by R. W. Peake
“He’ll probably want Artaxerxes as well,” Caspar replied, but Teispes shook his head, saying firmly, “He will not get them. You let me worry about him. Now,” just as he finished, the second flaming pot was flung outward from the tower, and he had to raise his voice for Caspar to hear, “I will leave you in command here.”
This time, there was a series of shouts from the Roman ranks, causing both men to glance north, and Teispes’ smile was savage as they both watched the normally ordered ranks of the nearest enemy Century suddenly disintegrate.
“Roast them,” Teispes said harshly. Then, he did something that was completely unexpected, distracting both men from watching what they assumed would be that very thing as the Romans futilely tried to extinguish the pernicious, greedy flames, Teispes doing so by thrusting his arm out, in the manner not of the Parthians, but the Romans. “May your gods protect you and your men, Caspar,” the Parthian spoke gravely, and Caspar was so surprised that he almost committed a horrible blunder, then just in time reached out and grabbed the other man’s forearm, the first time either had physically touched the other.
“And with you, my lord,” was all Caspar could think to say, then Teispes turned and went immediately to a trot, though the ranks parted for him.
Caspar gave one last glance, somewhat bemused, even with all that was happening, as Teispes leapt back onto his horse.
Then his attention was drawn when one of the men of the first rank shouted, “Primus Pilus, you’ll want to see this.”
Just the manner in which the man said it told Caspar it was important, except when he returned his attention to the advancing Romans, who had at least halted momentarily, he was extremely confused by what he could make out by the light of the last naphtha pot, still burning fiercely in a rough semicircle, with the base of the semicircle the spot where the pot had smashed into the ground.
“What are they doing?” he mused, believing that he hadn’t said anything aloud, which was dispelled when the ranker, the man at the far right of the first rank said, “It looks like the flames are just going out on their own. Except…”
The ranker didn’t finish, because frankly, he was at as much of a loss to explain the strange sight as his Primus Pilus. Fairly quickly, Caspar dismissed it as yet something else that he had neither the answer for, nor could he control. What mattered was that the Romans were still coming, even after their ranks were struck multiple times, as if they had somehow developed an imperviousness to the flames of the naphtha. How didn’t matter; what Caspar saw was that they weren’t inflicting nearly enough casualties before the Romans reached the ditch.
If Titus Pullus hadn’t been seeing it with his own eyes, he would have been hard pressed to believe that the vinegar-soaked sleeves worked as effectively as they did. This didn’t mean he didn’t suffer some casualties, but the men who were struck in the legs, always from the splatter resulting from a broken jar, were quickly attended to, usually by a comrade who grabbed their flask, full of vinegar instead of water, which Pullus had ordered the men carry in the front of their baltea instead of the back where it was normally located, and who doused the afflicted man’s legs. The men’s leather covers were still on their shields, but while there had been some debate about soaking the covers, this proved to be impractical, and those men whose shields were struck had the option of dousing the flames with their flask, or stripping the cover off and discarding it. Not surprisingly, at least to Pullus, most of the men whose shields were struck chose to strip off the cover rather than use the precious vinegar that they might still yet need on their own persons. The one consequence of this was that, in exchange for the lower casualties, their progress across the open ground was slower than Pullus would have liked under normal conditions, but this was one of the few times where he was willing to sacrifice speed for reaching the Parthian defenses with more men still fit to fight. Slowing their progress even further, although slightly, Pullus ordered the men of his Century who were carrying ladders to discard them, since they weren’t going to be necessary now that he was aware of the existence of the dirt bridge created by the Crassoi. Just from experience, despite the darkness, Pullus sensed the front rank of his Century had reached the spot where they were now in range of the Parthian scorpions, which was confirmed within a half-dozen heartbeats of his recognition. As he and all of the veterans of the first dilectus of the Equestrians had learned during the civil war with Pompey, a Roman scorpion bolt makes a distinctive sound when it is heading for a man instead of going the other way, and Pullus’ ears told him that this had just occurred, confirmed by the slight puff of wind against his face from the disturbed air. Knowing this signaled a near miss, despite the darkness, Pullus sidestepped a bit to his right, away from Paterculus and his Century, just in the event this hadn’t been a matter of blind luck.
