“How’d they know you were coming?” Lucius dreaded the answer.
“Varghat. He led us along the path, then as soon as the Parthians jumped out at us, he turned on us. He betrayed us, Centurio. There’s a second force coming for us, from the east.”
Lucius closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his thumb and middle finger. He wanted to ask Selene why one of Tiridat’s men had betrayed them when she said they could… The conversation flashed through his mind. She’d only vouched for Tiridat, not his men. He shook head, biting off a curse. “Start at the beginning.”
Mylitos nodded. “He led us through trails that wound up along the south side of the hills. Once we got up to a good hiding spot, he had us wait and disappeared like he did when we found the first Parthian army. When he came back, we followed him on foot to a ridge with a clear view of the pass. I haven’t seen that many Parthians since Ctesiphon.”
“How many?”
“I estimate twenty-five hundred to three thousand. Infantry, horse, wagons. Once he let us get a good look, we started back, but before we got to our horses, we were jumped. The bastard stabbed Gnaius in the back, then cut Prextos’s throat. I ran for it at the point. I had to get the news back. A Parthian tackled me, but I killed him and got away.”
“How soon will they be here?” The crisis pushed aside the numbness sliding over Lucius.
“They’re not pressing hard, but they’ll be here by midday tomorrow at the latest.”
The news slapped Lucius. “Gods below.” As the wheels turned in his head, he looked closer at Mylitos. “You’ve got a gash in your arm. Go get it taken care of. Keep this information to yourself and stay nearby in case I have more questions.”
Looking into the sky, he found the sun through the thick gray clouds. In the west, Parthian horns sounded.
“What now?” Lucius jogged over to the western wall and climbed to the walkway along the top of the wall. As soon as he cleared the last rung, he looked for an officer. Seeing an optio, he called him over. “Report.”
At Lucius’s harsh tone, the optio stood straight and saluted crisply. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it looks like they’ve called a retreat. The Parthians are disengaging and moving back to their lines.”
The Parthians were disengaging, though in a far more orderly fashion than they had yesterday.
“Optio, tell the cornicen to signal hold positions. Do not pursue. All units. Understand?” Lucius turned and started down the ladder.
“Yes, Centurio.” The optio grabbed men and barked out the orders.
By the time Lucius had made it down the ladder and halfway back to the hospital tent, the horns were calling out the orders. The Parthians didn’t need to keep wasting their men trying to crack the tough nut of the Roman fort. They could pull back and wait until their second force arrived to do the heavy lifting. Unless he and the other centurions could think of something, they were fucked.
Lucius looked up when he heard his name. The primus pilus had made his way inside the walls and found Lucius. The grizzled old veteran from Lusitania was already five years into his second twenty-five-year contract with the legions.
“Rumor is Syphax is wounded,” Bandua said without preamble, pulling off his helmet and wiping a rag over his mostly bald head.
Lucius didn’t know the man’s given name. When he’d signed his contract with the Legions thirty years ago as a brash young man, he’d signed as Bandua—the war god worshiped by the Celts of Gallaecia and Lusitania. The name fit him. There was a reason the man was the first spear of the cohort. He fought with a brutal efficiency coupled with joy in the contest. He’d have been a primus pilus of an entire legion if he hadn’t been so loyal to Syphax and wanted to stay with the newly formed elite cohort. He must have been a true terror as a young man.
“I don’t know how he’s still alive. He took an axe to the back,” Lucius replied.
Bandua blinked at him a few times, then exhaled loudly.
“That’s not the half of it,” Lucius continued. “There’s a second army coming towards us. Mylitos counts twenty-five hundred to three thousand.”
“Fucking hells. How much time do we have?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Does Syphax know?” Bandua asked.
“No.”
“We better go tell him. He’d curse us on his deathbed if we didn’t.” Bandua wrapped his meaty hand around the back of Lucius’s neck and squeezed it roughly but affectionately. “Let’s go see our friend.”
On the way to the hospital tent, they collected Mylitos, and Lucius explained the situation to Syphax. After the tribune thought it over, he issued his final orders to his men.
“Sir…” Lucius protested.
“Centurio.” He grimaced and coughed weakly. “Follow your orders.”
Lucius nodded, tears slipping over his cheeks. “Yes, Tribunus.”
“Now find…” He convulsed and tried to stifle a scream but only partially succeeded. “Give me the poppy tea.”
Bandua waved down the surgeon. Lucius squatted down, took Syphax’s hand, and squeezed it lightly. Once the surgeon grabbed an assistant to take care of the poppy tea, Bandua rejoined them, squatting next to Lucius, grunting as he gingerly lowered himself.
“Don’t ever get old, Lucius,” Bandua said.
“Your knees?” Syphax asked weakly.
Bandua laughed. “You worry about your own maladies, Syphax.”
“You should have retired at the end of your last contract, my old friend.”
“And do what? Die in bed? A horse’s knees do well enough for me.”
“Listen, Bandua. I left a letter for you and the other officers in case…” He stopped to catch his breath, though he barely managed a few shallow gasps. “The cohort is yours, Bandua. Lucius, stay with me…for a bit.”
