She spent the majority of her time weaving. The lone flickering candle was her only companion. Some said that this was a sign of a good Roman matron. Others called her foolish. Personally, she did not care. The sounds of the Subura floated to her ears from the streets. Cries of children, laughter of rough men, and the never-ending sound of construction. They were as familiar to her as her own two hands. Her fingers deftly passed the thread across and under one another. She had been at it for hours. It must be almost dawn. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she finally set down her weaving and crawled into the dilapidated bed of her tiny apartment beside her sleeping child.
The apartment was all the possession she had. It measured no more than twenty paces across and fifteen paces long. It was built largely of cheap pine and plaster, not like the stone villas on the Palatine or even the comfortable rustic domus on the outskirts of the City. No, this was one of thousands of dirty, overcrowded living quarters of the Subura. Carefully picking out the bedbugs from the sheets, she kissed her son and drifted to the world of dreams, eagerly awaiting the coming of morning and any news of her husband in the East.
Dawn came faster in the distant deserts than it did in Rome. While she began to sleep, he was up already, ready to continue. The deserts became bitterly cold at night. In fact, he still could not believe that men could die of heat exhaustion and a mere few hours later die from the cold. They had been marching for three days now in the desert, chasing a fleeting enemy that their general claims, is just over the next hill, the next town, the next river. He no longer cared to find the enemy and fight. He just wanted a bed, or at least something that’s a bit more comfortable than the blistering sands. He looked up at the sky and saw Venus dipping low into the sky, its light matching the brilliance of the rising sun.
Others were waking up too. Sand was kicked onto the remnants of the campfires from last night. Everyone was tired. He massaged his stiff limbs. The letter he had been writing was still tucked inside of the tiny pocket that hung by his side. Walking over to where his gear had been placed the other night, he methodically brushed any sand off the glittering metal and began methodically putting them on, one piece at a time. Besides the legionnaires busy breaking camp, nothing else stirred in the barren desert.
The morning air greeted her at first light. The walls were leaking, they had always leaked. Marcus said that when he returned, he would come back with enough money to take them out of these crowded apartments into the countryside. After all, he would say, our son (how did he know it would be a boy always eluded her) has to know the sweet taste of the country air. She looked down at her sleeping child and wondered just how much of what he said was true and how much were dreams.
The streets were particularly busy this day. A glass merchant was busy displaying his pitiful wares to anyone foolish enough to stop by and glance. An old man clung to a clucking hen, claiming that it could lay a hundred eggs a day and that he was willing to sell it for a mere fifty copper coins. She ignored all of them. There were more important things that needed to be done. An occasional beggar would come towards her, but she just averted her gaze and kept walking towards the Forum, her infant son strapped to her back.
“So, do you think he’s lost it?” Gaius asked him.
“Who?”
“The general. Who else?”
“I don’t know.” And that was the honest truth. Of course he couldn’t confirm or deny his actual thoughts if he had one. But given their situation, he could not come up with an answer. It’s true that they had been marching for days. It’s true that there were better routes to take. But at the same time, their general trusted the guide that led them. And after all, Gaius Licinius Crassus was a man whose trust has earned him the status of the richest man in Rome.
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to make a decision. The others aren’t happy about where this is heading.” And who could blame them? The sand alone was enough to drive him mad.
“Decision? About what?”
Gaius didn’t respond. Instead, he only gave a meaningful look before picking up his own armor and putting it on.
He shook his head and began tightening the clasps around the shoulder guards. The banded steel armor of the legions was notoriously difficult to put on but offered unparalleled protection. But in the desert, they felt more like a burden than an asset. They made each step more torturous, and also made their wearers sweat buckets from even the slightest exertion in the heat.
“Marcus.” He turned around. Gaius pointed at the backside of his own armor. Nodding, he strode over and did the clasps on his friend’s back before turning around for the same treatment.
“You know, I’m not suggesting that you mutiny.” Gaius whispered as Marcus snapped each clasp into place. “I’m just saying that you should keep your ears pricked for whispers around camp.”
“I don’t know. This all seems like a fool’s errand.”
