Crassus stood absolutely still, his heart galloping.
“I hear nothing but silence from you, Crassus,” Surenas called out.
“What are these conditions, Parthian?” Crassus replied.
“I will allow your army to keep its arms and march to Syria. I guarantee that no further harm will come to them, nor will I force them to submit by making them walk beneath the yoke. You may also keep your aquilas – your eagles – symbols that I know your men hold so dear. You and your officers will be treated with the same respect as your men.” Surenas paused in the delivery of his terms to let these important concessions sink in. “For my part,” he continued, “I have no desire to injure a proconsul of Rome and cause a generation of enmity between our two nations. My single condition is that you agree to a truce and sign a binding agreement between Rome and Parthia that your Republic will give up all further claims and designs on territory east of the Euphrates. Keep in mind that in naming the river as the boundary, I am ceding you land that Parthia considers Parthian. Yourself and a hundred men from the best families among the ranks of your officers will sign this agreement. Fifty of those signatories will then be held by Parthia as hostages until the agreement has been ratified by the Senate of Rome and dispersed to all lands within the Roman Republic, so that if it is broken, your other friends and allies will know the true meaning of Rome’s word.”
Crassus breathed hard and deep. So, on his failure alone would rest the end of Rome’s ambition. History would remember him thus. The weight of it was crushing.
“I hear nothing from you,” Surenas called out.
“I understand your conditions,” Crassus replied, his shoulders stooped.
“I cannot hear you.”
Crassus’s whole body shook with rage. “I UNDERSTAND!”
“I will give you time to consider. I must tell you that my King holds you personally responsible for this war, which has also stirred up enmity between Parthia and Armenia. We have people in Rome who tell us that your personal love of gold and wealth knows no bounds and that it was your greed that drove you to invade. Is this truly at the heart of your actions, Proconsul?”
Crassus was silent.
“As for Gaius Cassius Longinus,” Surenas continued, “I have been informed that he has been your willing general in this attempt at conquest.”
“How dare he rebuke and then insult you, Crassus,” Coponius blurted, incensed. “You’re a consul of the Roman Republic and the proconsul of Syria.”
Crassus looked down on the spāhbed, grinding his teeth, knowing that he was powerless to strike back.
“His emissary made promises to us, promises that did not include these conditions. Would you have held your men fast behind these walls if you had been given the whole account? Primor, I told you these Parthians could not be trusted,” Coponius said.
“Quiet!” Cassius Longinus snapped at him.
“Last night … We could have sent a party on to Beroea for reinforcements,” Coponius continued. “The Arabs have tricked us.”
“Shut up!” the legate barked.
“I will come for your answer at sunrise,” Surenas called out. “Do not attempt to leave this place and do not consider that you can withhold a siege. It would not take much for Carrhae to fall, and in that event there will be no mercy. As I am sure you know, Proconsul, many sieges are betrayed from within and in Carrhae there are Arabs whose sympathies must surely lie first with Parthia.”
Crassus felt like there were ropes around him bound tight. “You will have your answer at sunrise, Parthian.” He turned away from the wall and faced his officers, struggling to keep his knees from buckling beneath him.
*
Though he had seen his image wrought in marble, Rufinius had never seen Proconsul Marcus Licinius Crassus the man. And when the occasion of that sighting finally arrived, he was less than impressed. The proconsul – a partner of Pompey the Great and Gaius Julius Caesar, no less – was just an old man; his hair dyed, his knees swollen and diseased, his back slightly hunched and his disposition sour. The man’s face was deeply lined and though he looked patrician captured in marble, in the flesh the man seemed nothing more than aloof, ill-tempered and distracted.
This was Rufinius’s first attendance at a council of war. He scanned the square, lit by fire torches, the shadows dancing black around the flames. Gathered here were most of the army’s surviving centurions, tribunes, prefects, and legates, as well as the leading officers of the garrison – men who had been part of the proconsul’s army in the first victorious year of the campaign. Over 300 legionaries of various rank were assembled, only a few of whom Rufinius knew by sight and almost none by name.
