Field of Mars (The Complete Novel)

by David Rollins

  Volodates kept his horse still. “Now that you have seen the quality of Spāhbed Surenas’s property, have you a view as to its worth?”

  “Mithra’s twisted cock!” Farnavindah exclaimed, exasperated. “I have had but two hours since the first numbers straggled into my encampment, dying of mistreatment. I beg you, give me a little time in which to make proper assessments.”

  “How much time?”

  Farnavindah glanced at one of his Yuezhi mountains, who took steps in Volodates’s direction. The slave master then thought better of unleashing him and wisely raised a finger at the man, who retreated.

  “How much time?” Volodates inquired again, his patience sapped.

  Farnavindah glared at Volodates and sighed theatrically, “As much time as it takes, Generalissimo. There are ways and means to maximize profit, just as there are shortcuts to diminishing it. I am the pre-eminent man in my field, which is why your master entrusted these spoils of war to me. Now, if you don’t mind …”

  Volodates smiled at the slave master and enjoyed the man’s discomfort, sweat pouring from the deep rolls of flesh in which his chin was buried, the oiled and perfumed braids of his hair coiled high on his head threatening to melt like the black tar that oozed from numerous wounds in the desert floor. With thoughts of his own two sons clouding his judgement, and what a man such as this might do with them, Volodates yearned to draw his sword and behead the disgusting individual in front of him, along with his four mountains, but then no doubt his own head would swiftly follow when news of such a deed spread. So the captain of horse continued to smile, and moved his mount and those of his lieutenants aside, the path of the palanquin now cleared.

  “Thank you, Generalissimo,” said Farnavindah, farting loudly as he turned and stepped back into his palanquin with the help of two boy leopards, both of whom he then pulled into the palanquin, into the privacy offered behind the veil.

  XV

  Spāhbed Surenas made the trip north with just a thousand of his most trusted vassals, the remainder of his army having been left under the command of Volodates. The spāhbed traveled north with all haste because the order for him to attend a personal audience with the King had come from Orodes himself. The message had been delivered by a party of the King’s cousins and elite officers. These very cousins approached Surenas on their knees and presented the package containing the order, a gold satchel inlaid with rubies. It housed a clay tablet written in the King’s own hand and was replete with many compliments, tributes, and commendations for his commander-in-chief’s supreme victory over the Roman menace.

  The King had written that all of Parthia was in admiration of its most blessed son, Spāhbed Surenas-Pahlav, the news of his famous victory over the Romans having spread through the land like a city fire. Orodes had brought his army south after successfully chastising King Artavastes of Armenia for his support of the Romans. Due to the efforts of both men – king and spāhbed – Parthia was once again strong and secure. Surenas reread the tablet from King Orodes and the exhortations filled him with pride. The King was in awe of his accomplishments and desired that he report personally so that suitable honors could be rewarded to his house. Surenas considered this as the approaching dust revealed itself to be a small army, come to escort him and his retinue to the King’s encampment near a river.

  “Salutations, Spāhbed Surenas, from King Orodes, King of Kings, Favorite of Mithra and Ahura Mazda,” the captain called out with good cheer to Surenas as the parties closed. Captain Ishmah, a young man with royal blood and a magnificent thick blue-black beard plaited and knotted tightly beneath his chin with silver and gold bands, was well known to Surenas from previous shared campaigns, and they greeted each other warmly. “The desert sits well on you, Lord,” said Ishmah, one of the King’s favorites. His silver scales were polished so that they danced like sunlight on clear water.

  “It’s truly good to see you, Captain,” Surenas replied heartily.

  The officer marveled at the collection of Roman aquilas strapped to a well-guarded donkey following in Surenas’s wake. “Word has it that you have beaten a great empire single-handedly.”

  “It was hardly an empire and I had help – even the desert was on my side. Clearly, victory was Ahura Mazda’s will. I hear that our great King has suitably castigated the dog on the Armenian throne?”

  Captain Ishmah grinned. “He has returned to a corner and lies there with fleas. But there is not a man in the King’s army, perhaps even the King himself, who wouldn’t have preferred to ride instead by the side of the great Spāhbed Surenas on his glorious adventure. Is it true what is said about the Roman general? That he drank himself to death on gold?”

