by R. W. Peake
And, with that, it was done; Susa, the traditional Parthian capital for two centuries before it had been relocated to Ctesiphon, was in Roman hands. From this point forward, in many ways, this marked the beginning of the most difficult portion of what was expected of Caesar’s Legions. In advance of the surrender, Caesar had issued strict instructions that the inhabitants of the city, nor their property, would not be molested in any way, which understandably wasn’t met with any enthusiasm by the rankers of any Legion. For as long as their collective memory stretched back, Legionaries had been allowed to sack a taken town or city, and while there had been some activity of this nature with the Legions who took Seleucia, it had been in a visceral response to the horrors of naphtha and the perception that the Greek inhabitants were responsible, while Ctesiphon had been undisturbed. With the formal surrender done, the process of disarming the defenders began, something that Pullus and the Gallic veterans knew was a moment where matters suddenly could turn ugly, if one or more of the men handing over their weapons either had second thoughts or disagreed with his superiors’ decision to surrender. Fortunately, for everyone involved, this didn’t happen; there were some muttered comments, and some angry glares as, one by one, the Crassoi threw their weapons onto the steadily growing pile, each Century having their own pile. As Pullus watched, his attention was drawn to the next group waiting to turn over their weapons, the Parthian cataphractoi, and the Primus Pilus experienced a gnawing concern at the manner in which these men were behaving. Without drawing attention to himself, Pullus turned, located Lutatius, the officer nearest to him, and beckoned him to come to his side.
“I don’t want any fuss,” he told Lutatius, “no cornu calls, none of the Centurions bellowing at the top of their lungs, but I want the Cohort to move,” he turned slightly, but used his head to indicate where he meant, “perpendicular to the wall, with the Sixth nearest to it. And I want them fifty paces from that bunch of Parthians. They look like they might not be willing to behave themselves.”
To his credit, Lutatius didn’t make a display of examining the cataphractoi, nor did he salute, simply nodding and trotting away, while Pullus returned his attention to the Parthians, who were waiting for the final Crassoi Centuries to throw their weapons on their respective pile that were already higher than all but Pullus’ head. Behind him, Pullus heard the noise that was inevitable when a large body of armored men are moved from one spot to another, but his attention never wavered from the Parthians. Once more, a moment occurred that the more religious Romans would have ascribed to the direct intervention of the gods, because contrary to Pullus’ fear that the Parthians would see and correctly interpret what he was attempting to do, their collective attention seemed to be on one of their own. Pullus could see just by the quality of his armor that this was a noble of relatively high rank; he also guessed that he was their commander and they were looking to him for a sign that would inform them how to react now that their time to surrender was at hand. The Parthians nearest this noble had clustered around him, thereby blocking his view as the six Centuries of Romans moved into position just enough that, by the time he and his men became aware of what Pullus had ordered, it was too late for any kind of resistance. Pullus’ gaze never left the spot where the Parthian commander was standing, and he saw the moment when the Parthian, finally looking beyond his own men, spotted the line of armed Romans, their shields up and ready instead of on the ground, negating what small chance the surrendering men might have had to resist. It would be a slaughter, but from the Parthian’s perspective, it would have been completely one-sided, since the bulk of his men were positioned in such a manner that Pullus’ Cohort was essentially behind them. Pullus saw the look of realization flash across the young nobleman’s face, followed by what, to Pullus’ eyes, appeared to be an expression of relief, making him think that perhaps the Parthian hadn’t been keen on making a dramatic yet futile gesture, but was being pressured by some of his men. The nobleman lifted his hand to point at Pullus’ Cohort, prompting his own men to turn, see the Romans, and just that quickly, the moment passed, something Pullus could see, simply by the demeanor and posture of the cataphractoi. Glancing over, he saw that Caesar had dismounted and was engaged in conversation with the young Parthian who had surrendered the city, and the Crassoi Primus Pilus, making Pullus think that his general had been unaware of the small drama being played out in front of them. The archers followed the dismounted cataphractoi, most of the latter group wearing sullenly defiant expressions, although they clearly recognized the moment for resistance had passed, so their disarming went smoothly. Finally, it was the turn of the native Parthian infantry, and by this time, there were now dozens of large piles, divided into three types—one of shields, one of armor, and one of weapons—and no man of this last group seeming disposed towards ideas of resistance. This was more in line with Pullus’ experience of these native levies, despite hearing about the fierce fight they had offered as part of Kambyses’ attempt, the survivors of which were already captives, and whom their comrades from inside the city would be joining. By the time this part of the handover was done, it was well past noon, the sun was beating down on the victors and vanquished alike, prompting Caesar to order that barrels of water be brought from the camp to be distributed to the prisoners, now sitting in neat rows, still in their groups, in the open space between the entrenchments and walls.
