Thunder of the Gods (32 page)

Sanga opened his mouth to comment, closing it again as his first spear’s eyes narrowed threateningly.

‘Yes Centurion!’

The veteran frowned at his friend’s prompt salute, then followed Saratos’s example before they turned away down the hill. When the two men were out of earshot he whispered a furious protest, clenching his fist in anger.

‘Cunt! Of all the bastards to end up soldiering for, it had to be that old fucker Otho!’

The big Dacian shrugged.

‘You and me, we get more money, we get to say who clean out latrine. Is good for me.’

His comrade shook his head in disbelief.

‘En’t you been listening when the stories get told about our new centurion? He’s—’

‘Bastard fucker of mother, I know this. But I also know that me and you hard enough to make him happy. And me? I going to be centurion, you wait and see. You be my chosen, no?’

Sanga laughed despite himself.

‘Fuck you!
You
can be
my
chosen!’

Saratos smiled inwardly as his friend shook his head and pointed at a section of the Tungrian line.

‘Come on, let’s go and present ourselves to the crusty old bastard.’

A party of Tungrians carried Osroes’ unconscious body over the hill’s shallow crest with Marcus and Gurgen following behind, the blood-spattered Varus walking quietly in their wake. The Parthian prisoners had been herded into a square encampment whose edges were delineated by a shallow ditch that had been hastily excavated by the century guarding them. As the two men watched, a fresh group of disarmed spear men were ushered in to join their fellows under the watchful spears of the sentries posted around them.

‘We should be grateful that our prisoners have not been slaughtered on the spot? This is the usual Roman way of things, I believe?’

Marcus inclined his head in acceptance of the implied rebuke.

‘It has happened. I have seen badly wounded captives given the mercy stroke to spare their suffering, and doubtless there have been occasions between our two peoples where men have been killed where they might have been made prisoner. The events that followed the battle of Carrhae are still a raw memory for many Romans.’

Gurgen nodded sombrely in turn.

‘It is true. And the presence of so many disarmed men shames me further, for if we had fought with more conviction, perhaps more of these cowards would have been killed on the battlefield, rather than finding themselves stripped of their manhood.’

Marcus led the men carrying the king down the slope and through the ring of guards, greeting their centurion’s crisp salute with a raised left hand.

‘What state are these men in, Centurion?’

The older man grimaced, looking out over the prisoners, whose numbers had swollen to over five hundred with the additional infantrymen captured during their rout.

‘Not good, Tribune. There are thirty or so we think are going to die, given the nature of their wounds, about a hundred who’ll probably survive, for the most part, if they get some treatment, and the rest …’

‘Yes?’

‘The rest of them, Tribune, are just plain pissed off.
Badly
pissed off.’

Marcus looked at him, taking his gauge of the man and finding him both steady enough and at the same time clearly worried by the situation.

‘Not the time to lighten the guard on them then?’

The centurion smiled wryly.

‘Not unless we fancy five hundred angry warriors rampaging through the field hospital.’

He tipped his head at the medical tents beyond his men’s cordon.

‘I’d recommend that another century join us, but then I would, wouldn’t I.’

‘I see. And have they been given water?’

The centurion had the good grace to look sheepish.

‘I thought not. Very well, send a runner to First Spear Julius, with the message that we need water and rations here, and quickly. Give them food and it’ll give them something else to think about. And ask for another century to join the guard.’

The officer saluted with a look of relief and went about his instructions, and Dubnus took a hold of Marcus’s wrist as he turned towards the Parthians.

‘You can’t go in there. What if they take you prisoner? Or just tear you limb from limb?’

The younger man grinned wolfishly at his friend.

‘Why do you think I didn’t send you to Julius with that message?’

He tapped the handle of the massive axe slung over his friend’s shoulder.

‘This is all the protection I need.’

He strode out into the space where the Parthians had been herded, knowing that every able-bodied man inside the ring of spears would kill a Roman tribune in an instant given the chance. Dubnus walked close behind him, muttering quietly under his breath.