“A fool’s errand.” Gaius scoffed. “That’s how you should describe this stupid campaign.”
“That’s not entirely true.” They did sack several temples before continuing their march into the desert. But those days seemed so distant to Marcus that he often wondered if those were just dreams. The sun rose above one of the camp turrets. The trumpeter sounded his horn and woke the rest of the camp. It will be less than half an hour until they are ready. It will be an hour before the fortification comes down. It will be two hours when the legion returns to its marching.
Picking up their massive shields, Marcus and Gaius stood besides their tent while their six tent-mates piled out. A gentle breeze blew specks of dust into his eyes but he stood still, waiting for the order to break camp.
The Forum drew people from all walks of life towards itself. The open space offered people a chance to mingle with each other, to catch up on the latest gossip, to trade trinkets from one hand to another, to conduct business, and to hear of news from the soldiers abroad. Here and there she could pick out the shrill voices of teenage girls as they gossiped about boys, the voices of politicians trying to sway votes for the coming elections even though the actual day of voting was months away, and the bustle of the city that never seemed to stop. The merchants that had lined the streets of the Subura were nothing compared to the multitude of traders here. She could see a slave auction going on nearby and thought enviously about owning a slave one day. Perhaps when Marcus comes back with enough money.
“I heard that Crassus has gone further east.” She turned her head when she heard this comment. Two boys barely in their teens walked past her, cradling their wax tablets under their arms and escorted by a flock of slaves.
“
, my father served out East with Pompeius. He tells me that place is nothing but sand, sand, and more sand. Why would Crassus go there? Last I heard, sand isn’t worth anything.” Raucous laughter erupted from the group. It was common knowledge among the citizens that Marcus Licinius Crassus only did something if there was money to be made from it. In fact, half of the apartments in Rome were technically leased from him. People joked, quite bitterly at times, that they might as well be paying taxes to Crassus instead of the Republic.
“Who knows, Carthage was built on the sands wasn’t it? Look how rich that city was.”
“Manius, I thought you were smarter than that. Carthage is also by the sea. It’s the greatest port in the West. Honestly, don’t you pay attention to anything we’re taught?”
“Well excuse me if I have my sights set on something higher than a simple geographer.”
“You watch your mouth. When you’re leading a campaign in some distant land and get lost, you’ll wish you had spent time learning geography.”
“Where would I go on a campaign? We’ve conquered everything. Caesar is just about finished with the Gauls in the north. Africa and Spain had been ours since over a hundred years ago. And Pompey conquered the East. The world is ours.”
“Well, maybe you could follow Crassus. Besides, he hasn’t reached the Indus yet.”
“He’s not an Alexander.”
“And why can’t a Roman be an Alexander?”
“Excuse me!” She could not stop herself. She needed to know. The boys turned around. They betrayed their upper class roots with the expressions on their faces as they stared at her like some insect.
“What do you want?” Manius asked.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you.”
“As you should be.” The other one interrupted her.
“Yes, but you have news about Crassus in the east?” She felt her heart hanging in her throat in apprehension.
“Hasn’t anyone taught you it was rude to eavesdrop?” The boy who interrupted her said.
“I didn’t mean to. I just—”
“Get out of here you street rat. And if you keep following us, you’ll have to answer to Demetrios.” The boy pointed to the large Greek slave, who cracked his knuckles menacingly.
“Oh come now, Titus, she’s just curious.” Manius stepped forward.
“You may like to associate yourself with these street urchins, but I don’t. A proper Patrician should never mingle with these rats.”
“She just wants to know about what’s happening.”
“Well then you can tell her. I shan’t be late to the rhetor today.” Titus turned around and left with his own slaves.
“You’ll have to excuse him. He’s never quite learned proper manners. Now, what did you want to know?”
“Master, we are running late.” His own slave said.
“And I shall explain to the rhetor when I get there. Now stay quiet.” Gestuering to her. “Please, ask away.”
“Thank you. I just want to know. Where is Crassus?”
“Crassus. Well, rumor has it that he’s out East. Further than Syria. Apart from that, I’m afraid I don’t know.”
