by R. W. Peake
This was more a reminder, since it had already been discussed, but Asina assured his superior that he hadn’t forgotten, then Caspar moved back to the head of his own Century. Moving silently, their cause was aided by the ground, which was completely flat and, unlike just three scant miles away from the river, unbroken and relatively smooth. It’s a perfect killing ground for when they come, Caspar thought with a mixture of satisfaction and worry, since what held for the Romans when that moment came held for the Crassoi now, but the difference was the darkness. If there had been clouds, it would have been as close to perfect darkness as one could get, yet even so, Caspar would have been able to find the Roman positions, because unlike the Parthians, they did have some form of lights placed at a number of points along the wall. Not many, and the Romans were clearly trying to shield them, but when the human eye is overwhelmed by the gloom of total darkness, it becomes even keener, and now Caspar used these spots, as faint and barely visible as they were, to guide him and his Cohort to the place where they would begin their assault. He had come to survey this approach before the sun had set, trying to align the towers in relation to the starting point, but he had known beforehand that this would be of limited value once darkness fell. Instead, he was inadvertently aided by the Romans themselves, when there was a brief instant of comparatively brilliant illumination because of a careless sentry. The error itself was minor; a Legionary was relieving his comrade on duty, and in doing so, lifted the lamp above the waist-high parapet of the tower that was his post, but it was more than enough for Caspar. For perhaps the span of two heartbeats, Caspar, and his men, could see the outline of one of the towers, and by its position told Caspar that he had unerringly led the Crassoi through the darkness. Then, it was dark again, and Caspar had to pause for a moment to allow his eyes to readjust to the darkness before he resumed his progress. He had been carefully counting his paces, although he knew that the chances of it being precisely four hundred paces was negligible, and consequently, he began sliding one foot carefully forward, while his eyes strained for a deeper darkness that would inform him that he had reached the outer lip of the Roman trench. Finally finding it, he turned and held his arms out to stop the next man, his Signifer, from blindly colliding with him, which he just managed to do without making undue noise. What ensued next was a scene that, if it had been in daylight, would have been comically odd, as men flailed about, reaching for a comrade, but again, Caspar had thoroughly instructed the men of his Cohort what to expect.
“Pass the ladders forward,” he whispered the command, and despite taking the extra precaution of exhaling before he began, part of him expected a sudden shout from behind him, now that his back was turned to the Roman fortifications.
It seemed to take a full watch, but it was probably the span of a couple hundred heartbeats before Caspar could just make out the first of the ladders carried by the Third being handed up through the middle of his Century, and he managed to reach out and grasp the end of it without difficulty. He had known it would be heavy, but in the moment, he realized that this was a detail that had escaped him, that he should have hefted the ladder himself to have an idea what to expect, yet somehow he just barely managed to avoid dropping it as the full weight transferred to his arms. Biting back a curse, he was about to learn that this was the end of the good news concerning the ladders, because when he carefully lowered the end of the first one down into the ditch created by Caesar’s men, he learned in a material way about one of the differences between this Roman Legate and Marcus Crassus, or even Pompeius Magnus before him, under whom Caspar had marched as well. It was true that the standard had been for ditches to be dug ten feet deep and twelve feet wide, but Caesar wasn’t a man to do things simply because that was the way they had been done, and from his first days as the Praetor in Hispania, when he raised the 10th Legion, he had ordered that the dimensions of a Caesarian ditch and earthen wall be twelve feet deep instead of ten, and fifteen feet across instead of twelve. At this moment, it wasn’t the width that caused the problems, it was when Caspar lowered the ladder, which didn’t touch solid ground when he expected. In fact, he ended up having to lean over and partially lower his upper body into the ditch before he felt the ladder touching the dirt at the bottom, with the top of the ladder more than two feet below the edge. The leader of the Crassoi had to physically bite his lip to stop the curse from exploding from his mouth, but while he managed blurting anything that would have been audible more than a few paces away, it was enough to prompt his Signifer to shuffle forward.
“Primus Pilus? What is it?”
