Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (4 page)

*

Yes, that was the moment in time when this adventure began for me all those years ago. Though I still had many questions, I knew that I would accept Marcus Licinius Crassus’s generous offer of service. But there were signals of what lay ahead buried in that first conversation, had I been wise enough to identify them.

For all the consul’s obscene wealth, he lacked what his young protégé Gaius Julius Caesar and nemesis Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus were rich in – accomplishments on the field of Mars. I simply failed to recognize that the man with an eye on posterity would be content to merely bleed Syria white. Crassus was looking enviously east, hoping to follow in the footsteps of Ptolemy III. He wanted to have me in his wake, recording his every valiant deed like, as he said, a Xenophon. But Xenophon, the Athenian writer, recorded a bloody retreat: ten thousand Spartan mercenaries falling back to Greece, fighting as they fled, their leaders slaughtered. Only with hindsight did I recognize that Crassus’s reference to the Greek was also an omen.

And, speaking of omens, there was the sacrifice I witnessed that fateful morning where a young bull was given to Mithra in order to divine whether a relationship between Parthia and Rome would turn out to be bountiful. Of course you know what Mithra thought about it, because that’s where I began this account. As you may recall, the priests declared the sacrifice null and void, but I’m sure Mithra just laughed at the priests’ arrogance. I long ago came to the conclusion that the message of that sacrifice was in fact
a personal note
to me
, had I only been wise enough to recognize it. And the message was this: for the love of Rome, give Syria a very wide berth! For at the time I didn’t connect that Parthia lay next door to Syria, and that this was, of course, the fat plum Crassus was eyeing from his palace atop the Palatine.

So my wife Quinta and I journeyed with Crassus’s household and took up residence in Antioch, which, while not Rome, was nonetheless a pleasant enough city. Quinta busied herself with household duties like a good Roman wife should, while I became Crassus’s shadow. That first year is not one I want necessarily to write about, though I should tell you a little of what happened. The proconsul continued the recruiting drive for his army in Syria while his son, Publius, released from Caesar’s campaigning in Gallia, raised more levies in Northern Italy for his father’s growing legions. Marcus Licinius Crassus then went to war against Parthia. The numbers enrolled in his legions in the first year of campaigning nudged 38,000, which included several thousand auxiliaries of Syrian horse. Publius remained in Italy while Crassus and his most senior legate, Gaius Cassius Longinus, drove toward the Euphrates. In this first year of campaigning the legions swept aside defenses that were, in truth, lackluster and disorganized, installing Roman garrisons in the towns and cities they captured throughout Parthia east of Euphrates.

But then Crassus received word that several of his investments back in Syria weren’t doing as well as they might so he returned the army to winter barracks forthwith in order to repair the minor hits to his finances. It was at this time that the Parthian monarch, Orodes II, sent a delegation to Crassus to complain about the injustice of attacking his kingdom – a recognized ally of the Roman Republic no less – and to inquire of the proconsul’s intentions. It was a moment I shall never forget. Crassus took a little time to consider his reply. And then with the hint of a smile he said, “Tell your king that I shall give him his answer on the streets of Seleucia.”

So ended the first year of the proconsul’s assault on Parthia. I shall henceforth concentrate on the second year of the campaign and the events that followed that few people, if any, will be aware of. My intention is to write a history, though admittedly it will be a flawed one. This is because, while I’ve been a spectator with a seat in the front row of the Circus, witnessing firsthand many of the events to be outlined, I’ve also too often had to rely on the accounts of others, sometimes years after the events in question.

First and foremost, however, this is not intended to be a history
of me
, as Xenophon might have written it, but rather an account about a legion of men and of one man in particular, a Roman who truly deserves the immortality that Crassus craved. For this reason I now conclude this arrogant preamble written in the first person and switch instead to that of an invisible observer. I will endeavor not to jump around; but like many old men I do find that talking about a later incident can spark memories of an earlier one. You’ll just have to bear with me.

Get comfortable, Viridia. You are? Then let’s begin …

Publius caught a flash of steel within the dust cloud ahead.

