Field of Mars (The Complete Novel)

by David Rollins

  “Yet we have deployed in extended line.”

  “As I explained, Proconsul – ”

  “Yes, yes,” Crassus interrupted, cutting off his general. “How many cohorts would form each side of a defensive square, using the legionaries we have available?”

  “A single defensive square, Proconsul?” the legate questioned, his fears congealing.

  “Of course one square. How many cohorts?”

  “Around twelve cohorts per side, Proconsul.”

  “Good. Redeploy the legions thus, General.”

  The legate’s heart sank. “Primor, this terrain favors the enemy’s mobility. Each side of our square will be over a mile and a half in length! In such a large and unwieldy formation, our legions will have no flexibility of movement whatsoever. And with all this dust about it will be difficult for us to be certain of Surenas’s tactics and deployments.”

  Crassus met Cassius Longinus’s disagreement with a show of annoyance. “Publius, what say you?”

  It was clear to the legate that the proconsul had already made up his mind on the matter.

  The prefect’s blood was up, the familiar roar of imminent battle in his ears and the seductive thumping in his chest. Whether defensive square or extended lines, as far as he was concerned both deployments held advantages for the cavalry. Choosing one over the other made no difference that he could see, so Publius told his father what he wanted to hear. “What Cassius Longinus says is true regarding the terrain, but I think the dust will favor us also.”

  “So you have changed your mind, Publius?” the legate asked.

  “Perhaps. A defensive square is more likely to embolden the enemy to close within range of our legionaries’ pila, yes? And when he does, the cavalry, divided among the sides of the square, can sally forth through the thickening dust and take the Parthians by surprise.”

  The proconsul was pleased to have his son on his side. He turned to Cassius Longinus. “Legate, see to the redeployment.”

  Cassius Longinus now knew Crassus well enough that further discussion was futile, but he was surprised that Publius, an experienced campaigner, could present such poor judgement when the opposite was required. “Yes, primor,” the legate replied, far from overjoyed with his superior’s decision.

  *

  Cornicens conveyed the revised orders into the thickening pall through which the legionaries marched.

  Heeding the order, Rufinius and the men around him came to a halt and marked time, gagging, coughing and sweating in the cloud that had turned the sunlight a dirty brown color. Noses and throats were clogged with the fine powder, and water, for the purposes of sluicing it away, was scarce.

  Dentianus spat a mouthful of black grit onto the ground. “Penetrate Jupiter with a marble cock! Why are we marching on the spot?” he shouted.

  “Because some cunnus patrician can’t make up his cunnus mind,” Carbo replied, completing his observation with a coughing fit as he waved the flies from his face.

  All the men began to gag as their stamping feet kicked up more of the choking dust into their faces. And then the order came to march forward at half pace. The slightest breeze pushed the cloud a little away from the cohort, allowing Rufinius to finally see that the shape of the army had miraculously changed and now his legion had formed one side of an enormous defensive square, the front lines of which, heading off at right angles to their cohort, was reasonably close. Picturing the square in his mind and seeing his legion’s place in it gave Rufinius reassurance. Being close to the front facing the enemy, it was likely that his century would be among the first to make contact. But the fact that they’d moved into the defensive square made him wonder exactly what kind of enemy the army would be engaging, for the size of this square was truly herculean. He banished the question because he could do nothing with an answer, even if one presented itself. His job, and those of the men he trained, was simply to obey orders and kill as many of whatever came their way.

  Suddenly, a hundred or more Celtic cavalry, trailing ribbons, pelts and other finery from the shoulder straps of their cuirasses, cantered out of the suffocating dust cloud captured within the confines of the square. Their horses were tossing their heads around and snorting, either with excitement or to clear themselves of the clogging brown atmosphere. Rufinius was pleased to see the auxiliaries and the light infantry running with them. Their presence near his part of the line would almost guarantee some action coming their way and Rufinius clenched and unclenched his fists in anticipation, keen to feel the weight of sword in hand. His fingers curled around the bone grip.

  Rufinius imagined the man-on-man battles he was soon to have, schooling himself on the best way to move in close-quarter hand-to-hand fighting, remembering to keep half an eye on the space around him so that he could meet random attackers approaching from his blind side. Piercing this one in the thigh, stabbing that one in the face … And then, through his daydreaming, the optio became aware of ever-larger numbers of legionaries hooting with delight. He looked up. The cloud of dust had moved away further, revealing a sight that caused him to draw his sword and raise it high and add his own voice to the wild cheering around him.

  *

  “It’s the river,” Publius yelled at Crassus. He pulled his galloping horse to a skidding stop near the standard displaying the Hercules knot, where he saw Megabocchus, Censorinus, and their weapons bearers also fighting to control excited mounts. The animals reared and fought their reins, the smell of water nearby having driven them crazy. Publius wheeled his horse and whipped its neck with the reins and the animal surged again with renewed vigor, galloping at full speed away from the army, returning to the thin band of green directly in the legions’ path. Legate Longinus, Abgar, and others of Crassus’s praetorium had caught the hysteria and were galloping after Publius and his two companions. Behind them, as realization spread, the legionaries thundered their unexpected good fortune like the winning faction at the Circus Maximus. At last their thirst would be quenched. The army was saved!

