Book of Bravery

  Copyright © 2019 by James Burke

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction that includes elements from certain historical periods based on fact.

  No part of this book may be duplicated for any use, by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the author. Brief use of some text to support a book review is permitted.

  Illustrations by Don Mark Noceda.

  Front cover design by Damonza.

  J.R.R. Tolkien

  ‘Not all those who wander are lost’

  This novel is dedicated to my wife Teresa and our son Cameron and my parents Terry and Kate.

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER I

  I Create Armies

  Beyond my comprehension, I have been dedicated by others to be your narrator. My grammar is woefully lacking, so forgive me in advance. For example, I sometimes have a habit of jumping from past to present tense; a product of the fact that I do not value time so much, but I know you mortals are obsessed by it, so I will do my best to oblige as such.

  By way of introduction, I was made to create, to create that which destroys. Throughout history there have been many of us who have contributed to this necessity and I have been but one component.

  There is no sentiment amongst those of us who have this purpose. Situated between Heaven and Earth, there is naught but our commitment to what we need to do. And that commitment dear reader is war.

  For centuries, I have molded men into armies and the army of the Romans was by far my greatest triumph. I cared for it, nurtured it. I whispered into the ears of its leaders, men such as Regillensis, Scipio, Julius Caesar, and Pompey.

  They were efficient. They were brutal. They were merciless.

  I advised them how to smash the likes of the Sabines, the Samites, the Carthaginians, the Greeks, the Gauls and the many, many others. Even themselves.

  But today I will see them cast aside by the Parthians, a people who at their peak formed an empire wedged between the Romans and the Han Chinese.

  From what I saw, they proved to be very worthy adversaries for the Romans. On an arid dusty plain, in a place where you now understand to be a part of southeast Turkey, they served up another lesson in humility to me and my Romans. Here, seven legions were obliterated by a smaller number of Parthian warriors. Yet I could only observe. There was no meddling allowed during the Battle of Carrhae.

  So be what it may, I could only watch as my Romans were harried by the Parthian’s mounted archers and then smashed by their heavy cavalry called cataphracts. They were slowly bled, and then bludgeoned to death. Seven eagle standards were lost.

  Oddly, you may think, this is not by far the day’s true significance. The importance is that among all those who fought and died below me is one who would, one day, shine like the sun. The substance of which, I shall reveal in the pages ahead.

  But it was here, in the year 53 B.C., where this tale begins.

  Into The Fray

  The remaining 12,000 or so Romans formed a large defensive square. Thousands of mounted Parthian archers galloped around them, sending great amounts of swirling dust into the air. With their high-power composite bows, the Parthians had, for hours, let loose volley after volley of arrows into the Roman ranks. Despite the legionaries locking shields, arrows found targets. An exposed neck, foot or face. Those who remained unscathed hoped in vain that their enemy’s supply of arrows would run out.

  Amongst them all, I watched a fresh-faced centurion try to inspire any of his men capable of fighting. He was in his 20s. A fine example of a mortal. Tall. Broad shouldered. Sandy hair. Bright blue eyes that contrasted starkly with the red crest that traversed his bronze helmet. In all, his features were typical of his people who lived near the source of the Tiber River. His name was Quintus Aemilianus, the second son of a large landholder.

  I observed his mind and found that despite his outer bravado, he was pessimistic about his chances of living beyond the day. It was a rational assessment given the circumstances. He had accepted his fate, but as a proud Roman he would go on fighting until the end. Death was preferable to slavery.

  The slain, Quintus believed, would step from this brutal world to the next where a ferryman would take them across the River Styx. Each of them would provide an account of their life to the three judges — Minos, Rhadamanthos and Aeacus — who would decide if they are to go to the bliss of the Elysian Fields or to the torment of Tartarus. In the afterlife, they shall drink from the river of forgetfulness, so the memory of their earthly existence would be washed away.

  I wanted to mutter in his ears. Advise him. But that was something — as I mentioned — I’m not allowed to do. I could only watch as he stumbled over a dead body and then regain his feet. After straightening his helmet, he glanced sideways at what was meant to be the hollow of the defensive square which was instead full of the lifeless and dying.

  I understood how their situation angered him. It surely was avoidable. It was a debacle. They were drawn into the desert like fools. All this for an old politician’s pride and glory. Marcus Licinius Crassus, Rome’s richest man, may have once had the good fortune of beating the slave rebel Spartacus but he’ll gain no triumph from this business, nor will those who have followed him in his vain attempt to conquer the East. Quintus had already contemplated that Crassus may be dead. Crassus’ son, a cavalryman, certainly was. The young man had led a contingent of Roman cavalry into a trap and now his decapitated head was a trophy stuck on the end of a Parthian lance.

  A recognizable shriek interrupted Quintus’ thoughts. Behind him, Marius, his trumpeter, had dropped to his knees with an arrow through his neck. Only ten minutes earlier Quintus had removed another arrow from Marius’ arm. Quintus went to him again and tried stemming the flow of blood however this time it was futile. The wound was fatal. Marius — a lad with a shock of inflamed red hair like that of a Celt — was soon dead but there was little time for Quintus to mourn his passing.

