The Road to Rome Read online

  The first volley of Nubian arrows shot up into the air, hissing down in a graceful, deadly shower.

  ‘Shields up!’ shouted the officers.

  An instant later, the stream of enemy missiles struck their raised scuta with familiar thumping sounds. To Romulus’ relief, almost none had the power to drive through, so few men were hit. His pulse increased, though, as he noticed some of the stone and iron arrowheads were smeared with a thick, dark paste. Poison! The last time he had seen that was when fighting the Scythians in Margiana. Even a tiny scratch from one of their barbed tips caused a man to die in screaming agony. Romulus felt even more glad of the scutum in his fist.

  Another volley followed before the Nubians began trotting towards Caesar’s lines. Unencumbered by heavy equipment such as the rogue legionaries were carrying, they quickly picked up pace. Screaming ferocious battle cries, the enemy warriors soon reached a sprint. They were followed by Gabinius’ former soldiers, who would deliver the hammer blow. Romulus gritted his teeth and wished that Brennus were still with them. The enemy formation was at least ten ranks deep, while Caesar’s lines now were barely half that.

  Right on cue, the trumpets blew a short series of blasts. From the rear came the shouted order, ‘Retreat to the ships!’ The voice was calm and measured, quite at odds with the urgency of the situation.

  ‘That’s Caesar,’ explained the legionary with a proud grin. ‘Never panics.’

  At once their lines began edging sideways, towards the western harbour. It was only a short distance, but they could not let down their guard at all. Seeing this attempt to escape, the Nubians yelled with anger and sprang forward again.

  ‘Keep going,’ cried the centurion nearest Romulus. ‘Stop just before they hit. Stay in formation and drive them back. Then move on.’

  Romulus eyed the triremes, which numbered about twenty. There would be room on board for all – but where would they go?

  As ever, Tarquinius butted in with the answer. ‘To the Pharos.’ He pointed at the lighthouse. ‘Over there, the Heptastadion is only fifty or sixty paces across.’

  His confidence restored, Romulus grinned. ‘We can defend that until doomsday.’

  Yet the ships were still out of reach and, a heartbeat later, the Nubians struck the Roman formation with such force that the front ranks were driven back several steps. Screams filled the night air and soldiers cursed the bad luck sent them by the gods. Romulus saw a legionary to his left take a spear through one calf and go down thrashing. Horrendously, another had a blade pierce both cheeks to emerge on the other side of his face. Blood jetted from the wounds as the weapon was withdrawn. Dropping his scutum and sword, the soldier raised both hands to his ruined face and let out a thin, piercing cry. Romulus lost sight of both injured men as a mass of Nubians slammed up against his section.

  Angry red mouths shouted insults in a foreign tongue. Hide shields smacked off scuta and broad spear blades flickered back and forth, searching for Roman flesh. Romulus’ nostrils were filled with the black warriors’ musty body odour. Quickly he killed the first man within reach, sliding his gladius under the man’s sternum in one easy move. His next opponent was no harder to despatch; he practically ran on to Romulus’ sword. The Nubian was dead before he’d even realised it.

  On Romulus’ right, Tarquinius was also dispatching warriors with ease, but to his left, the talkative legionary was struggling. Beset by two hulking Nubians, he soon took a spear through his right shoulder, which crippled him. He had no chance as one of his enemies pulled down his shield while the other stabbed him through the throat. It was the last thing the first Nubian did. Romulus lopped off his right hand, the one holding the spear, and with the backstroke opened the warrior’s flesh from his groin to his shoulder. A legionary from the rank behind moved forward to fill the gap and together they killed the second warrior.

  The dead were replaced immediately.

  We need cavalry, thought Romulus as he fought on. Or some catapults. A different tactic to help their cause, which was growing desperate. Small numbers of legionaries had reached the triremes and were swarming aboard, but the majority remained trapped in a fight which they could not win. Panic flared in men’s hearts and instinctively they moved backwards. Centurions roared at them to stand fast, and the standard-bearers shook their poles, trying to restore confidence, but it was no good. More ground was given away. Scenting blood, the enemy redoubled their efforts.

  Romulus did not like it. He could see the situation unravelling fast.

