In single file, Lucius and his two scouts followed Varghat as he wove his way through the trees. The thick carpet of pine needles kept their footsteps silent. They carefully set their feet, doing their best to avoid rocks that might click with contact under their hobnailed caligae. When the Armenian guiding them hunched and slowed down, they followed suit until he stopped, waving Lucius forward.
Varghat held a branch down so they could look over it. Inhaling sharply, Lucius bit off the curse he wanted to air. They looked over a ridge to the main track they’d passed over several days ago. Below them, hundreds of Parthians rode, filling the trail. Inspecting the rows and columns and how they were organized, he did some quick math and estimated there were over a thousand riders—maybe closer to fifteen hundred—probably mixed kataphraktoi and lighter lancers and archers. This was far more than a few Parthian spies. Roma’s enemy was sending an army to fill the power vacuum Trajan’s withdrawal had left.
Their cohort was cavalry heavy compared to most other Roman legions and cohorts, giving extensive training to everyone in the unit, but they weren’t extra heavy kataphraktois—both horse and rider covered in armor. They could probably hold their own and defeat the Parthians, barring any more troops joining them, but they’d spend too much of their strength and leave too many bodies in the mud to be able to successfully carry out their mission.
Committing as much information as he could to memory, Lucius let the other scouts move up next to him so Syphax would have more than just his perspective to analyze when they got their information back to camp. Clenching his jaw in frustration, he waited while his men inspected the Parthian column. For all the satisfaction he should have felt at being right, he wished for all the world he’d been wrong. He could have returned to camp and shared a laugh with Syphax at his overzealous caution. Instead, he had to get his men back to their cohort while outracing some of the finest horse soldiers he’d ever faced.
Lucius gave them a couple minutes then tapped them on the shoulders, heading back to where their mounts waited. He wanted to jump on his horse and kick it into a run but knew that would be dangerous and noisy on the heavily wooded trail. The Parthians were bound to have scouts of their own moving through the woods. Lucius’s priority was to get the information back to Syphax.
When they returned to their mounts, they rode out without speaking, picking their path carefully until they rejoined the rest of the small squad Lucius had assembled for this mission. Before they could pepper him with questions, he signaled them to stay silent. Lucius had their saddles switched to rested mounts while they attended to their personal needs and grabbed food they could eat while riding.
While his feet were on the ground, Lucius’s mind focused on the lines of Parthian cavalry, but as soon as he climbed up onto his fresh mount, a smart mare he rode when his gelding needed a break, he focused entirely on their next mission—living to deliver their news. He used every bit of horse craft he’d learned from Syphax and his Berber heritage along with the wood craft he’d learned in Belgica and Dacia to move as quickly and as quietly as possible.
If they rode near a spot where he could look down to the main trail, he sent his men ahead so he could sneak to the edge to survey the progress of the Parthians. So far, Lucius and his men were moving much faster than the bigger column. As long as disaster didn’t strike, they’d be able to increase their lead and give their people the warning they needed. It would be long days in the saddle and cold camps once there wasn’t enough daylight to safely ride before they rejoined their comrades.
Lucius slept little, his mind fixated on getting his men to safety and on the superior number of enemies pursuing them. Forced to keep a facade of calm as befit his position, he let his turmoil churn under the surface. In all his years serving Roma, he’d never been so far from the aid of the other legions.
After three days traveling the opposite direction from the rest of the cohort, he figured it would take them five until they made contact with their rearguard. He just hoped they didn’t encounter a large Parthian vanguard. If they ran into any resistance, they’d have to rely on speed of horse. A handful more than a dozen men wasn’t enough for any kind of fight. Lucius would have to trust to his skills and cunning to get them back to their cohort.
EIGHT
Lucius had never been so relieved to be challenged for his identity as when they finally found the rearguard. Once Lucius acknowledged the passcode, he took a fresher horse from the rearguard and brought the optio along to speed his entrance into the main force with today’s codes.
Syphax had halted their march for the day and was setting up their road fort. Cutting his way through their men erecting tents, walls, and fortifications, Lucius dismounted outside of the command tent and was ushered inside by the men standing guard. He gave a quick salute, then sat in the leather camp chair Syphax gestured toward.
