chimes in, “I’m keen to hear it too Marcus. Ha ha ha”.
“All right you two, you asked for it. Human progress is founded on military strength. Advances have always been on the shoulders of conquest. Look at Egypt, Persia, and Greece. Every one of them started with a military culture. Once they became strong enough civilization took root. But only then. They eventually declined because they failed to maintain their strength.
“Look at the spread of culture; it always follows power. When foreigners copy our way of life it’s not because they really admire it. It’s the power behind they want to be part of – even vicariously.
“We’re lucky to be Romans. I’ve got no sympathy for Socrates’ claim of being a citizen of the world. What’s the point of that if we’re superior? Anyway, how does that sit with patriotism, which the controversial fellow seemed to lack?”
“All right, all right” says Gaius. “Let’s change the subject. How’s Aurelia? Have you heard from her?”
“I’ve just got a letter. Haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I’m amazed how good the postal system is, even here. The last one said she’s well, still with her parents. Do you remember when she rescued that little dog hit by a chariot?
“Yes I do. You told me about it. Made a big impression on you.”
“Well she mentioned it in the last letter. It’s in good health now, living with her. We miss each other a lot. I haven’t asked her to marry me yet but I might. I think she’s willing to wait for me. But can’t be sure. You know the temptations of pretty girls when their boyfriends are away.”
“Sure. You’ll be lucky if she hasn’t found someone else by the time you get back”.
“Thanks for the confidence my friend.”
They laugh and clap each other on the back.
“We’d better speed up. We’ve been away a long time. It’ll be time for the crossing.”
❧
The finishing touches are being put on the bridge as they arrive. Hundreds of hammers driving in the last nails at different pitch break the silence of the place, sounding like frogs in a mating frenzy. At the river’s edge a different sound joins the staccato, of flood water rushing past all obstacles in its way, over them, around them, under them – never to be frustrated for long.
Soon the order’s given to commence the passage. Marcus and his men tread carefully over the pontoons. They’re being jostled by the impetuous current, making it difficult to keep balance. Men stagger, grabbing hold of each other, some dropping their shields. The bridge is stout though; a tree trunk pulled out of its roots heads downstream and crashes up against a pontoon. Failing to do any damage, it turns around slowly and dashes off down stream.
The troops are in full armour. It’s a sunny June afternoon; fragrance of new leaves on a gentle breeze melds with the soporific hum of bees working endlessly in the flowers. Normally it would inspire a sense of well being, of comfort and security, but not today. Thoughts of battle blot it out. Marcus says to his optio nearby,
“It’s a good time to give those barbarians a lesson in the art of war.”
Just as he’s almost at the other side, light vanishes completely. It’s like being in a tent when a surprise wind blows through the entrance and snuffs out the lamps. He looks up in alarm. Rain clouds coming from nowhere have arrived while he wasn’t looking and are rushing about like black chariots. Suddenly a bolt of lightning rips the darkness in a savage splash of beauty and screaming winds begin to assault the bridge like harpies.
He grabs the rope along the side and staggers forward on the rocking pontoons. The gale is heaving the clouds around like fragments of mountains. It’s as though everything has fallen backwards into primordial chaos, where the gods are fighting the titans and the whole world breaks apart in their fury.
Waves rise as tall as horses, tossing white manes in deadly sympathy with the wind. Rain slashes down in whips stinging the eye and leaving pock marks on the surface of the water. Marcus is almost blinded. The raft in front starts to give way, its lashings tearing loose. Men frantically try to haul the ropes back into place but those closest to the water are swept overboard, eyes wild with terror as they’re pulled down. Everyone’s shouting, officers giving orders that make no sense. One man cries with arms outstretched, “We’re doomed. O Neptune, save us.” Another yells, “Call on Jupiter you fool. This isn’t the sea.”
Others shriek “This is an omen, this is an omen”, repeating the phrase ad nauseam, overlapping each other in a chaotic chorus. Marcus tries in vain to get them to calm down. The men behind him bunch up in panic, adding to the instability of the bridge. Some rafts break away, dumping their terrified charges into the roiling brown stream.
The pontoon which Marcus is on holds, but only just, pulling and tearing at its sinews. As he stumbles, trying to get a better hold on the rope, a clutch of horses flashes by, frantically holding their heads above the water. They’re neighing but can’t be heard; only scared teeth show the poor animals are calling out to be saved. Some sink and rise only to sink again without trace. Among them his commanding officer’s steed bravely fights the waves, its bridle catching whatever light there is, glistering gold against grey and black. Soon it’s too far down stream to see, or in its watery grave.
Not normally superstitious, Marcus feels the cold hand of doom on his heart. Is there within nature’s anger a law behind all laws, whose ultimate purpose is not for him to know, which today is somehow connected with the visceral misgivings about why he came to Parthia? Many in Rome oppose the war, spilling into the streets in protest. Parthia is a friendly nation and has done nothing to deserve the aggressive treatment. The real issue though is that it’s blessed with riches that are the envy of the world. Crassus is after them, and so is he.
As the troops are sliding into despair, pleas for divine help the only hope, the storm clears as abruptly as it came. The clouds disappear and all is calm. It’s as if an imperious hand has swept away the turbulence, giving permission to the elements to rest now they’ve delivered their sign.
❧
With few fatal casualties, the host is now on Parthian soil. The invasion has formally begun. As the sun peeks out of the fleeing clouds, morbid feelings are put aside and pride returns. It was just a freakish prank of nature, Marcus thinks, no more than that. But still, it’s not a good way to start.
Camp can now be set up near the grassy bank, close to a water supply. The storm has caused an annoying delay. As the task takes six hours, it’ll be well into the night before it’s finished. There’s no way to shorten it. The cluster of square, brown tents must be protected by earthen walls and a ditch, a requirement that takes time. Roman discipline allows no corners to be cut, ever.
As pitched roofed tents of oiled calf’s skin begin to pop up in the usual linear pattern, Marcus slips away to sit under a tree to read the letter. It was right to wait until he can read it unrushed. It’s from her – the faint perfume her signature. A touch of anxiety comes; her affection can’t be taken for granted.
My beloved,
Your fingers will feel mine as you pick up this parchment for the ink still bears the imprint of my touch. I miss you so. How’s the campaign going? When will you come home? I hold your letters close to me all the time to keep a connection that, alas, can only be spiritual at this stage. Please write more, at least one a day. I know you’re busy but spare a thought for the one who loves you. Everything’s so dull here without you and I’m lonely. Anyway life must go on.
I spend most of my days with my mother. Her sickness makes her bad tempered so I’m finding it difficult to look after her. No one knows what’s wrong with her. It’s a big worry. But anyway I know I must do my best to make her life as good as it can be. But sometimes it’s hard.
I’m back playing the harp, but only by myself. It gives me comfort in those long days when you’re not here. I think of the notes as little messengers that might go all the way