  “Not willingly. Not even the proconsul loved gold so much as to consume it molten.”

  The men rode together in each other’s company, exchanging stories of war such to make the other gasp in wonder at the teller’s courage. “How is the King’s mood?” Surenas asked after a while. Only two years before, the spāhbed had defeated Orodes’s brother, Mithridates, the King of Media, slaying him in Orodes’s name and delivering him the entire kingdom along with the man’s head. But instead of gratitude there had been moments when Surenas had feared that his own life would be taken by Orodes for daring to lay his hand on the King’s own blood.

  “He is joyous, Surenas!” Ishmah exclaimed. “You have done him a great service. There is nothing at all to fear. I swear there is only gratitude in his breast.”

  Surenas nodded and flashed his best grin, but he had doubt and it gnawed at his heart like a rodent.

  Eventually the sprawling camp of the King and his army came into view, rippling in the waves of heat, its many spires raised high and topped by the royal banners of orange and white to resemble a great palace. The cool of the river was nearby but Orodes had chosen the desert as his temporary home instead, since biting insects and disease ruled the swamps of the riverbank.

  Surenas and his men received cries of encouragement from many lines of the King’s archers and cataphracts. Zoroastrian priests by their altars blessed them as they entered the camp by the sacred Gate of the Sun. Stablehands immediately swarmed the spāhbed and his entourage after they dismounted and led away their exhausted foam-flecked horses. Surenas’s men saluted their lord and then melted into the encampment after he gave them leave to seek out its entertainments.

  “My cousin wishes to see you,” Ishmah informed Surenas. “And look, he has sent his own chair for your comfort,” he said gesturing at a waiting palanquin. “It seems that he cares not to share your arrival with anyone else.” The two men embraced and Ishmah said, “I shall see your eagles delivered safely.”

  They bid each other farewell and Surenas strode toward the palanquin as various handlers and well-wishers bowed low. He stepped to the elegantly carved frame, inlaid with gold and lapis set in geometric patterns to resemble stars, brushed aside a curtain of unusual gossamer fabric that displayed symbols of the Parthian Arsacid Kings, and made himself comfortable inside on embroidered purple cushions.

  After a moment, the palanquin rose from the sand, several of the slaves grunting from the strain of the lift. Their fetid unwashed stench assaulted Surenas’s nostrils, causing him to cover his face with a corner of the gossamer fabric, which had been perfumed for exactly this purpose. As the covered litter was carried aloft between rows of pitched tents, other smells filled the air: horseflesh and nightsoil, blacksmiths’ forges, leather, sweat and the gentler smells of lamb and fish cooking on fires. Such were the usual fragrances of an army in camp and so much a part of Surenas’s life that he barely noticed them.

  The palanquin arrived at the King’s tent. An attendant greeted Surenas with a bow so low it caused the man’s braids to brush the sand, and then he led the spāhbed to the King’s presence.

  “Ah, at last!” King Orodes rose from a seat made from black wood, intricately carved with unusual square patterns. “My favorite generalissimo arrives!” A grin lit up his usual dark counten
ance.

  Others in the room, men of strange disposition reclining on thick cushions, also came to their feet. Surenas ignored the company and instead took a knee and averted his eyes to the floor, demonstrating filial deference to his liege.

  “Generalissimo … Please …” The King gathered him to his feet.

  Surenas stood and noted the changes in Hyrodes Anaridius, as the King was known before taking the throne, since he had last seen him – the thickening belly, strands of gray in his tightly coiffed beard and hair, the shadows around his eyes. “I tremble in the presence of the Favorite of Mithra and Ahura Mazda,” Surenas said.

  “And I likewise tremble before Parthia’s greatest warrior,” replied Orodes, showing off the younger man to his guests. “Now, allow me to introduce General Saikan, from Northern Xiongnu … Have I pronounced it correctly?”

  The foreign general bowed his head slightly. He was a man of stature with a round belly and fierce deep-set gray eyes. Occupying his face was a thick and unruly beard of orange and white, banded here and there with silver beads.

