Scaevola’s spear hurtled through the air, striking him in the neck, below the cheek guard of his bronze helmet. The leaf-shaped blade sliced through the veteran’s flesh to emerge blood-red on the other side. Without a sound, he toppled forward on to the road, ten steps below.
Next to die was the man with the arrow wound. He was followed by another on the wedge’s right side, who was simply overwhelmed by weight of numbers. Secundus, Sextus and just two more were the last men left. Scrambling frantically down over the boulders and logs, the party reached the flat ground beyond. A trio of thugs were waiting for them, weapons raised, while the rest came charging in pursuit.
‘You fools! Don’t let them escape!’
Above the clash of arms, Fabiola recognised Scaevola’s voice.
‘Five aurei to the man who captures the good-looking bitch!’
His desperation meant that they had a chance.
‘Run!’ Fabiola cried. Lifting her dress, she raced forward, through the trees.
Eager to win the huge prize, the fugitivarius’ men tore after them.
‘Form rear guard,’ Secundus ordered his two remaining followers. ‘Now!’
Disciplined to the last, they immediately obeyed. Both slowed down and turned to face the enemy. Standing shoulder to shoulder, their shields clunked together in a final sound of defiance.
‘Mithras protect you,’ shouted Secundus.
Without speaking, the pair lifted their gladii in salute.
Looking back, Fabiola saw what would happen. ‘NO!’ she screamed.
‘They are soldiers,’ said Secundus proudly. ‘It is their choice to die this way.’
She had no time to respond. Sextus had taken her arm in a vice-like grip and was propelling her onward. Secundus ran on Fabiola’s other side. With her face fixed in a rictus of terror and rage, Docilosa protected her back.
Just three thugs stood between them and the road north.
Sextus killed the first with a no-nonsense thrust to the chest.
Secundus feinted to the left at another. Unaware that his enemy could not follow through, the ruffian dodged backwards to avoid the expected sword thrust. His feet slipped on a piece of moss and he fell heavily to the ground, dropping his axe.
The last swept around Sextus and came face to face with Docilosa. Shocked to see a woman bearing a weapon, he hesitated.
Docilosa did not. With teeth bared, she buried her pugio to the hilt in his belly.
Grievously wounded, the thug folded over and was gone.
The four survivors had broken clear.
But Scaevola and the rest of his men were closing in. There were nearly a dozen cursing figures running along the road behind.
With fear giving them an extra turn of speed, they pelted along between the thinning trees. And then they were out, bright sunlight falling on their sweating, desperate faces. The valley had opened out, its slopes falling away to meet the open plain beyond.
A plain which was now occupied by a Roman legion.
Fabiola could not believe her eyes.
A wide protective screen of legionaries was standing guard while their comrades toiled behind them, digging with their shovels. Using the earth from the defensive fossae, they would next erect the marching camp’s ramparts. Safe in the knowledge that there were few if any enemies in Italy, most of the soldiers on watch were chatting to each other.
But it would not be long before they were spotted.
Scaevola had seen the troops too. Calling his men back to the protection of the trees, the fugitivarius watched in helpless rage as Fabiola and her companions moved beyond his reach.
Sextus and Docilosa were delighted, but Secundus swore out loud. And Fabiola’s face turned thunderous.
‘Who are they?’ asked Docilosa, confused by her mistress’ reaction.
‘Pompey’s men,’ Fabiola replied in a flat tone. ‘Marching south to Rome.’
The shouts of eager sentries reached them at last. Bucinae rang out, and a half-century of men under an optio swiftly formed up to come and guide them in.
Fabiola searched the sky for a sign. She could see nothing. Not even a raven, Mithras’ bird, which was common in hilly areas.
Misery overcame the young woman, and a sob escaped finally escaped her lips.
One bitter enemy had been exchanged for another.
Chapter XVII: The Final Battle
By the River Hydaspes, India, spring 52 BC
When day broke, the rising sun lit the eastern horizon with a deep shade of crimson. The blood-red tinge actually seemed quite apt to the poorly rested, irritable legionaries. With a sky that colour, Hades could not be far away. Fervent prayers were uttered as men made their last requests of the gods. As always, wives, children and family were high on the list. While those in Italy had no doubt given