All around Crassus the legionaries gave shouts of anger, emboldened by their commander’s courage. Swapping their javelins to their throwing hands and surging forth, they took the Parthians initially by surprise. The horse archers turned and galloped away, but firing behind them in the Parthian way, their arrows finding targets easily. More and more legionaries ran forward, beyond the protection of the lines, across the scorching sand and the dust burning their lungs. But before they could cover yet half the distance to the enemy, the retreating enemy fired a shower of arrows into their teeth. And still yet more Parthian archers, released from the battle against Publius, joined in what became a counter-attack, launching their deadly flights well beyond reach of the Roman javelins. The Romans, undeterred, kept coming, many preferring a quick death on the end of a cataphract’s lance than to writhe in agony like so many of their comrades, full of arrows, arms pinned to their bodies, legs shot through, throats and cheeks holed.
And so it continued. The main body of Parthian horse archers, now free to fire with impunity and continuously resupplied by their camels, fired arrow after arrow at the legionaries, the battle spreading right across the Roman front lines, stopping only when the sun sank mercifully below the end of the world and night drifted across the desert.
*
Spāhbed Surenas was both elated and melancholy, but such were the feelings that always battled within him following combat. The closeness to death was exciting, but afterwards, seeing so many young men staring sightless, their uncaring mouths full of sand and sticky with their own blood … It mattered less that they were the enemy, but still the images haunted him.
The gentle night breeze blew the tang of death from the battlegrounds to his encampment, along with the smoke from the many subdued dung fires of the defeated. He looked down on them from the high dune and finished what remained of the exquisite Ramian wine, which he drank unwatered in deference to its quality. His cupbearer stood ready to refill it, but Surenas waved him away, desiring a clear head to later take to his harem. On the plain behind him, many of his own men would be celebrating their success, sharing stories while they passed wineskins. Others were stationed as pickets in case the Romans attempted one of the tricks for which they were famous – turning the tide of battle – perhaps with a midnight raid against his own soldiers sleeping in a fog of wine and beer.
Sharing Surenas’s moment of reflection were several of his key captains and the chieftain, Abgar.
“If I may ask, Spāhbed,” said Abgar, signaling the cupbearer for more.
“Please …” Surenas replied, coming out of his reverie.
“Why would you not finish them off?”
“Where the sun of Mithra doesn’t shine, my archers cannot shoot.”
“Of course, Spāhbed.”
“The Romans are defeated. Tonight, let them collect their dead and bury them. Tomorrow, if there is fight left in them still, we have plenty more arrows.” He looked at Volodates for confirmation.
“There are stores remaining, but I have had the armorer fashion more.”
“Good. Very many arrows were fired today.”
“Don’t feel distress on the Romans’ behalf, Lord,” Abgar continued as his cup was refilled. “Crassus, his son Publius, and the senior legate, whose name is Cassius Longinus, would have made your lands theirs. I know this better than you. You would have become their slave and all that you owned would become theirs. You have won a very great victory for Parthia – and indeed for all of the lands of the Arab, too. Perhaps we’ll not know of its significance in our lifetimes, but you’ve stopped the advance of a culture utterly foreign to our own and you have succeeded in doing so with few men at your command and with almost no casualties. It is remarkable.”
Volodates stood by respectful, silent and disciplined, not invited to comment. He could not, however, prevent himself from agreeing with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
“They made critical errors,” Surenas agreed.
“Born of their commander’s arrogant and rapacious nature, combined with the pressure your tactical decisions put him under. I can tell you first hand that he could not wait to spoil himself with Parthian gold. Speaking of which, King Orodes will surely reward you.”
Surenas frowned, slightly annoyed by the man’s chatter and perhaps also by the mention of the king. Yes, the king … Riders would have to be dispatched to inform him of events. Great King Orodes – King of Kings, Sovereign of all Parthia, Ruler of Two Rivers, Son of the Sun, beloved by Mithra and Ahura Mazda. From past experience Surenas knew that Orodes would not appreciate having his own grandeur usurped by a mere spāhbed. The king had tasked Surenas merely to delay the Romans. Defeating them was to be his honor. Surenas did his best not to frown. Success was one thing. Too much success was potentially lethal. “Volodates,” he said.
