. Remembering that the haruspex had been the one who wanted to enter the Egyptian capital, he managed to shove away the guilt. Each man was master of his own destiny, and Tarquinius was no different in that respect.

The bright sunshine eventually lifted Romulus' mood. Fortunately, the Twenty-Eighth had been chosen to form the defensive screen in front of the camp. While some of Deiotarus' Galatian cavalry was also given this duty, the majority had been sent out in squadrons to study the surrounding terrain. Delighted with their easy task, the men of the Twenty-Eighth watched their toiling comrades and laughed behind their hands so the officers would not see.

Some time later, Romulus glanced at the enemy position. 'Jupiter's balls,' he cried. 'They're on the move.'

Petronius swore loudly. Across the valley, thousands of men were emerging from behind the Pontic fortifications and forming up. Weapons flashed in the early-morning sunlight, and the creak of chariot wheels and shouted orders travelled through the air. Soon it was obvious that Mithridates' entire army was leaving its camp.

The Roman officers' response was instantaneous. 'Close order! Raise shields!' they roared, pacing up and down the front of the ranks. Hefting their javelins, the legionaries obeyed at once. Although the slope before them was steep, an assault by the enemy would prove dangerous. There was no need to panic, though: descending into the valley and then climbing to their position would take a while. If that happened, their comrades on the ramparts would have ample time to join them.