by R. W. Peake
“Thank you, sir,” a voice behind him gasped, “my fuck...er, I mean my cursed arm was about to give out!”
Caesar turned to give the ranker a smile, but in one of the rare instances, his memory failed him when he tried to recall the man’s name, yet another sign of the extreme duress caused by this brutal and overwhelming demonstration of the Parthian prowess with the bow.
Consequently, he instead gave the man a grin and shouted, “If it had given out, it wouldn’t be just your arm that was fucked!”
Precisely as he intended, even as they were almost drowned out by the continued clatter of missiles striking their shields, there was a round of laughter, and Caesar knew that these men would be recounting this story around the fires that night. Provided, of course, they lived.
Caspar frowned at the sight that greeted him the moment he opened his eyes, because it simply didn’t match his last memory. He discerned immediately that he was flat on his back, which meant that he should be looking up at the sky and the stars that were in the position telling him it was shortly before dawn. Instead, he was looking at what it took him a moment to recognize as a ceiling, and a wooden one at that. His head ached abominably, and he unthinkingly reached up to feel the spot, but even a light touch prompted a groan from his lips. Evidently, this sound in turn attracted attention, and he heard the scraping tread of footsteps, then a face thrust itself into his view, looking down at him with a concern that, while Caspar’s mind was still too muddied to determine, was unfeigned. Squinting up, it took an extra heartbeat for him to recognize the face of his Optio, but it was actually his voice that clinched it.
“You had us worried, Primus Pilus.” Pacula’s tone was cheerful enough, but even with the effects of what Caspar had deduced was a serious blow to the head, he could hear it was forced. “But it’s good to see you awake!” Caspar didn’t reply immediately, prompting the Optio’s smile to vanish as he searched his Primus Pilus’ face, trying to determine whether his Centurion still retained possession of his wits.
It was because his throat was so dry that it took two attempts before Caspar finally croaked, “W-where am I?” Pacula’ shoulders slumped in relief, but as Caspar’s sense of awareness returned, it meant that while this may have been his first question, it was far from his last. “What happened? How did I get here?” His voice gained strength and urgency, and it was at this moment he tried to sit up, only then realizing he was actually on a cot, except the stab of pain the sudden movement caused was so excruciatingly intense that it forced the air from his lungs, and he dropped back down to his supine position.
“Easy, Primus Pilus.” Pacula belatedly reached out to stop Caspar, but he had fallen away too quickly, leaving the Optio to just give him an awkward pat on his shoulder. “Like I said, you took a right nasty bash, so you should just thank the gods you’re still with us.”
It was this second mention of what had happened that opened the door in Caspar’s memory to the events that led to where he was, in the form of a vivid image of a scarred face, with eyes that seemed to have not only caught the light of the reflected fire from a burning shield, but magnified in intensity to the point that, for the first time in many years, Caspar recalled the story his Tata had told him about Cerberus, the hound guarding Hades whose eyes were said to glow from the fires of the underworld. The recollection of the moment expanded as that door in his mind opened wider, allowing him to see the moment when, with a speed Caspar hadn’t thought possible for such a large man, the Primus Pilus of Caesar’s 10th had swung his blade above Caspar’s shield, which the Centurion had forced downward. Without warning, Caspar’s body involuntarily shuddered as he came to grips with his brush with death, but he forced himself to turn his mind away from this humiliating and frightening memory by falling back on the familiar.
“Optio Pacula,” he felt slightly ridiculous snapping out this order flat on his back, but it was better than the alternative of dwelling on how resoundingly, and easily, he had been bested by that cunnus giant, “report! What is the status of the First Century? And,” he didn’t try and sit up, although he did lift his head to examine his surroundings, “where is acting Pilus Posterior Priscus? Has he taken command?”
Pacula suddenly looked as if he would rather be back facing the Caesarians, but he did his best to keep his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “Sir, the First Century’s count right now is thirty-one wounded, and,” he swallowed, “twenty dead.”
It sounded like it came from someone else, but Caspar knew it was his voice as he gasped, “What? Are you certain? That’s…” his mind struggled with what was normally a simple operation of arithmetic, but he settled with, “…more than half the Century!” Now it was his turn to swallow hard before asking, “What about the rest of the Cohort?”
Pacula shook his head, but not in the manner in which Caspar feared. “That I don’t know, Primus Pilus. Things are very…confused right now. I haven’t seen Pilus Posterior Priscus since we retreated, but…”
“Retreated?” Caspar asked, incredulous; he had thought that he had been removed back to the city and put in what he now recognized as the small barracks next to the northern gate, which was crammed with wounded men, with what he presumed to be some of those thirty-plus wounded, and he was struck by the random thought whether or not Pacula had included Caspar in the count. Verbally, he demanded, “What are you talking about?”
