Thank you to CloudCarnivore for reviewing and to those who've already followed and/or favourited this story!
This chapter contains no China, but instead a little backstory on the lead-up to how Rome and China will meet in the next. It's also through Rome's POV.
I also wanted to note that I've tried to keep this story as historically accurate as I can, so I hope it reads OK from a narrative point of view. (I do love writing battle scenes, though, haha!) As such, it contains a few historical place names and people who I think I've introduced alright; the only place name that really matters would be Parthia, which was an Eastern nation that existed back in Roman days and was one of the main reasons why Rome never expanded eastward enough to have more to do with China - Rome and Parthia clashed a lot. This also means that the characters of Rome and Parthia don't exactly get on well and, as such, trade insults throughout (which obviously consist of the characters' opinions and not mine, haha). The people are either historical figures or random soldiers.
Serica
II
53 BC
The man plucked a honeyed date from the table and pressed it against his lips, as if reluctant to eat but knowing to refuse food would be impolite.
"I'll have you know," He spoke suddenly, his tone trying for strength, "I hold your judgement in high regard – as do my associates – but on this matter I feel reconsideration is necessary."
Opposite him was a second man, larger than the first and in possession of a sharp jaw line and quick, decisive eyes. In contrast to the first, the second man, lounging as he was on an over-padded daybed, shone with youth; the muscles of his arms were visible and firm, and his dark brown hair was bouncy and glossed. His name, currently, was Romulus Vargas, and he was the personification of Rome.
"Why?" Rome looked the other man directly in the eyes. "I say you're wrong, and I don't plan to send good men into a battle we have no chance of winning."
The older man opened his mouth, closed it. He sighed, placing a hand atop the dark, flat cap he called hair and closing his eyes. When he did speak it was sudden and over loud. "Am I yet to prove myself to you?"
"At ease, Marcus." Rome's voice was quieter than usual, knowing he had to be persuasive here, to get his point across, and to resort to flattery if need be. After all, even if he personally was against something, if any of the most powerful men in Rome said he marched, then he marched, and Crassus was most definitely one of those three men. "You quashed a rebellion, and I commend you for that, but that was a hundred-thousand slaves, not the entire force of General Surenas's heavy cavalry. Parthia is not something we should ever take lightly!"
General Marcus Licinius Crassus stood, the gesture slow due to his sixty years of life, "I'm well aware of that, Vargas, but come now. This is our chance to strike a blow against Parthia – our Eastern expansion depends on our choices here!"
"With all due respect, I'd rather not send legions of decent men to their deaths in an effort to bloody Parthia's nose."
The two men held each other's stares for a long moment.
"It is decided," The old General broke away first, "We will send troops into Mesopotamia – we need not advance much further for now – and in doing so, as you so put it, bloody the nose of the man who holds it."
"General Surenas won't break easily." Rome, still not giving up, pressed Marcus further, "Are you sure you're ready to shoulder the blame when all of Rome points to you for this defeat? Because they will have you replaced; the only question is will it be Caesar or Pompey who absorbs your share of the power?"
"How dare you!" The conversation was getting louder now. "My campaign is already one year in, and there's been no great disaster yet."
"And that means there never will be, does it?" Arguing was futile; how could one man be so arrogant as to believe his own inflated judgement over that of his entire country, sitting right here before him?
"Five legions: that is all I will require." General Crassus continued relentlessly, "Give me thirty-thousand men and I'll have Mesopotamia within the month."
Rome gave him one last, levelling look, before finally voicing his last resort, "Seven legions, totalling forty-four-thousand men. These we will hire when nearer the boarder. In addition, you may make use of the four-thousand cavalry currently stationed in the eastern barracks – they're yours to slaughter, on one condition: make me overall commander by proxy. I need no credit, but the powers of a Legatus Legionis will be mine for the duration of the campaign."
A pause. "We shall depart as soon as the first troops can be gathered."