Caspar gave a whispered explanation of the dilemma, then deciding the only way to have an idea of how much of a difficulty would be posed, he moved back to the edge, reversing his facing, then lowered himself down into the ditch. His feet dangled for a moment before the soles of his Parthian-style boots came into contact with the top rung. Groaning, albeit quietly, he understood that the chances of having an entire Cohort lowering themselves down into the ditch while their feet blindly tried to find a purchase on the ladder was laughable, and would almost certainly result in disaster. The plan had called for the entire Cohort to go swarming up and over the dirt wall, using the chaos and confusion that would come when the pots of naphtha were hurled against the towers to fire them, then move along the wall, spreading out and inflicting as many casualties as possible, before disappearing back into the night.
“Pass the word back,” Caspar decided, “and send a runner to Centurion Asina and,” he paused an instant before adding, “have Centurion Potitus come to me.”
He barely made out the head of his Signifer bob, then he disappeared, leaving Caspar to wonder if this was a sign that this attack should be aborted.
Unknown to any of them at this moment, it was the men of the Fifth Cohort of the 10th Legion whose turn it was to stand post, under the command of the Quintus Pilus Prior Marcus Trebellius, along this very stretch of wall. Trebellius, as was his duty, was making the rounds, and while there weren’t strict orders for silence, it had been an ingrained habit of Caesar’s army that voices be lowered and no commands be shouted, at least under normal circumstances. Nevertheless, he was finding it hard to contain his ire, despite the fact that, secretly, he sympathized with his men, because they had indeed just performed a hard day’s work, then had to stand guard. Although the day before, Caesar had finally given in to his Primi Pili and issued new orders that the Cohort who held the night watch for each Legion would be excused from working the first half of the next day, the men were still unhappy. Another concession that had been made, at Pullus’ quiet assent, was that each Century of the guard could stand vigil at half strength, provided that those men allowed relief did nothing more than curl up in their sagum at the post their comrades were standing. The full guard watch was split in two, so that every man at least got some sleep, although it was understood they would be expected to leap to their posts should the alarm sound. This last concession had been done without Caesar’s knowledge, after Pullus conferred with the other Primi Pili, all of whom agreed that it was not only a good idea, but one that Caesar didn’t need to hear about. None of which, Trebellius grumbled to himself, these bastards appreciate. His next stop was the first of the towers that were part of the sector assigned to the 10th, where the men who had been on relief switched places with their comrades who stood through the first part of their watch. Just as he reached the base of the tower, he witnessed the same event that Caspar did, who Trebellius had no idea was less than fifty paces away from where he stood at that moment.
“Put that lamp down, you stupid cunnus!” Trebellius remembered to whisper, but it could barely be classified as such. “Do you want to let one of their fucking archers who’s out there skulking in the dark make you a porcupine?”
Trebellius heard the man mumble something that could have been an apology or a curse, but he chose to ignore it, staying only long enough to see the relieved men clamber down the ladder before moving on. There were two m
ore posts on the wall between the towers, where four men were stationed, and he had just reached the second one when, from behind him, two things occurred so quickly together it was only later he could put them in their proper order. It began strangely when the darkness suddenly vanished, and the Centurion actually saw his shadow outlined on the ground in front of him, but even before he had completed his turn about, there was the kind of high-pitched scream that instantly transported him back to a year before, during the assault on Seleucia, the kind of sound that he instinctively knew could only be caused by one thing. Despite his mind reaching this conclusion, the sight of one of his men mindlessly throwing himself from the tower, almost every inch of his body seeming to be aflame, would be forever seared in his memory. While understandable, this man’s unthinking reflexive action of hurling his body from the tower, its outline barely visible through the flames, only ensured that he would be inflicting more casualties on behalf of the Parthians. Streaming fire, he landed directly amidst the men who had just been relieved and were either in the process of lying down or had already stretched out. Within no more than a heartbeat, the first Legionary’s screams were joined by those men, and it seemed to Trebellius that the night had simply vanished as, just as he was beginning to run in the direction of the tower, what little darkness remained dissolved when the second tower behind him erupted into flames. The rapidity of events, where one instant it had been a quiet, particularly dark night that erupted into a riot of light and the shrieking agony of his men would have disoriented even the most experienced man, and Trebellius was a Pilus Prior of Caesar’s 10th, the most veteran and tested of all the Legions of the army. Regardless, Trebellius found himself standing there, open-mouthed and in a state of shock for a span of several crucial heartbeats, completely unsure where to go, and when he got there, what to do.
