Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Pullus and the men of five Cohorts of the 10th had to work frantically to accomplish what Caesar had ordered them to do, and as was his habit, in an impossibly short period of time. Moving from one Century to the next, he supervised the distribution of the barrels containing the cast lead shot for the Legionaries’ slings, where they were arrayed along the rampart of the circumvallation. To an uninformed observer, the fact that this was being done on the rampart of the circumvallation was singularly odd, and when their next task was to loosen the stakes holding down the legs of the scorpions that were pointing in the direction of Susa, instead turning them around in the opposite direction, only served to deepen the mystery. Perhaps, if an observer was given the gift of flight, they would have seen that, as this was taking place, there was movement emanating from the two camps flanking Susa to the east and west, but not along the rampart, or even along the open ground between the two Roman lines. The sight of a Legion from each camp, making their way slowly along the bottom of the ditch as they navigated their way northward might have given a glimpse of Caesar’s overall plan; when the men of the 3rd Legion suddenly began falling back, descending the earthen ramp of the contravallation to head for the circumvallation, this would likely have been enough to recognize there was a trap being laid, but only to an observer who was able to see how these things were happening simultaneously. Once their task was done, Pullus led his Centuries back to where the rest of his Legion were waiting, arrayed in a manner similar to the one in which the 3rd was doing, scrambling up the dirt ramp of the circumvallation, except they were back to facing in the opposite direction, towards Susa instead of towards Kambyses and his spad, who even then were moving rapidly across the open ground between the two Roman entrenchments. While Pullus and his working party had been busy preparing the Roman lines for the next phase of Caesar’s new plan, Balbus had been just as busy doing much the same thing, turning the abandoned Crassoi scorpions around to face Susa. The ballistae, however, were a different matter altogether; they hadn’t been emplaced with the idea of being moved. Consequently, they were built in place so that even if he could have found wheels, there was nowhere on the frame of the piece to which they could be attached. Despite this, the Primus Pilus Posterior was satisfied that they were as prepared as it was possible to be, although he didn’t share Caesar’s confidence that there would be a Crassoi counterattack. This wasn’t due to a lack of faith in Caesar, but because Pullus had taken long enough only to give him his orders, without explaining why their general was confident the gates of the city would be opening. As usual, once their respective tasks were done; Scribonius’ Cohort had been given the responsibility of scavenging for usable javelins, though they had been disappointed to find that most of theirs had bent, either in a shield or the body of a Crassoi, the pair of Centurions gravitated towards each other, and were now standing there, watching their men.

  Regarding the Crassoi wounded, like his counterpart Caspar, Pullus hadn’t given orders to tend to them, but in his case, it was because there had been no need. The 10th’s medici, including Diocles, were busily working, although they had started with the 10th’s wounded first and were now seeing to the needs of the Crassoi. With the sun now well above the horizon, the most immediate concern for all the men was the heat, which sent men scrounging again, this time for flasks of liquid, most of them happy because those they recovered were full of uncut wine and not water. Despite the fact that none of them, Centurions included, knew exactly what was going on, the rankers worked quickly at the various tasks they had been assigned, understanding that if their general deemed it important, that was all they needed to know in the moment. With the scorpions turned about, now manned by the immunes of the 10th instead of the Crassoi, and with Pullus’ return, the final dispositions were made, which meant that the order of the Cohorts were rearranged, putting the First to the far left, aligned directly in front of Susa’s main gate, while the 12th remained in their normal configuration with the First on the far right. This placed the two Primi Pili next to each other, and Pullus used the time as they waited to fully inform Balbinus about Caesar’s plan.

  “You’re going to hear a lot of noise behind us,” Pullus began, then proceeded to explain why.

  He deliberately omitted a detail, but Balbinus was a clever man in his own way, and he immediately grasped the significance.

  “You mean,” Balbinus gasped, “he’s going to let those cunni loot our camp??”

  “Keep your voice down!” Pullus hissed, grabbing Balbinus by the bicep and squeezing hard enough to make the man yelp. “No, he’s not letting them! He’s just not…” Even as Pullus said this, he realized how it sounded, so he finished lamely, “...stopping them if that’s what they decide to do.”

