by Tony Grey
“Commander, our troops are slack. No time for exercise because you had them confiscating wealth. Lost time in Hierapolis weighing treasure. Wasted more robbing the Jewish temple. All this instead of keeping our troops sharp. Got to correct that now.”
“How dare you imply I haven’t maintained the discipline of our troops! There’s no reason why they couldn’t be deployed for a little time to extract treasure and still fight. I must remind you, Gaius Cassius, you, as well as the others, will benefit.”
“You’re a better business man than a military commander.”
“That slur’s completely unfounded. I led the army which defeated Spartacus when the slaves rebelled and the whole of Rome was terrified. I had six thousand of them crucified. Remember, their crosses lined the road from Capua to the gates of Rome. “
“That victory was only against slaves.”
Marcus knows the story. Pompey had a full Triumph for his exploits in the East – that was the one he was in, but Crassus received only an Ovatio. He was so jealous that he could scarcely be civil to Pompey even while sharing power in the Triumvirate.
After a pause that has the whole tent expecting an explosion, Cassius drops his voice, now worried he’s pushed his Commander in Chief too far.
“Marcus Licinius, if you insist on attacking now, don’t do it across open country. Stay close to the river. It’ll protect us against being surrounded. If you don’t like that, engage through Armenia. The terrain’s rugged there.”
Marcus senses that the astute Cassius is probably right. What he advocates is standard military doctrine, even more important to apply in unfamiliar territory. He’s correct to insist on avoiding open country which suits horses. The Romans have only four thousand cavalry, sufficient for tactical moves, but not enough to protect foot soldiers from the Parthians’ numerous horse archers. They need the help of terrain. Crassus is being rash, impatient because of the time spent gathering plunder.
Things are getting intolerable. The two commanders are leading members of the senatorial class; they sit on an exalted platform. Instinctively Marcus edges himself behind a tent pole, as though imagining it can make him disappear. It’s not just embarrassing; he’s dreading the time when Crassus will ask for his advice, forcing him to take sides.
As Cassius’ diplomatic gambit is having a mollifying effect on the Commander in Chief, one of the centurions pulls back the tent flap. He announces an Arab chieftain, Ariamnes. For some time the Arab’s been lobbying Crassus for a chance to serve the Romans. Crassus has invited him today to give details. Perhaps in order to cool the heat of the debate, perhaps because he’s running out of reasons, Crassus motions to let him in straight away.
Crouching with pendulous robes hiding his well fed frame, he minces forward. He stops at a respectful distance from Crassus, muttering poetical flattery. He reminds the assembly that he’s been a friend of Rome for a long time, and his reliability has been recognised by the great Pompey.
An incipient sneer crawls across the narrow face of Cassius who’s noted for scepticism at the most neutral of times. His superior is opaque.
“Imperator”, the Arab says, using the Roman title of a commander in chief who has won a great victory. He knows Crassus longs for his men to call him that for his defeat of Spartacus. So far no one’s obliged.
“Why is it that, with the most feared army in the world, you’re not hastening to the attack? It’s well known that the Parthian leaders have made plans to flee north to the wastelands of Scythia with their goods and families if the only alternative is to fight you. Not only are they afraid, but there’s confusion in the realm. The rebellion in southern Mesopotamia’s just been put down. Now’s the time to strike, while the Parthian forces are regrouping. Besides, they’ll gain confidence as they perceive your hesitation and become worthier opponents. I speak this as a friend of Rome who wishes you well.”
Crassus says nothing, but waves him to continue.
“I’m willing to lead you by the most direct route to where the Parthians are skulking. You can corner them there, forcing a battle which you’re sure to win. I know the country well. You can trust me; I’ve always been loyal to Rome. There can be no better reference than Pompey to prove that.”
The Arab opens his arms in an expansive gesture to underline his sincerity and waits for a reply. An awkward silence follows. No one says a word. Cassius has no interest in asking questions or making comments and Crassus has nothing to add. Giving an embarrassed cough, Ariamnes mutters something about it being time to leave and goes out of the tent.
