Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  “Pluto’s cock!” Pullus uttered this aloud, though even as he did, another pot came down, this one aimed somewhere behind him.

  Despite the fact that the soaked leather sleeve had done its job, still smoldering though the heat was slowly subsiding, his shield was another matter, and it was when he automatically reached down for the flask of vinegar that he had required his men to carry that he realized that he hadn’t followed his own orders. In that instant, the flames were still consuming the leather cover of the shield, and the heat was roughly the same as on his sleeve, but now Pullus was forced to make a decision, and even in the moment, his mind leapt back to the last time his shield was set aflame by naphtha, during the assault on Seleucia. That time he had thrown the shield away because it hadn’t been partially protected by a leather cover, the wood catching fire immediately after being struck. On this occasion, discarding the shield wasn’t a viable option; despite the Crassoi not flinging their javelins, a suddenly vulnerable Centurion would present such a tempting target that he was certain his life would be measured in breaths. Backing away to the slightly safer protection of his Century wouldn’t solve the problem either, because he wasn’t willing to discard a shield, then take one from one of his men. His decision, such as it was, only became evident when he actually quickened his pace, going to just short of an all-out sprint, while he held his shield out in front of him instead of to the side as was normal when running, thereby thrusting it farther away from his body, both to give his legs room and to keep the heat as far away as possible. If one of the waiting Crassoi had been thinking quickly, they had an opportunity to hurl their javelin down at the large Primus Pilus, aided by both the angle from being slightly higher, and the distance he was holding his shield away from his body. But, as both the rankers of the 10th, and his friends like Scribonius and Balbus could attest, the gods truly loved Titus Pullus more than they did almost any other man, with perhaps the notable exception of Caesar. Consequently, before any Parthian could take advantage of this short-lived opportunity, in three long strides, Pullus had closed the distance and scrambled up the sloping ramp, his shield now fully ablaze as he held it straight ahead of his body. It was a completely instinctual move on his part, but it was a sound one, because as he expected, the pair of Crassoi he was now confronting recoiled away from the heat of the flames, thereby inadvertently allowing Pullus to come up hard against the stone parapet, which he did with one hopping step upward from the dirt bridge, to land just on the opposite side from his foes, standing on the three-foot wide lip between wall and bridge. Although he was completely focused on the most immediate threat, which was represented by the Crassoi to Pullus’ immediate right, and whose arm he saw draw back in what was a preparatory motion to an overhand thrust at his unprotected side, Pullus’ mind nevertheless registered the sudden shuddering movement of the stone wall from the impact of his body. Before he could exploit this, however, he was forced to parry that savage thrust, from the javelin in the hands of another Roman, and a veteran at that. He did so, using his blade and performing an outward sweeping parry that caught the enemy’s weapon just below the iron head, redirecting the thrust so the point stabbed nothing but air over his right shoulder. Even as he did this, he swept his burning shield in the opposite direction, to his left, and was rewarded by a shriek of pain when the burning surface struck a fleshy target, feeling the sudden shift and release of the pressure as the man reeled back away from the blow. By this point, the flames were now above the top of the shield, completely obscuring his vision to his left, but while the Crassoi directly to his front was also driven back from the intensity of the flames, the man who had already tried to end him had recovered his javelin, and was drawing his arm back for another attempt. Before the Crassoi could do so, from behind Pullus came what was only a blur at the corner of his vision, as Paterculus, seeing his Primus Pilus in danger, used the spiked iron end of the sacred eagle standard, thrusting it ahead of him as he ran up to the wall, catching the Crassoi, whose attention had been completely focused on killing the large Centurion, squarely in the mouth. It was a brutally strong thrust, aided by Paterculus’ forward momentum, the spike bursting out the back of the man’s head, showering the Crassoi behind him with bits of brain and skull.

