The Eternal Mercenary

by Barry Sadler

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Casca. watched his commander. Avidius Cassius was gazing out toward the desert, a look of intense concentration on his hard face. He seemed a living copy of the stone bust that might be made of him should this campaign succeed and the emperorship be within his grasp. That's what generals thought about, wasn't it? What they would get personally out of a battle? Shit! Was there any real difference between a general and a trooper? For the soldier, rape and plunder? For the general, laurels and honor... and riches? Oh, hell no. Sure, you thought about what you could get – but wouldn't a general also plan the battle? Plan the whole campaign in this case? What was it like to be a general? What went through a general's mind? The thought sniffed idly at the edges of Casca's brain: The Jew said that what I am, I shall remain. Did he mean I will always be a trooper and never a general? But would I want to be a general? Would I know what the hell to do if I were a general? If I were Avidius Cassius, what would I be thinking of right now? He looked at the stone-faced bastard, but he could read nothing in the marble features. Hell, that's his job. Mine is to do what I will be told.

  Avidius Cassius was indeed thinking about the campaign, and his mind was a complicated pattern of history, facts, possibilities, problems, and plans. Across the desert lay Parthia, the enemy he intended to conquer – and one not to be taken lightly. The Parthians themselves were direct descendants of the great empire of Persia that Xerxes had led so magnificently. Then, when the great Alexander's generals divided his empire among themselves, Ptolemy had taken Egypt and the Seleucids had taken Persia. Thus the Parthians combined the best of the Greek and Persian world in their armies. For hundreds of years they had held off the Roman eagles. Many times the Roman armies had invaded – and even destroyed Ctesiphon, but like the phoenix of their legends, Parthia always rose again. And again. Only the Germans equaled the Parthians for the amount of trouble they gave Rome.

  Details of the Parthian military organization ran through Avidius's mind... formidable heavy cavalry... the cataphracti... wearing armored scales and armed with the great lance, the contus, using shock tactics to break their enemy lines. These were the wealthy and the nobles for the most part. The bulk of the Parthian cavalry was made up of horse archers of great skill in shooting and riding. Now those bowmen.... Destroy them and… Inwardly Avidius smiled.

  This campaign had been well-planned. The legions of Rome had gathered at Bostra and Damascus. There were contingents from Thrace and Africa. Even three cohorts of the Tenth were present for the campaign, being temporarily assigned to "the praetor Avidius Cassius." Well... praetor now... who knows what the future will hold? The strength was there. Cassius was not about to repeat the mistakes made when last he came to Parthia and had to share command with that head-in-his ass bastard who had fucked up that campaign. This time he was in sole command – and that would make the difference.

  Already the native contingents of Armenia had, in response to his message of aid, sent their forces across their borders and were harassing the Parthians from the north. Even now they were holding the city of Amida under siege while auxiliaries from Cappadocia and Galatia, with the aid of several Roman cohorts, were attacking Europa. This should serve to split the forces of Parthia and draw them off in several directions. Now it was time for him to play his hole card. He would take his legions and native auxiliaries and cross this great desert before him on a direct forced march. Five hundred miles as the crow flies and they would reach the valley of the Euphrates. For weeks now Avidius had been sending out units into the desert, laying in caches of water and food. Now he was ready. Once he gave the command to form the legions they would march thirty miles a day and come in from the south, just north of Babylon, and attack Ctesiphon from the rear while the bulk of the Parthian armies were involved with trying to relieve the sieges of Amida and Europa.

  Avidius Cassius gave the command to form the legion, and the army entered the great desert. The Arab auxiliaries rode their camels wrapped in their voluminous robes, their faces covered by scarves to keep the sand from their mouths and noses. Avidius had learned much from his last venture into the hostile regions of Parthia. He was an ambitious man, lean and sharp-featured, and his brain was just as lean and sharp. He understood that his soldiers would have to be in the best condition possible if they were to have any chance for success after the desert crossing. Therefore all armor was taken and put into carts and on the back of the pack animals. The soldiers were issued robes not dissimilar to those the Arabs wore. Only the troops assigned to flanking duty and point were in armor – and these troops were changed several times a day. They entered the desert, and scorpions and snakes were trampled under the heels of twenty thousand Romans and their allies. Avidius had planned well. The miles rolled by, and few in his charge were lost to the sun or to thirst. Only sixteen hundred would die in the twenty days of the march.

