Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (6 page)

A mortuary mule carrying dead bodies came toward them on the path between the tents, its swaying load gratefully hidden from sight by a leather cover. A corpse collector wearing the usual long robe, his head shrouded beneath a hood, led the animal. The collector was regarded a bad omen and he and his mule were shunned by the contubernia they passed.

“Ah, corpses. Just what my appetite needs,” Carbo mused to no one in particular as he saw the collector and mule turn toward them.

But then the man threw back his hood when he drew alongside the contubernium’s tent and revealed himself as Dentianus.

“Hercules’s shit,” he hissed, keeping his voice down. “Water is harder to find around here than a virgin in the Subura.” He lifted a corner of the leather covering on the mule to show a couple of dead legionaries obscuring two water firkins slung off each side of the animal.

“Marcus Tuccius Dentianus! Good job!” Rufinius exclaimed, enormously pleased and somewhat relieved to see the barrels. He motioned at the dead legionaries. “What happened to them?”

“A fight to the death over the water.” Dentianus checked the ribbons on their cuirasses. “One from the First Legion, the other from the Fifth.”

“Did you kill them?” Rufinius asked.

“On my oath no, Optio, but I did have to knife a third legionary who killed the muleteer as he tried to make off with the animal and its load. A superficial wound. He’ll live. Then I bought the cloak and leather cover from a corpse collector to keep everything hidden. Seemed the only way to get the firkins back here without starting a riot.”

“Anyone see you?” Rufinius gestured at his men to gather around the mule and hide the contraband from prying eyes.

“No.”

“You did well, Dentianus.” Then to the hag slave, Rufinius said, “Mena, wineskins. Get ’em filled.” He tapped the barrels with the pommel of his gladius to gauge their contents.

“Full, by the sound of it,” said Figulus.

“All four barrels,” Dentianus confirmed.

“So we’re killing each other for water now?” observed Paleo to Rufinius.

The optio didn’t like it any more than the tesserarius but it was better to have the firkins than to go without. “Take a third of a butt and distribute the rest among the century.” To the men he added, “When you’re done eating, put an edge on all your blades. There’ll be a weapons inspection before three bugles. And Dentianus, do something respectful with those legionaries.”

“What’s happening?” asked Libo, appearing out of the smoky murk that had settled on the camp from 10,000 dung-fueled ovens. He’d arrived with a fleshy and fiendishly ugly whore, who he intended to place between himself and the ground. She swayed drunkenly and slack-jawed beneath his huge arm, which was draped around her shoulders.

“I hope you cunni haven’t eaten everything.” The legionary’s eyes shifted to Rufinius, and then he cleared his throat and offered a partial retraction. “Of course, present company accepted, primor.” The men laughed.

Paleo shrugged. “Not too much wrong with this contubernium’s morale.”

Hearing a familiar clucking sound, the sacred-chicken keeper glanced behind him at the cage. Significant numbers of the birds had recently died from what he thought was probably the heat, and those had been removed and buried in secret. Birds died all the time, sacred chickens or not, the keeper reassured himself, and he’d done everything he could for their comfort and welfare, even washing them down to cool them. In anticipation of this summons to the praetorium, he’d put the deaths out of his mind, given the cart a fresh coat of red and blue paint for the occasion, gilded the oxen’s horns in gold, and had the animals’ flanks brushed down till their hides gleamed.

To witness the auguries, Proconsul Crassus had invited his son, Publius, Legate Cassius Longinus, the Arab chieftain, Abgar, the historian Appias Cominius Maro, and several high-ranking tribunes from patrician families.

“May the gods bless the battle to come, Proconsul, Generals, Officers, and Tribunes,” the keeper said, bowing slightly.

“Yes, yes,” Crassus said with a wave of his hand at the keeper, impatient to have the platitudes done with and the correct religious formalities attended to. The keeper passed the impatience onto his assistants who hurriedly lifted the cage from the cart and brought it to the feet of the seated proconsul and his entourage.