After the Arab departs, Crassus announces it’s time to decide. He summarises the opposing positions, pointing out that he’s verified Ariamnes’ friendship with Pompey.
“Although I’m critical of Pompey on a number of counts, I’m well aware of his shrewdness. Any foreign friend of his would have to go through rigorous scrutiny. I’m satisfied Ariamnes can be trusted.”
Turning to Marcus, he says, “Marcus Velinius you’ve heard the analysis. Before I make my decision, I’d appreciate your advice. Speak.”
A quandary he dreaded, it’s obvious the Commander in Chief wants to take up the Arab’s offer, even though it may mean crossing open country. Cassius’ approach is better. In business dealings Crassus is known for being decisive and brooking no opposition once he’s made up his mind. He’s usually right. Whether his sense of judgement can be transferred to the military sphere is being tested to the full today.
Marcus has heard of men who think if they’re successful in one domain they’ll succeed in another so long as it’s similar, even if they have little or no experience in it. He’s aware that in the transition the subtleties of the craft often elude them. Requirements in commerce are similar to those in the military, but they’re not the same. What the High Command is facing now, with the annoying flies buzzing around, is a decision that could determine the campaign’s outcome. And Crassus has probably got it wrong.
It’s clear that the shrewd quaestor is not impressed by the Arab or his offer. His face is as hard as a skull. Nothing has changed his opinion. But he’s finished speaking; he’s delivered his advice, can say no more without being redundant, or offensive. He’s like a judge who’s given his findings; he’s functus, any further statement being of no purport. It’s now up to the young advisor.
His heart is pounding. The hot and muggy tent has so many eyes and they’re all on him. He’s alone, no one to tell him what to do, no time to think of consequences. The leadership of the Roman army is looking at him, staring even – worst of all the Commander in Chief. They’re ready to convict him of folly if he founders and sentence him without mercy. A junior officer is dispensable. He feels his face go red and burst with sweat. His brain seizes up. He can’t say anything; the others wait. The silence must end; he must get his tongue moving, the tongue that’s sticking to the roof of his mouth; there’s no way out. Tightening his stomach muscles into a knot, he pushes himself into speech.
“Sir, the arguments put forward by Gaius Cassius Longinus are cogent and persuasive, and could lead to a favorable outcome. However, in this situation which is not clear cut, their prudence needs to be weighed against the imperative of aggressive action – what has always served our army well. I think on balance we should march straight for the Parthians, with Ariamnes as our guide. Pompey’s reference is persuasive. The open country can be dealt with. Our tactical skills should be enough to overcome the enemy’s cavalry. We win our battles with the infantry anyway.”
How could he have said that? He doesn’t believe a word. It feels like he was speaking as if apart from himself, the words coming from some outside source, only seemingly internal, as in a cave of echoes. But in reality, that was not the case. The ultimate source was deep within, the words involuntary, an atavistic response to the call of self-survival, of ambition. They emanated from a morally neutral place where instincts reign unchecked by thought. But as they hit the wall of consciousness their baseness is exposed. H
owever, it’s too late to take them back; they’ve been released.
On the battle field the tyranny of self preservation never rules him like this; he can discharge his duty whatever the cost or risk. His comrades think him brave – acer in ferro – sharp in iron. It’s a different process there, however, less complicated, moderated by excitement, tradition, and training. It’s certainly clearer; shirking would be instantly seen, unshielded by the cover of ambiguity or dissimulation. That’s the merit of physical combat close to comrades; behaviour stands out like thunder in the silence.
“Marcus Velinius, as always your advice is sound”, Crassus says, a warm smile swelling his full-cheeked face. “It accords with my own instincts. I appreciate your forthrightness. We march tomorrow, due east with Ariamnes as our guide. We’ll force that furtive Surena to taste the medicine of a Roman attack.”
