Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

“Master,” he tried to keep his tone level, as if he was only asking about what Caesar might want for his meal, “do you think it might be a good time to move?”

  Caesar wasn’t fooled, glancing down at Apollodorus with an amused expression, answering blandly, “No, I think I’ll stay put. You, however, have my permission to move off the wall.”

  Swallowing the huge lump in his throat, sending it down to join the one that was always in his belly from his first waking moment on a day of battle, Apollodorus shook his head and answered stoutly, “No, Master. My place is by your side. Wherever it is.”

  He said this last with such a glum expression that, despite the approaching Crassoi, Caesar laughed, but it wasn’t a cruel one, and he reached out and patted Apollodorus on his shoulder.

  “Thank you…”

  “Caesar! Sir!”

  Cut short, Caesar turned in the direction from which the shout came and saw a Legionary approaching at a run from the western side of the wall to Caesar’s left.

  The messenger slid to a stop, still remembering to salute, but even as it was returned, he gasped, “Secundus Hastatus Posterior Petronius sent me to report that he just spotted another force of infantry approaching directly to our front!”

  This was not unexpected once he had spotted the second infantry force, but although he tried, Caesar’s eyes were unable to penetrate the veil of dust that was still being churned up as the archers who, far from withdrawing now that their infantry was close to the ditch, had simply shifted their punishment farther down the wall, effectively pinning down the higher numbered Cohorts of the 3rd from detaching men to come help repel the coming assault around the wooden ramp. Only about half the files of the Century next to them, the First of the Second, were sufficiently out of, if not the range but the attention of the mounted archers, to have dropped their shields, something that worried Caesar. Surely, he thought, they’re going to have to stop loosing so close to where their own men are going to be climbing the wall. After another moment’s observation, he convinced himself that they were just cutting it awfully fine, and he felt a grudging respect for Kambyses, knowing this was the kind of decision that could haunt a commander…if it didn’t work out. His eyes had never left the direction in which the messenger had indicated, and he was finally rewarded by the dissimilar style and pace of movement that differentiated mounted men from those on foot. In the same manner in which he had first determined that it was the Crassoi approaching through the cloud of dust and who were now just paces away, after watching for a few heartbeats, Caesar felt himself relax slightly; these men were approaching in a much different way than the Crassoi, without any precision of movement, and almost with a shambling gait that no self-respecting Roman Legionary would use, even if they were Romans fighting for Parthia.

  “Spearmen, regular Parthian infantry,” Caesar announced, then turned his attention to the runner. “Go tell Petronius that these aren’t Crassoi heading his way, but regular Parthian spearmen. They shouldn’t give the Sixth any trouble. Should they, Gregarius?” He grinned at the man, who returned it readily enough, already imagining how he would be telling his tent mates around the fire about the nice chat he had had with Caesar on this day.

  “No, sir,” he replied, then with another salute, he departed back to his Centurion.

  “Caesar!”

  This came from Pollio, who was still standing down on the ground behind the wall, but when Caesar responded, his second merely pointed, this time to Caesar’s right, and the general saw another Legionary coming at a run, this one from the eastern side of the wall. Since he had farther to run, he needed a moment to catch his breath after rendering his salute.

  Finally, he managed, “Tertius Pilus Prior Cinna reports that we’ve spotted another infantry force approaching our direction directly to our front!”

  This time, Caesar didn’t even try to peer through the dust; not only was it farther, but now that this second force had closed with their position, the vertical portion of the ramp effectively blocked his view of much of that side.

  Pursing his lips, Caesar considered for a moment, but it was more an instinct that convinced him and prompted him to tell this messenger, “Go inform Primus Pilus Spurius of this. He should be,” Caesar pointed to a spot just beyond the opposite edge of the wooden ramp, where the men of the First Century of the First Cohort were standing ready, “right over there. Tell him what you told me, but also tell him that it’s not Crassoi coming on his right flank. It’s just spearmen, and he shouldn’t devote any more men than necessary to make sure they don’t gain the wall.”

