Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (8 page)

“At least on this solitary occasion.”

Abgar’s grin faded, a small victory that gave Publius a sense of triumph as he spurred his horse to his father’s side. 

From the height of this vantage point, the general staff watched the leading cohorts break apart as the men ran to the river, the exaltation clearly spreading. They had endured the unendurable.

“If I am not mistaken, there lies a river, Publius,” Crassus observed wryly. “A small one, granted, but I think you owe Abgar an apology.”

“We’ve exchanged pleasantries on the matter, Father,” Publius replied.

“Proconsul, shall I give the order to build the marching camp here?” Cassius Longinus interrupted.

“Why?” Crassus replied.

“The legions need rest, primor. And the river is sent by the gods. It could not have been better placed.”

“Father, I disagree with the legate. While it is true that the gods have sent us nothing but privation, I also believe the men desire victory more than they need water. Let them drink their fill and resume the march, secure in the knowledge that water is at their backs.”

“With respect, Proconsul, I think that’s the wrong decision,” scowled Cassius Longinus, far from happy.

Publius brought his horse closer to his father so that he could speak without yelling. “Proconsul, we know the Parthian forces are coming forward to meet us. What message will it send them if we build a camp so that the men can lie around relaxing and splashing each other for a couple of days? I would say it would inform Surenas that we are either exhausted or lazy or both. The men are prepared for battle and have dropped their baggage poles far behind. They have come here to do a job, as have we. We can finish it today and go home tomorrow, or at least find more luxurious quarters in the pleasure parlors of Seleucia.”

“A fine speech, Prefect,” Cassius Longinus protested, “spoken by a man who, like me, has crossed the desert on the back of a horse, enjoying full rations. But the great majority of men below us crossed it on foot and on less than half rations. Sending them to fight now, without rest, would surely court disaster.”

“They are
Roman
legionaries, Legate,” Crassus reminded him. “As you yourself say, these are men who cross impenetrable deserts and on half rations! Vanquishing an opposition force of less than one quarter their strength should not prove overly arduous for such men as we command.”

Cassius Longinus was agitated. “Primor, give the men a day, perhaps two, to recover and they will reward us. And when we fight let us not join battle when the sun is at its zenith and the day at its hottest. I would further counsel that we know little about the army coming to meet us. It would be prudent, surely, to find out more – send out the speculatores, scout their numbers more fully, gain more intelligence about this Surenas.”

“And yet for all we know, General,” Publius said, “waiting around here by the banks of this rivulet might actually give the enemy time to add more conscripts or sharpen more swords or fashion more arrows to bring against us.”

“I agree with Prefect Publius,” said Abgar, in rare support of his adversary. “Perhaps it is us who have surprised Spāhbed Surenas. We have crossed the desert, a feat few would dare, and have done so in good time with minor losses. We should strike while swords are sharp, should we not?”

Publius examined the Arab advisor and suddenly wondered if perhaps he’d been manipulated to his confident view by Abgar’s constant commentary on the enemy’s weaknesses.

“Enough,” Crassus snapped, raising a hand to call an emphatic halt to further discussion. “I am anxious to strike while the branding iron is yet hot. The men can take an hour to have a meal where they stand, after which they are to reform the square on the far side of the river and advance against the enemy.”

“Only an hour, Proconsul? We have 40,000 men. The Sixth and Seventh Legions, a third of our forces, are still on the march some hours to the west.”

“Then they had best get a hurry on, Legate, wouldn’t you say?”

Order among the ranks dissolved as the men dropped their scuta and galeae and ran to the river. Upon reaching it, Rufinius dived in, along with the hundreds of men all around him, still with their armor on. The water was cool, a shock to Rufinius’s over-heated skin. He stayed beneath the water, enjoying the freedom from the dust and the flies, and used his hands to walk his body through deliciously thick ooze lining the shallow bottom. Coming to the surface, he drank gulps of water as he moved, and heard yells and delighted screams all around, his fellow legionaries like children engaged in a water fight on a scorching summer’s day. The men who still had their galea with them put them to use as buckets, filling them and tossing the water at their comrades, or grabbing handfuls of the rich brown ooze and throwing it in the faces of the men around them. Never had Rufinius experienced such relief.

