by R. W. Peake
“I hope this doesn’t turn into another Parthia.” Scribonius finally voiced what was on my mind and I was sure was on Balbus’ as well.
We had just started the day’s march, and I only had to look at my friends to see the fatigue that I knew was weighing down on every man’s shoulders after the hard night. Only Ocelus and the other horses did not seem the worse for wear, although my animal did seem to appreciate the fact that I had placed my other sagum over him to help cut the cold. He was exceptionally frisky, hopping a few times when I mounted him, blowing huge clouds of vapor while he tossed his head, his hooves churning up the snow.
“I’m glad you had a good night,” I told him sourly, and I swear that he laughed at me.
The deep snow that had fallen on the ground presented a problem for the leading elements of the army, and it was only a short while before Crassus ordered Silva and the Evocati up front to let the horses break through the snow for the vanguard Legion. It was incredibly slow going, even with the horses doing most of the work, and we had to rotate the leading rank to keep from exhausting the animals. It was up to their chest, although by the time the five hundred troopers of Silva’s command and the remaining Evocati passed through it was packed down enough that the men had little difficulty. By the time the wagons rolled through, I imagined that the snow was packed firmly enough that they would not have trouble. I was wrong, because it was not long before the word came to stop in order to keep the army from getting too spread out on this torturous track.
By the time we reached the spot that the exploratores had selected for the camp we were supposed to make the day before, it was well past midday, making it an easy decision to stop. The only problem was that the snow had to be cleared out, at least along the perimeter of the camp, to allow the ditch to be dug and the rampart created, extending the amount of time it took to get the camp set up. Compounding matters was pitching the tents on snow, not only because it was not as firm as the ground, making them hard to stake down, but sleeping on snow is not exactly a pleasant experience. Even using our cots, the interior of our tents were only marginally warmer than outside. Until, that is, the combination of our body heat and the lamps began to melt the snow, meaning that by morning we were essentially wading in ankle deep water. Fortunately, as Camp Prefect, I did not have to worry about that, since like the Praetorium I had a wooden floor that insulated me from such unpleasantness. The other men, including the Evocati, did not have that luxury, and as a result, I got to listen to the complaints the entire next day when we continued the march. I believe it was at our morning meal when Balbus made an offhand comment that I had cause to remember several times on that march.
“I hope that these last couple of days aren’t an omen of what’s to come,” was how he put it as we ate our morning bread and piece of cold bacon.
In fact, while I had given up believing in omens and portents, I must admit that his words would come back to my mind several times.
After another two days of similar struggle, we finally crossed the mountain barrier into Thrace. It was only then that Crassus gave the order for the men to sling shields and did not send out flanking patrols. Given what happened, I suppose it is easy to fault him; indeed, this was one of the reasons used as the pretext for what happened to him later, but honestly, I can find nothing in his decision that was objectionable. After all, Rome had a treaty with Thrace, and it was because of that treaty that we originally marched to chastise the Bastarnae, making it hard to condemn him for relaxing his guard. Certainly, some fault lies with Silva and his cavalry; the whole purpose of cavalry when on the march is to act as the eyes of the Legate, in order to prevent being surprised. However, I also know that when a commander of any value is set on it, particularly when in their own territory, hiding an army of a relatively small size is not that hard. Perhaps I am saying this because being second in command, I could have said something, but truthfully I was not expecting trouble any more than Crassus was. That is why when it happened, the surprise was devastatingly effective. We were skirting a heavily wooded area, the men talking and singing marching songs when a hail of missiles came flying out of the thick underbrush. The vanguard and the command group had already passed by the woods, our only warning of an attack coming when we were alerted by the alarmed shouts of men struck by a missile. Crassus reacted immediately, jerking his horse around without hesitation to gallop back towards the rear.
“We better go with him,” Balbus grumbled, although I noticed he did not hesitate to follow Crassus, beating me by several heartbeats.