Pacula shrugged helplessly. “After you went down, the Romans managed to push down the section of the rampart along the dirt bridge, and once that happened…” The Optio lifted his hands in a gesture that needed no interpretation. “…we fell back. Pilus Posterior Priscus kept everything in pretty good order, so we didn't lose as many falling back as we did when we stood and fought.”
If there was an implied rebuke there, Caspar was still too woozy to notice; besides, his mind was already moving on to other matters. With a sudden and growing dull horror as his mind introduced another possibility to the growing list of questions, he forced himself to ask, “What about the other Cohorts? What do you know? Or,” he hated himself for broaching the thing that he dreaded most, “were we the only Cohort to be knocked off the wall?”
Pacula shook his head, replying emphatically, “Oh, no, Primus Pilus! We weren’t the only Cohort to fall back. Although,” he admitted, looking away, “I think we were the first.” Hurrying on, he continued, “Now, I know that the Second and Third are with us here.”
“Here?” Caspar interrupted.
“Yes, sir,” Pacula responded, “here. Inside the city walls.”
Caspar considered this, struggling to comprehend the larger implications of all that he had learned in a short period.
“If,” he spoke slowly, “the three Cohorts along the northern side have retreated back into the city, that gives the Romans a choice. They can either try and follow us, or they can move along the wall in either direction. Or,” he added, “both directions since there were two Legions. One would go east, one west, and if they move fast, they can hit our boys in the flank before they could reposition themselves.”
“That’s true,” Pacula agreed, but he shook his head, “except I don’t think they need to. Like I said, it’s really confused right now, but I heard from a courier sent by Macrinus,” this was the name of the Quintus Pilus Prior, whose Cohort was positioned directly across from the eastern Roman camp, “that they were under assault.”
“That proves my point,” Caspar snapped impatiently, but again, Pacula shook his head.
“No, Primus Pilus,” he said quietly. “This was before the Third Cohort fell back. They were still fighting that second Legion to our right and they hadn’t gained the wall yet. It was an attack from at least one Legion of the eastern camp.”
Caspar didn’t respond immediately, working through the possible explanations, although after a few heartbeats of silence, he had discarded all of them and was down to one, one very unsettling and disheartening reason.
“Somehow, they must have not on
ly figured out that Kambyses’ spy got through to us. Which,” he acknowledged, “wouldn’t be hard to do. If they didn’t kill him, they had to assume he made it over the wall to us, but somehow,” his mouth turned down as the bitter taste of what he was saying hit him, “they must have figured out that Kambyses was about to attack. And once they knew that, they had to understand we’d be attacking from this side as well to try and connect with him.”
Pacula, who had dropped to a squat next to Caspar’s cot, considered this for a moment, then offered, “It could have been a coincidence, couldn’t it? Maybe they had been planning this attack for some time, and it just happened this way?” Caspar didn’t reply, just turning his head to regard his Optio for a long span, prompting Pacula’ shoulders to slump, and he muttered, “No. You’re right. They must have known.” Neither spoke for another several moments, then Pacula asked, “So, now what?”
This served to prod Caspar’s sense of duty, and he answered, “Now,” he swung his legs off the cot as he sat upright, stifling the gasp of pain that forced him to speak through clenched teeth, “I go find out what the fuck is happening.”
Pacula opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but the angry glare from Caspar was enough to change his mind, so with a resigned air that he affected to make sure Caspar knew what a bad idea this was, he offered his Primus Pilus a hand, pulling him to his feet. Then, he steadied Caspar until his superior signaled that he could stand without help.
Caspar glanced down at the foot of his cot, spotting his harness, then asked, “Where’s my helmet?”
The laugh Pacula gave was spontaneous, if ill advised.
“Trust me, Primus Pilus,” he assured Caspar, “you need a new helmet. That one saved your life, right enough, but it’s useless now. But,” he was happy to give Caspar this one scrap of good news, “I took your crest off, so we just need to find you a good helmet and put it on.” His grin faded as he added somberly, “And gods know we have a few to spare now.”
Despite himself, Caspar’s curiosity forced him to return to the event that caused him to be here in this makeshift hospital, and he asked Pacula, “Did you see it happen?”
There was no need to expand on what “it” meant, and Pacula answered with a shake of his head before offering, “No, I was on the other side. But the boys in the first file saw it happen.”
“And?” Caspar pressed, quietly but with an insistent tone. “Why am I still alive?”
Although Pacula possessed more information, he was no less puzzled, which he admitted, replying, “Fuck if I know, Primus Pilus. I mean, I know how you’re alive. That big bastard turned his sword at the last instant and hit you with the flat of it. But as far as why he did it?” He shrugged, then gave Caspar a grim smile. “Just know that I’ll do whatever I can to make it so you can ask him yourself.”
