by Ben Kane
An army of that size meant only one thing in any language. War.
The general rode his favourite black horse in the heavily protected centre of the column. Trumpeters paced behind, ready to relay his orders. Astride a saddle richly adorned with gold filigree, Crassus rode with the easy grace of experience, feet dangling either side, using only the reins for control.
'Good day for an invasion,' said Crassus loudly. 'The gods favour us.'
A chorus of agreement echoed from his senior officers. The veteran legionaries marching either side of them carefully kept their faces blank. Nobody dared mention what had happened earlier.
Crassus glared round at his entourage. None of these lackeys will get in my way, he thought angrily. His time had finally come. After the soldiers had left, that fool of a priest had been crucified beside the dead bull, a clear warning to the remaining augurs not to make mistakes. The image of the sand-covered heart was locked away in the recesses of his mind. It had been nothing more than a slip of the hand; the storms that had sunk so many ships nothing but bad weather. Word about the eagle standard had not yet reached him.
'With Parthia defeated, the Senate will have no option but to grant you a full triumph, sir,' ventured one of his tribunes in an effort to please.
Crassus nodded happily at the glorious prospect of riding in a chariot through the streets of Rome, a laurel wreath on his head. He would finally be equal to his partners in the triumvirate. It was mere circumstance that had brought the rivals together, not friendship, and it had seemed a good idea at first. Sharing power for more than five years had not stopped them from continually vying for dominance. None had succeeded thus far, but Crassus had suffered more setbacks than the other two.
Thanks to Pompey's propaganda, his lead role in crushing the slave rebellion had been obscured, his rightful triumph downgraded to a parade on foot. Crassus had lived for years in the shadow of the other's military success. It galled him immensely. Whilst Pompey's career had been illustrious, he also had an uncanny ability to claim victories that were not his. It was really Lucullus who had defeated Mithridates and Tigranes in Asia Minor, Crassus thought bitterly. Not that fat fool Pompey. The same will not happen here in Parthia. The glory will be mine. All of it.
He began reflecting on Julius Caesar, who had also started well by subjugating Gaul and Belgica, making himself incredibly wealthy at the same time. Now it seemed Caesar's ambition knew no bounds. Crassus cursed. It had been a mistake to help the young noble with those huge loans. The usual tactic of keeping men in his power by refusing to accept repayment of owed money had backfired when Caesar had paid off his debt in typically confident style, sending a train of mules to Crassus' house not long before he had left for Asia Minor. Hundreds of leather bags carried by the pack animals had contained the entire outstanding amount, down to the last sestertius. There had been little Crassus could do other than accept. He scowled at the manner in which he had been outmanoeuvred by Caesar, a man nearly half his age. Never again.
No one will be able to deny my brilliance when Seleucia falls, Crassus thought. I will seize power in Rome. Alone.
Cassius Longinus, the boldest of his legates, kicked his heels into his horse 's ribs and came alongside. The soldier's scarred face was concerned.
'Permission to speak, sir?'
'What is it?' Crassus forced himself to be polite. Most of the senior officers did not have nearly as much experience as this man. Longinus was a veteran of many wars, from Gaul to North Africa.
'About Armenia, sir.'
'We have spoken about this already, Legate.'
'I know, sir, but . . .'
'Following Artavasdes' suggestion of marching north to the Armenian mountains and then south again would take three months.' Crassus gripped his reins. 'This way to Seleucia takes only four weeks.'
Longinus paused, considering his words. 'Odd that he refused to accompany us, don't you think? The king of Armenia is a proven loyal subject.'
An awkward silence hung in the air, broken by the distant braying of the mule train. Every officer knew Crassus was not fond of advice.
'He withdrew the instant we mentioned our intended route,' added Longinus.
'These are not Romans we are dealing with!' Displeased, Crassus spat on the sand, the moisture disappearing before it coloured the yellow grains. 'You can't trust them.'
'Precisely, sir,' whispered Longinus. He glared at Ariamnes, the richly dressed Nabataean riding on the edge of the group.
The warrior rode his white mount with arrogant ease, its saddle even more ornate than the general's, the reins braided with gold thread. Above the horse 's head a plume of peacock feathers waved gently in the breeze. Bare-headed, Ariamnes wore a leather coat over his chain mail and his long black hair framed gold earrings dangling from both ears. Richly decorated quivers were strapped to both sides of the saddle and a wickedly curved bow hung over his right shoulder.
'Why believe that perfumed snake? Artavasdes is more worthy than a Nabataean chieftain,' muttered Longinus.
