by R. W. Peake
Phraates grunted irritably, then leapt to his feet and began pacing across the spacious room that was the personal bedchamber of the Parthian king. Because this had been designed exclusively for summer, there was an open portico that overlooked the river as it flowed around the tiny island, upon which the palace had been built. Although he would never divulge it, to anyone, for Phraates, this was one of the few places that held pleasant memories of his childhood, back when he had simply been Pacorus’ younger brother, and had no idea what that meant. And, once every so often, Phraates would experience a twinge of something, a combination of nostalgia and guilt, as he recalled those carefree days when he would try and hide from Pacorus. This room was always my favorite hiding place, he thought now as he stood on the open portico, staring down into the waters swirling by, and Pacorus would always find me. For an instant, the briefest of instants, the pang of regret he felt was so sharp that it almost took his breath away as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps none of this had been worth all the scheming, the whispers, the subtle promises made to men who he viewed as pieces in a game, each of them expendable and worthy only if they helped advance his cause. It didn’t come that often, although it had returned with a disturbing frequency over the last few weeks, but as he always did, he shook his head, banishing these thoughts from his mind, chastising himself for being counterproductive and fruitless.
“Tell Sogdianus that I will inspect the bodyguard at noon today,” he informed Sunen, but this was more from boredom than any need to do so. A thought occurred to him, prompting him to ask, “What is our supply status as of this morning?”
It was only through a force of will that Sunen suppressed the sigh that came from this series of repetitive questions and orders from his king.
“We currently have three months of grain on hand,” he intoned, having memorized the figures that he had been repeating for the previous week, “we have two thousand head of cattle, and the prospects for this year’s harvest are that it will be slightly above average. Once that is harvested, and we claim our portion, we should have at least eight months’ worth of grain.”
“Provided that dog Caesar doesn’t get past Susa and come south to take the rest of our land between the Tigris and Euphrates,” Phraates replied bitterly, and for a moment, Sunen was at a loss as to whether this was merely a comment that required no response, or if Phraates was expecting some sort of advice.
Like the courtier he was, Sunen chose a middle path, replying smoothly, “Your Highness, I am sure that between Gobryas in Susa, and Kambyses, wherever he may be,” he thought to add, “they will keep the Romans occupied and unable to move south.”
As answers went, it was a good, safe one; that it was entirely false was something that both Phraates and Sunen would be learning shortly. However, it was still early in the day, the roofs of the buildings of Sostrate gleamed slightly in the sunlight, and all was quiet within the walls. The idea that a force of Romans might be approaching, let alone led by Caesar himself, was so preposterous that it never occurred to Phraates, Sunen, or any other Parthian, for that matter. When the sun set on this day in late summer, the most pressing matter on Phraates’ mind was which of his concubines would share his bed this night, and whether they would have company.
Carfulenus’ misgivings about the condition of his men had been well founded; however, when, as the leading Legion, they were stopped less than two miles short of the northern wall of Sostrate, the prospect of what was coming did more to revive the men than any speech or rest could have. Hampered by the darkness, the Parthian scouts had nonetheless managed to guide Caesar and his army unerringly to this spot. Now, the men of the Legions were allowed to get what rest they could, while Caesar and his officers went forward to conduct as thorough a scouting job as possible, given the darkness. Riding the first mile and a half, once the outline of the walls of the small city were visible, the light-colored rock gleaming slightly from the half moon, they dismounted and proceeded on foot, with Carfulenus, Silva, and a half-dozen rankers working as advance scouts in the event that the Parthians actually thought to post sentries outside the walls. They hadn’t, but this was where the good news stopped for Caesar. The bottom third of the wall and the ground leading up to it had been obscured by a line of thick vegetation, but when the Primus Pilus and Decurion pushed through it, they both stopped, staring in a combination of dismay and anger.
It was Carfulenus who recovered first, wheeling about and despite the dark, unerringly reaching out and grabbing the tunic of one of the rankers and hissed, “You Parthian cunnus! Why didn’t you tell us that the whole fucking city is surrounded by that fucking river?”
