by R. W. Peake
The last word hadn’t left his mouth when the Primus Pilus gave his own, and perhaps thirty javelins came slicing through the space between the two formations, one of them barely missing Gemellus’ head. All but two of the remaining missiles were blocked by the shields of his Century, one of them burying itself in the exposed portion of the thigh of a man in the front rank, causing him to stumble sideways, thereby creating a gap in the wall of shields that might have given Caesar’s men an opportunity to punish the approaching Crassoi, if they had another volley of missiles available to them.
Rather than wait for the men to disentangle themselves, Gemellus instead ordered, “Open formation! Quickly, boys!” Waiting only long enough for the men to drop their shields, with the men of the outer files quickly sidestepping and expanding the space between them, Gemellus pointed his sword as he bellowed, “Follow me!”
Breaking into a run, he led his men in a last-bid attempt to smash through their enemy and reach whatever safety and succor waited for them beyond. In doing so, he was placing his faith in his own Primus Pilus, certain that if Caspar had a breath left in his body, he would be fighting to achieve this linkage.
Caesar’s brush with Kambyses had been sufficiently alarming that, when Spurius had gently but firmly insisted that his general remove himself from the area around the ramp, he did so without protest. Now, he was removed from the worst of the fighting, which was crucial because it first allowed him to see the movement of Clustuminus’ Legion as they emerged from their concealed route along the bottom of the ditch, then hear the sound of a horn that, although it sounded somewhat like a bucina, Caesar knew belonged to the Parthians. However, it was the movement that this call prompted that was most informative to Caesar, although it was difficult to make out any details, other than just a sense of a motion of dark shapes in the middle of the massive dust cloud that obscured all but the outermost fringe, where perhaps five or six hundred mounted archers were visible. They were the last to move, but it was back in the direction of the ramp of the outer fortification, and this prompted Caesar’s lips to turn upward in a smile, though it was one that held nothing but a sense of cold satisfaction.
“If Clustuminus and Aquilinus did their jobs, you’re trapped, Kambyses.”
“Sir?”
This startled Caesar, who had been unaware that he had spoken aloud, and he turned to favor Apollodorus, always faithful and at his side even then, with that smile, except this one didn’t hold any cruelty in it.
“I apologize, Apollodorus, I was talking to myself,” he said genially.
He returned his attention to the area around the wooden ramp of the outer entrenchments, and just a glance was enough to convince him that the two Primi Pili were indeed in position, something that he also saw Kambyses had now recognized as well, because the leading horsemen, all of them archers who had gone to the gallop immediately after the horn notes sounded, suddenly veered off in either direction, running parallel to the waiting Legions. Even through the mass of bodies of both men and horses, Caesar saw the slashing movement of the volley of javelins hurled by the Legion closest to his vantage point, rising up above the dust before plunging downward, felling at least a dozen horses or knocking as many men out of the saddle. The slower moving cataphractoi managed to avoid being raked by the missiles, but they followed the movement of the nimbler horses to parallel the outer entrenchments, heading east. Which, as Caesar had hoped, would bring them within range of the 15th Legion, remaining in the eastern camp to guard the outer fortifications, and while he hadn’t received word, he was confident that his orders had been carried out to turn the lighter scorpions about, and array the Legion on the outer rampart, but facing inward to give the Parthians the same treatment when they drew within range. Splitting his attention between what was happening around the ramp and the developing situation with Kambyses’ force, Caesar could see that the situation was a mix of good and bad; Spurius’ Cohort was being pushed back now that the Crassoi force had managed to lower the ramp, and they were now perhaps fifty paces closer to the Crassoi entrenchments where Pullus and the 10th were trying desperately to stand their ground against the Parthian force coming from Susa. However, Caesar also understood that, in terms of this attempt by Kambyses to break through his defenses, the effort had failed; all that remained now was for the Parthian general to not only recognize, but accept this truth. Even as he thought of the man, Caesar actually caught a glimpse of Kambyses, recognizing him by virtue of the fact that he was wearing his armor but astride a smaller horse, wearing just the saddle and no armor that marked an archer’s mount. The Roman general watched as his counterpart, clearly understanding the way out was blocked by two Legions, wheeled his mount to gallop east, followed by the rest of his men, both cataphractoi and the remaining archers, all of them following his lead.
