Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  It was a hard ride as Caesar, his cavalry escort, and his prize traveled quickly north, riding even in the heat of the day, made possible because he chose to take a slightly longer route that followed the river that ran through Sostrate to where it flowed into the Tigris. Even so, it was a hard journey, particularly on the horses, requiring the men to dismount and walk, something that Phraates only did the first time after Caesar gave a curt order to Gundomir to “help” the king off his horse since he seemed unable, or unwilling, to do so under his own power. Understandably, Phraates wasn’t particularly talkative, although he quickly gave up the pretense that he understood no Latin, only after Caesar casually mentioned to Gundomir that he was trying to decide what to do with the Parthian king once he had served his purpose.

  “He’ll be useless to us after that.” Caesar used the same tone he might when musing about when the next shipment of grain was expected. “In fact, he’ll be more trouble than he’s worth. So,” he turned, ostensibly to look at Gundomir, but he was carefully watching Phraates out of the corner of his eye, who was riding just behind him at the moment, “I suppose I’ll give him to you and your men. I know that I’ve kept you from amusing yourselves for some time, so I will give you a king to pass the time.”

  Gundomir, although he hadn’t been warned by Caesar, had quickly picked up on the ruse and answered jovially, “Thank you, Caesar! I know that Bagomir has missed his favorite game of seeing how long a man can live without his skin.”

  Phraates tried to stifle his gasp, but he didn’t fool Caesar, who finally twisted fully in the saddle to look his captive in the eye, saying softly, “Isn’t it time you stopped pretending you can’t understand us, Your Highness?”

  Only then did Phraates realize that he had been duped, and all he could do about it was stare back at Caesar in impotent fury. He had always prided himself on being cleverer than other men; learning that he was capable of being fooled so easily only served to rub salt in the already gaping wound to his pride. Adding to that, the pace of the journey was hard, even for a Parthian born to this harsh land. They stopped only when it was too dark to continue safely, each man rolling up in his cloak, while Phraates was guarded by four men for the watch they rested, giving him no chance to escape; he even had to suffer the humiliation of being escorted to relieve himself, and although he understood Latin, he couldn’t decipher a word of the language the bearded German cavalrymen were saying. However, he didn’t need a translator to know they were laughing at him as he squatted over a hole in the ground that they had made him gouge out of the ground with his own hands. In fact, Phraates took what little solace there was to be found in concocting elaborate and excruciating fates for each one of his captors; of course, for Caesar, he reserved the most exquisite tortures that his mind could concoct, and he found that it actually helped pass the time. Somewhere along the final leg of the journey, he fell asleep in the saddle, but even for Parthian royalty, this wasn’t a hardship. He only awoke when there was a sudden shout, and he jerked in the saddle, his heart suddenly feeling as if it would leap from his chest because he realized that his captivity was indeed real and not a dream. However, it was the sight of brown walls, rising from the horizon, with the complex of buildings and temples that covered the lone hill seeming to hover just above the ramparts that made his stomach begin twisting into knots as he realized that, as humiliating as his capture was, it would be nothing compared to what was going to be occurring shortly. The sight of Susa caused Caesar to order that they increase their speed to a trot, and even Toes obeyed reluctantly, but while Caesar never used the whip on his horses, many of the other riders were forced to do so. There was one other exception, and that was Phraates’ own stallion, which Caesar had instantly discerned belonged to the Parthian king and not the guard Arshak, so that he not only had switched back to his own armor, he was astride his true mount, and despite his other travails, the king felt a glimmer of pride that his own horse was the only one besides Caesar’s that didn’t need the lash to obey. Naturally, it also meant that the moment of his humiliation was approaching more rapidly, but then Phraates saw that the dark line that signaled the entrenchments was in a different spot than he remembered seeing it from the city walls. This was his first moment of realization what the Romans had done, and ironically, it made him feel more certain that his decision to leave Susa had been the right one; his ensuing capture had been an act of capricious cruelty on the part of the Parthian gods and through no fault of his own, of this he was sure. Now, when they drew closer, he took in the extent of the Roman fortifications, but it wasn’t until they reached the southernmost camp first, where the 11th and 5th shared it, although there were smaller, Cohort-sized camps arranged parallel to the southern wall, spread its entire length in between the inner and outer fortifications that Phraates truly comprehended the plight of not just his subjects inside Susa, but the entire kingdom. The sight of the outer entrenchment—he had to be told that the proper term was contravallation—did much to damage the one hope that he had clung to, almost from the moment when he realized his attempt to escape had failed. How, he wondered fearfully, would Kambyses be able to penetrate this outer defense, while Gobryas did the same to the inner fortifications, which he correctly assumed were as formidable despite not staying in Susa long enough to see them constructed? And, more importantly, how could they possibly coordinate their attacks? Phraates was by no means a martial king, and unlike his brother, he had never been eager for combat and proving himself on the battlefield; the few such actions in which he had participated were little more than skirmishes with poorly equipped and led men, usually bandits or the retainers of a rebellious satrap. Nevertheless, he had a good enough grasp of tactical matters, and even more crucially, he had at least been attentive when Kambyses had sat with him to divulge what he knew of Caesar and his Legions, so he knew that when it came to this manner of fighting, the Parthians were working at a disadvantage. At the time, Phraates might have been listening, but he had dismissed Kambyses’ grim warnings, certain that the presence of the Crassoi would counteract the Romans at their own game.

