A short piece inspired by Crassus's Parthian campaign, the wars that are still fought in the desert two thousand years later, and the idea of armies haunting each other across history.
Everything outside the parentheses fits both generals and both armies.
He has never expected the desert to be so cold.
The ground is covered in frost in the morning, and spiders the size of dinner plates rush into their tents for warmth. Their bite isn’t lethal, but it hurts like hell, so the soldiers don’t sleep well. They complain of ghosts in the morning, of another army just like theirs, lost behind the dunes.
The sand and gets into the folds of their armor, their weapons are blunted by the sharp crystals, they eat sand with their dried rations and drink sand in their beer and have to shake it out of their hair every night despite the close-fitting helmets.
What, exactly, are they fighting for?
The pride of the empire, he tells his soldiers.
The hunger of the empire, devouring land after land.
It calls itself a republic still. He curses it and bleeds it dry and takes and takes and takes from it, riches and fame and power, and yet he loves it, he always has, he wouldn't blink before offering his life for it.
The republic has now demanded its sacrifice. It will open him up and read the future in his entrails, and his failure may not even make it to the histories that will be written about this war.
(His soldiers say, they dream of legions, dusty red cloaks and breastplates glimmering in the sunrise.)
(His soldiers say, they dream of legions, a line of heavy machines emerging from the sandstorm.)
They sleep during the day, it is too hot, but not for their enemies, who are vexing them, ceaselessly, picking them off one by one in hunting parties. How do you fight a war when an entire country has turned itself against you?
What will they consider a victory?
And how long will it last?
They’ll settle for another vassal state. And gold, he thinks. In any form. In the end, the spoils of war will let the citizens back home breathe just a little easier, he tells himself.
The desert is unforgiving, and he knows that he will be lucky if any soldiers of his will make it back. As for himself, he doesn't expect to.
(They meet their enemy in the field, and what was supposed to be an easy victory turns out to be a feint, a trick, so similar to those he had read about before, but somehow, it has escaped him this time.)
(They meet their enemy in the city, in a white haze of the dust, their best troops still coughing, half-blind, rushing into a wrong district, a trick of the enemy or his own mistake.)
He hopes it won’t cost too many lives, but it is shaping to be the deadliest battle since the last big war of the republic. A general is not supposed to make this kind of mistake.
Little awaits him at home, except for the political intrigues, the games of power, and wars and more wars stretching towards the horizon. They will keep him away from the government. He is safer over the sea. He is tired.
Before he falls, he tries to remember the name of this benighted place that will soon become his tomb.