‘Walks into a pack of wolves and then tells me
I’m
responsible for his safety …’

Stopping in the middle of the impromptu encampment, Marcus stared around him, met on every side by hostile stares. Raising his voice to be heard by the prisoners, he called out in Greek to be sure that he was understood.

‘You have been left without water! I apologise for that oversight! Water and food are being fetched! You will receive medical attention shortly! And to show our good intentions towards you, here is your king!’

He waited until his words had been translated into Pahlavi, then beckoned the party carrying Osroes forward, and the eyes of every man shifted from the Roman to the supine body of their king, many of them looking away as they met Gurgen’s ferocious stare.

‘You!’

A man in cavalry dress stepped out at the noble’s barked command, his armour stripped away to reveal a padded tunic and leggings.

‘Your king lives! Prostrate yourself before your king!’

The warrior fell to his knees, throwing himself full length in the act of proskynesis.

‘All of you! The king lives!’

Marcus watched as every man within the ring of sentries repeated the gesture, nodding at the noble’s brutal but effective tactic to take a grip of the situation.

‘You seem to have this under control. I’m going to find some medical assistance.’

Gurgen inclined his head in thanks, then turned away barking out a string of orders at the captives while Marcus and Dubnus backed quietly out of the enclosure.

‘Medical assistance? Where are you going to get that from?’

The young tribune smiled, peeling back the rough bandage that covered his wounded arm.

‘Watch and learn. Come along Vibius Varus, we’ll have you checked out as well.’

Nodding respectfully to the soldier being treated by the legion’s senior doctor, Marcus squatted down to watch as the medicus extracted a barbed arrowhead from the soldier’s leg with the aid of a pair of curved bronze blades, using the blunt metal probes to shield the flesh from the wicked iron barbs while he carefully extricated it from the sweating legionary’s wounded limb.

‘Neat work.’

Dubnus leaned in close, drawing an irritated glance from the doctor.

‘I don’t think your wife could have done it very much better.’

The soldier closed his eyes with relief as his thigh was bandaged tightly, a spoonful of honey having been coaxed into the bloody pocket in his flesh to the general approval of the men watching. Choosing to target his ire on the largest but most junior of the three officers, the harassed-looking medicus poked a finger into the Briton’s chest, much to the bearded centurion’s amusement.

‘Are you two here to take the piss, or does he want that treating? Because if he does
you
can just—’

‘Neither. What I want, doctor, is a
doctor
. For them.’

Raising his bandaged arm with a wince, he pointed at the enemy prisoners, now grouped together under the spears of two full centuries of legionaries. The doctor shook his head.

‘Out of the question. We’ve still got hours of work to do to get our own men treated.’

He turned back to the next soldier in the queue, only to discover that Marcus had stepped in closer to him.

‘You know as well as I do that there isn’t any hurry to get most of these men treated. We won’t be marching east any time before tomorrow morning. But half of those prisoners over there are likely to die if they go a night without treatment …’

He paused for a moment to allow the point to sink in.

‘And believe me, they will recall very clearly the treatment they receive from us. If we allow their wounded to die untreated, then I doubt they’ll handle us any better, should our luck run out between here and Nisibis. And let’s face the facts here, Medicus, in the event that they do manage to roll over us, you’re not likely to enjoy the luxury of a good death in combat, are you? I hear the Parthians aren’t above skinning and salting men who arouse their particular enmity.’

The youngest of the legion’s doctors stepped into the ring of sentries set to guard the prisoners, followed by half a dozen bandage carriers. Marcus looked behind him, but the medicus shook his head with a grimace.

‘I’m all you’re getting, I’m afraid. I’ll sort out the treatable casualties from those whose time to greet their ancestors is upon them, and these gentlemen can visit their skills upon the least badly wounded. The rest of them we’ll treat in the order of the likelihood of their recovery, shall we?’

Marcus nodded, turning away and speaking over his shoulder.

‘Do the best you can with what you have.’

