MORTEM OCCUMBERE PRO PATRIA

Editor's Note: This short story is a work of historical imagination, we have decided to include it in this year's journal because of its interesting narrative. We acknowledge that history is a narrative itself, and hope that you find this short story an enjoyable read.

Carrhae. That name beat in his head over and over, rhythmic like the distant drums of the enemy coming from over the darkness of the dunes. Carrhae. Lucius tried to conjure the name quietly to his lips, but he couldn’t get it past his dry throat.

Carrhae. Until a few weeks ago, he had never heard of the place. Now, he was going to die here. At least he hoped to die, for the alternatives were worse. Torture for one if they were captured, shame if they escaped. The far-off war drums were a steady reminder of the fate that awaited Lucius and his fellow soldiers. The occasional whinny or snort of a horse, followed by hooves in sand just outside the perimeter of the camp were even more unsettling. There would be no sleep tonight. Carrhae. That is where this life was to end.

As he gazed up from the sad, smoldering fire and looked around the makeshift camp, he could tell that the realization of this fate was universal amongst the legion. There was a glum cloud that permeated the night. The usual jovial atmosphere was absent. No laughing. No singing. No knucklebones. No shouts. Just low talking, grumbles, but mostly silence broken by the popping of fire and the jangle of shifting chainmail.

There was very little water and absolutely no wine. The legionaries were sober and somber. The heat of the desert sun was gone, but its discomfort lingered and remained omnipresent. Sand was everywhere. Men were chaffed and sunburned. Lips were cracked from thirst. Tunics that had been dripping with sweat were now dry and stiff, abrasive with salt and sand. Eyes stung from too much sun, not enough moisture, and, now, smoke. The men remained in armor, as ready as they could be if the enemy decided to make another assault. Lucius touched his water skin that was hanging rather flatly from his kit. He wanted to drink, but knew he would want it more tomorrow, so he resisted. Even after eating his scant dinner of dry hardtack, which wicked the remaining moisture from his mouth, he wouldn’t drink the last of his life water.

Lucius considered the men huddled around the fire. They were his tent mates, his contubernium, and they were almost unrecognizable. They had lived together for years, and now they looked like strangers. He was certain that he must be just as unrecognizable to them. Bandaged and bloodied, grime and gore caked on their unwashed skin. The group was smaller than it had been in the morning. Caius had caught one of those damned arrows through the neck on one of the first volleys of the fight. Several of the projectiles had found a gap in the testudo1 and sunk deep into Felix’s leg, crippling him. They had spent the day protecting the hobbled man from the rain of arrows as they struggled to protect themselves. When they had finally been forced to retreat, they left Felix lying in the sand, pleading. The deadly hail of missiles from the Parthian recurved bows had been relentless all day long. Arrowheads thudded against shields, piercing through and finding flesh on occasion. Crassus and his staff had thought of staying in formation until they enemy ran out of ammunition; a steady supply of fresh quivers of arrows carried by camels had dashed that hope.

Lucius picked up a handful of arrow shafts that were piled by his feet, and threw them onto the meager fire. After calling for a halt in the retreat, the men had removed enough of the enemy weapons arrows from their shields and each other to build warming fires. The relentless heat of the desert was replaced with a bitter cold once the sun went down. The wind made the chill worse. The wind made the chill worse, and added the stench of death and decay to their miseries. The putrid smell it carried reminded Lucius of his days on his Grandfathers garum2 factory on the rocky coast of the Adriatic. Stepping into the dull glow of the flickering firelight, a figure entered the small circle of men. The decanus, their contubernium leader, sat down in silence and for a long time did not speak.

“Men,” He finally said. “In case you did not already know it, it is over.”

The silence returned as that sank in.

“Crassus is a fool. He has doomed us. I know it is treason to say such things about our general, but I no longer care. I also refuse to tell my men anything but the truth. We will all die tomorrow.” The decanus scanned the sullen faces around the fire. “I’ll tell you what I learned in the briefing. Centurion Tullius is dead, the Optio has taken his place and assumed command of the century, and all of our cavalry has been destroyed. We all saw the Gallic horsemen charge and not return, but we know now that they are all gone. Publius for certain is dead, that was indeed his head on the spear that the cataphracts were parading around. Longinus has fled back towards Syria, taking the last of the horse with him. Crassus is still delusional enough to think we can beat these Parthians, despite these losses. We have no supplies. We have no water. We have no hope. If they faced us in pitched battle, we would no doubt crush them. They will not do that, for they just need to wait. Or keep up the onslaught of arrows.”

Lucius stared blankly at the fire.

“Our options are limited. The enemy wishes to parlay. Crassus will hear none of it. His pride will not let him admit that we are lost. Even the death of his son, the better officer of the two, will not convince him to take his losses and walk away. He will not admit that it was his fault we are in this position in the first place. The Centurions and the other senior officers are trying to convince him to make terms with the Parthians. I doubt he will listen.”

