by R. W. Peake
“That’s not Phraates! He’s right there!”
He would long remember turning in the direction from which the voice came, already recognizing the accent, to see a dark-complexioned face, and a finger pointing directly at him. Then, before he could react, he was surrounded and pulled from his horse; the last thing he remembered of this moment was a leering face, staring down as the Roman brought down the butt of his javelin, hard, followed by an explosion of light…then nothing.
Chapter Five
It took Cyclops a fair amount of time to find Caesar; he had decided this was too important a message to entrust to one of his men, even his Optio. As was his habit, the general had been riding from one Legion to another; he had left the 12th to go supervise the 28th, the last Legion to throw its ladders against the western wall of Sostrate. Of course, by the time they did so, every defender who had been on the western wall was now down in the city, fighting the seven Cohorts of the 10th, and the entirety of the 12th who had swept the faint resistance put up by the Parthians on the southern wall aside in a matter of heartbeats. Consequently, it was the 28th who actually reached the summer palace first, which initially caused a great deal of controversy and anger with the other two Legions, particularly the 10th, who felt cheated of their rightful prize. Fortunately, for the 10th anyway, Cyclops found Caesar inside the city, shortly after the general had ridden Toes through the western portal opened by the Tenth Cohort of the 28th, the last Cohort to enter the city. The general was seated on his famous steed, taking reports from Cyclops’ fellow Centurions, while the sounds of a city being sacked filled the air, his experienced ears giving Cyclops all the information he needed about the state of the battle.
Walking down the street that ran from the eastern gate, which had been secured by the Seventh Cohort of the 10th, it was one of the only ones, along with a street that ran north and south, that was straight enough to allow him to see several blocks ahead. Suddenly, off to his right, there was a commotion that caught his attention, and he saw three men, dressed in the attire of Parthian archers, rush out into the street from a nondescript building, each of them looking wildly about for an escape route. The Centurion stopped, drawing his gladius, since he was the only Roman within immediate view who was close enough to stop the trio from doing whatever they had planned, which appeared to be flight. But, before he could do anything more, from an alley directly across from the building, a section of Legionaries burst into view, and by the time he could have gotten to a count of five, the Parthians were quickly and mercilessly cut down. Sheathing his weapon, he resumed walking, then spotted Caesar two blocks ahead, pointing at something out of Cyclops’ view.
Caesar saw Cyclops as soon as he got within a half block, but sat watching as the Centurion approached, while rankers went darting past, presumably on their way to follow an order of some sort. As always, Cyclops felt a flutter in his stomach at being in such close proximity to Caesar, yet he set the perfect example of a Centurion of Caesar’s Legions, coming to a rigid intente and rendering a salute, as if they were in the forum of a Roman camp and not in the middle of a city being taken by the sword.
“Pilus Prior Ausonius,” Caesar’s tone was genial enough, but Cyclops was acutely aware of the steady gaze of his general, no doubt wondering why the Pilus Prior was so far from his assigned area, “what brings you here?”
And perhaps Cyclops could be forgiven for the sense of satisfaction stemming from his anticipation of Caesar’s reaction; nevertheless, his demeanor was as professional as he could make it as he answered, “Sir, I came to report that we’ve captured a high-ranking Parthian who was trying to slip past us.”
“Oh?” One of Caesar’s eyebrows raised, yet even as he did so, Cyclops saw that his eyes were on a handful of Legionaries who had just emerged from a structure that, from appearances, looked like it belonged to a wealthy person. “And who is it?” he asked idly. “One of Phraates’ courtiers? His cupbearer, perhaps?”
Cyclops relished this moment for the rest of his days, watching Caesar’s jaw drop when he answered with as much aplomb as he could manage, “No, Caesar. We captured Phraates. Himself.”
Caesar didn’t answer immediately, instead staring down at Cyclops, but when he did speak, it wasn’t what the Centurion expected.
“Who put you up to playing this joke?” Caesar demanded, his eyes suddenly narrowing, then before Cyclops could answer, he said as if to himself, “I’d wager it was Pullus.” To Cyclops, he asked suspiciously, “It was Pullus, wasn’t it? He thought this would make a great jest!”
Cyclops was actually taken aback, caught completely by surprise that this seemed to be Caesar’s belief, but he managed to retain his composure, assuring his general, “No, sir! I swear to you on the black stone! We caught Phraates!”
Caesar didn’t say anything but nodded his head in a silent signal to Cyclops, who went on to explain everything that had happened that led to the capture of the Parthian king.
“It was one of the Parthian tiros who recognized him,” Cyclops explained. “He’d seen him a few times when he was part of the garrison of Ctesiphon. He pointed him out right away.”
Caesar had regained his composure, and he knew that Cyclops was telling the truth, though he was still prompted to ask, “And who is this Parthian tiro that just performed such a valuable service?”
“His name is Mardonius,” Cyclops answered, and thus the first non-Roman to ever rise to the rank of Centurion was brought to Caesar’s attention.
