As he went in search of Magnus who was settling into the sparse comforts of the guest quarters of the draughty and seldom-used palace, Vespasian allowed himself a satisfied smile; he felt as if events had finally started to move. He had commandeered his army: five auxiliary cohorts of eight hundred heavy infantry each, all trained to fight in dispersed order; ideal for mountainous terrain. But fighting was not going to be their primary function and he was looking forward to seeing the expression on the ugly, drawn face of Paelignus when he found out just what really was required of them.
‘This will be a glorious march of conquest!’ Paelignus all but screeched as he raised his voice for the small army of over four thousand foot and horse to hear. ‘The Emperor and the Senate look to us to restore Rome’s rightful influence over Armenia. We will invade from the west and capture Tigranocerta whilst our Pontic allies come in from the north and take Artaxata. For us the hour has come when we can write Cappadocia into the annals of history as the province that saved Roman honour in the East.’
As Paelignus continued to harangue his troops with notions of grandeur far in excess of what was really being asked of them, the infantry stood beneath their banners, rigid, eyes front; weak sunlight glinted on their chain mail, javelin heads and unadorned helms, and the red of their tunics and breeches matched painted shields emblazoned with crossed burnished-iron lightning bolts, giving the impression of rank upon rank of blood and silver. Beside them the baggage train was formed up in surprisingly neatly dressed lines, their appearance less uniform as their clothing was not standard issue. However, they shared one common factor with their infantry comrades: a look of complete non-comprehension.
‘I don’t know why he bothers to waste his breath like that,’ Magnus said, pulling back on the reins of his skittish horse. ‘I don’t suppose more than a dozen of them can speak Latin better than the average five year old.’
Vespasian chuckled as he too was forced to control his mount, which had been spooked by its neighbour. ‘I don’t suppose it’s even occurred to him that he’d have a better chance of being understood in Greek; all he can think of is being seen as the equal of Caesar, Lucullus, Pompey and all the other generals who’ve campaigned in this region. There’s no one so blind as a small man with no military experience who thinks that he’s been given the chance to be a hero without actually doing anything.’
Vespasian steadied his horse, pulling it closer to the mule-drawn cart carrying their tent and personal effects, driven by Hormus, and caught his slave looking with admiration at one of the many young muleteers of the army’s baggage train in which he would travel. The lad smiled back with the promise in his dusky eyes of all received coinage being delightfully rewarded.
‘And so, soldiers of Rome,’ Paelignus falsettoed, his normally pale cheeks almost matching the tunics of his audience, ‘follow me to Armenia, follow me to Tigranocerta, follow me to victory and glory in the name of Rome.’ He punched his sword into the air to little reaction and was forced to repeat the gesture another couple of times before his audience realised that the end of a rousing speech had come and began to react accordingly. Paelignus addressed the five auxiliary prefects standing behind him on the dais before descending the wooden steps to the ragged cheering of his troops. After the bare minimum time that could politely be allowed for an army hailing its commanding officer the prefects signalled to their primus pilus centurions; raucous bellows of command easily cut through the noise followed by the blare of horns. Centuries snapped to attention in unison and turned left, with thuds of massed hobnailed sandals, converting them into eight-man-wide columns. With another series of martial bellows and repeated bucinae fanfares the whole formation began to move, century by century, cohort by cohort, off the parade ground in front of the city’s main gate to head, in one long serpentine column, east towards the Euphrates beyond which lay the snow-capped peaks of Armenia.
Vespasian was impressed by the speed at which the column was able to travel along the Persian Royal Road, built by Darius the Great to connect the heartland of his empire with the sea to the west. Wide and well maintained, it was the equal of any road of Roman construction and its even surface enabled the auxiliaries to march at a good pace.
In fact, the speed with which the whole expedition had been brought together reflected well on the command structure of the province’s military. It was with something approaching a guilty conscience that, later that day, Vespasian watched the auxiliaries traversing the seventy-pace-long bridge over the Euphrates. In order for Tryphaena’s plan to work, it was not to victory that they were heading.