by R. W. Peake
Before he had a conscious thought, his spatha was in his hand, and in his excitement and haste, didn’t bother to tell his horn player to sound the call, simply shouting, “There they are! Kill them, kill them all! Porro!”
Only later did he take a moment to thank his household gods that his men had responded immediately, and in kind, or, he thought ruefully, It would have been a one-man charge and I’d be on the pyre. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and instead, just like their commander, his cavalrymen forgot their own fatigue; more importantly, their animals somehow summoned the last reserves of their own energy, sending themselves and their riders headlong into what was essentially the right flank of the Parthians. As battles went, it wasn’t as much a fight as it was a slaughter; the horses of the cataphractoi, wearing their heavy armored blankets and carrying their equally heavily armored riders, having already expended most of their energy in charging the Roman lines just a few moments before, were simply unable to respond to their riders’ frantic commands to wheel about and build up speed for a countercharge. For the span of perhaps two hundred heartbeats, Hirtius’ world was a maelstrom of noise, blinding dust that only afforded flashing glimpses of bearded faces whose expressions betrayed first their surprise, then their panic, and sudden bright spurts of blood that stood out from the almost uniform grayness that enveloped the combatants on both sides. The Roman cavalry horses were, even under these circumstances where they were as fatigued as their Parthian counterparts, quicker and nimbler, enabling their riders to steer through the mass of horseflesh, all while slashing and thrusting their blades at the nearest target as they galloped right through the midst of the Parthians. When the dust had settled, both in the literal and figurative sense, Hirtius learned that what few casualties his men had suffered were just as likely from the blade of a friend as a foe, so confused and frenzied was the fight. Almost before his mind could comprehend the sequence of events, from the moment he saw the Parthians bursting into view, the subsequent charge, impact, and fight, suddenly, it was essentially over, and Hirtius found himself sitting on his horse, feeling it shuddering underneath him with a fatigue that warned him he had no more than a matter of heartbeats to dismount before the animal collapsed, but when his feet hit the ground, he found to his surprise that his legs couldn’t bear his weight, and he dropped to his knees, panting so heavily that it took Decurion Silva calling his name twice before he heard the man.
Dully, the Legate looked up, using the direction from which the sound came since the dust was still thick, and he saw that the Decurion was mounted as he asked him, “Legate, I’ve sent the men who didn’t have a chance to get into the fight to chase down the Parthians who got away. Their horses are in a bit better shape.”
It still took longer than normal for Hirtius to absorb this, then he realized that Silva was waiting for more direction, and he thought for a moment before he replied, “Very well, but I don’t want them chasing those bastards ten miles and scattering to the gods know where. I still need to report to Caesar and see what he wants us to do next.”
Silva respected Hirtius and considered him one of the better noblemen who had served as commander of the cavalry, but he was no horsemen; only Caesar, Silva thought, would understand that this was an unnecessary order, if only because the horses of the pursuers were close to blown and useless already. If they continued to chase the Parthians for more than a mile, Silva would have been surprised, although, he allowed, if any of those cataphractoi had been members of a high-ranking nobleman’s bodyguard, or better yet, was a high-ranking nobleman himself, Silva knew there were men who would kill their horses for the chance to slaughter and loot a rich man.
Still, he thought it was a negligible risk, so he felt confident enough to assure Hirtius, “I’m sure they’ll be back soon, sir.”
By this point, Hirtius felt recovered enough to stand, and he pulled himself to his feet, absently reaching out to stroke the neck of his horse, its coat shining with sweat and mouth caked with a white rime that he knew meant he needed to find his mount some water. Before he did so, the cavalry commander slowly turned about, surveying his surroundings for the first time, and while it was still dusty, it was possible for him to at least see the shapes of men and horses, both living and dead, as those troopers who didn’t go in pursuit and had presumably been in the thick of this short-lived fight were now dismounted, both to let their own mounts rest and to search the dead and wounded. In short, it was the normal aftermath of a fight, but then, from behind Hirtius, there came a shout that caused both the Legate and Silva to turn their attention in that direction. Hirtius saw the figure of a man he could tell was one of his own just by the outline of his shape, since it was still too dusty to make out features, standing over a dark shape on the ground, but then the trooper called out again, and he heard that it was in the German tongue, of which he knew only a handful of words. And, as he listened when the trooper repeated himself a third time, he didn’t understand any of them.
Silva did, however, so it was left to him to inform Hirtius, “Sir, this man says he’s found a Parthian that’s still alive but unconscious.”
Hirtius frowned, not understanding why this was something worthy of the trooper calling attention to the fact, so he waved a dismissive hand, telling Silva, “Tell him that it’s up to him whether he wants to take him prisoner or kill him. But,” he warned, “tell him that he’s going to be personally responsible for the man, and if he escapes, he’ll be punished accordingly.”
Silva obediently relayed the Legate’s orders, but instead of complying, the trooper said something that caused Silva to noticeably react, which Hirtius noticed.
“What is it, Decurion?”