Would it have made any difference if he had given honest advice? Crassus seems to have made his decision and only wishes to go through the motions. But perhaps, speaking out forcefully might have stirred up Cassius to re-enter the fray, the two of them prevailing.
At least the decision is not certain to lead to disaster. It most probably won’t. The fighting qualities of the Roman soldier should compensate for the poorer choice, despite the cost of additional casualties. But that cannot salve the wound to his conscience for it’s beside the point. He’s disobeyed the cardinal imperative of Stoic philosophy – make the right moral choice without regard to the consequences. Where would there be support for what he’s just done? Not in the books he reads.
The conference is over. He and Cassius leave the praetorium without speaking. As the general is turning to go to his tent, Marcus moves to say something. If only he can open up the possibility of going back, this time arguing on the same side. Perhaps they can promote Cassius’ compromise in attacking virtually immediately, with just a short delay so as to avoid open terrain. But no sound comes out; the hard lines on Cassius’ face prevent it. He’s offended the second in command. At least he can take comfort in the fact that it relates to the view he expressed, not the reason behind it. That, at least, hasn’t been disclosed and never needs to be.
The portentous decision’s been made – alea iacta est – the die is cast. It’s observed by the Three Sisters who weave the fate of mortals. They alone can foretell who of the tens of thousands of Romans and Parthians soon to be embraced in battle will pass by Lethe’s doomfull spring and forget their former lives.
Next day, in the early morning as the water birds come to drink, shouts of command shatter the peace along the banks of the river of civilization. Centurions put into action the decision to march east along the Road to find the elusive enemy, with Ariamnes navigating. The Romans would have left it if its Commander in Chief had followed Cassius’ advice.
The Road is honoured that it’s been chosen to carry the grand army into battle – better than being left out of the drama; perhaps it foresees that what it’s to facilitate will lead to one of the most curious developments in its long life.
CHAPTER 5
Bearing the pride of Roman youth, hungry for battle, the Road leaves the silt-laden river and passes into grassy plains which are gently undulating and articulated with clumps of trees. Birds are singing and all is benign. It could almost be in Italy. The great connector is making the march easy, pleasant even, as if it’s enticing the soldiers to the expected clash. And no wonder, for nothing in its history has been on the scale of what is to come. It lives for action. Whether it’s in trade or violence is of no account.
The sound of the army on the march is prodigious. Squeaking and crunching of the baggage train’s wheels, bronze armour rasping against itself, snorting animals, tread of man and horse, create a corridor of sound that extends the presence of the invaders wide into the countryside.
Soon the terrain changes, becomes drier and subsides into gnarled scrubland. Eventually it abandons vegetation altogether, sliding into sand like a shoreline ceding its domain to the sea. No birds are left to sing.
Anticipation is in the air; the whole army feels it; they’ll soon find the enemy, pound them into submission. Excitement of battle is what they live for. The monotony that wastes so much of their lives will yield to the ecstasy that makes it all worthwhile. Young men need an outlet for the violence inherent in their nature; never more than when they’re bored.
Marcus knows the others feel the same pumping heart as he when he imagines how he will bash his shield onto the enemy in front of him, knock him down and stab him with his gladius, or perhaps with Owl’s Head, how the blood will spurt and the guts slip out like slimy snakes, how the controlled battle fury that dispels all fear will propel him to Achillean speed and agility, how the shouts of triumph and the cries of the wounded will split the air, louder even than the clash of metal on metal, and how he will chase the panicked foe until they are hunted down like wild animals and slaughtered or enslaved.
That’s what happens when Romans go to war, and it’s certain it’ll happen again, this time in Parthia, close to where they are now. He’ll have a chance to prove himself once again in the field and that’ll expunge the guilt from giving self-interested advice to the Commander in Chief. The lapse will disappear without trace in the euphoria of victory.
