by R. W. Peake
Sharing a chuckle, they both returned their attention to the fighting, and despite himself, Kambyses felt a sense of satisfaction to see that the rear of Caesar’s formation, the part closest to where they were waiting, was now more than a hundred paces farther away than they had been an instant before.
Seeing this as well, the German leaned to look past Kambyses to exchange a few words, but not in Latin, with the other guard, who had been watching in silence; once they were finished, the first trooper shrugged and said to the Parthian, “I don’t see the harm in moving a bit closer. But,” the cheerfulness vanished as if it had never been there, his voice turning harsh, “if you try anything, Parthian, I’ll eat your liver in front of you!”
Under other conditions, this would have ignited a flare of fury in Kambyses, but this time, he just grinned and replied, “Since I’d rather keep my liver where it is, I swear I won’t try anything.”
As Kambyses hoped, this satisfied the German, whose grin reappeared, then, with a tug, he began leading the Parthian’s horse forward, while the second German dropped behind so he could stop any attempt to escape. Moving at a slow trot, once they had gone about two hundred paces, through the dust, Kambyses caught his first glimpse of bodies, both of horses and men, and he experienced a stab of dismay when he saw that, while there were a few of Caesar’s, most of them were Parthian. Making matters worse, those that Kambyses could see were composed entirely of cataphracts, and he realized that Caesar’s sudden and unexpected attack, when coupled with Phraates’ hesitation, had negated any chance of using the swarms of arrows from their horse archers to inflict casualties and, most importantly, slow the Roman charge. Despite moving closer to the original point of attack, the sounds of the fighting remained more or less at the same volume, informing Kambyses that the Parthians were falling back away from the onslaught, but he had given up straining his eyes trying to see anything, particularly now that they were streaming from the tiny particles of sand and grit floating all around them. Why, he grumbled, only to himself, had they gotten closer if there was nothing to see? Now that they had closed with the Parthian cataphractoi, the progress of the front rank of Roman horsemen was slow but steady, so that every few heartbeats, the German would urge his horse a handful of steps in order to maintain roughly the same distance. By this point, there was movement back in their direction, and Kambyses was grimly satisfied seeing the number of riderless horses that came trotting or galloping back towards them, although most of the time, there was a man clinging to the saddle, reeling as they tried to remain mounted long enough to get to safety. Some of them clutched an arm or a leg, but in one case, Kambyses felt a flicker of pity at the sight of what looked to be one of the Galatian contingent of Caesar’s cavalry, desperately clutching the slimy pile of intestines that bulged out from the huge rent in his leather cuirass. Despite the fact that the man was an enemy, Kambyses exchanged a glance with the German, both of them with grim expressions, and the Parthian was certain their thoughts, once more, were running along the same lines: please don’t let that ever happen to me. But then, another rider came trotting back, and because of his course, drew the attention of Kambyses, who watched the man approach with idle curiosity, if only for the fact that from the current distance, he couldn’t see any signs that the man was wounded. Once he realized the rider was heading directly for them, he sat up straight, suddenly alert and wondering what this meant. He quickly found out, when the cavalryman, another German, drew up in front of the trio, and rattled something off in his native tongue that was said so quickly the Parthian couldn’t even pick out the few words he knew.
However, he quickly learned what was said when the German turned to him and stated, “Caesar’s ordered us to bring you to him.”
Before he could think, let alone offer a reply, the German spurred his mount and, with his reins in one hand, and those of Kambyses in the other, began moving into the thickest part of the dust. Kambyses’ body had gone rigid, his mind beginning to work furiously as he tried to think through the possible reasons why Caesar wanted him nearer to the fighting.
Phraates is dead and he wants me to identify him!
