by R. W. Peake
Foot by foot, yard by yard, the encirclement of Susa inexorably advanced, yet after the first few days, when Caesar and his senior leaders considered a sortie to be the most likely and none came, it seemed that once again the Parthians were content to allow themselves to be penned in. Rather than being comforting, this served to make every man, of all ranks, more nervous as they remembered the horrific results of the surprise that the Parthians unleashed during the assault of Ctesiphon. Almost every man currently under the standards outside Susa knew, or in many cases were related to comrades who had endured the one fate that was universally feared, not just by warriors, but all people, burning to death. This alone was enough to instill fear, but it was the pernicious nature of the naphtha that caused men to involuntarily shudder whenever the topic came up during their off-duty time, as the tales of how the substance refused to succumb to smothering and how dousing it with water made it worse inevitably not only spread, but became enhanced, as if that was needed. However, there was one group of men who were never mentioned, if only because they were considered to be even less fortunate than those men who died in the most horrible way imaginable, those who survived. Left behind in Ctesiphon was three Centuries’ worth of terribly disfigured men, some of them so disabled that they relied on their more able comrades to tend to their needs, and a universal truth among the ranks of Caesar’s Legions was the belief that their fate was far worse than those who had endured an agonizing end, if only because that pain did end. Now, as they worked on the siegeworks of Susa, they also were waiting to learn what other horrific tricks the Parthians had yet to play on them.
It would have been a relief to Caesar’s men if they knew that the true cause for the lack of response by the Parthians had nothing to do with some stratagem involving a new and terrible weapon, but in the continuing disregard and lack of appreciation held by senior Parthian leadership concerning the tactics of siege warfare. Part of it, Caspar and his Centurions knew, was that as far as Gobryas was concerned, having the Crassoi at his disposal would be enough to repel the Romans, yet it also ran more deeply than that. Despite the bloody lesson of Ctesiphon, as Caspar quickly learned, it was not enough to overcome generations of a deep-seated belief that only cowards hid behind walls, that true warriors fought on the open ground for all to see, the better to judge each man’s virtue and courage. This attitude was something that, after a decade in the service of the Parthian king, Caspar had at least learned to understand, even if he privately thought it was ridiculous, because in this, Caspar was still Numerius Pompilius, still a Roman. And to a Roman, the only standard that meant anything was winning; doing so while displaying courage and skill was certainly crucial, but ultimately, the pragmatic part of the Roman character understood that the ultimate goal was victory, no matter how it was achieved. Nevertheless, he also had learned firsthand the futility of trying to change his superiors’ minds on this matter, and he supposed that the fact that Gobryas had placed any faith in him and his men at all was the best for which he could hope. Of course, this also meant that the pressure on them was even greater, particularly since their families were inside the actual walls of the city, and not one of the Crassoi were fooled by the kind, smooth words Phraates had uttered about wanting the families of his most favored troops safely protected. They were hostages, nothing more, but despite the anger that threatened to erupt whenever he thought of his wife Kira, and their three children who, while they were allowed to move freely about the city, were still in danger, Caspar kept this rage locked up within him, not even willing to divulge to his fellow Romans his feelings. Over the preceding ten years, Caspar and other Crassoi had learned to their detriment that there were men among them for whom gold was more important than the bonds of loyalty to comrades. So, keeping those thoughts and feelings bottled up, Caspar went about the business of ensuring the Crassoi were prepared for what was to come. What that meant at this point in time consisted of little more than watching as Caesar’s men threw up spades full of dirt, while their comrades packed the spoil down, and continually inspecting his own men. Frankly, the inaction was driving Caspar to distraction, and he was far from alone.
“When are we going to do anything to stop those cunni from penning us in?” Asina asked, marking what Caspar was certain was the tenth time he had been asked this by one of his Centurions, which prompted him to snap, “Not until Gobryas gives us the order, that’s when! Now stop asking me!”
“That,” Asina replied mildly, secretly more amused than afraid of incurring his superior’s wrath, “is the first time I’ve asked.”
Caspar flushed slightly, realizing this was the case, but he grumbled, “Well, it’s not the first time I’ve heard the question in the last watch!”
There was a silence then, as the two men seemed content to stand on the dirt wall of their position to watch their enemies at work, but Asina was surreptitiously glancing around to make sure that Teispes was safely out of earshot.
Seeing that he was, as Asina’s Optio had engaged the Parthian in a conversation, which was what Asina had instructed him to do, the Primus Pilus Posterior spoke quietly, although it did not mask the urgency of his tone, asking Caspar, “What if we just went ahead and did what we both know we need to do?”
Not surprisingly, this elicited a reaction from Caspar, but it was a sign of how he was as aware of Teispes’ role as anyone that he didn’t turn his head suddenly.
Nevertheless, his whisper was harsh as he shot back, “Are you mad, Gaius? Gobryas would have us flayed if we did that!”
“Would he?” Asina replied coolly. “I know he would threaten it, and,” he allowed, “it’s possible we’ll be punished. But,” he persisted, “we’re also the best hope of keeping Susa from falling, and we both know it. And,” he finished, “so does Gobryas. So I don’t think he’d do anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Caspar answered, but Asina heard the thoughtful note in his commander’s voice, which was confirmed when he said at last, “Let me think about it.”