The keeper stood back from the cage and waited for the full attention of the seated audience. But as the conversation between Crassus and his guests subsided, the keeper became aware that the cage, too, was silent.

Cassius Longinus noted that Abgar’s brow was furrowed. Taking this to mean that the Arab was a little confused at the ritual’s meaning, he leaned toward him and quietly explained, “This augury is a battlefield tradition. The gods speak to us through the sacred chickens. If they eat the grain offered to them hungrily so that it falls from their beaks, this portents a victory. But if – ”

Abgar cut him off. “I am aware of the tradition, Legate. I rode to war with Pompey. No, there appears to be a problem.”

“Get on with it,” Proconsul Crassus said to the keeper.

But the man refused to move, standing with his feet apparently nailed to the earth, alternately looking at the cage and then at the proconsul, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to breathe like a fish removed from the water.

Impatient, Crassus got up from his chair, pushed the man aside and flung open the lid. A fetid stench not unlike a gangrenous wound bloomed from inside it. Crassus gagged, covered his nose and mouth with a hand. The keeper, released from his inertia, rushed forward and picked up one of the chickens inside the box by its feet. Feathers dropped from its skin in clumps and its head had swollen to the size of a small apple. As he lifted another from the cage, the bird began convulsing. He dropped it. “Proconsul, I …”

The keeper was at a loss. Crassus seethed, aware that word of the deaths of the sacred chickens would spread quickly and the army would read this as yet another portent – if one were needed – that death and humiliation would be their only rewards in this adventure. This he did not need. The proconsul turned his glare on the members of the official party. “Not a word of this is to be spoken.” Then to the keeper he said, “What else do you do, keeper, other than keep birds for the single purposes of augury?”

The man shook his head.

“Nothing,” Crassus continued. “You do nothing other than attend to the sacred chickens. And yet you can’t seem to manage even that.” The proconsul motioned at his senior guardsman. “Take their tongues.” The soldier moved immediately to secure the keeper and his two assistants. “Wait,” Crassus said and the guardsmen halted. “Can you write?” he asked the keeper.

“Y … yes, Proconsul,” the man stammered.

“Then you’d better take their hands as well.” Crassus waved at the guardsmen and the detail marched the keepers away, the men’s sobs clearly audible. Next the proconsul glared a warning at Appias. “Nothing about this gets written, historian. The chickens have been willfully poisoned. The divination is null and void.” And then, to no one in particular, he said, “Clean this up.” Crassus then strode off toward his tent. His retreat was interrupted by the ruckus of fifty Armenian horsemen, accompanied by members of Publius’s Celtic cavalry, arriving suddenly and unexpectedly into the praetorium.

Senior members of this Armenian delegation hurriedly dismounted and walked quickly toward Crassus’s banner and then on toward the proconsul’s tent beyond it. Crassus’s guardsmen brought their journey to a sudden stop, barring their way with crossed lances. In passable Latin, the leader of the Armenian troop announced loudly, “My name is Khoren, cousin to King Artavastes. I have ridden hard to bring urgent news to our friend and ally Proconsul Crassus.”

Crassus, trailing the usual retinue, walked up behind the Armenians. “Welcome, Khoren, to a humble soldier’s camp. I am Proconsul Crassus. Please come into my tent. My slaves will see to the comfort of your men.” At this, more than a dozen slaves rushed to bring the Armenians food and water and find them accommodation for the night.

Crassus’s tent was a vast space, richly endowed with items from the conquered lands, hand-picked by the proconsul himself: a sweet-smelling sandalwood table inlaid with intricate geometric patterns of ivory, a bed with solid gold legs strewn with cushions of an exquisite fine white fabric embroidered with gold, several ornate gold-inlaid chairs and couches cushioned in royal purple, another table of solid ebony on which maps of the region were spread, illuminated by two large solid gold candelabra, a low table on which stood a golden jug of water and a dozen matching golden cups, each adorned with a blazing sun, their gold handles fashioned to resemble serpents. There was also a fine Praxiteles bust of Hercules looking angrily at The Infinite, the Nemean lion’s pelt fastened around his neck, and an enormous lion skin laid out on the floor. More couches were brought in for everyone’s comfort, along with wine, water, dates and freshly baked honey cakes.

