Field of Mars (The Complete Novel)

by David Rollins

  “Another advocate for your charms, I see,” said Carbo.

  “She’ll be back,” Libo replied.

  “Something for us all to look forward to within the confines of the tent,” Albas joined in.

  “Okay, that’s enough brotherly love, Romans,” Rufinius snapped. “We’ve got a war to fight. Figulus, I want us packed up with plenty of time to spare. Seems we’ll be departing early.”

  “Yes, primor,” the decanus answered crisply. “Mena, Popixia – let’s get this tent down. Men, finish your morning banquet. I want those baggage poles packed up. Let’s move it.”

  Around the camp, 40,000 men were waking, re-packing, eating or evacuating their bowels and bladders. The word sweeping the ranks held that today they would finally leave the desert and find water. And because of that, urgency filled the air.

  Cornicens around the camp blew the second call of the morning: “Up sticks, prepare to march,” alerting the engineers to pull the palisade sticks from the double rows protecting the encampment, and also informing the army’s slaves and auxiliaries to load the baggage train. Soon, before the sun was yet above the horizon, a third blast of horns would convey the order to march and the First Cohort would lead off out the gate.

  *

  The Priest of Mithra stood back from the gushing bull’s blood forging valleys in the sand. So that the men in the front rows could see the health of the entrails for themselves and spread the word of these favorable portents, the acolyte held them up above his head like a trophy. The men cheered loudly, their cries making their mounts stamp the ground and shake their heads. This was the fourth bull sacrificed to Mithra this morning, the other three animals now lying still, the flies beginning to gather. Overhead, a lone vulture flew wary circles, so many hundreds of its brothers, sisters and cousins having been lured to carcasses such as these staked to the desert floor, their feathers employed in the flights of a vast multitude of arrows.

  “Mithra, the God of Parthia and of your ancestors, speaks to you here,” boomed the priest. “See how he blesses the battle to come? You, sons of Parthia! You are his holy warriors.”

  A respectful silence settled over the men and into it the priest led the familiar prayer: “Whose word is true?

  And with one voice, 10,000 warriors responded, “The honest one!”

  “Who has a thousand ears?”

  The hundreds of lines of men intoned, “The well-shaped one!”

  “Who has ten thousand eyes?”

  “The exalted one!”

  “Who has wide knowledge?”

  “The helpful one!”

  “Who sleeps not?”

  “The ever-wakeful one!”

  “We sacrifice to Mithra, the Lord of all countries! Mithra, the exalted one!”

  The army echoed the response through the cool air of the desert morning.

  “Mithra, the exalted one!”

  The priest’s blessing completed, Surenas nudged his horse gently and it stepped forward from the front rank of cataphracts and turned so that the spāhbed faced his men. An ululation rose from the army, a mark of respect for their lord and master. He raised a hand and the ranks fell silent so that even a single horse could be heard snorting.

  “A year and some months ago,” Surenas called out, “our lands were unjustly invaded by the Romans. Unjust because Parthia had a treaty of friendship with Rome.” Surenas led his horse up the long line of men, and stood in the stirrups as he called to them. “This invasion is led by a man whose greed is legendary, whose lust for gold is spoken about even in the slave markets of Babylon. He comes determined to melt down our wealth and send it to Antioch. He comes to steal our history. He comes with gods that are foreign to us and speaks a tongue that knows not our language. As he has shown in the cities he has occupied that he is here to rape our wives and daughters. He aims to put you under the yoke of Rome, to enslave all of Parthia. But …” Surenas stopped his horse and retraced his steps at an easy canter. “But this adventurer from the west has never truly met the sons of Alexander. He has never fought the grandsons of the great Persian kings. And he has NEVER come up against the strong right arm of Parthia, the righteous ones blessed by Mithra himself. HE HAS NEVER MET YOU!”