The Parthian, whose name was Nabonidas, began stammering, completely forgetting the rudimentary Latin he had learned, and to keep his voice lowered. Fortunately, Carfulenus’ free hand shot out and clamped firmly over the man’s mouth before more than the first syllable of whatever the Parthian was going to say escaped. Even so, the small party froze, cocking their ears in the direction of the walls, waiting for some sort of cry of alarm or a challenge to be issued from whoever was standing guard. Only after a half-dozen heartbeats, when nothing happened, did they relax, then Carfulenus started dragging the Parthian back with him in the direction of where Caesar and the others were waiting to be told they could come forward. And, to nobody’s surprise, they ran into Caesar, who had grown impatient at the delay and was already moving in their direction.
Stopping, Carfulenus roughly shoved the terrified Parthian into Caesar’s path and whispered savagely, “Caesar, we’ve been duped!”
Not surprisingly, this stopped the general in his tracks, but he seemed unshaken by his Primus Pilus’ dramatic assessment, instead addressing the Parthian. “Nabonidas, do you know what the Primus Pilus is talking about?”
Frankly, the Parthian wasn’t completely sure what was happening, but he had determined that it had something to do with the fact that, many years before, whoever had planned Sostrate had diverted the river so that it was essentially surrounded by water, with bridges to the east, west and south…but not to the north, the direction from which the Romans had approached. All that Carfulenus and the others saw was an expanse of wall, beneath which was a ribbon of water, but what puzzled the Parthian was why the Roman had exploded in rage, as if he, Nabonidas, was somehow responsible.
Fortunately, he had sufficiently regained enough composure to remember to speak in Latin, although it was halting as he answered, “Yes, lord. It is because there is no northern gate.” Then, still more frightened of the Primus Pilus, who was not only closer to him but had his hand wrapped around the handle of his sheathed gladius, he stammered, “B-but I thought you knew this, lord! I was not hiding it! I swear it to Ahura-Mazda!”
“How would we know that, you gutless savage?” Carfulenus growled, but when he stepped closer to Nabonidas, Caesar held up a single hand.
“Hold, Carfulenus. Nabonidas is right. This isn’t his fault. And,” he chided his Primus Pilus, “that’s why we’re here. Now,” he moved past the small group, “let me go see for myself. Nabonidas, come with me.”
Reaching roughly the same spot, Caesar spent only a dozen heartbeats, then turned about, his lips pressed together in a manner that, had Pullus been there, he would have recognized as a sign that Caesar was either worried, or he had seen something unexpected.
Walking the two hundred paces back to where the main body was waiting, Caesar told his officers, “We’re going to have to move around the city. We can’t attack from the north because there isn’t a bridge on this side.”
Almost as one, his officers turned a worried eye towards the eastern horizon, which was already showing a slightly pinkish tinge that signaled there was less than a third of a watch before the sun made its first appearance.
“Couldn’t we try and wade across?” Carfulenus asked. “It’s not more than fifty paces wide, and that bank is too straight to be natural, so it must be the channel they cut.”
“I a
gree that this is the manmade part,” Caesar answered, then shook his head, “but it’s impossible to know how deep it is.”
Nabonidas hadn’t actually been dismissed, and not wanting to anger the Roman Centurion even further, despite the fact that he reported to Silva as a cavalryman, had remained within earshot. When he heard this exchange, he took a tentative step forward, his heart pounding because he was unsure whether or not what he was about to say would get him in more trouble, or return him to the good graces of his new overlords.
“Lord Caesar?”
Every Roman turned his head, and for an instant, Nabonidas had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to just turn and run away, but he forced himself to impart the one piece of information he could provide.
“Yes, Nabonidas?” Caesar asked impatiently. “What is it?”
“Lord, I was part of a…” Unable to think of the proper words, he pantomimed digging with a shovel, then pointed in the direction of the northern wall. “…we took all the mud from the water. It is a job that must be done every year.”