  ‘Keep moving!’ cried a voice from behind him. ‘Hold your formation. Take heart, comrades. Caesar is here!’

  Romulus risked a look over his shoulder.

  A lithe figure in gilded breastplate and red general’s cloak was pushing through to join them. His horsehair-crested helmet was especially well wrought, with silver and gold filigree worked into the cheek pieces. Caesar was carrying a gladius with an ornate ivory hilt and an ordinary scutum. Romulus took in a narrow face with high cheekbones, an aquiline nose and piercing, dark eyes. Caesar’s features reminded him of someone, but he had no time to dwell on the thought. He took heart from Caesar’s calm manner, however. Like the centurions, he was prepared to put his life on the line, and where a leader like Caesar stood, soldiers would not run.

  Struck, Tarquinius looked from the general to Romulus and back again.

  Romulus was oblivious.

  The news rippled through the ranks. At once the atmosphere changed, the panic dissipating like early morning mist. Disobeying orders, the re-invigorated legionaries surged forward again, catching the enemy unawares. Soon the lost ground had been regained, and there was a brief respite. With the ground between the lines littered with bloody bodies, writhing casualties and discarded weapons, both sides stood watching each other warily. Clouds of breaths steamed the air and sweat ran freely from the felt liners under bronze helmets.

  It was Caesar’s moment.

  ‘Remember our battle against the Nervii, comrades?’ he asked loudly. ‘We won then, eh?’

  The legionaries roared with approval. Their victory against the valiant tribe had been one of the hardest fought in the entire Gaulish campaign.

  ‘And Alesia?’ Caesar went on. ‘The Gauls were swarming over us like clouds of flies there. But we still beat them!’

  Another shout went up.

  ‘Even at Pharsalus, when no one gave us a chance in Hades,’ Caesar said dramatically, encompassing them all with his arms, ‘you, my comrades, gained victory.’

  Romulus saw real pride appear in men’s faces; he felt their resolve stiffen. Caesar was one of them. A soldier. Romulus felt his own respect growing. This was a remarkable leader.

  ‘Cae-sar!’ bellowed a grizzled veteran. ‘Cae-sar!’

  Everyone took up the cry, including Romulus.

  Even Tarquinius joined in.

  Caesar let his men cheer for a moment, and then began urging them towards the triremes once more.

  They nearly made it. Intimidated by the Romans’ counter-attack and Caesar’s bold words, the Egyptian troops held back for twenty heartbeats. Soon the edge of the dock was only a stone’s throw away. Guided by sailors, hundreds more legionaries had embarked, and a good number of the low-slung ships had pushed out into the harbour. The three banks of oars on each dug down, pulling them into deeper water. Finally, furious that their foes were escaping, the enemy officers acted. Exhorting their men to finish what had been started, they charged forward, followed quickly by a roiling mass of soldiers that threatened only one thing. Annihilation.

  ‘Spread out!’ Caesar ordered. ‘Form a line in front of the triremes.’

  His men hurried to obey.

  It was all too slow, thought Romulus with a thrill of dread. Manoeuvres like this could not be done properly with an enemy host closing in from thirty paces away.

  Tarquinius’ gaze lifted to the starlit sky, searching for a sign. Where was the wind coming from? Was it about to change? He needed to know, but he
was afforded no time.

  An instant later, the Egyptians reached them. Attacking a force on the point of retreat was one of the best ways to win a battle, and they sensed it instinctively. Spears reached out, delivering the bloody kiss of death to legionaries who were turning to run. Gladii wielded by Gabinius’ former soldiers stabbed through weakened links of mail, or into vulnerable armpits; they hammered the shields from their hands. Bronze helmets were smashed into bent pieces of metal and men’s skulls cracked open. Humming overhead came sheets of arrows and showers of stones. Seeing the lethal pieces of rock, Romulus’ heart sank. With enemy slingers in range, their casualties would soar.

  Fear now distorted most legionaries’ faces. Others threw terrified glances at the heavens and prayed aloud. Caesar’s rallying shouts were in vain. There simply weren’t enough of them to hold the Egyptians back. The fight became a frantic effort not to fold completely. Still Romulus hacked and slashed, holding his own. With an agility belying his years, Tarquinius was doing the same. The soldier who had joined Romulus on his left side was a skilled fighter too. Together they made a fearsome trio – yet it made little difference to the greater situation.