Titus Pullus was torn between being truly happy that it was his former tutor and brother-in-law who had managed to snare the great prize that was the entire reason for this daring gambit by Caesar, and chagrin, along with a fair amount of frustration, that this deed hadn’t been performed by him and his own Century. Regardless, Pullus reminded himself, it’s still better that it was the Equestrians who caught that bastard than the other two Legions. Frankly, the fact that it was the 28th who, thanks to the 10th and 12th, had drawn the bulk of the Parthians defending the city and subsequently been the first to reach the royal palace was causing Pullus more problems than the news that it was the 10th who had managed to capture Phraates. Twice, he had been forced to intervene between his own men and those belonging to Carfulenus when there was a confrontation over who had the right to ransack a room of the royal palace. Because he had been informed by Cyclops, who sought him out immediately after informing Caesar, about the capture of Phraates, Pullus had gritted his teeth and reminded himself about the larger prize, and ruled in favor of the men of the 28th, on both occasions. He understood that, in the short term, this would cause him problems, as the offended rankers complained loudly and to anyone who would listen about how they had been cheated by the no-good bastards from the 28th who had just walked up and started grabbing loot. In one case, it had gone beyond words, and he had been forced to wade into what was nothing short of a brawl of the type usually associated with the wine shops outside of a permanent Legionary camp, with rankers from his Legion rolling on the ground, trying to gouge and batter their opponent in the 28th over, in one case, a gold cup. It was the other case, almost identical in nature that, even immediately afterward, made Pullus shake his head in disgusted amusement, with a story to tell Scribonius and Balbus, when the two combatants were at least standing up, but exchanging blows, with a copper bracelet, of a type that could be purchased for a sestertius or two back in Ctesiphon being the object of the dispute. When he had waded in, being careful to only shove the 28th ranker, albeit hard enough to send the man sprawling onto the ground, but used his vitus on the other man he recognized as being from the Fourth of the Fifth, their response had been identical when he pointed out the paltry value of the thing over which they had been fighting.
“It’s the principle, Primus Pilus! It’s the principle!”
“Neither of you idiots even know what that fucking word means,” Pullus had scoffed, then making sure he was seen by both men, bent down, picked up the bracelet, and tucked it into
his own baltea, glaring at both as he did so, challenging either of them to make an issue of it.
As he had known they would, neither man made a protest and, as their tempers cooled, Pullus was pleased to see they both looked somewhat sheepish, but he nonetheless warned them, “If I have to come back here, you’ll both wish you were dead, because I’ll have you striped, with the scourge. Understand?”
For a brief instant, the 28th’s man looked as if he was about to protest, probably to say that even a Primus Pilus didn’t have the right to administer punishment of men from another Legion, but he clearly thought better of it, although the salute he gave was rendered in a manner that would have gotten him smacked by Pullus if he had been an Equestrian. Given the circumstances and all that was going on, Pullus let it go, then once he turned the corner, reached for the bracelet with the intention of casting it aside since he had no need for such trinkets. Then, he reconsidered. If I do, I’ll probably find myself back here sorting those two idiots out all over again, he thought wryly. Tucking the bracelet away, he instantly forgot about it, his ears drawing him to a spot two blocks away, where one of the last, isolated band of Parthians, all of them members of Phraates’ personal guard, judging by their armor and by the manner in which they had managed to survive this long, were still resisting. They were now standing in an intersection of two streets, backs to each other, but between their numbers and the relatively cramped space of the intersection, Pullus saw that their makeshift orbis was two men deep, allowing them to either give a comrade respite or plug a hole when they fell. Pullus saw there were at least a half-dozen bodies at the feet of the Parthians, but he was also distressed to see two of his own now laid out in the middle of the street down which he was approaching. The Parthians were completely surrounded, by two of his Centuries, and Pullus recognized the familiar figure of Servius Metellus, currently his Tertius Pilus Prior, and formerly Pullus’ Optio and predecessor to the Nones Pilus Prior Glaxus, standing with his back turned to Pullus as he conferred with his own Princeps Prior, whose Century was on the far side of the Parthians. One of the first things that Pullus noticed was how none of the Parthians seemed disposed to return the jeers and taunts of the Legionaries who surrounded them much like a pack of wolves with a herd of elk. Instead, they stood there, grim-faced and silent, their weapons a combination of swords and spears, although they all held the smaller, round wicker shields that were sometimes used by the cataphractoi.
Pullus reached Metellus and Gnaeus Lentulus, the Princeps Prior, waving at them in a signal to forego the normal ritual, asking bluntly, “What’s taking you so long to get rid of these cunni?”
“We’re out of javelins,” Metellus explained, something that Pullus had surmised since there were only a handful visible, two of them buried in the chests of two dead Parthians lying in the street. “We’re trying to get them to surrender now. But,” Metellus lifted his hands in a helpless gesture, “none of us speak enough of that dog language to get the point across to them. So to speak.” He chuckled at his play on words, and Pullus smiled in acknowledgement, but it was quickly replaced by a thoughtful frown.
“Come with me,” he ordered peremptorily, then pushed his way through the three-rank-deep line of Legionaries from Metellus’ Century, walking out into the space between the two groups.