But as they penetrate further into the sunburnt sands and thirst curls its bony fingers around their throats, doubts begin to form about where their guide is leading them. Several officers start muttering. Knowing the influence Marcus has, Cassius calls him aside.
“I’m suspicious of that Arab. Been in the desert for days – no water. Parthians won’t be in country like this. He must give us an explanation. If it’s not convincing, we have to go to the Commander in Chief. I want your help.”
Marcus says, “I agree”, pleased that the senior officer seems to hold no grudge from the argument in the tent. They confront Ariamnes.
“Yes, it’s true that what we’re marching through is rough,” says the Arab. “But what d’you expect? You’re not in lush Campania. This is Asia, not blessed with the green of Europe. Have you Romans gone soft, unable to endure what the Parthians can without complaint?
Anyway, we’ve passed the worst. Hang on for a little while longer and we’ll reach the Belikh River. The Parthians will be near it. However, I’m a little hurt that you doubt my navigation. Soon you’ll see I’m right.”
The Arab seems plausible; at any rate Marcus and Cassius aren’t in a position to argue. A few more days will test his promise. They still have enough provisions to return by the same route so long as they make the decision by then.
Cassius decides not to go to the Commander and says so to Marcus. He’s willing to put the doubts aside for the time being, but as would be expected of a man of his character, they will still animate his thoughts. The day is ending and it’s time to make camp. The sceptical man will think some more about it overnight. He’ll go to bed uneasy.
❧
The small bronze oil lamp, which looks like a baby’s shoe, casts a flickering light onto the brown leather walls of Marcus’ tent. The worry about Ariamnes’ reliability has dissolved into a pleasant sense of rightness about the decision he’s just made. Usually finding it easy to make up his mind, he’s taken a long time over this one. Love for Aurelia struggles with the pull of campaigning. To bring a wife into the rigours of the march and the risk of defeat seems unfair, especially to someone as refined as Aurelia. The alternative of long absences would create its own problems. Besides, how can someone as impecunious as he, expect Aurelia’s upper middle class family to give consent?
However, the money issue should be resolved shortly. The Parthians will be defeated and Crassus will empty their cornucopia in a stream of plunder. Given the seniority of his new rank, he’ll do well in the distribution. He’ll have to negotiate the periods of absence, but that should be possible. Anyway, in a few years he could retire and buy a farm near Rome with his winnings. Her family would be impressed with his rise to the
equestrian class, something his father would have considered unthinkable for someone of his social background.
The parchment crinkles on the table as he shifts it to write. He pauses at the marriage part. What if she rejects him? Her letters indicate he doesn’t have much to fear, but expressions of affection, even love, aren’t the same as willingness to marry. Practical considerations can intervene, especially when class is relevant. And Aurelia’s rather haughty. Might she feel she would be stooping to marry a blacksmith’s son?
There’s such definiteness in putting something in writing. Ink provides a nondeniable record. Exposing his soul can’t be explained away.
He makes the proposal, finishing the letter with a flourish of affection, and rolls it up. The postmaster will load it in his pouch in the morning. But it’ll have to await the outcome of the battle. He goes to bed satisfied he’s made the right decision and confident about the future. As he slides off to sleep, comfortable thoughts of home drift by, a new home for Aurelia and him, a traditional one in Rome, or, if things go well, outside in the country, but not too far away.
❧
In the morning, Cassius decides to retain his silence, but reluctantly; he’s ready to challenge the Arab unless his prediction comes true soon. Marcus too is concerned, but not as much as the hard-nosed Quaestor. Besides, he’s somewhat invested in the unctuous navigator.
Three days later, as the Road rediscovers green, Crassus is pleased to inform the officers that the Belikh River is two days’ march away and Ariamnes has gone to the Parthian camp as a Roman spy to mislead them about the strength and deployment of their foe. He appears jovial, his round face beaming confidence, which is just as well, for there were two strange occurrences in the morning.