Asina knew that this was the best for which he could hope at this moment; he had planted the seed, now it had to grow on its own in Caspar’s mind. Besides, any further conversation on this topic was forestalled when, as was his habit, Teispes suddenly just…appeared, next to the pair of Crassoi, whereupon he joined them in watching as Caesar’s men continued their work.
“I’m surprised that they haven’t tried to stop us,” Scribonius commented that very night in Pullus’ quarters. “I would have expected them to try…something at this point.”
“I know,” Pullus agreed, then shrugged, “but I think we need to accept it as a blessing from the gods.”
This elicited a snort from Balbus, the least religious of the trio, although neither of the other men were known for their piety.
“If the gods had wanted to truly bless us, they’d send a plague that killed all those fucking traitors so we wouldn’t have to soil our swords with their traitor blood.”
The other two exchanged an amused glance; this had been a recurring theme with their scarred friend, who viewed the Crassoi as he did most things, in the starkest terms. Scribonius had tried a couple times, unsuccessfully, to point out the issues that these survivors had been forced to confront, being essentially abandoned by Rome for a decade, not to mention the vast distance across which they were removed from any possible contact from their countrymen, to no avail. Pullus hadn’t even tried, knowing that if Scribonius was unable to muster an argument that would sway Balbus to a more balanced view of the Crassoi, his chances were nonexistent. And, frankly, Pullus actually worried that not enough men in Caesar’s army shared Balbus’ viewpoint, because it meant that, when the two forces inevitably faced each other, there was the possibility that his fellow Romans would be reluctant to strike their countrymen down. Even more troubling was the idea that the Crassoi would feel no such compunction, because he was acutely aware that it was also a strong possibility, verging on a likelihood, that Crassus’ men might not
hold the same kind of tender feelings towards men they believed had abandoned and forgotten them. Worst of all, from Pullus’ perspective, was that the only way to know with any certainty would be after the fact, in the aftermath of battle, which was something that he had confided to only Scribonius, knowing that Balbus’ reaction would be vehement, and ultimately, not much help.
Now he sat, finishing the last bit of bread and listening as Scribonius rejoined lightly, “Well, I, for one, am willing to take what blessings the gods are willing to give. But,” he turned serious, returning his attention to Pullus, “whether the gods have anything to do with it or not, it’s just strange that they’re letting us pen them up like pigs for the slaughter, without doing anything about it.”
“Maybe,” Porcinus, normally silent during these meals, felt the blood rush to his face as he suddenly spoke up, but realized now that he had committed himself, he had to finish his thought, “they’re waiting for those Parthians that Caesar drove off to come back.”
Pullus exchanged a quick, surprised glance with Scribonius, because that was a thought that had crossed his mind as well, and he was both pleased and proud that his young nephew had thought about this too.
“Sort of like what happened at Alesia,” Scribonius mused aloud, “when Vercingetorix sent for help and the tribes tried to coordinate their attack from the outside and inside.”
“And,” Balbus agreed, “if they’d done a better job of it, who knows what might have happened?”
“But do you really think the Parthians are better organized than the Gauls were?” The men at the table turned to Diocles, who had been the one who asked this last question, and he went on, “Because from everything we’ve seen, they’re like the Gauls because they think of themselves as warriors, and if anything, their nobility are more of a bunch of backstabbers and schemers than the Gauls are.”
“What would you know about Gauls?” Balbus scoffed, but the rest of the men knew this was more about the same kind of ongoing banter they all shared with each other. “You’re Greek. All you care about is buggering each other and spouting your ponce philosophy!”
As he always did, Diocles weathered this with an air of weary acceptance, but despite his nominal status as a slave, neither was he intimidated by Balbus.
“What I know about Gauls is what I read about them from Caesar,” Diocles countered, then asked with an innocence that was clearly feigned, “So are you saying that Caesar doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”
A look of alarm flashed across Balbus’ face, before he realized that he was being toyed with by the diminutive Greek, something that both Pullus and Scribonius always gleefully pointed out was an almost inevitable occurrence when Balbus tried to match wits.
“You’re too clever for your own good,” he grumbled, then picked up his wine cup, ignoring the laughter of the others around the table.
Returning to the topic, Diocles pressed his case further. “I think there’s something else going on with the Parthians.”
“Like what?” Pullus asked, genuinely interested in what his servant had to offer.
“That,” Diocles admitted, “I don’t know. But,” he insisted, ignoring Balbus’ hoot of mirth at his self-declared doubt, “if I had to guess, I would think it has something to do with how the Parthians view the Crassoi and whether or not they can be trusted. After all,” he pointed out, “they’ve learned by now that their native infantry is practically useless in a siege, and their cataphracts are worse than useless.”
“Which is why all of them left with Phraates,” Scribonius put in, tacitly conceding part of Diocles’ point, none of them knowing at this time that this wasn’t the case, that there were still cataphractoi inside Susa.
“But the Crassoi hate us!” Porcinus exclaimed, though if he had been asked, he would have admitted he was just repeating what was an article of faith among his comrades in the ranks.