  “Oh, that’s so much better,” Balbinus grumbled, rubbing his bicep as he glared up at Pullus. “But,” he allowed grudgingly, “I can see how that might arouse suspicions, that the 3rd was pushed off the wall but then have enough vinegar to fight for the camp.” Thinking about it more, he shrugged. “Besides, I suspect that that bastard Kambyses is going to have more on his mind than letting his men get rich. But,” he finished with a protest, “you didn’t have to crush my arm to make your point!”

  “Apparently I did,” Pullus retorted, “because you were…”

  He got no further, as a shout arose from dozens of voices who alerted the two Primi Pili in time for them to see the gates of Susa slowly opening, and the massed men standing in the gateway, ready to throw themselves at their foes.

  “Mars and Bellona,” Balbinus thrust out his arm, using the abbreviated version of the traditional blessing, which Pullus returned as he grasped Balbinus’ forearm, and surrendering to an impish impulse, squeezed, hard. This prompted yet another yelp of pain, then Balbinus muttered, “Really? Do you always have to do that?”

  “Yes.” Pullus grinned, and with a laugh, the two men returned to their Legions.

  “Hurry up! You’re moving too fucking slow!” Aquilinus snapped at the section of men a few paces ahead of them, but one of them was his Optio, who refused to be hurried.

  “If we do and you’re the one who steps onto a lily,” the Optio shot back, using the term that Caesar’s men had adopted for the booby trap their general had devised for Alesia, “you’ll have us all striped bloody.”

  Despite himself, the Primus Pilus of the 7th grimaced, acknowledging to himself that Optio Rufius was probably right. “All right,” he muttered irritably. “Just…hurry up.”

  It would have been so much simpler if Caesar had allowed them to move into their new position using the rampart of the contravallation, or even to march along the open ground between the contra- and circumvallation, but he also understood why they couldn’t do that. This was a complex plan under any circumstances; that it had been thought up and executed in less than a third of a watch meant that there were a myriad of nagging details that went unattended, and one of them was the lack of time to retrieve a copy of the map detailing the defenses, which included the sections of the ditch where the obstacles like the “lilies” were located, which were iron hooks attached to a block of wood, buried and hidden by a mat of woven plant fiber that was covered in dirt. Without the map, though, the 7th’s progress was painfully slow, and making matters more difficult, at least for the nerves of the men of all ranks, was that being in the bottom of the ditch muffled all the sounds of whatever was taking place out on the ground between the two Roman entrenchments. Aquilinus was also concerned that Clustuminus and his boys in the 8th, who were coming from the eastern camp, would reach the ramp first, which they would be using to ascend up to ground level, then array themselves on the rampart of the contravallation, but like the 10th and 12th, facing inward, towards Susa. The orders Caesar had written down in his wax tablet warned Aquilinus of the likelihood that there would be men, probably Crassoi, left behind by Kambyses to guard against such a possibility, but Aquilinus was more worried about having to listen to Clustuminus bragging about how they had gott
en there first.

  This thought was what made him temporarily forget what had just taken place a few moments before, and he called out to Rufius, “Hurry up! If those bastards in the 8th beat us there, by the Furies, I’ll…”

  Rufius ignored his Primus Pilus as he blustered and threatened him and the rest of the scouting section, refusing to be rushed; Aquilinus would be angry if the 8th beat them, but he would be positively homicidal if Rufius and his section missed one of those accursed traps and it was the Primus Pilus who stepped in it. They might get there slower, but Rufius was determined that they would be whole and unhurt when they did. Besides, he thought to himself, the 8th being the ones to handle those Crassoi bastards wasn’t a bad thing as far as he was concerned.

  Despite his fuzzy head, Caspar was leading the Crassoi as they marched out of the gates, and he could see the figures of the Romans now standing on the rampart, facing them and waiting from the moment the wooden doors swung open.

  “All right, boys,” he called out, “they don’t have a ditch to protect them this time! They got lucky once, but it’s not going to happen again!”