Caspar didn’t reply, but he did reach out and give his Optio an appreciative pat on the shoulder.
Then, he said brusquely, “All right. Enough of this lying about. Follow me and let’s figure out what we need to do now.”
Without waiting, Caspar strode out of the room, and if it was done unsteadily, with the kind of weaving gait of a drunken man, neither the Primus Pilus nor his Optio chose to comment on it.
At the beginning of their attack, Kambyses was actually optimistic. His archers were performing in a manner that, despite his relatively low opinion of men drawn from the peasant class, was noteworthy enough that he reminded himself to single them out for special praise when he met Gobryas. Indeed, for well more than a sixth part of a watch, the word “when” was how Kambyses thought of his immediate future; when his Crassoi breached the wall; when they took the ramp, and when his cataphractoi went sweeping across it to crush the Romans of the northern camp. This outlook was bolstered by the fact that the Crassoi, despite approaching at an angle rather than straight ahead, one of the only errors Kambyses had committed, had been so well protected by the screen of archers galloping in an endless circle that only a smattering of scorpion bolts had been launched, but without inflicting a single casualty aside from a couple of pierced and splintered shields. As far as the archers, who were stopping only long enough to trot over to the camels that were perhaps a hundred paces away from the outside portion of their loop to replenish their quivers before rejoining their comrades, their greatest threat came from their arms, and their horses, fatiguing. This, Kambyses realized, could be viewed as a second error; he hadn’t considered this eventuality, but it was another small problem. After some consideration, he had decided to withhold the spearman from their own advance, which at the last moment he had divided into two groups of roughly nineteen hundred men apiece, waiting until after the Crassoi advance closed to within about four hundred paces of their objective, a spot to the right of the ramp as he was facing it. His reason for this change stemmed from the success of his archers in suppressing any response from the defenders, because his initial intent had been to use the spearman as little more than sponges for the Roman javelins and artillery. But now, as matters unfolded, he began thinking that perhaps the spearmen could play a larger role than he had originally envisioned. Consequently, once he judged the leading edge of the Crassoi, attacking on a narrow front of three Centuries, had reached the spot he had mentally marked, he released the spearmen, who were now beginning their advance. The leading three Centuries of the Crassoi assault; Kambyses had believed this too narrow a front but had been assured by Gemellus that this gave the attackers the best chance for success, were now at a delicate moment, and Kambyses saw that what he had thought was a minor error was potentially much more dangerous to the Parthian hopes.
The archers had been ordered to keep their circles tight enough that there was essentially an open spot between the two galloping forces, each of them rotating in the same direction, so that the bowmen were turned to their left as their horses thundered parallel to the dirt wall, the most natural way for them to launch their missiles. The force to the right began their pass along the wall with the raised ramp to their immediate left, while the one on the left were finishing their pass and curving around the opposite direction, farther away from the wall. Both Fariel and Imanish had been instructed by Kambyses to keep their eye out for Gemellus and the Crassoi, so that when they drew roughly even with the outer arc of the archers’ circles, the two commanders would then tighten their loops with the intent of widening the open expanse of ground in front of the ramp. Nothing wrought havoc on infantry like horsemen colliding with their ranks; when it was unintentional, it would be even more devastating, and Kambyses had been emphatic in his orders to the two young nobles that this must not occur. But now, Kambyses saw that his belief that the Crassoi approaching the ramp at an angle rather than directly was only a minor annoyance wasn’t the case.
“Remind me which one of them is commanding the right hand drafshi?” Kambyses demanded.
Intaphernes, who had trotted the short distance from where the cataphractoi were waiting to be by his brother’s side thought for a moment, then said, “Fariel, I believe.”
This prompted a groan from Kambyses; he should have thought of this! If it had been Imanish leading that effort, he trusted this youngster more than Fariel, who had proven to be a thorn in his side with his constant suggestions and second-guessing. Even in this short span of time, Kambyses saw that there was a catastrophe looming, because in order for the Crassoi to pass unimpeded, Fariel would have to see and understand that not only did he need to tighten his archer’s loops more than the plan had called for, he needed to start doing it sooner than his counterpart Imanish.
“As in, right now,” Kambyses muttered to himself, staring at the scene that was rapidly appearing to be about to turn out badly.
That it was almost impossible to see much—there was light now, but what had been obscured by darkness before was now almost as effectively hidden by the dust raised by thousands of hooves—only increased Kambyses’ anxiety. As he watched helplessly, the leading right-hand Century of the Cras
soi, which Kambyses knew would be Gemellus and his First Century, entered the outer edge of the ground obscured by dust.