  As the Roman lines moved backwards, men died in growing numbers, which weakened the shield wall. At last it disintegrated, and screaming Nubians battered their way in. With their distinctive red cloaks and gilded breastplates, the centurions were targeted first, and their deaths further lowered morale. Despite Caesar’s best efforts, the battle would soon become a rout. Sensing this, the general retreated towards the dock. Instantly fear mushroomed throughout his cohorts. Men were knocked over and trampled as their comrades ran for the perceived safety of the triremes. Others were knocked off the quay and into the dark water, where their heavy armour carried them under in the blink of an eye.

  ‘We’re not going to make it,’ shouted Tarquinius.

  Romulus took a look over his shoulder. Only a few ships could be boarded at a time, and with the panicked legionaries unprepared to wait, the nearest ones were in real danger of being overloaded. ‘The fools,’ he said. ‘They’ll sink.’ He refused to panic. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Swim for it,’ the haruspex replied. ‘To the Pharos.’

  Romulus shivered, recalling a previous time that they had escaped by water. Left behind on the bank of the River Hydaspes, Brennus had died alone. The shame of deserting his comrade had never quite gone away. Romulus forced himself to be practical. That was then, this is now, he thought. ‘Coming?’ he asked the legionary to his left.

  There was a terse nod.

  As one, they shouldered their way past the confused and terrified soldiers surrounding them. In the confusion which now dominated, it was easy enough to break out of the battered Roman formation and make for the water’s edge. They had to take extreme care. Slick with blood, the large stone slabs were festooned with body parts and discarded equipment. Leaving the burning warehouses further behind, the trio were soon moving through semi-darkness. Thankfully, the area was empty. The fighting was confined to the area around the triremes and the Egyptian commanders had not thought to send men west along the dock to prevent an escape.

  Their oversight did not matter, thought Romulus, staring back at the slaughter. Wild panic had now replaced Caesar’s men’s earlier courage. Disregarding their officers’ orders, they fought and scrambled to escape. He pointed at a trireme second from the quay. ‘That one is going to sink.’

  Raising a hand to his eyes, the legionary swore. ‘Caesar’s on it!’ he cried. ‘Damn the filthy Egyptians to Hades.’

  Romulus squinted into the light, finally seeing the general amid the throng. Despite the shouts of the trierarch – the captain – and his sailors, more and more soldiers were climbing aboard.

  ‘Who’ll lead us if he drowns?’ cried their companion.

  ‘Worry about him later. Let’s survive ourselves first,’ replied Romulus tersely, stripping down to his ragged military tunic. At once he buckled his belt back on, thus retaining his sheathed gladius and his pugio, the dagger which served both as a weapon and a utensil.

  Tarquinius did likewise.

  The legionary looked from one to the other. Then, muttering dire imprecations, he copied them. ‘I’m not the best swimmer,’ he revealed.

  Romulus grinned. ‘You can hold on to me.’

  ‘A man should know who’s going to save his skin. I’m Faventius Petronius,’ he said, sticking out his right arm.

  ‘Romulus.’ They gripped forearms. ‘He’s Tarquinius.’

  There was no time for further niceties. Romulus jumped in, feet first, the haruspex behind him. Petronius shrugged his shoulders and followed. Their distance from the battle meant the three splashes went unnoticed. At once Tarquinius beat a diagonal path out into the harbour. They needed some light to see, but had to stay far enough out to avoid the enemy missiles. With Petronius holding on for dear life, Romulus took up the rear.

  How good it would be to catch Fabiola’s ship, he thought. It was long gone into the night, though, no doubt headed for Italy. The same destination he had been trying to reach for the last age. Despite his own predicament, Romulus did not give up all hope. Time and again, Tarquinius had said there was a road back to Rome for him. That dream was what kept him swimming. With each stroke, Romulus imagined arriving home and being reunited with Fabiola. It would feel like reaching Elysium. After that, there was unfinished business to be done. According to Tarquinius, their mother was long dead, but she still had to be avenged. Killing the merchant Gemellus, their former owner, was the way to do that.