He recognized Primus Pilus Hadrianus and some of the most senior centurions who accompanied him, all of whom were adorned by torcs and other awards swinging from their necks. The senior legate, Gaius Cassius Longinus, another officer Rufinius had heard much about but never seen, stood apart from the others. Cassius Longinus was a young, sinewy man in his early thirties with dark hair, a heavy intelligent brow, and serious features. On such men, Rufinius considered, the future of the Republic depended. And yet look where men like this Cassius Longinus had brought it.
Many of the more senior officers were giving this most senior legate respectful glances and angling their bodies toward him as if he were the center of the gathering rather than Proconsul Crassus. It was clear to Rufinius that the respect if not the leadership of the legion had shifted.
Decisions needed to be made, hence this council. Rufinius knew none would be easy. The Parthians had them trapped, that was plain. And the air, heavy with the bitter smell of desperation, only confirmed their dire situation.
Legate Cassius Longinus stepped forward and the men muttering among themselves became quiet. “Officers of the army of Syria,” Longinus began, the tone of his voice low, his Latin cultured and educated. “No one will try to convince you that the peril facing the army is anything less than what you already know to be the case. The Parthian army has invested the walls of the town that gives us refuge. Our options are simple and straightforward. We can attempt to send a party to Beroea, where a large Roman garrison is stationed. If you do not know, Beroea is six to eight days ride there and back. During this time we would stay within these walls, trust in our swords, and hold this town only as long as it takes for reinforcements to arrive. The second option is that we surrender and march to Syria, a beaten army. As you no doubt have already heard, the Parthian commander himself – Surenas – has guaranteed the safety of the men, legionaries and officers alike.”
A murmur swept over the council. The battlements of the Carrhae had been filled with legionaries during the oration made by the Parthian general, but many more men were left to wonder at the truth of the terms offered. Rumors were everywhere, filling the unknown. Here now, was the reality facing them.
“Be aware that all may speak without fear or favor,” the legate advised.
“Will the aquilas be surrendered?” called a voice from the shadows.
“No, they will not be surrendered,” Cassius Longinus answered, without further embellishment.
“The Parthians are victorious, primor,” stated a centurion with a shock of red hair. “What must we give them in return?”
“Dreams of empire,” thundered Proconsul Crassus, his booming voice startling Rufinius and others. “We must cede to them Rome’s very future. They demand that we enter into an agreement with Parthia that Rome will cap its ambition east of the River Euphrates. If we agree to their terms of surrender, the land we stand on now will forever be the furthest eastern extent of Rome. And to us and our ancestors will fall the ignominy of this agreement.”
Rufinius weighed both options, for they were stark. Surrendering to the Parthian’s terms, they could walk out and live. Or they could throw the dice on reinforcements reaching them before the water in Carrhae gave out or the walls were breached.
“Who is to say that the party we send for reinforc
ements will ever make it to this Beroea?” an anonymous voice called out, the question on Rufinius’s tongue. This point was agreed upon by many, if the disquiet was anything to go by.
Another man stepped forward. “We can send out a party tonight,” he said with authority. “Haven’t you noticed the Parthians will not fight when the sun goes down?”
“Who’s that cunni?” asked someone behind Rufinius.
“The garrison commander – the governor. Coponius, something like that,” a mid-ranking centurion unknown to Rufinius answered.
Cassius Longinus called to the gathering. “There is plenty of private talk among you. Does anyone care to speak out loud?”
The murmurings fell silent.
“No one?”
The silence continued from the sullen crowd.
“What is your answer? Fight on or surrender?”
No one moved. And then a single man, a large athletic centurion of senior rank, his arm in a sling blackened with blood, stepped forward with his gladius. He raised it high so that all could see it, before plunging its tip into the sand and kneeling behind it – surrender.
