Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (11 page)

Seeing the Romans thundering toward them, the cataphracts advanced also and the distance between them narrowed quickly. Close enough for his javelin to score a mortal blow, Publius sat up high on his mount and threw his pila with a shout, all his strength behind it. The weapon flew with speed and accuracy, striking a Parthian on the chest, but his armor merely deflected it harmlessly aside. Rows of Celts behind Publius also discharged their javelins at the enemy and again, few if any hit home. Publius jumped his horse moments before impact. The enemy’s javelin caught it in the chest, killing it instantly. Publius leaped from it as it tumbled, landing on his feet.

Running at the enemy, fearing not for his own life but of abject defeat, he leaped again at the nearest cataphract before the man could react and dragged him from his mount. The Parthian fell on his head, breaking his neck. All around him, horses and men screamed with their wounds. Many Roman horses and Celts were dying on the ends of the cataphracts’ lances. Those of Publius’s Celts who had seen what their prefect had done followed his example, leaping from their mounts and unhorsing their opposition, dragging them from their saddles or pulling on their lances and bringing them down in that way. Once on the sand, the cataphracts were helpless, lacking the lightly armored Roman’s mobility, and fell easy prey to the Roman spatha, the longer round-tipped cavalryman’s sword. Parthian horses also had their bellies ripped open by the more agile Celts and soon the sand ran with the blood and entrails of both Roman and Parthian.

But the numbers were far from even and soon, exhausted from heat and thirst, their wounded piling up, the Romans began to be overwhelmed. Publius himself had caught a javelin thrust in the shoulder, another in his ribs and thigh and his cuirass and tunic were black with his own blood. Also severely weakened with their own wounds, Censorinus and Megabocchus took the prefect and retreated with him and the surviving remnants of the cavalry through the dust cloud now also hampering the enemy’s vision. They soon found their auxiliary archers and light infantry, most of them dead or dying, their bodies strewn across the desert along with many thousands of spent arrows. Publius and his companions gathered the men that could walk and headed for a rise in the desert plain, higher ground offering some small advantage, and perhaps the opportunity to signal the legions. But enemy archers brought their remorseless weapons to bear once more and soon the air was again thick with the deadly shafts, the last of Publius’s attack hemmed in from all sides. All around them men began falling to the ground. Arrows struck Megabocchus and Censorinus. And then an arrow struck Publius in his right shoulder, rendering his sword arm useless.

The three companions crawled together to the center of the rise, surrounded by the shattered remains of their force. Of the eight cohorts of light infantry, one and a half cohorts of archers, and 1,000 cavalry – numbers totalling around 6,500 men – barely 600 remained alive. No one was more aware of this disaster than Publius. Tears in his eyes, he turned to his companions. “This is my folly. All this,” he said, nodding at the bodies strewn around. “They led us to a trap. I followed without hesitation.”

Censorinus pulled himself to a sitting position. “We all rode with the same determination, primor.”

Megabocchus nodded, unable to speak with an arrow in his throat.

Publius turned to his arms bearer whose legs were shot through. “My spatha,” he said, unable to reach for the sword himself. The arms bearer drew it from the scabbard with some difficulty. “Set it for me.”

The slave was reluctant.

“Do it!” Publius insisted. The arms bearer dug a trough in the sand and jammed the pommel and handle into it so that blade pointed up into the air at a steep angle.

Censorinus, afraid for his friend, said, “Publius, don’t. Your father will send legionaries to support us.”

Publius dragged himself to the sword and set his chest against the tip, lining up his heart. “We rode out to save the legions. There’s no one to save us, Censorinus. I destroyed the army’s sole strike weapon. I have left it defenseless. All I can do now is prevent the shame of capture from further staining my family’s name.”

Censorinus’s dust-caked face was streaked with tears. Megabocchus pulled himself through the sand to sit with his companions. Publius took their hands. “You have been the best of friends. I will see you both at the Ferryman’s boat.”

“You will,” Censorinus told him, drawing his own spatha.

Publius gave Megabocchus and Censorinus a final grin and fell on his sword, the blade passing through his heart and exiting his back.