Once more, Caesar spoke aloud, except this time, it was on purpose, as he remarked loudly enough for not only Apollodorus, but the four remaining bodyguards Spurius had assigned to watch over their general, “He’s in for a nasty surprise.”
It was in a momentary lull in the fighting, when Caspar took a couple steps backward, before he was able to get a glimpse beyond the Romans standing in his way and see that the relieving force had now managed to penetrate the second line of defenses. More importantly, he judged that the distance between the rearmost ranks of the enemy struggling to stop the relieving force and the rear of the men his boys were battling was less than two hundred paces. Seeing this, Caspar was torn; it was tantalizingly close, but he held no illusions about how much more blood would have to be shed by his Crassoi to effect a linking of the two forces. And, he thought wearily, then we have to be able to hold it long enough for the bulk of Kambyses’ force to reach us. Despite not having a complete picture of the overall situation, Caspar had correctly deduced that the chance of actually breaking the siege, if there had ever been one, had evaporated; now, he was certain that the best his cause could hope for was to bring the relieving force inside the walls of Susa, making the storming of the city hopefully too bloody a prospect for Caesar. First, however, he and his Crassoi would have to make it happen, and to that end, he made some quick decisions.
Turning to his runner, the third man so designated, he instructed him, “Go and find Artaxerxes. Tell him that we need his Thousand to come to me.” The runner repeated the orders, offered his salute, then turned and dashed off, leaving Caspar to call out, “Boys, I know you’re tired, but help is on the way! But first, I need one more effort! Just one more! We need to create some space for The Thousand! Can I count on you?”
And, despite their fatigue, the losses they had suffered, Caspar’s heart filled at the roared response from his battered, bloodied, and exhausted men, most of whom were too tired to even lift their sword arms in acknowledgement of his words. That didn’t stop them from somehow finding a reserve of energy to leap forward, renewing their assault on men who, from Caspar’s examination, were just as much at the end of their energies as his own command, and he experienced a feeling of vicious satisfaction when he caught sight of the huge Primus Pilus. Even with the distance between them, Caspar could clearly see the lines of what he knew was a combination of fatigue and concern on the man’s features. Your troubles, he thought, are just about to begin. Then, from behind him, he heard the signal that his ears told him had to be Artaxerxes and his men approaching, in the form of a ragged cheer, prompting him to turn away from his nemesis and go trotting back to the rear of his shrunken formation. He arrived just as Artaxerxes and his cataphractoi, who had been trained for just such a moment, reached the far edge of the dirt bridge. Caspar’s Cohort had managed to do exactly as he requested, pushing the beleaguered Romans back even further, while his own men now formed a rough semicircle where the apex of the arc was now almost a hundred paces beyond the dirt bridge. His Fifth Century, now anchoring the left flank, had managed to not only push their opponents back so that the last file was perhaps ten paces away from the lip of the ditch, but had
also pushed out parallel to the ditch a matter of at least fifty paces. His right flank, however, was not in as advantageous a position; the last file of his Sixth Century was perhaps three or four paces away from the edge, and had pushed the Romans facing them outward about half the distance of his Second. Otherwise, in both directions, farther along the Crassoi rampart, Caspar could see that his other Cohorts were at the least keeping the rest of the Caesarian Legion too occupied with defending themselves to come to the aid of their beleaguered comrades around the dirt bridge.
This prompted Caspar to command Artaxerxes, “Start with the Sixth,” he used his sword to make an arc that mimicked the relative position of his Cohort, “and align your men behind them all the way to where my Century and the Second meet. You’re going to relieve them in place.”
The Parthian, who had originally been slow to accept the idea that a Crassoi was his nominal commander, hesitated, but not because of any reluctance on his part, asking Caspar, “What about the other two Centuries there, Primus Pilus? I have more than enough men to relieve all of your men.”
