The Road to Rome: A Novel of the Forgotten Legion (The Forgotten Legion Chronicles, 3) - Softcover

Kane, Ben

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1250002583 ISBN 13: 9781250002587

Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, 2012

Synopsis

In 48 B.C., having survived a disastrous campaign in Pythia as part of the Forgotten Legion and spent years fighting their way back to Rome, Romulus and Tarquinius have finally made it as far as Alexandria. On arrival, though, they find themselves in the midst of the Roman Civil War, are press-ganged into Caesar's thinning legions and greatly outnumbered and fighting for their lives against the Egyptian army. Meanwhile in Rome, Romulus' twin sister Fabiola, having caught only a glimpse of her long-missing twin before being forced to flee Egypt for Rome, lives in fear for her life, loved by Brutus, but wooed by Marcus Antonius, his deadly enemy.

From the battlefields of Asia Minor and North Africa, to the lawless streets of Rome and the gladiator arena, they all face death and danger daily, until 44 B.C. when their individual roads all lead them to Rome where the future of the republic lies unexpectedly in their hands.

About this title

About the Author:

BEN KANE is the author of The Forgotten Legion and The Silver Eagle. He lives in North Somerset, England.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

THE ROAD TO ROME (Chapter I)Egypt

ALEXANDRIA, WINTER 48 BC

Get a move on, damn you," cried the optio, swiping the flat of his blade at the nearest legionaries' backs. "Caesar needs us!"

His squad of ten men needed little encouragement. Their night picket was positioned on the Heptastadion, the narrow, man-made causeway that ran from the docks to a long, thin island, separating the harbor into two parts. With water on both sides, it was an isolated position. Given what was happening, that was not a healthy place to be.

The yellow glow from the Pharos, the city's huge lighthouse, had been greatly augmented by the burning ships along the quay. Started by Caesar's men, the fire on the vessels had spread fast, reaching out to the nearby warehouses and library buildings to form a conflagration that lit up the scene as bright as day. After regrouping with their comrades who had been driven back into the darkened side streets, thousands of Egyptian troops were re-emerging to slam into Caesar's lines. These were less than a hundred paces away from the Heptastadion, the natural point to hold against an enemy.

Romulus and Tarquinius ran willingly alongside the legionaries. If the screaming mass of Egyptian soldiers broke through their lines, they would all be killed. Even if the Egyptians didn't succeed initially, the odds of surviving were poor. The legionaries were vastly outnumbered, and had no secure avenue of retreat. The whole city was swarming with unfriendly natives, and the causeway led to an island from which there was no escape. There were only the Roman ships, but thanks to the swarming enemy troops, embarking safely was not possible.

Grimacing, Romulus threw a longing glance at the one trireme that had got away. It was nearing the western harbor entrance, with Fabiola, his twin sister, on board. After nigh on nine years of separation, they had glimpsed each other a few moments previously. Fabiola was headed out to sea, escaping the danger, and there was nothing Romulus could do about it. Oddly, he was not devastated. He recognized why. Just knowing that Fabiola was alive, and safe, made his heart thrum with an unquenchable joy. With Mithras' help, she would have heard him yell that he was in the Twenty-Eighth Legion, and could thus find him one day. After all his prayers about his long-lost sister, the gods had answered.

Now, though, as so often before, he was about to fight for his life.

Press-ganged into the legions, he and Tarquinius were part of Caesar's small task force in Alexandria: a force under imminent threat of being overwhelmed. Romulus took some solace from his new and precarious position, however. If Elysium was waiting for him, then he would not enter it as a slave, nor a gladiator. Not as a mercenary, and not as a captive. Romulus squared his shoulders.

No, he thought fiercely, I am a Roman legionary. At last. My fate is my own, and Tarquinius will no longer control me. Not an hour past, his blond-haired friend had revealed that he was responsible for the killing which had originally forced Romulus to flee Rome. The shock of it was still sweeping through Romulus. Disbelief, anger and hurt swirled together in a toxic mix that made his head spin. He shoved the pain away, burying it for another time.

Breathing heavily, the group reached the back of Caesar's formation, which was only six ranks deep. Shouted orders, the metallic clash of arms and the screams of the wounded were suddenly very close. The optio conferred with the nearest officer, a nervous-looking tesserarius. Wearing a transverse-crested helmet and scale armor similar to the optio's, he bore a long staff to keep the legionaries in line. While he and other subordinates stayed at the rear to prevent anyone retreating, the centurions would be at, or near, the front. In a battle as desperate as this, these veteran career soldiers stiffened the resolve of all.

At length the optio turned to his men. "Our cohort is right here."

"Trust our luck," muttered one soldier. "Right in the middle of the damn line."

The optio smiled thinly in acknowledgment. This was where most casualties would fall. "You've got it easy for the moment. Be grateful," he said. "Spread out, two deep. Reinforce this century."

Grumbling, they did as he said.