  An older, one-armed man among the guests, bowed low in the formal manner. “Yes, King Orodes.”

  “And this is Bataar, General Saikan’s translator,” said Orodes, turning to Surenas. “Northern Xiongnu is a great kingdom to the east. They are a tough people who love war and horses and perhaps not in that order.” He laughed at his own whimsy and others quickly joined in.

  The sparse introduction apparently concluded, Spāhbed Surenas bowed to the barbarians and saw his gesture returned. It was then that several of Surenas’s attendants were given entrance, the captured Roman eagles held before them. The symbols were keenly wrought and covered over in gold leaf so that they gleamed, the dull candlelight within the tent affecting their luster not in the slightest. “And what treasures are these?” cried the King theatrically.

  “Eagles, symbols of empire, carried by the Romans. They call them aquilas and would sooner die a thousand deaths than release just one to the care of their enemies. And see I have brought you five, all that remains of Roman designs on your kingdom, my King.”

  Orodes’s eyes glittered as he beheld the symbols of the mighty birds, their wings outstretched. “They are as grand even as my own eagle, Black Lightning. All Parthia owes you a great debt, Surenas-Pahlav. Though tell me the truth, perhaps these Romans were not the towering men of war we believed them to be.”

  “Sire, I believe good fortune paved the way for our victory. Perhaps Ahura Mazda himself chose to fight in our ranks, for the Romans were the bravest soldiers I have ever laid eyes on.” The memory came before Surenas of Publius Licinius Crassus shot through with many arrows, fighting on his own to the last, and then falling on his sword as he wept tears not for himself but for his lost men. “They had no archers to speak of and their commander-in-chief, Proconsul Crassus, was impetuous and foolhardy. He came with an army of swordsmen. Had cover from our arrows been available to his legions, we would have been forced to engage with them hand-to-hand and then I fear the slaughter would have been ours to bear.”

  Bataar turned to his general and translated the conversation and then said, “General Saikan asks how is it that these Romans you defeated have won an empire?”

  Surenas looked at his King for permission to speak and it was granted. “They are the best infantry in the world, General. They fight on foot, rather than on horseback, as is the way of both Parthia and Xiongnu. If they are well led, their legions are unstoppable. And every night, without fail, these same legions build fortifications to keep them protected from attack. The fortifications, which are like very large towns, allow the Romans to retreat to a place of sanctuary if pressed, and also provide the perfect protection from which to mount a counter attack. The Roman army is an army of engineers and builders and it is this that allows them to hold the ground they have won, ground from which they move forward again to claim the next.”

  General Saikan frowned, deep in thought.

  King Orodes nodded, picturing the fight and the advantages of the battlefield, the Romans on the naked desert plain and unable to take even the slightest relief from the hail of Parthian arrows. Orodes brightened. “You, valiant Spāhbed, were the victor no matter the circumstances, and against unbelievable odds in terms of numbers, I am told. Tonight we shall dine in your honor and tomorrow there will be talk of rewards, for they must be considerable.”

  “Service in the name of my King is reward enough,” Surenas replied formally with a bow.

  “Nonsense. In the meantime, let us all drink to the health of Parthia and Xiongnu.”

  Cupbearers appeared with jugs of wine and water. The pleasantries adhered to, General Saikan reached for a cup, took a mouthful, and immediately spat it back into the cup. He snapped a comment to his entourage.

  “Is there a problem?” Orodes inquired.

  “The General means no offense, great King,” Translator Bataar said, his eyes shifting nervously about. “In Xiongnu, we make wine not from the grape, but from horse milk, which we revere greatly.”

  Orodes looked at Surenas, stunned. “Horse wine?” The King then boomed with laughter, which the men from Xiongnu caught like a fever and then roared along with him, delighted. Finally Orodes collapsed into the seat, somewhat tired. “Ah the wonders of the modern world. Surenas, you should get one of these.” He patted the seat’s armrest. “It’s called a chair. With each passing day I find it more difficult to pick myself up off the floor. But sitting like this I find you’re already halfway to your feet.” The King’s mood was indeed joyous today. “And look at this wonderment.” He leaned forward, picked a bolt of fabric from the floor and handed it to Surenas. It was the same gossamer material the spāhbed had seen earlier on the palanquin.