  ‘Parthian heavy cavalry!’ someone yelled as the attacking arrows abated.

  Quintus stood to his full six feet and, over the shoulders of his half-crouching men, he saw a near endless line of approaching cataphracts riding knee to knee.

  Again, they come. This will be their third charge, he thought.

  So heavily armored these riders were, they needed no shield. Even the horses were protected by head-to-knees armor. Each rider carried a lance called a kontos that was pointed with a three-foot-long spear head.

  ‘Men get ready!’ Quintus shouted. ‘Prepare for heavy cavalry!’

  The soldiers began to do as ordered. Discipline is a beautiful thing.

  He next called to his optio, his second in charge. ‘Catulus, loosen the formation but maintain a fighting line. Get the wounded to the rear.’

  Quintus made his way up front and passed through the front line of legionaries. After walking ten paces, he stopped and turned to face his men.

  ‘Sons of Rome. Brothers. There is no option but to stand our ground and fight!’ he yelled.

  There was a pause as he breathed deep to again fuel his voice.

  ‘Soldiers of the first cohort, you will not fail, nor be found wanting. The first cohort does not lie down. You will fight your way back to Rome, one dead Parthian at a time!’

  His l
egionaries responded by beating their weapons on their shields and roaring in rage, no matter how futile it may have appeared.

  Quintus turned to look at the approaching cavalry. There were thousands of them. An endless line.

  He joined the frontline of his men.

  ‘This is it boys!’ he yelled.

  The rumble of the galloping horses increased.

  ‘Ready yourself. Don’t let yourselves down!’

  He drew his double-edged gladius.

  ‘Steel your hearts. Let the Gods look down upon you with admiration.’

  Not far from the Roman lines, the pace of the cataphracts refused to slacken. The riders urged on their mounts and steadied their heavy lances.

  Quintus fixed his gaze on one Parthian, a mail-clad rider with an iron mask, who seemingly was galloping straight towards him.

  ‘Send them to Hell!’ Quintus yelled.

  The charging Parthians were by now only 40 feet from the first line of Romans. Only seconds away and they’d be upon them.

  Quintus steadied his shield and tightened the grip on his gladius.

  He had time for one more shout. ‘Nunquam cede!’ Never give up.

  Legionaries hurled their pilum javelins at the attacking cavalry, but nothing stopped them. They tore into the legion’s lines. It was mayhem. Men, animals and steel clashed.

  An armored horse smashed into Quintus, hurling him onto the ground. He quickly regained his senses and picked himself up. He threw his shield aside and joined two of his soldiers dragging a Parthian from his mount. With a sword thrust the Parthian was dispatched. A split second later another cataphract barged Quintus back into the spoilt dirt.

  Mars give me strength, he thought.

  He rolled onto his side and used his elbow to lift himself off the ground but a hoof, from a frenzied horse, whacked him on the side of the head, just above the right ear. His plumed bronze helmet went flying. The blunt trauma knocked him unconscious.

  Sent East

  Now I must talk with some broad but short strokes to push this tale along. Some 20,000 Romans perished at the Battle of Carrhae, a loss that halted Rome’s eastward expansion. It was a humiliating defeat, one that was not avenged in a timely manner as Rome itself was soon plunged into a civil war between Crassus’ rivals Julius Caesar and Pompey, the results of which would see Rome move from republic to empire.

  In the centuries to come there’d be more bouts between the Romans and the Parthians but for Quintus, his trials and tribulations were more immediate. Post-battle, I watched as he woke from his concussion to find himself a prisoner. He and 8,000 of his fellow legionaries were then force marched eastward where they would become slaves.

  There have been a few theories about what occurred next. I have to say the ancient historian Plinius was pretty accurate on what happened to these men, that being they were taken to the Parthian’s eastern borders where they were either sold off as slaves or used as slave soldiers against barbarian tribes.

  As for Quintus he and 20 or so other men were eventually sold to the Xiongnu people, who were ancestors of the Mongols. They were meant to be put to work in the mines, but they ended up being used to defend a fortress against an invading Han Chinese army. There they put up a good fight, but a handful of men can only do so much against many.

  Cult-like Dedication

  Dunhuang was a Han garrison town situated by a desert oasis in what is today far-west China. At the center of the town was the residence of Meng Rang, the Han governor for the western regions. While I look down upon his residence, I see a short pudgy middle-aged eunuch, wearing a Zhan Chi Fu Tou spread-wing head cover, walk out into a courtyard. As far as character goes, the eunuch’s greatest failing was his total cult-like dedication to his master — Governor Meng, a man both feared and loathed across the lands he controlled.

  Meng’s bodyguards were held in the same regard. They were selected for having similar depraved qualities as their master. Boiled down, Meng’s team of minders were a horde of psychopaths and deviants who happened to be trained in shǒubó martial arts. I’ll spare telling you what they were capable of or what their unsavory hobbies were. No one needs to ponder such things.