  Even as this was happening, the rest of the leading rank of the First Century closed the last few feet. They were inevitably slowed by the incline and the need to carefully gauge where the outthrust javelins of the Crassoi directly across from them were aimed, judging whether this was a feint by their enemy to create an opening for one of their own comrades on either side or a genuine attempt at meeting the onrushing Romans. The consequence was that the impact of the First Century reaching their Primus Pilus’ side wasn’t as devastating as Pullus would have liked, although frankly, he was just relieved he wasn’t alone any longer, and he used the instant of distraction that was inevitable by throwing his now fully involved shield directly into the midst of the Crassoi to his front. They may have been Romans, just like Pullus and the 10th, and they were veterans as well, but no amount of discipline could have kept them from leaping backward to avoid being struck by a flaming object the size of a Roman shield. While it was true that none of the Crassoi were seriously injured, using their own shields to protect them from the flames, which were of roughly the same dimensions as those of Rome, if of a different shape and being made of leather-covered wicker instead of wood, the diversion worked as Pullus had hoped, creating a small pocket of space on the opposite side of the stone parapet. Taking advantage of this, Pullus used his longer legs to step over the wall, then reached down and snatched up the shield dropped by the Crassoi Paterculus had just dispatched. He was somewhat surprised that the shield was heavier than he had thought it would be, and the shape was actually rectangular instead of the oblong used by the Legions, but it was curved at roughly the same angle, so he quickly forgot the difference. This was due as much to the fact that, once one of the defenders in the second rank used his heavy javelin to shove the burning shield to the rear to be disposed of by his comrades, the Crassoi surrounding Pullus closed back in. Only one of them discarded his own javelin, drawing his blade and, in the same motion, performed what both the attacker and his target would call a first position thrust, originating from low beneath the Crassoi’s shield, in a clear attempt to use Pullus’ height against him. If he had had time to reflect on it, Pullus would have recognized, and in a grimly humorous way, appreciated the irony, because during the Pompeian civil war, more than one Legionary fighting for Pompeius had thought this the best way to attack a man as tall as Pullus. At this moment, however, it only meant that Pullus’ reaction was not just automatic, but devastatingly effective, with a movement consisting of two parts, as he dropped the wicker shield to meet the thrust that, if it had landed, would have struck Pullus a painful though not necessarily crippling blow around the kneecap. While there was a risk that the thrust could actually strike the soft tissue just above his knee on the inside where the large vessel was located, which meant he would be dead within a matter of heartbeats, neither possibility was realized. Instead, the point of his foe’s sword buried itself in the shield, actually being more easily trapped by the weave of the wicker, something that in the back of Pullus’ mind, where there was what he thought of as his detached observer, registered as being worthy to investigate at a later time, the entrapment actually aided Pullus’ cause as he thrust his shield even lower than normal. In the same instant, so that it was actually part of the same motion, the point of his own blade, which was in what the Romans called the second or high position, shot out and at a downward angle. The combination of his use of the shield to yank his foe’s sword arm down, but slightly to Pullus’ left, created the unconscious reaction by the Crassoi of moving his own shield somewhat in the opposite direction in an instinctive attempt to counterbalance the sudden movement. The result was a slight gap in the man’s defenses, in a spot that, even as he began the maneuver, Pullus’ sword was already unerringly head
ing right for, so that barely a heartbeat after blocking the first attack, the Primus Pilus dispatched his first Crassoi. With a short, brutal kick, Pullus knocked the dying man, who had dropped to his knees as the blood gushed from the gaping hole at the base of his throat, off of his blade, thereby creating even more space around him. It wouldn’t last long, and a prudent man might have stepped forward while remaining on the defensive, waiting for one of his comrades to fill the spot he had just vacated; Titus Pullus was many things, but prudent wasn’t one of them.

  However, he did bellow, “Don’t just stand there gawking! Get over this wall and get in the fight!”

  Thinking to take advantage of what he thought was a moment of distraction by the huge Centurion, the Crassoi to Pullus’ right who replaced the man Paterculus had dispatched used his javelin, not as a hurling weapon but like a spear, stepping forward while executing a hard thrust, counting on the safety provided by the distance afforded him by the longer weapon. But, without even seeming to turn his total attention to the Crassoi, Pullus defended against the thrust with another sweeping movement that seemed to be performed with nothing more than a flick of his wrist. That it sliced through the shaft as if it was a twig, leaving his attacker with little more than a long stick and a sudden reluctance to try another offensive maneuver, gave Pullus just enough respite for the first man of his Century, the Gregarius who was the man of the filenearest to the Primus Pilus, his name Numerius Vespillo, to vault over the stone parapet to land immediately behind his Centurion.