Officially, Romulus Vargas was second in command, with General Crassus directly above him. (Of course, Vargas planned to be pulling all strings in the coming campaign, so this was partly irrelevant.) However, this was only his official title; as per Vargas's next request, he would not be known as 'Second in Command' within the troop, but instead be at the head of eighty men – a centuria – whom he would directly command in the name of keeping a low profile. 'Second in Command' was not exactly a discrete position, after all, and Rome needed to discrete.
After all, if Parthia himself were to see Rome on the ground as part of a troop on a hopeless march such as they would soon be, well, he'd laugh at him for centuries, and Rome refused to be laughed at.
It took exactly twenty-six days to reach the Syrian border from the eastern barracks. It was a standard operation from A to B which took the form of a series of voyages upon a small fleet, interspersed by marching. They were a small group, with barely any men to speak of, having yet to hire them. Indeed, the only troops they could be thoroughly sure of acquiring were the thousand or so supposed soldiers General Crassus's son, Publius Crassus, had brought with him from Gaul.
So, off they went, a contingent of barbarian troops led by a hearing-impaired General and his son who had spent his entire military career in the bitter Gallic lands to the west. In other words, despite his father being the Governor of Syria Province, neither father nor son had any experience with desert warfare; Publius's captured army were no better.
When aboard one of their fleet's many ships, Romulus spent the majority of his days with Crassus Sr., discussing manoeuvres and going over drills. Crassus, of course, left most of the talking to his son, who had two working ears.
Before the Parthian border could be reached, they had to march through Asia Minor, though this was still Roman territory. Some nights, they boarded within the confines of one of the many keeps which speckled the Mediterranean, whilst on others they made camp amongst the reliably warm air. Wealthy General Crassus seemed always to find the best lodgings for himself and his family, but Vargas preferred to stay with the troop and bed down with them – it was important that these captured barbarians be tame towards their leaders, after all, and treating them as second class men did not seem a smart way to go about things.
After the first few nights, Publius sided with Vargas on the matter.
Regardless, the general feeling was jovial. Villages and townships along the way provided them readily with provisions to replace those already spent, and the mood was not one of a suicide march but a crusade. Things were looking promising.
One night very early on, a day after they had departed from the heel of the Roman heartland via their 'inconspicuous' fleet of ships, one of the Gallic men approached Romulus and, in his rough northern dialect, asked him if he wished to share a drink. The rasping burn of such low quality wine would linger at the back of his throat for what felt like an age, but it was easier to get drunk amongst low born men than it was with flush fools such as Crassus Sr.
"What's it like, this Parthia?" The Gaul asked Rome after a while, his blonde hair hanging about his face in threads.
"Warm." Rome replied simply. He took another gulp from his cup. "Not ideal for us to fight in – they'll have the advantage."
The Gaul gave a nod. "You seem to know the area?"
"A little." Rome couldn't give too much away about himself; vaguely, he wondered what the personification of Gaul himself was like. After all, there had to be one, didn't there?
The blonde man let out a spate of booming laughter. "Then I have a request: put me on your team. I'd much rather have a leader who knows the land."
"I'll think about it." Rome laughed with him, and honestly considered it; the Gaul seemed sincere enough, a straightforward man playing a game where straightforward men were appreciated. But, alas, as a lowly proxy for Second in Command the decision was not his to make.
When they eventually did arrive within a matter of miles from the Roman-Parthian border, Crassus Sr. Began to work at gathering troops and, with promises of cavalrymen being sent from Armenia, things were still looking surprisingly hopeful. All candidates were to be loyal to their Empire and checked for trustworthiness but, with numbers in the forty-thousands, this would prove to be almost impossible. Then again, the border province was Syria, where Crassus held his stake, and a clear Roman site - this meaning the hired soldiers would be, in a way, Roman soldiers - so their loyalty should be assured.
It wasn't until the troop, now full and complete, approached those final few miles from the border that things began, finally, to take a turn for the worse.
The sun beat down, heavy and ever-present, like a great omniscient ball which found them distasteful. The soldiers, each dressed in standard military gear, drunk purposefully from the leather canteens which hung at their waists. Each night they made camp and each night the act of making it seemed to take longer. The food wagons were fast emptying. The only saving grace, it seemed, was that their route hugged the Euphrates River, allowing the men to replenish their stocks of water at mostly regular intervals.