  The worst of them was the chief bodyguard, a tall brute named Yongan who came from lands further northeast. Dressed in a dark robe, he now followed the eunuch walking towards a half-naked Caucasian strung up on a wooden frame in the courtyard. The semiconscious Caucasian’s feet were four inches off the ground.

  Yes, it was Quintus.

  The eunuch and Yongan stopped in front of the near dead Roman who didn’t register their presence. The eunuch prodded the prisoner with a stick.

  ‘Wake up barbarian. Will you cede to Governor Meng’s demands?’

  Quintus didn’t respond.

  The eunuch prodded again, and Quintus’ eyes squinted open.

  ‘Will you train his army?’ the eunuch asked, this time more forcibly.

  Quintus tried responding but could only speak weakly in Latin, saying something about the eunuch’s headwear.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed the eunuch. ‘Speak Han!’

  Quintus summed up his remaining strength and spat at the eunuch’s feet.

  ‘There is your answer,’ said Yongan who then grabbed the eunuch’s stick and whacked Quintus repeatedly and relentlessly with it. Across the face. The chest. His shoulders. Then his legs.

  The eunuch didn’t have the stomach to watch. Instead, he walked back to where he had just come from.

  Yongan finished thrashing Quintus who had lapsed back into semi-consciousness. This foreigner will soon be food for vultures, Yongan thought as he walked off in the same direction as the eunuch.

  Meng the Merciless

  Inside Governor Meng’s residence two men dueled with swords. One was Meng himself. He was in his early 40s and dressed in black silk. A wispy goatee beard. Skin so pale it was near translucent. Yes, he is even wicked to look at. He was also masterful with a two-handed sword, much more than his opponent — a boyish soldier with protruding ears.

  Meng’s top military officer, General Lu observed the sword fight from the side as did several court eunuchs and bodyguards. But let’s be clear, this was not training or a playful bout, this was a one-sided fight to the death that would not last long.

  The boyish soldier tripped and fell to the floor. He tried to scramble away but no mercy was shown. With several strikes from his sword Meng slayed him.

  General Lu did his best to hide his displeasure. Meng shot him a glance.

  ‘I hope the rest of your new conscripts show more potential general,’ Meng said. ‘Big eared fools don’t make good soldiers.’

  The general could only nod. Inside he burned with indignation. The corpse at Meng’s feet a month ago was a lazy goat herder. The lad never stood a chance, especially with only a dull-blade to defend himself with.

  The general regretted not plotting to get rid of Meng earlier. Local forces would have supported a move against the tyrant as early as a year ago. Indeed, even among the region’s population there’d been a feeling of disgust towards the governor and his bodyguards since the spring.

  For General Lu, the turning point was upon learning the campaign against the Xiongnu was conducted through a false edict, meaning it did not have the emperor’s consent. Meng now had to be removed. There was no other course and the general soon had to make a move. Much evil had already been committed that couldn’t be undone and General Lu himself was implicated in much of it. He could only try and make amends with himself and the Heavens.

  The stick-prodding eunuch entered from the courtyard and shuffled towards Meng who was washing his hands from a basin held by a bodyguard. After stopping at a respectable distance, the eunuch knelt.

  ‘Speak,’ Meng ordered.

  ‘Lord, the barbarian continues to refuse your mercy,’ the eunuch replied.

  ‘I thought as much, maybe you didn’t ask him in the correct manner,’ Meng said tersely.

  After drying
his hands, Meng dropped the towel to the ground and walked to a window where he pushed the shutters open so he could clearly see Quintus outside.

  This barbarian, this man, had led a small band of soldiers the likes of which he had not seen before. Despite the pleasure it gave him at the time, Meng now regretted butchering the barbarian’s men so hastily. Dead men cannot pass on knowledge and now their obstinate leader dangled at death’s door.

  Besides there was gossip among the population concerning the foreigner that perturbed him.

  ‘Barbarian, some say you’re a man of myth, but they don’t see what I see now. I see nothing,’ Meng said quietly to himself.

  He turned to his general.

  ‘I’ve heard there are fantastical rumors being spread about this barbarian; rumors that he will save us all from some great catastrophe. This should cease general. Anyone talking such gibberish should be harshly punished,’ Meng said.

  General Lu nodded shallowly.

  ‘If the barbarian remains alive in the morning I want him beheaded and his remains hung from the city gate as an example,’ Meng said as he turned away from the window. ‘This is a bore, you all bore me.’

  And with that he exited the room with his bodyguards following. It was time for him to eat and to discuss matters on further taxing trade along the silk route, of which much of the proceeds would end up in his pockets.

  Meanwhile out in the dusty courtyard, Quintus was suspended between life and death. As for the outcome of it all, the Roman was unyielding. His father and then the legion educated him long ago to never leave room for despair. The only thing he now had remaining in this world was his honor and neither fool nor monster would steal that from him. No matter the pain. Besides he had nothing else to take. He would endure, as any self-respecting Roman should.

  Deliverance

  It was nighttime. A cold wind blew off the singing sand dunes bordering much of the town. A pair of shivering sentries on a wall’s parapet huddled around a copper fire-bowl. In whispered tones, they spoke about the near-dead foreigner hanging from the frame below them.