by R. W. Peake
“We don’t know, Highness.” Zalmoxis, while troubled at this lack of knowledge, nevertheless answered readily. “All we know right now is that there are Romans, crossing the eastern bridge. And,” he felt compelled to add, “they’re probably at the walls by now.”
Phraates somehow gathered his composure, suddenly aware that he was standing there, naked, in front of his bodyguard, which wasn’t the state in which the King of Kings should ever be in front of one of his subjects, so, summoning his dignity, he told the bodyguard, “Very well. I’ve received your report. Now, send Bahar to me. I need to get dressed and into my armor. Hurry!” He snapped this, despite the fact that Zalmoxis had responded immediately and was already hurrying to the doorway. Finally, Phraates returned his attention to his bedmate, and snapped his fingers as he ordered brusquely, “Return to the other women.”
She naturally did as she was told, springing from the bed and only stopping long enough to snatch up her discarded garment, but the slave Phraates had named was already entering the room, carrying the items Phraates would need to attire himself, albeit with some difficulty. Despite the circumstances, the slave and his king worked quickly together, born from long practice, until more quickly than an observer would have thought possible, the Parthian king was standing there, fully armored, with only his helmet off, which the slave still held. Phraates reached out for it, which was the precise moment there was another horn call, except this one sounded different.
Cocking his head, Phraates listened intently, then the notes sounded again, prompting him to gasp, “That’s coming from the southern gate!”
Then, despite his fear, the Parthian king forced himself to snatch the helmet from his slave, and stride out of his bedchamber.
The Parthian resistance didn’t get organized until Pullus, leading his men, was halfway across the bridge. Suddenly, a swarm of arrows issued from the rampart, arcing up into the air as a series of blurred black lines that, from Pullus’ perspective, all seemed to be converging on him, the iron-headed missiles plunging down to strike the stone roadbed, but thankfully just in front of Pullus, as sparks flew and the arrows caromed off the surface, one of which narrowly missed the Primus Pilus on the rebound. He didn’t slow down, understanding that their best tactic was in the rapidity of the Roman advance; he had considered sounding the call for testudo but discarded it, despite knowing that it would mean more of his men would be struck down. For Pullus, it was a simple proposition, but a grim one; the faster his men got the ladders up and scaled the wall, the quicker they could end the threat posed by the Parthian archers. Regardless of whether it was a sound decision or not, Pullus wasn’t surprised that, before his long legs had covered another half-dozen paces, and he was still barely halfway across the bridge, another wave of missiles came slashing down, but this time, he wasn’t the target. Behind him, he heard the hollow, deep thud as what was well more than a dozen arrows struck the shields his men were holding above their heads, but it was the sudden shouts of pain that Pullus worried about, the signal that other missiles had slipped past an upraised shield to strike their owners. Still, he didn’t slow down, and neither did his Century, even the three files of men who were forced to balance a heavy assault ladder on their right shoulders, their arm shoved through the rungs, while trying to run at the exact same pace and keep their shields above them at the same time. None of them had to be told how catastrophic it would be if even one of them were struck down, since they were all connected together by the ladder. However, the gods were kind, as arrows came hurtling down to land on either side of the files but somehow not striking any ladder man, although a handful did embed themselves in their shields. Even made of stone, the bridge vibrated under the pounding feet of the First Century, but they left behind a half-dozen men, four of them writhing in pain, the shafts of the arrows that had struck them down protruding from their upper bodies, while one man who had been on the outer file to the right hopped on one leg, the other now useless because of the arrow embedded in his thigh. The final ranker lay motionless, but on his back, face turned to the sky with an arrow protruding from his right eye. The wounded men, hearing the shout of Balbus, leading the Second Century, began dragging themselves out of the way of their onrushing comrades; at least, they attempted to do so, but one was too slow and screamed in even deeper agony when his comrade in the Second couldn’t avoid trampling him. Even as he swept past, the ranker shouted an apology, yet in doing so, his attention was diverted just long enough for an arrow from the third volley to streak down, just above the upper rim of his shield, and in one of those horrible ironies of battle, was struck down as the arrow plunged into his eye. Otherwise, the momentum of the onrushing Romans was unchecked, which meant that Pullus was the first man to actually touch the base of the wall.