More men followed his example, officers senior and junior, keeling behind their swords, tips dug into the desert. Soon almost the entire officer corps was kneeling behind its sword. The legate had his answer and it was unanimous.
“No! I will not abandon Rome’s future to these barbarians,” Crassus roared. “Where is your sense of honor?”
Angry shouts rose from the men, all of whom held swords already drawn. The air was suddenly thick with danger.
Hadrianus stepped beside a torch so that he could be clearly seen by all. “Proconsul! Legates! Centurions!” he shouted to get control of the square. The grumbling subsided. “It has been shown to us that with our current weapons, the army is not equipped to fight on equal terms with the Parthian archers. So allow me to simplify the choices: surrender and live; fight on and die. With death will end all hope. Who knows what will happen tomorrow or the next day if we are given the chance to leave this desert with our heads still on our shoulders? Perhaps we will come back one day and make them pay for this humiliation delivered to the sons of Rome. In battle, there is a time to advance and time to withdraw. On this field, Mars has spoken and we must listen to him and heed his warnings. I beseech you, Proconsul Crassus and any man who supports him, let discretion be the better part of valor and take up the Parthians’ kind offer.”
A rousing cheer met the primipilus’s speech. His words surprised everyone, Rufinius included. Surely the legion’s leading centurion would have stood shoulder to shoulder with the proconsul.
“Stop!” Crassus yelled. “Did my son give his life for nothing? What of your fellow legionaries? Did they shed life’s blood only so that we could turn our backs on them and slink away?”
“Nothing can be done for the dead,” yelled a centurion beside Rufinius.
“I will not allow it!” Crassus seethed. “Do you think for one minute that you will be welcomed home in triumph? Surrender will be ignominious.”
“There is a third choice,” called out another centurion unfamiliar to Rufinius. “A change in leadership.”
“Mutiny?” Crassus was horrified.
No sooner was the hated word in the air, than a number of centurions, murder in their eyes, advanced across the square toward Crassus. The guards who accompanied the proconsul went forward to meet the threat.
“Halt! That is an order!” Cassius Longinus yelled above the discord and the men advancing upon each other stopped. “Who would you install as your leader? Do not look to me for treachery. I commanded that you step back!” The men seemed to hesitate and the legate took advantage of it. “Now, I promised that you could speak without fear or favor and I meant it! This council of war was formed to know the minds of the men. And now you have spoken and we will honor your decision. Tomorrow we will meet with the Parthian general and agree to his terms.”
The tension was thus unwound. Crassus gave his senior legate a final glower and then strode angrily from the square, pushing men aside, followed by his guard. Only when he and his small numbers of supporters were gone did the men who remained raise another cheer.
XII
Shortly after first light, Carrhae’s gates opened. Through them, atop the best horses that could be found within the walls, rode Crassus and fifty of his guardsmen. Behind him came Legate Cassius Longinus, along with several of his senior officers and his own guard numbering around fifty. Next were the lesser legates and their guards, as well as prefects, and tribunes from good families so that the signatories would number a hundred, as stipulated. The Romans rode through two lines of exquisitely presented cataphracts whose armor of scales gleamed like mirrors and gathered all available light. Ahead, Spāhbed Surenas waited on an armored steed in his golden scales, with no protective chainmail screen across his face. He was accompanied by his closest attendants. Behind him, a hundred double paces away, a voluminous tent had been staked in the sand, where the agreement would be signed. At a discrete distance, on either side of this corridor of cataphracts, were long lines of Parthian archers that disappeared into the pre-dawn haze.
It was clear that Crassus had not welcomed this moment. His face wore a deeply lined scowl and his eyes glared straight ahead, fixed on his own disgrace and the cowardice of the legionaries, his supporters likewise showing their unhappiness at this ill-fated crossroads that the gods had brought them to. The Roman procession stopped when they arrived in front of Surenas.