  Although it took two attempts, the messenger managed to repeat the order, then sprinted back in the direction from which he came, mounting the earthen wall in search of Spurius once he reached the other side of the raised wooden ramp. Returning his attention to the more immediate situation, Caesar was in time to see that, finally, Pacuvius and his crew had managed to inflict more damage on the Century to the right, but he could also see that it wouldn’t be enough to stop them. And, by this time, the leading Centuries had managed to pass the point where the stones were now dropping onto the second row of Centuries, as the leading elements reached the edge of the ditch.

  “Ready javelins!”

  The command came from the Secundus Pilus Prior, and while Caesar was happy to see that the entire First Century and part of the Second were sufficiently out of the path of the archers who were still circling, farther down the wall, he also knew it wouldn’t be enough to come close to stopping the enemy. Thinking quickly, he realized this was a moment where he wasn’t helping, because he and his ad hoc bodyguard had claimed a span of perhaps a dozen paces from the edge of the wooden ramp, more than enough for two and perhaps three enemy ladders, while he and the six men with him wouldn’t be nearly enough to repel those Crassoi who used them.

  “Pilus Prior!” he bellowed, but he was moving as he did. “Shift your men down here! Hurry!”

  Scrambling down the dirt ramp, Caesar watched anxiously as the men of the First of the Second slid to their right, understanding as they did so they would be sacrificing at least one volley of javelins, though that couldn’t be helped. Fortunately for the Roman cause, the First moved rapidly, but while there was now a gap between the First and Second Century, the Pilus Posterior thought quickly and moved the rearmost ranks, the sections who were kneeling on the dirt ramp, over to fill it. Despite moving with alacrity, Caesar sensed that there would only be time for one volley of javelins before the Crassoi were close enough to respond with a volley of their own. It was true the defenders were aided by the extra height afforded by both the wall, and the depth of the ditch, but as Caesar expected, before his men could launch their second javelin, the Crassoi were within range to fling their own. This was evidenced when perhaps a half-dozen men along the stretch of wall under assault suddenly either staggered backward, with the shaft of a javelin protruding from some part of their body, or at least in one case that Caesar could see, disappeared because he toppled over the sod parapet and down into the ditch. Then, although his view was obscured by the ranks of men, just by their demeanor and the shouts, Caesar knew that the Crassoi ladders had touched the wall, his wall. Now the real fight would begin.

  This expanse of time, as he watched Gemellus and his men absorbing the punishment meted out by the Roman artillery, then descend into the ditch to throw their ladders against the dirt wall, was one of the most excruciatingly tense of Kambyses’ life. His archers, although they were still circulating in front of the Roman wall, were understandably moving more slowly, their mounts having grown tired, while the spearmen were only now nearing the edge of the ditch on either side. For reasons that Kambyses had no way of knowing, but was happy about, the stones that had punished the Crassoi from the Roman artillery didn’t inflict any damage on his native infantry. The missiles from what he knew the Romans called the scorpions, however, were a different matter altogether, and it appeared to Kambyses that their full fury had been turned on the
spearmen, which he assumed was because they were still on flat ground and not down in the ditch. Despite the punishment, Kambyses was heartened and impressed by the resolute fashion in which these peasants, drawn from the lowest class of Parthian society, nevertheless pressed forward, showing no inclination of turning and running. In one respect, their function was important, and at least to this point, they were fulfilling it admirably, forcing the Roman defenders to expend ammunition and effort on these twin advances on either side of the main objective. Regardless, the crucial part of the attack was concentrated around the ramp, and Kambyses watched as the ranks of his Crassoi continued forward, then vanished from sight as they dropped into the ditch. He was just able to see the ladders that were thrown up against the dirt wall, rising out of the ditch to a point that he estimated was no more than two feet below what he knew was a turf rampart, though it was only waist high, which he had assumed was by design and that the Romans would be resting their shields on it to effectively add more height to the defenses. As he sat watching, his heart was beating with such force that, at the bottom of his vision, he could actually see the lamellar armor protecting it twitching slightly, but he forced himself to keep his attention on the main effort.