The captain of horse took half a step forward. “Yes, Lord.”
“Assemble my personal guard. At first light we will go to the Roman camp. There I will offer Proconsul Crassus a pleasant morning, after which I will present him my terms.”
“What if they attempt to leave under the cover of night?” Abgar asked.
“They have few horses,” Surenas replied. “How far can they go?”
*
The butcher’s bill was staggering and their situation dire as a result. Rufinius knew that – every legionary who could still draw breath knew that. What’s more, the wounded outnumbered the dead. Almost every man in the cohort had some form of battle damage to either complain or be stoic about. Corpses lay everywhere. Teams of legionaries dug mass graves for the dead, or ferried the corpses to the pits. Legionnaires not engaged in those tasks were digging trenches and throwing up ramparts around the area occupied by the legions. If the army hadn’t left its baggage poles behind, a double row of palisade sticks would have been added to the fortifications. To some, these efforts at security seemed pointless. It was not a charge by cataphracts the legions feared but showers of the deadly arrows and no trench or rampart, no matter how deep or how high, would keep them out.
Rufinius had more personal concerns on his plate. Paleo, Figulus, Albas, and Gracchus – all were dead.
“Grab his feet,” Rufinius directed Dentianus as he looked down at Paleo’s face, an arrow having entered the temple area, exited through his cheek, and continued on into his shoulder, forcing his head into an irregular angle. One eye looked straight ahead, the other off to one side. Rigor mortis and the twisted position Paleo had fallen in made him difficult to carry.
“Where are we taking him?” asked Dentianus, grunting as he lifted the tesserarius. He was hobbling on a foot with two toes missing, amputated by an arrow.
“A pit is being dug for our section of the line.”
“Which gods did he favor?”
“Who, Paleo? Don’t know.”
“What rites will be observed?”
“Don’t know that either,” said Rufinius honestly, more concerned with just getting the dead well and truly buried. As much as observing the correct rites concerned him, the gods would have to wait their turn for attention. Men who had died in the first exchanges when the sun burned down on them were already stinking. If the army had to stay on this ground another day, a quick mass burial was a first priority.
“What about Albas and Figulus? I heard Figulus was crushed to death by a horse.”
“Figulus died in the lines. I saw him fall. Took an arrow. Albas is already in the pit.”
Dentianus nodded, accepting of these fates. “And Gracchus. He must be somewhere here also.”
Rufinius nodded.
“Are we retreating? We have to retreat. We can’t go forward, not now.”
“Not for me to decide,” said the centurion.
“They can’t expect us to stand and be killed by those ass-licking arrows, can they?”
Rufinius didn’t reply. There was every chance that’s exactly what they’d be expected to do. In fact, the tone among the men was concerning. T
he desire to turn and run was infectious and he could feel it sweeping the ranks. If the commanders offered battle to the enemy, the legionaries would die – all of them. And the men knew it as certain as the shit-stinking sun in this corner of Hades was hot.
“What are we going to do?” asked Dentianus relentlessly.
“Shut up, Marcus Tuccius. How would I know? I know as much as you. Put him down.”
They had stopped by the legion’s signifer who had taken on the role of noting the names of the dead, writing them on papyrus. Later, the legionaries no longer among the living would be crossed from the legion’s rolls in the Temple of Mars back at Antioch.
“Orthus Verginius Paleo,” said Rufinius when a signifer unknown to him looked up from a desk thrown together from parts of a scuta.
The signifer marked the name on the roll illuminated by a wax lantern. “Rank?”
“Tesserarius.”
“Legion?”
“Fourth Syrian.”
“Cohort?”
“Tenth.”
“Century?”
“Sixth.”
“Carry him forward,” the signifer said without looking up from his bill of death.