Before they had advanced another two paces, there was another sound, this one from somewhere farther back in the Century, a deeper, meaty thud that coincided with an explosive gasp, followed immediately by the shout, “Glabius! Glabius is down!”
“Close up! Close up and shut your mouths!” Pullus snarled this over his shoulder, knowing that his admonishment to his men to shut their mouths was, ironically, sufficient to draw the attention of the unseen immunes manning the Crassoi scorpions.
Consequently, his words were still ringing in the air when one, two, then a third scorpion bolt slashed by the Primus Pilus, two to his right and the third one grazing the left side of his shield. It was a glancing blow that did more damage to the leather cover than the metal rim of the shield, but the impact almost yanked it from Pullus’ grasp and made him lurch a step to his left. Returning to his normal spot now that he had inadvertently betrayed his position, Pullus divided his attention between watching the earthen wall that was at last clearly visible in the darkness, eyeing the ranks of his Century, then glancing over his shoulder to ensure that the other Centuries were still the proper distance apart and following his own. One blessing that Pullus and the rest of his men appreciated was that the Parthians had quickly given up trying to inflict casualties with the naphtha ammunition, switching to the conventional stones. As the Romans closed the distance, it was inevitable that some of those stones hit more than the ground, or a shield, and there would be a choked scream or a shout from the man next to the unfortunate casualty. While it certainly wouldn’t be considered as such by those struck, the Primus Pilus of the Legion determined that the losses his men were suffering were comparatively light, and he began to calculate when he would give the command to go to the run to close the distance as rapidly as possible. His cause was again aided by the sudden appearance of another blazing missile that streaked upward from somewhere behind the Parthian wall, and he stopped for an instant, staring up at it for a heartbeat before realizing what it was. The fiery projectile was tumbling end over end and landed well short of the advancing Romans, but Pullus instantly understood this was intentional, having been precisely aimed for the edge of the ditch on the attackers’ side. This one was quickly joined by another, then another bundle, illuminating the entire stretch of the ditch, roughly the same width as the attacking Legion. Off to his left, Pullus saw that the same thing was happening with Balbinus and the 12th, but he was certain that there wasn’t a way across the ditch for them that there was in front of him and his Cohort. That, however, was their problem; Pullus had more than enough to worry about, and the next challenge came when he decided that the time had come.
Only turning his head slightly, while keeping his eyes on the Parthian fortifications, the Primus Pilus filled his lungs, then bellowed, “Let’s go, boys! Follow me!”
Then, breaking into a run, he was propelled forward by the roaring voices of his men, and the Romans rushed forward to the edge of the ditch, preparing to storm across.
As soon as Caspar saw that, for reasons that baffled him, the naphtha wasn’t having anywhere near the devastating effects he and his men had expected, he ordered the artillery to switch to the more conventi
onal ammunition, but it didn’t take long for him to determine that it wasn’t inflicting many casualties either.
“I should have kept some archers,” he muttered to himself, but in a louder voice, he tried to sound confident as he ordered, “Ready javelins! We’re going to hit them as soon as they set foot in the ditch!” Beckoning to his Optio, in a lower voice, he instructed Pacula, “If I’m not back by the time they reach the edge of the ditch, you know what to do.”
Saluting Caspar, Pacula returned to his duties as his Primus Pilus went trotting down the ramp and crossed to where the two ballistae were located, asking the immune in command, “How much farther out past the ditch can you get the hurdles?”
The ranker considered for a moment, then walked over to the stack of tightly tied bundles of stacks, through which was interwoven straw for easy ignition.
Hefting one, he finally told Caspar, “We could get it fifty paces farther than the first ones, but not any farther.”
