by Peake, R. W.
“What’s the matter with those two?” my nephew asked after the two had practically torn through the wall of the tent to leave without offending me at the first opportunity, albeit in two opposite directions.
“It’s a long story, and it goes back a long way.”
I did not feel like explaining to Gaius, thinking that he was still too young to understand.
“It’s obviously about a woman.” I looked at him in surprise, but he just shrugged. “It’s the only thing that could keep two men who've known each other most of their lives so angry at each other, though it seems to me that Torquatus is the angrier of the two. So I suppose that means that Balbus took his woman.”
I could only shake my head, wondering if it indeed was that obvious, or if Gaius was just particularly observant and wise beyond his years.
“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Besides, that’s not the only thing that can ruin a friendship,” I stood, making it clear that the conversation was over as I thought about Vibius and me.
Antonius’ gamble was paying off as we marched in the agmen quadratum every day, with the baggage train and noncombatants in the middle. Reaching Samosata, Antiochus, clearly mindful of the last time we passed through, stripping his granaries and stock of firewood bare, was waiting with sacks of grain and stacks of wood, which Antonius took with thanks. We spent a few days once again camped outside the black walls of the city before resuming the march. Despite the bitter cold, the fact that the men were prepared made all the difference and it was heartening to see that there were no appendages turning black, the Centurions inspecting the men every morning and night for the telltale signs that signaled the onset of frostbite. Helping the situation was the weather slowly but surely turning the other way, the days growing warmer and longer, keeping morale high as we continued northward, beginning the gradual climb onto the high plateau, headed for Melitene next. It was there that Artavasdes the Median arrived, who as promised, brought a force of almost 12,000 men, roughly even between cataphracts and archers. Although this was good news and was taken as a positive sign for the most part, none of us were willing to put much faith in whether or not the Medians would actually fight. The fact that these were in all likelihood the same men who participated in the massacre of Statianus, the baggage train and the Legion accompanying it was not lost on any man. When they went parading by on their horses we were under strict orders not to say anything that might incite a fight between our two forces, but it was extremely difficult to maintain order, our men growling their hatred at these allies who did not help matters by openly smirking at us, giving mocking salutes or calling out in fractured Latin a variety of insults. Then, making things even worse, one of the men of the 10th spotted a distinctive ring, worn by one of the cataphracts, recognizing it as a piece of booty that had been in his possession and stored in his valuables packet on one of the Legion wagons.
“By the gods, that cocksucker is wearing my ring,” I heard the man roar.
Before I or any of the Centurions or Optios could stop him, the man, a veteran named Plautius, made a move to rush the mounted man, who had seen the danger and was even now reaching for his sword.
“Plautius,” I roared at the top of my lungs. “If you take another step, I will have you crucified!”
Thankfully for everyone, not least Plautius, he stopped, bodily anyway, although it did not stop him from hurling curses and threats at the mounted cataphract. The Median did not help matters, laughing openly at Plautius’ impotent fury, and that more than anything incited Plautius’ friends to begin edging toward the column riding by. I had to use the vitus on more than one man, even striking Vellusius who was speaking in a dangerously loud voice what he would like to do to a Median if he could get his hands on him, while moving out of the formation. I smacked him across the back of the legs, the favorite spot when a man is marching with his pack and shield, his back being protected by the shield while striking him on the arm might cause him to drop his furca and his pack, creating a disruption in the march. He yelped in pain, but his manner was anything but apologetic as he continued to glare at the Medians streaming by.
“Primus Pilus, doesn’t it bother you to know that we’re marching with the bastards who stole our money?”
For that was the nub of the problem; the fact that most of the men’s savings were now jingling in the purses of the men riding by, not to mention the personal items that men had accrued over the years, which in some ways was even more important, was a huge insult. Pieces of plunder that had some sort of special significance only to the man who had taken it, a broken dagger that had belonged to a dear comrade, or Plautius’ ring, these were the things whose loss made the men truly angry, and I was no different.
“Yes, it does,” I answered Vellusius’ question. “But they’re our allies now, and that’s that. There’s nothing to be gained other than a flogging. Or worse.”
I looked meaningfully at Vellusius, who blanched visibly. I was glad to see his reaction, having deliberately invoked the memory of Atilius in order to impress on the old veteran the need to restrain not only himself, but his comrades.
“Nothing will happen, Primus Pilus,” Vellusius said grimly. “You have my word on it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“I would be worried about you if you did,” I replied, and I meant it.
From Melitene we continued northward, until we reached the great bend of the Euphrates that turned us eastward, turning toward Calcidava, which would be the last major city before heading into the wastes of Armenia. Despite the men of the 10th restraining themselves from taking some form of revenge on the Medians, men from other Legions were not willing to let matters rest and it was only a matter of a couple of days after the Medians joined us that the first Median body was found, covered in bruises and with his throat cut. At first, not much was made of the murder, but then it started happening with more frequency, until one memorable day, three dead Medians were found in a similar state as the first. Finally, Antonius could ignore matters no longer, calling a meeting of the Primi Pili. His face was set as if made of stone, and his anger seemed unfeigned as he surveyed the 16 of us.