The Armenian delegation sat and drank watered wine but eschewed the food. The small talk was kept to a minimum, there being no prior personal contact between Crassus and the King’s emissaries. It was clear that the Armenians were impatient to deliver their message.

“Well, Khoren, how is your uncle, King Artavastes?” Crassus asked when the scant pleasantries dried up.

Khoren replied, “The King sends you greetings, Proconsul, and trusts that your sword is laying waste to the enemies of Rome and Armenia.”

“I thank the King for his encouragement,” said Crassus.

“However, obviously we have not endured travails to bring news of pleasing events. The opposite, in fact.” Khoren resisted the desire to pace the tent, his energy and anxiety evident with the wringing of his hands. “Orodes, your enemy, the enemy of peace, has split his army and he is himself, at this moment, marching against your personal friend and Rome’s staunchest supporter, King Artavastes. The King fears that he cannot now send you the 30,000 infantry he promised for your campaign, should you have need of it, and begs that you come to his immediate assistance. Indeed with my uncle’s army, the anvil blocking Orodes, and the Roman army, a hammer behind him, the Parthian adventurer will be smashed and all of Parthia will be yours.”

“So we should turn back, sacrificing all we have won?” Crassus asked coolly.

“Sacrificing …? What …?”

“No, I think not.”

It was not the response Khoren had expected and he was clearly stunned at the bluntness of it. “You will not come to the assistance of King Artavastes after everything he has done for you?”

“Everything he has done
for me
?” Crassus roared suddenly, coming to his feet. “Whatever your King has done for me he has done for reasons of self interest. That is the way of kingship. Meanwhile, I am moving forward for the glory of Rome, taking the Empire to the streets of Seleucia just as I promised the emissaries of Orodes I would do when they petitioned me in Syria. Your King will not make a liar of me.”

Khoren’s face was red with anger, his clenched fists white.

“What’s more, if I was to rush to your uncle’s aid now,” Crassus continued, “Rome will be coming to his aid forever, whenever some local bully presents himself. If Artavastes wishes to rule, he should rule. Otherwise, why would we not replace him with a Roman proconsul backed by our legions?”

Khoren could not contain his fury any longer, leaping up to confront the proconsul, a movement that drew Crassus’s guardsmen in closer, hands on the pommels of their swords.

“Proconsul, you speak as if you look down on the earth from a great height like a god. But you are just a man. The desert cares not for wealth nor means. The desert eats men. You will see.”

Khoren strode from the tent with his fellow Armenians, aware that their mission had failed completely.

Crassus drained his cup and set it on the table, his hand visibly shaking. “See to the comfort of the King’s emissaries,” he told his chief slave. Once the delegation had well and truly cleared his tent, the proconsul turned to the audience that included Publius, Cassius Longinus, Abgar and Appias and said, “To Hades with the sacred chickens! That was the best news I’ve heard in a very long time.”

Publius could not hide his excitement. “With Orodes thus diverted, Surenas will have no chance of reinforcements.”

Legate Cassius Longinus beamed. “I can’t believe it. There are just 10,000 men between us and the annexation of one of the world’s wealthiest kingdoms.”

“Proconsul, they will proclaim you another Alexander, a god among men,” said Abgar.

“This victory will trivialize not just Caesar’s conquests in Gallia but also Pompey’s victories in Pontus,” Publius added. “Father … history will ring with your name.”

Crassus’s eyes glittered, the vision of a glorious future clearly before him.

As usual, Rufinius’s own internal bugler woke him before the legion’s cornicen blew reveille. He lay on his back on the leather groundsheet and listened for noises outside the tent. There were men already up, but not many, the silence punctuated by the occasional clink of metal on metal. The air drifting through the open leather flap beside him was refreshingly cool and pungent with extinguished dung fires. The smell reminded him of food and made his stomach growl with hunger, and he sent his tongue around his dry mouth looking for whole grains between his teeth from last night’s bread that had avoided digestion.