They marched on.
After a few days more of this, a scout rode in from one of the nearby Roman territory towns, bringing with him news that changed everything.
The young Parthian General, General Surenas, was stationed personally nearby, in the desert just east of the River.
"Tomorrow," Crassus the Elder proclaimed, "We shall ride for Seleucia."
"Seleucia?" As always, Rome could not believe the words his general dared utter. "Seleucia is no small village! We'll take casualties there, if we fight – lose men that we'll need later on in the campaign."
"But we shall have Surenas's head! Morale amongst those Parthian dogs will splinter, giving us the perfect opportunity to deal a critical blow. This is basic strategy, Vargas, the strategy which made Rome great." This back and forth continued, getting them nowhere.
"You will regret this." Rome declared as he stormed from Crassus's tent, leaving to go prepare his own eighty men for the days to follow. The rest, he thought, was in the Gods' hands.
And so they marched for the eastern desert, leaving the cover of the River behind and crossing open country. They were vulnerable now, low on provisions and even the common foot soldiers were fast losing confidence in their ability to come out of the coming battle relatively unscathed.
Somewhere, somewhere out there in the sinking desert haze, was the Parthian army. Parthia knew they were coming – the futile exchange of ambassadors before the troop had first set out ensured as much – and he was undoubtedly ready.
And, of course, he would not seek a head on clash with the Roman army, as that would not play out well for the Parthian side; Rome was good at blunt combat. No, the attack, when it came, would be an ambush.
Rome turned his head to the sky, feeling the dryness of thirst in his throat which he knew the human fighters to be feeling ten-fold. And then it happened.
The muffled shift of hooves on sand gave them away.
A shout went up somewhere nearby, directing the Roman troops to get into position, get ready to face their opponents. All...wait...
Dressed in blankets and rags, these had to be mercenaries, if that! There was no way this dishevelled cluster was Surenas's own men. Not only that but, although Rome couldn't give an exact number, the closer they got the easier it was to see: they were not even a quarter of the size of the Roman forces.
Crassus gave an overriding order for the troops to change position from a line to a hollow square which would allow for defence on all sides. Vargas and Crassus's own son, Publius, were to move to separate sides and strengthen the offence there.
The two armies stood perfectly still, waiting.
Publius himself was eager to fight and did not hide it well, begging his father to let the battle begin now, rather than pause for the night; Crassus chose to side with his flesh and blood rather than rest his men and begin troop movements in full the next morning.
Rome bit his tongue to keep from objecting. The men were tired and thirsty from their march, but apparently that mattered little. After all, their opponents were mercenaries - just look at their dress! - and Rome was strong. An order was given and the Roman troops solidified their square, preparing to advance.
Then, all at once, the game changed.
Their supposed opponents - the supposed mercenaries - cast off their ragged blankets to reveal the gleaming light armour of the Parthian military. They had come disguised as a bluff, to get the Roman troop to relax and then tense immediately. It was a wicked trick, and the foot soldiers reacted to it accordingly, postures stiffening and limbs overly ready from this new, heightened threat, this threat that did not even pause for breath before charging forward, a sea of highly trained horsemen and spear-carriers rushing forward.
It also begged the question: what other silly, successful tricks did General Surenas have up his sleeve?
It had began suddenly, a thousand cavalrymen charging towards the Roman square, but they had trained for this. Shields held high, the Roman lines held and the cavalrymen were quickly thrown from their horses and sent to meet with their heathen Gods.
Another order, and Rome's light infantry pressed forward. Then came the real threat. That is to say, the Parthian archers – those swift demons on horseback – began to move, firing from incomprehensible speeds and angles at the advancing infantry. Then, having felled a great many men, they stopped moving, taking up the worst possible position and surrounding the defensive square.
Arrow after arrow rained down.
No shield could block them. No breastplate could protect the opposing troops.
Their lines were being decimated, soldier by soldier.
Just as soon as the Parthian beasts had achieved formation, they broke it, turning their backs on Rome, as if retreating. Even here, they managed to fire, twisting their bodies and letting loose a flurry of parting shots.
