by R. W. Peake
The Sixth Century had just moved into its spot, and only then did Caspar turn his examination to the ground immediately ahead, but it was his Aquilifer who spoke, his voice hesitant as he peered into the darkness to the north and said, “Primus Pilus? Do you see something moving out there?”
Naturally, Caspar immediately responded, lifting his gaze to stare farther out, but despite his eyes actually seeing what was, indeed, something moving out there, it took his mind a few heartbeats for the sight to register. Even with the moon, it was impossible to see clearly, yet there was definitely something out there. Finally, shaking his head as if it would dismiss the sudden nagging worry, Caspar was about to give the verbal order to begin moving forward when, from behind him, there was a low call. Turning, he saw a figure, running as fast as his legs could move, passing by the other Cohorts, until, finally, Caspar recognized the man as one of the couriers always ready to carry messages.
“Lord,” he was Parthian, and he was so winded that he had to rest his hands on his knees as he panted, “your Pilus Prior of the Fifth Cohort sent word that he hears horns blowing in the Roman camp to the west!”
“Horns?” Caspar, at this moment, was more bemused than alarmed, and he asked irritably, “Is that all? It could have been a change of watch!”
But the Parthian shook his head and said, “Pilus Prior Flaminius said that he recognized it. It wasn’t the horn they use for that; it was another one.”
“The cornicen?” Caspar’s blood seemed to freeze in his body, but the courier nodded vigorously at the familiar word.
“Yes, Lord,” the man replied, “that was what he heard. And, he said that the notes the horn played was what is used to order their men to move.”
“’To move’?” Caspar cried, now frustrated. “What did he mean? Was it the signal for the start of an attack?”
Suddenly, the courier looked doubtful, and his fear was palpable as he answered hesitantly, “No, Lord, I do not believe that is what Pilus Prior Flaminius said. He said they were moving somewhere.”
What, Caspar thought with a growing sense of worry, could that be about? Were they moving one or more of the Legions in that camp? If so, where? And most importantly, why? Then, before he could ponder any further, there was another noise, again coming from the direction of the ditch, and now yet another man came, also at a run, although he dropped to his knees altogether at Caspar’s feet.
“Lord, your Centurion…”
“Yes, I know,” Caspar snapped, pointing at the other Parthian. “He already delivered Flaminius’ message.”
The kneeling Parthian’s eyes suddenly showed white against the blackness of his skin in the moonlight as they widened in surprise, and he answered, “No, Lord. This is not from Pilus Prior Flaminius. This message is from Pilus Prior Tetarfenus, and he says that he heard the Romans in the eastern camp sound their horns that command them to leave the camp on the march.”
And then, there was a shout, quickly followed by others, causing Caspar to spin about, where he saw the men of his front rank all pointing straight ahead.
“There’s movement on this side of their ditch!”
“Those bastards are attacking!”
Just that quickly, all the plans that, although hasty, had been made in Gobryas’ office, were no longer relevant, and while he couldn’t have articulated it in the moment, Caspar understood on some level that the entire Parthian cause was in jeopardy, all because that bastard Caesar had once more done the unexpected.
It wouldn’t have made Caspar feel any better, but Pullus and Balbinus were both equally caught by surprise when, as they began moving towards the Parthian lines, they realized that there was something large suddenly interposed between the Romans and their objective. Unlike his Crassoi counterpart, Pullus almost instantly recovered, and realizing there was more to lose than to gain by allowing his men to continue moving blindly forward when, for all he knew, the Crassoi were standing there, expecting this attack, he turned to his Cornicen.
“Sound the halt! Now!” Pullus snapped, but his Cornicen was, understandably, hesitant, having heard from his Primus Pilus’ own lips the need for silence.
“Primus Pilus? Are you…”
“Just do it! Now!”
Obeying, it only took long enough for the man to heft the horn, draw in a breath, and blow the deep bass notes that, as Pullus had expected, and hoped, his men instantly responded to, coming to a crashing halt. It was a bit ragged to Pullus’ trained ear, but this wasn’t the time to quibble about such things; besides, he was already moving at a run across the front of his Century and their spot on the right of the twin column of Centuries, to where Balbus was already heading in the opposite direction, meeting roughly halfway.
“So you saw it too,” were Balbus’ first words. “There’s someone out there.”
“There is,” Pullus agreed grimly, then for a moment, the pair stared, trying to pick out any details, yet it wasn’t their eyes but their ears that informed them, when they heard a thin shout carried by the breeze from the direction they were heading.
“Those cunning bastards,” Balbus’ tone was grudgingly admiring. “They decided not to wait for the relief force before they started the attack. There’s no way they got out there because they heard us lower the ramp.”
“No,” Pullus agreed, instantly accepting this. “They aren’t. And no, they were already out there.” Turning to Balbus, he lowered his voice. “So, what do we do?”
Balbus wasn’t particularly surprised that Pullus asked, but he began scratching his chin in thought. As he did, they both heard the sound of footsteps, turning to see that the other Centurions, arrayed behind the leading Centuries, were rapidly approaching, so that before Balbus could think of an answer, there was a small group of Centurions, all of the First Cohort.
