by R. W. Peake
Hirtius had expected something like this, but it was still disappointing, even as another part of his mind argued that he had to do something to disrupt whatever the enemy had planned. However, what Dadarshi hadn’t said, because there was no need, that rugged terrain was the only ground that provided the only possibility of approaching the Parthians without being detected. Coming from this direction, to their south, was impossible of course, nor would swinging wide to the west do any good because the land was just as flat coming from the river. And, Hirtius was honest with himself to admit, he wasn’t anywhere near the caliber of Caesar at tactical matters, and that was with infantry; the truth was that neither he nor Caesar had intended for Hirtius to engage with the Parthians. Not only were they outnumbered, but to attack the Parthians would be fighting on their terms, and while Hirtius was no Caesar, he had learned from his general that this was to be avoided if at all possible. Perhaps if Caesar could bring several Legions with him, and then draw the Parthians into the kind of fight where the lead shot Ventidius had developed could be employed, something could be done that way, but Caesar might as well have been back in Rome for all the good it did at this moment. No, Hirtius thought, I’m going to have to think of something, both to get word to Caesar and to at least give either Kambyses or his brother something to think about. What that was, at this moment, he had no idea.
Kambyses had seriously considered taking his spad to Ctesiphon, but after discussing it with Intaphernes, who was serving as his second in command, he discarded the idea.
“We don’t have enough infantry,” Kambyses concluded to his brother, “and we need the equipment to scale those walls. There may be only one Legion there, that is true, but there are at least five thousand auxiliaries, even if they are commanded by that boy Octavian.”
Kambyses’ lip curled, as it always did whenever the subject of Caesar’s nephew came up. Oh, the boy had been polite enough, and had even attended two of the dinners where Kambyses had been treated as an honored guest and not a captive. But there was something in the youngster’s gaze that reminded him of one of the huge lizards that lived in these lands, a reptilian coldness that gave him the very strong impression that, if it wasn’t for Caesar’s presence, Kambyses would have suffered a very different fate.
“Why can’t we use some sort of ruse?” Intaphernes had asked. “Surely some of our people left behind are still loyal to our king!”
Kambyses had regarded his younger brother with a scornful amusement, but rather than dismiss the suggestion out of hand, he thought it could be useful to explain something that, while Kambyses now accepted it as fact, still stung.
“Brother,” he explained patiently, “one of the things I learned during my time as Caesar’s prisoner is that he is a very, very shrewd man.” Shaking his head, he didn’t have to feign a touch of bewilderment as he went on, “He treated the people of both Ctesiphon and Seleucia with great clemency.”
“Clemency?” Intaphernes scoffed. “So? They’re still Parthians! They owe their loyalty to Phraates.” His face clouded as he added reluctantly, “Even if Phraates isn’t worthy of it.”
“It goes further than that.” Kambyses shook his head. “He gives every family a ration of grain, every week. And,” again, Kambyses couldn’t keep a note of incredulity from his voice, “he makes his soldiers pay the merchants and craftsmen for their wares!”
For once, Kambyses’ brother couldn’t find the words, staring at his sibling, at first with suspicion, certain that his normally dour older brother was having fun at his expense. Then, after a moment’s thought, he realized that if he was, it would be the first time, not to mention the seriousness of the subject.
“So,” he spoke slowly, trying to come to grips with this sobering news, “the chances of them ever rising up are…”
“None,” Kambyses said flatly. Then, he had hesitated, carefully considering what he was about to say next, fully aware that, despite speaking to his brother, he was running a huge risk. “I think,” he spoke carefully, “that whoever sits on our throne once we expel Caesar should consider making some changes in the way he rules.”
There was a long silence, and Kambyses noticed that Intaphernes had turned to stare straight ahead, but his tone was as modulated as his brother’s when he replied, “I’ve thought about that as well, brother. Perhaps,” he shrugged, “this Roman will manage to slay Phraates and leave an empty throne.”
