Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Chapter Seven

  “Excellency. Excellency!” Kambyses sat bolt upright, his heart hammering as his mind moved from sleeping to wakefulness, momentarily confused at the sight of the stars above his head and the dark figure of one of his attendants looming over him. “It is the time you asked to be awakened, Excellency, just before dawn.”

  Kambyses gave no verbal reply, although he did nod, but he had to stifle a groan when he climbed to his feet, feeling the bone-deep ache that came from being old and sleeping on hard ground. Shaking out his arms and legs, still without saying anything, he extended a hand, into which some dried fruit and a hunk of bread was placed, which he chewed listlessly while his personal body slaves hurried about, preparing his armor. When they dropped it over his head and onto his shoulders, he felt the clammy damp of the leather lining, reminding him that he hadn’t been out of it long enough for his own sweat to dry. Grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling, he pulled on each gauntlet, while two of his servants tightened the leather laces that ran down the sides of his lamellar armor. Finally, the pair knelt to strap on the Parthian version of greaves, although these extended up above the knee. By the time they were finished, the Parthian general noticed the pinkening of the eastern sky, but a quick glance about told him that his army was already up and making their own final preparations. Standing atop the hill, which was probably no more than twenty feet above the table-flat surrounding ground, the light was rapidly growing strong enough that he was able to pick out the Centurion commanding the Crassoi from among his men, and almost forgetting his own orders, he opened his mouth to call Gemellus to attend to him. With some chagrin, he remembered in time his own admonition, instead sending one of his slaves who had finished his task to summon the Centurion.

  Intaphernes, meanwhile, came striding up the low slope, bringing the Parthian commanders of the subordinate contingents; horse archers, represented by two men, Fariel and Imanish, while the four drafshi of cataphractoi would be commanded by Gaumata and Roshan, each leading two apiece, although Intaphernes held the overall command of all of the cavalry. Before Kambyses began speaking, he held up a hand to silence his brother, indicating with his head that they would wait for the Crassoi Centurion, who was just approaching. Despite retaining his Roman name, Gemellus’ decade of service for Parthia had darkened him to the point that, until he opened his mouth, he could have been mistaken for one of Kambyses’ countrymen, an effect that was furthered by Gemellus’ cultivation of that carefully groomed beard, although Kambyses noticed that he hadn’t oiled it in the Parthian fashion on this morning, and the Parthian general idly wondered if this was meaningful. However, whenever Gemellus opened his mouth, while he spoke the Parthian tongue, it was with such a pronounced Latin accent that he was hard to understand.

  “The men are ready, Excellency,” Gemellus began speaking, which Kambyses saw irritated his younger brother, but when Intaphernes seemed about to make an issue of it, Kambyses gave him a curt shake of the head. “We have four dozen ladders,” Gemellus ticked off one finger, “and we’re going to carry both javelins.” Another finger raised. “We are using bags of forage to throw into the ditch, although we don’t have enough to fill it,” the third finger was followed by the fourth, “and we have pots of naphtha.” This was where he stopped, his face reflecting his hesitance. “But,” he continued cautiously, “Excellency, I feel I must remind you that…”

  “Yes,” Kambyses interrupted patiently, “they’re to only be used as a last resort because they are so…finicky.” Giving Gemellus what passed for a reassuring pat, Kambyses felt strange as he said, “I trust your judgment, Gemellus. Whatever it takes, yes?”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Gemellus nodded, and if he was hesitant, he hid it well from Kambyses, “you can count on us.” Then, while it was offered as an afterthought, the Crassoi said something that reminded Kambyses that these Romans weren’t likely to waver when facing their former countrymen. “Our families are inside those walls, Excellency. So we’re going to do whatever we have to do in order to keep them safe.”

  When put that way, Kambyses realized there was nothing more he could say to Gemellus, so he didn’t try. Turning to his brother, he bit his lip to avoid snapping at Intaphernes, who looked very much like he had when he had been a boy and deprived of some treat, simply because the Crassoi had been allowed to start.

  “You,” although he addressed Intaphernes in his normal command tone, he glared a warning at his younger brother, “will be in overall command of all the mounted troops, brother.”