Crassus smiled. 'Ariamnes might have poor taste in scent, but the man has over six thousand cavalry. And he offered to guide us directly to Seleucia. That is the way I want to go.' He waved in the warrior's direction. 'Forget Artavasdes!'
'And water for the men, sir?'
The legates looked up. It had been an unspoken worry among all of them.
Longinus sensed their unease. 'The Tigris flows south out of the Armenian hills, sir. All the way to Seleucia.'
'Enough!' bellowed Crassus. 'The march will not be long. Ariamnes says the Parthians are already running scared. Isn't that right?' he called out.
The Nabataean turned and rode back, his horse prancing across the sand. Nearer the pair, he bowed from the waist. Fixing the general with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, Ariamnes brought his left hand up to his heart.
'The enemy faded away the instant your legions crossed the river, Excellency.'
'See?' Crassus beamed. 'Nothing can withstand my army!'
Longinus scowled at the brown-skinned warrior. With his oiled ringlets of hair, perfume and curved bow, the man reeked of treachery. And Crassus could not – or would not – see it. Gritting his teeth, the legate trotted off to remonstrate with Publius, who was riding with his Gaulish cavalry on the right flank.
But Caesar's former lieutenant in Gaul was having none of it. He wanted his own part of the victory. 'My father is a hero, Legate,' the stocky noble said jovially. 'He delivered Rome from Spartacus. Saved the Republic.'
And the fool hasn't led an army into battle since, thought Longinus.
'Trust his judgement. He has a nose for gold like I have for a virgin!'
'We do not have enough cavalry to fight the Parthian archers and cataphracts,' insisted Longinus.
'Two thousand Gauls and Iberians and Ariamnes' six thousand horsemen should be more than sufficient.'
'You trust these Nabataeans to fight for us like the Armenians have?'
'What kind of son does not trust his own father?'
His pleas were falling on deaf ears. Wishing the battle-hardened Julius Caesar was in charge instead, Longinus galloped off to the front.
Chapter XXI: Parthia
Since leaving the coast of Asia Minor many months previously, the army's journey had gradually taken it further inland, away from cooling sea breezes. Daytime temperatures climbed steadily, reaching new heights in Syria and Mesopotamia. Initially Crassus had used common sense by following the course of rivers and streams, and the legions had covered most of the march without too much discomfort. But not any more.
Now the brief cool of dawn had faded away, leaving soldiers at the sun's mercy. The yellow orb quickly climbed to fill the entire sky, blasting the ground below. Irrigated fields with their sheltering palm trees grew sparser, then died away completely. Five miles from the Euphrates, all signs of habitation had disappeared. Soon afterwards, the narrow road the legions were following led off between lines of undulating dunes and ca
me to an abrupt end.
The view that awaited them was shocking.
As far as the eye could see, a vast emptiness stretched. It was a burning wasteland and a great sigh of anticipation escaped men's throats. Spirits fell and the cohort's momentum was suddenly stalled by deep sand which was far harder to march in.
'Crassus has lost his mind!' said Brennus furiously. 'Nobody can survive out there.'
'Quite similar to Hades,' commented Tarquinius. 'But if the Greeks did it, we can.'
'Not a living thing. Just sand.' At the limits of Romulus' vision danced a shimmering haze. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.
'What are you waiting for? Sluggards!' screamed Bassius, the phalerae on his chest clinking. 'Forward march! Now!'
The Roman army's formidable discipline prevailed. With a deep intake of breath, the mercenaries entered the desert's oven-like heat. It was not long before the soldiers' feet were burning through the soles of their caligae. Chain mail shirts grew uncomfortably hot to touch. Exposed skin began to burn. Despite strict orders to conserve water, men began taking surreptitious gulps from their gourds.
Romulus was about to do the same when Tarquinius stopped him.
'Save it. The next waterhole is more than a day's march.'
'I'm parched,' he protested.
'The man's right,' added Brennus. 'Stay thirsty.'
Without breaking step, Tarquinius stooped to the ground and picked up three smooth pebbles, passing one to each of them before popping the last in his own mouth. 'Put it under your tongue.'
Brennus raised his eyebrows. 'Have you gone mad?'
'Do as I say,' Tarquinius said with an enigmatic smile.
Both men obeyed and were amazed when moisture instantly developed in their mouths.
'See?' Tarquinius chuckled. 'Stick with me and you'll go far!'
Silently Brennus clapped the Etruscan on the shoulder. He was glad that the soothsayer was full of surprises.
