They marched along the west bank of the Euphrates, heading north west. The vast river was spotted throughout with craft, fishing vessels, cargo boats, ferries. Along the banks were small settlements – fishermen’s huts, small docks for trading goods locally. The sun was burning, and Oclatinius thought wistfully of the water flask in his pack. His mouth was dry as a Vestal’s… he stopped the sacrilegious thought before he could finish it. He wasn’t overly religious or superstitious, but Bricus’ constant whispering about the doom that was sure to befall them had left him uneasy.
He swatted away a small swarm of flies from his face, which scattered but then descended immediately, and after two or three attempts, he gave up, and let them do as they wished. The sun was heating the metal of his armour to uncomfortable temperatures, and he wished desperately that he could go and jump in that inviting expanse of water.
But Flaccus would have none of it. He kept his vine stick to hand, ready to lay into any of his men that slackened the pace.
“When can we stop, sir?” asked Mergus, a tall, willowy individual from northern Italy, who marched directly behind the signifer, Pictor, but was benefitting from none of the shade of the standard that Pictor carried since the sun was at their backs.
Flaccus didn’t slow his pace, just called over his shoulder. “When the primus pilus gives the order, and not before. I will not have the men of my century showing me up, understood?” He swished his cane ominously.
Leave a Reply