Spāhbed Surenas and Volodates rode onto on the plain and surveyed the death and carnage, the dust cloud having dissipated. Dismounted horse archers were moving among the dead and dying, killing those whose wounds would eventually end their lives, and sparing those who would live to be sold, fetching tetradrachms at the Babylon slave markets.

“You have done well, Captain,” Surenas told him.

“I merely executed your wise strategy, Lord,” Volodates replied.

“Our enemies here were heavily outnumbered and their arrows could not fly as far as ours.”

“Yes, Lord.”

Surenas climbed off his horse and kneeled beside three blood-soaked Romans who had taken their own lives, impaled on their swords. “These were brave men.”

“They fought to the end.”

“The finesse of their armor suggests they are the commanding officers,” said Surenas.

“Lord, a delegation comes.”

Surenas turned and saw a large group of Arab riders, accompanied by cataphracts, heading toward them. When the men were near, their leader removed the shroud covering his nose and mouth and revealed his identity. Surenas grinned broadly and exclaimed, “Abgar, your timing is impeccable as always!”

Abgar bowed deeply atop his horse and made the usual gestures of fealty. “My lord has won a great battle! Your supremacy will echo through the ages!”

“If I should win such acclaim, the credit will be yours also for delivering the enemy to my feet.”

“I am merely the servant of your will … I see you have found him.” He indicated the man slumped rigidly on his sword.

“Found who?”

“Oh, you do not know? The man who stated that his intentions regarding Parthia would be delivered to you on the streets of Seleucia – the Proconsul Crassus. That man there at your feet is the proconsul’s son, Publius Licinius Crassus.”

*

Two more cataphracts charged toward Rufinius’s point in the line.

“Hold …” Rufinius called out. “Hold …”

There had been a welcome cessation in the deadly fusillade of arrows accompanying such charges, which the legionaries attributed to Publius Licinius Crassus, who had led his Celts out to meet the enemy with several thousands of light infantry and archers and was no doubt teaching the Arabs a lesson they would not soon forget. The lack of incoming arrows came as a relief to the men and it had allowed them to devise a strategy for negating the deadly charge of the heavily armored horsemen.

“Now!” yelled Rufinius. The men braced against their shields as the galloping silver beasts crashed into them, which initially blunted the attack. The spaces between the men and their shields then opened briefly so that horse and rider seemed to break through, only to close again tighter than ever around the enemy. A well placed slice to the animal’s belly followed by an equally targeted sword to the cataphract’s unprotected back and the melee was over. And then all that remained was to strip the Parthian man and horse of their armor for use over their own shields, which then afforded ample protection against the rain of deadly shafts.

“They’re not learning their lessons, primor,” Carbo shouted over the cheers of the men.

Rufinius grinned at the legionary and called, “Scuta!” in preparation for the inevitable retaliation that would rain down on them. But it didn’t come. Instead, from far down the line, rose a wail from their fellow legionaries that sounded like a mass lament.

“What in Jupiter’s ball sack is that?” wondered Libo, speaking for Rufinius and the men around him.

The noise coming from the ranks was a collective groan and hiss, the kind of sound the losing faction might give at the Circus when their champion had been put to the sword. The wail was accompanied by a lull in the attacks from the Parthians and Rufinius was as puzzled about it as the next man. But then, partly obscured by the dust cloud, came a large formation of cataphracts trotting toward them, beyond the range of Roman javelins. The groan and hiss grew louder as the Parthian formation drew closer, but the spectacle still made no sense to Rufinius until it passed his cohort. And when he saw, his heart sank and his voice joined those around him as he hissed.

*

Within the defensive square at the army’s praetorium, Crassus awaited news of Publius. He had taken advantage of the apparent lull in Parthian attacks to dine in private on various salted meats and dried fruits, washed down with several cups of watered wine, slaves cooling the air with fans. He admired the fine craftsmanship of the golden goblet in his hand, its handles resembling serpents and with a finely worked emblem of a blazing sun on its side, a prize from some forgotten Zoroastrian temple in an equally forgotten Parthian city long since sacked. The food and the wine were working their magic and Crassus felt in remarkable spirits, his confidence returning. Beyond this battle, and with victory behind him, Babylon and even Seleucia lay before him like supine strumpets, legs open. There was nothing to be concerned about. He licked a drop of wine from his lower lip, aware of his cock swelling. Enthusiastic reports had told of the Parthians fleeing before his son’s attack like rabbits chased by hunting dogs, the fortunes of the battle turning as fast as the Parthians had given flight.

