Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  “Javelins out!”

  The men in the front two ranks had been waiting for the order so their response was instantaneous, yet even before the command was given, both Caesar and Spurius had known this wouldn’t completely stop the Parthians either, but hopefully would slow them down even further so that their momentum wouldn’t simply sweep the Romans off the rampart and down into the ditch behind them. Not only were there not enough javelins, even if there had been, this was the one situation where the Roman version wasn’t equal to the task of repelling heavily armored horses coming at the gallop, because while the hardened point would likely penetrate the lamellar armor protecting the chest of the Parthian horses, the soft metal of the shaft would simply bend under the enormous pressure created by a galloping beast. Which was exactly what happened with several cataphractoi, just not with Kambyses, and despite expecting it to happen, Caesar winced at the tremendous collision as Kambyses’ animal slammed into the shields of two of his men. Even in the moment, Caesar had to admire the horsemanship, seeing how neatly Kambyses had managed to aim his mount perfectly in between the outthrust point of the javelins of two of Spurius’ Legionaries to catch the edges of both men’s shields. More quickly than the time it takes to blink, the two unfortunate Legionaries were hurled backward with such violence that, even from where Caesar was standing, the reaction was akin to what happened when a rock from a ballista landed in the middle of a formation. Men went sprawling in an outward direction from where Kambyses’ horse penetrated the front rank, while one of the men originally struck had been knocked senseless and unable to scramble out of the way. Amidst the roaring shouts in both tongues, Caesar winced at the shrill but short cry as one of the hard hooves of Kambyses’ mount smashed down into the man’s face, cutting off what would be the last sound he would ever make with a crunching noise that could be heard by everyone within a dozen paces. If this was all that happened, it would be bad enough, but simultaneously, Kambyses was bringing his sword down, hard, onto the helmet of another Roman who had been staggered by the impact and wasn’t in a position to raise his shield. The blood spray as the Parthian’s blade cleaved the Roman’s helmet into two pieces shot into the air high enough that Caesar saw it from his place on the rampart, but there was no time to offer a prayer for either man.

  Displaying the years of experience in these tactics, the cataphractoi immediately behind Kambyses who had moved into the spots of their two fallen comrades now forced their own mounts into the bloody space created by their commander, while those farther back came flowing outward in both directions, using their knees to veer their animals now at the full gallop like a rapidly spreading stain. Meanwhile, Kambyses’ sword was a blur of motion, slashing down one direction, then ending in a thrust past a shield, or into a gap between two Romans in a slicing blow that, while not necessarily fatal, was done with the intent of blinding his foe. In this, he was successful, as the stricken Legionary, suddenly deprived of his sight, lost all composure and sense of awareness, dropping both shield and sword to clutch his ruined face, making him an easy target for the cataphract to Kambyses’ right rear to thrust his iron-tipped lance into the man’s chest. Before three or four heartbeats had elapsed from the instant Kambyses struck the first two men, the Parthians had now forced their wedge three ranks deep into the Roman formation. Despite the resistance from the Legionaries, Kambyses’ momentum had been so great that, although he had been slowed, Caesar could see that he was already perilously close to slashing his way through the formation, enabling him to turn in either direction to attack the other defenders from the flank. He was already wearing his helmet, of course, but now Caesar drew his own sword, appearing to his men to be his normal, unflappable self, watching the Parthian commander as if he was more an object of curiosity than concern. Only those men standing immediately next to Caesar, particularly his personal standard bearer and Cornicen, might have noticed how tightly his jaw was clenched, but their attention was also naturally riveted on Kambyses and his Parthians. Caesar had known that, while the incline of the dirt ramp was steep, it was so short in length that it wouldn’t be much of an impediment, yet he was still disappointed to see that it had seemingly no effect as Kambyses’ mount’s powerful hindquarters pushed the massive weight of man and beast deeper into the Roman formation. This was the last moment when there was any sense of cohesion and order, as matters then degenerated into little better than a brawl between men on foot and the mounted Parthians. Aided from behind by their surging comrades pressing against the hindquarters of their own animals, Kambyses and two Parthians reached the level part of the rampart, and now there was a line that was only three men deep and three men across between the two commanders.

