The Silver Eagle (23 page)

That left his brother with the dagger, who smiled now that Romulus had no
scutum
. Dodging forward, he angled his blade at the young soldier’s unprotected lower legs. Romulus had to react fast. The Scythian was too close to stab with his
gladius
, so he used his shield hand, his left, to punch the other in the side of the head. As the man went down, half stunned, Romulus reversed his grip on the
gladius.
Gripping its bone hilt with both fists, he turned the blade and plunged it into the Scythian’s back. Iron grated off his ribs as it slid through to pierce a kidney.

An animal scream of pain rang out and Romulus stooped, twisting the blade slightly to make sure.

Struggling to his feet, the second warrior saw his brother writhing on the ground. Rage distorted his face as he threw himself bodily at Romulus. It was a fatal mistake. Using one of Brennus’ moves, Romulus let go of his sword with his left hand and stood, smashing the Scythian across the face with a stiff forearm. It bought him enough time to regain his
gladius
and step forward, dispatching his swaying enemy with a simple forward thrust.

Romulus turned his head, checking the situation on either side. On his right, Brennus was wading through Scythians like a man possessed. His sheer size intimidated before he even came to blows with each warrior. But the Gaul also possessed great skill with weapons. Romulus watched with awe as Brennus barged into a large Scythian, pushing him back several steps and knocking over two men in the ranks behind. While the warrior tried to defend himself, Brennus stabbed him in the belly. The Scythian fell and the Gaul leaped over him, cracking the bottom of his shield off the head of another man. Knocking the warrior unconscious, the blow also opened a deep cut in his scalp. Romulus knew exactly why. There was no end to Brennus’ tricks. As in the
ludus
, the rim of his
scutum
had been sharpened.

‘We’re nearly through!’ yelled Gordianus from his left, pointing with a bloody
gladius
.

Romulus grinned. Just three ranks stood between them and the road west.

They redoubled their efforts. After a few moments of cut and thrust, the last Scythians in their path had been dispatched. On the sides of the wedge, their comrades were still fighting past warriors, but the spirit had gone out of their lightly armed enemies. As the opposition melted away, the legionaries came to a gradual halt. Seven had fallen, twice that number had minor flesh wounds, but there were still nearly ninety men who could march. Chests heaving, faces purple with effort, they stopped to savour the view.

‘A bare track never looked so inviting,’ said Gordianus, wiping his brow. ‘Well done, lad.’

Full of gratitude at the other’s acceptance, Romulus did not reply.

Gordianus saw Brennus’ worried look. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Above the screams of the injured and the battle cries of the Scythian infantry to their rear, Romulus heard the sound of pounding hooves. His skin crawled, remembering Carrhae.

‘Cavalry,’ he said in a monotone.

Alarmed, Gordianus’ eyes darted back to the track in front, which was still empty.

Questions from the other legionaries filled the air, but Romulus ignored them.

They could all hear it now.

Brennus stood calmly, thinking of his wife and son, who had died without him being there to defend them. Of his uncle, who had died saving him. Of his cousin, whose life Brennus had failed to save. Only death could assuage the guilt he felt over these losses. And if he saved Romulus’ life while doing so, he would not have died in vain.

When the first horsemen came into view, Brennus actually smiled.

They were followed by at least two hundred more. Wearing polished scale armour that covered their bodies right down to their thighs, the Scythians were armed with lances, short-headed axes, swords and recurved composite bows. Maximising the full dramatic effect of their appearance, the riders reined in their red-coloured horses and stopped. About two hundred and fifty paces of snow-covered ground separated them from the battered Roman soldiers. Enough distance to reach a full charge.

I have accurately predicted the future, thought Romulus bitterly. But I did not see this.

Nearby, Novius blanched. What chance had they now?

He was not alone in his reaction. Finally taking in what awaited them, Romulus’ spirits plummeted. The divination was my best. And last. We will surely die now. With infantry and archers about to engage them from behind, and the cavalry blocking their way forward, there was nowhere to go. Except to Elysium. From somewhere, Romulus summoned the dregs of his faith in the warrior god.
Mithras! Do not forsake us!
We are worthy of your favour.

‘How did those bastards get here?’ shouted the older
optio
. Scythia lay to the south-east, with a long range of mountains between it and Margiana. The communicating passes would be blocked by snow for months.

There was only one answer.

‘They came around the peaks, sir,’ replied Romulus. Only that could explain the Scythians’ presence in midwinter.

‘Why now?’ demanded the
optio
.

‘To catch us unawares,’ Brennus said. ‘Who would expect an attack of this size at this time of year?’

‘The gods must be angry,’ spat Gordianus, making the sign against evil. Without anger, he glanced at Romulus. They were now comrades again. ‘Have we some hope?’

‘Hardly any,’ he answered.

Fearful mutters rose as this passed back through the ranks.

‘Let’s hope that Darius’ riders made it back then,’ said Gordianus. ‘Or the whole legion could be in danger.’

Behind the wedge, the massed ranks of Scythians were closing in. Simultaneously, the lead cavalryman flicked his reins, forcing his horse into a walk. The trot would be next, followed by the canter.

Their fate was about to be sealed.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ asked Romulus.

The
optio
looked uncertain. Normally there was a centurion present to tell him what to do.

‘If the horses get any speed up, they’ll cut us to pieces, sir,’ said Romulus.

The
optio
’s eyes flickered from side to side. On the heights were yet more warriors, with archers ranked behind. Escape that way meant fighting uphill, while being showered with arrows.

‘Let’s hit them quickly, sir,’ said Romulus. ‘That way, there’s a chance of smashing through.’