  “While I agree that they will be crucial, Your Highness, there are only seven thousand Crassoi left,” Kambyses spoke carefully, “and your decision to bring almost a thousand of them here to Sostrate only weakens them further. Keep in mind,” he reminded Phraates, “that Caesar brought ten Legions with him, and we have less than two in terms of numbers.”

  Recalling this conversation, Phraates didn’t hide his interest in examining the Roman defenses, noting the huge wooden ramp that was lowered across the ditch of the outer entrenchment that enabled them to clatter across what was in effect a wooden bridge. He glanced down as his own horse crossed the barrier, and he saw the row of sharpened stakes that had been buried in the inside wall of the ditch, although he had no way of knowing that these defenses, while they looked formidable, were far short of the norm for a Caesar-designed fortification because of the paucity of wood. Then they were in the camp, pausing just long enough for Caesar to give commands to his subordinate officers, then beckoned Gundomir, still riding next to Phraates, who in turn made an overly elaborate gesture, sweeping his arm in the direction of where Caesar had already turned his mount and was heading.

  “After you, Your Highness.”

  At least, this was what Phraates assumed the German said; frankly, his Germanic accent made him hard to understand, particularly to an ear not attuned to Latin in the first place. Giving Caesar’s bodyguard a poisonous stare, Phraates nudged his horse, moving behind Caesar, but rather than be offended, the German seemed to enjoy Phraates’ obvious hatred. It quickly became clear they were headed for the largest tent in the camp, that the Parthian could see was in the center of it, which was laid out in such a precise and regular fashion, with straight streets, perfectly aligned tents, and an air of order that, for the first time, it caused Phraates to feel a deep sense of unease, the dismaying thought hitting him; is it even possible to defeat men such as this
? Who can create these kinds of fortifications, whose camps look like small cities? Ironically, as he followed Caesar, while he received stares from Roman soldiers, it was a fellow Parthian who was the first one to recognize him. Although he didn’t know it, the man was a Gregarius of the Tenth Section, Fifth Century, Ninth Cohort of the 11th, who, along with the other members of his section, had been sent by their Centurion to secure charcoal from the quaestorium. They were walking across the forum when they saw a half-dozen riders approaching, but while they knew the man leading was a Legate, it wasn’t until he drew closer that they saw it was Caesar himself. Immediately stopping, as one, they dropped the sacks containing the charcoal, and went to a rigid position of intente, rendering their salute in a unison that was impressive to a Parthian king who had never seen anything like it before. As he always did, Caesar returned the salute; although he said nothing, he did give the men a nod, something that under other circumstances would have been cause for a night’s worth of talk around the fire. However, it was the Parthian Gregarius who, while his eyes remained straight ahead, couldn’t help seeing a man on a stallion the color of the charcoal, and who was wearing a suit of armor that was familiar to him. Naturally, this surprised him to the point his eyes moved up, and he saw, in profile, a face he had seen more times than he could count, back when Orodes had been king, and the mounted man had been nothing more than a second son.

  “That,” the Parthian, his name Fariel, gasped and blurted out, “is Phraates!”

