by R. W. Peake
Gemellus almost foiled Pullus’ plans by refusing to order his remaining Crassoi to press into the gap that was suddenly created by their foes unexpectedly beginning what his ears had heard: the cornu command to withdraw. This hadn’t been the cause of his hesitation; he was pleased by the pressure his men had been exerting on the Romans of the 3rd Legion, but when, in conjunction with moving backward, the Centuries began a wheeling movement, much like a pair of doors swinging open, the Centurion suddenly became suspicious of a trap of some sort. What convinced him that, for reasons he couldn’t immediately grasp, this wasn’t a trap was his observation that none of the Legionaries still carried even one of their javelins, since his initial thought was the enemy planned to rake his men with the missiles as they presumably moved through the newly created gap. His Crassoi were no less surprised, but Gemellus, as any good Centurion did, had recovered more quickly, snapping an order to his horn player to sound the call to stand in place, rather than the obvious course of at least the first several ranks essentially mimicking their foes and following them as they withdrew to either side. If anything, Gemellus thought, these bastards are giving my boys a chance to catch their breath. What followed was a span of heartbeats that were some of the most unusual of not just Gemellus’ career, but for every man of every rank on both sides. When compared to the clamor and clashing sounds of a fight, the silence from this sudden cessation was almost as jarring as the cessation itself, with the only sound the harsh panting from hundreds of men. Even stranger was that this stoppage seemed to spread outward, along both flanks, but without any signal being given, by either side, as the combatants on both flanks of the ramp became aware that something untoward was happening. Despite his initial certainty that this was some sort of trap, Gemellus found it almost impossible to tear his gaze away from essentially the same sight that had greeted Kambyses, the lowered wooden ramp, beyond which he could see the rearmost ranks of the Romans who were battling Caspar’s men, still trying to push outward from Susa. Ultimately, what convinced him that, even if this was some sort of ruse, it was worth the risk, was the sight of how far his Primus Pilus Caspar had managed to push the Romans back away from their initial gains of the Parthian entrenchments, although this was an assumption about the Crassoi Centurion’s identity. Despite it being difficult to tell, since the stretch of open ground was open only in the sense that there wasn’t a formation of Legionaries there, but was filled with supine men who were being attended by their medici, he was certain that there were well less than two hundred paces between where Gemellus and his men were standing and their comrades from Susa.
The sight of the unprotected rear of those Romans proved to be too much of a temptation for the Crassoi, but he still decided to take what precautions he could, and he grabbed the nearest ranker, telling him, “Go find Hastatus Prior Figulus! He and Hastatus Posterior Nobilior are behind us.”
It took Gemellus longer than he would have liked to relay his instructions, especially because it took his runner twice to repeat it back correctly, but the man dashed away, reaching a full sprint as Gemellus hoped it would be enough. With that done, he grabbed two more men, sending one in each direction, also with instructions, but these orders created the sour taste of bile in his mouth, because he knew that the Centurions who were involved in pinning down the rest of this Roman Legion would understand that they were being sacrificed. His reasoning was sound enough; the moment he gave the command for what remained of the four Centuries of his Cohort who were involved in the fight for the ramp to move across it, it was likely that those Romans trying to stop them who had just moved aside would add their numbers and attentions to his comrades on his flanks, if, that is, this was not a trap. What he had no way of knowing was that two of Caesar’s Primi Pili had taken the initiative to decide for themselves that it was better to lose this battle within a battle, or at least appear to do so, in order to preserve their men’s lives for a final, all-out assault on the city whose walls were now tantalizingly close to Gemellus. Clearly visible perhaps a furlong more than a mile away from where he was standing, Gemellus realized that this was the closest he, and more importantly, the men who had families had been to the city for some time. This served as an extra goad for Gemellus to act, so that by the time the two Centurions he had sent for arrived at his side, he had made his decision.
“They might be pulling us into something, but even if they are, I think it’s worth the risk,” he told the pair. “But just in case, I want you,” he said to Figulus, “to bring your Century and guard against those bastards on that side, and,” he turned to Nobilior, “you do the same on the other side. They don’t have any javelins left, so if they want to slam the door on us once I bring the other four Centuries through to hit those bastards fighting Caspar’s boys from behind, they’re going to have to go to the gladius to do it.”