Her heart sank. “Thank you. May the gods bless you.”
“I think it is you who will need the blessing.” He whispered as he watched her melt back into the crowd.
It did not matter what time of the year it was in the desert. It was hot, hotter than even the worst summers that Marcus had endured in Rome. Each step sank deeper into the burning sand. He wiped the drops of sweat from his face but couldn’t do anything about the ones that had already bled through his tunic and onto his armor. Soon he’d be sloshing in his own sweat again, just like yesterday. Reaching for the waterskin at his side, he weighed it in his hand. Halfway empty. He chanced a glance skyward and saw nothing but an endless pale blue.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. When Crassus came recruiting men for a faraway campaign, he had jumped at the chance. The richest man in the world, willing to pay others to go on a distant campaign. Nevermind the fact that the pay would be higher than any other soldier, there’s also the riches from conquest. The thought that he could escape the poverty that had plagued him all of his life was so intoxicating, so tantalizing that he just had to seize it. When he had left, Poppaea was four months into her pregnancy. By the time he returned home, his son would be at least two years old. Yes, he must have a son by now. He had a gut feeling about it.
Thinking of Poppaea, he could not help reaching into the pocket that swung at his side and feel the tiny wooden figure that she had given him on their wedding night. Both their families had been so poor that the only thing her family could offer up as a dowry was the tiny wooden figure that her father had carved for her as a child. Before he had left for the East, she had personally tied it around his neck and kissed it for good luck. He closed his eyes and felt himself transported back in times and distance. He stood in front of her again, feeling the slight bulge on her belly while her deft fingers worked near his neck. He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he had no choice. He had to leave it all behind. But it was worth it, wasn’t it? He makes this one sacrifice and he could secure a future out of that dirty apartment building in the Subura for his family.
It would be worth it. He was sure.
Poppaea sat down next to a fruit merchant stand and slung the baby from her back. She had yet to name him yet. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an idea. She just wanted Marcus to be here when she did it. The baby was still asleep. It was odd, he never really cried, even when he was hungry, which made it harder for her to figure out when to feed him. Now at almost a year old, he still couldn’t speak a single word. Her mother said it was an omen from the gods, but she dismissed it as old superstition. But on some nights, when she would weave long into the night, she would look at the child with unease. Sometimes she forgot that he even existed. Maybe this will all change when Marcus comes back.
The boy shifted slightly in his bundle and rubbed his tiny fists against his face. She smiled and kissed him slightly on the forehead.
Were his ears playing tricks on him? He could hear the gentle sloshing of water in the distance. Marcus whispered to Gaius.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Water.”
“No. You’re going crazy. This heat’s getting to you. Here, have some water.” He unclipped his waterskin and tossed it to Marcus.
“No, I have more than you.” Marcus tossed it back. It was a lie, but he didn’t need the water.
“You sure?”
“Yep. I’m also sure that we’re next to a river.”
“Keep dreaming.” Gaius shook his head and took a swig from his waterskin.
He ignored Gaius. He knew he was right. The sound of rushing water was unmistakable to him. Suddenly, he had a newfound resolve. The army was marching towards water. They would finally have a respite from this heat. A team of horsemen galloped past him and disappeared towards the rear of the column. Commotion seemed to rise up from the front and it was slowly being relayed behind.
“Are you sure?”
“Impossible!”
“That can’t be true!”
“Sure as Jove it is!”
“Gaius, what’s going on?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t know.”
Then the words were finally relayed back to them. Marcus felt his heartbeat quicken when he heard the news: the enemy was sighted not far from here at a nearby town. That would explain why the horsemen were galloping as quickly as they could from the front. Two sharp trumpet blasts were heard. The men scrambled into action, taking up their usual ranks in battle formation. Marcus felt a cold sweat run down his spine. They were exhausted and thirsty. The enemy would be well-rested and fresh. He didn’t like what the odds were.
“Well, well, Marcus, looks like this campaign may not be a fool’s errand after all.” Gaius smiled next to him. He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t.