The thought leapt into his mind with the same rapidity as a bolt of lightning and had a similar effect as being struck, but what would that mean if this was the case? As superb a horseman as Kambyses was, he felt himself swaying in the saddle to the point he had to grasp it with his bound hands. Could it possibly be that his secret ambition, to replace the house of Orodes with his own as the Parthian king, was about to be made true, or at least possible? Certainly, it wasn’t under ideal circumstances; if Caesar were so inclined, he understood that the Roman would expect him to be a pliable and cooperative client king, who ruled in name only. But that, he thought excitedly, was right now; who was to say what the future held? Such was his preoccupation that he was completely oblivious to the carnage around him, the bodies of men and horses that were strewn so thickly along the ground that his German guide had to adopt a weaving course as they picked their way through the battlefield. Only when he felt his mount come to a halt did Kambyses force his mind to his present circumstances, yanking it back from the dizzying series of thoughts that had begun piling one on top of the other. Consequently, it was with some surprise that Kambyses realized he was now next to Caesar, who was regarding him with an expression that didn’t betray a hint of his thoughts. During this short pause, the Parthian examined the situation, and saw that there was now a separation between the two forces because when Caesar had sounded the halt, it had been for the entire force. Squinting ahead, Kambyses caught only flashes of images through the dust—a pennant, the glint of the sun on armor, and the hindquarters of the fleeing Parthians—which ignited in him a queer combination of feelings; anger and shame on one hand, but a flickering hope on the other. Not surprisingly, the mounted portion of the spad was speeding away at close to a gallop, leaving behind the two Cohorts of Crassoi and the force of spearmen, the former still marching in their neat formations, while, for once, the Parthian infantry seemed to be following the lead of their Roman counterparts, maintaining what for them was admirable cohesion. For some reason that Kambyses would never know with any certainty, the Roman general had not ordered his men to attempt to stop the infantry, although his assumption that Caesar had calculated the cost of such an action would be steeper than he wanted to pay was correct. Caesar, still not speaking, moved his upper body in Kambyses’ direction, prompting the Parthian to glance over. When he did, only years of iron self-control kept him from yelping in fear as his eyes went to the short dagger he knew the Romans called a pugio in Caesar’s hand. Before he could react, however, Caesar had already done what he intended, slicing through the bonds that had kept Kambyses’ hands secured. Then, with a nod to the German, the Parthian was handed the reins to his own horse, for the first time in more than a year.
“You’re free to go,” Caesar said evenly, although Kambyses knew the Roman well enough to detect the flicker of amusement, undoubtedly prompted by his own confusion.
But, if Caesar had expected Kambyses to unquestioningly obey, he was to be disappointed, because the Parthian made no move, instead asking suspiciously, “Why? So you can murder me from behind?”
There was no mistaking the irritation, and hint of anger, as Caesar snapped, “Surely you know me better than that. If I’d wanted you dead, why would I have dragged you out here? If,” the Roman’s tone dropped, becoming as cold and remote as the eyes that bore into Kambyses’, “I had wanted you dead, Kambyses, it would have happened a long time ago.”
It was with a fair amount of chagrin that Kambyses recognized the truth when he heard it, yet he was still not disposed to just trot away, if only because, as much as he had learned about the Romans, he was still a Parthian, and a Parthian would never do this. Unless, he felt a sudden flare of anger, Caesar doesn’t think he has anything to worry about, that he’s taken my measure and I pose no threat to him.
“What are the conditions of my rel
ease?” Kambyses asked, then added stiffly, “If you’re expecting that I won’t bear arms against you, then you might as well tie me back up.”
This, he saw, Caesar had expected, and he didn’t hesitate, answering with a shrug, “I wouldn’t ask that of you to begin with, and no, there are no conditions.”
“But…why?” Kambyses blurted, still completely mystified, and judging by the expressions of his now-former German bodyguard, he wasn’t alone.
“I have my reasons,” Caesar answered equably enough, then flashed the Parthian a grin, saying, “Maybe I’m tired of feeding you, and I could use the room you’re occupying for a more…suitable guest.”
As had happened on more than one occasion, during a moment where Kambyses knew he should be, if not angry, then at least on his guard, he found himself laughing at Caesar’s words, but that feeling was extinguished like a fire with a bucket of water by what the Roman said next.