“Good morning, Proconsul,” said Surenas in Greek, beaming at Crassus, his black oiled beard radiating health and vitality. “Let me welcome you and invite you to join me in my humble campaign tent. It is not so rich as yours, but you will find it comfortable. I have also have had food prepared, in the event that you and your men are hungry.”
Crassus eyes flickered at the mention of his tent. What was once his, now belonged to this man, including his honor.
Surenas rode forward several paces, wheeled slowly and brought his horse beside the proconsul’s. “This is a great day for our two countries. Peace can bring far more valuables to the table than can war, don’t you think?”
Crassus could not decide if the Parthian was being genuine or in fact mocking him, and so he met the comment with the barest acknowledgement.
“I understand how difficult this must be, Proconsul. I will try to make this as easy as possible.”
*
Legate Cassius Longinus’s horse walked behind the proconsul’s, its feet dragging in the dust as if it were also to be a signatory. The legate tried to hear what was being said between the Parthian commander and Crassus but he could not. Like Crassus, the legate’s heart carried a heavy burden. The decision of whether to fight or surrender had been taken from their hands by the threat of mutiny. In the depths of his heart, Cassius Longinus was almost relieved. A show of hands had been made redundant by a show of swords. If a vote had been taken, Crassus knew that his leading legate would have raised his hand for surrender. Now, no one would be able to say what his vote was. But that the war was effectively over between Rome and Parthia did not make this any easier to bear. He would still have to walk the streets of Rome and the knowledge of what happened here would follow him. The agreement shown throughout the Republic with his name on it would see to that.
The party made its way slowly to Surenas’s tent where a phalanx of attendants, richly clothed in loose colorful garments and no armor, waited to take control of the horses. As an attendant reached for his horse, Surenas slid from his mount with a lightness born of long practice and then made his way to the tent’s entrance. Attendants surged forward to take control of the Romans’ horses. Threatened by unfamiliar smells and movement, Crassus’s mount reared as a Parthian stablehand grabbed its reins. The horse’s hooves came down on the young man’s head, killing him instantly. The horses all then began to shriek and shy about in terror. Someone among Crassus’s entourage, unaware of the reasons for the sprea
ding melee, yelled, “Draw swords! Protect the Proconsul!” And suddenly sharpened steel blades slashed at the attendants and panic raced through the gathering as blood spatter filled the air.
Cassius Longinus could see the situation deteriorating by the second, as Romans and Parthians alike began falling dead in the close combat. He yelled: “Get to the walls! The walls!” He gained control of his horse, turned its head around and thrashed its neck with the reins until the beast was galloping at full speed toward Carrhae. Chaos spread among the cataphracts who knew not what had happened and had no orders covering this unforeseen situation.
Surenas’s own guard, however, was quick to react, and all of Crassus’s guard, including Hadrianus and almost all of the most senior centurions, were shot through with arrows or knifed so that the only man left alive was the proconsul himself. He was left standing, covered by a semicircle of archers, their bowstrings drawn tight, a wound in his chest oozing blood that ran in rivers down one leg and pooled at his feet.
Surenas himself was enraged to the point of fury. He held a dagger in his own hand, surveyed the carnage brought down on his own attendants, young boys for the most part, and had to stop himself from plunging the knife into the proconsul’s heart with his own frustrated hand.
“Take him! Bind him!” he shouted at Volodates. “Do not kill him.”
*
“I can provide us with a guide who can lead us through the night to Syria,” said Coponius, speaking quietly within his residence so that others could not hear.
“What of the legionaries?” Cassius Longinus asked.
“There are horses for perhaps three hundred men. The army following us will have horses. Any legionaries marching on foot will slow us down. We can’t be overrun.”
The legate nodded, knowing the answer before he asked it. In fact, leaving Carrhae behind, defended by the legions, might prove enough of a distraction to allow a smaller number of horsemen from the best families the chance of escape.
“There is still confusion among the Parthians,” Coponius continued. “Tonight will be our only chance, and even then success is uncertain. If we are caught, we will be killed.”
Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) Page 15