  Wincing at the sight of the volley of javelins that were hurled downward into the ditch, even as those Crassoi Centuries still waiting to follow their leading comrades responded by flinging their own across the space, he was heartened to see that, while most seemed to have been blocked by a Roman shield, he did see several defenders stagger backward. Nevertheless, it was hard to watch, so instead, he occupied himself with counting the number of ladders thrown against the Roman wall, but even this turned out to be a form of torture, because as he did so, he saw the file of men scaling upwards on one suddenly flung back and downward when the leading Crassoi took what appeared to be a sword thrust to the face. His falling body became a missile itself, serving to knock his comrades off the ladder back down into the ditch, although Kambyses presumed that other than the stricken man, the rest would clamber back up their ladder. If it had been just one ladder and one file, it would have been one thing, but with a growing sense of unease, Kambyses saw this happen again, then again, the entire length of the wall under assault. Once the Centuries that had followed those led by Gemellus expended their supply of javelins, they performed a maneuver that, despite all that was going on, Kambyses watched with an appreciation that was based in the knowledge that his native infantry never could have performed it, sidestepping in unison to his left side of the ramp. When they got within range, once again, the Roman defenders hurled their javelins at the Crassoi Centuries, but while he couldn’t see because of the ditch and the rear ranks, Kambyses was certain that whoever was commanding these Romans had done something slightly different concerning the timing of their barrage of javelins. It was a guess, but a good one; Spurius and his First Century had waited for the moment when the leading Crassoi were dropping down into the ditch, actually waiting until after they had dropped the bags of forage and bundles of sticks into the bottom to soften their landing. Timing their throws, the Romans attempted to hit their selected target in the eyeblink after they stepped forward to drop down into the ditch, forcing the Crassoi to choose between looking down to pick a spot to land, or keeping their attention on the Roman who had selected him as his target, hoping to block the javelin with his shield. The result was that most of those who chose to focus on landing on their feet were bodily struck by a javelin, although there were naturally misses, while those who kept their attention on their attackers, trusting to their particular household gods to protect their landing while blocking the javelin aimed at them with their shield, reached the bottom of the ditch unwounded, but with shields that were now useless as the soft metal shafts bent under the weight of the wooden portion, thereby shearing off the single wooden pin affixing wood to iron. Naturally, there were also men who landed awkwardly, some of them striking a writhing comrade who had chosen the first course of focusing on reaching the bottom of the ditch and had paid the price for it. The scene in the bottom of the ditch was of frenzied chaos, as the men who had survived the first volley of javelins now scrambled to snatch up a shield from a fallen comrade, then move forward towards the opposite side, both to get to a spot that was harder for the Romans just above them to hit, and to make way for the men in the ranks behind them, who were now being subjected to the same dilemma. Then, the supply of Roman javelins was exhausted, and although it was at a cost, including an Optio who took a javelin in his throat, and a Centurion who was now sitting against the wall of the ditch directly under the rampart with a javelin protruding from his stomach but was still trying to direct his men, the Crassoi assault continued. Now that there was a foothold established, only then did the Crassoi carrying the ladders come forward, but in their own different manner, instead of the men carrying it dropping down into the ditch, they passed the ladders to their comrades already down there waiting for them.

  In what would be the last command given by the wounded Centurion, who spent the last of his fading energy to do so, he managed to bellow, “Wait, you bastards! All ladders go up at the same time! All…”

  This was all he managed before he suddenly slumped over, his helmet actually touching the protruding shaft of the javelin that killed him, but it was enough.

  “You heard him, boys! All together!”

  And, while it wasn’t with the kind of precision that Caspar would have appreciated if he had seen it, a total of fifteen ladders were thrust upward, the top having barely touched the dirt before the first Crassoi was moving up it, every one of them desperately determined to do their part to reach their families inside Susa.