Then, somehow, he yanked himself from his stupor, shaking his head violently to do so, and bellowed, “Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!”
Pullus, jerked awake immediately by the blaring of the cornu, experienced a state akin to that suffered by Trebellius, but because he had been sound asleep. Nevertheless, before the passage of more than two or three heartbeats, he was standing, then moving over to the wooden frame where his armor was resting, ready for just such an emergency. Even before he reached it, Diocles came bursting through the leather partition, and the years of experience showed between the pair as, with a minimum of verbal communication, he helped his master into the hamata, handed him the harness upon which the Gallic-forged sword that was almost as famous as the man who wielded it was attached, followed by his helmet. The only moment of disagreement came when Diocles reached down and picked up one of the greaves, but Pullus shook his head.
“No time,” he said shortly, then without anything else being said, he was striding out of his personal quarters, through the outer compartment that served as the Legion office, emerging out into the Legion street.
Pullus had no need to be pointed toward the point where whatever was happening was taking place; the two blazing beacons that had moments before been a pair of the fortifications that would completely encompass Susa served that purpose. Breaking into a run, he headed directly for the tower that was nearest to him, bellowing at the men who were even then falling out of their own tents to step aside. A couple men were too slow, and both of them were bowled over with Pullus barely breaking stride from the impact. Centurions and Optios were hustling about to get their Centuries organized, but in Pullus’ case, as Primus Pilus, he had complete faith in his Optio Numerius Lutatius, because of all the men of the Optionate, the second in command of the First of the First often acted as a Centurion in everything but name. This left Pullus unhindered as he dashed down the Legion street leading directly to the wall, but when he reached the intersection where the perpendicular street ended in the street that ran parallel to the dirt wall, he ran into a scene of such confusion and chaos that even with his bulk, he couldn’t simply bull his way through the knots of men.
Recognizing an Optio of the Third Century of the Fifth, who was trying to assemble his Century, Pullus snapped, “Where’s the Pilus Prior?”
“I don’t know, Primus Pilus,” the Optio shook his head, “but the last I saw him, he was near that tower.” Suddenly, the bright flames illuminated his face and Pullus saw him shudder as the Optio gasped, “Oh, by the gods! That was right before that fucking thing burst into flames! What if…?”
“If he’s gone, it’s the will of the gods,” Pullus cut him off shortly, “and you still have your duty!”
“Y-yes, Primus Pilus,” the Optio replied, though it was to Pullus’ retreating back, because he immediately turned in the direction the Optio had indicated, while the Primus Pilus’ words had the desired effect, as the Optio resumed his duties, just as Pullus had reminded him.
Contrary to the Optio’s fears, Pullus found Trebellius alive but clearly shaken, although he had managed to get most of his own Century up onto the wall, forced to keep a safe distance from the towers, which were now fully engulfed, and if Pullus was any judge, the roof of one was about to collapse.
“The men in there?” he asked Trebellius, but this time, he pitched his voice lower.
His Pilus Prior answered with only a shake of his head. Then, there was a shout from up on the wall, and both men ran up the inclined dirt ramp that was another feature of Roman camps, removing the need for ladders.
“There they are! Down in the ditch!”
Before either Pullus or Trebellius could utter the order, every man standing along the parapet raised one of their two javelins, drew their arms back, and in a ragged volley, loosed their missiles down into the ditch. Neither Pullus nor Trebellius had reached a spot where they could see, but they didn’t need to, as a number of screams and curses rang out…in Latin, in their native tongue. Suddenly, all movement ceased; arms that were drawing back to hurl a second javelin froze in place, while men exchanged shocked glances or gasped in astonishment. This reaction wasn’t confined to the rankers, as both Pullus and Trebellius stared at each other.
