by R. W. Peake
On the third day after we crossed the Ister, our vanguard spotted the dust cloud of the retreating Bastarnae, putting us less than a day’s march behind. The Bastarnae were as aware of our presence as we were of theirs, and we began to spot small groups of mounted men hovering about our flanks. Crassus did not bother trying to chase them off, knowing that the only thing that would be accomplished was wearing out our own horses, and besides, we were doing the same thing to their column. At the end of that day, we made camp, with Crassus setting the watch at quarter-strength, meaning that the equivalent of one full Legion was on duty manning the ramparts at any given time. Otherwise, it was a normal day on the march when we met to discuss our plans for the next day or two. Crassus had every intention of closing with the Bastarnae immediately, despite not all of the Primi Pili being as eager. Aulus Natalis, the Primus Pilus of the 13th in particular urged a more cautious approach.
“I think we should harry them first, wear them down like a pack of wolves does with a herd of elk,” he suggested. “Not only will it wear them out being constantly on guard, they’re more likely to make a mistake that we can take advantage of.”
I saw at least one head nod; Vibius Aelianus of the 15th clearly thought this was a good idea as well. Crassus considered this for a moment, or at least appeared to before he shook his head.
“While that's certainly an idea with merit, I don’t want to take the time that it would cost to do what you propose. No, we're going to close with these Bastarnae at the first opportunity.”
Before the briefing was concluded, a runner sent by the duty Centurion at the main gate arrived to inform Crassus that a delegation of Bastarnae had approached under a flag of truce, wishing to speak to our general.
Smiling broadly, Crassus clapped his hands together. “Let’s see what these barbarians have to say, shall we?”
Telling us to remain, we sat waiting in Crassus’ office in the Praetorium for the Bastarnae delegates to be brought to us. While we waited, Crassus ordered his slaves to bring several amphorae of wine, which I found curious.
When I asked him why he was having so much brought, he explained, “These people are of Scythian stock. They're notorious for their weak head and greed when it comes to wine. I plan on giving them as much as they can drink to see what we can learn.”
It was a cunning thing to do, and I for one looked forward to watching it happen. The Bastarnae were announced and unlike when Crassus had met with the Moesians, he did not keep them waiting. There were five of them, wearing their best attire, which seemed to be a combination of woolen tunics, cloaks of mostly greens and browns, and leather bracae, which I could see suited them for riding. They were all bearded, with their hair either plaited or hanging loosely about their shoulders. Three of the men appeared to be about my age or a little older, while two were younger, carrying themselves with all the arrogance of the highly born warrior. After the initial introductions, the first few moments were spent in measuring each other, with the younger men glaring at us as if their looks alone could strike us dead. I had remained seated the whole time and one of the young men chose to lock eyes with me, transporting me back to the day with Ariovistus and the yellow-haired warrior. I had not had the opportunity to face that man in combat and I wondered if I would have the chance this time around. We stared at each other for the span of several heartbeats before the spell was broken by one of the other Bastarnae, who spoke in heavily accented Greek.
“Marcus Crassus, we have come on behalf of our people, who you call Bastarnae, to ask with all the respect due a great nation like Rome, to desist in your pursuit.”
“Why would we do that?” Crassus asked, while offering the Bastarnae the first of what would be many cups of wine. “You have trespassed into the lands of people with whom Rome has a treaty of friendship. You and your people have caused great hardship to those people.”
The spokesman bowed his head in acknowledgement of Crassus’ words.
“You are right, Marcus Crassus. But we have caused Rome no harm, and we have seen the error of our ways, and have departed those lands of which you speak. We are now back in our territory, and now it is you who are trespassing.”
“We would not be here if you had not made your incursion first,” Crassus pointed out, but I myself was not so sure this was the truth, believing then and now that Marcus Crassus would have found an excuse one way or the other.
“Our people were starving,” the spokesman replied. “We suffered a horrible drought two straight years, so we were forced to do something to feed them. Surely you can understand that.”
“That does not justify you preying on others, and taking food from others. Now people who are our friends are starving.”
“Surely Rome has more than enough to provide for them,” the Bastarnae countered.
“Whether we do or not is none of your business. What is our business is making sure that our friends are allowed to live in peace.”
Nothing was said for a few moments, each side only glaring at the other. Finally, Crassus favored the Bastarnae with a smile, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
“Let's not allow things to become so contentious so quickly. Please, have some more wine. It is Falernian, which is one of our best vintages.”
As Crassus had hoped, the Bastarnae did not refuse his offer, all of them eagerly holding their cups out.
“Tell me more about your people. We know very little about the Bastarnae.” Crassus laid back on his couch, the tacit signal that, for the moment, the negotiations were suspended and it was now more of a social occasion.