  The envelopment of the Crassoi outer entrenchments was essentially accomplished by the end of the full first daylight watch, although neither Pullus nor any of the Primi Pili who were involved could say they were particularly satisfied. Yes, they had captured the position, but in a mark of the veterans they were, with the exception of one Century, every single Crassoi Cohort, once they determined their situation was no longer tenable, had withdrawn in relatively good order back into Susa. Of course, they had suffered casualties, although Pullus had been forced to give credit to the Centurions of the Crassoi, all but one of whom had kept their head, because while they had given ground grudgingly, the resistance had been just strong enough to instill caution in the pressing Romans yet not at as much of a cost as Pullus and the others had hoped to inflict on the retreating men. With the entire northern section of the Crassoi entrenchments secure, and messengers arriving from the other Legions, including the southernmost, where the 5thth, under Batius, had conducted the assault, while the 11th had remained in place in the highly unlikely event that Kambyses chose to circle all the way around to attack from the south, Pullus felt confident enough to leave his Legion under Balbus’ command, with the intent of going to find Caesar.

  While he waited for Diocles to bring the horse Caesar had given him for moments such as this, he explained to Balbus, and Scribonius, who had come from where his Cohort were busily stripping the dead Crassoi, relatively few though they were, “I’m going to go find Caesar and see what he wants us to do.”

  “I can’t imagine that he’d want us to try and press on to Susa,” Scribonius offered.

  “I know,” Pullus agreed, but instead of facing Susa, he turned and indicated the large dust cloud hovering in the air just beyond the contravallation, “but Spurius and his boys may need our help.”

  Balbus and Scribonius exchanged a glance, both of them amused and knowing that this had as much to do with the friendly but spirited rivalry between the two Primi Pili.

  “I can imagine Spurius will be very appreciative,” Scribonius replied wryly, and Pullus grinned, throwing his friends a wink.

  Their conversation was interrupted by Diocles’ arrival, but when he made to cross the dirt bridge, leading the appropriately large horse for the largest Primus Pilus in Caesar’s army, Pullus waved him to a stop. Droppi
ng down onto the bridge, Pullus trotted across, then vaulted into the saddle, something that, as far as he was concerned, only Diocles knew he had been practicing for some time. Immediately going to the trot, Pullus headed for the northern camp, clattering over the lowered wooden ramp of the circumvallation; as he did so, he mused that now that the Crassoi entrenchments were taken, Caesar would probably have this part of the ditch filled in and, along with the ramps that allowed access to what had been the ground between their own lines located at the other camps, dismantle them to use for the siege towers that would be required for the final assault of the city. That, Pullus thought idly as he approached the camp, has been one of the more challenging aspects of this campaign, the lack of wood to create all the things that were normally a feature of any siege conducted by Caesar. Every scrap of lumber his general could procure had been used; the palm trunks that had been cut down by the 11th had turned out to be almost useless because they were so full of moisture that they were still lying in a pile drying out, although he had heard Volusenus tell Caesar recently they were close to being ready for use. Riding through the Porta Praetoria of the northern camp, he reached the forum, but he wasn’t surprised to see that Caesar’s pennant was not flying over the praetorium, which meant he would be with Spurius. Not until he reached the opposite Porta Decumana, leading to the contravallation, could he hear the sounds of the fight, the muffled quality of it telling Pullus that the Parthians were still on the opposite side of the dirt wall. Despite this positive sign, there were already two rows of supine men, the dead distinguished from the wounded by the presence of kneeling medici, and in some cases, a comrade who had presumably been the one to carry the injured man to this makeshift spot. Seeing this, Pullus scanned the rampart, looking on one side of the ramp, then the other, and he could instantly see where Spurius and his men were the most hard-pressed, which unsurprisingly was on either side of the raised wooden ramp. However, when he looked farther down to the spot where the wall curved from its east/west orientation to north/south, he was surprised to see that whatever Cohort Spurius had placed there was being pressed as well. Did they split the Crassoi up? he wondered, dismissing the idea that his comrades in the 3rd could be under assault from the regular Parthian infantry, and in this he was of a like mind with the Parthian commander. Then, he spied Caesar, on the opposite side of the wooden ramp from Spurius, made visible when he stepped back from the bottom of the rampart, the black feathered crest of his helmet and paludamentum all that Pullus needed to make him veer in that direction. Reaching the foot of the ramp, the Primus Pilus saluted Pollio, who was busy coordinating with the couriers that were essentially performing the same task as Pullus, coming from the Primi Pili of the other camps, and realizing that this would be the best place to start to learn of the current situation as it concerned the entire army, he waited for the Legate to finish his instructions to the last courier.