The optio hoped Pontius was right about the river and the edge of the desert. Anything to end the monotony. The terrain had changed so little it was if the entire army had been marching on the spot forever. And, of course, a river meant water and the army’s thirst was now acute. Rufinius’s bladder finally brought him to his feet. Sleeping closest to the opening, he cleared the tent without waking the other men. Starlight lit the world in silver and he had no trouble finding one of the slit trenches. Urinating long and loud, he enjoyed the sensation of it and the stillness of the pre-dawn. But then hundreds of cornicens around the camp began to blow reveille into their brass cornua and the pre-dawn tranquility was destroyed. Rufinius sighed and returned to the contubernium’s tent. The day had begun.

Mena appeared and handed Rufinius the morning ration – a slice of the rough leavened bread. He nodded thanks, chewed it and sucked the olive oil and salt from the crust.

“There is a river not far ahead,” the hag said, interrupting his enjoyment with her heavily accented Latin.

“So they say,” Rufinius replied.

“We will soon be fighting again.”

“Really? If the gods know, they haven’t told me.” Rufinius couldn’t help but smile at Mena’s use of “we,” picturing the tattooed hag wielding a gladius at the enemy. The sight of her pocked skin and black toothless gums, and her occasional trick of hiding a beetle within the scarred cavern behind her tattooed eye that would come scuttling out when she opened her lid, would surely frighten all but the bravest warrior. But she was a good slave and never gave any trouble, caring for the men and often bathing their wounds. And because she looked the way she did, there was never any risk of her causing trouble, being raped, or in any way abused by legionaries or fellow slaves. Many even considered her a priestess and an augury, a rumor she allowed to take root and grow since she was given an extra wide berth because of it.

The men began stumbling out of the tent and either headed straight for the trench or to Mena and Popixia.

“Where’s my breakfast, hag?” Gracchus asked, scratching a butt cheek then yawning wide.

Mena answered with a slice of bread shoved in his open mouth.

Popixia offered Rufinius a cup of heavily watered wine, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

“Okay, get a move on. Dreams of soft thighs and lips on cocks are done for the day,” growled Figulus with his own personal reveille for the men, of which they were well used to.

Libo stumbled from the tent followed by the whore who looked considerably worse – if that were possible – for her night with the legionary. She farted, slapped Libo hard across the face, and stomped away down the access path, hitching up the loose clothing around her person.

“Another advocate for your charms, I see,” said Carbo.

“She’ll be back,” Libo replied.

“Something for us all to look forward to within the confines of the tent,” Albas joined in.

“Okay, that’s enough brotherly love, Romans,” Rufinius snapped. “We’ve got a war to fight. Figulus, I want us packed up with plenty of time to spare. Seems we’ll be departing early.”

“Yes, primor,” the decanus answered crisply. “Mena, Popixia – let’s get this tent down. Men, finish your morning banquet. I want those baggage poles packed up. Let’s move it.”

Around the camp, 40,000 men were waking, re-packing, eating or evacuating their bowels and bladders. The word sweeping the ranks held that today they would finally leave the desert and find water. And because of that, urgency filled the air.

Cornicens around the camp blew the second call of the morning: “Up sticks, prepare to march,” alerting the engineers to pull the palisade sticks from the double rows protecting the encampment, and also informing the army’s slaves and auxiliaries to load the baggage train. Soon, before the sun was yet above the horizon, a third blast of horns would convey the order to march and the First Cohort would lead off out the gate.

*

The Priest of Mithra stood back from the gushing bull’s blood forging valleys in the sand. So that the men in the front rows could see the health of the entrails for themselves and spread the word of these favorable portents, the acolyte held them up above his head like a trophy. The men cheered loudly, their cries making their mounts stamp the ground and shake their heads. This was the fourth bull sacrificed to Mithra this morning, the other three animals now lying still, the flies beginning to gather. Overhead, a lone vulture flew wary circles, so many hundreds of its brothers, sisters and cousins having been lured to carcasses such as these staked to the desert floor, their feathers employed in the flights of a vast multitude of arrows.

