Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (14 page)

“To whom do I speak?” Crassus asked in perfect, educated Greek.

“My name is Volodates,” called the man in gold and blue robes over polished scale armor. “I have the honor of being Spāhbed Surenas’s Captain of Horse.”

“I commend you on the fighting prowess of your men, Volodates, and also their discipline. Please inform your spāhbed that Crassus, the Proconsul of Syria, would be pleased to enter into a treaty with the nation of Parthia that would carry the full weight of the Senate of Rome.”

Behind Crassus, in the area behind the gates, were drawn up several cohorts of legionaries, ready to fight and die if need be. But on hearing instead that a treaty would be drawn up and that there would be no fighting, the men cheered loudly and long.

Below, Volodates grinned at the sound that rose from the town and waited for it to subside. “I must go and inform my lord of your willingness,” Volodates shouted. He then led his men into the desert, leaving several behind to keep watch and guard against Roman treachery.

A cornicen sounded from the battlements, forcing Crassus to interrupt his private sacrifice to Hercules. He looked to the heavens and exhaled heavily, his gut wrestling with itself. The moment of truth was nearly on him.

“Proconsul …!” a junior tribune called out before Crassus could silence him with a glare and a raised hand.

The proconsul left the residence given to him and joined Legate Cassius Longinus, Governor Coponius, and others waiting outside. “They return, primor,” said Coponius unnecessarily, and the party moved quickly toward the town walls.

From atop the battlement, away to the southwest, a band of boiling dust was burnished gold by the setting sun. It marked Spāhbed Surenas and his army approaching at pace. No one said a word, as words were unnecessary. Within moments, the band of gold was speckled here and there with black dots. Soon the dots joined and became a dark ribbon as the dust cloud neared.

Individual horses and riders soon became visible to Crassus as the rim of the sun slid beneath the edge of the desert. Its departure reminded him of a doomed ship, burned and smoldering red, that slips finally beneath the sea. And through his feet and up through his calves came the faint but strengthening vibrations of thousands of pounding hooves. A few minutes later, the heat of the day beginning to fade with the dying light, Crassus could see one man riding among many. He was sheathed in golden scales, on a horse also scaled in gold and on his head, a silver and gold helmet that came to a point. Spāhbed Surenas.

Beside him rode four horsemen shining in polished steel, carrying banners of various colors, and with various symbols on tall lances flapping furiously in the wind.

The true reality of the army that had beaten him was thus laid out before Crassus on the desert. There could be no more than 10,000 men here, all of them mounted. Abgar had not lied about that, at least. Most were archers, outnumbering the heavily armored cataphracts by an amount of ten to one. These were not barbarians but men of wealth and order. They rode in disciplined fashion, in staggered lines upwind of the breeze, so as not to eat the dust of the men in front. Their armor was uniform, beautifully maintained and presented. Surenas had fought with his head and on terms that had frustrated both Crassus and Legate Cassius Longinus. Very rarely had Surenas allowed his army to close with the legions and fight hand-to-hand as he and the legate had wanted and expected. Instead this force had killed from a distance without passion or bravery. Yes, Crassus thought, straightening his back and pushing out his chest, he had been beaten, but could it be said he was beaten by a better man …?

With the light beginning to fade, Parthian lines soon had the walls of Carrhae surrounded. Surenas wasted no time and rode forward. Lowering the veil of chainmail that protected his face, and revealing dark eyes and the waxed curls of a full and virile blue-black beard, he addressed the gate in heavily accented Greek, his voice booming and powerful. “Marcus Licinius Crassus, Proconsul of Syria, commander of Rome’s army. I am Spāhbed Surenas, humble servant of King Orodes the Second, the King of Kings. It is time we met. Step forward so that I may see the man who would take Parthia’s liberty.”

This time, with not so much as a hesitation or even a glance at his own entourage, Crassus stepped to the wall.

“Proconsul!” Coponius hissed. “Beware their archers!”

Crassus ignored him and called out, “I am Marcus Licinius Crassus, Proconsul of Syria and representative of the Senate of Rome.”

“Answer me, Proconsul. Why would you invade my land when there is a treaty of friendship between our two nations?”

“Is that a condition of surrender, Parthian? That you would know my mind?”

“It is for the satisfaction of my own curiosity, Proconsul, not a condition,” Surenas said.