  As he did so, though, like Pullus, Vespillo felt the stones shifting with his weight, so that, although he didn’t hesitate to reach his Primus Pilus’ side, he had the presence of mind to call out to the men behind him, “Pictor! Dentulus! This wall isn’t anchored! Put your balls into it and bring it down!”

  “Good thinking,” Pullus muttered, though the appearance of Vespillo at his side also shattered the momentary pause, and immediately, the Crassoi surrounding the pair began launching their attacks on them, understanding that they couldn’t afford to allow the attackers to gain this toehold.

  The span of the next several heartbeats were filled with flashing glints of iron, where Pullus and Vespillo responded as much by instinct, reacting to the flurry of thrusts, aided by the light provided by the flaming shield a few paces away, along with the other fires created by hurled pots of naphtha. One telling indication of the intensity of this short but decisive phase of the fight was that none of the combatants were doing their normal shouting of taunts at their enemies, so that even as Pullus was parrying a thrust from one Crassoi while blocking a slashing blow by another with his shield, he could hear his men behind him as they frantically worked to bring down the stone parapet. Otherwise, the only real sounds were the harsh panting and grunts as men exchanged attacks, punctuated by the deep thudding sound as a blade struck a shield or the sharp ringing tone when iron met iron. Pullus was so focused on not only staying alive but keeping Vespillo’s weak side protected that he was forced to remain on the defensive, something that was completely against his natural proclivity to the offensive, but he was experienced enough to realize this was the best course of action at the moment. And, so absorbed was he that he didn’t even notice that, to his left rear, there was another fight that matched his own in fury, as the Crassoi in the rank next to the stone parapet desperately tried to keep his men from pulling the loosely embedded stones from the dirt. Although it was true that the stone parapet wasn’t securely anchored in the dirt portion of the wall, the stones themselves were dressed and held together with mortar, which meant that they had to come down in one piece. Naturally, this compounded the difficulty, and two of Pullus’ men fell, one dead and one severely wounded, despite their comrades’ attempts to protect them while they were yanking furiously at the wall. Nevertheless, the men immediately behind them didn’t hesitate in leaping forward, even as their comrades on either side in the second rank crouched down to grab the bodies of the two fallen, one of them inert as his life force had already been spent, while the other, despite the gaping wound in his upper chest, tried to aid his comrades by scrambling backward. In this manner, the wall finally loosened, but it was the Optio, Lutatius, who had come from his spot in the rear who saw an opportunity.

  “Don’t pull it towards us, you stupid bastards! Push! Push!”

  This was instantly obeyed, and it served two purposes; pushing the wall towards the Crassoi forced the defenders to make a choice. They could either try and lean over and stab downward at their foes who were pushing the loosened parapet towards them or they could drop their shields and relinquish their hold on whatever weapon they were using to focus on resisting the Romans’ attempt to topple it, but they couldn’t do both. It was the Centurion, wearing a white crest just like the Primi Pili of Caesar’s army, though of a different style, and stationed in the customary spot for his Century on the right-hand side of his own formation which placed him on the opposite side from Pullus, who made the decision, immediately and without hesitation.

  “Drop your shields! Don’t let these cunni knock over this wall! Put your backs into it, boys! Let’s show these boy-lovers what real men can do!”