“I called all of you here, but we all know that it’s unlikely that the Legions from Macedonia and Egypt are involved in what’s going on,” he began. “And I know why it’s going on, but….It. Will. Stop.”
He bit off each word, looking at every one of the Primi Pili whose men were on the first campaign. I was sure that none of the 10th was involved, if only because Vellusius and the other veterans had sworn to me that they would stay their hand in exacting vengeance, and there is no way to keep that kind of thing secret. One murder perhaps, but by the time of this meeting there had been more than a dozen. I found it unlikely that it was the work of anything but one man or a small group from within the same Legion and probably the same Cohort.
“Put the word out to the men that if the murders stop now, nothing more will be said. But if there is one more, I'm going to start drawing lots and one man from each Legion who marched in the last campaign will be put to death, no questions asked.”
The gasp was audible, coming from more than one of us.
“That’s not fair, Antonius,” Spurius burst out, and it was fortunate that it was him, being one of Antonius’ favorites as he was.
Antonius’ face flushed, that red spark showing in his eyes, but his tone was calm.
“I realize that it’s not fair, Spurius, but that's the point. I don’t have the time to investigate properly to determine who's behind this. In fact, I suspect that it’s one of your Centurions, so this is the best and fastest way to get it to stop. The man or men responsible for this may not care about the political implications and damage they're doing to our alliance with the Medians, but I'm gambling that they'll not want the death of men who are in all likelihood innocent.”
It was brutal, but it was logical and hard to argue. He was right; almost as quickly as we made the announcement, the mu
rders stopped, at least on the part of Romans against Medians. Then, one night about a week later, there was a shout from one of our sentries, followed by shouts from other men. It was at a point on the rampart close to our Legion area, so I heard the commotion. It was enough of a racket that I rose to investigate, throwing my sagum over my tunic, cursing at the interrupted sleep. Moving in the direction of the noise, I saw a ring of torches held by a group of men, surrounding a prone figure. Moving closer I saw that whoever it was, he was clearly still alive, writhing and groaning in obvious pain. The duty Centurion was standing over him, firing questions at the sentry, who I could see was one of the youngsters, though he was not in the 10th. He was clearly shaken and it was easy to see why, once I finally got close enough to see the shaft of what I assumed to be the sentry’s javelin protruding from the man’s midsection. I was also close enough to see that the man on the ground was Median, and I bit back a curse. The duty Centurion turned and saw me, obviously recognizing me because he saluted, though I did not recognize him.
“Primus Pilus Pullus, good to see you again,” he grinned at me.
I turned to squint at him, still not recognizing the young Centurion. Not wanting to be rude by making it clear that I did not know the man, I grunted, then indicated the Median, who I noticed nobody was attempting to help.
“Is there a reason we’re not trying to stop the bleeding?”
The duty Centurion looked down at the man, scorn written all over his face.
“Because we caught this bastard sneaking over the wall into the camp. I don’t have to tell you the rules, Primus Pilus. He’s dead either way.”
He looked over to the youngster who was still shaking, and I walked over to the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“You did your duty, and you did it well, Gregarius,” I said quietly, which did seem to calm him.
I looked back at the duty Centurion, who was beginning to look vaguely familiar, despite the fact I still could not recall his name or how I knew him.
“Have you sent a runner to the Praetorium?”
He nodded, adding, “I also asked for someone who speaks the Median tongue. We should at least find out why he was trying to sneak into camp, though I can guess.”
I could as well, but I felt the need to point out, “Then it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to let him bleed to death before we find out.”
The Centurion looked chagrined, then turned to one of the other men, ordering him to do what he could for the Median while sending yet another off to get a medici. The Median was laying on his side, curled up with knees near his chest, his breathing becoming more labored. The javelin had pierced his midsection on the opposite side he was lying on, the head protruding out his back more than a hand span. The blood looked black in the guttering torchlight as it pooled around him, and the Legionary had taken his neckerchief off, placing it around the shaft in an attempt to stop the bleeding. While we waited, I took the opportunity to pull the duty Centurion aside so that the others could not hear me.
“I'm sorry, Centurion,” I began. “You obviously know me, but while you look familiar, I don’t know your name.”
He laughed, clearly amused at my mystification. “There's no reason you should, Primus Pilus Pullus. The last time I saw you I was a boy.” He turned to face me, giving me just the glimmer of knowing what he was going to say. “I'm Decimus Hastatus Prior Spurius Torquatus. Primus Pilus Torquatus is my father.”
I barely remembered a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve years old who Torquatus had once introduced on some occasion, but I smiled and offered my hand. “It’s good to see that you followed your father’s path.”
He laughed again. “It’s not as if I had much choice, but I like it well enough.”
By this time both the provosts and the medici had arrived, the latter beginning to work on the wounded man, while the provosts brought one of the men assigned as interpreters. His face was impassive as he began questioning the man, who answered in gasps while the orderly worked with practiced ease. Removing the pin that affixed the head to the shaft so that he could withdraw the missile without doing more damage, he extracted it with one swift motion, eliciting a scream of pain from the Median. The interpreter waited for the Median to recover somewhat, before he continued the questioning. After a series of exchanges, he turned to young Torquatus.