“There!” he shouted to Marcius Censorinus and Megabocchus, ripping his mount’s head around and digging his heels into its ribs. The young man’s horse reacted as Publius knew it would, setting back on its hindquarters before launching itself forward. Within seconds he and his two friends – veterans from the campaign in Gallia alongside Caesar – were riding at full gallop towards the enemy, eyes streaming tears in the dust, each pulling their focale up around their noses and mouths to keep the worst of the sand from their throats.

Around and behind them were twenty thundering horses, some of the 1,000 Celtic cavalry brought across from Gallia, men who would follow the prefect to the ends of the earth. Through the grit, Publius could make out enemy numbers now.

Around half of the Parthians were cavalry dressed in heavy mail, their horses sheathed in the scales of steel. They were charging into the rear of the column with lances, trying to get the legionaries to turn and fight, hoping to entice them away from the column and make them easier pickings. The fearsome tactic was working. Publius watched several legionaries run toward the heavily armored Parthian horsemen, whom the Arabs called cataphracts. The legionaries hurled their pila, but these javelins had little effect, glancing off the fish scale armor. Other enemy horsemen appeared from out of the dust, lightly armored mounted archers who kept their distance from the Roman javelins and stabbing gladii, and instead cut down the legionaries with well-aimed arrows often fired at full gallop. The enemy tactics were starting to affect the entire century. More and more legionaries were coming to the aid of their fellow infantrymen.

Publius was first to engage the cataphracts. Charging at one to stab the man with his spear, the Parthian used his horse as a shield. The animal reared up so that the force of Publius’s spear thrust hit its polished armor, which merely deflected the blade. The horse then wheeled at the prefect, becoming a massive steel-encased club that knocked Publius’s own mount screaming to the ground.

The Roman came down hard, the impact stunning him briefly. Coming unsteadily to his feet, head ringing, he watched his companions Censorinus and Megabocchus hurl their pila, attempting to kill or wound the Parthian cataphract, but their javelins too were brushed aside.

Publius’s senses came back to him in a rush. As the cataphract’s horse reared, he saw his chance. Grabbing the pugio from off his hip, he raced to the wheeling beast, slid beneath it and slit its belly open with the short, razor-sharp blade as the animal passed above him, just as he’d seen German soldiers do to Roman cavalry mounts in Gallia. The animal’s exta dropped immediately to the sand, the horse stomping over its own entrails in distress. The Parthian fell hard to the ground and then his horse toppled over onto his leg, breaking it and trapping the man.

The legionaries saw what Publius had done, mirrored his tactic, and the other cataphract was soon brought down in similar fashion. The enemy archers melted immediately into the dust, chased off by the Celts. And the Roman column marched on, the century reforming in an orderly fashion, its officers barking orders at legionaries trotting to rejoin the ranks.

Publius held up his hand in salute at the departing century and received a cheer from the men in return. With Censorinus and Megabocchus, he rode around the general area, surveying the results of the minor skirmish. Four legionaries lay dead, killed by arrows. These had passed clean through their helmets or their shields and mail cuirasses as if they were naked. Three other legionaries were badly wounded and would not survive, arrows having skewered their limbs and chests to their shields so that they couldn’t fight or run. The prefect dismounted and plucked an arrow from the ground. Its steel head was heavy and viciously barbed. A weapon like this hit hard and once it pierced skin and muscle, pulling the head out would do even more damage. Publius shuddered.

Censorinus pushed an arrow through the hole it had made in a legionary’s shield and removed it clean. “The enemy’s bows are powerful,” the young cavalry officer observed, giving voice to Publius’s thoughts as he examined the arrow. “You don’t want to be struck with one of these.”

“Our bows wouldn’t do this from twenty paces,” Megabocchus remarked.

Publius nodded, plainly aware that they had nothing in their arsenal to counter the Parthian weapon. He turned his attention to the two enemy cataphracts being guarded by Publius’s Celts. Both men were now conscious, the one with the broken leg lying on the ground, groaning. Publius looked at the bloody dagger in his hand and knew what he had to do. He wasted no time.

“Strip them,” he commanded.