“You look a little worse for wear, Lucius.” Syphax picked up a jug of wine and filled a cup for Lucius. “I take it we have company of the uninvited sort?”
Lucius nodded, taking a swig of the wine. “Yeah. We’re looking at close to fifteen hundred horsemen—mixed heavy and light.”
Syphax’s eyebrows shot up close to his tightly coiled curls. “One thousand five hundred?”
“Approximately. I got as good of a count as I could, but I didn’t want to hang around and get caught.” Lucius rubbed the stubble on his jaw that threatened to turn into a beard if left unattended for much longer.
“How fast are they traveling?” Syphax took a drink of wine, keeping his eyes firmly locked on his aide-de-camp.
“We lost sight of them about two days ago. With this rain, the trail’s got to be slowing them down. It won’t do them much good to get here with half their horses breaking legs.” Lucius scooted his chair closer to the brazier.
“Two days? That’s not much time. We’ll have to pick up our march a bit. I don’t relish trying to hit Caesarian speed in this muck, but the men are in fine condition; we can push them some.” Syphax refilled his wine and leaned back in his chair, staring at the tent wall above Lucius’s head as he mulled over his options.
Lucius scooted even closer to the heat source, enjoying the warming feeling of the wine as it unknotted some of the muscle tension in his shoulders and neck.
When Syphax’s eyes drifted back to Lucius, he sat up. “I’m sorry. I don’t need to keep you here. Go attend to your needs and get some food. Have someone find the pater and send him in. I want to see how well he knows this territory he’s marching us through.”
Lucius nodded and got up.
“Good job, Lucius. I’m thankful for your instincts. Keep listening to them.”
“Thank you, Syphax. I’ll check in after I get cleaned up and find a bite to eat.” He paused for a moment, reluctant to head back into the frigid drizzle, then plunged outside into the growing twilight.
“Roman. It’s good to see you back safe.” Ariazate stepped out from behind a tent and joined him as he walked toward his tent.
“It’s good to be back. Did you and Tigran manage to stay out of trouble?”
“Aye. Syphax had us pitch our tent near his. When you’re ready, stop by our tent. I’ll have some food ready for you.” A bit of her usual harsh tone had receded some.
Stopping, Lucius smiled warmly at her. “Thank you, Zati. I’ll stop by after I clean up and put some dry clothes on.”
Zati nodded, the barest of smiles tipping up the corners of her mouth, then turned toward Syphax’s tent.
Lucius found a fire and some warm water, procuring a bucket to take with him so he could give himself a quick bath. Staring at his grooming kit, he decided to skip the razor. The beard would keep his face warm, and the itching gave his hands something to idly scratch. With dry clothes and the grime of the ride washed off, he headed back into the rain toward Syphax’s tent. When he drew nearer, he heard the soft tone of a tsiranapogh—judging by the playing, it was likely Tigran. He was an excellent player, but he wasn’t as good as his sister.
He followed his ears to their tent, stopping outside. Ariazate hummed and sang a sad melody, though he couldn't understand the words.
“Ariazate?” Lucius called lightly.
“Around back, Roman,” she replied.
Stepping around the tent, he found Ariazate working over a pot hanging over a small fire. She’d rigged an awning over her to keep the rain off while she worked. Tigran sat cross legged in the tent, quietly practicing.
“You’re just in time,” she said without looking up. She scooped something from the pot into a wooden bowl, handing it to Lucius, then handed him a second one. “Tigi, your dinner is ready. You can sit inside and eat, Roman.”
Lucius handed Tigran the second bowl, then found a spot to sit down, fishing out his spoon from his belt pouch. “You know, I’m not an actual Roman. I’m a Gaul, from Belgica.”
Ariazate shrugged. “You wear the uniform and march under the eagle, Roman.” She filled a bowl for herself, then sat across from Lucius, her knee touching his in the tight confines of their small tent. “I apologize. It’s not as good as what you had in Tigranocerta. The facilities aren’t as complete, and I’ve had to make do with what ingredients were available.”
Lucius inhaled deeply, the steam carrying savory aromas of meat and a light spicing. “It smells wonderful, especially after a week of nothing but mostly cold rations.”