  Publius turned away from the river and led his father and the others to the crest of a high dune providing an overview. The river was narrow, really more of a rivulet, edged by green cultivated fields. Beyond it the arid landscape rapidly returned, though with fewer dunes than the desert plain they had crossed with such hardship.

  Abgar, the horse under him difficult to control as he sidled toward Publius, said, “Do you still doubt me now, Roman?”

  “Your word was good …” Publius replied.

  The Arab grinned broadly in his insufferable way. “Thank you, I – ”

  “At least on this solitary occasion.”

  Abgar’s grin faded, a small victory that gave Publius a sense of triumph as he spurred his horse to his father’s side.

  From the height of this vantage point, the general staff watched the leading cohorts break apart as the men ran to the river, the exaltation clearly spreading. They had endured the unendurable.

  “If I am not mistaken, there lies a river, Publius,” Crassus observed wryly. “A small one, granted, but I think you owe Abgar an apology.”

  “We’ve exchanged pleasantries on the matter, Father,” Publius replied.

  “Proconsul, shall I give the order to build the marching camp here?” Cassius Longinus interrupted.

  “Why?” Crassus replied.

  “The legions need rest, primor. And the river is sent by the gods. It could not have been better placed.”

  “Father, I disagree with the legate. While it is true that the gods have sent us nothing but privation, I also believe the men desire victory more than they need water. Let them drink their fill and resume the march, secure in the knowledge that water is at their backs.”

  “With respect, Proconsul, I think that’s the wrong decision,” scowled Cassius Longinus, far from happy.

  Publius brought his horse closer to his father so that he could speak without yelling. “Proconsul, we know the Parthian forces are coming forward to meet us. What
message will it send them if we build a camp so that the men can lie around relaxing and splashing each other for a couple of days? I would say it would inform Surenas that we are either exhausted or lazy or both. The men are prepared for battle and have dropped their baggage poles far behind. They have come here to do a job, as have we. We can finish it today and go home tomorrow, or at least find more luxurious quarters in the pleasure parlors of Seleucia.”

  “A fine speech, Prefect,” Cassius Longinus protested, “spoken by a man who, like me, has crossed the desert on the back of a horse, enjoying full rations. But the great majority of men below us crossed it on foot and on less than half rations. Sending them to fight now, without rest, would surely court disaster.”

  “They are Roman legionaries, Legate,” Crassus reminded him. “As you yourself say, these are men who cross impenetrable deserts and on half rations! Vanquishing an opposition force of less than one quarter their strength should not prove overly arduous for such men as we command.”

  Cassius Longinus was agitated. “Primor, give the men a day, perhaps two, to recover and they will reward us. And when we fight let us not join battle when the sun is at its zenith and the day at its hottest. I would further counsel that we know little about the army coming to meet us. It would be prudent, surely, to find out more – send out the speculatores, scout their numbers more fully, gain more intelligence about this Surenas.”

  “And yet for all we know, General,” Publius said, “waiting around here by the banks of this rivulet might actually give the enemy time to add more conscripts or sharpen more swords or fashion more arrows to bring against us.”

  “I agree with Prefect Publius,” said Abgar, in rare support of his adversary. “Perhaps it is us who have surprised Spāhbed Surenas. We have crossed the desert, a feat few would dare, and have done so in good time with minor losses. We should strike while swords are sharp, should we not?”

  Publius examined the Arab advisor and suddenly wondered if perhaps he’d been manipulated to his confident view by Abgar’s constant commentary on the enemy’s weaknesses.

  “Enough,” Crassus snapped, raising a hand to call an emphatic halt to further discussion. “I am anxious to strike while the branding iron is yet hot. The men can take an hour to have a meal where they stand, after which they are to reform the square on the far side of the river and advance against the enemy.”

  “Only an hour, Proconsul? We have 40,000 men. The Sixth and Seventh Legions, a third of our forces, are still on the march some hours to the west.”

  “Then they had best get a hurry on, Legate, wouldn’t you say?”

  V

  Order among the ranks dissolved as the men dropped their scuta and galeae and ran to the river. Upon reaching it, Rufinius dived in, along with the hundreds of men all around him, still with their armor on. The water was cool, a shock to Rufinius’s over-heated skin. He stayed beneath the water, enjoying the freedom from the dust and the flies, and used his hands to walk his body through deliciously thick ooze lining the shallow bottom. Coming to the surface, he drank gulps of water as he moved, and heard yells and delighted screams all around, his fellow legionaries like children engaged in a water fight on a scorching summer’s day. The men who still had their galea with them put them to use as buckets, filling them and tossing the water at their comrades, or grabbing handfuls of the rich brown ooze and throwing it in the faces of the men around them. Never had Rufinius experienced such relief.

  More and more men surged into the water, the thought of battle and killing far from their minds. Rufinius drank and drank again. Submerging one last time, he rubbed the dust and sand from his hair so that it was no longer black but its normal blond color, and finally strode back out of the water, his leather and chain mail body armor saturated and heavy, small waterfalls cascading from its creases. Rufinius could not put words to the feeling that ran through his limbs and danced on his skin. He was clean, had drunk his fill, and the sun no longer felt like the enemy as it warmed him.