‘Charge them?’ queried the
optio
disbelievingly.

‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus glanced back at his frightened-looking comrades. Being hit at the gallop by the approaching horses would undoubtedly break them. And if that happened, the Scythian infantry would soon finish the job. ‘Now,’ he urged.

Unused to such pressure, the
optio
hesitated.

Brennus’ grip on his sword tightened. Romulus’ idea was the best, the sole, choice. If their erstwhile commander did not act, he would intervene. Lethally, if necessary.

Ignoring the confused junior officer, Gordianus turned to his comrades. He too thought Romulus was right. ‘We’ve only one chance,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no way back or on either side.’

‘What should we do?’ cried a voice a few ranks back.

‘Charge those fucking horses,’ cried Gordianus. ‘Before they reach top speed.’

The men looked dismayed, but did not protest.

Gordianus seized the moment. ‘Let’s do it!’

A defiant roar rose into the air. Novius and his cronies alone looked unhappy.

Romulus did not delay any longer. ‘Form wedge!’ he screamed. ‘Charge!’

The dull-witted
optio
had no time to respond. Desperate to survive, the legionaries launched themselves forward, carrying him with them.

Romulus kept his position at the front of the wedge. Brennus was pounding along on his right and Gordianus on his left. Soon they were running at full tilt, their shields held high against Scythian arrows. Those behind could not run and hold their
scuta
over their heads, which meant speed was vital. Once the mounted archers started releasing, the men in the middle would begin to die.

The Scythians responded to the Roman charge by urging their horses into a canter. All had arrows already fitted to their bowstrings. To a man, they drew back and prepared to release.

Less than a hundred paces separated the two sides.

Arrows shot up in graceful arcs and whistled down amongst the legionaries. The man directly behind Brennus went down, shot through the cheek. More shafts thumped into Romulus’ and Gordianus’ shields, making them awkward to carry, but there was no chance to rip them out. The veteran began muttering a prayer to Mars, the god of war.

Sweat ran down Romulus’ face and into the cut below his right eye. The salt stung, and he used the pain to focus himself. Some of the legionaries still had javelins left, he thought. Hit any of the Scythians and they’ll fall off. Open up the formation. Maybe give us enough room to get through.
Mithras, protect us. Give us the strength to survive.

Fifty paces.

‘Ready
pila
,’ he yelled. ‘At my command, loose at will.’

Brennus smiled proudly. Romulus was turning into a leader.

Used to obeying orders, all those with javelins cocked their right arms back. Throwing while running was something they had all been trained to do.

Another flurry of arrows landed. Men made soft, choking noises as metal points skewered their throats; they screamed as eyeballs ruptured. Others were hit in the lower legs where their shields left them exposed. The falling bodies tripped up those immediately behind, and the legionaries at the rear had to just trample over them regardless. Injured, dying or simply winded, it was every man for himself now.

Thirty paces. Good javelin range.

‘Aim at the front riders,’ shouted Romulus one more time. ‘Loose!’

It was difficult enough to aim a
pilum
accurately when standing still. At the run, it was much harder. At Romulus’ command, eight or ten flew forward at the approaching horsemen. Most landed short. Just two found their mark, both striking the tattooed lead rider in the chest. Killed instantly, he toppled sideways and fell off. His body was trampled at once by the horses behind.

Gordianus cheered.

As Romulus had hoped, the dead man’s mount turned away from the Roman wedge, eager to escape. Now there was a small gap in the enemy ranks. He aimed straight for it.

But the other Scythians kept up a relentless fire of arrows. At twenty paces, they were hardly able to miss the unfortunate legionaries. With every step, men dropped into the snow, their blood staining it a deep red.

Someone tried to speak, but the words were unintelligible. Romulus turned his head. Gordianus had been hit at the top of his left shoulder, just above where his chain mail shirt ended.

The veteran’s face was stunned. He tried again to speak, but couldn’t. His hand rose to the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh, then fell away. Gordianus knew that pulling out the arrow would only kill him quicker.

Grief filled Romulus, but there was nothing he could do. Gordianus was a dead man.

Dropping his
gladius
, the veteran leaned over and firmly gripped Romulus’ shoulder with his right hand. His lips framed two silent words: ‘My friend.’

With a leaden heart, Romulus nodded.

With the last of his strength, Gordianus pushed him away. As he did, a Scythian spear took him in his exposed left side. At such close range, it punched straight through the chain mail. Gordianus’ eyes opened wide and he slumped to his knees.

Unable to watch, Romulus turned away.

‘Steady, lad,’ Brennus shouted. ‘I’m still here.’

But the battle was not going well. Horsemen were sweeping down the sides of the shrunken wedge, loosing arrows from point-blank range. Their effect was terrifying and devastating. There was no let-up in the onslaught either. With a tight turning circle, the horses were simply riding around, repeating their attacks time and again.

By now, the wedge had ground to a halt. With every casualty, another gap was created in the shield wall, making it even harder to stop the Scythian arrows and spears. Romulus judged that fewer than forty legionaries remained uninjured. And they were rapidly losing the will to fight.

Then he saw why. A horde of infantry was closing in from the rear to seal their fate.

Romulus shook his head. Mithras had turned his face away. Of Jupiter there was no sign. This was where they would die. ‘It’s over,’ he said wearily.

‘It’s never over,’ roared Brennus. Grabbing a
pilum
from a dead soldier at his feet, he hurled it at an approaching rider. His effort was magnificent, hitting the Scythian in the chest with such force that he was thrown backwards off his mount.