Caspar stifled the urge to snap at the man to shut his mouth and follow orders, forcing himself to acknowledge that it was a valid question, and that while an explanation would waste time, it was a worthy expenditure of the precious commodity.
“Because,” he explained, “we’re going to need about half of your men to finish exploiting the breakthrough once it happens.” Suddenly understanding that Artaxerxes was unaware of a crucial development, he took the Parthian by the arm, ignoring the sudden tensing of the man at being touched by a perceived inferior, drawing the man to a spot where, over the heads of the nearest combatants, a cloud of dust was hovering less than two hundred paces away. Pointing, he said, “See? It looks like Kambyses has managed to get this close to us, and we’ll need enough fresh men to make it to them.”
To his credit, the Parthian instantly understood, and he assured Caspar, “My men will do their duty.” Excited by the sight of possible rescue, Artaxerxes flashed a grin at the Primus Pilus. “If you will excuse me, Primus Pilus, I have some matters to attend to!”
Despite his weariness, Caspar returned the gesture with a smile of his own, nodding to Artaxerxes while saying loudly, “It’s time for your Thousand to win some glory for themselves!”
Pullus had been warned of the new threat to his rear by a man sent by Spurius, but rather than remove himself from where his men were being pressed by the Crassoi from Susa, he sent Lutatius, returning his attention to the fighting. Because of his height, Pullus had a slight advantage in terms of being able to see more of the fighting around the dirt bridge, but in other, more important ways, his Cohort was essentially cut off from contact with the rest of his Legion. Any communication with Scribonius and the other Pili Priores couldn’t take place without a significant delay, as any runner would have to move parallel to the trench to a point where he could safely cross the bottom of it and not be intercepted by the Crassoi who their Primus Pilus had presumably placed there on either side of the dirt bridge, to forestall any such attempt. Even then, the runner would still have to attract the attention of men whose backs were turned, facing the city walls and fighting to avoid being pushed bodily off the dirt rampart by the other Cohorts of the Crassoi. Ultimately, what kept Pullus from trying this was based in the simple fact that he couldn’t spare even one man at this point. Now, with this new information, he had to force himself to keep his attention focused on his most pressing task, sounding the relief as men already at the point of exhaustion needed to be switched out. This fight was now at a point where each shift was much shorter than when the battle had started, and despite his experience, Pullus himself felt pushed to the very limits of his abilities, trying to judge the exact instant where men became ineffective because they simply couldn’t hold their shields high enough, and their thrusts were too slow to be blocked. The only factor that worked in his favor was, in his observation, that these Crassoi were every bit as fatigued as his own men. Then, as often happens in battle, matters changed with a rapidity that was hard for Pullus to properly fathom. It began with what he could hear was a cheer from somewhere in the Crassoi rear, and even with his height and standing on his toes, he couldn’t determine the cause.
Turning to two men on the outside file, he ordered, “You two come here.” Pointing where he wanted them to do so, he told them, “Grab hold of one of your shields, one on either end.” When they did so, he warned them, “If you fucking drop me, you’ll be cleaning the latrines for the rest of your time under the standard.” Then, he stepped up onto the curved surface of the shield, the two men groaning from the strain of his weight.
“Primus Pilus,” one of the Gregarii gasped, “maybe you should stop eating extra helpings of chickpeas!”
Normally, Pullus would have actually enjoyed this kind of banter, particularly in moments like this, knowing that these exchanges were not just important to the morale of his men, but they helped add to his already formidable reputation for always keeping a cool head, even under the most trying of circumstances. Unfortunately, what Pullus saw, despite only being elevated for perhaps three or four heartbeats before he hopped down, was so alarming that he barely heard the jibe, and wouldn’t have responded even if he had.
For the only time that either of these men could remember, their Primus Pilus looked not just worried, but shaken, so much so that it emboldened the man who had made the joke to ask cautiously, “Primus Pilus? What is it? What did you see?”