*

The sun beat down on the legions like white-hot hammers pulled from a forge. The pounding heat bent the backs of the men and drained the vigor from their limbs while, on the horizon, the ever-present dancing shimmer of false water that lay between earth and sky devoured the long snake of the endless cohorts marching forward.

“The sand is cooking the soles of my feet,” announced Legionnaire Gaius Carbo to the men walking either side of him in the last line of the century.

“Stop – you’re making me hungry,” growled Lucius Terentius Libo. “A couple of delicious, tender cooked soles will go well with the hard bread and onions I’m planning for dinner.”

“Do you ever stop thinking about food, Beast?” Orthus Verginius Paleo asked, the century’s tesserarius, the senior non-commissioned officer.

“Only when I’m fucking,” Libo answered with a grin. “But then it comes on powerfully afterward.”

Paleo looked at him and shook his head.

“You asked,” Gnaeus Pontus Albas, the legionary marching beside Paleo pointed out.

“I’m serious,” Carbo told no one in particular. “The heat is going straight through my sandals. Aren’t you cunni feeling that?”

“What do you think?” said Adrianus Acilius Figulus, a former armorer from Gallia.

Tullus Bassius Rufinius, the optio – the century’s executive officer and second in command – knew there wasn’t a man in the entire army who wasn’t feeling serious discomfort. All of them except Rufinius had been new to soldiering when this campaign began the previous year, and all except Figulus had been free Italian laborers working the fields in Syria who had chosen to take up Crassus’s offer of paid service in the legions, along with the promise of booty that came with it.

Optio Rufinius was proud of this contubernium, the eight-man unit that marched, ate, drank, slept and fought together. It had fought particularly bravely to date, and had been part of Crassus’s army that had swept away Parthian resistance to conquer the whole of Mesopotamia before retiring to winter quarters in Syria. These men, and indeed the rest of the century, had been formidable because Rufinius had drilled them well. As the legion’s optio, that was part of his job. But he was also the army’s champion swordsman and had passed on his father’s skills, hard won in a military career that spanned thirty years, fighting under Consul Lucius Licinius Lucullus in the Battles of Tigranocerta and Artaxata, and the Battle of the Lycus under Pompey the Great.

A dozen Celtic cavalry led by the Prefect Publius cantered by trailing ribbons, animal skins, and other fine adornments. They were heading toward Proconsul Crassus’s position in the column several miles ahead. Publius’s well-known polished steel cuirass flashed in the sunlight.

Now there was a soldier worth admiration, thought Rufinius with a touch of envy. Besides being Crassus’s son, Publius was a highly decorated veteran of Caesar’s conquest of Gallia, the subjugator of all of Aquitania, and still under thirty. His mere presence gave Rufinius confidence in complete victory and a speedy return to barracks in Antioch. What news was the man carrying forward, he wondered?

“Want to stop your feet being cooked?” said Vibius Petronius Gracchus, nodding at the cavalry horses dashing by. “Come into this world rich enough to equip yourself with one of those.”

Rufinius ignored the idle chat and searched the horizon. It was currently devoid of the enemy’s horse and camel-mounted scouts, spies determining numbers for the battle to come. The optio licked his cracked, bloody lips and looked around for a water donkey. The animals were never close by when you needed them. Every day on this accursed desert plain was just like the one before, a blazing sun in a cloudless blue sky heating up a baked land the color of fired pottery. He drank two mouthfuls of water from a wineskin and then passed it along to the man beside him, Marcus Tuccius Dentianus, who drank from it and handed it to Gracchus.

“It’s for drinking, not pouring on your feet,” Rufinius called out as Gracchus drank from the skin and then passed it to Carbo. “Two mouthfuls each – no more.”

“If I poured water on them they’d sizzle like stones in a steam room,” Carbo observed, accepting the skin and sucking back a couple of mouthfuls.

“Pass the word,” said Rufinius. “Next chance we get, everyone fills an extra skin. Add it to your load. Under this sun you’ll need it if you ever want to see your favorite whores back in Antioch.”