  Like the veterans they were, the Crassoi instantly obeyed their own Primus Pilus, and while there was no blood drawn, this battle within a battle was no less deadly, as every man realized that once that parapet came down, the defenders lost an enormous advantage. What resulted was something akin to the kind of tug of war that were features of Legion festival days, as one side tried to impose its will on the other in the most basic, and brutal, fashion. Meanwhile, Vespillo had managed to take advantage of a lapse by the foe to his own immediate left, the enemy’s right hip almost pressing the parapet, dropping the man with a quick thrust behind his wicker shield, then immediately calling to Pullus to warn him he was sliding into a spot that would put him closer to where he could aid in the struggle to topple the wall. Pullus reacted immediately, summoning an extra burst of energy to execute a savage punch with his shield to send the Crassoi that was standing roughly between him and Vespillo staggering backward. The Crassoi recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to stop Pullus from closing the gap to Vespillo. Nevertheless, in a last, desperate attempt to keep the Centurion separated from his comrade, the man made a lunging thrust, and Pullus didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the mistake by the Crassoi, who had overextended his sword arm. There was the briefest instant where the two combatants’ eyes met, and Pullus read the dismay, fear, and what he thought was resignation in the expression of the Crassoi, followed by the sudden widening of the eyes as Pullus’ blade shot through the gap between the man’s shield and sword arm to punch through the chain mail as if it wasn’t there. Somewhat unusually, Pullus didn’t follow through in the manner in which Romans were trained, twisting then withdrawing the blade in a ripping motion that was designed to cause maximum damage, but it wasn’t because of any feelings of sympathy for another Roman, just of expediency. That hadn’t always been the case; during the early stages of the Pompeian civil war, Titus Pullus and most of his comrades had been reluctant to be as savage with their countrymen when they met as they had been fighting Gauls, but that had been before men like Afranius, Petreius and, worst of all, Titus Labienus, had ordered the execution of Caesarian Legionaries. Now, his decision had nothing to do with mercy and everything to do with the fact that, like his Gregarius, he had seen the moment of decision was at hand, meaning that he and the ranker could tip the balance. Because of his height, he could look over the heads of the double line of Crassoi who had turned to their left to face the two Caesarians in an attempt to protect not only themselves, but their comrades, upon whom their immediate safety depended, while Pullus and Vespillo were now protected to their rear by both Paterculus, and several more Gregarii of the first file who had leapt over the parapet. If the wall came down, this thin Crassoi line would be isolated, caught between the two Romans to their front and an onrushing enemy to their rear, so their defense was as
animated as Pullus and the Gregarius’ attack was ferocious. While his concentration never wavered from the men immediately to his front, Pullus clearly saw the sudden appearance of a white, transverse crest just above the plumed helmets of the mass of Crassoi who were either bent over, pushing against the stone parapet, or bracing those men by grasping the leather harness of the man in front of them. Understanding that this had to be the Primus Pilus of the Crassoi, like the dominant male in a pack of wolves, Pullus instantly turned his focus from trying to help his men topple the wall to marking this man as if he was a challenger for his supremacy of the pack. And, when their eyes met once the Crassoi Centurion drew close enough, Pullus could see that his counterpart understood the same thing; for both men, the larger fight was no longer as important as this one.

  Caspar had wanted to close with the giant Primus Pilus as soon as he recognized the man charging across the dirt bridge, but there hadn’t been any opportunity to do so at first. Then, once it became clear that the attackers had discovered that the stone parapet wasn’t anchored and their best hope lay in toppling it, he had been occupied with this more immediate crisis. Within a matter of heartbeats, the flurry of motion as his men tried to stab down at their attackers had stopped, with those in the front rank now all bent over at the waist, their hands propped against the stone wall as they used every bit of their strength to push back. After Caspar had given the order for his men to drop their shields and weapons in an attempt to stop the wall from coming down on top of them, his first thought had been to send his men who were on the sloping part of the ramp waiting to relieve a fallen comrade or be whistled forward in a fighting rotation up to the wall in between the files to add their strength to the wall, and his men quickly obeyed. Not surprisingly, their foes did essentially the same thing, although Caspar was still disappointed to see it happen. His next thought was to try and divert men from his Second Century deployed to his right, along with the Sixth Century of the Third Cohort on his opposite side over the parapet and down into the ditch to attack the Romans on the dirt bridge from the flanks. However, whether or not the big Primus Pilus had ordered it beforehand, or his Centurions had taken the initiative on their own, it only took a quick glance to see that there were now Romans down in the ditch, arrayed on either side of the dirt bridge, and they hadn’t hurled their javelins. To his disappointment, they seemed to be poised for just such an attempt, their shields all raised, with javelins poised in readiness for any attempt on the part of the Crassoi to cross over the parapet and drop down into the ditch. For the span of perhaps two heartbeats, he considered countermanding his earlier order to his Centurions that they resist the urge to hurl their own javelins, because he was still certain they would be better employed as makeshift siege spears. Then, on the far side of the formation, he saw that the large Primus Pilus and one of his Gregarii had managed to carve out enough space to allow not only their Aquilifer, but what he quickly counted was another half-dozen men to gain the rampart. Without any conscious thought, Caspar had already begun moving in the direction of the small knot of the enemy, surrounded by his own men who were, even in this instant, trying desperately to penetrate the thin wall of shields presented by the Romans who had gotten on the Crassoi side of the parapet.