Before I went, I told Scribonius sternly, “Stay here. You’re not recovered enough for this.”
“So now you’re a doctor?” he retorted, and I was secretly pleased to feel his presence behind me.
The rest of the Evocati followed along, and on our approach to the woods, which were on the right of our original direction of march, we could see a mass of barbarian warriors surging out of the shelter of the forest, following up their initial barrage of missiles, which had caught the men completely unprepared. The Legion being attacked was the 15th, and drawing close enough we could see that the attack was localized to a front of three or four Cohorts, and they were beginning to fight back. Crassus had arrived on the scene, and it was obviously his presence that sprang the second part of the trap. Bursting from the cover of the woods was a second force, this one mounted, heading directly for Marcus Crassus, who had outrun us and the rest of his cavalry escort, still somewhere behind us. In the moment it takes for Diocles to write this, Crassus was surrounded and fighting for his life, desperately parrying thrusts that seemed to be coming from every direction. Balbus, still a few lengths ahead of me, did not hesitate, drawing his spatha and kicking his horse to go slamming into a well-armored warrior who made the fatal mistake of turning his back on us in his haste to try to dispatch Crassus. I saw Balbus’ arm draw back to drive his spatha into the unprotected side of the warrior before I was occupied with my own battle, with Ocelus propelling me into the midst of three warriors flanking Crassus. My horse, with a scream of what I can only describe as rage, stretched out, grabbing the neck of one of the enemy horses with his big yellow teeth. The other beast screeched in agony, blood running down its neck, and in its desperate attempt to twist from the grasp of Ocelus, moved so violently that its rider lurched to the side, flailing his blade desperately for balance, giving me the opening I needed. Plunging my own sword deep into his side, I twisted it free, turning to find another target even before the other man fell. Ocelus had released his grip on the other horse, which galloped off, weaving through the dense mass of warriors.
Picking out another warrior pressing Crassus, I barely registered the threat from my left until it was too late, and because I had not had time to unstrap the shield from my horse, I was completely unprotected from that side. Sensing the movement out of the corner of my eye, I turned just in time to see another warrior, teeth bared in a triumphant grin, drawing his arm back to thrust his long cavalry spear into my side. Everything slowed down as I began to try and twist my unarmored body, yet I knew I was too late, my only hope lying in moving just enough that the thrust did not kill me outright. My eyes were focused on the man’s face, seeing the savage look that a man has when he is about to strike his foe down, a look that I had had on my own face more than I could count. Just then, I saw a blur of movement in the form of a long blade slicing through the air, the point of the sword taking the man in his right armpit, plunging deeply into the man’s side. Instantly, his expression changed to one of shocked surprised, and I turned to see Scribonius, his own face set and determined as he withdrew the blade.
“Good thing I didn’t listen to you,” he shouted over the noise of the fighting, while the man who had been about to kill me slumped over and fell to the ground.