He hadn’t even glanced back, certain that his former Optio wouldn’t hesitate, although Pullus was aware that he was probably unhappy about it, but he also knew that Metellus would be there when he came to a stop, just a couple of paces out of reach of a sudden spear lunge.
“Do any of you speak Latin?”
He asked this calmly, and as he expected, there was a shifting in the ranks of the Parthians, with an exchange of whispers between several of them, in what sounded like an argument. Then, one of the Parthians who had been facing in the opposite direction on the side of the circle farthest away, where Lentulus’ Century was arrayed in an identical manner to the First Century, backed into the small, open circle, where three Parthians who were wounded but still alive had been dragged. Only then did he turn around and face Pullus, giving the Primus Pilus the first look at the man. He was tall, even for a Parthian, but with a lean build, his face lined with the deep seams carved by a life exposed to harsh winds and a brutal sun, yet despite this telling sign of a life of exposure, his beard was just as black as the wing of a crow, neatly trimmed, making for a striking juxtaposition. Pullus had heard men saying that the Parthian men were more like women when it came to their appearance, including the dyeing of their hair and beards when it began showing gray, but he had discounted that talk until this moment. As the Parthian moved slowly across the open space in Pullus’ direction, stepping over his wounded comrades without a glance down, Pullus sensed Metellus shifting awkwardly at his side, and he thought it safe enough to glance over at his Centurion.
“You didn’t think to ask any of them if they could speak our tongue, did you?”
“N-no, Primus Pilus,” Metellus admitted, and it amused Pullus to see how deeply red his face became as he glanced up at his superior.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Pullus replied, but secretly, he had no intention of chastising Metellus for his lapse; he knew the man well, and while his Quartus Pilus Prior had many admirable qualities, thinking quickly on his feet wasn’t one of them. Returning his attention to the Parthian, who had finally stepped cautiously just one pace in front of his comrades and their protective circle, Pullus asked, “What is your name?”
“Bagadates,” the Parthian replied but said no more.
“Well, you obviously understand our tongue since you know what I asked you,” Pullus pointed out, gratified to see the flash of embarrassed surprise on the man’s features, “so let’s not pretend you don’t understand me. You’re trying to buy time, but there’s something you should know that will help you make your decision about whether you live to see another day, or we cut you down here in this street.”
Pullus was unsurprised that his jibe scored, as the Parthian flushed, and while it was heavily accented, his Latin was understandable as he shot back, “And we will take many of you Roman dogs with us into the afterlife!”
Rather than argue this, Pullus nodded and replied simply, “Yes, you would. And I don’t want to lose any more men.” Indicating the other Parthians, Pullus asked, “Are you the ranking officer?” This prompted a look of confusion, and Pullus realized the issue, rephrasing, “Are you in command?”
The Parthian’s face cleared, yet while he stared suspiciously at Pullus, he gave a curt nod.
“So, these men,” Pullus continued, “are your responsibility, yes?”
“Yes.” Bagadates nodded, and for the briefest instant, Pullus saw the mask slip from the Parthian’s face as the crushing pressure of holding the lives of men with whom one has been entrusted to lead in their hands momentarily overwhelmed his hostile suspicion. “Yes,” he repeated, but so softly that Pullus barely heard him, “they are my responsibility.”
“Then you and they should know this.” Pullus’ tone turned harsh, and he raised his voice, because he wanted his men of the Third on the far side to hear as well. “We have captured Phraates. Your king is our prisoner.”
The Parthian’s entire body went rigid, and the color that had appeared an instant before drained from his face as quickly as it had come, but Pullus was more interested to see at least a half-dozen other Parthians having similar reactions, telling him that they understood enough Latin to know what he had just said, or at least had gotten the essence of the message.
While the Parthians were silent with shock, the surrounding Romans weren’t so disposed, and suddenly, a spontaneous roar of victory issued from almost two hundred voices, creating a noise that was amplified by the enclosing buildings around them.
“You lie!” Bagadates had to shout to be heard. “Our King would never surrender to you jackals! You are lying!”
The noise died down more quickly than it otherwise might have, but every R
oman was interested in hearing this exchange between their Primus Pilus and the Parthian, since it had a direct bearing on their immediate future, including whether they had one that included seeing another sunrise.
“No, I am not lying,” Pullus responded coolly, “and I can prove it.”
Abruptly, he turned his back to Bagadates and the other Parthians, confident that should any of them try to take advantage of his seeming foolhardiness, they would be cut down before they got close to him.
Speaking quietly to Metellus, he ordered, “Have Tiburtinus sound the call for the Legate.”
Metellus stared at him for a moment, clearly mystified, but before Pullus opened his mouth to get him moving, he saluted and strode the dozen paces where his Cornicen was standing, next to the Signifer for the First Century of the Third Cohort, the man leaning on his horn in much the same manner as men did with their javelins. After a muttered exchange, Tiburtinus nodded, hoisted his horn, moistened his lips, then blew the series of three ascending notes that summoned the highest-ranking officer on the battlefield to the sound of the horn.
“Now,” Pullus muttered to Metellus, “we wait.” Turning to Bagadates, he said essentially the same thing, although he phrased it differently. “I am going to prove to you that Phraates has been captured.”