Rufinius and Dentianus lifted the body, carried it down into the pit, and lay it in a long line of other deceased legionaries. Rufinius put his hand inside Paleo’s cuirass and felt around for the pocket containing the denarius. Locating it, he pulled the coin out and held it near a burning torch. It was silver, a bust of some woman by the name of Leuconoe on one side and Jupiter hurling thunderbolts from a chariot on the reverse. Roman, not Syrian. He placed it in Paleo’s mouth. A silver denarius, probably from the great city itself. More than enough to make Charon happy, Rufinius thought.
“Primor …” Dentianus motioned him over to where he stood, further up the line of corpses. “Look.”
Rufinius joined him and saw Gracchus, one eye staring sightless, the other a black hole buzzing with files around the torn black flesh that remained of his throat. He checked his mouth with a heavy heart and saw a coin. Gracchus, Paleo, Figulus, Albas – the heart of their contubernium ripped out. All dead. They were good men and Rufinius liked them. They had fought, messed, whored and tented together. He saluted each of them, recalling their faces and deeds in happier times. Death was part of life, no one appreciated the fact more than a soldier on active duty, but seeing death on the faces of so many close comrades was far from a joyous occasion.
Rufinius’s heart was heavy. “Let’s go.”
He and Dentianus retraced their steps out of the pit and headed toward the signifer’s desk. It was then that Rufinius saw a centurion wearing a magnificent brass cuirass, hung with half a dozen clinking gold torcs, accompanied by an optio he recognized from another century, a tall man of Greek origin known for religious discipline who had allowed his black beard to grow thick. Both men wound their way through the long procession of legionaries bringing bodies for the pits. And then the two men changed direction toward him. The optio limped, one leg caked in dried blood.
“Is this Tullus Bassius Rufinius?” the centurion, a tough old boot, growled at the optio.
“Yes, primor,” the optio replied.
Now that the centurion was close by, Rufinius could see the ribbons of the Primus Pilus or “first file” on the old man’s cuirass. This was the leading centurion, the most senior combat officer in the entire army who commanded no less than the First Cohort, the army’s toughest, hardest-fighting unit. His name was Julius Hadrianus Calpurnicus. Rufinius had only ever seen him from a distance when the legions were on parade. Men of such lofty rank and reputation did not usually converse with lowly officers from other cohorts. The centurion regarded Rufinius, looking him up and down like a tree feller pondering the right place in which to make the cut. “Tullus Bassius Rufinius?”
“Yes, Primus Pilus,” Rufinius answered, coming to attention.
“You have blond hair. And you’re tall. There’s not enough light … Your eyes, they’re blue?” he inquired.
Rufinius found the questions odd to say the least, but he replied, “So I am told, primor.”
“Your name is Roman, but you look German.” The old centurion stared at Rufinius as if looking into his very heart, causing Rufinius to turn away. “Do not take offense. Your eyes. You remind me of someone I know.”
“Primor,” said Rufinius politely.
“Tell me about your forebears.”
“My grandfather fought for Gaius Marius. He was discharged from the legions, wounded, and took a woman from the Cimbri to wife.”
“Ah yes, the Cimbri. Good Germanic stock. Excellent fighters.” Centurion Julius Hadrianus nodded with what Rufinius took to be approval. “What about your father? Was he in the legions also?”
“Yes, primor. He fought under Lucius Licinius Lucullus and Pompey.”
“He fought at the battle of the Lycus?”
“Yes, primor.”
“I was there also.” The old centurion nodded his head sagely. “You’re good stock, but your Latin is strangely accented.”
“My father was an engineer. After discharge he found work in Alexandria, primor. Egypt.”
“You’re not the one they call Alexandricus, are you?”
Rufinius shrugged. “Maybe there are others …”
With a nod, the optio accompanying the primpilus confirmed that this was indeed the man they were looking for.
“Maybe, eh? Well, Alexandricus, it was a hard day today. Harder than most,” he said.
“Yes, primor.”