“Hey! Either you buy something, or scram out of here!” She jumped from the fruit seller’s harsh voice. Muttering a quick word of apology to the man, she scurried from the fruit stand. Suddenly, a new sound pierced the air. It was a sound that she had rarely heard.
Her son was crying. He was bawling louder than he ever had. His face was scrunched up and he swung his tiny fists wildly. Poppaea looked at the boy in alarm. She didn’t know what to do. Others simply walked by. To them, it was just another crying child and his mother. But to her, something was wrong.
Where was the enemy? All Marcus could see in front of him was the empty desert. The din the legions made was maddening. It drowned out the sound of rushing water that he swore he heard. Another trumpet blast sounded. The signal to march. He chanced a glance at the sun. It was midday. Were they about to meet the enemy head on? He just realized how hungry he felt. He looked to the right and saw the centurion gave the sign for dining. But there was no trumpet for stopping. He understood what was happening.
They were going to fight. And Crassus didn’t care if his men ate or not.
“That bastard.” Crumbs of bread flew out of Gaius’ mouth. “I’d gut him like a fish if he weren’t so far away on his pompous ass.”
A long drawn-out note sounded on the trumpet. They were to form a square. Surely the enemy was closer now.
“Get ready, Marcus Amenius. We’re about to be recorded in the books of history.” Gaius readied his shield.
“That sounds a little dramatic, don’t you think.”
“A little theatrics never hurt anyone.” Marcus had to agree. Staring into the distant shimmering heat, he saw what looked like horses approach the army.
“What have you ever heard about the Parthians?”
“Them? I heard they were born on their horses. That they lived and died on those things.”
“That is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ve heard worse.”
“Like?”
“Some people say they have four arms, two for handling a bow, and the other two for handling their horses. Then there are some who say that they aren’t really men, but rather centaurs.”
“Wonderful. I wonder what’s next. That it’ll be Chiron who lead them?”
“It’s possible. Look at them. Do you see any foot soldiers?”
Marcus squinted in the distance at the Parthians. Gaius was right. He could not see a single person on foot. They were all mounted. Suddenly, a wild ululating sound rose up all around them in the desert. The earth seemed to shake beneath their feet. Sand jumped up from the noise. Drums were thrown into the din around them. They were surrounded.
“Hold the line!” It was their centurion, trying to keep the troops from panicking. Marcus could hear the hooves of the horses trampling across the desert sands. Shouldn’t the sand muffle all that sound?
In the distance, a horn sounded. The drumbeats and ululating became louder and faster. The horsemen (or were they really centaurs?) seemed to come closer and closer. They were at a full gallop now, their hooves digging into the ground, sending sand and clots of dirt flying into the air in a thunderous charge. Marcus’ hands were slippery with sweat as he gripped his shield tightly, awaiting the bone-shattering impact. He closed his eyes.
Suddenly shouts went up in the front ranks. Opening his eyes, he saw with horror as the Parthians ripped clothes and skins from themselves and revealed what they truly were: men made of glittering iron and solid brass. His knees went weak and he felt a warm fluid trickle down his leg. If it weren’t for Gaius standing beside him, he would’ve turned and ran at the sight. There was some reassurance that he wasn’t at the forefront of the ranks, staring at these iron centaurs riding towards them. The wait for the sound of impact was torturous. Seconds turned into hours. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The legs of the horses undulated slowly as they charged forward. The first row of Parthians lowered their spears.
She tried to calm him down, but the boy simply would not stop bawling.
“Stop crying, stop crying. Please stop crying.” He was turning blue from bawling. Clutching him to her breast, she tried to leave the forum. But it was almost midday. The traffic and throngs of people on the streets became heavier and heavier. She had difficulties navigating through the streets when she had her son strapped to her back. But now was almost impossible. Collapsing by a column at the Temple of Castor and Pollux, she sobbed and tried to calm her son.
The first charge was beaten off. Marcus could hear the cheers from the men in front. His heart swelled. Maybe this will be over quick.
“Looks like they’re not so tough. If that’s the best they have to offer, we’ll be rich in just a few weeks.” Gaius laughed. But before Marcus could answer, a single arrow shot through the air and pierced Gaius in the throat. He fell to the ground, the trace of laughter still on his face.