It took a great deal of control for Kambyses to remain impassive, but his heart began thudding heavily against his ribs at this recognition that Intaphernes was amenable to the idea. Of course, he thought with a touch of amusement, given the relationship between the late Pacorus and Phraates, it was possible, in fact likely that his brother was thinking of the younger sibling atop the throne of the King of Kings. That could wait; first he had to repel Caesar, and it was actually during this conversation, when he had discarded the idea of taking Ctesiphon, that he came up with the plan that now saw them encamped on a ridge, overlooking the wide, flat ground where the Tigris was a shining ribbon in the distance.
“Caesar,” he had abruptly changed the subject, “is trying to starve Susa into submission.” The look he gave Intaphernes was fierce, and the smile was cruel as he said, “So, we’re going to do the same to Caesar.” Waving his hand in an expansive gesture, he continued, “There’s no way that the Roman resupply trains can slip past us. And,” this broadened his smile, “we won’t need to worry about running short of supplies ourselves, since we will take what we need, then burn the rest.”
“How long do you think it will take before the Romans are forced to come after us?”
Kambyses considered, then shrugged. “At least a month, but maybe more.” Turning to his brother, he warned, “Do not underestimate Caesar, Intaphernes. He may have stockpiled a fair amount of supplies there at Susa, so we have to be patient.”
“What about their cavalry?” Intaphernes only gave a contemptuous nod in the direction of the Romans who had been dogging their movement.
On this, Kambyses was of a like mind with his brother, saying dismissively, “They can’t match us, and they know it. Which is why they haven’t tried to stop us. The only reason the attack on Phraates succeeded was because it was Caesar leading them. And,” he spat on the ground, “Phraates leading us. No,” he shook his head, “when they come, it will be with their Legions.”
“And?” Intaphernes asked. “What then?”
“Then,” Kambyses replied grimly, “you’ll get a chance to see the hardest fighting you’ll ever see in your life.”
Octavian, living in what had been the royal palace of Ctesiphon but now served as the seat of government in what was rapidly taking on the appearance and operation of a Roman province, actually learned of Caesar’s predicament before his uncle. One of the wagon drivers had come staggering up to the gates, more dead than alive after hiding under a pile of the bodies of his friends and fellow drivers until darkness fell the night after the ambush. He had shown up at Ctesiphon four days after the attack, which according to Octavian’s calculations, now meant that his uncle and the army were perilously close to the end of their rations, although he was also reasonably certain that his uncle would have realized something was wrong and reduced consumption. The question was, when had that happened? Even if Caesar had acted quickly, he had bought at most another week, on half rations. Somehow, he didn’t think that was the case; his instinct told him that, because of the distance and the vagaries that were endemic in a train of wagons, with animals going lame and wheels breaking, his uncle had probably let two, perhaps three days to lapse before becoming alarmed. If Octavian ordered it, the men under his command would work through the watches, putting together a train and sending it out at dawn in no more than two days, but until he knew whether or not this ambush had been an isolated incident, perpetrated by a roving band of raiders, or was part of something much larger and more dangerous, he was unwilling to commit to this action. Unsurprisingly, the driver had bee
n singularly unhelpful in describing the force that had attacked them, slaughtering the turma of cavalry that had been its escort, along with the auxiliaries, numbering about a Century’s worth. How many Parthians would it take to slaughter that many men? Two hundred? Five? Or was this just part of a larger force, one that, somehow, in some unfathomable way, had managed to escape the notice of the countless scouts his uncle had sent out, scouring the region for any sign of another army? While he had no way of knowing it, like his uncle, the only thing Octavian was somewhat certain of was that this wasn’t the Armenians, because he had specifically warned his roving patrols to watch for Artavasdes, although it was more with the idea that the Armenian king finally roused himself and his army to fulfil their obligations to Rome. It was at moments such as this when the youth felt the oppressive weight of the duty he had been handed, and where he regretted his eagerness to accept more responsibility. Now he held the fate of Caesar and the army in his hands, but more than the welfare of the rankers who, despite his uncle’s best efforts to convince him of their importance, Octavian viewed as little more than a collective means to an end, the thought of disappointing Caesar was what drove him to distraction. Compounding his dilemma was his dearth of manpower, at least of the type that might have the ability to drive away the Parthians who were now cutting off the supply route, especially since he had no idea of the size of that force. He now had less than five hundred cavalrymen at his disposal, five hundred fifty if he counted his own personal bodyguard, that of Agrippa’s, who had remained behind with him at Octavian’s request, and those of the other junior Tribunes who were with him.
