by R. W. Peake
Although Silva correctly heard the order, he was uncomprehending, and he shook his head, thinking that perhaps his Legate had lost his mind from the pressure, or perhaps the heat, or a combination of both.
“Why wouldn’t I fall on their rear?” he asked, then added, “Provided we can get that close.”
“Because,” Hirtius replied without hesitation, “I want you to inflict as many casualties on their infantry as you can. You need to use just enough men to keep the cataphractoi occupied. Otherwise, I want you to concentrate on the infantry.”
It was a mark of Silva’s quick mind that he was able to divine Hirtius’ reasoning and intent, which prompted him to regard the infantry, marching behind the cataphractoi, and while he understood, he was moved to ask, “But what about the archers in between us and the main column?”
“They’re going to move forward to stop us,” Hirtius replied with a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel, “but you’re going to need to wait for them to do it before you launch your own attack. Once they commit themselves, that’s when you go.”
If this conversation had been in the praetorium, seated at the long table in the officer’s mess, Silva would have agreed with his Legate that this was the most likely outcome, but here, on the flat plain of the Tigris, with nothing in the way of terrain that could screen his movement, the Decurion was certain that he was being expected to lead his men in nothing more than a suicidal attack with little hope of success.
Nevertheless, he saluted, then turned his mount to go trotting back down the column, which was moving at the same pace as the Parthians, trying to keep from betraying his worry by glancing over at the enemy. Such was his preoccupation with what was expected of him and his men, neither he nor any other Roman noticed a lone rider detaching himself from the Parthian column to go at a brisk trot, moving away from the safety of the group, heading south for Susa.
Kambyses was certain that, since this was the last day before they reached Susa, the Roman cavalry column that had been shadowing him would attack. Knowing that was one thing; trying to determine when it would happen, on the other hand, was something else entirely. Although he kept a careful eye on them, the Romans seemed content to simply keep pace with his column, but he knew that this couldn’t last. Consequently, he sent one of his subordinates back down the long line.
“Find Ophis and bring him to me,” he commanded, and while it took longer than he thought necessary, the subordinate returned with the spy, who had at least physically recovered somewhat from his ordeal, to his side.
“How are you feeling? Better?” Kambyses asked, although he didn’t care, thinking about Caesar as he did so.
This was so unlike Kambyses, or any other Parthian of his status, that it made the man nervous, his highly-attuned senses alerting him that there was something his master wanted. At the same time, given his status, and the fact that Kambyses had promised him lavish rewards, he wasn’t inclined to be coy with the man.
“I am feeling much better. Thank you, lord,” he answered cautiously.
“Good,” Kambyses said, with a heartiness that sounded forced, even to his own ears. “Because I’m afraid you have another task waiting for you. And,” at this, he turned to look directly at his spy, “it won’t be nearly as easy as escaping from Sostrate.”
For a long moment, nothing was said, the only sound that of the horses’ hooves striking the hard-packed ground, the creaking of saddle leather, and the buzzing of conversation farther back along the column, where men were unaware of the small drama being played out.
Finally, Ophis realized he must say something, so he asked cautiously, “What would that be, lord?”
In the aftermath of Ophis’ appearance, Kambyses had recalled what he knew of this man who, now in his late forties, had been working in the employ of the Parthian court, and one thing that had come back to him was his spy’s ability at infiltrating places that, to ordinary people, seemed impossible.
This was foremost in his mind as he answered, “I am sending you ahead to Susa, to smuggle in a message to Gobryas about what has happened to Phraates.”
“But lord,” Ophis objected, “what if he knows already?”
“How would he know?” Kambyses frowned, shaking his head at the thought.
Ophis was many things; first and foremost, he was a thief, as had been discovered long before, which had led him to this moment, serving Kambyses, but he was also a shrewd man, understanding human nature in a way that few people did.
It was this that prompted him to point out, “Lord, it’s almost a certainty that the Roman general who was in command of capturing Sostrate has brought our king back to Susa.” Ophis had to think for a moment, calculating distances and the amount of time it took to travel, but after a moment, he continued, “I think that if the Roman was mounted, as he surely was, and he brought our king with him, he probably was at Susa not long after dawn today.”
With some chagrin, Kambyses realized that Ophis was undoubtedly correct; after all, why would Caesar tarry once he had captured Phraates? This recognition forced the Parthian general to rethink his instructions to his spy, which took a few moments.
Finally, Kambyses replied grudgingly, “That’s true.” After a moment’s pause, the Parthian general continued, “All right. Then here is what you need to tell them instead.” Over the next few moments, he outlined the essence of the message he wanted to get to the garrison at Susa. Ophis listened carefully, and when Kambyses demanded he repeat it, he did so, word for word, another reminder that the man was a bit more than a common thief.
“Very well,” Kambyses said, once Ophis was through. “Now you need to go deliver it.”
“Deliver it, lord?” Ophis asked, though he was really stalling for time, but his general wasn’t willing to indulge him.
“Yes,” Kambyses snapped, then lifted a hand to point south, “and don’t tell me you don’t know how to get past a bunch of Romans. You did it once, now do it again.”