Rome winced. The bulk of his troops were still intact, safe behind sturdier shields and years of military drills they all should have been put through. If they could only hold their square until the Parthians' stocks of arrows ran dry, then maybe, just maybe...
But, of course, things were never that simple where Parthia was involved.
Hundreds of camels advanced upon the them. Not exactly worthy opponents, no, but loaded up with bundles which could only contain stores of extra arrows, and water. Lots of water. In other words, not only were the Parthians armed to the teeth, but stamina was on the their side, whereas Rome's troops were worn down and suffering with dehydration, unused to dessert manoeuvres. They couldn't simply outlast this battle.
A message travelled through the troop, an order from Crassus to Publius that Rome apparently had no say in. Publius was to take a thousand cavalry and eight cohorts and aim for the enemy horsemen, breaking their opposition's already loose formation. They had to prevent the Roman square from being completely and utterly surrounded.
Rome could only watch as Publius and his groups charged, causing the Parthians to run but not scatter.
You idiot, Crassus, why did you think that would work?! Vargas ordered his men into tighter defensive formation, knowing the Parthians would later halt their mounts a distance away, having successfully pulled Publius's men away from the main troop, and let lose yet more of their Hellish arrows. Of course they would. It was what they were famous for, for crying out loud!
Crassus had sent his own son to his death, miles away, where he would not have the displeasure of seeing it.
The main troop, however, was momentarily calm, the main brunt of their enemy having been successfully pulled away. Crassus, in response, ordered them into ordinary battle formations and Vargas, having long since given up hope of victory, wordlessly obeyed.
Minutes passed, before the ground quaked with hoof falls. Then the Parthians were back, spears and arrows and armour, but with one major difference: they had Publius with them.
Or, at least, they had his head.
It would be especially distasteful to tell a man 'I told you so' after he had just been presented with the sight of his longtime enemy waving around his own child's head on a spear. And so, with that, what little morale the troop had left had now been wholly and completely obliterated.
Arrows from the side, arrows from above, it was impossible to defend in all directions at once. They could not move, let alone retaliate.
At last, night fell and Vargas, having watched as Crassus inwardly collapsed, met with no objections when he suggested the troop break their positions and head for nearby Carrhae, leaving behind the wounded, most of whom could no longer walk. Vargas, too, offered to stay behind. After all, he could not be felled by human hands, and could perhaps help buy some time for the forces retreating to Carrhae.
But, ah, this was gonna hurt, wasn't it?
At some point, the vastly larger portion of the Parthian troop broke off, no doubt heading too for Carrhae, where a hopefully rested Roman army should meet with them. A lone man standing amongst the injured, making one final stand after being abandoned by the rest of his troop, Rome knew how he must look to them. He was not a threat to Parthia, nor even to one man, or so they reasoned.
The remaining group – barely fifty-strong – approached at a trot, before halting, perhaps suspecting a trap. Two mounted scouts were sent forward.
When they were within hearing distance, the scouts grunted something at him in a language he knew but pretended he did not. And then he charged, a one man army, unable to die, swiping with sword against the scouts and toppling them from their horses. As soon as he punctured one through the chest, the other was up and ready, but he too was quickly dispatched. More riders, more of the same until, eventually, they flooded him.
So much for keeping a low profile, Rome thought with a smile, the clash of metal as he fended off spears at superhuman speeds satisfying something primal within him, something he worked to feed. If only he could have broken ranks earlier, things might have been different but, as a senior officer, he was well aware his men would have followed him, and that could have only served to send his people into disarray, providing Rome with more casualties than this day had already amounted.
He used his shield to block a blow from the rear, propelling his body forward to push another soldier into the dirt, but the attack never once let up.
When he finally lost consciousness, it was with twenty rods of metal-tipped pine sticking out of him at odd angles.
When Romulus awoke he was surprised to find it was neither underground nor in three separate locations. Instead, there was firm stone against his back and even firmer shackles round his wrists.
"Where...?" His head was like cotton and the world was too bright. Was he drunk?
"Ah, General Vargas!" Someone near to him was shouting, causing more voices to whoop and cheer.
"Huh?"