“Ladders up! Ladders up!” He bellowed this twice, then followed with, “Fifth Section back, ready javelins!”
Exactly as Pullus hoped, and as they had trained for more watches than any of them could count, the arms of the Legionaries of the last five sections of the First Century swept backward, the hardened heads of their javelins pointed upward, waiting for the command from their Primus Pilus.
“If any of those goat fuckers show their face, you know what to do!”
This served as an order, but while some of his men shouted a response, Pullus was already moving to take his place at the spot where the base of one ladder would rest on the ground, keeping his eyes on the parapet as he did so. As he watched, a pair of Parthians risked stepping into the space between the crenellations, exposing themselves from the waist up. They were both archers, but only one of them actually loosed their missile, and while he paid for it with his life, at least his aim was true, catching the Legionary who was standing, exposed, bracing the bottom of the ladder as the other four men were walking underneath it, raising it into place. Since his back was turned, and because of the short range, the man’s comrade simply couldn’t move his shield quickly enough to prevent the arrow from plunging into the ranker’s back, doing so with so much force that he was transfixed. For a brief moment, he stared down at the barbed iron head that now protruded from just below his sternum, then he gave a weak cough that was marked by a gout of blood from his mouth, then collapsed. Since Pullus’ eyes had been turned upward at the appearance of the two Parthians, while he did see that only one of them managed to loose his missile before both of them were swept from sight by at least two javelins apiece, the shouts of rage and despair made him look over just in time to see one of his boys, Marcus Stertinus, topple forward, less than half the length of an arrow protruding from his back. This was bad enough, but since Stertinus had been bracing the bottom of the ladder, when his weight fell away from the ladder and the top had yet to reach the wall, the bottom tipped upward, knocking over at least two other men in the process.
“Pluto’s cock!” Pullus snarled, knowing that this situation had to be rectified immediately, “Someone grab the bottom of that fucking ladder! Quit standing there!”
He kept watching just long enough to see that his men were scrambling to obey, then returned his attention to his own situation, seeing that the ladder he would be ascending was almost in place. Pullus was happy to see that, although it certainly hadn’t been planned this way, Sostrate’s walls weren’t nearly as high as Susa’s, which meant that the ladders could be leaned at a shallower angle that would make it almost impossible for the Parthians to shove them away from the wall. This didn’t stop another pair of Parthians, these both wearing the armor normally only worn by the cataphractoi, which informed Pullus they were part of Phraates’ personal bodyguard, to at least attempt to do that very thing. Fortunately for the Romans, they had to lean out over the parapet to reach down to grab the ladder where it was now resting against the wall, about a foot below the opening between crenellations, and it took less than an eyeblink before they both seemed to sprout javelins, the force of them throwing one of the Parthians back out of sight, the man disappearing in misty spray o
f blood. The other Parthian, however, somehow caught hold of the crenellation next to him, and used it to remain standing upright, screaming what to Pullus sounded like a challenge, his other hand clutching the wooden shaft of the javelin that had buried itself in his stomach. Whatever he had to say next, neither Pullus nor his men would ever know, as yet another javelin struck the Parthian, this time in the base of his throat, though he was thrown back so quickly that Pullus wasn’t even sure that was the case, not that it mattered. What did was that his foot was already on the lowest rung, but before he began ascending, he turned to give the men around him their orders.
“Bovinus,” he ordered, “you’re on my ass. Pomptinus,” he indicated a gap-toothed, bandy-legged veteran who was grinning broadly, happy that he would be one of the first up the ladder, “you’re next. Then,” Pullus glanced about, briefly considering before pointing his sword at a third man, “Pulcher is third. After that,” he grinned, “you bastards decide for yourselves, but be quick about it!” Finally, he called to Lutatius, who trotted over from his spot where he had been supervising the sections who were still flinging javelins at any target of opportunity. “Stay here and direct the Second Cohort over there.” He pointed down the wall to the north. “From the looks of it, we’re going to be hitting the palace from the southern side, so if Scribonius goes that direction far enough, he’ll be able to take his boys and attack from the northern side.” He was about to turn away, then realized he had forgotten something else, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the situation with the other ladder had been resolved and had just been placed against the wall. Pullus was nothing if not extremely competitive, and he would be damned by Mars and Bellona if he allowed a ranker, even if it was from his own Century, the glory of being the first on the wall.
