“Make them hurry,” Gaius muttered. “I want it over with. Where is the Parthian?”
Lollius shook his shoulders. “He was sent word and men to escort him to you. But he is not here. They haven’t found him?”
“Find him,” he snarled.
A guard nodded, jumped on a horse and rode away to the camps to find the man.
More horns were blowing. The Nabataean riders surged into the tents on the sides of the battle, hacking furiously at the confused mass of the foe. Women screamed, children fell, spears stabbed down and up, and riders began to fall from saddles, as a furious chaos enveloped the plain.
Gaius watched the butchery of the innocents, his face slack with horror. Lollius sat on his horse, silent.
Then, the legion entered the fray.
The first cohort, with the best men of the legion, a thick column of murderous professionals surged forward in the middle and ran promptly over the tents, trampling them and anyone inside. The Aquila was with them, the Eagle gleaming dully, and the cohort and century standards dipped as the men roared their defiance at scattering enemies, who ran for what was a wall building of enemy shields and spears, not far. The Romans went forward like a wave for that large mass of the enemy, where more and more desperate men were building an ever-thicker wall of shields. The enemy leaders were yelling amongst them, waving spears high, and then seeing the Roman soldiers so close, they were calling for their men to hold. Horns rang, drums beat, and the enemy was brave.
None of it mattered.
The first cohort stopped in a practiced mass, arms pumped, and pila flew in a deadly rain. The shieldwall fell into chaos, dozens of men impaled, hundreds wounded, and most shields useless, as the pila were bent upon entering the shields and flesh. A horse with a dead chief was riding wildly amongst the warriors, causing chaos. The cohort charged, the other cohorts tore to the less organized mass of thousands of the enemy on the sides, cutting men down like barley. The Nabataeans at the back were embroiled in a furious combat, sometimes with the families of the warriors. One could see the Syrian alae riding from the south, to destroy and capture every single enemy.
The enemy put up a fight.
It was all about the first cohort and the Aquila for them.
Hundreds of men rushed to hold against the middle of the legion, to defy the Eagle, and while many turned away to fight for their poor families, most rallied around a red silken flag in the middle of the torn enemy formation, climbing over corpses to hold the standard of the lord I had likely killed in the White Village.
A thousand more rushed forward, howling, but the first cohort marched on, and over them. More pila flew, and while now the enemy lobbed their weapons back at the Romans, felling a man here and there, their bravery made no difference. The enemy fell in droves as the pila killed them, the auxilia slingers and now Nabataean archers running on the sides adding to the horror.
Like a wave, the first cohort crashed over the bodies, crushing the shields of the defenders with their own and then, with practiced moves, cut into their midst. The red standard was their goal, and there a dozen rich lords sat, screaming for their men to fight. One hero charged the Roman ranks to plug a hole, then he was pulled from his saddle and butchered. The Roman swords stabbed, they struggled like a hideous beast in a press of shields, bodies, the corpses and horses, and then, suddenly, hundreds of the enemy fell, and a thousand fled.
The rest was butchery.
Some hundreds of desperate men clashed amidst the tents, and swords hacked, and stabbed. Surging legionnaire standards were rushing wherever there was resistance. A great enemy chief was heaving about with a spear, fifty men were hovering in fear around him, but pila of the third cohort felled the men from the saddle, horses fell on their faces, legs kicking in the air, and the great warrior charged the Roman cohort with battle madness, his few remaining men with him. Romans were ridden over, Roman blood spilled as hooves and swords claimed lives and then, finally, a tough pair of legionnaires stabbed the man’s horse and slashed its legs and it fell in a heap. The man was fighting hard, dragging a legionnaire down with him, stabbing at the man, but finally, the enemy was held down.
His children ran to him, sturdy boys, weeping, and a centurion butchered both, then the leader.
And after that, a weeping woman died, one who had been crawling for them.
“They are killing women!” Gaius said. “Children.”
“We could try to go and save some,” Sejanus muttered.