  A flurry of splashes, accompanied by shouts and cries, dragged Romulus’ attention back to the present. Scores of legionaries were jumping off the outermost trireme, which was foundering under the weight of too many men. Their fate in the water was no better than on board. Most were immediately dragged under by their armour, while those who could swim were targeted by enemy slingers and archers already positioned on the Heptastadion.

  Romulus winced at their plight, but there was little he could do.

  Petronius’ gaze was also fixed on the unfolding drama. A moment later, his grip tightened.

  ‘Easy,’ Romulus snapped. ‘Trying to choke me?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Petronius replied, relaxing his hold. ‘Look though! Caesar’s about to jump ship.’

  Romulus turned his head. Lit from behind by the blaze from along the eastern harbour, he could make out the agile figure which had rallied the legionaries earlier. No longer was he attempting to control his men. Caesar had to flee now too. Off came his transverse-crested helmet and red cloak, and then his gilded breastplate. Surrounded by a group of legionaries, Caesar waited until all were ready. Then, clutching a handful of parchments, he stepped off the side rail and into the sea. His men landed around him, sending fountains of water into the air. With a protective cordon established, Caesar began swimming towards the Pharos, keeping one hand upraised to keep his paperwork dry.

  ‘Mithras, he’s got balls,’ Romulus commented.

  Petronius chuckled. ‘Caesar is scared of nothing.’

  A flurry of arrows and stones splashed down nearby, reminding them that this was no place to linger. While the majority of the Egyptian soldiers continued to assail the cohorts stuck on the dock, others were hurrying on to the Heptastadion. From there they could send unanswered volleys at the helpless legionaries in the water.

  Romulus was horrified by the slingers’ accuracy. The light cast on to the calm surface of the harbour was not that bright. Lower than the docks, and obscured to some extent by the Heptastadion, he had thought their journey would be reasonably safe. Not so. Fitting stones half the size of a hen’s egg into their weapons, the slingers whirled them around their head once or twice before letting fly. Perhaps two or three heartbeats went by before another shower was released. A third and a fourth followed in quick succession. Soon the air was filled with the missiles; jets and spouts of water rose up as they landed. Again and again, Romulus saw legiona
ries being struck on the head. He cringed at the final-sounding impacts. Either they killed on the spot or knocked the victims unconscious, whereupon they drowned. That was if an arrow didn’t take them through the cheek or in the eye.

  Soon the enemy slingers and archers needed more targets. Because of their decision to swim further out, Caesar’s group was still unscathed, like themselves. The status quo would not last, though. Thanks to the lack of Caesarean troops on the Heptastadion, the Egyptians could pursue them on a parallel course, raining death down with impunity.

  ‘Faster,’ urged Tarquinius.

  Splash, splash, splash. A torrent of missiles and rocks hit the water not twenty paces away, increasing Romulus’ pulse. Petronius’ breath grew ragged on his neck. They had been seen. He increased the speed of his strokes, trying not to look sideways.

  ‘Those slingers can hit a bundle of straw at six hundred paces,’ muttered Petronius.

  More stones landed, closer this time. Romulus’ gaze was drawn inexorably to the sharply outlined enemy figures, reloading their slings. Laughter carried through the air as leather straps swung hypnotically round their heads and then released – again.

  Thankfully, the island was at last drawing near. Caesar had emerged on to the shore and was already screaming orders, guiding his men to defend their end of the Heptastadion. Romulus breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Safety was beckoning, and doubtless there would be some respite once they threw the Egyptians back. When that happened, he would force Tarquinius to tell him everything about the fight outside the brothel.

  Still in the lead, the haruspex turned to say something. His eyes met with those of Romulus, which were flinty and full of resolve. Tarquinius’ voice died in his throat and they simply stared at each other. The silent exchange spoke volumes, and set off a host of warring emotions in Romulus’ heart. I owe him so much, he thought, yet he’s the damn reason I had to flee Rome. But for him, I would have had a different life. Remembering the plain wooden sword owned by Cotta, his old trainer in the ludus, Romulus scowled. A rudis like that could have been mine by now.