“I’m not sure,” Silva answered, but as he did, he nudged his own horse into a walk, “but I think you might want to come with me to check and see if what he just said is true.”
Hirtius’ initial thought was that he was too tired even to walk the short distance to investigate, which prompted him to demand, “What exactly is this man saying, Silva?”
By this point, Silva was already a few paces away, so he called over his shoulder, “That he’s almost positive this man is the one who was our captive for the last year.”
Instantly, Hirtius’ fatigue vanished, and before he had any thought to do so, he was moving as quickly as his legs could carry him. The dust had settled even more, but Hirtius didn’t need it to in order to see when he was still a dozen paces away that it was, in fact, Kambyses lying on his back, face up to the sky with his eyes closed. His helmet was off, but Hirtius didn’t see one next to him, so he surmised that it hadn’t been pulled off by the German trooper, who was now standing there with an expression that Hirtius interpreted as a combination of hope and unease, although the latter was the typical ranker’s response whenever the commanding officer was nearby.
As Hirtius knelt down next to Kambyses, he said to Silva, “Tell him I’ll make sure he’s rewarded by Caesar for this.”
“Yes, sir,” Silva answered, then turned and relayed it to the German, who said something in response that made Silva laugh. When Hirtius glanced up at him with raised eyebrows, Silva said with a straight face, “He just said that he’s happy he didn’t listen to you. Sir.”
Despite it being at his own expense, Aulus Hirtius wasn’t the type who couldn’t laugh at himself, and he grinned, not at Silva but at the trooper and said, “Tell him that makes two of us.”
Whether it was the laughter or that just enough time had elapsed for Kambyses to come back to consciousness, Hirtius didn’t know, but he saw the fluttering of the man’s eyelids even as they were laughing, and he looked down just in time to see the Parthian commander open his eyes. Not surprisingly, at first, they seemed unfocused, but as Hirtius watched, Kambyses blinked once, twice, then a third time, his mouth pulling down into a frown that turned into a grimace when he tried to lift his head.
“Well,” Hirtius decided to speak then, “salve, Kambyses! It seems that you like our compan
y so much that you’ll fall off your horse to come back to us!”
As soon as he said it, he felt a stab of remorse, which was exacerbated by the expression of despair that flashed across the Parthian’s face as Kambyses realized, at least partially, the downturn of his fortunes yet again. The fact was that, just as Caesar did, Hirtius liked Kambyses a great deal, and he respected the man as well. That he was an enemy would normally mean that Hirtius would have no compunction in gloating, but he had spent many a watch in this man’s company, had sat at a table with him more times than he could count, and more than anything, Hirtius, again like Caesar, respected Kambyses for his integrity and love of his country. Regardless of his personal feelings, however, Hirtius had no intention of repeating what Caesar had done.
Standing, he said to Silva, “I’m putting you in charge of him. If he can walk, then escort him to Caesar. If he can’t, then find something to carry him. I’m,” he turned and began walking to his horse, which had at least partially recovered, “going to find our general now myself and let him know everything.”
Not until he was certain that the Crassoi fully intended to retreat back into the city did Pullus turn his attention away from them, but the Crassoi Primus Pilus was no less cautious, actually forming the men under his command into a small version of an agmentum quadratum, the four-sided box formation that made any kind of surprise or flanking attack impossible. I, Pullus thought with a wearied, grim amusement, shouldn’t have used the flat of my sword on that bastard; I should have taken the top of his head off. That, he reflected, was not only in the past and couldn’t be undone, neither was it anything he planned to tell Caesar about, certain as he was that the general was already angry enough at him for what he had just done. At least Spurius was in the cac as well, he mused, although this was slim comfort, and thinking of his counterpart made him scan the ranks that were still arranged perpendicularly to the Crassoi fortifications and the inner ring of Caesarian entrenchments. It took him several moments, but he finally spied the white crest behind the rearmost ranks of the men of the First Cohort of the 3rd, where Spurius was striding down the back of each Century on his side, briefly conferring with them. Pullus didn’t run, but he did walk quickly to meet up with Spurius, who not surprisingly saw him coming, looming a head taller than the men under his command as he did. Walking to meet Pullus halfway, the pair stopped, then without a word being said, both moved more than a dozen paces away as the Centurions and Optios of Spurius’ Legion began carrying out the orders their Primus Pilus had just issued. Their bawled commands, the clattering of shields and armor as the men began moving that joined the low-pitched moaning of the wounded all combined to allow the pair to converse without fear of being overheard.
“So,” Spurius asked bluntly, “how much trouble do you think we’re in?”
“Hard to say,” Pullus replied, trying to maintain a tone that wouldn’t be out of place if they were discussing how many barrels of chickpeas their men needed, “but I think it’s better that we go and just get it over with.”
Spurius, as he tended to do, was of the same mind as Pullus, but that didn’t make doing it any easier, and he forced down the lump that had come into his throat, only giving a curt nod of agreement. Both began walking, heading back across the lowered ramp, but they had to weave around the bodies of both Parthian and Spurius’ own fallen men. When they reached the ramp itself, the pair were forced to step over the corpses as if they were straddling a low wall, and as they did, Pullus noticed something.