More and more men surged into the water, the thought of battle and killing far from their minds. Rufinius drank and drank again. Submerging one last time, he rubbed the dust and sand from his hair so that it was no longer black but its normal blond color, and finally strode back out of the water, his leather and chain mail body armor saturated and heavy, small waterfalls cascading from its creases. Rufinius could not put words to the feeling that ran through his limbs and danced on his skin. He was clean, had drunk his fill, and the sun no longer felt like the enemy as it warmed him.

Thousands of legionaries had arrived, hardened men for the most part, a flood of them in plumed helmets and chainmail cuirasses, yelling with high spirits as they sprinted past him toward the salvation awaiting them.

Far enough now from the river to avoid the crush, Rufinius pulled his sword. The blade was sharp, the tip coming to a wicked point. He spotted a dusty rag dropped by one of the men, picked it up and used it wipe down the steel, enjoying the familiar balance of the weapon in his hand.

The sun and desert air quickly dried the optio. Returning to his scuta and galea where he’d dropped them in the sand, he found Mena and the other slaves waiting with loaves of bread for their domini. She handed him a thick slice, soaked in olive oil.

“Have you drunk?” Rufinius asked her.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Filled our wineskins?”

“Of course. There’s talk among the slaves. We’ll be marching to war within half an hour.”

“I don’t believe it. The legates know the men need rest.”

“Believe it, dominus. When are we ever wrong?”

By “we,” Mena meant the slaves and the answer was never. The slaves moved among the freemen, largely unseen by them. And at least one of them always knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who heard this officer talk to that officer … In short, there were few secrets in the army.

“What else have you heard?” asked Rufinius.

“The sacred chickens all died before the auspices could be read. The gods have snubbed us.”

“Have you heard why we’re going to this battle with such haste?”

“The army we go to meet is puny and the proconsul has his eye on the gold of Seleucia.”

“Hag – any of that for us?” asked Dentianus as he, Albas and Carbo walked up, joking and laughing among themselves, Paleo behind them.

Mena carved large chunks from the loaves, drizzled olive oil on them and handed them around. “That’s lunch and dinner, gluttons. Do something to earn it.”

“What did you have in mind, anus breath?” said Dentianus pleasantly.

“Capture more slaves so that I don’t have to work as hard, dominus.”

“Certainly. I’ll do my best to win a Silver Cup just so I can install you in a country estate with your own help to command,” he told her.

“Thank you, dominus. And I will sacrifice to Orcus to treat your spirit well if you should you fail and have to ride Charon’s boat to Hades.” She grinned at him, a quite horrible sight, showing the large yellow teeth that only sparsely inhabited her black gums. 

Distant cornicens blew for the ranks to assemble on the far river bank, the blast picked up by other horns until the air was alive with the order. Mena’s predictions were coming to pass.

She turned to Rufinius. “Did I not tell you, dominus? We’ll be marching within twenty minutes.”

Rufinius’s heart sank. Ahead was a return to the dust and heat, even if his thirst was, for the moment, quenched. Mena handed out a ration of bread to Paleo, who was wiping down his gladius, and then said to Rufinius, “Anything the optio needs?”

“Another focale for my face, a means of keeping this excrementum from entering my lungs.” He waved his hand through the airborne dust.

“Okay lions of the labia, get moving,” snapped Figulus, his mouth full of bread.

Mena looked over at Rufinius. Concern was written in the deep, grimy lines on her brown face. “Fear not about the chickens, dominus. I will make a sacrifice.” She handed him a five-foot square of rough-woven fabric, grimy with desert and sweat, to wrap around his face.