“The legatus should—”
“Do you want me to take my men?” Sejanus called out. “I can get there on a run. I can take some of the Germani as well!”
Gaius stirred. “Go! And save as many as you can, by Juppiter!”
“Ten men, with him!” I called to my Guards.
Sejanus yelled the order, the Praetorians looked up at him, and began to jog down.
“Why are they killing—” Gaius said.
Lollius sighed. “Because they are crude men, and it is their only skill. And you must thank them for it.”
“Not for this,” he snarled.
“And did you not yourself just now—”
Gaius made a choking voice. “Enough!”
The Praetorians moved down, swords out. What could they save, I had no idea. The butchery and terror below was beyond stopping. Hundreds of families were scattering, and I saw the Nabataeans especially committing murders which made Gaius weep. The Praetorians reached the bottom of the hill, and Sejanus was calling for them to hurry. A thick dust was billowing below, making it hard to see.
Gaius was frowning, and wiping his tears. “At least we are spared the shit.”
“But there can be enemies fleeing this way,” I said. “I will take some men downhill.”
“Do so.”
“Ride downhill, men,” I said. “We must make sure none of the enemy get past. Wandal, follow me. A few men stay here.” I pointed them out, and rode downhill.
We went slowly, reached halfway point, and then I heard Lollius calling out.
“What are they? Corvus!”
I turned my head. Lollius was turned to the north, and my few men were turning with him.
Wandal was up there with the three Guards.
I sat there, staring up at them, and cursed bitterly. I hesitated, and then I kicked my horse and turned it back. Five of mine followed, the others had disappeared into the dust.
Gaius and Lollius saw me coming, and Wandal was holding a sword while the guards I had left there, stared. I reached them, and saw there were fifteen men riding up the hill. They carried spears, swords and all had eyes locked on Gaius. All were armored like Nabataeans. There were Praetorians behind them, looking up confused. They had passed them, and must have known the passphrase.
“Are they lost?” Gaius asked.
“They passed, so they know Roman passphrases!” Lollius said, thinking of the same as I had. “None should be allowed near Gaius!”
The leader of the Nabataeans whistled, and the men spread into a line.
“Wandal!” I yelled. “Guard him! Guard Gaius! Take him down to the Praetorians! The rest! Fight!” The Germani Guards turned. “At them! Line up, and down at them! Don’t let them through!”
I kicked the horse, cursing my bad luck. It whinnied wildly, as I drew my spear in an overhand position. The others joined me in a line matching the enemy, and we rode down. The enemy looked surprised, as they spied us coming. They were all bearded, savage men, and hesitated only for a moment. Leading them was a man in a red Nabataean robe, long black hair billowing behind and his sword was high as his chainmail gleamed, and I guided my horse for him. They were close, my horse was bumping down the hillside with great speed, and I hazarded a glance behind. I saw Wandal before Gaius, who was white as milk, a sword in his hand, shaking his head at Wandal, who was screaming orders at him, as he tried to grasp his horse’s bridle. Lollius was before him, riding around and screaming at Gaius. The standard-bearer was pushing Gaius’s horse,
also speaking animatedly.
Gaius refused to go.
I turned back, and braced myself. The enemy yelled, threw spears, I heard one of my men scream, then our horses crashed together.
Cavalry in the Germani often do not fight in a saddle. The horse is but means to get to battle. A horse is hard to train into charging a noisy churning battle. With the Batavi, and some Ubii, however, that was exactly how they were trained, and apparently, it was the way for the Arabian riders as well, who cursed and screamed defiance, and then fell as our spears reached for them. One of the Nabataeans veered off the line for me, and the leader was just behind him. I stabbed my spear mightily at the grimacing enemy. The man disappeared from the saddle and my spear was gone with him, my palm bleeding from the force of the impact. I jerked at the horse, struggling to turn it and crashed into the red-robed leader with such brutal force the horses fell in a tangle of legs and flesh. I hurtled over his horse’s neck, then crashed over him, and grappling, we rolled downhill, ripping and pulling at each other. He came out on top, spit his hair out of his mouth, looked down at me, a beautiful, statuesque man, and pulled a short sword so fast any professional killer would be envious. In fact, he was just that, a killer.