  Casca lost himself in the familiar routine of the march. Like the others, he tried to ignore the omnipresent force of the sun beating down like a hammer from the heavens. The army marched head bowed, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as though this was their only mission on earth. Each knew that to be separated from the column was to die. It was up to them to keep up the back-breaking – and mind-breaking – pace that Avidius had set. Stragglers were left behind, and few ever showed up again. They were either killed or sold into slavery by the bands of bandits and scavengers who followed after the Romans like hyenas waiting for the leftovers and scraps. But even they stopped following after a week. The desert was too much.

  Several camp followers had attached themselves to the legions as such have done since time immemorial. Many were the favorites of officers who had brought them along for their own comfort and pleasure. Avidius had them all strangled the fourth day of the march when he saw how much of his precious supply of water they were using. Since none would survive the four days' walk back to the last outpost, either dying alone or suffering the ugly death or slavery they would get from the scavenging bands that trailed after the army, Avidius considered his order to kill them an act of kindness on his part. Besides, dead they could say nothing of any plans they may have heard about.

  And so the army marched, feet dragging and tongues beginning to swell. But just before the ordeal became unbearable they would reach one of the caches, and the dole of water and grain would be made. It was not enough to satisfy, only sufficient to sustain life, but that it did.

  On the long march Casca again kept his own counsel, his mind trying to make some sense out of his existence. What was it Shiu had said... that life is the great circle and that what was will be again, and nothing is destroyed, only changed? The legion. I have returned once more, yet nothing has changed in the years since last I fought for Rome. Everything is the same. The talk, the desires, the fears ... The years have changed, but not man... and not me. I still feel the same as I did when I served with the Seventh in Germany. Even the duties are the same. Well, shit. If 1 am condemned to live, you would think at least that I wouldn't get so thirsty or hungry. I know that I don't get sick as the others do when things get rough and there's a lack of food and water. But I feel all the thirst they do…. and the hunger. Right now I could eat the south end of a north-bound hyena.

  The days passed. The country changed to a surrealistic landscape of rock. And finally the word came back from the front column and ran along the thirty miles of marching soldiers: "The Euphrates! We are at the valley. The river is in sight."

  The desire to run for the river overcame many of the soldiers, but they were beaten back at Avidius's order. He would allow no intimation of any kind of panic or disorder. Forcing his troops into line, rank by rank, he marched them toward the river Euphrates. There they put their faces into the alluvial waters that had fed the first empires of earth. Casca, like the others, drank deep, filling his belly until it seemed it would either burst or throw up. It did neither. When they had drunk, Avidius Cassius ordered camp to be set up and foragers to be s
ent out. From here on they would wear their armor and follow the rules and regulations of the conventional order of battle.

  Ctesiphon lay fifty miles away. Two days' march, and they would reach their objective. But first, a day's rest...

  The legions formed. The outriders were sent racing ahead to stop any warning of their approach. All villagers and other persons in the path were herded into retaining pens to prevent their informing the capital of the approach of the eagles and their allies.

  It was amazing what one day's rest could accomplish. With that one day the Romans had reconstituted themselves and were even now looking as formidable as if they were parading on the Field of Mars in Rome itself.

  The foragers returned, driving cattle and sheep before them. Wagons were sent out to loot the villages of their stored grain. The Roman army would feed on the land, and if in their path they left starvation for those of the land they crossed, well, that was just the way it was... and always had been. Eat, or be eaten.