“They’re Romans!”
“They must be Crassus’ men!”
“Oy! Hold, boys! Hold!”
While Pullus didn’t recognize the voice, Trebellius did, but things were happening so quickly now that he had no chance to stop the ranker, who shouted down, “Are you Crassus’ men?”
“What if we are?” a voice challenged.
Pullus had managed to push his way closer to the rough parapet, one composed of some of the dirt from the spoil, since there simply weren’t enough of the stakes, a pair of which each man carried, to go around the circumference of the entrenchments.
Now, however, he had to shove his way through the men who had managed out of habit to arrange themselves in a semblance of a formation, so he was too late to intervene as the same voice who asked the question replied, “Because my oldest brother was with Crassus’ Legions! His name was Tiberius Atronius! He was with Crassus’ 5th, in the Third Cohort, I think! Do you know if he’s still alive?”
What ensued for the next dozen heartbeats was something Pullus, Trebellius, and every man present would remember for the rest of their lives, as the ranker, who Trebellius had known by the sound of his voice was Marcus Atronius, was drowned out by a chorus of shouts.
“What about Decimus Rupus? He’s my cousin and he was in….”
“Do you know anything about my uncle? He was the Sextus Hastatus Prior…”
Only when he had time to consider it later, Pullus thought about the bittersweet aspect of this moment, when men who had given up loved ones for dead more than a decade before experienced a sudden and completely unexpected rebirth of hope that someone for whom they cared about may not have been lost. Finally, Pullus made it to the parapet that was waist-high for most men but was just below his crotch, with Trebellius just behind him, and he peered down into the ditch which, while not quite as illuminated as the rampart, was still bright enough he could make out the
individual figures of what was easily a couple hundred of who were technically the enemy, despite the appearance. There was a low buzz from the Crassoi as, presumably, they either tried to connect the names, or decided what to do, and for a long, agonizing moment, Pullus dared to hope that, perhaps, hearing the names of loved ones would mean that nobody else had to die. He, and the rest of the men standing there, got the answer from the Crassoi in the form of a lone javelin that flashed up from the darkness of the bottom of the ditch, and even before Pullus could react, he heard a crunching, thudding noise that he had heard all too often, except this time, there was a subtle difference because it was accompanied by what sounded like a choked gurgling, as if someone was trying to shout but couldn’t. In the eyeblink it took him to turn his head a fraction behind the missile itself, the point had already gone through the opened mouth of a ranker before the sharpened iron point burst through the back of the man’s skull, knocking his helmet askew. The ranker, who Pullus recognized as the man who had asked about his brother, stood for what seemed like a long moment, his eyes bulging in shock as, in his last act, he stared down at the wooden shaft that protruded obscenely from his mouth at a downward angle. By the time his legs collapsed, the momentary silence was shattered, although this was the least of the worries; while the javelin that killed Marcus Atronius was the first, it was quickly followed by dozens more, a handful of which caught men who were too slow in leaping back from the parapet.
“Kill those traitors! Release javelins! Pick your target, boys!”
The only thing Pullus knew with any certainty was that he was not the one who bellowed the order, and while he assumed it was his subordinate Trebellius, it didn’t sound like his voice to Pullus’ ears. This didn’t matter; what did was that his men obeyed, with a savage alacrity, and aided by their height advantage, hurled their own missiles down into the packed mass of the Crassoi with terrific force. As quickly as it took for the thirty or more javelins to go slashing down into their midst, the howls of pain and shouts of alarm from the Crassoi now began mingling with the same from their enemies. Only now did Pullus finally get to a spot where he could actually look down into the ditch, and despite having an idea, when he saw what to his expert eye was easily three Centuries of the enemy, he uttered a bitter curse. More importantly, in that first glance, he saw the problem confronting the Crassoi; the ladders they had brought had clearly been built based on the standard dimensions of a Roman fortification, something that every Crassoi no matter what rank would know. But they had been gone from the Roman sphere too long and didn’t know that the Legate they were facing did things in his own way.