Ophis instantly recognized there was nothing to do but comply, so with a muttered acknowledgement, he nudged his mount into a trot, and moved away from the security of the column. As he quickly saw, the Romans seemed absorbed in their own concerns, because no riders were dispatched to follow him. Now, he thought miserably as he kept his mount at the trot, all I have to do is find a way past all the Romans waiting for this very thing, a man trying to sneak past their defenses to get into Susa. How he would do so, he had no idea.
Pullus and Balbinus, following Caesar’s orders, marched from Sostrate shortly after dawn on the day after the city was taken. Almost without exception, the men were hungover, most were already exhausted from a lack of sleep, but being the veterans they were, they kept up with the cracking pace that was demanded by Pullus. Balbinus would have opted for a more leisurely progress, but he had long before learned the danger of thwarting the will of the Primus Pilus of the Equestrians, so since he had indulged like the rest of his men, he suffered along with them. The one consolation he had was that he didn’t have to be discreet about the complaining he did, since he was marching with his Legion while Pullus and his Equestrians, having lost the flip of the coin, was at least eating the dust of the 12th. Caesar had left them with only one turma of cavalry to act as scouts, who were now ranging ahead and on either flank of the column, which was bringing the tools and ladders they had used to assault Sostrate, including those carried by the 28th. However, the two Legions were bringing more than that with them, and along with the ladders, the 28th had given up their complement of mules, along with a dozen of the two-wheeled carts used by the Parthians, hauling back the foodstuffs that were so desperately needed by the rest of the army. Which, Balbinus grudgingly admitted to himself, was the likely reason Pullus had been so insistent on moving at their ten miles per watch pace. The oppressive heat only compounded the suffering of those men who had debauched, which was likely another reason Pullus was intent on setting this cracking pace, Balbinus felt certain, but finally, using the h
orse that Caesar had required his Primi Pili to at least have at their side, Pullus came trotting up to Balbinus, who had removed his helmet, tying his neckerchief in its place to soak up the sweat and provide some protection from the relentless power of the sun.
“See that?” Pullus pointed to a slight depression, just ahead. When Balbinus sourly answered that he did, Pullus said, “We’re going to stop there for a watch until it gets close to sundown.” Although he didn’t crack a smile as he said it, Balbinus suspected his counterpart was toying with him as he said, “The livestock needs a rest.”
Balbinus acknowledged that he had heard Pullus, but he waited until the other Primus Pilus turned and returned to his own Legion to mutter, “The fucking livestock needs a rest? What about us?”
Quickly enough, the men got settled down, partially protected from view by the dip in the ground that was large enough for both Legions and the livestock, and although the nearest water was about a half-mile away, working parties were sent to one of the myriad tributaries that intermittently flowed downward from the rugged land to the east to feed the series of smaller rivers like the Pasitigris that ultimately ran into the Tigris. The animals were watered first, then the men, before they settled down to get as comfortable as they could. While they rested, Pullus held a meeting with his Pili Priores to discuss what they might expect when they approached Susa, which by his calculations, they would reach the southernmost camp shortly after dawn.
“Maybe the siege will be over,” suggested Gellius, the Sextus Pilus Prior, but while this was certainly within the realm of possibility, Pullus had his doubts.
“It might be,” he answered, but his tone sent the message to the others that he didn’t think it likely. “But I think we should be prepared for anything. Especially,” Pullus continued, looking at each man in turn, “for that Parthian force that was cutting off our supply line being in the vicinity.”
The idea of these circumstances actually had come from Scribonius, although the moment he brought it up with Pullus, the Primus Pilus instantly realized this was a distinct possibility. However, not all of the Pili Priores agreed.
“Why would they do that?” Metellus asked, openly skeptical. “They’ve got their boot on our throat right now. Why would they lift it?”
Pullus swallowed his irritation; he was as tired as any of them, and he wanted to get as much sleep as he could manage, but he also recognized this was a valid question. The truth was that he couldn’t articulate exactly why he felt the way he did, that there was a likelihood there would be a substantial force of Parthians waiting outside the contravallation. Perhaps it was because he possessed a streak of natural pessimism, or that the Parthians were renowned for their cunning as much as their prowess with the composite bow.
Aloud, Pullus agreed with Metellus. “They do, and I’m not saying that they’ll do so, but I want us to be prepared for the eventuality. So,” he took a breath, anticipating the reaction, “I want every man who was trained with the sling on the outer files, for every Century.”
As he expected, this caused a small uproar, because it would mean that men would be in unaccustomed spots in the formation, and he also knew that his Pili Priores’ objections were based in their concern about what happened when men who were unfamiliar with each other knowing what to expect from comrades to their left or right when the fighting began. Certainly, at some point in time, when men fell in battle, there was a shifting of the files and ranks, so the men had some experience fighting from a different spot; nevertheless, it was a valid concern. Not enough to sway Pullus to change his mind, but he wanted to give his Centurions the opportunity to speak their mind, if only because he had learned through hard-won experience that other men with comparable knowledge as his might have an idea worthy of consideration.