  Avidius sent his Arab contingents racing ahead of the main army. They reached and isolated the city of the Greek kings, Seleucia. The Arabs kept the inhabitants inside the walls, and no messenger reached Ctesiphon. Just a few hours across the Tigris the lights of the great temple of Zeus gleamed in the evening, the fires on his altar symbolizing eternity. The light cavalry of the Arabs performed its task admirably. The slower foot soldiers of the legion advanced, escorted by their heavy cavalry. That night the legion rested within eyeshot of Ctesiphon and made ready for the crossing of the river. Confiscating all boats and barges, before dawn broke they had established a bridgehead on the other side and had begun the crossing. Time after time, like strange water-borne beetles, the small boats and skin coracles of the native fishermen served Rome, transporting soldiers. The horses and livestock were herded across under their own power.

  It would have been a miracle for the Roman forces to be able to reach the walls of Ctesiphon without being observed, but through the planning of Avidius they did reach within striking distance. The city faced the Romans before any help could reach the Parthians from the distant battlefields of Europa and Amida. There the forces of Parthia were embroiled in a bleeding fight with their Armenian enemies, Romans, and Cappadocians. Even as Avidius approached Ctesiphon, the defeated Parthians were withdrawing from the battle around Europa, and that city was in Roman hands. The Parthians had achieved greater success against the Armenians who had not had the benefit of Roman troop support to stiffen their lines and serve as a model. The Armenians were reeling back to their own border in panic, pursued by the heavy cavalry of the Parthian empire. Yet even their defeat served the purposes of Avidius Cassius well enough. All these actions had drawn off the majority of the armed forces of Parthia. By the time they could return to their capital it would be too late. Even if they came faster than expected, they would be exhausted and worn out from their trials and battles. Avidius was confident of his victory.

  Casca watched the preparations for the coming battle with a detached eye. Gradually, though, an unusual and oddly upsetting feeling began to possess him. It was as though he were someone else watching the scenario of his life being endlessly repeated. Even the simplest routine things took on an oddly misplaced, unreal tinge. The pilum on his shoulder and the wicker container full of light throwing spears – even the small steel heads and bamboo bodies of the spears themselves – seemed to be slightly unreal... as though he were watching a circular dream that went round and round. He wondered if he were going mad.

  The army drew near to the city and finally invested it all around. Avidius Cassius sent this message to the city elders:

  Hail, citizens of Ctesiphon.

  I am Avidius Cassius, praetor and consul of Rome. I make you this one offer – and no more.

  Send out your men to fight, and we shall settle this as men of war should. Your armies in the battles to the north, at Europa and Amida, have been destroyed. How else should I be here before your walls unopposed? Surrender the city, or send out your men to do battle. If you agree to surrender, I give you my solemn oath on the honor of Rome that none in your city shall suffer or be sold into slavery. There shall be no rape or pillaging. But if you refuse, again on my honor I swear that every living thing in your city shall perish, even unto the beasts and vermin. I shall level your city to the earth and sow the ground with salt so that nothing may ever live here again. That is my word and my honor. Surrender, or come forth and do battle. You have until the first light of dawn to make your reply. And then all shall die.

  I am

  AVIDIUS CASSIUS

  Commander of the Roman Forces in Parthia

  That night the legion dug in around the only entrances to and from the city. Casca sat watching the walls, wondering what the next day would bring. Would the city surrender? Or fight? Most of the Parthian cavalry was away to the battles in Europa and Amida, but there were still the city guards and many veterans who remained behind. The city should be able to muster at least thirty thousand men. Well, we'll find out in the morning... Casca made a meal of dates and barley ground together and washed the whole down with a mouthful of water from the Tigris. Wrapping his cloak around him, he found a soft spot on the earth and curled up after shifting around for a few minutes and moving some small stones out of critical spots.

  He slept the sleep of soldiers the world over. The night passed while the Roman guards walked their perimeters. One sang softly of his girl at home and would she wait for him while he was away... an old story to be endlessly repeated. Casca slept lightly. Any unknown sound was enough to jerk his eyes open instantly for a quick look around. Then, just as fast, they would close and he would be asleep again.

  Instincts are hard to lose, and well before the final hour Casca arose and prepared himself and his gear, wiping down his armor and giving his sword one last honing. The scraping sound of the honing, whispering through the dark predawn, was echoed by many others doing the same thing.