  Which is how, much more quickly than Caesar would have liked, news of the capture of the Parthian king swept through the southern camp, meaning that it was not much longer after their entrance into the camp, before the general could take steps to stop it, a courier was galloping out of the gate, carrying word to the rest of Caesar’s army of this momentous event.

  The five-day period after the Parthian army from Sostrate had finally come to a stop was one of acute agony for Aulus Hirtius. While Caesar had always given his subordinate Legates an extraordinary amount of latitude, ironically, this actually served to restrict them in many ways, simply because they didn’t want to disappoint their general, along with the worry that their own tactical acumen would come under scrutiny and bring criticism from Caesar. This was what was effectively crippling Hirtius, and by extension, his entire command, as he settled down to await orders from Caesar. Given the distance involved, a mounted courier, with a spare horse, would take almost a full day to reach Susa, then presumably wait for perhaps a third of a watch before Caesar made the appropriate decision based on this new information, then even on fresh mounts, it would take the same amount of time to return. And that, Hirtius worried, was even if the courier reached Susa in the first place and wasn’t intercepted by roving bands of Parthian horsemen. Putting it in its simplest terms, Kambyses’ unanticipated move past Susa, and not attempting to relieve the garrison there, had so thoroughly disrupted the Romans’ own plan of operations that Hirtius became paralyzed by indecision. He had ordered his force to settle down in a rough camp, but without ditch and wall, which required a doubling of the normal guard, although most of his force spent the bulk of their time in the saddle, circling the Parthian encampment, looking for an obvious weak point that offered an advantage sufficient enough to embolden Hirtius to attack. Despite this activity, Hirtius really had no intention of doing so, because Caesar had drilled into him, and Ventidius when he had been in command of this force, that it would be foolhardy in the extreme to try to match the Parthians where they were the strongest.

  “Only attack if it’s so obvious that you can give them a killing blow,” Caesar had warned Hirtius, “and only meet them if they attack and if you’re on the kind of ground that gives you a decisive advantage. But,” he had emphasized this by performing the relatively rare act of reaching out and clasping Hirtius by the shoulder and looking him directly in the eye, “remember that this is their terrain, and they know it better than any of us ever will. So, if it looks like you’re being offered better ground by our enemy, rest assured that it’s a trap.”

  This admonition had stuck with Hirtius, and was another factor in his indecisiveness as he waited for some sort of guidance from his general, but it was the presence of what Hirtius estimated to be two Cohorts of Crassoi, whose only duty seemed to be to defend the camp, which now featured a ditch and dirt wall that was the ultimate factor in his inactivity. And, in one of those small accidents that have huge consequences, although one of his couriers had, in fact, been caught and run down, another one, carrying the identical message from Hirtius, had made it back to Susa unscathed, though it was only after killing one of his horses getting away from Parthian pursuit. However, when he arrived, Caesar was gone, having left for Sostrate earlier that day. And, in an almost identical fashion, for the same reasons, Asinius Pollio, who had been left in command, somewhat to the disgruntlement of Ventidius, found himself pacing in the praetorium of the northern camp, fervently wishing that Caesar had, in fact, given the older Legate the command and responsibility. With the arrival of this courier, he summoned the other Legates, Tribunes, and the Primi Pili, Pollio holding a council that, very quickly, became divided, and contentious.

  “You have to tell Legate Hirtius to attack those bastards immediately,” Batius of the 5th Alaudae said flatly. “My men haven’t had a full meal for four days now!”

  Pollio countered, “Caesar gave very specific orders that having our cavalry attack theirs is only a last resort. And,” he held up a hand to cut off Batius’ retort, “to do so only if the advantages are so overwhelming that victory is all but guaranteed. I know; I was there when Caesar told Hirtius this.”

  “And this isn’t?” Batius fumed, then he looked to his fellow Primi Pili for support, glaring at each one in turn.

  None of them seemed eager to join their combative counterpart, but finally, Gnaeus Clustuminus of the 8th offered, “I have to say, sir, that Batius makes a good point. My boys are just as weak as his are, and they need food.”

  “I know that,” Pollio snapped, exasperated not as much by the fact he was getting an argument, but that he understood their concerns, “but again, Caesar’s orders were very clear,” he insisted stubbornly.