“What do you want us to do if they don’t try to stop you?” Nobilior asked, a sensible question, and Gemellus considered for a moment, then answered, “If they want to just stand there, then make a wheel movement and back your way to where we’re at. Guard our rear while we wait and cut those cunni ahead of us down.”
With these orders given, Gemellus returned his attention to his immediate front, and when he saw the movement of the medici dragging the wounded so that there was now nothing but ground empty of living men, knowing this could not be a coincidence, he hesitated once more. But, as he watched, the Romans fighting Caspar’s men performed essentially the same maneuver that the men facing his own Centuries performed, swinging aside and opening the way to where Caspar’s Crassoi reacted with essentially the same level of confusion and uncertainty that he and his command had experienced. Now, it became even quieter, making the moment even more unusual, and Gemellus was struck with the absurd thought that, if one ignored the piled bodies, the shattered shields, and the darkened patches of ground, it might have been a ceremonial moment, with Gemellus and his men marching past an honor guard.
Every fiber of his being screamed that this was indeed some sort of trap, yet, without any hesitation that his men would notice, Gemellus gave the order to march, although he did issue a warning that was hardly needed. “All right, boys, keep your swords ready, your shields up in case these bastards have some treachery planned! We’ll make them sorry they tried it if they do!”
Under ordinary circumstances, covering a span of a bit more than two hundred paces did not take much time, but Gemellus deliberately cut the normal pace in half, although this was balanced by the fact that Caspar, after a pause as he watched for the Roman reaction to Gemellus’ movement, gave his own command. The most pervasive sound now was the crunching of hobnailed soles, although the noise from the men of the other Crassoi Cohort who were arrayed on either side of the ramp continuing to battle the Romans across from them was clearly audible, and within a few paces, Gemellus, who had been essentially sidestepping as he watched the Roman lines less than thirty paces away, while his Optio did the same on the opposite side, finally turned to face forward. The two Crassoi forces, once they navigated around the bodies of the men on both sides who had fallen and would never rise again, marched towards each other, every one of them bracing for the moment when their foes ended the pretense and fell on them from both flanks. Adding to the surreal atmosphere, none of Caesar’s men said a word, although they all stood, their shields up and ready, only their eyes visible between the top of their shields and the rim of their helmets. Gemellus, once he turned to face to the front, only risked sidelong glances, one every pace at first, still certain that this was a ruse of some sort, then less frequently as his confidence grew that, for reasons he could not fathom, his counterparts commanding what he could see were two different Legions by the emblems on their shields, stood watching, silently, would not be renewing this fight. Then, his attention was drawn to the sight of a white crest, heading in his direction on the opposite side of the formation, but even without the distinction that marked a Primus Pilus, Gemellus would have recognized C
aspar. Keeping pace with his men, Gemellus moved diagonally across the front of his men so that he was on the same side as Caspar, and as the pair closed the distance, Gemellus felt his chest tightening at the thought that, despite it all, he had managed to bring his men through the fiercest battle any of them had ever experienced, including their time with Crassus. Caspar’s face, however, was a mask that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, at least until the two Centurions came face to face.
After a brief clasp of arms, both men feeling quite peculiar as they did so, it was Caspar who broke the awkward silence, saying with unmistakable frustration and bitterness, “The only reason they’d let us join up is because it doesn’t matter anymore.”
At first, Gemellus thought to lie, then realized there was no point, so he confirmed Caspar’s statement. “We were surprised by at least two Legions who came from the other camps and got behind us, so Kambyses took all the cataphractoi and archers and cut their way out. Or,” he added truthfully, “that’s what they were trying to do the last time I looked. But, they’re not coming back, that much I know.” When Caspar didn’t respond, he then asked simply, “What now?”
“Now,” Caspar answered grimly, “we fall back to the city.”
While Gemellus was proud of his two Cohorts of Crassoi and relieved that he hadn’t failed in the original goal, he was also acutely aware of the cost; he had sacrificed one of those Cohorts to an unknown fate, and while there hadn’t been a tally yet, he was confident that he had lost at least a third, probably more, of the Cohort that would be following Caspar’s command back to the city. There was no way to hide the reality, from himself or his men, that despite achieving their aim of reaching the defenders of the city, it was with a bare fraction of the spad that had begun the assault what seemed like days before. Now, Gemellus reflected bitterly, even as his battered Centuries attached themselves to Caspar’s formation to begin the slow, cautious withdrawal to Susa, we’re just postponing the inevitable.