“Besides, Phraates is waiting for you.” The manner in which Caesar said this, with a casualness that Kambyses was certain was forced, made the moment even more confusing.
But it also prompted Kambyses to actually look around him for the first time, straining to examine the ground, looking among the bodies, certain that if Phraates had fallen, Caesar would be near his body.
Finally, he tried to keep his voice toneless as he asked dully, “So, Phraates is still alive?”
“Yes,” Caesar answered, then turned and squinted into the rapidly receding dust cloud. “Probably about five miles away by now. So,” he extended an arm in that direction, and while he said it courteously enough, there was no mistaking it was an order, “I suggest you hurry to catch up with him. Since your horse isn’t armored, you should be able to catch him.”
Despite hearing and understanding, Kambyses didn’t move immediately, saying cautiously, “I don’t have a sword. If I just show up, I’m not sure that Phraates will be…hospitable.”
A look that might have been embarrassment crossed Caesar’s features, and he mumbled, “Yes, of course.” He actually looked down at the hilt of the sword in his scabbard, with the carved ivory eagle’s head of the Roman Legate, but then said regretfully, “I’m afraid I’m too attached to this one to give it up.” Turning to the German Gundomir, who had at some point returned to Caesar’s side, rather than order him, Caesar asked, “Would you mind giving Kambyses your spare blade? The one strapped to your saddle?”
Clearly, Gundomir’s first instinct was to refuse, but he correctly deduced that, as with Kambyses, Caesar wasn’t making a request, so he contented himself with muttering under his breath as he unstrapped it, then handed it to Caesar, who in turn offered it hilt first to Kambyses.
“Now,” Caesar ordered, “go.”
And Kambyses did, without another word, more because he had no idea what to say, but he spurred his horse, and for the first time in more than a year, went galloping away, a free man.
Caesar sat silently watching, but Gundomir, fuming, couldn’t contain himself, waiting only long enough for Kambyses to get out of hearing range before bursting out, “Kambyses asked you why, but you wouldn’t tell him. Hopefully, you’ll explain to one of your own men what just happened.”
Under normal circumstances, this German, the longest serving of the bodyguards Caesar had hired from across the Rhenus, wouldn’t have dreamed of demanding an explanation from his general, if only because he had long since learned that when Caesar made a decision, it almost always worked out to their betterment. This, however, had been so unexpected, and when coupled with the loss of a sword that, while it was not his favorite blade, was one of them, the German found that he couldn’t restrain himself.
This was something Caesar understood, which was why he wasn’t irritated and knew that it was a valid question that deserved an answer, but Caesar was always Caesar first, which meant he answered by asking a question. “How many times has Phraates stood and fought when facing us?”
“Never,” Gundomir replied instantly, then, when Caesar didn’t say anything else, choosing instead to regard his German subordinate, it prompted Gundomir to think it through, and he said slowly, “Which is why you let Kambyses go. Because you know he’ll stand and fight.”
In answer, Caesar only smiled and made a slight nod of his head, then he turned to the business at hand. “I need a butcher’s bill, a count of the Parthian dead, then we need to go back to Susa and see what’s happening there.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned Toes and went trotting back in the direction from which they had come, leaving another example of Caesar’s tactical brilliance behind.
Not everyone in Caesar’s army was as understanding about their general’s decision, once the news inevitably spread upon the return of the cavalry to the large main camp that was in the final stages of completion. It was no accident that those who, even if they didn’t completely agree with Caesar’s decision, at least understood it was those senior Centurions who had had some sort of interaction with Kambyses.
“I understand why he did it,” Pullus admitted to his friends that night in his tent, “but I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be a mistake.”
When Scribonius didn’t disagree, not only did it inform Pullus that his friend was in accord with him, it caused him to worry.
Balbus, unsurprisingly, wasn’t as circumspect, grumbling, “It was a fucking stupid thing for him to do. That’s the cunnus who burnt so many of our boys to a crisp!”