  “When does this decision have to be made?” Spurius spoke up quietly, though with an authority that marked him as one of the Primi Pili who the others respected, next to Pullus and perhaps Balbinus.

  “Now!” Batius had come to his feet and slapped a calloused hand flat on the table, making a sharp crack that caused more than one of the others to jerk in their seats. “We can’t leave this tent without coming to a decision!”

  More than almost any other Primi Pili, Batius ruled by intimidation, yet while this worked with his subordinate Centurions and rankers, none of the others gathered in this room were so disposed, and were long accustomed to the old Centurion’s bluster.

  “I disagree,” Spurius replied mildly, doing so precisely because he knew it frustrated and angered Batius that he wasn’t answered in the same coin as he gave. “Caesar gave specific orders that we shouldn’t try to match our cavalry against theirs in an open battle. They,” he still spoke quietly, but with a tone that expressed he was speaking in factual terms, “have better cavalry than we do. Those men would be cut to pieces against a combined force of cataphractoi and archers.”

  Batius glared at Spurius, but said nothing, finally sitting down, still angry, yet remaining silent.

  “I’m not going to give an order that is only Caesar’s to give,” Pollio broke the brief silence, and when he looked from one man to the next, none of them were willing to voice an objection, including Batius, who sat with his arms crossed, staring down at the table and muttering things under his breath.

  With this decided, the next topic of discussion was whether or not to send word back to Hirtius that there were no orders forthcoming until Caesar returned, but this ended up becoming another bone of contention, except this time, it was Spurius who was the man arguing with Pollio.


  “While I agree that it’s premature to send Hirtius any orders,” he argued, “we can’t postpone that indefinitely. We don’t know when Caesar is going to be back, so it’s not fair to Hirtius, or,” he gestured to the other Primi Pili, “us and our men to just say we wait until Caesar comes back.”

  Pollio’s jaw tightened, although his irritation was aimed at himself because he instantly recognized that Spurius was correct, and he said as much.

  “You’re right,” he began, then thought for a moment, and said, “We’ll wait until sunset tomorrow, then I’ll send word to Hirtius to do whatever he can to break the blockade.”

  That none of the men looked happy as they departed told Pollio he had made, if not the right decision, then the best one under the circumstances. Still, he offered a silent prayer to the gods, and an apology to his fellow Legate, and friend, who was out there desperately waiting for orders.

  Kambyses knew that he was taking a huge gamble leaving only three thousand men behind to continue the Parthian strangulation of the Roman supply line; while it was true that they were auxiliaries in Ctesiphon, there had been several thousand of them when Caesar had departed with the bulk of the army, not to mention an entire Legion, although he couldn’t imagine the boy Caesar had left behind allowing a single Legion to come to try and dislodge his men. He was leaving only mounted troops, although only two hundred were cataphractoi, with the rest archers, but he understood that, if whoever the Roman commanding the cavalry that he could see in their own camp just three miles away, if that, decided to go after this force and not follow Kambyses, they would be able to break the stranglehold. He knew this was a risk, but he felt somewhat confident that the Romans would shadow him back to Susa, and do so with their entire force. The best outcome would be the Roman commander splitting his force of what appeared to be around nine or ten thousand cavalrymen and trying to break the blockade, while screening Kambyses. Also, while not normally religious, Kambyses thanked Ahura-Mazda for whatever had been promised to the Armenians, who possessed the only troops capable of causing the Parthians a problem, since they were essentially the same as their Parthian cousins, to remain aloof, offering Caesar one excuse after the other to remain out of this contest. Nevertheless, if the Roman cavalry did choose to go on the offensive, the Parthian wouldn’t hesitate to counterattack the Romans; he already had a numerical advantage over the enemy without the need for the Romans to split their force. Reducing their current numbers would make attacking them a foregone conclusion; yet, despite his confidence in the outcome, he had learned through bitter experience not to underestimate any Roman, let alone one of Caesar’s commanders. Over the course of his captivity, he had been a guest of Caesar’s at several banquets with all of the other Roman nobles, which was how Kambyses thought of them, no matter what their official titles, correctly seeing them for what they were. While the atmosphere was convivial, at least after the first few such affairs, Kambyses had never forgotten these men were his enemies, and he viewed the time spent with each of them as an opportunity to gather information about them, hoping for the chance to use that accrued knowledge to destroy them.