Rufinius found her solemnity troubling. She was frightened and that was something the optio couldn’t ever remember her being. He rested a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “They are a puny army, remember?”

“The gods go with you,” she said with a nod and then was gone, hidden by the dust gathering anew as more of the legionaries arrived to collect their galeae before joining the army reforming across the river.

“What was that all about?” Paleo asked Rufinius.

“She’s worried about us.”

“That’s a problem if she really is some kind of high priestess. Do you believe she talks to the gods?”

“Not unless she serves the goddess of gossip,” the optio replied.

“Oh, is there such a goddess?” Paleo asked, quite seriously.

Rufinius looked at the tesserarius and wondered if the man’s sister was also his mother. Sometimes he wondered …

“Come on!” Figulus shouted at the men. “Stop dawdling. You’re moving with the speed of garden slugs.”

The legionaries began to hurry along. When the order came to march, the army would move off and no man wanted to be left behind.

Figulus herded the contubernium across the water, after which Rufinius paced the century’s flanks. “Legionnaires!” he shouted. “Time to go kick sand in someone else’s face instead of your own.”

“Yes, primor!” some of the men replied half-heartedly.

“You’ve all had a nice big drink, gorged yourselves on rations, and now let’s make the enemy pay for bringing us to this shit hole.”

Some of the men cheered, but more grumbled and swore.

Rufinius took his place in the line. Morale was as low as their stamina, the desert having drained of them both.

*

The general staff gathered on a high dune to watch the army maneuver. Crassus was gratified to observe that, with the river behind it, the massive defensive square had regained some of its earlier form and symmetry.

“Proconsul! There! See it?” Cassius Longinus pointed at the horizon as, out of the shimmering false water, a cloud of dust rose, marking the army of Parthia riding out to halt the Roman advance.

Crassus put a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the sun’s glare. “That’s Surenas?”

“A reasonable presumption, primor.”

The proconsul turned to Abgar. “You’re quite right. Their numbers are fewer than we believed.”

“Your legionaries will surely swallow them whole, but I would like to take my men and scout their true numbers, Proconsul,” the Arab said.

“It’s not necessary. We have speculatores for that purpose.”

“Your men are not born to the desert. Allow me to make this contribution to certain victory, primor.”

“I would rather keep your valuable counsel near, Abgar, but I won’t hold you. Do what you can and be safe.”

The two men shook hands and Abgar trotted away.

Crassus was buoyant. “Today we make history, Appias.”

“Yes, General,” the historian replied neutrally.

On the plain immediately below, cornicens blew and the square opened up to accept 1,000 foot archers, 500 light infantry, and 1,000 Celtic cavalry with Publius clearly visible at the fore. They all moved into the square, protected by the shields and javelins of the heavy armed legionaries. The dust kicked up from all this movement rose into the sky like the smoke from 1,000 bush fires.

“Come, we must join Publius and take command of the legions,” Crassus said to his legate.

Cassius Longinus squinted at the horizon, feeling far from comfortable. “The Sixth and Seventh Legions are still on the far side of the river, Proconsul.”

“We will not require their swords, I’m sure.”

“Could we have been so wrong about the enemy’s strength, or lack of it?”

“Do you not remember? The main army is in Armenia, fighting King Artavastes. This Surenas comes at us with less than 10,000 men. Do you doubt what your own eyes tell you, Cassius Longinus?”

“Yes, primor … Sometimes I do.”

“Carry such cynicism into the senate, legate, and you will go far,” the proconsul told his general with good humor. “In the meantime, I want the men marching to battle at double time.”

“Primor?” Cassius Longinus was surprised. Making the legions
run
to the fight through the heat of the desert would drain what little vitality they’d regained from the brief respite at the river.

“I want the legions properly warmed up when they meet the enemy.”