“It’s hard to tell which are ours and which are theirs,” he commented.
“Their helmets are a little different,” Spurius replied, tacitly agreeing with Pullus. “And they’re a little darker, maybe. But, yes, it is.”
Ironically, this served to stiffen the resolve of both Primi Pili and underscored their conviction they had made the correct decision, but it wasn’t lost on either of them that, ultimately, it didn’t matter how convinced they were that they had done the right thing. Once across the ramp, the pair stopped for a moment, observing the final stages of the battle being waged by the remnants of the Centuries that the Centurion who commanded the Crassoi contingent that had been with Kambyses had left behind. To their left, what appeared to be three Centuries had formed up into an orbis in the open ground between the inner and outer Caesarian fortifications, while the Pili Priores of the Cohorts of the 3rd who were on that side of the ramp were even then maneuvering their Centuries in an encircling maneuver.
“Do you think they’re going to keep fighting?” Spurius asked Pullus.
Pullus didn’t answer immediately, carefully studying the Crassoi facing outward, while in the center were the Signiferi, the wounded whose comrades had managed to drag away from the rampart as they retreated, and two Centurions. While he was observing the overt actions of the enemy, he was more interested in closely examining the demeanor of the men closest to him, watching for signs that told him whether or not their hearts were in making a last stand, or they were just going through the motions because their Centurions had commanded them.
Finally, Pullus, seeing enough, said, “I don’t think they will.” Then, remembering there was an important factor, asked Spurius, “Who’s your ranking Pilus Prior over there?”
“Lucanus,” Spurius answered immediately. “He’s my Tertius Pilus Prior.” Turning to Pullus, Spurius asked curiously, “Why?”
“Is he the type of man who’ll be willing to talk to those Crassoi first?” Pullus answered with a question of his own. “Or will he just want to get it over with?”
Spurius supplied the answer with his actions, muttering a curse under his breath even as he began trotting in the direction of the small drama being played out, calling over his shoulder, “Wait for me before you go talk to Caesar.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Pullus answered, but this was said more to himself, and Spurius was already too far away for him to repeat it without yelling.
While he waited for Spurius, Pullus turned his attention to the other side of the ramp, ostensibly to look for Caesar, but also to take in the situation with what Pullus had deduced would be the even-numbered Cohorts of the 3rd. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see two things at once; that Caesar, his red paludamentum and black crested helmet making him easy to find, was off the rampart and on the expanse of open ground, clearly supervising the surrender of those Crassoi who had found themselves in the same predicament as their comrades who Spurius was now presumably trying to convince to surrender without a fight. That the men on this side where Caesar was had already given up didn’t surprise Pullus at all, and he automatically assumed that it had been his general who had been the man to convince these Crassoi that further resistance was not only wasteful, but futile. There was one slight puzzle, however. Off in the distance, in an easterly direction, there was a relatively small, low-hanging cloud of dust, but there were too many bodies in the way, both enemy and friendly, for Pullus to see what was causing it. Shrugging to himself, he decided he would learn soon enough; in battles of this magnitude, it took watches, sometimes even a day or two, before the complete story was known. Pullus contented himself with watching as, with the same kind of order that he, as Primus Pilus, would have demanded if the unthinkable happened, the Crassoi went file by file, dropping their gladii in one pile, and their shields in another. From there, what appeared to be a full Cohort of men were waiting a short distance away, forming a square but facing inward, where the new captives were marched, whereupon they were allowed to sit on the ground. Even as he watched, Pullus saw some of the men guarding the Crassoi offering their prisoners a canteen or small objects that he was certain were chunks of bread or cheese, and he suddenly felt an almost overwhelming sadness. This was a scene that Pullus, and almost every other man of Caesar’s army, had hoped to never see repeated, men who were just like them but fated to be considered enemies, as it had been during the civil war between Pompeius Magnus and his general. Compounding his feelings was his recollectio
n of the conversation he had had with Gaius Asina, the captive Primus Pilus Posterior of the Crassoi, who was even then down in the southern camp, and how Asina’s assertion that these men were convinced they had been abandoned by Rome fueled their bitterness. Well, he thought, Asina is about to be reunited with some of his comrades.
Suddenly, Spurius called to him, and he turned just as the other Primus Pilus trotted up, and looking over his counterpart, Pullus saw that what he had just witnessed on Caesar’s side was now essentially being repeated, which was confirmed by Spurius, who said, “They’ve decided that it’s better to live another day. Even if,” he finished grimly, “it’s as prisoners.”
“Good,” Pullus said with a relief that wasn’t missed by Spurius, who simply nodded and repeated, “Yes, it’s good.” Then, he took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
Caesar had recovered his composure, and he stood listening to his two Primi Pili with a demeanor that, frustratingly for the pair, gave nothing away of his inner thoughts.