“I’m told your cohort saw much action. How many did you lose?”
“The head count is still going on. Some of our men were separated from the cohort, but so far more than 250 men, primor.”
“You hear that, son?” the centurion said, turning to the optio. “That’s what? Around sixty percent wiped out in one cohort alone? It’s worse than I thought.”
“Yes, Primus Pilus,” replied the junior officer beside him, because there was no other answer except silence, and silence wasn’t an option when the primipilus asked a direct question.
The old centurion returned his attention to Rufinius. “I see you carry a lot of dried blood on your tunic and leg. Is it yours? Are you wounded?”
There had been so much to keep him occupied that Rufinius scarcely had time to consider the holes in his leg and beneath his cuirass, though being reminded of his wounds made them throb painfully. “Nothing of note, primor.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, the reason I’m here … I’ve heard it told that you were the first to strip the enemy of his armor and use it for the protection of your men.”
“I don’t know, primor. Maybe.”
“There it is again – maybe. But you did, in fact, single-handedly defeat a charging cataphract and strip him of his armor?”
“Yes, primor. That’s exactly what he did,” said Dentianus. “I saw him. I was there too.”
The primipilus ignored the legionary.
“So, this idea of yours to put the enemy’s armor to good use … You know it was taken up across the army?”
“No, primor.”
“Well, it was, and because of it you saved the lives of many a good man. I wanted to come here personally to salute you.”
Somewhat dazed, Rufinius watched as Hadrianus – the primus pilus, no less – saluted him. The old veteran then offered his hand and Rufinius took the man’s forearm and felt a grip like steel bands clenched around his own.
“Rufinius Alexandricus, I am recommending that you receive the gold torc and a cup.”
Rufinius was stunned. “Th … thank you, primor.”
“And you are pretty handy with a sword, I hear.”
“Optio Tullus Bassus Rufinius is the legion’s Primus Gladius,” Dentianus offered proudly.
The primipilus fixed on the legionary a momentary burst of withering glare for providing him with common knowledge, and then turned a more pleasant countenance back to Rufinius. “Well, the Pri
mus Pilus is honored to inform the First Sword of his legion that he is no longer an optio. Henceforth, Tullus Bassus Rufinius, you are elevated to the rank of centurion, junior grade. You’ll need this …” Centurion Hadrianus produced a helmet he had been carrying, a centurion’s galea with the transverse red horsehair plume, and handed it to Rufinius. “We lost Centurion Marius Pontius today,” he continued, “in the charge to recover the remains of Publius Licinius Crassus. Pontius was a fine legionary, despite his faults. He spoke very highly of you. I believe he would have wanted you to have that.”
Rufinius looked at the galea, feeling dazed. There was a lot of blood on it, some if it sticky. Rufinius breathed heavily. Marius Pontius, gone? That was a blow.
“What is your age, Alexandricus?”
“Twenty-five years, primor.”
“Young for a centurion. Your father would be proud.”
“Primor.”
Hadrianus looked him up and down again. “Centurion Tullus Bassius Rufinius. You will take the place of Marius Pontius in this century, on the far left of the first line,” he said officially and then saluted him again. “We need good men to lead the army and you are, I am reliably informed, a good man. The enemy will return tomorrow and we must be ready for them. Also, I recommend Optio Marcus Fulvius Fabianus here as your second in command.” He turned to Fabianus and snapped, “Shave your beard, Optio. We are not barbarians.” Centurion Hadrianus then clapped Rufinius on the shoulder and said, “Congratulations, Centurion Rufinius Alexandricus,” before striding away into the night.
“Congratulations, Centurion,” Fabianus echoed sternly, saluting his superior in the correct manner. “Where’s your tesserarius, primor?”
Rufinius looked down on the twisted corpse by his feet.
“Did I hear it right?” Dentianus asked. “Did that cunnus just say we’re going to stand around here like rent boys waiting for tomorrow to be fucked in the ass by those Parthian cocks all over again?”
Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) Page 12