“Is there anything else?” He looked from one man to the next, but now that they had seen he wasn’t changing his mind, there was nothing further. “Good,” he waved a hand in dismissal, “go try and get some rest.”
Riding alone, Ophis made good progress, but when he stopped to give his horse a rest and scanned the countryside, looking for threats, it was when he was looking north, along his back trail, that he saw the towering dust cloud.
“The Romans are trying to stop them.” He muttered this aloud, then felt somewhat foolish for doing so when the only response from his horse was a twitch of one ear.
Despite his lack of experience in military affairs, Ophis knew enough to understand how unlikely an outcome that was, because the Romans’ cavalry arm simply wasn’t on the same level as that of Parthia. He also understood that this was a matter entirely out of his control, and once he was satisfied his horse had recovered, he continued to press south, moving at a brisk walking pace, then occasionally going to the trot for a brief span. Ideally, he wanted to arrive within sight of the Roman fortifications just as the sun was setting, so that he could at least get an idea of its dimensions before trying to pick a spot to attempt to cross over. As formidable as these defenses were supposed to be, the truth was that Ophis wasn’t particularly daunted; his nickname was well earned, and the only reason he had gotten caught by Kambyses’ father in the quarters of one of the satrap’s concubines was because she had been sent for by the satrap. The father’s longstanding order was that any female always had an escort of at least two of his most trusted guards, and they had been the ones who, as was the right of anyone sent by the satrap, had simply opened the door without knocking. It was nighttime, she was asleep, and he had already lifted the golden bracelet, as well as a pair of earrings inset with precious stones when the door was flung open, illuminating the interior of the chamber, which was small. Even now, more than twenty years later, Ophis had to suppress a shudder at the memory of the next few days, when he had been beaten unmercifully, tortured with hot irons applied to his legs, the scars of which he bore to this day. But it had been the son of the satrap who, for reasons he never divulged to Ophis, interceded with his father, arguing that he, Kambyses, could find a use for him, a fact that Kambyses had clearly forgotten, given his comments to the thief. And, Ophis thought, he did, and in doing so, inadvertently gave Ophis a life that, for a man of his station, was actually a good one. Oh, there were the occasional beatings by the chief slave of the royal household, but oddly enough, Ophis had never stolen anything of value, other than a bite of food from the leftovers from the lavish banquets that had only been an occasional bounty under Orodes, but had become commonplace under Phraates. Thief he may have been, but the short, slight Parthian had a code of his own, and he owed Kambyses his life, so if his lord sent him into the lair of the Daevas, where the host of hostile and false gods reside, he would do so without hesitation. Not, he thought with a grin, that the idea of the lavish rewards Kambyses had promised to heap upon him didn’t have an appeal in itself, and he occupied himself for the next few miles trying to imagine what those might be. Just this thought was more than enough incentive for Ophis to be successful in his task, and he took it as a good sign that, as he had hoped, the sun was just dipping below the horizon when he drew up, seeing the thin darker line that was just a bit higher than the completely flat ground surrounding it. Straining his eyes, he finally decided that what looked like a series of thin, vertical marks, looking very much like someone had drawn a straight horizontal line on a piece of parchment, then at intervals had added a series of vertical tick marks, had to be towers. Knowing that he had a choice to make by either remaining mounted and counting on the horse’s speed to get him closer, gambling that while he could see the entrenchments now, the likelihood of even the sharpest-eyed sentry seeing a lone rider against the backdrop of greenish-beige nothingness was practically nonexistent. The challenge would be how close he could get before he was spotted when he was still on horseback, but Ophis had spent his entire life in these lands, and consequently was able to perfectly judge distances.
He went a bit more than two miles before, just as the upper edge of the sun was about to dip out of sight, h
e slid off his mount. Stripping the saddle and bridle off, he did so only after he carefully turned the horse back in the direction of where Kambyses and his army were presumably still moving forward. This, he understood, was a risk, albeit a small one; Kambyses probably would have ordered him to kill the horse, rather than take the risk that the animal would be drawn by the scent of others like it, but Ophis felt certain that the horse would return back to the more familiar scents of the Parthian cavalry and not head in the direction of the strange animals that were on the Roman side of the fortifications. Regardless of what his horse did, he also knew that he was in for about a four-mile walk to get close to the outer Roman fortifications. Then, of course, he had to navigate a ditch and wall, not just once but twice, because he had been told by Kambyses what to expect. As he walked, the spy made his own preparations, drawing lumps of charcoal, along with a small, stoppered flask of oil, which he began rubbing all over his exposed skin, then rubbed the charcoal over that. Confident as he was, Ophis’ heart was pounding harder than the exertion required, and his mouth had gone dry. Taking the skin carrying his water, he drained it, then discarded it; he didn’t need anything flapping about and catching on something, which meant he also discarded the small bag slung over his shoulder, but not before extracting the needle-sharp dagger and the two small squares of parchment, one of which he had been instructed to give, not to Gobryas, but to one of his advisors, a man named Bodroges, which Kambyses had marked with an X on the outer part of the folded message. And, Kambyses had been very explicit in his instructions.