Romulus cursed. Even now he was being denied his revenge for Felix’ death.
It was then that a wounded bull elephant emerged into view, one tusk snapped clean away and the other red-tipped with gore. Every few steps, it blew out its ears and raised its trunk, letting out a piercing bugle of anger. Romulus was not the only being affected by battle rage. Its mahout was still in place, occasionally managing to direct his mount towards any legionaries within range. A solitary warrior remained on its back; he was firing arrows as well. The bull’s armoured head and neck bristled with bent pila, thrown by the legionaries in a vain attempt to bring it down. Yet what had done most damage was the lucky javelin that had pierced its left eye, half blinding it. The remaining eye now gleamed with a piggy, intelligent fury.
Unused to elephants, Vahram’s horse froze with terror.
Instantly the archer loosed a shaft, which took the Parthian through his left arm and rendered him totally unable to guide his mount away to safety. A cruel smile played across the Indian’s face.
Romulus paused, overcome with awe at what he was about to see.
And Tarquinius gave thanks to Mithras for granting him the strength not to reveal this during his torture.
Moving with surprising speed, the great bull swept forward, wrapping its trunk around Vahram’s body.
A thin, cracked cry left the primus pilus’ throat as he was lifted high into the air.
It was the last sound he ever made.
Dashing him to the ground, the elephant immediately knelt down, crushing Vahram beneath its front legs. Then, grabbing the Parthian’s head with its trunk, it decapitated him.
Romulus closed his eyes. He had never seen a man die more brutally, yet somehow it felt quite apt. When he looked up again a single heartbeat later, the bull was making straight for him.
Romulus felt his heart hammer in his chest. Without chain mail and armed only with a gladius, his life was over too.
A massive hand covered in blood pushed him to one side. ‘This is my quarrel, brother,’ said the Gaul quietly. ‘A time for Brennus to stand and fight.’
Romulus stared into the other’s calm blue eyes.
‘I will run no more.’
The words brooked no argument.
Ever since he had gained an insight into Tarquinius’ abilities, this moment was what Romulus had dreaded. Now it was here. Fat tears of grief welled up, but his protest died away. In Brennus’ gaze he saw only bravery, love and acceptance.
And the gods had decreed it. Mithras had brought them here.
‘Return to Rome,’ Brennus ordered. ‘Find your family.’
His throat closed with lead, Romulus could not answer.
Like a hero of old, the pigtailed Gaul stepped forward, his longsword ready. Without his chain mail, he was a magnificent sight. Huge muscles rippled and tensed under his sweat-soaked military tunic. Runnels of blood covered his left arm, but he had snapped off and drawn out the Indian shaft.
‘You were right, Ultan,’ Brennus whispered, looking up at the magnificent beast now rearing above him. Bunching his left fist, he breathed into the pain that radiated from his arrow wound. ‘A journey beyond where any Allobroge has gone. Or will ever go.’
‘Romulus.’ The voice was insistent. ‘Romulus.’
The young soldier let Tarquinius lead him the few steps to the edge. He did not look back. Holding only his weapon, Romulus jumped into the river with Tarquinius.
As the cold water closed over his head, his ears rang with Brennus’ last battle cry.
‘FOR LIATH!’ he roared. ‘FOR CONALL, AND FOR BRAC!’
Chapter XVIII: Pompey’s General
Northern Italy, spring 52 BC
By the time that the legionaries reached them, Fabiola had regained control of her emotions. The forty men clattered to a halt, shields and pila at the ready. Sextus and Docilosa were very careful not to raise their bloodied weapons. Any perceived threat would result in a volley of javelins. Yet the soldiers’ disciplined appearance was infinitely more appealing than that of Scaevola and his crew. There would be no out-of-hand rape here. Ignoring the soldiers’ eager stares, Fabiola took her time, fixing her hair back into place with a couple of decorated ivory pins and lifting the neck of her dress to a more modest level. Then she beamed at the optio in charge, who had made his way to the front. Brazening their way out of the situation might yet be possible.
‘Centurion,’ Fabiola purred, deliberately giving him a higher rank. ‘You have our thanks.’
While the optio flushed proudly, his men tittered with amusement.
He threw an angry glance over his shoulder and they fell silent. ‘What happened, my lady?’
‘Those ruffians you saw,’ Fabiola began, ‘they ambushed us in the woods. Killed almost all my slaves and bodyguards.’ Not entirely acting, she let her lip tremble at the memory.
‘The roads are dangerous everywhere, lady,’ he muttered in sympathy.
‘But they ran when you appeared,’ said Fabiola, batting her eyelashes.
Embarrassed now, the optio looked down.
Secundus hid a smile. As if the fugitivarii would have attacked them in front of an entire legion, he thought.
Awed by her beauty, the optio said nothing for a moment. A short man with a scar across the bridge of his nose, he carefully considered the four figures, their clothes torn and covered with bloodstains. ‘Might I ask where you are bound?’ he asked eventually.
‘Ravenna,’ lied Fabiola. ‘To see my aged aunt.’
Satisfied, he nodded.
Fabiola thought she had succeeded. ‘If we might proceed then?’ she said. ‘The next town is not far. I will be able to purchase more slaves there.’
‘That won’t be possible, lady.’
‘Why ever not?’ she demanded, her voice rising.
The optio cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘I have my orders.’
‘Which are?’
‘To take you in,’ he said, avoiding her eyes. ‘The centurion said so.’
Fabiola looked at Secundus, who gave her a tiny shrug.
The optio’s superior might want them questioned further, but they could not exactly refuse.
‘Very well,’ she said, acceding gracefully. ‘Lead on.’
Pleased, the junior officer barked an order. Parting smoothly in the middle, his men positioned themselves on either side of Fabiola and her little party.
Before walking away, she glanced at the trees. Nothing. Scaevola and his fugitivarii had disappeared.
Fabiola knew that it would not be the last time that they met. She’d have to kill the merciless slave-catcher on the next occasion, or he would do the same to her.
In the event, Fabiola’s fear about not being allowed to continue her journey proved correct. The centurion who greeted them nearer the marching camp was no less impressed by her beauty than the optio, but he was far more assured in his manner. Fabiola’s request to proceed was brushed aside with a courteous yet firm refusal.
‘There aren’t many travellers about, lady,’ he said, tapping his nose. ‘I’m sure the legate would appreciate a chat with you. Find out what’s going on. Offer some advice, maybe.’
‘He’d hardly bother with me,’ Fabiola protested.
‘On the contrary,’ came the reply. ‘The legate is a man of fine taste who would want me to offer you his hospitality.’
‘That is most gracious,’ said Fabiola, bowing her neck to conceal her dread. ‘And his name?’
‘Marcus Petreius, lady,’ the centurion answered proudly. ‘One of Pompey’s best generals.’
Again the optio took charge.
The walk to the temporary camp did not take long. Never having seen one constructed before, Fabiola watched the working soldiers with interest. Three deep fossae were already finished, their bottoms decorated with caltrops. Now the legionaries were finishing off the ramparts, which were the height of two tall men. Tamping down the earth with flattening blows of their shovels, they formed a firm surface to walk upon. Stakes chopped from freshly felled trees decorated the corners, forming protective areas for the sentries. As with a permanent fort, one entrance was being situated in the middle of each side. With the legion on the march, there were no wooden gates to use. Instead, one wall angled just in front of the other where they met, forming a narrow corridor. Fabiola counted twenty paces as they passed through it. Piles of cut branches were being stacked nearby; these would be used to fill the gap once night fell.