Consequently, he began climbing the ladder, and without taking his eyes off the wall, called again to Lutatius, “Go tell Metellus that I want the odd numbered Cohorts with us, and Nigidius the even numbered with Scribonius.”
Without looking back, the Primus Pilus began ascending the ladder, neither seeing nor caring that his Optio wasn’t happy about being used as an errand boy. What Pullus was concerned about was that he was now ahead of his man on the other ladder; he recognized the Sergeant of the First Section, Aulus Flaminius, who just happened to glance over and see his Primus Pilus eyeing him, whereupon he gave Pullus an insolent grin as he hopped nimbly from one rung to the next.
Despite the circumstances, Pullus returned the grin, but growled, “Not on your best day, Flaminius,” then using the advantage of his longer legs, he began skipping rungs as he dashed up the ladder.
Once he was about halfway up, Pullus was able to see what awaited him, and in the fraction of an eyeblink of time he had, saw an arm drawing back in a gesture he recognized, bringing his shield in front of him just in time to block the arrow that punched through the upper part of it with so much force that, as strong as he was, almost wrenched the shield from Pullus’ grasp. Before his foot landed on the next rung, it was struck twice more, and all three arrows were protruding several inches through layers of wood. Deprived of the ability to see ahead of him, Pullus knew the prudent course would be to slow his advance; instead, he quickened his pace even more. His men were accustomed to their Primus Pilus performing acts of great strength, and almost suicidal bravery, but none of them had ever seen him move as swiftly before, particularly when it required the kind of precision he displayed, leaping from one rung to another, where one misstep would cause him to slip, and almost undoubtedly, die because he would be exposed. Over the last half-dozen rungs, his shield seemed to sprout two more arrows, but it didn’t impede or slow him, until on the penultimate rung, he leapt with his shield still in front of him, from the ladder to the edge of the parapet. For the span of less than a heartbeat, he was poised so delicately, his balance so precarious, that if any of the Parthians who were standing within arm’s reach on the rampart had maintained their presence of mind, all it would have taken was a gentle shove against the Roman’s shield to send him toppling backward and down onto the heads of his own men. But, for whatever reason, the sight of this huge Roman was so disconcerting that the moment was gone before any of them could grasp the opportunity. Then, Pullus, who had used his brief pause to glance over his shield, resumed moving, again with a speed that was incongruous for such a huge man, hopping downward to the rampart. Simultaneously punching out with his shield, he caught a Parthian, this one in the garb of an archer, and consequently unarmored, squarely in the face with the metal boss, feeling the bones in the man’s face give way with a crunching noise. At the same instant, his blade lashed out, except instead of the normal thrust favored by the Legions, it was a wide, sweeping blow that, as he intended, slashed across the face and eyes of the Parthian guardsman to his immediate right, and because of the height difference, the mouth and jaw of the man standing next to him, who was raising his own sword to strike. Consequently, in the span of time it took for his own gladius to make its arc, and his shield to punch forward, Pullus cleared space for himself on the rampart. Less than an eyeblink after dropping down onto the stone surface, his next move was a more normal thrust, from what the Romans called the first position, which meant it originated below the waist and swept upward, Pullus twisting his hips to add to the power as the point punched through the lamellar armor of the newly blinded guardsman, who had dropped his own weapon and shield to clutch his ruined eyes, shrieking with the pain and horror of his blindness, which quickly turned permanent as Pullus buried half the length of his blade into the man’s body, before twisting and ripping it out. Even before the Parthian dropped to his knees, then fell forward onto the pile of his own intestines, Pullus was moving, giving the second Parthian, whose lower mouth was dangling open, the lower jaw held in place by a single shred of flesh, a contemptuous kick that sent him flying backward, directly into the path of the more timid guardsmen who were already perilously close to the inside edge of the rampart. While there was a stone lip along the inside of