  Ten thousand Parthian warriors howled and beat their shields with bows and lances. Surenas let them drink of their own noise for the sheer joy it gave them. And then he held up his hand a second time, silencing the men and reining his horse to a stop. “Today, Parthians, we fight for our homes, our women, our God, our freedom. We have made our stratagems and they are sound. Make sure your aim is true, contemplate only victory against these invaders from the west, and this day will surely echo through the halls of history so that a thousand years from now, men will shout, ‘I WISH I HAD BEEN THERE!’”

  *

  Rufinius checked the men marching to the left – Albas, Gracchus, Dentianus, Libo, Figulus, Carbo, and on the far end, Paleo. Chatter between them had progressively diminished through the morning as the sun had risen higher. And now that it was overhead, they marched unthinking, more like cattle than men, one foot following the other as if suffering a punishment they had already endured for an eternity. Most of the men wore a cloth or shawl over their heads to keep the sun off their faces and the dust from their mouths but still there was coughing. At least now they had water.

  In front, the shrouded heads of legionaries bobbed and moved from side to side, the familiar and reassuring sight of men following the century’s symbols. From his vantage point, Rufinius could see the column swinging through an ocean of low sand dunes, and disappearing inside a vast cloud of dust of the army’s own making. Above, the sun was plastered to the blue sky, haloed in dust, a circle of molten gold. It was another day like yesterday, which itself was like the day before that and the day before that and the day before that. The terrain continued to be as hot and bland and as faceless and repetitive as always with not a single blade of grass or tree or any kind of distinguishing feature. Just sand, dust, flies and heat.

  But there was, however, something different about this day. The enemy’s speculatores. If Rufinius were not mistaken there seemed to be far more of them than usual, always several in view, perched on the higher sandy ridges, black dots against the hot blue sky. Rufinius watched as half a dozen Celts galloped over the sand hills toward a couple of these camel-mounted spies. But they simply turned and loped into the safety of the desert well before the cavalry could close with them.

  Rufinius returned his eyes to the front, adjusted the focale in front of his mouth and nose to better filter the dust and kept marching, one foot in front of the other.

  *

  The party of twenty Celtic speculatores – scouts – galloped as fast as their mounts could manage toward the cloud of dust on the horizon where the marching legions would be found. Eventually identifying Crassus’s banner branded with Hercules’s knot, the leader of the speculatores thrashed his horse toward it.

  The riders were briefly detained by the proconsul’s guard, who mistook the scouts for nomads since their heads were wrapped in cloth and their sagum – the red woolen legionary’s cloak – and armor was covered in a thick layer of dust. With their bona fides confirmed, two of the speculatores were conveyed before Crassus and his intimate circle.

  “Proconsul Crassus, Legate Cassius Longinus, Prefect Publius,” began the speculatores’ commander, “we have ridden hard from the east and south. General Surenas is marching in this direction with all haste, drawn up in battle order.”

  “What did you say?” asked Crassus, cocking an ear in the scout’s direction.

  “The Parthian army, Proconsul,” Cassius Longinus repeated. “It is marching this way.”

  “How far away?”

  “Two hours’ hard riding, primor,” the scout answered, raising his voice over the noise of the marching legions.

  “What kind of soldiers do they field?” Cassius Longinus asked.

  “All mounted, Legate. Mostly horse archers with f
ewer heavy armed cavalry.”

  “What of their numbers?” Publius inquired.

  “Prefect, it is hard to say. There was as much dust obscuring their lines as ours, but they are nowhere near so numerous as our legions.”

  “Anything else of note?” the proconsul asked.

  The speculator took a moment to gather his thoughts. “There are fewer of the cataphracts than we supposed, primor.”

  Cassius Longinus was unimpressed. Their report was thin. “That’s it?”

  “Yes, Legate.”

  “You’ve done well,” said Publius, saluting them, his blood rising with the heat of battle drawing close. He dismissed the speculatores and had one of the tribunes go with the men and provide access to the heavily rationed and guarded water for themselves and their horses.

  “No infantry? And perhaps less than the 10,000 men we supposed? It’s hardly an army,” Abgar derided, belittling the threat. “You need hardly be concerned about being surrounded, Proconsul.”