With four others, Romulus and Tarquinius found themselves at the front of their two small files. They did not protest at this. As the new recruits, it was to be expected. Romulus was taller than most, and could see over men's heads and past the upright horsehair crests on their bronze-bowl helmets. Here and there a century standard jutted up into the air, and over on the right flank was the silver eagle, the emotive talisman of the legion. His heart raced at the sight of it, the greatest symbol of Rome, and one that he had grown to love dearly. More than anything, the eagle had helped Romulus to remember that he was a Roman. Imperious, proud and aloof, it cared nothing for men's status, recognizing only their bravery and valor in battle.

Beyond it, though, was a sea of snarling faces and glinting weapons, sweeping toward them in great rolling waves.

"They're carrying scuta," Romulus cried in confusion. "Are they Roman?"

"Once," spat the legionary to his left. "But the bastards have gone native."

"Gabinius' men then, I would say," said Tarquinius, receiving a gruff nod in response. There were curious stares, especially from those who could see the left side of his face. A prolonged torture session by Vahram, the primus pilus of the Forgotten Legion, had left a shiny red cicatrice on the haruspex' cheek in the shape of a knife blade.

Thanks to Tarquinius, Romulus was familiar with the story of Ptolemy XII, the father of the current rulers of Egypt, who had been deposed more than a decade before. Desperate, Ptolemy had turned to Rome, offering incredible sums in gold to restore him to the throne. Eventually, Gabinius, the proconsul of Syria, seized the opportunity. That had been at the same time that Romulus, Brennus, his Gaulish friend, and Tarquinius were traveling in Crassus' army.

"Aye," muttered the legionary. "They stayed here after Gabinius returned in disgrace to Rome."

"How many are left?" asked Romulus.

"A few thousand," came the answer. "But they've got plenty of help. Nubian skirmishers and Judaean mercenaries mostly, and Cretan slingers and archers. All tough bastards."

"There are infantry as well," said another man. "Escaped slaves from our provinces."

An angry growl met his words.

Romulus and Tarquinius exchanged a look. It was imperative their status, particularly that of Romulus, remained secret. Slaves were not allowed to fight in the regular army. To join the legions, which Romulus' press-ganging had effectively done for him, carried the death penalty.

"Those treacherous whoresons won't stand against us," the first legionary proclaimed. "We'll knock seven shades of shit out of them."

It was the right thing to say. Pleased grins cracked across worried faces.

Romulus held back his instinctive retort. Spartacus' followers, slaves all, had bettered the legions on numerous occasions. He himself was the match of any three ordinary legionaries. With a new homeland to defend, the enemy slaves could prove tough to defeat. This was not the time, nor the place, to mention such matters, though. When was? Romulus wondered with a tinge of bitterness. Never.

With ready weapons, they waited as the clash became more desperate. Showers of enemy javelins and stones flew into their lines, cutting down men here and there. Lacking shields, Romulus and Tarquinius could only duck down and pray as death whistled overhead. It was most disconcerting. As the casualties grew heavier, spare equipment became available. A stocky soldier in the rank ahead went down with a spear through the neck. Quickly Romulus pulled off the twitching man's helmet, feeling little remorse. The needs of the living were greater than those of the dead. Even the sweat-soaked felt liner that he jammed on his head first felt like some kind of protection. Tarquinius took the corpse's scutum, and it wasn't long before Romulus had his own one too, from another victim.

The optio grunted in approval. The two ragged wanderers did not just possess good weapons, they also knew their way around military equipment.

"This is more like it," said Romulus, lifting his elongated oval shield by its horizontal grip. Not since the Forgotten Legion's last battle four years before had they both been fully equipped. He scowled. It was still hard not to feel guilty about Brennus, who had died so that he and Tarquinius might escape.

"Seen combat before?" demanded the legionary.

Before Romulus could reply, a shield boss hit him in the back.

"Forward!" shouted the optio, who had shoved in behind them. "The line in front is weakening."

Pushing against the rows in front, they shuffled toward the enemy. Dozens of gladii, the Roman short stabbing swords, were raised in preparation. Shields were lifted until the only part of men's faces that could be seen was their flickering eyes under their helmet rims. They moved shoulder to shoulder, each protected by his comrades. Tarquinius was to Romulus' right and the talkative legionary was on his left. Both were responsible for his safety as he was for theirs. It was one of the beauties of the shield wall. Although Romulus was furious with Tarquinius, he did not think that the haruspex would fail in this duty.

He had not appreciated how thin their ranks had become. Suddenly the soldier in front slumped to his knees, and a screaming enemy warrior jumped into the gap, taking Romulus by surprise. He was wearing a blunt-peaked Phrygian helmet and a rough-spun tunic, with no armor. An oval spined shield and a rhomphaia, a strange sword with a long, curved blade, were his only weapons. This was a Thracian peltast, Romulus thought, shocked twice over.

Without thinking, he jumped forward, smashing his scutum boss at the other's face. The move failed as the Thr...

About this edition

• Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin
• Publication date: 2012
• ISBN 10: 1250002583
• ISBN 13: 9781250002587
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 512