Reassured by his friends' guidance, Romulus strode ahead, full of youthful enthusiasm. The young soldier felt even surer that with Brennus and Tarquinius nearby, little could go wrong. Seleucia would fall in a matter of days, making them rich. Then all he needed was proof of his innocence so he could return to Rome. Quite how that would be achieved was unclear, but he had unfinished business there. Rescuing his mother and Fabiola. Finding Julia. Killing Gemellus.
Starting a slave rebellion.
They had been marching for much of the afternoon when they were alerted by a cry from the front.
'Enemy ahead!'
All eyes turned to the southeast.
Romulus peered at the confusion of sand and rocks but could see nothing.
Brennus squinted into the blinding light. 'There!' he pointed. 'To the right of the lead cavalrymen. Must be a mile away.'
Beyond the Gaul's outstretched hand, Romulus could just make out a faint puff of smoke curling up into the haze.
Slowly the dust cloud grew larger until it was visible to all. The thunder of horses' hooves carried through the hot, still air. As soon as the senior officers had been notified, the halt was sounded. With sighs of relief, men grounded javelins and shields, waiting for orders.
'Stay put. Drink some water, but not too much!' Bassius paced up and down the cohort, encouraging his soldiers. 'The cavalry will check it out before we have to worry.'
'Nowhere to go anyway, sir. Unless it's the next sand dune?'
The anonymous comment raised a laugh from those who could hear.
'Silence in the ranks!' roared Bassius.
Responding to further trumpet calls, the cavalry nearest the enemy took off. Their fair skin, flowing hair and moustaches clearly marked them as Gauls. Some wore chain mail but many had no armour, relying instead on their speed and agility. They were not gone for long, most returning to their position while a decurion rode back to the centre of the column to report.
'What did you see?' bellowed Brennus as the officer cantered by.
Bassius glared at the indiscipline but remained silent, keen as anyone else to know what was happening.
'A few hundred Parthians,' replied the decurion dismissively.
Murmurs of excitement rippled through the cohort.
The news did not seem to alarm Crassus. Moments later, the advance sounded once more. Romulus found himself picking up pace as the marching speed perceptibly increased. Sight of the enemy had reduced the daunting prospect of desert wastes.
The group of horsemen soon came into sight, riding to within a quarter of a mile of the Roman vanguard. The Parthians pulled across their path, sitting astride short, agile ponies. Each man wore a light jerkin, decorated trousers covered by chaps and a conical leather hat. Large case-like quivers hung from the left sides of their belts. All were carrying deeply curved composite bows, similar to those of the Nabataeans.
'They're not even wearing armour,' said Brennus contemptuously.
It was hard to feel scared. If these horse archers were all the Parthians had to offer, then the huge Roman army had little to fear.
'They're just skirmishers,' observed Tarquinius. 'Here to soften us up for the cataphracts.'
It sounded ominous.
'Those bows are made with layers of wood, horn and sinew. Gives them twice the power of any other.'
Brennus' eyes narrowed. If he could send an arrow from a Gaulish bow through chain mail, what would the Parthian weapons be able to do? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.
Tarquinius was about to continue, but Bassius came striding past, vine cane at the ready.
The Parthians sat motionless until Publius responded to the challenge. He ordered the charge. But his men had only ridden a hundred paces before the enemy turned tail and galloped away, leaving the heavier horses floundering behind. When the Gauls reined in to conserve their mounts' energy, the archers began taunting them.
Watching carefully, Publius held his men in check.
Suddenly a wave of arrows snaked into the air. Falling in a deadly shower, it knocked many Gaulish riders to the sand. Enraged, three troops immediately broke off and charged straight at the Parthians.
'Where 's their discipline? The fools think they can ride them down,' said Tarquinius. 'The Parthians are not infantry!'
Fascinated, Romulus watched as the irregular cavalry thundered towards the archers, trailing clouds of dust. Used to smashing aside opposition with ease, the Gauls roared and whooped. He could imagine how terrifying such an attack would be for foot soldiers. Lacking mounted units of its own, the Republic relied on conquered tribes like Gauls and Iberians to provide its horsemen. Carrying lances or javelins and long slashing swords, the cavalry served as a battering ram to break up enemy formations.
The ill-disciplined charge was precisely what the Parthians desired. As the Gauls closed in, they trotted off, turning gracefully in the saddle to fire at their pursuers. Swarms of arrows filled the air and Romulus gaped in amazement at their accuracy. Within moments, only thirty Gauls of the ninety who had charged were left alive. Corpses littered the ground, staining it red with blood. Dozens of riderless horses galloped about aimlessly, many bucking and kicking in pain from their wounds. The survivors reined in and fled, losing more men as they did. Sounding the recall, Publius retreated to the main column, leaving the Parthians victorious.