Crassus pondered the motives for his campaign and knew that all of them were now no more than the dust that clouded this hateful place. He had come for the glory of his house and his name, for the glory of Publius …

“Rome does as Rome must,” Crassus replied.

“And I am sure my King will keep that in mind next time the prospect of friendship is raised between our two empires.”

“What of your conditions, Parthian?” Crassus called out, his patience shortening. It was one thing to surrender, but it was quite another to have one’s face rubbed in it.

“Your men fought bravely against a committed foe, in conditions that were far from familiar to them,” the Parthian general’s voice boomed clearly above the desert. “I confess I am in awe of their fighting spirit. On a different field of battle, perhaps the result would have been reversed. You have managed by your own design to evade further fighting and have come here, to this town, which my army has surrounded, as you can see. You have two choices. One comes with favorable terms, the other with certain annihilation. As I am not one for unnecessary slaughter, I urge you to seek the former.”

Crassus stood absolutely still, his heart galloping.

“I hear nothing but silence from you, Crassus,” Surenas called out.

“What are these conditions, Parthian?” Crassus replied.

“I will allow your army to keep its arms and march to Syria. I guarantee that no further harm will come to them, nor will I force them to submit by making them walk beneath the yoke. You may also keep your aquilas – your eagles – symbols that I know your men hold so dear. You and your officers will be treated with the same respect as your men.” Surenas paused in the delivery of his terms to let these important concessions sink in. “For my part,” he continued, “I have no desire to injure a proconsul of Rome and cause a generation of enmity between our two nations. My single condition is that you agree to a truce and sign a binding agreement between Rome and Parthia that your Republic will give up all further claims and designs on territory east of the Euphrates. Keep in mind that in naming the river as the boundary, I am ceding you land that Parthia considers Parthian. Yourself and a hundred men from the best families among the ranks of your officers will sign this agreement. Fifty of those signatories will then be held by Parthia as hostages until the agreement has been ratified by the Senate of Rome and dispersed to all lands within the Roman Republic, so that if it is broken, your other friends and allies will know the true meaning of Rome’s word.”

Crassus breathed hard and deep. So, on his failure alone would rest the end of Rome’s ambition. History would remember him thus. The weight of it was crushing.

“I hear nothing from you,” Surenas called out.

“I understand your conditions,” Crassus replied, his shoulders stooped.

“I cannot hear you.”

Crassus’s whole body shook with rage. “I UNDERSTAND!”

“I will give you time to consider. I must tell you that my King holds you personally responsible for this war, which has also stirred up enmity between Parthia and Armenia. We have people in Rome who tell us that your personal love of gold and wealth knows no bounds and that it was your greed that drove you to invade. Is this truly at the heart of your actions, Proconsul?”

Crassus was silent.

“As for Gaius Cassius Longinus,” Surenas continued, “I have been informed that he has been your willing general in this attempt at conquest.”

“How dare he rebuke and then insult you, Crassus,” Coponius blurted, incensed. “You’re a consul of the Roman Republic and the proconsul of Syria.”

Crassus looked down on the spāhbed, grinding his teeth, knowing that he was powerless to strike back.

“His emissary made promises to us, promises that did not include these conditions. Would you have held your men fast behind these walls if you had been given the whole account? Primor, I told you these Parthians could not be trusted,” Coponius said.

“Quiet!” Cassius Longinus snapped at him.

“Last night … We could have sent a party on to Beroea for reinforcements,” Coponius continued. “The Arabs have tricked us.”

“Shut up!” the legate barked.

“I will come for your answer at sunrise,” Surenas called out. “Do not attempt to leave this place and do not consider that you can withhold a siege. It would not take much for Carrhae to fall, and in that event there will be no mercy. As I am sure you know, Proconsul, many sieges are betrayed from within and in Carrhae there are Arabs whose sympathies must surely lie first with Parthia.”

Crassus felt like there were ropes around him bound tight. “You will have your answer at sunrise, Parthian.” He turned away from the wall and faced his officers, struggling to keep his knees from buckling beneath him.

*

Though he had seen his image wrought in marble, Rufinius had never seen Proconsul Marcus Licinius Crassus the man. And when the occasion of that sighting finally arrived, he was less than impressed. The proconsul – a partner of Pompey the Great and Gaius Julius Caesar, no less – was just an old man; his hair dyed, his knees swollen and diseased, his back slightly hunched and his disposition sour. The man’s face was deeply lined and though he looked patrician captured in marble, in the flesh the man seemed nothing more than aloof, ill-tempered and distracted.