  “It might not be an army in our sense of the word,” the legate cautioned, “but it is a highly mobile, well-trained force. And I also believe that we know less than we should about this army of Surenas’s.”

  “It is also worth considering that their archers possess bows with considerable range,” Publius added. “They can fire beyond the reach of our arrows and inflict a heavy toll. Nevertheless, with speed and bravery, such is possessed by my Celts, I believe we may yet hold the advantage.”

  “The Parthians are coming at us from the south and east,” said Cassius Longinus. “As the day lengthens the sun will be in their eyes and the dust in ours. Proconsul, I recommend that we deploy the army in extended line. Place Publius and his Celts on the right wing and the Armenian cavalry on the left. With the standard five-foot space between each legionary, our army can present the enemy with a front of Roman steel that extends for well over ten miles. Let them fire their arrows. They will not come down so thick along such a wide front. And with luck and good fighting, hidden in a cloud of dust, our wings will envelope them before they are even aware of it.”

  Crassus considered the discussion.

  “I agree, Legate. A sound strategy,” said Publius, itching to get back to his squadrons and prepare them. And yet, he was nervous. Abgar advocated throwing caution to the sky and attacking sooner rather than later. Publius too was keen for a bold strike. What concerned him was that his strongest ally in this was the Arab, a man in whom he held not the barest trust. The prefect turned to his father’s advisor. “I do have one question …”

  Abgar smiled at Publius. “Of course, Prefect, if you feel I can provide the answer.”

  “Where’s this river you assured us was half a day’s march? We have marched this half-day and behold, no river. And now water is so scare among the men that I am concerned about their ability to fight.”

  Abgar brushed off the implied accusation. “The River Balikh is near. I have no doubt that you will come across it as you advance.”

  “I am wary of your assurances,” Publius told him flatly.

  “We deploy as Cassius Longinus recommends,” Proconsul Crassus announced, ignoring the maneuvers between his son and his personal advisor, either not hearing them or not wanting to hear them. Turning to one of the tribunes, he instructed the officer to liaise with the legate and have the cornicens and mounted messengers dispense the appropriate orders to the legions.

  *

  From his position on the right hand of the century, Rufinius could see the marching column stretching away in a gentle curve toward the south. As he watched, his mind numbed by heat and thirst and his throat scorched by it, it occurred to his slowed brain that something unusual was afoot. If his eyes were not deceived by the dance and ripple of the desert air, far ahead the column appeared to be breaking apart, spreading out, the dust boiling up thicker than usual. And then the breeze and the dust carried the notes of a familiar order, commanding a general halt, blown by the cornicens marching in the column far ahead.

  “What’s happened?” Dentianus asked the question on every legionary’s mind. “Why have we stopped?”

  A nearby cornicen blew further orders: “Leave baggage poles” followed by “Make ready for battle.”

  “Merda,” Dentianus swore, spitting at the ground.

  “Now the cunni expect us to fight?” Carbo grumbled, his complaint joining others rising from the ranks of the century ahead.

  The odd mixture of cold fear and elation that Rufinius always felt before combat surged through his limbs and settled in the pit of his stomach. Prickles ran along his shoulders and arms and the optio succumbed to the irresistible urge to clench and unclench his hands, one holding his scutum – the large rectangular curved shield – and the other his baggage pole. “Legionnaires,” he shouted, his voice joining those of many decani shouting orders at their contubernia throughout the century. “A double ration of water. Drink it now, then pass your skins to the man in front!” One of the legionaries in his contubernium looked around, dazed, half asleep. “Libo!” Rufinius snapped. “See what happens when you spend the whole night fucking? Snap out of it! Drink, or I’ll find something less rewarding for you to do than killing the enemies of Rome.”

  “Yes, primor!” Libo called out, propping his scutum against his leg and squirting water from the wineskin into his open mouth.

  Rufinius left his place at the end of the line and strode down the flank of the century, barking at the men to drink. That they were thirsty now was beyond doubt, and this need would become desperate and life threatening in the heat of battle. Satisfied at last that the men were sufficiently watered, he shouted, “Galeae! Pila! Scuta!” Helmet! Javelin! Shield!