Despite his relative inexperience, the time Octavian had spent with Ventidius and the cavalry, which he still viewed as a period of exile, had at least taught him the relative merits of the Roman version of cavalry compared to those belonging to Parthia, which meant that he didn’t consider this a viable option. For a longer span of time, he considered the idea of marching with both his cavalry and the Legion Caesar had left behind, the 22nd, but he dismissed this as well; leaving behind a garrison of just five thousand men, particularly these foreign auxiliaries, would be a practical invitation to the Parthians to retake the two cities. Thinking about the matter strategically, he had to acknowledge the possibility that this was exactly what the unknown Parthian commander was trying to accomplish, forcing Octavian to leave what was now the supply depot for not just Caesar and the army, but the budding administration of this, the newest Roman conquest. This recognition was enough to force him to accept that he would have to remain in Ctesiphon and count on his uncle to solve the predicament in which he found himself. Although he had made up his mind, he was nonetheless relieved when Agrippa, on whom he had come to rely for his tactical acumen, instantly agreed that this was really the only prudent course. What Agrippa did suggest, and Octavian instantly agreed, was to make preparations for the possibility that whatever Parthian force was out there might suddenly appear outside the walls of the two cities, and it at least served to keep his mind occupied. He didn’t think it was likely; while Octavian wasn’t a born tactician, he had a brilliant mind for strategy, and his instinct told him that the Parthians recognized that the ultimate objective wasn’t in retaking lost cities, but in destroying the invading army. And, despite himself, he had to admire the cunning turn of mind of whoever was out there, slowly strangling the Roman army.
Caesar surveyed the faces of his Centurions, forcing himself to acknowledge their common pinched and drawn features, although they wore a variety of expressions. Some looked angry; although, Caesar thought wryly as Batius of the 5th scowled back at him, some of them look like that all the time. But it was the expression of resignation on the faces of at least two Primi Pili that concerned him. Making a mental note to spend time with these two men in private, he glanced down at the stack of tablets, one from each Primus Pilus, that spelled out the grim news in a manner that couldn’t be denied.
Despite the nature of the meeting, Caesar’s tone was neutral as he summarized, “According to your reports, we’re now at half rations, and have no more than three days at that. Is this correct?”
Although he already knew the answer, it was a mark of Caesar’s leadership style that, particularly in moments of crisis, he ensured that every man under his command not only understood the situation, but felt they had been given a chance to add something. In this way, it increased the ownership on the part of his Centurions when they felt that they were given at least the opportunity to offer their suggestion, and as Caesar had long before learned, there was extraordinary value in the collective experience these men had to offer. On this occasion, however, none of the men actually did have anything to say, as he had been certain would be the case.
“So, if we reduce to quarter rations now, it gives us almost another week,” he went on, and again, there was no disagreement.
“Then what?” Pullus was, naturally, the one who spoke up, but only after ignoring the silent entreaties of his fellow Primi Pili for as long as he could. This meant he sounded annoyed, but Caesar was aware that it wasn’t aimed at his general as he went on, “We’ll be too weak to mount any kind of offensive action, and we’ll barely be fit enough to repel any attack by those cunni Crassoi.” Shaking his head, Pullus finished, “I’m sorry, Caesar, but I don’t think we have any choice. We’re going to have to assault Susa, now.”