“He says that his brother was one of the men killed by the Romans, and he was coming to exact vengeance,” he said in heavily accented but understandable Latin.
“Didn’t Artavasdes send the same message to his men that Antonius sent to us?” I asked, and the interpreter looked at me in surprise, obviously thinking that I was one of the rankers.
He shot a glance at Torquatus, who nodded his head to indicate that my question should be answered, which he did with a shrug.
“I believe so, but it is his brother and they were very close.”
“Well, he must not have put it in strong enough terms,” I said angrily, thinking that the last thing we needed was a blood feud between the two forces.
The Median was carried away to the hospital tent.
When I asked the orderly if he thought the man would live, he said, “It’s in the hands of the gods now, Primus Pilus. He’s lost a lot of blood, but only time will tell if his bowel was pierced.”
If that had happened, there was no saving the Median an agonizing death, though by custom and regulation we had the right to execute him. Seeing there was nothing else to be done, I retired to my tent, my mind occupied with a number of different thoughts.
The Median did not die that night and in the morning, he was sent over to the Median camp, with a stern warning from Antonius that this was the only act of mercy he would show to any man who tried to exact vengeance on a Roman. His message was not received well, but there were no more attempts by any Median to sneak over the wall or any other incidents for the remainder of the campaign. Reaching Calcidava, we went into camp for a week as wagons that needed it were overhauled and repaired. It also gave us an extra week to let the weather change for the better, and whereas everything that could have gone wrong during our last campaign into this country did, this time the gods seemed to look on our endeavor with great favor. Few of the wagons were damaged, while what damage there was seemed to be fairly minor, so it did not take long to get them fixed.
The men were holding up well on the march, the weather now mild enough that frostbite was no longer a concern. However, we also knew that the most difficult part of the march was coming, the veterans who had been over this ground before trying to warn the new men what was facing them. We replenished our supplies at Calcidava, most importantly laying in a stock of charcoal that we could use if absolutely necessary, knowing that it was likely that there would be little or no firewood. The march resumed, and despite everything going well to that point, there was still a fair amount of trepidation at what lay ahead. It was hard going, yet not nearly as difficult as it was the first time we passed this way, both because we were marching at the same pace as the baggage train and the weather was turning milder with every passing day. There was still snow on the higher peaks in the distance, while there were patches in the spots where the sun did not strike, though overall the path was clear.
About a week out of Calcidava, our scouts began reporting signs of the Armenian army, sending a flash of excitement through the ranks, the talk around the fires at night turning to what the new men could expect. I was happy to see that the veterans were taking the opportunity to help the new men, despite the fact that there were always those in the ranks who could not resist filling the youngsters’ heads with horror stories. Fortunately these were in the vast minority, which I believe was another example of how the experience of the previous campaign had bonded the men more tightly, making them realize how inextricably intertwined were their fates. Once the Armenians were sighted, the men did not need any urging on the part of the Centurions and Optios to remain alert as we marched. It was not long after that men b
egan to shout out, pointing to a nearby hill or bluff where a line of horsemen sat, watching us pass. From that point on, the camp guard was doubled, since we had learned from bitter experience the myth of Eastern armies not fighting at night, but there were no probes to our defenses. The army continued to rattle along towards Artaxata and I will say that the surrounding countryside was not nearly as desolate in the spring as it had been when we passed through in the late autumn and early winter. There would be brief showers during the day, not enough to soak us through but enough to keep the vegetation green, providing fodder for the livestock. After another week, when we were about three days’ march from Artaxata, the entire host of the Armenian army was spotted, camped directly athwart our expected line of advance. The bucina immediately sounded the signal to make camp, then once the Praetorium was set up, we were summoned to meet with Antonius. The entire command staff was there waiting as we filed in, and once we were settled, Antonius began the briefing.
“It appears that Artavasdes wants to give battle.” He smiled at us but it was a savage, mocking grin. “So I believe we should oblige him, don’t you?”
The walls shook with our roar of approval, lasting several moments. He waited for a moment before continuing, giving us the dispositions of the forces. We would be aligned in our normal three wings of infantry, each wing composed of four Legions, so that we would have three Legions in reserve, posted behind the main body, ready to move to a possible trouble spot, with a Legion left behind to guard the camp. Our slingers were to be evenly divided between the three wings, arrayed in front of each. The Median forces would be posted on our right flank, while the Galatian cavalry would be on the left flank. The 10th was in the right wing, though this time we would not be to the right of the line, but one of the middle Legions, positioned between the 3rd Gallica, which would be on the far right and the 4th to our left. I was not particularly happy about this, knowing that the men would take it as a bit of an insult that we were not in our accustomed spot. I put it down to the actions of the 3rd during the last campaign when Antonius had led them to try to rescue Gallus. Unlike with Caesar, we would not be in an acies triplex, but in a duplex, Antonius wanting a broader front so that we could overlap the Armenians with our cavalry, freeing them to swing around the flanks of the Armenian army. With our orders complete, we went to prepare the men.