  The men moved sluggishly as they repositioned scarves and set galeae on their heads. Pila were untied from baggage poles and covers removed from scuta. Too slow, dangerously slow, thought Rufinius. The men had been pushed hard and they were clearly exhausted. “Poles – DOWN!” he yelled at them and they responded in unison, laying poles and scuta covers on the ground to their left, in the space between the lines, to be retrieved after the fight. The century was thus prepared for combat, even if Rufinius could plainly see that their hearts weren’t in it.

  At the head of the century, Centurion Marius Pontius came into view. He noted Rufinius and waved at him. Rufinius saluted the centurion, who returned it and signaled that the men were set to march. Pontius strode out of view, taking up his usual position in the front line of legionaries.

  More orders were trumpeted. The Fourth Legion was to form up into its cohorts and march to the right of the army’s center. Rufinius could see the signifers standards raised high. He coughed the dust out his lungs and hacked it onto the ground.

  More cornu notes drifted through the almost unbreathable air and, in response, the signifers lowered their standards: “Execute.”

  Rufinius shouted at the men from his position in the side of the column to march “by the left.” Unburdened by the weight of their baggage poles and other peripherals, he could see that the men moved readily, shaking off their lethargy, the century moving as one. But their stamina had limits, and would quickly fade.

  *

  From the crest of a dune, Surenas and Captain Volodates watched the foreign army maneuver. Directed by distant blasts from horns, the cohorts on the plain moved and repositioned themselves with design and purpose into long rectangular blocks of men, which in turn divided and became interlocking blocks as the whole army wheeled to the right. It was both awe inspiring and terrifying and seemed to Surenas to resemble some gigantic reptile unfolding its coils. The spāhbed was aware that countless nations and tribes through the ages had witnessed this very sight, shortly before they became possessions of the mighty Republic’s far-flung and ever-expanding empire. A shiver ran down his spine and took refuge in his testicles.

  “They are many,” Volodates observed quietly, saying what both men could plainly see, the Roman lines stretching to the curved horizon.


  Surenas was afraid but also thrilled by the challenge fate had handed him. His informant within the Roman praetorium had provided him with enemy numbers. Surely, though, he had underestimated the invader’s strength for now, seeing the true extent and scale of the force confronting his homeland for the first time, Surenas was not entirely convinced he had made a wise decision to meet this threat head on. Doubt, however, was a matter to be considered in private. “Rome has had its share of defeats and Parthia shall deliver one today,” he said with an even voice.

  Volodates nodded.

  Somewhere beyond view to the south and east was the Parthian force, two lines of horse archers less than a third the width of the Roman deployments. “The time for deliberation is over,” he said and grinned for Volodates’s benefit, but in his heart he felt sick. He brought his camel around and rode down the back of the dune to join the 200-strong escort awaiting him.

  *

  “What of the Sixth and Seventh Legions?” Crassus wanted to know.

  “They are far back, Proconsul, held up by the army’s baggage train,” said Legate Cassius Longinus who had earlier been informed of this by one of the tribunes. “Most of the Fifth is also yet to join the ranks.”

  “I don’t like it,” Crassus replied, raising himself up in the saddle to look back over the heads of the men, but all he could see was dust.

  “Don’t like what, primor?”

  “Correct me if I am wrong, Legate, but the classic defense against massed archers is the testudo formation, is it not?”

  “Yes, primor.”

  “Each arm of the defensive square can quickly deploy in testudo fashion, correct?”

  “No more easily than when deployed in lines.”

  “But we can better defend the officer’s baggage if it’s held within the square, and my orders can more quickly be delivered to the legates in a square than if they are strung out across the desert.”

  “That’s true, primor.”

  Legate Cassius Longinus was concerned about where this discussion was heading. Yes, the proconsul was at least technically right about the defensive square’s benefits, but the defensive square was a timid way to fight and it presented other tactical problems that negated its advantages on this flat featureless battlefield against a highly mobile enemy.