Caesar considered this, or pretended to, but he was surreptitiously surveying the faces of the other Primi Pili. And, he wasn’t surprised to see, that of the ten men there, only Spurius and Balbinus looked as if they at least suspected this was all a contrivance on the part of their general, that Pullus was only mouthing the words Caesar had asked him to utter. The fact that Pullus hadn’t argued and had instantly agreed was convenient, because it lent an air of authenticity to the giant Roman’s words, but he was almost certain that at least two of the other Centurions weren’t fooled. However, neither would they utter a word about their suspicions, Caesar was certain, and honestly, it wasn’t them that Caesar was worried about. A man who reached the rank of Primus Pilus couldn’t ever be accused of cowardice, nor being one to shirk from battle, but there were still men who were naturally more cautious, almost timid, at least when compared to men like Pullus, who never turned away from an opportunity to fight. Tiberius Atartinus was one of those Caesar was concerned about, but his sense was that his timidity had more to do with the fact that he was the most junior of the Primi Pili, having replaced Gaius Lanatus of the 11th. Felix of the 6th, Clustuminus of the 8th, and Carfulenus of the 28th were the men who seemed to need a bit more nudging to get into the proper frame of mind that was essential for the kind of fight that would be required to take Susa.
“That,” Caesar made sure to speak slowly, as if he was thinking it through, “is certainly something to consider. But,” this was unfeigned on his part, his mouth twisting into a grimace, “there’s no denying that it will be a bloody proposition.” He looked from one man to another, then said, “If anyone has another idea, this is the time to offer it.” After a long silence, Caesar decided it was necessary to go from one man to another, and it was no accident that he began with Lanatus, but one by one, each of them either shook their head or verbally admitted they had no such solution. Only then did Caesar give the orders. “Very well. Get the men ready. We are going to attack. Tonight. You’ll receive your written orders later.”
With that, the Centurions of Caesar’s army filed out the exit, talking softly to each other or occupied with their own thoughts. Although they all understood the necessity for this action, none of them were under any illusion that it would be a costly, bloody fight, and if the truth were known, more than one Primus Pilus harbored serious doubts that this attack would be successful.
Pullus was standing in the intersection of the Legion street with the Via Praetoria, where he was listening to each of his Pili Priores give their report on the readiness of their Cohorts, a full watch after he had left the praetorium. Although
he had expected as much with a veteran Legion, he was nonetheless pleased that, for all but a few tasks, his Centurions reported that every Cohort was prepared for what came next.
“Tell the men their Primus Pilus is pleased,” Pullus told them, “and that they have the next watch to fuck about, although I suggest they get some sleep.” He turned sober, reminding the Centurions, “It’s going to be a long, long night.”
Each of them rendered their salute, then dispersed to their Cohort areas, but Scribonius stayed behind. Balbus was with his Century, and it was actually an unusual moment for the pair, since Balbus was traditionally the third member of this party.
“Will it be as bad as I think it will be?” Scribonius asked quietly.
With any other Pilus Prior, Pullus would have offered reassurances, but not with Scribonius; he, Balbus, and on certain occasions, his old tutor Cyclops, Pullus always told the unvarnished truth as he saw it.
“It’s going to be at least as bad as Seleucia was,” Pullus answered him, although he did feel compelled to add, “but this time, we’re better prepared for the naphtha. Otherwise,” he finished grimly, “yes, I think it’s going to be bad.” Pullus hesitated, thinking carefully about what he would say next, yet despite knowing that this was improper, he said tentatively, “If you need a runner…”
“I’ll use Porcinus,” Scribonius assured him quietly, happy to see the expression of relief on his friend’s face and that he could do this much for him.
“Thank you,” Pullus said hoarsely, then was about to say something else when, suddenly, the bucina sounded the call that summoned all the Primi Pili to the praetorium. Frowning at Scribonius, Pullus said only, “It’s a bit earlier than Caesar said it would be. But,” he sighed, “I have to go find out what this is about.”