Caesar and the other Romans instantly became more interested in what the Parthian had to say, but their heightened scrutiny was even more disconcerting.
Fortunately, Caesar saw this, and he coaxed Nabonidas, “You say this has to be done every year?”
“Yes, Lord Caesar.” Nabonidas nodded, relieved that Caesar was actually helping him. “But it was not done last year, because Phraates was in Susa. And,” he felt his confidence growing as he finished, “this is only done in the spring.”
“Which means,” Caesar mused aloud, “that it may not be as deep as we think.” Returning his attention to Nabonidas, he asked, “How deep was it before you dredged the channel out?” When the Parthian only looked confused, he realized his error. “How deep was it before you took the mud out?”
“Ah.” The Parthian’s face cleared, then after a moment’s thought, he held his hand up to the middle of his chest.
“Which might mean that it’s even shallower now, if they missed a year,” Balbinus spoke, his voice tight with a growing excitement.
While Caesar certainly agreed, he was still withholding his judgment on the matter, pressing Nabonidas further. “How soft is that mud, Nabonidas? How far did you sink down?”
At this, the Parthian’s expression clouded, and he answered by bending down and putting his hand at roughly his mid-calf.
“Pluto’s cock,” Balbinus muttered, “and you know they weren’t wearing any armor.”
“Or carrying shields. Or ladders.” Pullus put in, his tone grim.
This essentially sealed Caesar’s decision, and as was his habit, once it was made, he wasted no time.
“We’re going to move around to the east,” he announced. Giving his Centurions a wolfish smile, he added, “We will make this work to our advantage and have the sun at our back. But only if we hurry.”
The words were still hanging in the air as the officers began moving, rousing their respective Legions, while Silva and the troopers remounted, and no less than a hundred heartbeats later, Caesar’s army was moving.
Caesar waited for the 28th to march past, then when he saw Pullus, leading his 10th, approaching, he called to the Primus Pilus. Speaking quietly, Caesar relayed a series of instructions, while Pullus listened intently. Once his general was done, he saluted and assured Caesar it would be done to his satisfaction.
One characteristic of Caesar’s army was the speed of its movement, and this time was no exception; another distinction was Caesar’s ability to modify his plans on the fly, reacting to the constantly changing circumstances that often face commanders.
“Rather than try and feed all three Legions across that bridge,” he told his Primi Pili, “I’m going to take two Legions to swing around to the southern bridge.” Turning to face the Centurions, none of them, especially Pullus, were surprised when Caesar looked at the large Roman and said, “Pullus, you’re going to take the Equestrians and begin the assault.” Glancing over his shoulder, he grimaced; there was no mistaking that they were just moments away from the first rays of sunshine thrusting into the sky and signaling the start of a new day. “Don’t wait,” he turned back to Pullus, “get across the bridge as quickly as you can.”
Such was Caesar’s haste that, for one of the only times Pullus could remember, he didn’t require the exchange of a salute, turning Toes away and trotting off, back to where he had ordered Carfulenus to continue marching. Given the order of march, the 10th was the middle Legion, which aided them in moving quickly, peeling away from the column, while the 12th continued to follow Caesar and the 28th. They were about a mile away from the bridge, Pullus estimated, it still dark enough that judging distances wasn’t a sure thing.
“All right,” Pullus called out, not with his usual volume, but enough to carry to his Optio Lutatius, “tell Balbus what’s happening and to follow us. And,” he thought to add, “tell him to relay word back that we’re going at the double quick.”
Standing only long enough to hear Lutatius’ voice, Pullus turned about and began trotting towards the bridge, his Century immediately following behind him. His natural inclination was to push the pace, but given that three files of his men were carrying assault ladders, he knew that doing so would wreak havoc on the cohesion of his Century. Despite knowing this was the correct decision, he still felt a stab of dismay when, having gone no more than a furlong, the roof of what Pullus assumed was the royal palace, since it was the tallest building in the city, suddenly became bathed in a golden light, as the sun made its appearance. He and the 10th were still in shadow, yet it seemed to him as if there was a race now, between him and his men, and the light that was advancing towards them, the only question now was whether they would be at the bridge before they were completely illuminated. Because of the noise created by the wind whistling past and around the earflaps of his helmet, along with the pounding, slapping sound created by the hobnailed soles of his men, Pullus didn’t hear the cry of alarm from the Parthian sentry on the wall. He did see a sudden flurry of movement, however, and correctly interpreted this as the sign they had been spotted.