“Do they?” Diocles asked quietly. “Have we captured any? Have we had any communication with any of them? Or is that just what we all assume?”
“I think,” Pullus, as was his habit, spoke slowly as he thought this through, “that it’s an assumption we made because that’s how we’d feel if we were in their caligae.”
A silence followed, as each of them mused what had just been said, then it was Porcinus who broke it, asking, “So how do we find out what the truth is?”
“That,” Pullus admitted, “is the question.”
It took almost a week for Caspar to come to a decision, not because he was having trouble making it, but he simply wasn’t as sanguine as Asina about how Gobryas would react. However, once he did make the decision, he was then forced to wait another two days before conditions were suitable for an attack, when there was no moon. They were two of the most nerve-wracking days Caspar could remember, worried as he was that Teispes would happen to overhear one of the Crassoi Centurions talking and thereby giving the scheme away. This didn’t happen, thankfully, although if Caspar was being honest, a part of him wanted the Parthian to discover their plans and intervene, but there was no sudden visit by Gobryas, nor did Teispes give any indication that he suspected what Caspar and his Centurions were planning. Which, as far as such things went, was a relatively straightforward matter; under the cover of darkness, the equivalent of a full Cohort of Crassoi would cross the four hundred paces of open ground, aiming for a spot between two towers that had been constructed by using the most precious, and scarcest resource in this part of the world, wood. Caspar didn’t know whether the materials used in their construction had been brought by Caesar’s army from across the sea or had been scrounged from the relatively few wooden structures of Ctesiphon and Seleucia, but ultimately, it didn’t matter. What was important was that, by destroying these two towers, it deprived the Romans of a valuable resource, along with the elimination of the artillery that had already been emplaced in them. Caspar was acutely aware that, despite his insistence that the number of scorpions and ballistae available to his Crassoi be increased, which required a bitter argument with Gobryas and Teispes before they agreed, the amount of artillery available to Caesar dwarfed his own. Consequently, the pieces that were emplaced in these two towers were almost as important to destroy as the towers themselves. This, Caspar knew, wouldn’t do more than slow the envelopment of Susa, but although he didn’t articulate it to his subordinates, his hope was that a successful foray would encourage Gobryas to see the value of an active defense, rather than waiting for Phraates and the eastern spad to return. At least, this was what Caspar assumed Gobryas was pinning his hopes on; it had proven exceedingly difficult to determine exactly what the Parthian commander had in mind when it came to defending Susa, since he seemed content to allow Caesar’s men to continue their work with the heat their only real hindrance. That, he thought with a heavy satisfaction, ends tonight.
Once his body slave had finished applying the charcoal to his oiled skin and he examined himself in the polished brass mirror, Caspar exited his quarters, which ironically enough, was a tent identical in construction and size to that of a Primus Pilus of a Roman Legion, heading to the Roman forum of the camp that had been created between the walls of Susa and the entrenchments. His Optio, who, like Asina, still retained his original name of Vibius Pacula, had already ensured his Century was standing ready, and while he expected nothing less, he was still pleased to see that his men were barely visible, following the example set by their Centurion of blackening their exposed skin. A quick inspection by torchlight of the other six Centuries was as satisfactory, and after Caspar was finished, he ordered the torches extinguished, whereupon he waited for a period of time to allow his men’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. The approach would be a matter of dead reckoning, and counting paces, but his biggest worry was in drifting slightly before getting close enough to make out both towers in the gloom, though there was nothing to gain by worrying about it at this moment. Once beyond their own entrenchments, then he would have to be careful, since he was the one
guiding his men; besides, there were more than enough other details to occupy his mind, like making sure that every single section carried at least one of each tool that was part and parcel of the equipment carried by a Roman Legion, the originals of which had long since worn out, of course, but had been replaced. Additionally, there were a half-dozen men in each Century carrying crates containing small, stoppered jugs, which they were very careful in handling, with each jug in the crate surrounded with straw, the crates themselves carried with rope handles by two men. The naphtha contained in them would ensure that, even if the enemy rushed to save the towers and all that was in them, they would be helpless to do so, and while Caspar secretly hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, they could be used as potent weapons in themselves, although in this form, once the rag in the stopper was ignited, these vessels posed almost as much risk to the man hurling them as they did to the targets. Leading his men to the section of entrenchment where ladders led down into the ditch, which was of the standard twelve feet wide by ten feet deep, Caspar had no way of knowing this would actually prove to be a crucial factor in what was to come. The sharpened stakes that lined the wall side of the ditch had been removed, but this spot had also been chosen because it was the one section where there were not camouflaged pits, into which more sharpened stakes had been driven, waiting to impale the foot of an unsuspecting foe. Even with a half-dozen ladders leading down into and another half-dozen on the opposite side, the process of moving an entire Cohort took a full third of a watch.
Now that they were on the opposite side and didn’t have their own dirt wall to absorb the sound, Caspar had given strict orders that any communication would be done in whispers, which was what he did now, telling Asina, “Your Century is going to bring the ladders with them for your group and the Third Century for mine.”