"General Vargas," The speaker's face came into view then; he was young and missing an eye. "Thank the Gods you live."
Rome nodded slowly, trying desperately to orientate himself.
"Where are we?" The room was large and bare. In there with him were many of his fellow Roman troops, though by no means all of them. All had injuries which had been bandaged and dressed.
"A Parthian cell," The man, one of his soldiers, spat at the ground, "There are more of us, but they split us up."
"Are there many survivors?"
"At my best guess..." The man paused, but not to think, "Around four-thousand. None from Carrhae."
Rome's eyes shot to alertness. "What?"
"Carrhae was a death trap. Word is, the Great Lord General Crassus called for peace talks, but, well, you can't ever trust a Parthian dog."
"They killed him?" And during peace talks?
The man gave a sobering nod. "The only men here were those left in the desert. The injured." He bowed his head and did not raise it for a while.
After giving the room a once over, Rome stated, "They dressed our wounds."
"Yes."
"They killed none of the wounded."
"...No."
Rome waited for the soldier to elaborate. Did he mean 'no, they didn't kill anyone' or did that pause mean 'no, they did kill some of us'?
"One man." He said, finally.
"Just the one?" Why just the one?
The soldier pulled a face, as if his torn eye was giving him pain. "His name was Tiberius. Older man, coming to the end of his service, you know? Well, I never really saw the resemblance much, but apparently he looked like the Lord General. Right colours, of a roughly similar age, all that."
"So," As he spoke, Romulus rolled his shoulders, massaged his knees, checking for any hint of tightness which may hinder him in a coming fight for freedom, "They weren't satisfied with killing the man himself, so they cut down a lookalike?"
"It weren't that simple, Sir," Now that he really looked at him, the colours and design of the soldiers uniform matched Rome's own – this man had also led an eighty-strong contingent in the battle which had just ensued, though he had had none of the further powers Rome had supposedly enjoyed. "See, they killed the original quick, where no-one could see it happen. So, Tiberius was his replacement. They took him a few days back-"
A few days? How long had Rome been knocked out for?
"-and, word is, they dressed him up like a woman and paraded him 'round the streets of Carrhae. Then they beheaded him, o'course, in front of a crowd." The man settled back on his knees, not making eye contact. "But here we are, alive and nursed."
"Yeah..." Satisfied that there was no considerable damage to his person, Rome stood up in an attempt to appear dignified, even in a cell. "Why are we alive?"
"That's what we were wanting to ask you!" A voice he couldn't locate called from somewhere in the room.
"Hm?"
"See," The first man spoke again, "They were gonna kill us, right there on the field – even lined us all up to make their job easier – then that young General of theirs came running over, ordered us locked up but looked after. Then he carried you back himself, probably outta some sort of respect for that display of yours - how you're still breathing, none of us know."
What?
"By 'young General', do you mean Surenas?" But that was ridiculous, right? Why would Surenas carry an enemy soldier?
Something very suddenly clicked into place and Rome went very, very still.
That could only mean one thing. It could only mean that his cover was blown, that Surenas had figured out that the man who just wouldn't die could only be The Roman Empire himself.
But the soldier shook his head. "Dunno who he was, but they all knelt down for him."
Wait, if the General who carried him had not been Surenas, then...
What name did that man go by currently?
"I think they called him..." The soldier was standing with him now, leaning one shoulder against the cool stone wall. "Now what was it..."
"Arsaces?" Rome hazarded a guess.
"General Arsaces, yes, of course, that was him!" A name of Kings.
Parthia himself had saved Rome's men. Or, he should say, 'young' General Valgan Arsaces had saved them. That was Parthia's current human name, after all.
"Quickly," Romulus urged, "When does someone come to the door – to deliver food, or what have you?"
"There's guards there, Sir," The soldier's eye squinted with confusion, "They never leave." Of course there were!
With no further delay, Rome threw his weight against the door, not attempting to break it but instead in the hope of gaining the guards' attention. It worked almost immediately; a flap near the ground popped open and a harsh voice yelled Parthian obscenities at them. But Rome, no matter how much he tried to deny it, spoke Parthian well.