Caesar, from his position farther down the rampart and isolated by part of the Parthian force that was battling to keep the Romans on his side from falling onto the flank of the Crassoi Centuries who were trying to seize the ramp, hadn’t seen Spurius trotting over the open expanse of ground to meet with Pullus, being too busy commanding the fighting around him and watching as Kambyses began his withdrawal. However, it was impossible for him to miss first the sound, in the form of a cornu call, followed by the movement it prompted, and he spun about, his first reaction a combination of shock and disbelief, but his eyes instantly confirmed that, in fact, Spurius was withdrawing his Cohort, removing them from the spot athwart the lowered ramp that led to the Crassoi fortifications. That feeling of shock transformed into consternation when he heard a repeat of the same cornu call, but from a greater distance, followed by the 10th essentially repeating the maneuver.
“Master,” Apollodorus’ voice broke the spell of the moment as, for the moment, Caesar was completely oblivious to the fighting going on just a matter of paces away from him as he stared in helpless fury at two of his Primi Pili seemingly giving up the fight, “what are they doing?”
It took him two tries, but finally, Caesar managed to reply with a mildness that belied his shock, “Apollodorus, I have no idea.”
From appearances, it was clear that the Crassoi who had been fighting so desperately to shove Spurius’ Cohort out of the way were every bit as surprised as the Roman general, because there passed a span of a couple dozen or more heartbeats where all movement ceased, long enough for the dust that had been churned up by shuffling feet to start settling. Before Caesar could respond in a more substantive matter—his first thought was to find a runner to cross the ditch somehow and go to Spurius to demand, in Caesar’s name, of course, an explanation for this baffling and disturbing decision—the sound of yet another horn drew his attention, this one in the opposite direction back to where Kambyses and his mounted contingent were even then attempting to force their way through the ranks of the 7th and 8th blocking their way. Reluctantly turning away, Caesar’s hope was that his two most trusted Primi Pili had some stratagem in mind that would explain why they were essentially allowing reinforcements to reach the defenders of the city, and he was just in time to see the tail end of the Parthian cavalry, which he deduced had to be composed of the mounted archers by the speed of their movement, follow their armored comrades through the hole they had punched in the line of Legionaries blocking their path. In that moment, Caesar saw that, while this was a victory, it wasn’t the kind of decisive defeat that he had hoped to inflict on this last Parthian army, and his distress was such that, unlike his normal practice of maintaining a tight control over himself and his emotions whenever he was around his men, he began cursing, using invective that, despite the circumstances, made the men within earshot grin at the manner in which their general was behaving like one of them.
His anger and disappointment wasn’t destined to last long, but it was because of Apollodorus who, suddenly pointing, asked excitedly, “Master, do you see that large dust cloud? Over there to the right?”
Caesar did, but he dismissed it, saying curtly, “That’s just the head of the Parthian column getting away.”
“No, Master,” Apollodorus challenged Caesar, something that was unusual in itself, “look! That,” with his pointing finger, he swept it on a line that went in the opposite direction, “is where whoever’s making that is coming from! Outside the lines!”
Caesar, somewhat chagrined, saw that his slave was right, and despite cautioning himself, his heart began beating a bit faster as his mind raced through the possible meanings.
“Could that be,” he gasped, “Hirtius and our missing cavalry? Coming here?”
Aulus Hirtius was a veteran of many engagements with the enemy, but he had never been part of this, a headlong cavalry charge that went smashing into a disorganized enemy at a full gallop. And, he thought wearily, I never want to do that again. Put simply, it had been the most confusing, chaotic, and exhilarating moments of his life, when he had been as swept up in the madness as the mixed force of Germans, Galatians, and Gauls surrounding him, screaming his own war cry at the top of his lungs as he picked a target for his spatha. The fact that the Parthians had just smashed their way through the Legions commanded by Aquilinus and Clustuminus was something Hirtius had no way of knowing; all he had seen was a disorganized mass of armored horsemen come bursting into view from behind the dirt rampart of the outer entrenchment, barely four hundred paces away from where he was leading his own men at the trot. Suddenly, the worry about how fatigued his animals, and the men riding them, were, and what the proper course of action was going to be once they arrived at the spot where there was now a dust cloud towering above the Caesarian outer lines, vanished.