This was Rufinius’s first attendance at a council of war. He scanned the square, lit by fire torches, the shadows dancing black around the flames. Gathered here were most of the army’s surviving centurions, tribunes, prefects, and legates, as well as the leading officers of the garrison – men who had been part of the proconsul’s army in the first victorious year of the campaign. Over 300 legionaries of various rank were assembled, only a few of whom Rufinius knew by sight and almost none by name.

He recognized Primus Pilus Hadrianus and some of the most senior centurions who accompanied him, all of whom were adorned by torcs and other awards swinging from their necks. The senior legate, Gaius Cassius Longinus, another officer Rufinius had heard much about but never seen, stood apart from the others. Cassius Longinus was a young, sinewy man in his early thirties with dark hair, a heavy intelligent brow, and serious features. On such men, Rufinius considered, the future of the Republic depended. And yet look where men like this Cassius Longinus had brought it.

Many of the more senior officers were giving this most senior legate respectful glances and angling their bodies toward him as if he were the center of the gathering rather than Proconsul Crassus. It was clear to Rufinius that the respect if not the leadership of the legion had shifted.

Decisions needed to be made, hence this council. Rufinius knew none would be easy. The Parthians had them trapped, that was plain. And the air, heavy with the bitter smell of desperation, only confirmed their dire situation.

Legate Cassius Longinus stepped forward and the men muttering among themselves became quiet. “Officers of the army of Syria,” Longinus began, the tone of his voice low, his Latin cultured and educated. “No one will try to convince you that the peril facing the army is anything less than what you already know to be the case. The Parthian army has invested the walls of the town that gives us refuge. Our options are simple and straightforward. We can attempt to send a party to Beroea, where a large Roman garrison is stationed. If you do not know, Beroea is six to eight days ride there and back. During this time we would stay within these walls, trust in our swords, and hold this town only as long as it takes for reinforcements to arrive. The second option is that we surrender and march to Syria, a beaten army. As you no doubt have already heard, the Parthian commander himself – Surenas – has guaranteed the safety of the men, legionaries and officers alike.”

A murmur swept over the council. The battlements of the Carrhae had been filled with legionaries during the oration made by the Parthian general, but many more men were left to wonder at the truth of the terms offered. Rumors were everywhere, filling the unknown. Here now, was the reality facing them.

“Be aware that all may speak without fear or favor,” the legate advised.

“Will the aquilas be surrendered?” called a voice from the shadows.

“No, they will not be surrendered,” Cassius Longinus answered, without further embellishment.

“The Parthians are victorious, primor,” stated a centurion with a shock of red hair. “What must we give them in return?”

“Dreams of empire,” thundered Proconsul Crassus, his booming voice startling Rufinius and others. “We must cede to them Rome’s very future. They demand that we enter into an agreement with Parthia that Rome will cap its ambition east of the River Euphrates. If we agree to their terms of surrender, the land we stand on now will forever be the furthest eastern extent of Rome. And to us and our ancestors will fall the ignominy of this agreement.”

Rufinius weighed both options, for they were stark. Surrendering to the Parthian’s terms, they could walk out and live. Or they could throw the dice on reinforcements reaching them before the water in Carrhae gave out or the walls were breached.

“Who is to say that the party we send for reinforcements will ever make it to this Beroea?” an anonymous voice called out, the question on Rufinius’s tongue. This point was agreed upon by many, if the disquiet was anything to go by.

Another man stepped forward. “We can send out a party tonight,” he said with authority. “Haven’t you noticed the Parthians will not fight when the sun goes down?”

“Who’s that cunni?” asked someone behind Rufinius.

“The garrison commander – the governor. Coponius, something like that,” a mid-ranking centurion unknown to Rufinius answered.

Cassius Longinus called to the gathering. “There is plenty of private talk among you. Does anyone care to speak out loud?”

The murmurings fell silent.

“No one?”

The silence continued from the sullen crowd.

“What is your answer? Fight on or surrender?”

No one moved. And then a single man, a large athletic centurion of senior rank, his arm in a sling blackened with blood, stepped forward with his gladius. He raised it high so that all could see it, before plunging its tip into the sand and kneeling behind it –
surrender
.