—1—
SKIRMISH ON THE
RIVER
Syria, 62 A.D.
A blade swept past Maximus’ head. He jumped back, grinding his feet in the earth. Lunging with his own sword, weapons clashed, and he drove the man back. His opponent raised his sword above his head. Maximus crouched under it and struck his chain mail.
The man let his sword fall. “Go on. Slay me.”
Maximus stepped back and drove his sword into the earth. “I only slay my enemies.”
His opponent’s eyes brightened. “A merciful Roman? What weakness.”
Maximus laughed. “Weakness? I have just defeated you. Now who is weak?”
“Fair enough,” said Servius, extending his arm.
Maximus grasped his forearm, smiling. “Oh, my friend, never raise your gladius above your head. You always forget. I think you are weak in the mind.”
Servius crossed his arms. “What an insult. Your heart is as black as your hair.”
“Not so black as the day you were born.”
“Ho. The day you were born, your father—”
“My father said, ‘the gods have given me a son. He will go to war and win great battles for the glory of Rome and the honor of his family.’”
“So here you are, proving his words.”
“He was a master soldier, retiring at the rank of primus pilus, chief centurion of the first cohort.”
Servius took an exaggerated step. “And you would follow in his enormous footsteps?”
“Do not laugh at me, friend. This is my father’s path for me and I wish to please him.”
“I know what you mean. My father wanted me to be an architect, so I joined the legion. Who needs to build cities when you can burn and pillage them?”
“Very well, you pillager. But I desire to achieve greatness like my father. I have risen in this legion, and I will continue. Peacetime rarely chooses us for advancement. It is war that
separates the good from the great. And this war is drawing to a close. I have a feeling the deciding battle draws near, and we will soon spoil the Parthian ranks.”
“Until then, how about you empty your purse in a game of lots?”
“Not today.”
“Suit yourself. The more plunder for me.”
Maximus tossed his friend a coin. “I’ll win it back later.”
His friend off to squander his fortune, Maximus cleaned his gladius. Chain-mail shirt removed, he fastened his scarlet cloak and passed through the rows of tents bustling with jovial soldiers. Slipping through the fort gate, he headed toward the river.
A breeze brushed across the water as Maximus walked beside it. Stretching for miles from north to south, the Euphrates was the longest river of Western Asia. Now, Rome and Parthia had set themselves upon either bank, preparing to struggle to the death.
The wind ripped through his hair, tossing aside his cloak. Continuing up river, he stopped at the base of a massive bridge. Under Rome’s guidance, hundreds of Syrians labored under the scorching sun. Sweat trickled off his face and
smarted his eyes. When the burning ceased, a rumbling sounded behind him. A cart approached, the oxen bellowing under the weight of their load. The wheels fell in a rut and scattered the tools and lumber at his feet.
“A thousand curses!” said the driver.
“Let me help you,” said Maximus. He stooped to grab a hammer.
“Never mind.” The driver lifted one end of a plank. “I can manage.”
When the man struggled with the board, Maximus took the other end, hoisting it into the cart. The driver frowned. “No, I insist,” said Maximus with a smile. “The work must go on.” He raised a saw.
The driver grunted. “Cursed beasts! Three times have they scattered my lumber like seeds.”
Maximus laughed, raising another plank. “Perhaps you might lead the fine oxen around this rut.”
“Humph! You are a Roman. You know nothing of cattle or how to drive them.”
“I know of roads.”
“Well, you might build me one instead of standing there to scare my oxen. We have a bridge to build.” The driver wiped his brow.
“How goes the work? Will it soon be finished?”
“At the rate my cart spills over, it will be another year.”
Setting the last plank into the cart, Maximus smiled. “Off with you then. Rome cannot wait that long to cross.”
The driver snapped his switch. With a grunt, the oxen plodded forward.
Caw! Caw! A cry penetrated the air as an eagle glided over the river toward him. The sun rays gleamed against its wings, outlining every feather. It was more than a bird; it
was the symbol of imperial power and magnificence. Soon, Rome’s eagle-crested standard would fly on the opposite bank in triumph.
In the hills on the other side of the river, Maximus caught the glint of metal. Fear pulled at his stomach. Rushing onto the bridge, he squinted. Hundreds of Parthian archers held
their bows ready to release at any moment.
“Look out!”