  Caesar’s attention was torn between watching Kambyses, understanding that his former captive would risk all to cut his way to himself, and remaining aware of the larger situation, which was rapidly disintegrating. The men who were in the last ranks still facing away from Susa, because of their unique orientation facing in the opposite direction than would be normal, were now standing with their backs literally pressed against the turf parapet, and it was inevitable that as the momentum of Kambyses’ horse continued propelling them both in that direction, the unfortunate ranker directly in his path was knocked over and backward hard enough that he missed landing on the relatively narrow lip between wall and ditch, falling more than twenty feet down into the bottom of it. Now that Kambyses had reached the point where moving forward would mean following the unfortunate Legionary, he began to wheel his mount to his right, jerking the reins so his horse’s head moved in that direction. It was only due to the quick thinking of the rankers aligned immediately next to the Parthian, two of whom, leading with their shields, literally threw themselves against the flank of Kambyses’ horse that it was unable to do so, although it was protected from the impact by its heavy armored blanket. Even above the noise, Caesar heard Kambyses’ snarled curse, and the Parthian’s blade slashed down at the nearest Legionary, but while the Legionary didn’t pull his shield back to protect himself, instead keeping it pushed hard against the animal, he was protected by the awkward angle created as he crouched down, his eyes never leaving the Parthian’s blade, thereby causing Kambyses to miss. This maneuver turned out to be only a temporary reprieve; Kambyses was an experienced warrior, so rather than make his horse rear and lash out with its front hooves as it had been trained, the Parthian instead reversed himself, pressing hard on the animal’s right side with his knee. Even with the heavy armored blanket, the horse reacted instantly, pivoting on its hindquarters and swinging its body to the left, and as Kambyses no doubt intended, the sudden and unexpected disappearance of the tremendous amount of pressure exerted against the shields of the two Legionaries made both men stumble. Luckily for the ranker who had been blocking the animal just behind Kambyses’ leg, the move wasn’t as dramatic, but for the man who had been pressing against the Parthian horse’s front quarter, this maneuver had been too quick for him to anticipate, and as Kambyses undoubtedly hoped, he lurched forward into the now empty space, exposing his back for a brief instant. The Parthian’s sword was a blur as Kambyses, leaning slightly to his right, thrust down with brutal force, his aim perfect, the point punching into the narrow space underneath the narrow back flange of the Legionary’s helmet and just above the man’s chain mail. Caesar could only stand watching helplessly, but the man immediately behind the now-fallen comrade reacted quickly, thinking to take advantage of the Parthian’s exposure of his upper body because of Kambyses’ lean away from the bulk of his animal and over his friend’s corpse while performing his thrust. Perhaps if he had aimed for the Parthian’s leg, the outcome would have been different, but the Roman ranker, and the men watching, would never know, because instead he, understandably, aimed his thrust at a spot just behind and below Kambyses’ outstretched arm, hoping to kill this man who had just slain his friend with a thrust into his armpit. The Parthian neither tried to deflect the blow with his own blade nor to twist his
upper body to his left in an attempt to at least rob the Legionary’s thrust of most of its power; instead, he leaned forward, bringing his torso down so that it was pressed against his mount’s powerful neck. This meant the Roman’s blade stabbed nothing but the air, although it seemed to Caesar that the edge of his man’s blade might have sliced into Kambyses’ back, though it was impossible to tell whether or not the Parthian’s roar was from pain or rage as he executed a backhand swing, aimed at the ranker’s head, using the spiked metal piece that attached the pommel to the sword instead of the blade. His aim was true, catching the Roman in the temple, just below the rim of his helmet and in front of the dangling cheek piece that was designed to protect from just such an attack, and the man dropped so quickly that it was as if the bones in his body had instantly vanished. And, just that rapidly, Kambyses was much closer to Caesar, the Parthian not hesitating in spurring his horse to step over the bodies, which it did with a surprising agility given the weight it carried, putting the two men almost within each other’s reach. It had all happened so fast that none of the Legionaries who might have been in a position to shift themselves over to plug the gap could do so, and Caesar realized that he would be facing Kambyses, not as two generals, but as warriors.

  Just as Aquilinus had feared, his Legion was beaten to the lowered ramp of the contravallation by Clustuminus and the 8th, but as it turned out, this was to his advantage. Half of the Parthian spearmen had been left behind as a precaution for a maneuver such as this one, but clearly, whoever had made the decision wasn’t expecting two Legions to make their way along the bottom of the ditch, unobserved. The Primus Pilus of the 7th heard the fighting before he was able to get a clear view of the situation, and he called a halt to Rufius and his scouting party when they were a bit more than two hundred paces away from where the ramp crossed the ditch in order to fully examine what lay ahead. Clustuminus had thrown four ladders up against the ramp itself, but while Aquilinus could see there were others leaning against the wall of the ditch on the far side of the ramp from his vantage point, it was impossible to discern much more than there was a fight going on. He did see that the ramp was now packed with a mass of Parthians, all of them facing in the opposite direction as they braced their fellow spearmen who were jabbing down at the Romans ascending the four ladders. Seeing this as the best opportunity to end this quickly, thereby allowing both Legions to carry out their orders, Aquilinus was faced with an unpalatable decision.

  “Rufius!” he called to his Optio, and when his subordinate turned to face him, the Centurion was certain he knew what was coming. “Forget being careful. We need to get close to those cunni before they know we’re here!”

  Rufius didn’t reply verbally, nor did he salute, only offering a curt nod before turning back to the men who had been working quickly but carefully to spot every hidden trap.

  “You heard him, boys,” Rufius said quietly, then indicated that they continue.