“Mithra, the God of Parthia and of your ancestors, speaks to you here,” boomed the priest. “See how he blesses the battle to come? You, sons of Parthia! You are his holy warriors.”

A respectful silence settled over the men and into it the priest led the familiar prayer: “Whose word is true?

And with one voice, 10,000 warriors responded, “The honest one!”

“Who has a thousand ears?”

The hundreds of lines of men intoned, “The well-shaped one!”

“Who has ten thousand eyes?”

“The exalted one!”

“Who has wide knowledge?”

“The helpful one!”

“Who sleeps not?”

“The ever-wakeful one!”

“We sacrifice to Mithra, the Lord of all countries! Mithra, the exalted one!”

The army echoed the response through the cool air of the desert morning.

“Mithra, the exalted one!”

The priest’s blessing completed, Surenas nudged his horse gently and it stepped forward from the front rank of cataphracts and turned so that the spāhbed faced his men. An ululation rose from the army, a mark of respect for their lord and master. He raised a hand and the ranks fell silent so that even a single horse could be heard snorting.

“A year and some months ago,” Surenas called out, “our lands were unjustly invaded by the Romans. Unjust because Parthia had a treaty of friendship with Rome.” Surenas led his horse up the long line of men, and stood in the stirrups as he called to them. “This invasion is led by a man whose greed is legendary, whose lust for gold is spoken about even in the slave markets of Babylon. He comes determined to melt down our wealth and send it to Antioch. He comes to steal our history. He comes with gods that are foreign to us and speaks a tongue that knows not our language. As he has shown in the cities he has occupied that he is here to rape our wives and daughters. He aims to put you under the yoke of Rome, to enslave all of Parthia. But …” Surenas stopped his horse and retraced his steps at an easy canter. “But this adventurer from the west has never truly met the sons of Alexander. He has never fought the grandsons of the great Persian kings. And he has NEVER come up against the strong right arm of Parthia, the righteous ones blessed by Mithra himself. HE HAS NEVER MET YOU!”

Ten thousand Parthian warriors howled and beat their shields with bows and lances. Surenas let them drink of their own noise for the sheer joy it gave them. And then he held up his hand a second time, silencing the men and reining his horse to a stop. “Today, Parthians, we fight for our homes, our women, our God, our freedom. We have made our stratagems and they are sound. Make sure your aim is true, contemplate only victory against these invaders from the west, and this day will surely echo through the halls of history so that a thousand years from now, men will shout, ‘I WISH I HAD BEEN THERE!’”

*

Rufinius checked the men marching to the left – Albas, Gracchus, Dentianus, Libo, Figulus, Carbo, and on the far end, Paleo. Chatter between them had progressively diminished through the morning as the sun had risen higher. And now that it was overhead, they marched unthinking, more like cattle than men, one foot following the other as if suffering a punishment they had already endured for an eternity. Most of the men wore a cloth or shawl over their heads to keep the sun off their faces and the dust from their mouths but still there was coughing. At least now they had water.

In front, the shrouded heads of legionaries bobbed and moved from side to side, the familiar and reassuring sight of men following the century’s symbols. From his vantage point, Rufinius could see the column swinging through an ocean of low sand dunes, and disappearing inside a vast cloud of dust of the army’s own making. Above, the sun was plastered to the blue sky, haloed in dust, a circle of molten gold. It was another day like yesterday, which itself was like the day before that and the day before that and the day before that. The terrain continued to be as hot and bland and as faceless and repetitive as always with not a single blade of grass or tree or any kind of distinguishing feature. Just sand, dust, flies and heat.