“I wonder if Balbinus sees them down where his boys are?” Metellus asked, and it was a valid question.
The Romans spent the next span of time straining their eyes, trying to determine the width of what they all accepted was the enemy formation. Then, as they still stood there, talking about this radically changed situation, there was another shout, this time from their left in the direction where the 12th was formed up in a double line of Centuries like the 10th, and they all watched as the Gregarius came sliding to a stop in front of Pullus. In an unconscious mimicry of the Parthian runners, he had to put his hands on his knees, except he did render a salute.
“Primus Pilus Balbinus sent me to report that he sees…”
“We know.” Pullus cut him off, since this was essentially the question he needed answered. “He saw those bastards over there.”
Balbus spoke up, “Primus Pilus, we need to let Caesar know about this.”
Pullus had already decided this, and he wasted no time, calling for his own runner, then quickly changed his mind.
“I have to go myself,” he decided. “Wait here, and make sure they don’t start moving.” Turning to Balbus, he finished, “You know what to do, Quintus.”
Going immediately to a brisk trot, the thought crossed Pullus’ mind that this would have been a moment that the horse Caesar demanded each Primus Pilus use on the march would have proved useful. He only slowed long enough as he reached Scribonius and the Second, telling him briefly the cause of the delay, then gave his friend the responsibility for passing the word back, which meant he ignored the calls of the other Centurions as he made his way back to the ramp. Fortunately, Caesar had moved to a spot at the base of the lowered ramp, and Pullus didn’t even bother saluting, immediately informing Caesar of this development.
Waiting only long enough for Pullus to finish, Caesar said abruptly, “Follow me,” then kicked Toes into a trot, leaving Pullus, silently cursing his general, to turn and follow without the opportunity to catch his breath.
Naturally, Caesar reached the front rank sooner than Pullus, but he was still seated, staring into the darkness, when Pullus arrived, huffing and puffing, glaring at Balbus, who was openl
y smirking at the sight of his Primus Pilus so out of breath.
“If they’re attacking us,” Caesar said, almost to himself but loudly enough for the Centurions to hear the tone of suppressed excitement, “that means they had to pull men from the rest of their positions.” Wheeling about, the general spoke rapidly. “Pullus, you’re going to carry out the attack as planned. But we’re going to take advantage of the reduced numbers elsewhere. I’m sending a Legion from each of the other camps as well now. So,” he was already moving and called over his shoulder, “you need to throw every man you have at those Crassoi to pin them down.”
Then he was gone, leaving a troubled group of Centurions in his wake, although it wasn’t about the orders to go forward with their attack.
“What about that bunch out there?” Balbus asked Pullus. “Caesar’s right; they had to pull men from their posts everywhere else, but if we do the same, aren’t we leaving ourselves open to that cunnus Kambyses? And what about the 12th?”
This, Pullus understood, was true, but all he said, more loudly than Balbus so the rest of his men could hear, “Let’s let Caesar worry about that. We’ve got enough to do on our own. Now,” he finished, “go get in your spots and wait for the command. We’re going to crush those bastards right now.” Turning to the forgotten runner from the 12th, Pullus only said, “You heard Caesar, yes?” The Gregarius could only nod, struck dumb not only by the sudden appearance of the general, but the implications that he would be carrying what was likely the most important message of his life. “Go tell Balbinus that the attack is on and to wait for my Cornicen to sound the call.”
The Gregarius did remember to salute, then he turned and dashed away, running more quickly than was probably prudent in the darkness. Meanwhile, the Centurions answered, each in their own way, but there was no hesitation with them either, as they all went at a run, following the messenger down the line of Centuries to their respective commands. Now, Pullus thought, I have to figure out how long to wait.
“Primus Pilus.” Paterculus interrupted his thoughts, but the man’s voice had a catch to it that, even as he looked over to his Aquilifer, Pullus was certain he wouldn’t like it. Paterculus was pointing back towards the Parthian fortifications, saying, “It looks like they’re moving.”
“Pluto’s cock,” Pullus snarled, “they’re not waiting, are they?”
But Paterculus, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the Crassoi while Pullus had conferred with his Centurions and Caesar, shook his head and replied, “I don’t think so, Primus Pilus. It looks like they’re pulling back.”
And, as Pullus watched for a span of perhaps a dozen heartbeats, he realized that Paterculus was right; the Crassoi were withdrawing, the black mass of men growing steadily smaller as they crossed back over the ditch. Which, the Primus Pilus realized, meant that there was still a path across the ditch since they hadn’t constructed a wooden ramp.
“Sound the advance! Now!” Pullus ordered, then drawing his gladius, bellowed at the top of his lungs, “All right, boys! Let’s chase those cunni and follow them right back to their fucking holes! And,” he finished, “let them know it’s the 10th that’s coming for them!”
The answering roar that answered his call rolled across the ground, announcing that Rome was indeed coming.