this rampart, it wasn’t high enough to prevent one of the guardsmen who leapt aside to avoid their stricken comrade from toppling over backwards, his shout of alarm cut off when his body slammed onto the paved street below. Meanwhile, the Roman was still moving, but this time, it was to actually take a small step backward, until his back touched the stone parapet, thereby protecting himself from an attack from behind by one of the Parthians to his left who had been moving from their former positions along the rampart to meet this new threat. With a quick, powerful downward stroke, Pullus sliced through the half-dozen shafts that had penetrated his shield, then shook it violently so the ends that were protruding through on his side of the shield fell out. Seemingly in the same motion when the last shaft fell to the stone and he brought his shield back down into its position in front of him, he took a half step to his left while thrusting the shield out, meeting the onrushing Parthian guardsman who had come from his post a few paces to the north of where Pullus was now standing. Because of the half-step he had taken, as he planned, it threw off the aim of the Parthian, robbing his long sword sweeping down in an overhand blow of much of its power, which Pullus neatly deflected by twisting his left wrist so the surface of the shield caught the blade evenly. With his shield in this position, it gave Pullus more of a target underneath it, but while his thrust was timed perfectly, this Parthian was more skilled than his now-deceased comrades, catching the point of the Roman’s Gallic-forged blade with his small, round shield. Snarling in frustration, Pullus once more twisted his wrist, returning his shield to its proper defensive position, while the Parthian was forced to step backward to open the distance needed to employ his longer weapon. This served two purposes, both of them working to Pullus’ advantage, because he naturally closed the distance immediately, and in doing so, it gave Bovinus the space he needed to leap onto the rampart, eschewing the use of the parapet as a step, jumping over it. The other advantage was made obvious when, in frustrated desperation, Pullus’ foe attem
pted to use his sword in the manner of a Roman, launching a clumsy thrust that, because of the length, had very little power behind it. Again, with a contemptuous ease, Pullus used his shield, except this time, in a completely unexpected move, he swept his shield out away from his body, but by doing so, pushed the Parthian’s blade to the side until it struck the stone parapet. Rather than allowing the blade to simply bounce off his shield, Pullus kept moving it until it also collided with the parapet, thereby trapping the Parthian’s blade in the process. The Parthian at least comprehended Pullus’ intent, but despite yanking with all of his own strength, it was no match for the power that the large Roman was capable of generating, and was using to trap his foe’s blade as if it was in a vise. Now faced with an unpalatable choice, the Parthian could have at least bought another few heartbeats of life if he had relinquished his grip and retreated down the rampart, using his shield to block the Roman’s offensive moves for however long his skill and luck held out. The Parthian didn’t choose to do that, however; it’s ingrained in every warrior that to relinquish one’s offensive weapon is not only dangerous, but is unworthy. In this man’s case, the consequence was that, after Pullus made one feint, seemingly repeating his first position thrust, which the Parthian reacted to by dropping his shield to once more catch the point of Pullus’ sword, he didn’t really see the Roman’s blade change direction in a semicircular arc that ended his life as the same point sliced into the soft skin just below his jawline. The last memory of his life was the sharp pain, and the way the world seemed to turn red in front of his eyes, never knowing that it was the spray of his own ichor from the severed large vessel in his neck. As the Parthian crumpled to the ground, Pullus stepped over the body, not even giving his newly dispatched foe a glance, knowing from long experience that the man would pose no more of a threat. Still facing north down the parapet, his eyes were on the cluster of Parthians who, while they stood with their weapons at the ready, were standing a half-dozen paces away, and clearly not interested in approaching this blood-spattered giant with the short sword dripping blood. Although it was understandable that Pullus was paying what seemed to be the nearest threat his attention, it was a mistake, as he was about to learn.