Caspar made a quick count of the remaining bundles, then said, “Use half of them and put them as far out as possible. Then,” he gave the immune a cruel smile, “I want you to rain so many stones down on those bastards’ heads that I want to see nothing but a pile of bodies. With that short a range, you should be able to pick out a man and crush his fucking skull.”
He didn’t wait to hear the artilleryman’s promise to do that very thing, now moving at close to a full sprint to the spot where the Second Cohort of the Crassoi were arrayed, waiting for the approaching Romans, these attackers carrying ladders since there was no dirt bridge to aid their crossing. Hailing Tiberius Caecina, who like Caspar had taken a Parthian name, calling himself Artabanus, Caspar only spent a moment with him since the Second didn’t have the challenge facing the First, the Romans attacking them not having the advantage of the dirt bridge, confining them to the more conventional ladders. He was halfway back to his own Cohort when he saw the movement of arms as the men of his Century, which was the closest to him, swept back, paused for an instant, then released to the shouted command of Pacula, followed by the other Centuries, in a rippling effect as the Centurions assumed that since the First had loosed, it was the will of the Primus Pilus. Scrambling up the dirt ramp, Caspar was dismayed when he reached the parapet and saw that the first volley of javelins had clearly either been blocked or had fallen short because Pacula had been too hasty.
“Hold! Hold!” He shouted this over and over. “Wait for my command, you bastards!”
That Pacula had been premature in his command was only part of the problem, although the deeper cause for the lack of damage to the enemy was rooted in a long-running dispute with their Parthian overlords. What that meant was the Crassoi version of the javelin wasn’t the one developed by Gaius Marius, with the hardened triangular point, but with the long slim iron shaft that hadn’t been tempered so that it would bend on impact, shearing off the wooden pin that affixed the iron shaft to the wooden portion. Despite the fact that he had argued vociferously with Teispes’ two predecessors, and had even had an audience once with the late Pacorus, Caspar had been unsuccessful in convincing them of the superiority of the Roman design. And, as much as he had hated to admit it, for the previous decade, the Parthian version of the javelin had proven to be more than adequate, but this was due to the fact that the type of enemy the Crassoi normally faced were the more mobile, mounted foes similar in style to the Parthians themselves. The few times they had faced infantry, they had been carrying wicker shields, wielded spears, and were lightly armored, if they wore any at all. Finally, the sturdier Parthian version was also slightly longer than the Roman, which meant it had a slightly longer range and was perfect for repelling cavalry, particularly when forming what the Romans called the porcupine, the modified testudo where the men along the edges thrust their javelins out to repel attacks by mounted troops. This, however, wasn’t what was happening now. Marius had developed the javelins for use against heavily armored Gallic tribes who carried wooden shields, essentially the type of foe that Caspar and the Crassoi were facing at this moment. Despite the fact that none of the Romans fighting for the Parthians had fought in the civil war between Caesar and Pompeius and therefore had never experienced firsthand the devastating effects of the Roman javelin, it didn’t take that for Caspar to understand that he and his men had missed an opportunity. Several javelins had at least struck the shields of the Romans in the first couple of ranks, but even as he watched, the men whose shields had been pierced either yanked them out themselves, or man to their left reached over and did it for them. No more than three or four heartbeats had elapsed since Caspar resumed his spot, seen the paltry effect of the first volley, then made his decision.
“Don’t waste the next one, boys!” he called out. “Use them to keep these bastards away from us!”
Just that quickly, the Crassoi Primus Pilus turned the liability of the heavier javelins into a positive; they weren’t the length and heft of true siege spears, but they would suffice. The real challenge was just beginning, which he recognized by the light of the hurdles, seeing once more the right arms sweeping back, except this time, these belonged to the Romans, poised at the opposite edge of the ditch. “Shields up!” Caspar bellowed, his command met with the combined shouts of his men and the clattering sound as shields inevitably banged into each other.