A voice called him outside the tent. “Proconsul.” It was Legate Longinus.

“What?” replied Crassus.

“There is a disturbance in our lines. We should investigate first hand.”

Crassus stood and went out into the dust and heat. Cassius Longinus was not alone but accompanied by several legates and more than a dozen of their staff officers, grooms standing by with horses. It seemed a delegation of sorts. None except the legate would look him in the face. “What do you mean … disturbance?”

“I care not for rumor, Proconsul. I must see with mine own eyes.”

“See what? What
rumor
?”

But Legate Cassius Longinus would not or could not elaborate further and the party rode with all haste to the lines where a hiss of anger and displeasure was rising from the men. Crassus and his legate got down from their mounts and rushed to the fore, legionaries protecting their commanders with shields newly armored with Parthian steel scales.

The cataphracts drew adjacent to Crassus, their mounts cantering proudly. After thirty or so of these came the Parthian officers, one in particular dressed in blue and gold robes over sparkling silver armor. Crassus felt his knees threaten to give way beneath him and horror filled every cavity of his being. The Parthian in the blue robes carried a golden lance. On the tip of the lance sat the head of his son, Publius, his neck severed clean.

A hush fell on the legionaries surrounding their supreme commander, as much in sympathy as in expectation. What would their leader do?

“Proconsul …” said Cassius Longinus, a hand on the father’s shoulder.

Crassus shrugged it off, his body trembling with fury. “Romans!” he shouted into the silence. “This is one father’s tragedy! It is mine and mine alone. Only I should bear its burden. But I have many more sons. They are you, men of Rome!
You
are my sons, too. And to you I say run forward now and attack this insolence, avenge this killing. By this one act, showing the head of Publius, these barbarians mean to dispirit you. Show them your rage! Show them what my sons can do!
Charge at them! Show them your steel!”

All around Crassus the legionaries gave shouts of anger, emboldened by their commander’s courage. Swapping their javelins to their throwing hands and surging forth, they took the Parthians initially by surprise. The horse archers turned and galloped away, but firing behind them in the Parthian way, their arrows finding targets easily. More and more legionaries ran forward, beyond the protection of the lines, across the scorching sand and the dust burning their lungs. But before they could cover yet half the distance to the enemy, the retreating enemy fired a shower of arrows into their teeth. And still yet more Parthian archers, released from the battle against Publius, joined in what became a counter-attack, launching their deadly flights well beyond reach of the Roman javelins. The Romans, undeterred, kept coming, many preferring a quick death on the end of a cataphract’s lance than to writhe in agony like so many of their comrades, full of arrows, arms pinned to their bodies, legs shot through, throats and cheeks holed.

And so it continued. The main body of Parthian horse archers, now free to fire with impunity and continuously resupplied by their camels, fired arrow after arrow at the legionaries, the battle spreading right across the Roman front lines, stopping only when the sun sank mercifully below the end of the world and night drifted across the desert.

*

Spāhbed Surenas was both elated and melancholy, but such were the feelings that always battled within him following combat. The closeness to death was exciting, but afterwards, seeing so many young men staring sightless, their uncaring mouths full of sand and sticky with their own blood … It mattered less that they were the enemy, but still the images haunted him.

The gentle night breeze blew the tang of death from the battlegrounds to his encampment, along with the smoke from the many subdued dung fires of the defeated. He looked down on them from the high dune and finished what remained of the exquisite Ramian wine, which he drank unwatered in deference to its quality. His cupbearer stood ready to refill it, but Surenas waved him away, desiring a clear head to later take to his harem. On the plain behind him, many of his own men would be celebrating their success, sharing stories while they passed wineskins. Others were stationed as pickets in case the Romans attempted one of the tricks for which they were famous – turning the tide of battle – perhaps with a midnight raid against his own soldiers sleeping in a fog of wine and beer.