He strode deeper into the captives, Dubnus and Varus close behind.

‘We have a doctor, and bandage carriers to stop the bleeding for those of you who look likely to live!’

An unarmoured cavalryman called out, his voice torn by anguish.

‘And what if they look likely to die?’

The Roman paused, then turned and walked over to the bearded warrior. At his feet a younger man lay still, his breathing little better than a series of shallow panting gasps so slight that he seemed barely alive.

‘This man behind me speaks no Greek, but he reads a man’s face and body as well as anyone I know. Move swiftly at your peril.’

The Parthian nodded grimly.

‘My son’s wound … he will die, but slowly.’

‘I see. This is a painful moment for you then. Do you wish to ease his death?’

The warrior nodded, swallowing painfully as his enemy became his confessor.

‘Yes. If I can do so with honour.’

Without hesitation Marcus drew his dagger, passing it to the other man haft first, looking his enemy in the eye.

‘Ease your son’s path to the underworld. The blade has honour.’

The other man nodded, then bent to perform the mercy stroke, holding his son as the man’s life left him. When there was nothing left in his arms but a corpse, he gently lowered the body to the bloodied grass, then stood, handing the weapon back to his captor.

‘You are indeed a man of honour, Tribune Corvus … for a Roman.’

He turned to find Gurgen standing beside Dubnus.

‘It was done well, and since the boy was one of my own, you have my thanks again, for that and for bringing your doctors to care for our wounded. The king is awake, although I doubt he knows very much of his whereabouts. His eyes are open, but he cannot speak and his body is limp.’

The Roman made his way to where Osroes lay, touching his head where the hair was matted with blood. The flesh beneath was taut, swollen with fluid, and hot; the king stiffened at the touch, his body shuddering with pain. Marcus stood, gesturing to the men clustered around their ruler.

‘Bring him. He needs to be treated now.’

Looking at Gurgen, the warriors waited until he nodded his approval, then lifted their king’s body from the ground with delicate care. The medicus took one look at their burden and pointed to the strip of ground where those men unlikely to survive were being placed to meet their fate.

‘Put him over there. There are men here with more pressing needs.’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Not unless any of them happen to be the king of a bigger kingdom than Media there aren’t.’

The doctor frowned up at him.

‘I fail to see—’

‘Clearly you do. So let me make this a little clearer for your limited experience of this sort of situation. If this man dies then these others behind me will turn into a pack of wolves, and will almost certainly have to be put down to the last man. Which would be a waste of your handiwork, to say the least. On top of that, consider the implications for the likelihood of our being able to make it to Nisibis, if we allow this most important of hostages to slip through our fingers.’

The doctor nodded slowly, then gestured to the men bearing the king’s body to lay him down for treatment.

‘And if I can’t save him?’

‘Then you will have tried with all of your skill, and these gentlemen watching will doubtless be understanding …’

I
t was late in the day before a party rode up the hill, now bathed in the descending sun’s soft, golden light, and demanded to speak with Scaurus, who quite properly made them wait while he finished a plate of freshly cooked horse meat before choosing to answer the peremptorily worded summons. Strolling down the hill from his command tent to the line of legionaries standing guard on the defensive line in the company of Julius, a century of armed and armoured legionaries and a pair of hooded prisoners, he found a dozen lance-armed cataphracts waiting impassively behind two lavishly armoured men on magnificently decorated horses.

‘Good evening, Your Highnesses. Perhaps you’ll join me? I find myself with a bit of a stiff neck after a day spent looking down at your failed efforts to knock me off my perch.’

He waited in silence while Narsai and Wolgash looked at each other and then dismounted at his suggestion, smiling slightly at Narsai’s sour expression at having his attempted position of superiority dismissed.

‘We demand that—’

‘You demand, King Narsai? I wouldn’t have thought you were in much of a position to be demanding anything. What is it that you’d like to
request
from me?’

Narsai took a deep breath before replying, clearly unused to having his pronouncements interrupted.