“For Phraates,” he spat, and stabbed.
I caught the sword hand, and the tip hovered over my eye.
His eyes widened, I roared, and pushed him off me, and he cursed as I rolled over him. I screamed as I butted my head in his face. He moaned, not so pretty now, struggled, and ripped his sword free, and I had to fall on his arm, while I pushed a finger into his eye. He thrashed, panted, and howled, and then I struck his throat. He bled from his mouth, eyes wide and red and died a shuddering death.
I got up, pulled Nightbright, and saw Wandal before Gaius, roaring and sword slashing at enemies trying to reach the young Caesar. He fought like god Donor himself. His sword stabbed, then again. Two men fell, one from a wound to his belly, another with blood flowing from his thigh in red spurts. Both went still, as the standard-bearer’s sword visited their bodies. Two of my men were motionless, one on his saddle, blood flowing down the horse’s legs, another in a sad lump up the hill. One of my Germani, his sword bloodied, rode around three men he had killed, laughing. Another Germani was hacking down at a quivering pair of bandits trying to crawl away, and one more man, the last mounted enemy, was riding away in wild panic, his eyes round with horror. Of the fifteen bandits, I could see only this one.
He was going to pass me.
He was trying to control his terrified horse, and his eyes widened as he saw me. It was too late.
I ran at him, and stabbed up, the blade ripping into his guts, and the impact tore the blade from my hands. He fell onto his horse’s neck, and rode off, trailing blood, and fell from his saddle at the bottom of the hill, where Praetorians were rushing to make sure he was dead. I walked to pick up Nightbright.
Gaius was staring at me with horrified eyes. Lollius, still riding before him was thanking Wandal with a shaking head. Sejanus, red faced from shame was rushing up with the men, and the rest of the Guards were with them.
“They tried to get me killed,” Gaius said. “Who?”
“Phraates,” Lollius said softly. “No. It’s not—”
I squinted at him, and pointed at the dead leader. “He said Phraates.”
“No,” Lollius said. “That makes no sense. That would mean war, and he doesn’t want one. I—”
Gaius shook his head, and rode off towards the battle. “The Parthian envoy wasn’t here. Was he?”
“He—”
Sejanus slapped the horse of Lollius. “They must know the passphrase to get anywhere close to here!”
Lollius shook his head. “It could be Phraates. But how would they know the passphrase? No. There is more to this. There is a traitor. The envoy doesn’t know Roman passphrases, does he?”
He was right.
He went on. “We must keep our eyes open. Someone must have helped them. See if anyone is alive. Talk to the Praetorians below. I want to know why they let these men pass. Then I must see the envoy. After the battle, that is.”
None of the bandits were alive, and the battle was still going on.
We waited with Gaius, until the battle was over. It was a victory, of course. Gaius was hailed by the troops below, who saw his standard held high. They could not see his ashen face, pale at the sight of the enslaved children and raped women. The horror and misery of war changed him forever, as I knew it would. Something had died in him. For years, he had tried to be Augustus. He had learned, listened, and obeyed. He had done his best, and he could do well.
But in the end, the boy was a good man. Unlike the brutes around him, he abhorred war.
He would not be a fine ruler. He needed a general.
Tiberius? Perhaps.
Later, we found the Parthian envoy, or rather his body; he had died in his tent, his throat slashed. He had been party to the murder attempt, but he had been silenced.
The Praetorians below the hill had indeed been given the passphrase. Two lost their lives as a warning. In truth, there had not been enough of them to stop the riders anyway. Gaius blamed himself, for sending his guards away.
We guarded Gaius like hawks after that. Later, in a month and a half, we marched back north, through Jerusalem, and found Livilla in Antioch.
She had been weeping, for Lucius had died on his way to Hispania.
CHAPTER 19 (The Euphrates, October 1 st, 2 A.D.)