Caspar had made the decision on his own, knowing as he did so that he had probably forfeited his life, but if that was the case, he would go to the next world confident he had made the correct one. When he saw that the enemy was clearly planning their own attack, like Pullus had, albeit unknowingly, he had given a bitter and silent salute to Caesar for his boldness, instantly understanding that it wouldn’t take long for the Roman general to deduce that the only way so many Crassoi were mustered across from his northern camp was by pulling significant numbers of them from the rest of the Parthian fortifications. And it wouldn’t take him long to send his Legions that were in those other camps to test the Parthian defenses, where they would find that the Crassoi were at half-strength. Although Caspar felt confident in the strength of their static defenses, and was certain they had more artillery than the Romans thought, with the ballistae modified to launch the flaming pots of naphtha without going up in flames themselves, his men would be outnumbered by at least eight or probably more to one. Unless, however, he called off this attack and sent the Centuries he had appropriated back to their original positions; then it would be a more manageable ratio of four or five men to one, behind strong fortifications. The fact that his Centurions and their men didn’t hesitate told him that most of them had seen, and understood, the situation correctly, so their withdrawal across the dirt bridge actually went almost as quickly as their original crossing, although clambering over the stone wall proved to be more of a chore coming back than it had been going. Still, before they were all fully back behind the ditch, they heard the sound of the Roman cornu, instantly recognizing the call as ordering an advance.
“Hurry up! Let’s move, lads!” Caspar and the Centurions who still remained on the opposite side of the ditch began shouting. “We need to get back across so we can give those boy-lovers the proper reception!”
Only after the last of his Century scrambled across did Caspar follow, but while it was understandable given the dizzying change in circumstances, the Crassoi Primus Pilus realized with horror that there was no time to do anything to destroy the passage they had made across the ditch. And, even in the dark, he knew the enemy would see and correctly interpret how the Crassoi had all collapsed down onto this one spot in order to cross back over within their fortifications.
“First, Second, Third Centuries of the First,” Caspar shouted, “form on me!”
As he bellowed this over and over, he was moving along the earthen wall, positioning himself to the far right of the dirt bridge. It had been an accident, a happy one, that Caspar had decided not to order the stone parapet be pulled down to add to the foundation of the dirt bridge, but it was still only waist high, and he fully understood, that while the visible part of the wall was held together with mortar, with the foundation of it buried and the dirt packed down around the base, it wasn’t completely solid. Hopefully, the enemy wouldn’t discover this, although it was too late to worry about it.
Looking up at the stone tower nearest to him, he called up to the men who had clambered back up into their spot, “Are they in range yet?”
“No, Primus Pilus,” the chief artillery immunes answered. “But they’re getting close for our regular ammunition.”
Caspar considered, then shook his head, deciding, “No. In the dark, you’re not likely to do much damage. Wait until they’re in range for the naphtha. Let’s see,” he smiled grimly, “how those cunni like another taste of that.”
His immune responded that he heard and understood the orders, but Caspar was already trotting to the second tower a hundred paces to the left to relay the same orders. As he did so, the men of the three Centuries aligned themselves along the dirt wall, but since every rank would not fit, those of the fifth sections and higher were standing ready down the dirt ramp, their shields grounded in front of them. The Fourth through Sixth Centuries Caspar placed on the opposite side of the second tower, but he suspected that since it was likely that the approaching Legion had seen the Crassoi retreating and the manner in which they did so, collapsing down onto this one point, they would head for the already prepared earthen bridge. However, neither was he willing to gamble everything on placing his entire Cohort in between the two stone towers, if only because there wasn’t enough room.
As Caspar was finishing his instructions for the rest of his Cohort, Teispes had suddenly come galloping up, throwing himself off his mount and ascending the dirt incline in a few quick strides, roughly shoving the rankers who were between him and Caspar aside.
“Why are you still here on this side of the ditch?” the Parthian snapped, but before Caspar could open his mouth to answer, there was first a shout, then a thunderous crashing sound from the nearest tower.
“They’re attacking!” Teispes gasped. “At the same time we were?”
“They must have learned about Kambyses coming,” Caspar replied, his voice tight with the tension, “and that bastard Caesar knew he couldn’t wait.”
“And,” Teispes turned slightly so his good eye could look directly at the Centurion, “if you had led your men like you were supposed to, we would not have enough men to repel any attacks from the other camps.” Caspar shrugged, since this was obviously true, but Teispes added gravely, “You have served our cause well, Caspar. And I will make sure that Gobryas knows this…and Phraates, when he is freed.”
Before, this would have pleased Caspar, yet now he was acutely aware that unless he and his men were successful this night, it wouldn’t matter. Regardless of this, he did have a practical matter, which he broached with Teispes.
“I sent the other Cohorts back to their original positions, but I’m staying here,” he began, but Teispes stopped him.
“I will take responsibility for the rest of the defenses,” Teispes assured the Crassoi. “You just need to keep me informed, and if it is possible, I will release Artaxerxes and The Thousand to your command. Darius,” he shook his head, “now that I have to tell Gobryas of this new development, I know he will want them back inside Susa.”