  Thousands of legionaries had arrived, hardened men for the most part, a flood of them in plumed helmets and chainmail cuirasses, yelling with high spirits as they sprinted past him toward the salvation awaiting them.

  Far enough now from the river to avoid the crush, Rufinius pulled his sword. The blade was sharp, the tip coming to a wicked point. He spotted a dusty rag dropped by one of the men, picked it up and used it wipe down the steel, enjoying the familiar balance of the weapon in his hand.

  The sun and desert air quickly dried the optio. Returning to his scuta and galea where he’d dropped them in the sand, he found Mena and the other slaves waiting with loaves of bread for their domini. She handed him a thick slice, soaked in olive oil.

  “Have you drunk?” Rufinius asked her.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Filled our wineskins?”

  “Of course. There’s talk among the slaves. We’ll be marching to war within half an hour.”

  “I don’t believe it. The legates know the men need rest.”

  “Believe it, dominus. When are we ever wrong?”

  By “we,” Mena meant the slaves and the answer was never. The slaves moved among the freemen, largely unseen by them. And at least one of them always knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who heard this officer talk to that officer … In short, there were few secrets in the army.

  “What else have you heard?” asked Rufinius.

  “The sacred chickens all died before the auspices could be read. The gods have snubbed us.”

  “Have you heard why we’re going to this battle with such haste?”

  “The army we go to meet is puny and the proconsul has his eye on the gold of Seleucia.”

  “Hag – any of that for us?” asked Dentianus as he, Albas and Carbo walked up, joking and laughing among themselves, Paleo behind them.

  Mena carved large chunks from the loaves, drizzled olive oil on them and handed them around. “That’s lunch and dinner, gluttons. Do something to earn it.”

  “What did you have in mind, anus breath?” said Dentianus pleasantly.

  “Capture more slaves so that I don’t have to work as hard, dominus.”

  “Certainly. I’ll do my best to win a Silver Cup just so I can install you in a country estate with your own help to command,” he told her.

  “Thank you, dominus. And I will sacrifice to Orcus to treat your spirit well if you should you fail and have to ride Charon’s boat to Hades.” She grinned at him, a quite horrible sight, showing the large yellow teeth that only sparsely inhabited her black gums.

  Distant cornicens blew for the ranks to assemble on the far river bank, the blast picked up by other horns until the air was alive with the order. Mena’s predictions were coming to pass.

  She turned to Rufinius. “Did I not tell you, dominus? We’ll be marching within twenty minutes.”

  Rufinius’s heart sank. Ahead was a return to the dust and heat, even if his thirst was, for the moment, quenched. Mena handed out a ration of bread to Paleo, who was wiping down his gladius, and then said to Rufinius, “Anything the optio needs?”

  “Another focale for my face, a means of keeping this excrementum from entering my lungs.” He waved his hand through the airborne dust.

  “Okay lions of the labia, get moving,” snapped Figulus, his mouth full of bread.

  Mena looked over at Rufinius. Concern was written in the deep, grimy lines on her brown face. “Fear not about the chickens, dominus. I will make a sacrifice.” She handed him a five-foot square of rough-woven fabric, grimy with desert and sweat, to wrap around his face.

  Rufinius found her solemnity troubling. She was frightened and that was something the optio couldn’t ever remember her being. He rested a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “They are a puny army, remember?”

  “The gods go with you,” she said with a nod and then was gone, hidden by the dust gathering anew as more of the legionaries arrived to collect their galeae before joining the army
reforming across the river.

  “What was that all about?” Paleo asked Rufinius.

  “She’s worried about us.”

  “That’s a problem if she really is some kind of high priestess. Do you believe she talks to the gods?”

  “Not unless she serves the goddess of gossip,” the optio replied.

  “Oh, is there such a goddess?” Paleo asked, quite seriously.

  Rufinius looked at the tesserarius and wondered if the man’s sister was also his mother. Sometimes he wondered …

  “Come on!” Figulus shouted at the men. “Stop dawdling. You’re moving with the speed of garden slugs.”

  The legionaries began to hurry along. When the order came to march, the army would move off and no man wanted to be left behind.

  Figulus herded the contubernium across the water, after which Rufinius paced the century’s flanks. “Legionnaires!” he shouted. “Time to go kick sand in someone else’s face instead of your own.”

  “Yes, primor!” some of the men replied half-heartedly.

  “You’ve all had a nice big drink, gorged yourselves on rations, and now let’s make the enemy pay for bringing us to this shit hole.”

  Some of the men cheered, but more grumbled and swore.

  Rufinius took his place in the line. Morale was as low as their stamina, the desert having drained of them both.

  *

  The general staff gathered on a high dune to watch the army maneuver. Crassus was gratified to observe that, with the river behind it, the massive defensive square had regained some of its earlier form and symmetry.

  “Proconsul! There! See it?” Cassius Longinus pointed at the horizon as, out of the shimmering false water, a cloud of dust rose, marking the army of Parthia riding out to halt the Roman advance.