Pullus opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, he was hailed by Lutatius, who came dashing up to him. Skidding to a stop, the Optio unwittingly mimicked Pullus, opening his mouth, then suddenly thinking better of it when he saw that the two men were clearly attentive.
Gesturing with his head, Lutatius walked a short distance away, informing Pullus, “It’s bad, Primus Pilus. The 3rd is getting shoved back just like we are.”
Despite thinking this was likely the case, Pullus still muttered a curse, but when he said, “That dog-fucker Kambyses is close to pulling this off,” Lutatius stopped him, shaking his head.
“It’s not Kambyses,” Lutatius assured him. “That’s actually the good news that Spurius told me to tell you. Their cavalry has broken off because Caesar’s orders to the 7th and 8th got through. They circled around using the trench, and showed up in the Parthian rear. Spurius said that when Kambyses saw that, he sounded the recall.”
While this was certainly welcome news, Pullus was still puzzled, asking Lutatius, “Then who’s that pushing Spurius’ boys back?”
“A force of Crassoi,” Lutatius answered, “along with some of their spear infantry, but Spurius said there’s no more than two or three hundred of that last bunch. The rest are spread out covering Kambyses’ retreat. At least,” Lutatius added, “that’s what Spurius thinks.”
Pullus considered this for a moment, and when he thought about it later, he realized this was when the germ of an idea began to grow, but he still wasn’t quite convinced, asking Lutatius, “So Kambyses’ bunch. Did they punch through Aquilinus and Clustuminus’ boys?”
This Lutatius didn’t know with any certainty, but he did offer, “Spurius said that it looked like they didn’t want to try that and were heading east.”
“Well, if they are,” Pullus smiled grimly, “and think they’re going to get out that way, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”
Lutatius agreed, then added what was actually about to take place shortly. “My bet is that they’re going to be back and try to cut their way out of here through the 7th and 8th.”
Understanding that, while this was certainly of interest, it had no bearing on the immediate fate of his own Legion, Pullus thought for a moment, then said, “Take command here. I need to talk to Spurius. Where can I find him?”
Lutatius answered readily, pointing to the spot where the eagle standard of the 3rd was standing tall above the helmeted heads of the men on both sides of this contest, its gilt wings catching
the rays of the sun just enough to pierce the dust.
Saying only, “Sound the relief now, Optio. And keep the shifts short; no more than to a count of fifty now,” Pullus turned without waiting for Lutatius to acknowledge his orders, running as quickly as his tired legs could carry him.
“You want to do what?” Spurius asked, incredulous at what his counterpart had just proposed.
Despite understanding Spurius’ reaction, Pullus was also acutely aware that time was as much of an enemy as the men who were literally just two dozen paces away fighting ferociously, trying to hack their way to their own comrades battling Pullus’ men.
“Let them through,” Pullus repeated, with a patience he didn’t feel he could indulge in much longer. “Pull your men out of the way, and I’ll do the same.”
“But then they’ll be able to reinforce those bastards inside the city,” Spurius argued, but while this wasn’t lost on Pullus, he thought it worth the risk; it was what his fellow Primus Pilus said next that was of a more immediate concern. “And what do you think Caesar is going to say about it?”
Despite his belief it was the right thing to do, this still caused a stab of anxiety in the large Roman, but he was nothing if not stubborn, and he pointed to where their commanding general could clearly be seen, standing on the rampart, yet despite the relatively short distance between them, Caesar might as well have been back in Rome for all the good it did at this moment. Separated as they were by not just a ditch but the Crassoi force that had managed to seize the ramp, there was now well beyond a hundred paces across the open ground between what had been the inner Roman fortifications and the Crassoi entrenchment. Meanwhile, Pullus’ own men had been pushed back across the dirt bridge roughly the same distance, leaving a rapidly collapsing space between the two Cohorts of different Legions. In that space, the wounded had been dragged to the relative safety, while the reduced staff of medici who had bravely volunteered to stay with their Legions did what they could to provide aid and comfort.