Then, the storm of arrows started. Slowly at first, then picking up speed until they started to block out the sun. The centurion yelled something incomprehensible amidst the whistling arrows. Marcus didn’t understand it, but the soldiers around him raised their shields to form a protective shell. Training took over. Grabbing hold of his large shield, Marcus joined the rest of them. As he moved closer with the rest of the men, he stepped on something. Looking down, he saw Gaius grinning up at him. The arrows kept coming down. Under the cover of the shields, he could hear the men who were shot, their screams echoing within the protective layer. The shields weren’t large enough to cover their shins and eyes. Men continued to fall from the arrow storm. The centurion barked orders after orders until an arrow pierced his face. Marcus watched in horror as the man fell forward, clutching his face.
A sharp pain shot through his hand. He gazed up and saw to his horror that an arrow had pierced through his heavy shield. More came raining down. The pain in his hand was unbearable, but he couldn’t put down the shield. The man beside him suddenly screamed in pain and fell down. Arrows quickly fell through the gap, embedding themselves into Marcus’ right foot. Another man quickly moved over to cover for the fallen. He turned to Marcus.
“Can you move?”
“No.” His blood was staining the sand and turning it into mud.
“I’m going to break the arrow. It’s going to hurt, but you need to pick up your foot!”
“Wait, no! No!” The other man kicked the arrows, breaking some of them, but also moving some of them. Marcus howled from the white-hot pain that shot through his legs.
“Pull out your foot! You can’t stay still!”
“I can’t!”
“Keep trying!” Another arrow pierced his shield and grazed his fingers. In the distance, the eastern horn sounded again. The Parthian were about to mount a second charge.
“Come on!” the other man bellowed. “If you stay here, you’ll die!”
Closing his eyes, Marcus yelled and pulled up his feet. He felt the uneven shaft of the arrow tear through his skin and flesh. Tears welled up from his eyes and his vision went black for the briefest moments.
The legionnaires broke out of their protective stance to face the charging Parthians. But they saw to their consternation that the enemy halted the charge and pulled back. Instead, they were greeted with more arrows that fell like hail of a midsummer storm.
“Reform the testudo!” The centurion’s second ordered.
They lapped their shields again. Once again, the arrows slammed against their shields and bounced off. Some penetrated, but they were safe for a moment. They ignored the horn that signaled a charge this time, knowing that it was just a ruse. They were wrong.
The sound of iron crashing against men was deafening, made even more so in the cramped space. Men screamed as lances ran through their armor. The ones on the outside were nailed into the ground by the arrows. They could only stand helplessly and watch as the glittering horsemen bore down upon them. Each time they broke out of the testudo to face the Parthians, they were greeted with fresh arrows. Marcus started to cry. This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t how wars were fought. You were supposed to meet the enemy head on, not rely on cheap tricks such as this!
The Roman trumpets sounded. It was a general advance. The legions eagerly rushed forward, desperate to escape the arrow storm. But it was no use. Marcus saw with despair that they had been surrounded by the Parthians. Arrows continued to rain down from the sky. His last thought before an arrow pierced his throat was that of his wife and his son. He should’ve stayed in Rome.
“Poppaea! I’m sorry.” He whispered as he fell forward into the sand that turned to mud from his blood.
The boy finally stopped bawling. Poppaea breathed a sigh of relief. Holding him to her chest, she kissed his forehead. But for the first time, she couldn’t feel the warmth of his tiny breath on her breast. Her hands trembled as she looked at her son. His face was blue. She put her finger under his nose and felt nothing.
No, it can’t be. This can’t be happening. Impossible! She shook him, gently at first, but when there was no response, she shook him with more vigor. Nothing. His tiny hands were still curled into the fists.
The tears came, slowly at first, and then faster until she could no longer control herself. People passed her by, but no one gave her any words of consolation. Only one word came from her mouth as she rocked back and forth in the Forum.
“Marcus.”
Creative work - chaplain118
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Rebel Jeb