  Bowing his head in recognition of this, Intaphernes said humbly, “I will not fail you either, Excellency.”

  “I know you won’t,” Kambyses replied, then in one of only a handful of moments Intaphernes could remember, he grinned at his younger brother, “because if you do, I will tell our mother the next time I see her.”

  Intaphernes’ eyes widened, partially in shock at this jest by his brother, but with an unexpected stab of fear at the mention of the matriarch of their family, who even now in her eightieth year, was the true power behind the satrapy of their house. She had once been a great beauty, it was said; Intaphernes was her last child, but he vividly recalled his mother from his childhood and thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. It was her mind and iron will, along with a level of cunning and strategic insight that would have done no shame to even a man like Phraates that made her so formidable, and even now, a credible threat, and both men knew their mother had been largely responsible for their branch of the family’s rise to prominence and power in the ever-shifting Parthian court.

  “You wouldn’t,” Intaphernes gasped, mostly to play along and enjoy such a rare moment of brotherly levity with his stern, much older brother.

  “Don’t fail and you won’t find out,” Kambyses’ grin was gone by the time he finished. Turning to the two nobles who commanded the archers, he addressed them both. “You’re going to suffer high casualties,” he told them bluntly, “but this can’t be helped. You must get close enough and you must drown them with your arrows!” Pointing, Kambyses indicated where several dozen camels were even then being loaded with wicker baskets, filled with sheaves of missiles. “They will accompany you, and they will be stationed in a line no more than three hundred paces from their wall.”

  “Excellency,” it was Fariel who spoke, his tone cautious, “we could inflict more damage if you allowed us to use fire.”

  Despite the fact that this had been broached before, Intaphernes took it as a sign of Kambyses’ distraction that, shortly after making a joke, he didn’t explode at Fariel’s refusal to drop a subject that the minor nobleman had had the audacity to bring up on at least three occasions during this last movement alone.

  “We could, Fariel,” Kambyses agreed, which clearly shocked Fariel as much as it did Intaphernes, “but answer this. How many arrows can your men loose over the span of a hundred paces?”

  As Kambyses suspected, Fariel, who was barely competent with what was considered by men of his class as the peasant’s weapon of composite bow, didn’t answer, and despite the darkness, Kambyses saw him reddening, but he was rescued by his counterpart Imanish, who answered quickly, “At a full gallop, at least seven, perhaps eight times, Excellency.”

  “And, how many if they have to light the arrows?”

  “Less than half that,” Imanish replied, just as quickly; he had argued with Fariel about this for almost the entire approach march, but his co-commander was not only stubborn, he was one of the nobility who thought that his bloodline automatically endowed him with acumen in all things, military matters in particular.

  “And,” now Kambyses’ gaze hardened as he stared at Fariel, “how likely is it that a man sets himself on fire rather than killing an enemy?”

  For, ultimately, this was the crux of Kambyses’ refusal to consider this. It had been tried, and while the Parthian nobility weren’t renowned for their concern for the men of the ranks, the chances of self-immolation were so great t
hat Kambyses couldn’t recall the last time a Parthian commander had been desperate enough to try it. He was desperate, he granted to himself, but not that much. With this manner disposed of, Kambyses moved a step so he could see past his officers, looking southward. It was still mostly dark, but now there was just enough light that he could see the shadowy line of the Roman outer entrenchments, although he still couldn’t see Susa’s walls, well short of two miles distant from the outermost Roman lines, and less than three from this spot. After a moment, he made out the landmark for which he was looking and pointed to it.

  “There are the two towers, with the raised ramp in between them,” he said, watching his officers follow his finger. Once he was satisfied they all saw what really looked like two sticks flanking one that was clearly wider from this distance, he continued, “This will be the central point, where the archers will make their parallel run for,” he thought for a moment, then said “two hundred paces in each direction before you turn away to repeat the circle. Fariel,” Kambyses ordered, “you will lead your drafsh to the right side of the ramp, and Imanish,” he pointed to the other side, “you will do the same on the left. Remember,” he added as a final admonishment, “we need the sun to be blotted from the sky! Any Roman who is foolish enough to risk sticking his head out from behind his shield should get an arrow through his face for his trouble!”