But there was, however, something different about
this
day. The enemy’s speculatores. If Rufinius were not mistaken there seemed to be far more of them than usual, always several in view, perched on the higher sandy ridges, black dots against the hot blue sky. Rufinius watched as half a dozen Celts galloped over the sand hills toward a couple of these camel-mounted spies. But they simply turned and loped into the safety of the desert well before the cavalry could close with them.

Rufinius returned his eyes to the front, adjusted the focale in front of his mouth and nose to better filter the dust and kept marching, one foot in front of the other.

*

The party of twenty Celtic speculatores – scouts – galloped as fast as their mounts could manage toward the cloud of dust on the horizon where the marching legions would be found. Eventually identifying Crassus’s banner branded with Hercules’s knot, the leader of the speculatores thrashed his horse toward it.

The riders were briefly detained by the proconsul’s guard, who mistook the scouts for nomads since their heads were wrapped in cloth and their sagum – the red woolen legionary’s cloak – and armor was covered in a thick layer of dust. With their bona fides confirmed, two of the speculatores were conveyed before Crassus and his intimate circle.

“Proconsul Crassus, Legate Cassius Longinus, Prefect Publius,” began the speculatores’ commander, “we have ridden hard from the east and south. General Surenas is marching in this direction with all haste, drawn up in battle order.”

“What did you say?” asked Crassus, cocking an ear in the scout’s direction.

“The Parthian army, Proconsul,” Cassius Longinus repeated. “It is marching this way.”

“How far away?”

“Two hours’ hard riding, primor,” the scout answered, raising his voice over the noise of the marching legions.

“What kind of soldiers do they field?” Cassius Longinus asked.

“All mounted, Legate. Mostly horse archers with fewer heavy armed cavalry.”

“What of their numbers?” Publius inquired.

“Prefect, it is hard to say. There was as much dust obscuring their lines as ours, but they are nowhere near so numerous as our legions.”

“Anything else of note?” the proconsul asked.

The speculator took a moment to gather his thoughts. “There are fewer of the cataphracts than we supposed, primor.”

Cassius Longinus was unimpressed. Their report was thin. “That’s it?”

“Yes, Legate.”

“You’ve done well,” said Publius, saluting them, his blood rising with the heat of battle drawing close. He dismissed the speculatores and had one of the tribunes go with the men and provide access to the heavily rationed and guarded water for themselves and their horses.

“No infantry? And perhaps less than the 10,000 men we supposed? It’s hardly an army,” Abgar derided, belittling the threat. “You need hardly be concerned about being surrounded, Proconsul.”

“It might not be an army in our sense of the word,” the legate cautioned, “but it is a highly mobile, well-trained force. And I also believe that we know less than we should about this army of Surenas’s.”

“It is also worth considering that their archers possess bows with considerable range,” Publius added. “They can fire beyond the reach of our arrows and inflict a heavy toll. Nevertheless, with speed and bravery, such is possessed by my Celts, I believe we may yet hold the advantage.”

“The Parthians are coming at us from the south and east,” said Cassius Longinus. “As the day lengthens the sun will be in their eyes and the dust in ours. Proconsul, I recommend that we deploy the army in extended line. Place Publius and his Celts on the right wing and the Armenian cavalry on the left. With the standard five-foot space between each legionary, our army can present the enemy with a front of Roman steel that extends for well over ten miles. Let them fire their arrows. They will not come down so thick along such a wide front. And with luck and good fighting, hidden in a cloud of dust, our wings will envelope them before they are even aware of it.”

Crassus considered the discussion.

“I agree, Legate. A sound strategy,” said Publius, itching to get back to his squadrons and prepare them. And yet, he was nervous. Abgar advocated throwing caution to the sky and attacking sooner rather than later. Publius too was keen for a bold strike. What concerned him was that his strongest ally in this was the Arab, a man in whom he held not the barest trust. The prefect turned to his father’s advisor. “I do have one question …”

Abgar smiled at Publius. “Of course, Prefect, if you feel I can provide the answer.”

“Where’s this river you assured us was half a day’s march? We have marched this half-day and behold, no river. And now water is so scare among the men that I am concerned about their ability to fight.”