Sharing Surenas’s moment of reflection were several of his key captains and the chieftain, Abgar.

“If I may ask, Spāhbed,” said Abgar, signaling the cupbearer for more.

“Please …” Surenas replied, coming out of his reverie.

“Why would you not finish them off?”

“Where the sun of Mithra doesn’t shine, my archers cannot shoot.”

“Of course, Spāhbed.”

“The Romans are defeated. Tonight, let them collect their dead and bury them. Tomorrow, if there is fight left in them still, we have plenty more arrows.” He looked at Volodates for confirmation.

“There are stores remaining, but I have had the armorer fashion more.”

“Good. Very many arrows were fired today.”

“Don’t feel distress on the Romans’ behalf, Lord,” Abgar continued as his cup was refilled. “Crassus, his son Publius, and the senior legate, whose name is Cassius Longinus, would have made your lands theirs. I know this better than you. You would have become their slave and all that you owned would become theirs. You have won a very great victory for Parthia – and indeed for all of the lands of the Arab, too. Perhaps we’ll not know of its significance in our lifetimes, but you’ve stopped the advance of a culture utterly foreign to our own and you have succeeded in doing so with few men at your command and with almost no casualties. It is remarkable.”

Volodates stood by respectful, silent and disciplined, not invited to comment. He could not, however, prevent himself from agreeing with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

“They made critical errors,” Surenas agreed.

“Born of their commander’s arrogant and rapacious nature, combined with the pressure your tactical decisions put him under. I can tell you first hand that he could not wait to spoil himself with Parthian gold. Speaking of which, King Orodes will surely reward you.”

Surenas frowned, slightly annoyed by the man’s chatter and perhaps also by the mention of the king. Yes, the king … Riders would have to be dispatched to inform him of events. Great King Orodes – King of Kings, Sovereign of all Parthia, Ruler of Two Rivers, Son of the Sun, beloved by Mithra and Ahura Mazda. From past experience Surenas knew that Orodes would not appreciate having his own grandeur usurped by a mere spāhbed. The king had tasked Surenas merely to delay the Romans. Defeating them was to be
his
honor. Surenas did his best not to frown. Success was one thing. Too much success was potentially lethal. “Volodates,” he said.

The captain of horse took half a step forward. “Yes, Lord.”

“Assemble my personal guard. At first light we will go to the Roman camp. There I will offer Proconsul Crassus a pleasant morning, after which I will present him my terms.”

“What if they attempt to leave under the cover of night?” Abgar asked.

“They have few horses,” Surenas replied. “How far can they go?”

*

The butcher’s bill was staggering and their situation dire as a result. Rufinius knew that – every legionary who could still draw breath knew that. What’s more, the wounded outnumbered the dead. Almost every man in the cohort had some form of battle damage to either complain or be stoic about. Corpses lay everywhere. Teams of legionaries dug mass graves for the dead, or ferried the corpses to the pits. Legionnaires not engaged in those tasks were digging trenches and throwing up ramparts around the area occupied by the legions. If the army hadn’t left its baggage poles behind, a double row of palisade sticks would have been added to the fortifications. To some, these efforts at security seemed pointless. It was not a charge by cataphracts the legions feared but showers of the deadly arrows and no trench or rampart, no matter how deep or how high, would keep them out.

Rufinius had more personal concerns on his plate. Paleo, Figulus, Albas, and Gracchus – all were dead.

“Grab his feet,” Rufinius directed Dentianus as he looked down at Paleo’s face, an arrow having entered the temple area, exited through his cheek, and continued on into his shoulder, forcing his head into an irregular angle. One eye looked straight ahead, the other off to one side. Rigor mortis and the twisted position Paleo had fallen in made him difficult to carry.

“Where are we taking him?” asked Dentianus, grunting as he lifted the tesserarius. He was hobbling on a foot with two toes missing, amputated by an arrow.