Late Afternoon, V.

Dragging himself across the blood-soaked sands, the housecarl felt the weight of the battlefield, being crushed under it. The moans and cries of the wounded echoed through the desolate desert, each groan a haunting reminder of the brutality that had unfolded. He couldn’t shake the images of fallen comrades, their faces distorted in agony, and the stench of death and despair that hung heavy in the air.

The crimson-drenched battlefield seemed endless, a nightmarish landscape of carnage. As he struggled forward, his fingers clawed into the sand as his bludgeoned leg faltered once more. Yet he desperately attempted to propel his battered body toward the gruesome reality he sought. His armor, or rather what was left of it, once a symbol of strength and resilience, now felt like a leaden shackle, dragging him into the heart of darkness under his feet.

His thoughts swirled with confusion and disbelief. How had it come to this? The morning sun, filled with the promise of victory, had set over a landscape transformed into a realm of death. He again tried to replay the events in his mind, the charge of the enemy, the arrows raining down like a malevolent storm, and the relentless clash of steel that did not seem to end. But amidst the chaos, one thought emerged imperatively: Marcus.

His journey was not just physical; it was an odyssey of the mind. Each step was a struggle against the tide of despair threatening to engulf him. He wrestled with the haunting question of whether he would find his commander alive or succumbing to the merciless grip of death. Still not wanting to approach the impaled figure laid before him, and still, he limped a step further.

And then, it was unmistakable, however damning the realization was. The twisted banner was impaling a figure to the ground, kneeling. A grotesque marker signaling the end of a once indomitable force. As he approached, the horrifying scene unfolded before him – Marcus, stripped of dignity and humanity. Naked, save a few makeshift jewelry, a wig and black writings on his fair skin denouncing him as a mangy Roman prostitute. Like it was in no way enough, bits of molten metal oozed and drooled from his ravaged orifices; the great general had been reduced to a gruesome spectacle at the hands of his tormentors.

The housecarl’s heart sank, and his stomach churned with a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. He fell to his knees beside Marcus, the weight of grief and disbelief pressing down on him like an insurmountable burden. His hands trembled as he reached out to touch the lifeless body, a futile attempt to grasp himself back to the reality before him, however painful.

The once mighty leader, who had inspired armies and commanded respect, now lay humiliated and mutilated beyond recognition. The housecarl’s mind grappled with the inconceivable horror of the sight. As he gazed upon Marcus’s disfigured form, the enormity of the loss pierced through his soul, leaving nothing but a void which he felt he became one with.

In the fading light of the late afternoon, the housecarl remained beside his fallen commander, a solitary figure in a sea of devastation. The battlefield, once filled with the clash of arms, now whispered a somber requiem for the fallen. As he looked upon the shattered remnants of the Roman legions, the housecarl grappled with the harsh reality that the era of Marcus, the wealthiest man of all known terra, and his triumvirate had come to a tragic and ignoble end.

Noon I.

The relentless sun cast unforgiving shadows over the battlefield, where the remnants of Roman glory lay shattered. Bruised but unyielding, Marcus awaited the ominously what it is to come. A Parthian messenger in a light cloak approached. Riding a swift desert steed, and delivering Surena’s summons. Despite the defeat that surrounded him, the wealthiest man alive felt exactly as someone with that title would feel. His eyes invigorated with an air of megalomania, he was close to anything but to admit his “loss”. He always has been and was adamant in being impervious to defeat.

Surena, a masterful puppeteer, addressed Marcus with a calculated blend of authority and disdain as he entered the tent. “Marcus Crassus,” he declared, “your legions lie defeated, and your arrogance has led you to this pitiful state.”

A defiant smirk played on Marcus’ lips. “Surena, my legions may be battered, but I remain unbowed. I march to this negotiation table not as a defeated man but as the arbiter of destiny. It is not you, nor your Shāh can change this fact.”

Surena, wielding his superior position, spoke with an icy calmness. “Your destiny, Marcus, is now in my hands. That futile pride of yours blinds you to the reality of your predicament. Your legions are broken, and your dreams of triumph are but echo in the wind.” He finished by blowing some dust on his palm into the air to emphasize.

Yet, Marcus, ever the unrelenting, scoffed at the notion of submission. “I know my worth, general. I am not one to succumb to the whims of fate. Negotiate, if you dare, for I am a man who defies defeat until his last breath. Besides, my wealth knows no end. And those who receive my gracious gratitude oft find out that it is priceless. You are to let me and my remaining men back into the West to find out your priceless gratitude.”

Surena, unfazed by Marcus’ pompous declarations and demands, continued with a cold authority. “Your arrogance will not alter the course of events, Marcus Crassus. You will witness the consequences of your folly, and your legions will also pay the price for your pride. If for nothing, for having led by a prostitute of a rich scoundrel such as yourself.”

As the dialogue unfolded under the scorching sun over the tent, it was now the egos that were clashing across the battlefield. Marcus, a megalomaniac to the core, was standing, unwavering in his delusions of a triumph up until that moment. Soon, very soon, he would discover the true cost of his arrogance as the humiliating spectacle played out within the confines of the tent, a dark chapter in the story of a man who believed he could control, bribe or buy even the hands of destiny.