Free Field of Mars (The Complete Novel) by David Rollins

and his two assistants. “Wait,” Crassus said and the guardsmen halted. “Can you write?” he asked the keeper.
    “Y … yes, Proconsul,” the man stammered.
    “Then you’d better take their hands as well.” Crassus waved at the guardsmen and the detail marched the keepers away, the men’s sobs clearly audible. Next the proconsul glared a warning at Appias. “Nothing about this gets written, historian. The chickens have been willfully poisoned. The divination is null and void.” And then, to no one in particular, he said, “Clean this up.” Crassus then strode off toward his tent. His retreat was interrupted by the ruckus of fifty Armenian horsemen, accompanied by members of Publius’s Celtic cavalry, arriving suddenly and unexpectedly into the praetorium.
    Senior members of this Armenian delegation hurriedly dismounted and walked quickly toward Crassus’s banner and then on toward the proconsul’s tent beyond it. Crassus’s guardsmen brought their journey to a sudden stop, barring their way with crossed lances. In passable Latin, the leader of the Armenian troop announced loudly, “My name is Khoren, cousin to King Artavastes. I have ridden hard to bring urgent news to our friend and ally Proconsul Crassus.”
    Crassus, trailing the usual retinue, walked up behind the Armenians. “Welcome, Khoren, to a humble soldier’s camp. I am Proconsul Crassus. Please come into my tent. My slaves will see to the comfort of your men.” At this, more than a dozen slaves rushed to bring the Armenians food and water and find them accommodation for the night.
    Crassus’s tent was a vast space, richly endowed with items from the conquered lands, hand-picked by the proconsul himself: a sweet-smelling sandalwood table inlaid with intricate geometric patterns of ivory, a bed with solid gold legs strewn with cushions of an exquisite fine white fabric embroidered with gold, several ornate gold-inlaid chairs and couches cushioned in royal purple, another table of solid ebony on which maps of the region were spread, illuminated by two large solid gold candelabra, a low table on which stood a golden jug of water and a dozen matching golden cups, each adorned with a blazing sun, their gold handles fashioned to resemble serpents. There was also a fine Praxiteles bust of Hercules looking angrily at The Infinite, the Nemean lion’s pelt fastened around his neck, and an enormous lion skin laid out on the floor. More couches were brought in for everyone’s comfort, along with wine, water, dates and freshly baked honey cakes.
    The Armenian delegation sat and drank watered wine but eschewed the food. The small talk was kept to a minimum, there being no prior personal contact between Crassus and the King’s emissaries. It was clear that the Armenians were impatient to deliver their message.
    “Well, Khoren, how is your uncle, King Artavastes?” Crassus asked when the scant pleasantries dried up.
    Khoren replied, “The King sends you greetings, Proconsul, and trusts that your sword is laying waste to the enemies of Rome and Armenia.”
    “I thank the King for his encouragement,” said Crassus.
    “However, obviously we have not endured travails to bring news of pleasing events. The opposite, in fact.” Khoren resisted the desire to pace the tent, his energy and anxiety evident with the wringing of his hands. “Orodes, your enemy, the enemy of peace, has split his army and he is himself, at this moment, marching against your personal friend and Rome’s staunchest supporter, King Artavastes. The King fears that he cannot now send you the 30,000 infantry he promised for your campaign, should you have need of it, and begs that you come to his immediate assistance. Indeed with my uncle’s army, the anvil blocking Orodes, and the Roman army, a hammer behind him, the Parthian adventurer will be smashed and all of Parthia will be yours.”
    “So we should turn back, sacrificing all we have won?” Crassus asked