*

Spāhbed Surenas sat up on his horse, his gold-dipped, steel fish-scale armor polished so that it was almost impossible to look at in the fierce sunshine and was an irresistible beacon on the field of battle for the men to follow. To the spāhbed’s immediate left and right, bearers carried the emblem of his house – a golden eagle with its talons around the sun, on flags that snapped in the dry scorching breeze. On either side were his trusted captains and lieutenants, and, arrayed behind them, fewer than 100 cataphracts, the chosen of the chosen, his most personal and loyal guard – men who would plunge their own daggers into their chests if he so commanded it. Lined up behind these, were less than 5,000 horse archers. And behind them all, his secret weapon – 1,000 well-stocked camels.

The cataphracts and archers walked their mounts at a slow pace toward the immense cloud rising skyward that appeared to span the world. The Roman force at the base of that cloud was truly formidable and the serenity in Surenas’s face belied the truth – that his heart thumped against his ribcage like a trapped and frightened animal.

King Orodes had ordered Surenas, his faithful vassal, to harass and delay the army of the western empire with its pantheon of false gods while he punished the Armenian dog for violating his trust. But the invaders’ numbers had been surreal, their organized march across the desert relentless, and harassing the column proved ineffectual in slowing the advance. Surenas had no wish to defy Orodes, but a direct confrontation seemed to the spāhbed to be Parthia’s singular hope of salvation. And so he had planned and deployed, relying on the advice and assessments of spies and senior officers, most particularly that of Volodates, Captain of Horse. If he failed, Surenas knew, King Orodes would have him killed. But if indeed he did fail, the spāhbed knew, his body would be food for vultures long before the King’s displeasure could be visited on him. But, of course, there were always his wives and children … Their lives, too, were in his hands. Surenas put the unpleasant thoughts far from his mind as Volodates thundered toward him across the burning sand with an escort of fifty archers. The captain brought his animal to heel before the spāhbed, wheeled it around with precision, and slotted in beside his lord without slowing the army’s forward march by as much as half a step.

“The surprise,” said Surenas. “It is ready?”

“Lord, preparations are complete. Our force will appear to double before their very eyes.”

“Good. Now there remains time for us to consider our mistakes and hope this prevents us making more.”

*

Rufinius ran on legs of lead and breathed hard through his mouth, the cloth tied around his face filtering some but not all of the dust kicked up by thousands of hobnailed boots running in the fine, powdery sand. Sweat no sooner bloomed on the optio’s skin than it dried, dark and dirty. The men had ceased to complain about marching at double time, but only because complaining was a waste of breath and they would need it all for the approaching fight.

Cornicens trumpeted a change in the formation’s direction, which caused Rufinius’s cohort to become part of the front lines of the advancing square. It also brought him and his men into air that was mercifully free of dust and Rufinius took the opportunity to rip the cloth down off his face and hack out the grit between his teeth.

Up ahead, a half a mile away in the dancing hot air, the enemy stood lined up before them.

“Jupiter’s weeping cock – that all we’re up against?” Gracchus growled beside him, hawking a gray-black quid onto the sand at his feet. “They might have six or seven thousand, but no more. If I were them, I would run.”

The legionary had brought voice to the words running through Rufinius’s mind – the enemy’s numbers relative to their own made them seem little more than an oversized raiding party. Where was the Parthian
army
?

Cornicens blew the order to halt and the 28,000 legionaries forming the four sides of the giant square came to a complete stop.

“Take a drink, legionaries,” Rufinius shouted into the comparative silence, detaching himself from the formation to stride down the front line of the cohort. Men who had wineskins gratefully took the opportunity, probably their last for some time, to slake their thirst.

Another order told the legionaries to ready their pila as the Parthian center, no more than a hundred cataphracts, began to advance at a walk. It was then that Rufinius saw a man all in gold, shining bright in the center of the line.

“Who’s that?” Libo wondered aloud, peering in the direction of the man radiating the sun.

“Your target,” Rufinius answered as he retook his position.

Away to the optio’s right, Centurion Marius Pontius held his gladius high above his head and shouted, “The Senate and People of Rome!”