  When both men knuckled their foreheads, Kambyses dismissed them, turning to his brother and the two nobles who commanded the heavy cavalry.

  “You will follow behind the Crassoi, but stop short of their artillery range and wait there for the signal.”

  Since they had the most straightforward part of this plan, Kambyses didn’t waste any more time with them, but when Intaphernes turned to go like the other two, his brother stopped him.

  Returning his attention to Gemellus, Kambyses said to the Centurion, “Remember Gemellus, once they start using their artillery…”

  “We go to the double time,” Gemellus answered with a nod. “The faster we get to the ditch, the less pounding we take.”

  “Well, that should do it,” Kambyses said, except that Gemellus made no move, and a look of, if not confusion, then at the very least a questioning expression crossed the Centurion’s face.

  “Excellency,” he spoke hesitantly, “what about the others?”

  “Others?” Kambyses asked blankly. “What…” Then, with a combined sense of embarrassment and shock, it came to him, and he groaned aloud, “The spearmen.”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Gemellus confirmed, and reminded Kambyses, “There are almost four thousand of them left.”

  How, Kambyses thought, could he have forgotten that many men? True, they never marched in the vanguard, and as he had personally witnessed, first on the ridge, then in the defense of Seleucia, their value was dubious, especially in an assault like this; as defenders, they were better, but regardless of their questionable worth, four thousand men was a significant number.

  It was Intaphernes who broke the awkward silence by clearing his throat.

  “Excellency, I have an idea,” he began, then for the next few moments, described what he had in mind.

  Once he was done, Kambyses glanced at Gemellus, gauging the more experienced infantryman’s reaction, and was cautiously pleased to see the Roman nodding.

  “That,” Gemellus said, “could work. But it would mean we’d have to give up some ladders, and that could be a problem.”

  “Why is that a problem?” Intaphernes demanded, clearly nettled that the Crassoi hadn’t wholeheartedly accepted his offered plan. “You said you have four dozen! That should be more than enough.”

  Rather than bristle or show impatience, Gemellus simply replied, “You’d be surprised, Excellency.”

  “How many can you spare then?” Kambyses asked.

  “Ten,” Gemellus answered, but under Kambyses’ steady gaze, muttered, “All right. A dozen.”

  When Kambyses heard the number and compared it to the number of spearmen, he said doubtfully, “That’s not a lot for that many men. Do you think the Romans will notice and smell a trap?”

  The Centurion considered, then allowed, “It’s possible, but I think if you have the men in the front ranks carry them, starting with the second or third rank back, those cunni will see them and will be more worried about what’s going to happen than trying to count how many ladders they’re bringing.”

  This made sense to Kambyses, so he ordered it done, which Gemellus was sent to take care of, leaving just Kambyses and Intaphernes.

  “If we can convince those dogs that we’re attacking in more than one spot, that can only help,” Intaphernes offered, but his brother didn’t answer, prompting Intaphernes to glance over from where he had been idly watching Gemellus hurrying away.

  His brother wasn’t looking at him or anywhere in his direction; instead, he was staring south, so Intaphernes naturally turned to see what Kambyses was watching, and it didn’t take him long to find it. Now that the very upper rim of the sun was just peeking over the horizon, like Kambyses, he instantly could see what appeared to be smoke, rising high in the air.

  “Brother!” Intaphernes exclaimed excitedly. “Look! The Crassoi attack from Susa must have started!”

  “It looks that way,” Kambyses agreed, but there was a clearly cautious note in his voice that caused Intaphernes to stare at him, a stab of concern at the grave expression on his brother’s face.

  “This is a good thing, though,” Intaphernes insisted.

  “It is.” Kambyses suddenly shook his head, as if dismissing his doubts, and he turned and clapped his brother’s shoulder. “So, let’s not keep them waiting!”

