Scaevola bowed mockingly.

Her pulse became a trip hammer. This ambush had been planned.

Chapter VII: Ambush

Margiana, winter 53/52 BC

It was the silence which first drew Romulus’ attention. The fortlet that they had marched all day to reach was at the bottom of a gentle slope in a wide defile, meaning that sound carried up to anyone approaching from the west. Normal noises should have been audible: during daylight, every Roman camp was a hubbub of activity. There were smiths hammering out dents in sword blades, men shouting during weapons drill or trumpets sounding the change of guard. Yet he could hear nothing.

Not a sound.

A frisson of fear caressed Romulus’ spine. Since seeing the corpse on the cross, he had thought only of Fabiola and his mother. If Rome was descending into the total anarchy he had seen, what did that bode for his loved ones? Their fragile image in his mind, which he used to stay sane, had begun to disintegrate. This in turn brought him back to reality with a jolt.

Footsore and looking forward to a warm meal, his comrades appeared unaware. Even Novius’ taunts had stopped. Clearly unconcerned, Darius and a junior officer were conferring about something. The column tramped onwards, passing a small inscribed stone tablet sticking out of the ground. There had been similar markers all along their route from the main fort. This last was positioned about half a mile from their destination and as the men saw it, their pace picked up.

Romulus’ jaw clenched. Why had no one else noticed? ‘I don’t like it,’ he hissed to Brennus.

The Gaul looked startled. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he scanned their surroundings. Although nothing was visible, he did not relax. ‘What is it?’ he murmured.

‘It’s too damn quiet.’

Brennus cocked his head and listened. Apart from the noise of iron hobnails crunching off the frozen ground, he too could hear nothing. Suspicion flared in his blue eyes. ‘If you’re going to say something, do it fast.’ He pointed at Darius.

Very soon, the Parthian officer would come into full view of the outpost.

Uneasy, Romulus turned his head to the rear. Blinding light from the setting sun lit up the track, making it almost impossible to see. Yet there was no mistaking the figure on horseback that was watching the patrol from the high point of the defile. It was Scythian.

Romulus blinked. When he looked again, the rider was gone.

Seeing him, Novius drew a finger across his throat.

He studiously ignored the gesture.

‘Are you going to speak to Darius?’ asked Brennus, who had seen nothing.

‘It’s too late. They’re behind us as well,’ Romulus whispered. Quickly he filled the Gaul in.

Stifling a curse, Brennus glanced back, then forward. He felt a brief surge of pride at Romulus’ keen eye. If he was right, they could do little. The Gaul assessed the situation. Their current position was impossible to defend. With slopes on either side, they would be at the mercy of any missiles fired at them. But it was not safe to turn around either. ‘Got no choice, have we?’ he growled. ‘The best place to fight will be the flat ground in front of the fortlet.’

Pleased, Romulus nodded. That had been his thought too. ‘I’d better tell Darius,’ he said.

The optio was surprised when Romulus broke ranks to mutter in his ear, but gave permission for him to advise their commander.

With his yoke waving overhead, Romulus trotted forward until he caught up with the senior centurion. Darius’ horse was ten steps from the edge of the ridge which overlooked their destination.

‘Sir!’

Reining in, the stout Parthian smiled at the sight of Romulus. This was one of the best soldiers in his cohort. ‘What is it?’ he asked in Latin.

‘An ambush, sir,’ replied Romulus. ‘There are Scythians behind us.’

Turning in the saddle, Darius studied the bare landscape. ‘Are you sure?’

Romulus explained what he had seen and the Parthian’s face darkened. ‘Let’s get down there fast,’ he said. ‘We’ll have over two hundred men then. That’ll see off the bastards.’

‘If they’re not dead already,’ Romulus announced, deliberately speaking in Parthian. Everyone needed to be aware of the risks they faced.

Darius’ guards looked alarmed.

‘Explain yourself,’ Darius hissed.

Romulus opened his mouth to do so when instinctively the senior centurion’s horse stopped. It had reached a flat piece of rock, a place where a soldier might stop to glance back at his camp before beginning a journey, or where a weary patrol arriving after a long march could pause to savour their achievement. Behind them, the legionaries halted gratefully, grounding their yokes and shields while the opportunity presented itself.

Together they gazed down at the fortlet, which was now only a short march away. The same playing-card shape of all Roman forts, the small outpost had just one gate, at the front. A tall wooden watchtower was positioned in the centre, with an uninterrupted field of vision around the camp. There were defensive fossae and wooden battlements twice the height of a man; inside the low roof of a barracks could be seen.

Romulus stared. The ramparts were clear of sentries.

That meant one thing. Roman soldiers never deserted their posts.

The garrison was dead.

An experienced soldier, Darius also took in the situation at a glance. He looked questioningly at Romulus. ‘How did you know?’

‘I couldn’t hear anything, sir,’ he explained.

It made perfect sense. Darius scowled, but there was no time to be lost blaming himself for not noticing what one of his ordinary soldiers had. ‘Vahram must know about this,’ he muttered, barking an order at his guards. At once two turned their horses and rode off, separating as they did. In an attempt to outflank the enemy, one went directly south and the other north. The remaining warrior moved closer to the senior centurion, notching an arrow to his bow.

‘Damn it,’ growled Darius. ‘We’ll just go down there as if nothing’s wrong. But I want everyone ready for combat. Advise the optiones and tesserarii, then resume your position.’

Romulus snapped off a salute and hurried to obey. Already warned by his optio, the other junior officers began to move down the ranks, quietly ordering the men to prepare themselves. Surprise, dismay, and last of all anger, filled the legionaries’ faces. Novius looked most put out, as did his companions.

‘Well?’ asked the Gaul.

‘We march on in,’ replied Romulus. ‘Check out the camp.’

Gripping their weapons tightly, the patrol marched along the track, down the incline towards the fortlet. All eyes were upon it, but for different reasons than just a few moments before. Now everyone could see that there was no smoke from cooking fires, no movement on the walkways. It resembled a graveyard.

Closer in, Romulus saw that one of the front doors was leaning slightly ajar. This was final proof that things were amiss. Far from the rest of the legion, all outposts were under strict orders to keep their gates shut at all times. Yet there were no signs of violence, no damage to the exterior structure. No arrows or spears stuck in the timbers, no evidence of fire. Whatever had happened here had not been thanks to a direct assault.

Darius had seen too. Immediately he ordered the optiones to have the men make a protective screen in front of the entrance. Piling their yokes in a heap, the legionaries fanned outwards in a semicircle, four ranks deep. It was done efficiently, without fuss, and soon a solid wall of shields had formed. Above the silk-covered scuta were bronze bowl crested helmets and steady, grim faces. Apart from the soldiers’ lower legs, there was little for an enemy to attack. And, thanks to Tarquinius’ tutoring, the front ranks always dropped to their knees when the threat of missiles was present. They were ready.