The banks of the Euphrates were calm, as if the spirits of the river themselves had acknowledged the solemnity of such an important occasion. Wandal and I were walking back and forth behind Gaius, who sat on his horse looking at the great party of Phraates approaching on a wide raft that was being pushed over the green river by his servants. Hawks were flying high above us, and a screeching eagle was spotted flying for the east, which the priests took to be a good sign. Wandal was smiling at the sight of some local holy men hopping angrily before a tribune, trying to get paid for the favorable augury, only to fail miserably. The tribune looked like it would be easier to make a stone cry, than to get him to reach for his coin. The legions were arrayed in a wide front across the land behind us, and I had to admit Phraates was brave to cross the river.
Ever since the assassination attempt on Gaius, and the news of the death of Lucius, our consul had been nervous to the bone, and Livilla had been hovering around him like a vulture. The girl was hardly subtle; trying to mold Gaius into a leader worthy of his famous name, but Gaius spent most of his time in deep thoughts, and left Lollius to deal with most of the issues. The death of Lucius had been a hammer blow to shake him to his core. Even during our evening wine, he often let his thoughts wander and hardly noticed I had left. He never spoke of Lucius, but clearly thought of little else.
And yet, Roman affairs waited on no dead boys.
The legions marched, diplomats negotiated, and while Gaius hated every moment of his duty in the East, his decision to help Nabataea had shown Phraates he could mean business.
Wandal was eyeing the young man. “I’ve seen happier dying people, I have. There were sick folks in Germania who would be more cheerful, while puking into their own mouths, don’t you agree?”
I shrugged. The cheerless countenance was perfect for the occasion.
While the man who approached had possibly tried to murder Gaius, the situation would require Gaius to greet him with civility. Gaius had shown his ability to make decisions, and to be ruthless. Phraates knew all this now. The face was hard and while Gaius would be civil, the sadness in Gaius seemed somehow appropriately dangerous.
Publius walked to us, and stared at the approaching king. He shook his shoulders and spoke tiredly, for the travel had taken its toll on all of us. “Gaius alone speaks with the man today. No negotiators.”
“I know,” I said. “I will make sure.” I would be near Gaius as the two feasted.
Publius coughed several times. He had been ill for a month, but had
staunchly stayed with Gaius to teach him about the manners of their enemies, as well as the usual Greek, philosophy, and other subjects. “He thinks Phraates tried to kill him, and yet, here he is, happy to meet with his enemies. A truly fascinating young man, but I think he will need a lot of support from his advisors, as he stays in Rome and deals with gentler issues.”
“He is made of tough fiber,” I said.
“See. Sejanus will receive the high guest.”
I gazed at Publius, and he nodded at me, his eyes on Wandal. Then we saw Lollius stepping forward. The man had worked his arse off to negotiate with the envoys of Phraates. He had also done his best to find out who had silenced the Parthian envoy in Nabataea.
He had found out nothing. Neither had I. And yet, someone had tried to kill Gaius.
The king was very close now.
On the shore of the Tigris, Sejanus and his Praetorians, with Roman officials, were standing with proud stature, and yet they all looked somewhat disappointing, since Phraates was a head taller than the lot. The Parthian wore silks, colorful with blues and reds, and gold was prominent around his limbs and neck. His beard was black, and hair groomed and like many of the local royals, he was a beautiful man. With him was the envoy I had seen in Antioch, the older, thin man.
Publius smiled. “That’s Vonones. The old envoy. The king is handsome, is he not? Alexander the Great’s general Antipater always said no man so pretty could ever be a threat.”
“That’s why the Germani do so well in war,” I answered. “All ugly as a mule’s arse.”
He laughed and we watched how Sejanus nodded his head towards a sea of tents on our side of the river.
“It is an insult for him to take the trip to this side,” Publius said, staring at Lollius. “Let us see. If he promises to stay out of the affairs of Armenia and Atropatene, with nothing to show for his people, except peace with Rome, I’d be truly surprised.”
The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5) Page 26