For the next little while, we listened to the Bastarnae tell us about their history, their customs, then after a few more cups of wine, their prowess in battle. They boasted about this with seemingly no thought given to the fact that they were talking to men who were their enemies. As we had been told, the Bastarnae were originally Scythians, a branch of that tribe that had been forced to migrate south and west because of some long-forgotten troubles with other Scythian tribes. The lands they lived in now were more heavily forested, without the rolling, open plains that are the main feature of the Scythian lands. One result of this move was that their people relied on the horse less than their cousins to the east. That explained why there was a preponderance of infantry among their warriors. They went on to explain the origin of their heavy weapon that I have mentioned before, the falx. It is a multi-purpose tool, used for harvesting the thick stalks of flax, which they claimed was how the name was derived. They boasted that in the hands of a skilled warrior, a falx could split a man in two lengthwise, something that we found hard to believe, but they insisted was true.
“Hopefully, none of you Romans will ever find out,” said the leader of the delegation, a man named Timonax, though he was smiling as he said it.
“I am sure we won’t,” Crassus said smoothly, while signaling for a slave to refill Timonax’s cup, along with those of his companions.
The young man who had been glaring at me was the only one who did not participate much in the conversation; the only time he became animated was when talk turned to war and the Bastarnae prowess at it. His name, as I remember, was Scylax, and there apparently was some sort of blood tie between him and Timonax, but I could not determine what it was. With the evening progressing, the Bastarnae became increasingly drunk, while we Romans only pretended to drink from our cups, surreptitiously pouring out our wine when the Bastarnae were not looking so that it appeared that we were refilling at least as much as they were.
“So, Timonax, if we were to withdraw, what would we have to show for it?” Crassus asked this question out of nowhere.
Timonax looked at him in drunken surprise.
“Why, your lives,” he replied merrily, lifting his cup in salute. “None of your men would be cut in two by a falx. Isn’t that enough?”
Crassus appeared to actually take the response seriously, saying nothing for a bit, like he was thinking about it.
“It migh
t be,” he said cautiously, leaning forward as if he were about to impart a precious secret.
Timonax did likewise, clearly eager to be taken into Crassus’ confidence. I sat there slightly stunned that these Bastarnae were seemingly falling for Crassus’ act so easily.
“If we were to withdraw, would we do so without interference?” Crassus asked Timonax.
Holding up his hand, palm outward, then placing it over his heart, Timonax said, “I give you my solemn oath, Marcus Crassus, that should you choose to withdraw, you will do so in peace.”
Scylax and the other younger man, whose name was Meton, both leapt to their feet, Scylax saying something in his native tongue to Timonax, the younger man’s face red from wine and anger, or so it seemed. This engendered a heated conversation, with the two sides clearly arguing their viewpoints, Scylax and Meton on one side, the three older men on the other.
“I think you've poked a stick into a hornet’s nest,” I murmured to Crassus.
“It would certainly seem that way,” Crassus agreed, but did nothing to stop the argument.
“Do you understand what they’re saying?” I whispered to Crassus, who shook his head.
“But I think the meaning is clear. The two young men don’t like the idea of allowing us to depart without teaching us a lesson of some sort. The other three clearly don’t agree.”
That had been my sense of the conversation and it was quite extraordinary watching the Bastarnae bicker among themselves like we were not even there. It was only after Crassus cleared his throat several times that Timonax seemed to come to his senses, making an awkward bow to Crassus.
“Please forgive us, Marcus Crassus. We were having a…er… discussion about this matter. Young Scylax and Meton obviously have a strong opinion, but as they are not in command of this delegation, I assure you that my word is what matters here.”
“So it would appear,” Crassus commented dryly. “And it is good to know that your wise counsel holds sway here.”
Timonax was clearly flattered and was apparently inspired by Crassus’ words to propose a toast to his hosts, saying that he hoped that this meeting marked the beginning of a new era of friendship between the Bastarnae and Rome. For a moment, it appeared that Scylax would refuse to drink from his cup, but Timonax gave him a warning glare, and he finally drained his cup in one swallow.
“I think that this would be a good time to adjourn this meeting,” Crassus announced, and his guests were clearly disappointed that the drinking was over. “I would consider it a great honor if you were to stay here tonight as my guests,” he told Timonax, favoring him with a knowing grin. “Especially given how much you have enjoyed our Falernian. I would hate to feel responsible for one of you falling from your horse in the dark and injuring yourself.”
Scylax gave a drunken snort to show his contempt for this idea, while even Timonax seemed to be a bit affronted by the idea that they had no head for wine.
“I assure you, Marcus Crassus, the Bastarnae has not been born that cannot ride a horse, even when he is fast asleep, let alone slightly out of our head from wine right now as we are.”
“Be that as it may,” Crassus replied lightly. “I would feel responsible if something were to happen. Besides, your camp is a fair distance away, and we have not finished our business. It seems a waste to have to ride there, just to turn around, and then come back in just a short while.”
That argument seemed to clinch it for Timonax, who beamed with pleasure at the thought of being the honored guest of a Legate Proconsul like Marcus Crassus, and he quickly agreed.