  He was heartened by the instant answer, in the form of a guttural roar, that issued from every man who had heard his words, but while this was an encouraging sign, Caspar was aware that the odds were still stacked against him and his men at this point. They had replenished their supply of javelins, and yes, now Gobryas had released Artaxerxes and his Thousand, holding only the remaining spearmen under Darius as a reserve, the former now marching behind the remains of his command. Honestly, he had had mixed feelings when he learned that his First Cohort had suffered the most losses, but he also knew that what his Secundus Pilus Prior, who now called himself Atarbanus, along with the other Pili Priores, had said was true. Once the Romans began moving along the length of the rampart after they gained control, there was little the rest of the Crassoi could do to fend off an attack from their flank while already engaged by one of the Legions from the other camps that had begun their own assault across the ditch. Caspar didn’t doubt his Centurions had done the proper, really the only thing by withdrawing back to the city, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought, particularly given the cost suffered by his boys. Now it was their opportunity to avenge this humiliation, and while he hadn’t said anything to Pacula, he felt certain that his Optio knew how his Primus Pilus felt; Caspar would either succeed or die in the attempt. While he had no way of knowing it to be the case, he also sensed that most of his men felt the same way. As they drew closer, Caspar saw that, arranged at regular intervals in between the otherwise unbroken lines of shields, the scorpions they had been forced to abandon were now turned about, facing them. The sight of them prompted Caspar to order the halt, no more than a dozen paces away from the outer range of these weapons. Turning to his horn player, he gave the command that sent the Centuries, aligned in a column behind his own, to pivot and begin the process of spreading out into a long line. He had given orders for the odd numbered Cohorts to align to the right of his own First, and the even numbered to the left, so that in a slightly unusual fashion, Atarbanus’ Cohort was to his left, at the end of his line of three Centuries, while the other three were aligned behind them. The Thousand were in what for them passed as a formation, behind the second line of Centuries, poised and ready to exploit a crack in the Roman line, which he saw were arrayed in a single line.

  Performing a quick count, he was slightly relieved to see that there were sixty Centuries, meaning just one Legion, although this was still a daunting number. More of a problem, however, was that by arraying in a double line, the Crassoi front didn’t extend nearly as far in either direction, and he was certain that the Roman Centuries who were outside the edges of his formation would be sweeping down, using the momentum gained from the dirt ramp, to turn perpendicular to his flank and attack at the first opportunity. It would be up to the men in the second line at either end to meet this threat, and although he didn’t hold out much hope that those Centuries could defeat the Romans, Caspar was determined that they didn’t need to; they only had to keep the Romans from falling on the rear of those Centuries that would be doing the bulk of the fighting. And, honestly, just as the Romans had done to them, Caspar knew that the spot to concentrate all their efforts on was where the dirt bridge was located, that the Crassoi themselves had created, what, just the night before? That seemed like a lifetime in the past, but he shoved the thought out of his mind, stepping out in front of his men to get a better view as the remaining Crassoi Centuries fell into their spot. Seeing the standard of the Century at the far end to his left thrust up into the air, once, twice then three times, only then did Caspar turn and look to his right, although he had to wait for the span of a few more heartbeats before receiving the same signal from the Century at the far right. But, the signal did come, and Caspar didn’t hesitate in giving the command to move forward, and with the kind of unison that, despite the circumstances, the men wearing the transverse crest waiting for them on the dirt rampart appreciated, the Parthians from Susa made one last desperate gamble.