"Bring me to Arsaces!" He roared through the slot, "Tell him it's Vargas and he'll see me immediately!" The guards, evidently, had been briefed on the man shouting back at them, as the sound of a single set of footsteps echoed soon after, as if getting further and further away. At his own soldiers' collective stare, he made up a half-lie about having family near the Syrian border and having picked up a whole host of eastern dialects. He told them he was trying to bargain. Luckily for Rome, his men swallowed this, but bitterly.
Not a moment later, the door to their cell thundered open and Vargas was marched outside. Of course, the door was secured firmly behind him.
Another guard grabbed him by his elbows and shoved him forward, implying he walk. He was already bound at the wrists and, more loosely, at the ankles from his time in the cell, but he wasn't likely to make a run for it alone anyway, not without his men. This is what Parthia had judged, and his judgements were correct. Thus, he only had the one guardsman take him.
"When you meet the General," His escort instructed as though rehearsed, "You will pay obeisance and speak only when spoken to." In reply, Rome pretended he couldn't understand the language.
The guardsman shepherded him along several hallways, each short, yellow-stoned and foreign. At last, they reached a set of double doors, two men wide and three tall, and Rome was shoved through.
He must be in Carrhae, if the keep they were being held in housed a main hall this grand. Still, despite its impressive size and intricately carved interior, this was a border keep and so was suitably utilitarian.
Atop a dais, Parthia waited for him.
The guard attempted to push Rome down to his knees, but the man refused to bow; he was a lot stronger than his escort.
"Valgan, right?" He asked with a smirk. "I hope you're well."
"You know my language, Vargas, speak it." Parthia strode forward, straight-back and proud. He was not necessarily a tall man – Rome stood half a head above him even when relaxed – but what he lacked in height he made up for in confidence. With skin the colour of dampened sand and thick black hair which fell determinedly to a lightly bearded chin, he possessed that same basic attractiveness all countries seemed to possess. Once, a scholar back in Rome had theorized that a nation's appearance was based solely on what their people judged to be the most lovely at the time of said nation's conception, but that was only a theory.
"I prefer Latin, thanks." Rome worked to keep his tone pleasant.
Parthia, apparently not caring either way, continued to speak in his own tongue. He also, Rome noted with some degree of pleasure, kept a fair distance away from his Western enemy, so as Rome's height advantage did not become too obvious, "Let's get to the point, dog."
"Fine by me, bitch."
"I saved your useless hide - along with the collectively useless skin of your men - for a reason." His armour clinked as he paced, the sound commanding a strange need in Rome to keep his eyes on the other nation; the sound reminded him that Parthia was armed and he was not and, although Rome would not fall until the day his Empire itself fell, pointy spears would still hurt him.
"Please, enlighten me."
"The Huns, Vargas, they're biting at our eastern border."
Rome blinked, at the same time understanding and not understanding at all.
"Well, good! I hope they chew you up and spit you out."
"No, Vargas," Parthia gave an odd smile then, as if the words he was about to say next flushed him with satisfaction, "They will chew you up...spitting you out afterwards, however, is wholly optional."
"What are you implying?!" Rome growled, causing his escort to flinch. There were other soldiers, too, in this room, but none of them were following the bilingual exchange of blows.
"I'm implying nothing, you whoreson chattel." Despite the sewer he called a mouth, Parthia hardly ever raised his voice. "You will travel east and you, along with your men, will fight for your country."
"Really? Because it sounds an awful lot like I'll be fighting for yours."
Parthia, with all the spite only an age old enemy could muster, said simply, "Not much difference now, is there?"
So, I hope you enjoyed!
The character of Parthia is an OC, but I've surprised myself on how much I want to write him now - I love strategic-minded characters, I guess. (Though, this chapter being through Rome's POV, 'strategic' kinda turns into 'scheming' in his eyes.) I wanted to make him a smart, flexible kind of guy to reflect his military's style, but also make it so that he and Rome are constantly trying to one-up each other. Either way, he and other ancient nations will come into this fic a little more in the future, though I won't use any more OCs than necessary.
Thanks again for reading, and please feel free to leave a review!