There was no time to thank Scribonius properly, instead just giving him a nod before I turned my attention back to my original target. It was only then that I noticed that the man I had selected was wie
lding a Thracian sword, except at that moment it did not register anything more significant than telling me the best way to attack the man. He was slashing at Crassus, who was bleeding from a cut to his upper arm, but seemed otherwise unhurt. By this time, enough of the Evocati and the cavalry bodyguard assigned to Crassus had arrived to tip the balance of the fighting in our favor, but the men we were facing seemed oblivious to that change. Attacking the warrior pressing Crassus, I made a thrust that he blocked with his shield, jarring my arm up to the shoulder. Crassus was too busy fighting with another warrior to take advantage of my own attack, leaving me engaged with this man, who was much younger than I was but very skilled. There was something that I had noticed, it only being later when I had time to reflect on it, that the last several men I had faced in battle seemed to have become more skilled than I remembered. When I mentioned this to Scribonius, his reaction was to burst out laughing before he reminded me that it was more likely that I was getting old than I had suddenly run into men who were a cut above all the other opponents I had faced. He was right, but at that moment, all I was concerned about was avoiding my opponent’s answering thrust, just managing to do so, although the tip of his sword tore into my tunic. I was ruing that I had rushed after Crassus so impetuously and not unstrapped my shield, along with the lack of armor, though none of us was wearing any. That did not help me in facing this man, and for the space of several heartbeats, our blades clashed together repeatedly, first one, then the other seeking an opening while the other parried. I could feel the fatigue creeping into my arm, making it hard to hold the sword at the proper height and angle to meet an attack, hearing my breath rasping in my ears. In contrast, my foe seemed to be hardly exerting himself; I was fading quickly and he could clearly see it. This led him to be overconfident, or at least so I believe, because he made a mistake, giving me the opening I needed. It is equally possible that he was distracted by the flurry of movement when one of his comrades, in a desperate attempt to unhorse Crassus, launched himself from his saddle at the Legate. Whatever the cause, he had just made another lunging thrust, moving his upper body to add force to the attack, which I had managed to parry by allowing his blade to slide up my own. This is a dangerous tactic because despite it being deflected, you are allowing the point of your opponent’s sword to come at you, but I was desperate. This resulted in his overextending his body, making him lean dangerously away from his horse. Since my left hand was free, I reached out, using the advantage of my longer reach to grab him by the collar, pulling him violently toward me. I did not even have to move the point of my sword, essentially pulling him onto my blade. I felt the sudden resistance when the tip pierced through his chain mail before sliding into his body, his blood running down the groove of my blade. It was not a mortal blow; my blade was tipped up and in my attempt to parry his thrust, I had tilted the blade so that it was perpendicular instead of parallel to the ground. It sliced into the front of his chest, feeling like it scraped along his ribcage without penetrating it. I could just see the point push his chain mail up slightly below his collarbone before I recovered to slide the blade out. My foe grunted in pain but did not cry out, and in fact tried a backhand slash which, if it had any power behind it, could have shattered my cheekbone, perhaps even slicing all the way through. As it was, I could feel the white-hot pain of his blade cutting me down to the bone before it slid away while the warrior, his right arm now falling to his side, jerked his horse away and without hesitation turned to gallop away. I made no attempt to pursue, mainly because I could feel the warmth of my blood flooding down my face. When I reached up, tentatively touching my cheek, I could feel the flesh hanging down like a flap.
Fortunately, the fight was rapidly wearing down, the attackers realizing that the initiative had been lost, making them now more concerned with disengaging to escape than trying to inflict any more casualties. That did not mean that they still did not try to engage in targets of opportunity, and even as they were withdrawing, some of them took one last parting shot at one of us. Crassus had survived, with only the damage the wound on his arm and a cut on his forehead, and he was already snapping out orders to the men around him. I could see a short distance away that the infantry attack had also stopped with the enemy warriors, who I still had not bothered to try to identify, withdrawing in good order. Meanwhile, the men of the 15th, who had managed at least to unsling their shields, were flinging their javelins as an incentive to send them on their way. In that glance, I saw many bodies lying on the ground, some belonging to the barbarians, but more belonging to us. I also turned about to find Scribonius, who was wiping his blade clean, watching the backs of the departing barbarian cavalry. I had not seen Balbus, and once I saw that it was safe to do so I looked around, seeing him off his horse, bent over the body of one of the barbarians.
“That figures,” I said to Ocelus. “The battle’s not over and he’s busy looting a body.”
It was at that moment, out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the barbarians turn in his saddle. Apparently seeing Balbus with his hands ripping at the clothes of one of his comrades, perhaps even a close friend or relative, he let out a howl of rage. Pulling his arm back, he flung his spear at Balbus’ back. Before my mind could form a thought, I heard a shout that echoed above even the last sounds of fighting.
“Nooooooooooooooooooooo!”