Even as he did, he realized with some alarm that he had forgotten to procure one for himself, and he moved just in time, hopping next to the nearest ranker to take at least partial shelter beneath the man’s shield. The next noise momentarily drowned out the continued shouting of his men as the hardened points of the Roman javelins punched into wood, yet even through this din, Caspar heard the cries of at least two men who had clearly been struck. Ignoring this distraction, understanding that there was nothing he could do in the moment for his fallen men, he kept his attention to the front, and while he wasn’t surprised, it was still disappointing to see that his enemy had moved during the momentary chaos that inevitably followed a volley of javelins. As he continued watching, he saw the huge Roman Primus Pilus raise his gladius in the air, and Caspar experienced a strange sensation, a queer feeling when, now that they were close enough to hear each other, the Primus Pilus gave his next command.
“Ready javelins!”
Caspar opened his mouth to warn his men, but there was no need; of course, the thought flashed through his mind: They understand their native tongue just like I do.
“Release!”
Caspar was forced to leap backward after making eye contact with a Roman Gregarius in the front rank across from him and realizing that the man was specifically taking aim at him, and he felt the disturbance in the air as the javelin buried itself in the turf rampart where he had been standing an eyeblink before. Because he had leapt away from the threat backwards, he landed awkwardly, causing him to stumble even farther away before landing heavily on his rear.
Consequently, he only heard the next and inevitable command as the giant Roman bellowed, “Porro!”
Before the command was finished, he was drowned out, first by the roaring challenge of the attacking Romans, and less than an eyeblink of time later, the answering defiance of their former countrymen, both sides intent on bringing destruction to the other. Caspar scrambled to his feet, his only thought to be up in the front rank with his boys to meet these men who posed a threat to his family and those of his comrades.
Even with the harassing fire from the scorpions, then the single javelin volley from the Crassoi, Pullus was cautiously pleased at the relatively low casualties his Century had suffered to this point, but when he was the first to drop down onto the dirt bridge crossing the ditch, it took less than a heartbeat for him to see, assess, and realize that this fight would be tougher than it might have seemed from a distance. The dirt bridge wasn’t wide enough for more than two Centuries, and while the Parthians had made an incline that meant the climb out was higher but not unmanageable on their side of the ditch, that was only true under no
rmal circumstances. However, when there were men, who Pullus saw had opted not to hurl their javelins but were now shoving them out in front of their shields in preparation for meeting his First Century and were standing shoulder to shoulder, the angle of the packed dirt ramp suddenly became more of a problem. Nevertheless, he only hesitated for perhaps a heartbeat before he began his advance along the dirt bridge, holding the shield he had drawn from stores up in front of him. The roaring voices from both sides drowned out any other noise, yet even so, Pullus didn’t have to turn his head to know that his men were right behind him, feeling as much as hearing their roars over those of the Crassoi, and while he wasn’t running at full speed, his long legs meant the men behind him were forced to do that very thing in order to keep their Primus Pilus from outstripping them. Before Pullus crossed half the distance, however, his eye caught a movement, but emanating from above the waiting Parthians and to his left, so he more sensed than saw the small, tumbling pot that one of the Crassoi in the nearest tower tossed down, smoking and trailing sparks. Reacting with the reflexes honed over almost twenty years of combat, Pullus’ left arm raised and turned slightly outward, catching the firepot squarely with his shield. Even with the protection, the sudden explosion of fire as the pot shattered created a heat so intense that Pullus’ eyebrows were burned off, something he wouldn’t learn until later. In the moment, it felt like he had inadvertently thrust his head into the kind of furnace where iron was forged, but it was the sudden, blinding light that would have proven even more dangerous if the Crassoi hadn’t been ordered to retain their final javelins. As it was, Pullus was understandably distracted, particularly when several large, flaming globules of naphtha spattered from his shield onto his left arm. But, while his arm felt intensely hot, it wasn’t unbearable, mainly due to the fact that within a matter of two or three heartbeats, what had been fiercely blazing spots on his arm seemingly extinguished themselves as the vinegar-soaked leather worked, exactly as it was supposed to.