  They resumed their progress, while Aquilinus relayed orders back through the tightly packed ranks of his Century and Cohort to expect a quickened pace. The tension among the men leading the way, already palpable, began increasing with every step they took, each of them wondering who among them would be the unlucky one and, though they would never say it aloud, fervently wishing it on one of the others. At first, they moved at what would have been a normal marching pace for marching across open, level ground, although it seemed excessively fast compared to the pace they had been going previously. Still, the gods seemed to be favoring them, as they covered fifty, then seventy-five paces without encountering one of Caesar’s lilies. Aquilinus was in the small gap between Rufius and his section, and the rest of the Legion, keeping his eyes on the fight for the ramp, throwing up a silent prayer to every god he could think of to keep the men in the rear of the Parthian ranks from turning around to see this new threat approaching. Step by step, the 7th drew nearer, and when they closed within a hundred paces and still no man had plunged into a pit, Aquilinus decided to press their collective luck.

  “Go to the double quick, Rufius!”

  At this, the Optio risked a glance over his shoulder, a silent entreaty on his face, but he got his answer in the hardened expression of his Primus Pilus. Increasing their tempo, the leading section did move more quickly, but hardly at a pace that could be considered a normal trot, and Aquilinus opened his mouth to snarl a command at them to speed up. Before any words left his mouth, however, a ranker in the middle of the leading section stepped squarely on a mat, his right foot plunging down into the hidden pit. Although he certainly didn’t feel this way in the moment, the ranker was lucky in the sense that, rather than the twisted iron hook that was designed to impale a man’s calf when he instinctively pulled his foot out of the pit, this was simply a straight, fire-hardened stick tipped with an iron point that pierced his foot, punching through the hardened leather and hobnailed sole of his boot as if it wasn’t there. It was certainly a painful wound, which meant that before Rufius or the men on either side could react, the stricken ranker gave a shout of pain that, even over the din of the fight on the ramp, was clearly audible more than a hundred paces away. The fact that they were now no more than ninety paces from the ramp guaranteed that at least a half-dozen of the Parthians who were in the rear rank either looked over their shoulder, or turned about, close enough that Aquilinus could see the looks of surprise and alarm on their faces.

  “Pluto’s cock!” he snarled, then in the same breath, shouted, “We’ve been spotted, boys! No time to dawdle now! Follow me!”

  And with this, he broke into a run, not quite a sprint, but close to it, and in the span of a breath, passed the stricken Legionary, who had fallen to a sitting position, his leg still in the hole in the ground. Aquilinus would long remember this moment, when he was forced to trust in the protection of his household gods to keep him from suffering what would be a similar fate to one of his men, albeit no doubt worse because of his speed, while he kept his eyes on the Parthians standing on the ramp, the rearmost ranks scrambling to create at least a semblance of a defense for this new onrushing threat. Somehow, not only Aquilinus, but all but four of his Century covered the ground without running afoul of any traps, and since there was no way for them to step aside, then reintegrate into the formation, Rufius and his section had to lead the way, yet none but the first man was stopped by one of the surprises. Encumbered only with shields and javelins, Rufius ordered his section to come skidding to a halt, slightly closer to the ramp than would be normal for hurling javelins, but he was compensating for the height.

  “Ready javelins!...Release!”

  Rufius normally would have paused longer between commands, but he was actually counting on the second volley to inflict the most damage.

  “Ready! Release!”

  As he had hoped, the Parthians who had now turned about to repel this new threat, numbering perhaps twenty total, had managed to block the first volley with their shields for the most part, although one spearman was too slow in bringing his up to protect his upper body and had taken a shaft in the throat, toppling backwards into the man behind him. The others who managed to block the missile aimed at them now had the added weight of the javelin, bending down and pulling their protection lower, and most importantly making it impossible to move quickly enough for the next volley, which, without being told, the rankers had aimed higher than normal. Rufius and the others were rewarded by five Parthians either reeling backwards, or in one case, staggering forward, dropping his ruined shield to clutch the shaft protruding from his chest and pitching off the ramp. Then, Aquilinus and the rest of the Legion were there, and the Primus Pilus took over.

  “First two ranks! Ready javelins!....Release!” The missiles were still in the air when Aquilinus bellowed, “Ladder sections!” But, instead of pointing to the ramp, the Primus Pilus indicated the inner wall, and within a matter of a half-dozen heartbeats, the heavy wooden ladders were being raised. “Up and over, boys! You know what to do! Gut these came
l-fuckers!”

  As Aquilinus had guessed, the Parthians up on the rampart had shifted to face the threat from the 8th, leaving the space on the rampart where the 7th was now ascending essentially empty, aside from a handful of shirkers and wounded men. Before a man could reach a count of a hundred, the fight was essentially over, the handful of surviving spearmen fleeing for their lives, the quicker thinking among them actually running north, across the ramp, and out of the complex of fortifications, choosing an uncertain fate over what they were sure was a certain death if they stayed.