This, the other men present, couldn’t argue, but another unusual aspect of this conversation was that, again, Scribonius didn’t argue with Balbus either. A silence descended around the table as the men moodily consumed their meal, while Diocles busied himself mending one of Pullus’ tunics, so it was left to the youngest member of the group to break the silence.
“Uncle Titus,” Gaius Porcinus used the first title by which he had known Titus Pullus, something that Titus allowed only within the confines of his private quarters, “you say you understand why he did it. Well, I don’t. Can you explain it to me?”
There was another silence, but this was because Pullus was swallowing the last mouthful of chickpeas, and for him to frame his thoughts, then he said slowly, “I’ll try.” Frowning, Pullus continued, “I know that one of the things that’s frustrated Caesar is how this Phraates is so hard to pin down. He thinks that if we can force one more decisive battle, we’ll crush the rest of the Parthian army, and the hard part will be done, at least mostly, anyway.” Pausing to sip from his cup, the Primus Pilus thought for another few heartbeats, trying to articulate something that, if he was being honest, he had uttered without actually thinking it through. His defense of Caesar had been as much of a reflex action, given his self-appointed role as one of Caesar’s staunchest defenders among the men in the Centurionate, but as he thought about it sitting there, he realized that he did, in fact, understand Caesar’s decision. “I think that Caesar has more faith in Kambyses’ willingness to fight than Phraates.” Shrugging, he finished, “I’ve never met this Phraates, but I’ve been around Kambyses enough to believe Caesar’s right.”
“But,” Porcinus frowned, shaking his head, “Phraates is the king, and Kambyses might be a high-ranking noble, but he’s still a subject.”
“That’s true,” Pullus agreed grudgingly, but it was Scribonius who, speaking for the first time, proposed, “Maybe Caesar has something in mind to change that arrangement. About Phraates, I mean.”
Not surprisingly, this arrested the complete attention of everyone present, including Diocles, who had been listening surreptitiously, and he laid the tunic in his lap to devote his full attention to the tall but lean Centurion whose intellect was superior to almost everyone Diocles had ever known.
“What do you mean?” Balbus demanded. “That Caesar’s going to have that oily bastard murdered?”
“It wouldn’t be a murder,” Scribonius rejoined, but Pullus saw the slight lifting of one corner of Scribonius’ mouth that signaled his friend was engaging
in one of his favorite diversions, tormenting the scarred third member of the trio of Centurions. “It would be an assassination, since it’s a head of state.”
Nobody present was surprised that this had no impact on Balbus whatsoever, signaled by his snort. “Like that matters! Dead is dead, I don’t care what you call it. But,” he allowed, “whatever you want to call it, killing a king isn’t like killing one of us.” Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes as he glared suspiciously at his friend, asking, “Why? Do you know something I don’t?”
Heaving a theatrical sigh, Scribonius, as was his habit, couldn’t resist the opportunity Balbus had offered him. “The list of things I know that you don’t is long enough that we’d be sitting here for a week if I were to list them all. But,” he had to pause as the others chuckled, then he admitted, “no, I don’t know anything specific. It just makes sense.”
“Maybe,” Pullus interjected doubtfully, “but surely you don’t think that Kambyses and Caesar have some sort of deal, do you? That Kambyses is supposed to be the one wielding the knife?” Shaking his head, he finished, “I don’t see that. Kambyses is no traitor.”
“I don’t know if that’s what’s going on,” Scribonius admitted, then pointed out, “but what if Kambyses doesn’t see himself as a traitor, but as the one man who can save his country from us?”
When put that way, Pullus realized that this made sense on some level, although he wasn’t convinced.
“Well,” he said finally, “we’ll find out one way or the other.”
With Caesar back with the army, preparations for the siege of Susa began in earnest, and at the usual frenetic pace that his veterans had become accustomed to by this point, although this didn’t keep them from complaining about it. The day after the first camp was constructed, Caesar held a meeting to discuss the next phase of the operation.