“Wonderful!” Crassus clapped his hands together, seeming to be genuinely happy that they had agreed. “I will see to it that you have accommodations, which I apologize for in advance. We are, after all, an army on the march.”
“I am sure that whatever you choose for us will be more than suitable.” Timonax seemed to enjoy the idea that he could be in a position to soothe Crassus’ concerns.
Crassus turned to Claudius, who had been largely ignored, as had Cornelius, saying, “Tribune, you will surrender your quarters to Timonax and his deputies immediately. Is that understood?”
Claudius, who was still forced to sit on a soft pillow because of his wound, much to our amusement, looked as if a pig had come and taken a huge cac on his boots, but he was smart enough to know better than to argue with his general in front of the Bastarnae.
“Yes, sir,” he said stiffly, then opened his mouth to ask, “Where will I sleep tonight?”
“With Cornelius, of course,” Crassus said, and now Claudius looked very much as if he had been forced to eat that pig’s cac.
The two Tribunes hated each other; Claudius making it clear that his family bloodline was far superior to that of Cornelius, who despised Claudius for being the humorless prig that he was. I had come to rather like young Cornelius and I suppose his hatred of Claudius recommended him to me. He was not very smart, but he was brave and he tried hard, with a cheerful disposition that made him popular with the men, which was the exact opposite of Claudius. I concealed a smirk at the thought of Claudius being forced to share space with Cornelius, who it must be said did not look any happier at the prospect. With the sleeping arrangements settled, Crassus announced that he would usher the Bastarnae to their quarters himself, but before he left, he had a quiet word with me.
“Stay here, and keep the Primi Pili here. I have something in mind.”
When Crassus returned, he wasted no time.
“We're going to steal a march on the Bastarnae. I want the Legions ready to march in a third of a watch, minus one Cohort from each to stay behind and guard the camp.”
The Primi Pili all began talking at once, but for once, Crassus was not willing to let them voice their opinions or objections.
“This isn't open for discussion,” he told them with a hint of iron in his voice, stilling the men’s tongues immediately.
I was as surprised as the rest of them, but I was willing to hear him out before I said a word.
“My plan is simple. Our scouts have informed me that there's a large forest about three miles north of here, about the same distance south of the Bastarnae camp. We're going to march tonight, and move into the forest and take up positions with the Legions. Then, the cavalry is going to move into their position so that at first light, they're going to launch a raid on the Bastarnae.” Crassus paused to let his words sink in, giving me time to think about what his intent most likely was, and I had to stop myself from smiling. “The Bastarnae, as we've seen tonight, are impetuous. And I believe that Scylax and his friend Meton are representative of a good number of the Bastarnae who are spoiling for a fight to punish us for following them into their lands. I'm counting on those hotheads to overrule the more cautious among them, and I think that seeing just our cavalry will encourage them as well. I want them to pursue our cavalry, who will put up enough of a fight to get their blood boiling and howling for their scalps. You can figure out the rest if you haven’t already.”
“They'll pursue our cavalry, and run headlong into our ambush,” Macrinus said slowly, to which Crassus nodded.
“Exactly.”
“But what about the delegation?” Aelianus asked. “Isn’t it a violation of our own law to attack a party that we're in negotiations with?”
“Primus Pilus, that's something you need not concern yourself with.” Crassus’ tone was stiff, and I could see that he was not happy that the question had been raised. “What I need to know from you is if the 15th Legion will be ready to march within a third of a watch.”
Aelianus plainly did not like the rebuke, but his tone was professional as he assured Crassus that the 15th would indeed be ready.
“Very well,” Crassus said as he dismissed us. “Prepare the army to march.”
I returned to my tent, assuring Crassus before I did that I was fit enough to accompany the army, to which he relented, but only after extracting a promise that I would not get involved in any fighting. Makin
g the promise readily, I knew that it would be impossible to enforce should things go badly. Entering my tent, I tried to move quietly, since the only lamp that was alive was the one on Diocles’ desk that we kept lit at night until we had both retired, telling me that Diocles was done for the evening. Having long before this point in time allowed him to create a private space for himself by using some wooden framed leather partitions that gave him his own small room, I could not see whether he was sleeping or not, but I assumed that he was. That was why, when I heard what I thought was a giggle, I was sure I was hearing things. When it happened again, I froze in mid-stride, holding my breath as I listened intently. After a moment, I heard it a third time, confirming what I thought I had heard; it was definitely, without a doubt, a female giggle. Completely unsure what to do, I stood there motionless, my mind struggling to understand what I had just heard. Finally, my curiosity overcame me and I tiptoed over to stand just on the other side of the partition, where I stood with my ear cocked. There was another noise, except this was no giggle, and I could stand it no longer. Crossing to the desk, I picked up the lamp, then returned to Diocles’ sleeping cubicle, pulling the partition aside. In the flickering light, my eye sensed more than saw a flurry of movement as his blanket flew up above his pallet before settling back down, only his face showing. Blinking rapidly, Diocles feigned a yawn, throwing his arms out in an exaggerated stretch.