My cry made Balbus start, and he was just beginning to turn when the spear caught him in the back just behind the right shoulder, slicing through his body so the point emerged just below his left ribcage under his arm. He stood there for a moment, completely still; in that instant our eyes met, and I could see a slightly puzzled look on his face before he slowly toppled over.
When I reached his side, he was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, blinking rapidly, I suppose, as the reality of his situation was setting in. His lips were frothed with blood, a sign that his lungs had been pierced, and I could barely feel my legs when I jumped to the ground to kneel by his side. Looking over at me, he tried to smile, but it was a gruesome sight, his lifeblood coating his teeth to dribble out of his mouth. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, yet I did not even try to hide them as I took Balbus’ hand.
“I think this might be bad,” he wheezed, even at the last trying to make a joke, but I could only answer with a choked sob. With his waning strength, he squeezed my hand, forcing me to look him in the eye.
“Don't grieve for me,” he ordered, an order that I would never be able to obey.
I was vaguely aware of someone else appearing on the opposite side of Balbus, and I looked up to see Scribonius, his face mirroring my own with the sorrow that he was feeling. Balbus glanced over and, seeing Scribonius, gave a weak grunt.
“I got tired of seeing everyone fawning all over you, so I decided to show you how it’s done.” He gave another grin, but it was more of a grimace as a spasm of pain shot through his body.
“You always were able to outdo me,” Scribonius replied, his own body shaking from sobbing.
“Don’t you forget it,” Balbus said, and I could see that he was weakening rapidly.
His life was now measured in breaths, which were becoming more labored with each passing moment. I knew from observation that what was happening was that his lungs were filling with blood, and he was drowning in his own fluids.
“I never did want to get old,” he whispered. “Now I don’t have to. My only regret is that I never got to make someone’s ball sac into a coin purse.”
“Don’t worry, that’s what I was planning on doing with yours,” Scribonius said through his tears, causing Balbus to give a gurgling laugh, forcing blood to come spewing up and out of his mouth, making him choke.
With that, he died while Scribonius and I each held a hand of our oldest friend, feeling it grow cold in our own. I was completely oblivious to the world around me, refusing to let go of his hand, as if I could somehow transfer my own lifeforce into his body, but I watched his eyes taking on that faraway look, glazing ove
r as his animus fled. Finally, I looked over to Scribonius, who was sitting on his heels, weeping as unashamedly as I was, then we leaned over and fell onto each other, over the body of our friend. I have no idea how long we sat there in this way before I became aware of someone standing over us, and I looked up to see Crassus, his arm now bound. His face reflected what I believe was genuine sorrow at the sight before him. He also had a job to do, which I could read in his face as well, and I nodded to him to say what he needed to say.
“First,” he said awkwardly, “I'm profoundly sorry about Balbus. He was a great Legionary and Centurion of Rome, and I swear to you that he will be honored in a manner worthy of his status.”
“Thank you,” I answered for both Scribonius, who was still too affected to do anything but stare down at Balbus’ body, and me.
Crassus started to say something else, but before he could, he was interrupted by someone calling his name. We both turned to look to see a Centurion, accompanied by two Legionaries, between whom they were dragging a barbarian warrior. I recognized the man as belonging to the 15th, but at the moment I could not place what Cohort he belonged to. Saluting Crassus, he beckoned to the Legionaries, who half-carried the man forward so that Crassus could get a good look at him. His head was hanging down, and the Centurion reached over to grab a handful of hair, savagely yanking the man’s head back. With no choice but to face Crassus, he looked at the Legate with what I was sure he thought was defiance, except that his fear was all too plainly written on his face.
“Sir, this man is Thracian,” the Centurion announced. “Triballi, to be exact.”
“Thracian!” Crassus was clearly astonished, and I suppose I would have been if I had not been half out of my mind with grief.
“What are the Thracians doing attacking us? Especially the Triballi? We don’t have a treaty with them, but we chased the Bastarnae away before they could lay waste to their lands,” Crassus fumed, glaring at the Thracian prisoner.