“All right, boys! Keep your eyes open now! They know we’re coming!”
Instantly realizing that trying to bellow more than a word or two while at a brisk trot was a mistake, Pullus was forced to breathe more deeply, which kept him from repeating the warning, and he had to hope that his initial call was enough. The approach to the bridge was now tantalizingly close, but then there came a sound that he could hear, the high, wailing note of the Parthian horn, and Pullus understood that everything now depended on speed.
Phraates was still asleep, but although he jerked awake when the horn sounded, he hadn’t sufficiently roused to consciousness and missed the first two of the series of three notes that informed the garrison that the city was under attack.
Stretching drowsily, he frowned as he mumbled to his bedmate, “I don’t remember them signaling the change of the guard before.” Yawning, he rolled back over and dismissed it. “Must be a new officer in command of the guard trying to impress his king.”
His chuckle at his own jest was cut short when the woman, Arshama, who had been lying awake as she always did after submitting to Phraates, reached out and, in an extraordinary breach of protocol, grabbed Phraates’ bare shoulder and shook it.
“Highness, that wasn’t…”
Phraates’ sleepy smile evaporated, and he was turning back over to snarl at the woman when, in another astoundingly brazen move, the door to his bedchamber flew open so violently it banged against the wall with a resounding crack that left a dent in the marble, and prompted Phraates to reach under his pillow to withdraw a dagger from its jeweled sheath.
“Guards!” he shouted, in a near panic. “I’m under attack! Help!”
The man who had opened the door and was clad in the uniform and armor of the Parthian royal bodyguard stopped moving, understanding how erratic and dangerous his king could be when he was shake
n.
“Highness, it’s Zalmoxis,” the bodyguard spoke calmly, in the same manner he would with his horse when it was skittish. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but there’s been a…” he searched for the correct word, one that wouldn’t cause Phraates’ panic to deepen, “…development, that you should know about.”
As Zalmoxis hoped, this served its purpose as Phraates, who had leapt to his feet from his bed, stood there, naked and holding a dagger, cocked his head and asked suspiciously, “Development? What do you mean ‘development’?”
The bodyguard opened his mouth to answer, but then, the same three blasts of the horn player who had the guard duty sounded again, and this time, Phraates was fully awake.
The Parthian king’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes went wide as he gasped, “Did I just hear correctly? That’s the signal that we are under attack!”
“Yes, Highness,” Zalmoxis was actually relieved that his king was now at least aware and alert, “you heard correctly. There’s a force of unknown size, attacking across the eastern bridge.”
Phraates’ eyes narrowed, and such was his suspicion that his first thought didn’t involve Romans.
“Kambyses? He’s attacking me?” He gasped, but the bodyguard, while somewhat surprised, wasn’t altogether shocked.
“No, Highness,” Zalmoxis shook his head, “it’s not Kambyses.”
Still, Phraates couldn’t seem to grasp the reality of who the attackers were, and a span of several valuable heartbeats were lost as he struggled to come to terms with the unthinkable.
“It’s not the Romans,” he insisted stubbornly, “it couldn’t be. If Kambyses isn’t the one attacking, then he would have stopped the Romans from leaving Susa!”
This, Zalmoxis had to admit to himself, was certainly logical, but he was as adamant as his king, assuring Phraates, “Be that as it may, Highness, we’re under attack by a force of Romans.”
Forcing himself to acknowledge the likelihood that Zalmoxis wasn’t misleading him, despite the lingering suspicion, Phraates asked, “How large a force? How many of their Legions?”