  Surenas ran his hand along it. Nothing had ever felt as smooth and refined to the touch. “From the coat of what animal is this spun? Perhaps it is a plant, as is cotton.”

  “Shhh …” replied the King like a conspirator. “I am told it is neither plant nor animal … It is a secret protected by the executioner’s sword. No one knows. The Xiongnu call it seer. Am I right?” the King inquired, addressing his question to Bataar.

  The translator bowed low. “Yes, highness, and your accent is excellent, if I may say. Seer or sī is the word in the Xiongnu language. In the language of Parthia, it would be translated as silk.”

  Orodes relieved the spāhbed of the bolt and said, “Silk … It must be of great value.”

  “Very much so, Highness,” said Bataar. “It is for this reason the Xiongnu have brought you silk rather than gold as a token of their deep gratitude for your friendship. Silk is worth far, far more.”

  Orodes hefted the bolt in his arms a couple of times as if checking its weight, and then placed it on a mound of cushions. “Yes, indeed, we are very great friends.” He turned to Surenas. “The Xiongnu are having many troubles of their own with their neighbors who are, in fact, the makers of this silk. It is not unlike our own situation with Rome, and the Xiongnu have come to me desirous of assistance. Perhaps I might have you speak with them for I am certain your counsel would be worthwhile.”

  “Only if it please my King,” Surenas replied.

  “It would please me greatly. It would also please me if we dined tonight in honor of your victory, a feat so grand that it will live forever on men’s lips, and your name along with it, I am sure. I trust you will enjoy the hospitality of a grateful King once the sun has set?”

  Surenas bowed to his King and the delegation from Xiongnu, accepting that his audience with Orodes had, for now, ended. An attendant then accompanied the spāhbed to his quarters, a large tent erected for his comfort, set aside from the King’s. Inside, the room was strewn with cushions and tables that bore trays of fruits and sweetbreads. A copper large enough for his person had also been filled with warm water and infused with an unfamiliar yet not unpleasant fragrance.

  Servants appeared with trays of cooked meats, as well as watered wine, and set them
down. And then they were gone, leaving behind four women of striking beauty, each dressed in the flimsy insubstantial material known as silk from the kingdom bordering that of the Xiongnu. The silk was the color of milk and so fine that it concealed neither nipple, aureole, navel, nor the cleft between their legs. Each woman let the film slide from her body so that all were naked but for the jewels in their hair, and then they came to him.

  XVI

  Food and especially water was provided in reasonable quantities to avoid disease and undue hardship, the slavers keen to avoid damaging that which they hoped to sell. Shelter, though, was a different matter. At night, under clear skies, the temperatures dropped markedly so that the legionaries would huddle together to conserve their body heat. But in the daytime, the temperatures reversed and by mid-morning, the men would be cowering in the ever-diminishing crescent of shade beneath the wall. And they would gather together similarly in the afternoon when some shelter from the sun would again present itself on the opposite side of the pen. But at midday, and for too long on either side of it, there was no refuge at all from Sol Indiges burning directly overhead.

  As with any commodity in demand, those who were canny stepped forward to exploit it, imposing their will on the weak by dispossessing them of it. In the pen shared by Rufinius and what remained of his men, time in the shade was being exchanged for favors and whatever trinkets of value had been smuggled in.

  One such avaricious opportunist was named Adrianus Nonus, a native of Carthage. Nonus had enlisted in Crassus’s army, so rumor told it, to escape those who would balance his many debts against the spillage of his own blood. Adrianus Nonus, and several others he recruited, murdered two other men in order to establish their hegemony over the shade, the most precious resource in the pen. But the day came when Nonus and his criminals beat on the wrong man – Carbo. The legionary was huddled in a prime space beneath the wall. Though small in stature for a soldier and apparently without company, Carbo refused to give up his place when commanded to do so by Nonus.