Someone grumbled about the extra weight but grumbling was normal and, in this case, reasonable. Each legionary was loaded down like a pack animal when on the march, helmet dangling from a strap around his neck, his shield protected by a leather cover occupying the left arm, and steel gladius hanging from his left shoulder. And on the baggage pole slung over his right shoulder was his bedroll, woolen cloak, pick-axe, scythe and field knife, rations, mess tin, a wicker basket for earthworks, a water bucket also used as a kettle, the horsehair crest for his helmet, two heavy javelins strapped to the pole along with three palisade sticks, and any personal items he might care to keep on him such as shaving blades. Then of course there was the weight of what he wore: a tunic, a padded vest over the top, and then over that a cuirass of heavy leather covered in ringlets of iron mail. On his feet, hobnailed caliga – the legionary’s boots. What difference were a few additional pounds going to make? Plenty. But there might come a time when they’d appreciate extra water rations and Rufinius was well aware that a man can fight with more commitment when he’s not dying of thirst.

Movement to his right caught the optio’s attention. An arrow had hit the sand, sending up a small plume. It had stuck fast, its shaft quivering. Several others followed, these ones skipping off the hard ground and coming to rest not more than a stone’s throw from the century. There were no enemy archers that Rufinius could see. The land seemed flat, but that was deceptive. Everywhere were dry riverbeds capable of concealing men and horses. A handful of archers could easily fire a volley from one of those beds without being seen, chancing their luck that their arrows would find targets. Quite a few men in the army had been killed already by arrows such as these, fired blindly and from a great distance.

The volley reminded Rufinius of the rumors spreading through the army that the Parthians were skilled warriors with a formidable arsenal of weaponry. These stories infecting the men and filling them with doubt had been brought into the army by the fleeing survivors of garrisons left behind in conquered Mesopotamian towns retaken by the Parthians over the winter.

Ahead of Rufinius, two legionaries suddenly dropped to the ground, struck by the lethal arrows. As Rufinius’s line passed them, he could see both men were clearly dead, the arrows having pierced their helmets and spitted their heads.

*

Publius rode at an easy canter with Censorinus, Megabocchus and the others. He had news for his father, the proconsul, but it wasn’t urgent enough to risk the health of his mount with a full gallop. The heat was ferocious. He put the blazing sun from his mind and rode alongside the marching legions, the sight of which never ceased to thrill him. The column of over 40,000 men stretched all the way to the horizon and beyond, the tip of the spear of civilization itself. Organized, disciplined and well led, the Roman military machine was the finest fighting force the world had ever seen. And proof of the fact? Much of the world was now Rome’s dominion. If things continued to go well, his father’s campaigning would add still more territory to the empire. Of course, it would also add to his own personal inheritance, even though, thanks to his father’s business acumen, this was already almost incalculably large. But there were discouraging signs and, as the days passed by on this sandy desert plain, Publius’s concerns had been mounting.

The horses lifted their gait when they caught the scent of the heavy cavalry in the dust cloud rolling across the desert toward them. Soon Publius and his men came to the baggage train belonging to Crassus and the senior officers.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Publius called to Censorinus and Megabocchus. Giving them a wave, he turned his horse away. Clearly visible ahead was his father’s personal guard – handpicked spearmen and archers. Among them would be Crassus himself, as well as the legates, military tribunes, and other officers. Beyond, silhouetted in the pall kicked up by thousands of men, animals, and wagons were the shapes of various beams and other items used for the building of siege machines and artillery pieces. And beyond them still, swallowed by the dust and the glittering false water, were the engineers and the men tasked with building the camp for the evening, as well as the entire First Legion along with several cohorts of light archers and the 600 cavalry loaned to Proconsul Crassus by his friend, Armenian King Artavastes.

Publius threaded his horse through the guard protecting his father and reined in beside him. “Proconsul,” he said by way of greeting.

“There you are, Publius,” Crassus exclaimed, grinning broadly, pleased to see his son.

“His name is Surenas-Pahlav, Proconsul, and he is the spāhbed of King Orodes’s army. That’s who we’re up against.”

“Spāhbed?”

“Commander-in-chief.”

“Surenas … What’s the word on him? He any good?”

“He’s their best general, father, or so we’re told. He defeated Orodes’s brother Mithridates so that Orodes could ascend the throne. That’s how he came to be commander-in-chief.”