  His confidence restored, Intaphernes returned Kambyses’ gesture, and they shook hands in the Parthian manner before each turned and strode to their waiting mounts. Moving to the trot, Kambyses made his way to the head of what had now transformed into several distinct and separate groups. Nodding to the mounted horn player, the Parthian version of the Cornicen blew the notes to start the advance, and with an admittedly ragged unison that no Roman Centurion would have tolerated, the spad of Kambyses began its advance.

  The upper rim of the sun had just poked above the horizon, enabling Caesar and the men of the 3rd to spot the Parthian spad, now clearly subdivided into separate groups, while the first two, which the Romans could now see were mounted archers, separated themselves from the rest of the advance by going to the trot.

  “If it was me,” Caesar commented as he and Pollio stood watching, “I’d send them in first to try and soften us up. Especially,” he held one hand up over his eyes as the sunlight grew in intensity, scanning the dark mass of men and horses, “since they don’t appear to have any artillery.”

  Although Pollio agreed with Caesar’s assessment that this Parthian horde didn’t have even a scorpion, let alone a ballista with them, he felt compelled as the second in command to caution Caesar, “That we can see. It could be that there are wagons that are still being brought up.”

  “True,” Caesar granted, then shook his head, “but if that was the case, they would wait for them. No,” he spoke decisively, “they’re going to use these archers.”

  Spurius was also on the rampart, but on the opposite side of the ramp with the men of his Century, which meant Caesar had to shout to be heard.

  “Primus Pilus, save your javelins for their infantry! Don’t waste them on these archers!”

  Spurius didn’t answer verbally, offering a salute instead, but Caesar saw his mouth moving, and his own quirked in a smile, certain that he knew that the Primus Pilus was cursing him under his breath. Caesar didn’t blame him; it was going to be a hard thing to do, absorb wave after wave of arrows, holding a shield above one’s head until the arm ached, without being able to fight back, but he was equally sure that Spurius understood the futility of flinging javelins at archers who would inevitably be no more than a pace or two farther out than the range of the strongest man with a javelin in the Legion, f
ar enough away to be out of harm but tantalizingly close enough that frustrated men would be unable to resist the urge to return the punishment they were enduring with a similar coin.

  “Caesar, they’re getting close,” Pollio pointed out, “so we need to…”

  “Yes, Pollio,” Caesar cut him off, “you get off the wall and out of range.” Turning to where the tent section of handpicked men were standing, all of them selected by Spurius and given only one responsibility, to protect their general, he beckoned to them. “It’s time you men earned your pay and keep me from making a fool of myself by getting poked full of holes!”

  As he expected, this brought a wave of laughter, not just from his ad hoc bodyguards, but the men arrayed next to him on the wall, belonging to the Sixth Century of the Second Cohort, the rest of the Century lining the wall to the west. His timing, as usual, was impeccable; he was surrounded by Legionaries, all of whom raised their shields above or in front of Caesar just as the leading horsemen of the nearest column, in a staggered double line, went to the gallop, heading directly for the spot where Caesar was standing next to the ramp. Caesar’s vision was obscured by the shields, but the sound of arrows striking his protection was so deafening that any attempt to speak would be fruitless, and it only got worse as the leading riders made a curving turn to begin their parallel run along the rampart. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as missiles began slamming into the upraised shields of first the Sixth, followed by the Fifth, then the other Centuries, what he had thought was loud before seemed as a whisper. Making matters more distressing, interspersed in the clattering din were cries of pain as at least one missile struck flesh rather than wood. This, as Caesar and the 3rd was about to learn, was just the beginning, and for the next sixth part of a watch, they could, and did little more than stand or crouch there, absorbing the punishment meted out by the thousands of arrows that came in a continuous, unrelenting shower of death. This, Caesar thought grimly, must have been what it was like for Crassus in his last moments, but while he turned to say this aloud to where Pollio was standing a short distance away down at the base of the dirt ramp, the noise was simply too overwhelming for anything less than a shout, and he didn’t want to say something that might be construed as defeatism when rankers were around him. Caesar had been standing at the beginning of this, then quickly realized that it was asking far too much of the men around him providing him protection with their shields to stand with their arms extended up above their and his heads, prompting him to kneel.