Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) (7 page)

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.

“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 – ”