“So, we are to die because of his greed? Because of the ego of Crassus?” Aelius said, the most senior veteran in the group. He held up scarred, sinewy arms. Lucius looked down at his own forearms, with wounds that would never turn to scars.

“No.” The Decanus said coldly. “We are to die because of decisions he made early on in this campaign. He took us the wrong route. He made wrong decision after wrong decision. This war was doomed from the start. We all followed because that is what a Roman Legion does.”

“His greed and his ego poisoned this war from the start.” Aelius countered. “He’s no Pompey, and he’s sure no Caesar. This war wasn’t fought for Rome, it was fought for Crassus and his image. He’s doomed us because he is a terrible general, and as a terrible general he made terrible blunders. An army of lions led by a lamb will lose every time. That little bleater has killed us all. We didn’t cross the Euphrates; we crossed the Styx. I curse him now just like Capito did when he started this campaign.” Aelius spit on the ground and made the fig sign with his left hand.

“You speak truth, friend.” The Decanus said. “I too curse him. However, we will face tomorrow together. The sun will rise, and we have a job to do. We have no choice.”

Lucius knew this was true. As young as he was, he knew there were no other options. They could not flee. They were in the middle of the desert with no supplies. Death was certain that way. The land was like an island without the water, no escape. Surrendering was certain to end in either death or slavery. The life of a slave under the Parthians was undoubtedly to be short and horrendous. Death in battle would be welcomed. If Crassus negotiated terms, and the survivors were able to return home, the shame of the loss would be unbearable. They would be shunned. Lucius had heard that out of the seven legions, two of the eagle standards had been lost in the fighting today. Their own standard was still in their possession, but to be associated with that was something that could never be lived down. He thought of the shame of his return home, the shame that would be bestowed upon his family honor. His brother Titus was serving in Gaul with Caesar and winning glory while he was here in some far-off desert about to die in disgrace. He would give anything for the foggy woods of the frigid north right now. He licked his chapped lips.

“Tomorrow, we fight.” The Decanus said. “We will have good deaths. We will not fight for Crassus, but we will fight for ourselves, and we will fight for Rome.”

“Bugger Crassus.” Aelius said. “History will remember him for this. It will forget the men he dragged down with him.”

“The Republic will remember. They will avenge us.” The Decanus said.

“The Republic is dying.” Aelius said. “Before our bones are gone, SPQR will no longer be ‘The Senate and People of Rome’, but ‘The Senate and Person of Rome.’ Crassus is fighting this war for himself. Same as the war Caesar is fighting. The days of winning glory for the Republic are gone. The Legions exist to serve the ambition of generals. We are not dying for Rome; we are dying for the glory of these men.”

Silence again.

“I have never even been to Rome.” he Decanus admitted. “And I never will see it now. No epitaphs on the Via Appia for us, boys. Tonight, we write our own epitaphs that no one will ever no one will ever hear except for us.

A few grim grins at this, then a return to silence.

After a while, Aelius let out a chuckle. It was a strange sound in contrast to the solemnity of the night.

“Here’s mine.” He said smiling. “Aelius died before his blade could rust. His bones are now turned to dust. Raise him a drink in your hand. For at his end, all he had was sand.”

Some laughed, but none so much as Aelius. “I wish I had a cup of wine. Shit wine, even.”

A few others tried their hand at making their own epitaph. Lucius did not try; he had never been much for words. The Decanus rose, and spoke.

“Gaius Ulpius Trajanus. Died far from his homeland. No Spaniard should stand with his boots in the sand, if he ever wishes to see his home again.”

Aelius then added. “The finest men he did command.”

Everyone laughed at this.

“Now, a song for our dear Crassus.” Aelius bellowed. He took a swig of precious water to wet his dry throat.

“Crassus, Crassus, rich as Croesus.

His greed for coin never ceases,

Even now his wealth increases.

His boy Publius has gone to pieces,

Dying in the east of where Greece is,

Beyond the land of Golden Fleeces.

Despite all his money, he was told

That the other two were far more bold,

To stay on top takes more than gold

Virgin glory was what he had to hold,

Disastrous omens not heeded foretold,

That despite the sun, he would turn cold.

So 20,000 men he has dragged to Hades,

All so cheaper silk could garb rich ladies.

For once they crossed the Euphrates,

He crumbled to pieces like the Cyclades.

So now we are here, about to die of thirst,

If we are lucky we may catch an arrow first.

So here is to Crassus, the one who was cursed

When it comes to war, none was worst!”

They all laughed at that, and it was the last time they would. For there is nothing sadder than a good song no one would ever hear.

Lucius did not sleep that night, and when the sun rose in the morning it was blood red.

A military formation in which soldiers form a shield wall
Fermented fish sauce