“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. However, 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.”