  Kambyses’ first indication that all was not as he thought came as he led his cataphractoi around the Roman camp; he was fairly confident that his orders not to tarry and ransack the tents of their enemies would be obeyed, but he decided not to tempt fate. It was a slight yet costly delay, but it was what Kambyses saw when his view of the Roman circumvallation was no longer obstructed by the Roman tents that made it feel as if his heart leapt into his throat; all along the rampart, Legionaries in the leading two ranks were now swinging their arms in a circular motion over their heads. Unbidden, a memory flashed before his inner eye of a slope, bare of anything other than the corpses of both men and animals, as Pacorus and his spad learned that the Romans had their own version of a secret weapon. Not, perhaps, as gruesome and demoralizing as flaming naphtha, but still deadly effective, the lead missiles with the razor-sharp edges beginning to streak towards the oncoming Parthians, each one moving faster than the eye could track. Even with the wind in his ears, he clearly heard a distinct, slashing sound of a narrow miss. The same couldn’t be said for some men behind him, and although he was unable to hear the actual impact of the lead missiles, the sudden cries of both men and animals told him what he needed to know. For the span of a heartbeat, Kambyses slowed from the canter to a brisk trot, suddenly not certain that pressing the attack was a good idea, but his mind quickly compared the situation and conditions between that first battle on the ridge and this one. They had been laboring uphill the first time, and over a greater distance; the use of the sling and, more importantly, its deadly effect had been a shock, but it was his recognition that, whereas the fight for the ridge was the first serious battle between Rome and Parthia, this one was the last, and the only chance to repel these Romans. A victory here wouldn’t necessarily send the Romans home, but he knew very well a defeat would end the Parthian hopes. Consequently, while it was farther away than he wanted, he understood that speed was now essential. Unlike the rank and file cataphractoi, Kambyses wasn’t carrying a lance, so he drew his sword, longer than the Roman spatha and slightly curved, waving it around his head in an unconscious imitation of the Roman slingers, and he bellowed with every bit of power his lungs could muster.

  “To the gallop! For Phraates! For Susa! For Parthia!”

  Kicking his mount in the ribs, the animal responded immediately, as did the men behind him who, in accordance with their practice, had recognized their commander’s intent, so that two men urged a bit more speed from their own horses to draw even with Kambyses’ animal’s hindquarters, while three cataphractoi, then four, followed suit. Before they had covered a hundred paces, now within fifty of the dirt ramp, the Parthians had formed their dreaded wedge, a compact and powerful weapon in itself, composed of armored men and horse, essentially plunging like a dagger into the Roman lines. And, leading them, now holding his sword out and to the side as a substitute for a lance, Kambyses unleashed the pent
-up shame at his captivity and the requisite rage that came with it, aiming for the man he considered responsible for it all, identifiable by the scarlet standard that fluttered in the weak breeze. Caesar was somewhere in that mass of waiting men, and Kambyses was grimly determined that the two men meet once more.

  Caesar had recognized Kambyses from a distance, and while he wasn’t surprised to see his former captive veer towards where he was standing just underneath his personal standard, he had no intention of facing the Parthian in single combat. First, he didn’t need to; his courage had been proven to his men on so many other occasions, he was certain they wouldn’t take it amiss that he didn’t push himself up between the files to meet this onrushing enemy. But, more importantly, Caesar had come to realize that he was simply too old for such antics, though he would never utter this aloud. No, he was content to stand just behind the rearmost rank of the First Century of the Second Cohort once more, trying not to think about their reduced numbers and wondering if the Crassoi, who he had let believe they had forced the Romans back to the circumvallation, were treating his wounded with the same care he had ensured theirs were. The men in the leading ranks had stopped using their slings by this point, with just a matter of heartbeats before Kambyses brought his wedge of Parthians slamming into the Roman ranks, the men of the first rank quickly dropping to one knee at the base of the ramp, positioning their shields in front of them, while the men of the second rank were bracing them as they prepared for what was coming. The third and fourth ranks, aided by the height of the slope up to the turf rampart, were frantically swinging their arms above their heads only long enough to get momentum before loosing their lead missile, then reloading as quickly as they could. The sharpened edges of the projectiles raked the onrushing Parthians, with the horse belonging to the cataphract to Kambyses’ right rear quarter taking a direct hit to its chest that tore through the lamellar armor blanket that brought it to its knees, sending its rider vaulting headfirst over the animal to slam into the ground with a force that the men who saw it knew would be fatal. Simultaneously, the face of the rider to Kambyses’ left rear suddenly seemed to erupt in a spray of blood with enough power that he performed an involuntary backward somersault, yet even so, Caesar could see it wouldn’t stop the Parthians. Although he was heartened that in the two volleys the men of Spurius’ middle ranks managed that they had inflicted casualties, it wasn’t enough to do more than slightly blunt the attack, let alone stop it. Dividing his attention between the Parthians directly to his front and the Romans to his right who weren’t under direct attack and were still loosing their missiles to rake the flank of the Parthian formation, he was suddenly afraid Spurius had left his next command too late.