  The army of Avidius was filled with veterans who had plied their trade from Spain to Numidia and beyond. The only thing that Casca noticed as being different from the legions of Augustus, with whom he had served, was that there were a great deal more men from the barbarian lands serving in the legion – Germans and Sarmatians, even blue-eyed Celts from the tiny isles called Britannia. Shaking his head, Casca wondered what had happened to the valor of Romans that they now showed an ever-increasing need to bring in barbarians to fill their armies. Didn't the idiot politicians know that they were training and supplying leadership for those whom they would have to fight some day? True, not all of these foreigners would return home, but some would, and when they were back with their home tribes they would teach them the Roman manner of fighting – and when that happened the day of Rome was numbered. When the order and discipline that made Rome great was common to the barbarians of the north, they would swoop down and feed on the decaying carcass of a corrupt nation that no longer deserved to rule. Thinking back on the ruined temples and other relics of the forgotten cities he had passed on his way to Cenchrea so many years before, he again wondered if he would live to see Rome in ruins.

  Going to the river to rinse off his face, he heard the voices of the soldiers talking. As he passed one group, a trooper called out to Casca, holding up a goatskin wine sack: "Kamerade, willst due eine trink haben mit uns?" Shaking his head no, Casca returned to his company area, but he grumbled underneath his breath: It may not be much longer. When the language of the legion is German, how long can Rome endure?

  Dawn rose over the plains of Persia. Here had marched conquerors whose once-mighty armies now were dust. Here the land had known the tread of Alexander's Greek phalanx as they passed on their way to lay the world at the feet of the young Macedonian. Now the inheritors of his empire, Rome and Parthia, met again. At first light the forces of Parthia marched out the great gate and formed their lines facing the Romans. Rank after rank, they bristled with spears and with the fearsome laminated bow that could drive its arr
ow through all but the thickest armor. The forces of Parthia waited, their faces calm and determined. They knew the choice they had made: victory or death. Inside the city the altar fires were being lit and the priests were sacrificing to their gods. Not even Baal Amon was neglected. He received his measure of blood. Kettle drums began to roll, and the city's dogs began to howl in the way of premonition that animals have of coming violence. Parthia faced Rome.

  Avidius was no tiro. He had planned everything to the last detail. He formed his infantry into four ranks deep and placed his cavalry on the Parthian left to keep them from being able to break into the open and maneuver.

  The Parthian general called out to Avidius:

  "Roman! Do you hear me?" His Latin was heavily loaded with a Greek accent. "Roman, hear me. We have accepted your terms. It is not within our rights to surrender the city without a battle being given, but we have seen you, and you are not greater in number than we. So in response to your ultimatum I give you mine. Lay down your arms and leave our country, and you will be spared. Go back the way you came, and you will live. Stay, and you will die. We are warriors, as are you. The only favor I ask is that this day's business be handled as such, with honor. We are here. Romans, what is your answer?"

  The Parthians opened ranks. Their legendary bowmen stepped forward, the bows half drawn back, ready to raise and fire in an instant and drive those deadly feathered barbs, into the hearts of their ancient enemies.

  Avidius gave one quick command, and the legion formed the testudo, the maneuver named after the tortoise shell because the shields of the legionnaires were placed over their heads and to the front and sides, forming a strong shell surrounding their bearers.

  As the legion formed the testudo, the Parthians let fly their arrows. Some found their way into the faces, throats, and stomachs of the Romans and their allies, but not enough. Having faced the Parthian bows before, Avidius had prepared for them and had issued hides of leather to cover the shields of the tortoise. These helped stop the amazing penetrating qualities of the Parthian bows. As the legions formed the shell, they opened their ranks for an instant and behind was Avidius's secret weapon. One hundred rapid-fire ballistae had been assembled in the night by his engineers. They had been carried with great secrecy on special mules and camels all the way from Antioch where they had been made in secrecy and in that manner transported to his forces just before they had moved out from Bostra and Damascus.