Shortly thereafter, the 12th was sent into the city, still with the strict orders that the inhabitants not be molested, nor their possessions touched, something that Pullus, and every man wearing a transverse crest, thought was asking too much of rankers to expect them to keep their hands to themselves. While he understood the need for this policy, and the rational part of his mind agreed was essential to the prospect for a peaceful transition for both conqueror and the vanquished, Pullus was a ranker at heart. All of the hardships that came with a life under the standard were supposedly counterbalanced by moments where men of humble origins and means had the opportunity to enrich themselves, and to seek some form of release from the horrors of war. While he personally didn’t understand it, he accepted that there was a sizable segment of men wearing the uniform of a Legionary of Rome who considered rape as one of the benefits of being part of a victorious army. Telling these men that they had to forego their pleasures was going to prove to be a trial for every Centurion and Optio, at least of those Legions who would be allowed inside the city. Pullus hadn’t heard any orders to this effect, but he had correctly assumed that, while the 12th was entering through the now-open northern gate, at least one Legion from the other camps was entering through the gate nearest to them, so that by the end of a full watch after noon, Susa was under the complete control of Caesar’s army. All that mattered to him and his men was that, with all of this done, Caesar finally dismissed the 3rd and 10th Legions to return to the camp and, finally, get some much-needed rest. To the critical eye of their Primus Pilus, the Equestrians didn’t march as much as they stumbled back to their area in the northern camp, and he decided to forego the normal procedure of stopping in the forum, then being dismissed from there, sending word to the Pili Priores that they were to proceed directly to their tents. Although he never would have admitted it, Pullus was every bit as tired as his men, probably more so, and it served as another reminder to him that he wasn’t getting any younger. Balbus was in no better shape, nor was Scribonius, so that instead of meeting in Pullus’ quarters, each of them went to their own tents. Diocles was there, waiting for Pullus, helping him off with his armor, but he hadn’t even put it on the rack when, behind him, he heard Pullus’ body fall heavily on his cot, and by the time he was finished properly stowing the gear, his master was snoring softly.
If they had consulted with each other, Pullus would have learned that his Crassoi counterpart was every bit as exhausted as the Primus Pilus of the Equestrians, but Caspar didn’t have the luxury of rest, not yet. Only after being assured that his newly surrendered men would be joining the comrades take
n the day before, and seeing for himself that they had been given food, water, and shelter, though for the moment, the latter was simply awnings that had been erected to give the prisoners shade, did Caspar agree to accompany Caesar to the praetorium, along with Bodroges, who served as the authority for the native Parthians. During their walk to the forum, Caspar and Bodroges caught a glimpse of Kambyses, who while his hands were free, was surrounded by the men Caspar recognized as those German bodyguards who served only Caesar that he had heard about, with one of them holding the reins of Kambyses’ mount. It appeared they were heading out of the camp, towards the west, and Caspar assumed that would be where the man who had tried but failed to relieve the garrison would be held, while Caesar decided his fate. Oddly enough, Caspar gave no thought to Phraates, aside from when he first recognized the man, sitting next to Kambyses earlier in the day. There had been nothing kingly about him then, and Caspar was secretly relieved that the capriciously cruel, sly, and vindictive offspring of Orodes and brother of Pacorus would never sit on the throne again. There was one Parthian’s welfare that concerned Caspar, however, something that would have surprised that Parthian only slightly more than it surprised Caspar himself, and it was Teispes who Caspar was thinking about. He had been part of the mounted contingent that surrendered with Bodroges, but was now presumably with Artaxerxes and the remaining men of The Thousand, and Caspar was determined to bring his name up to Caesar when the time was right. Reaching the praetorium, they were escorted in, behind Caesar, of course, who Caspar observed seemed to sweep into a space rather than just enter it, and even through his fatigue, he noted with some amusement the manner in which the clerks, slaves, and even what Caspar recalled were the Tribunes who were always attached to the army, scattered out of his way, much like a flock of ducks when a rider came galloping. They went into Caesar’s office, where the general was already sitting down, while the four Germans standing behind Bodroges and Caspar remained inside the room but against the leather wall. There were two chairs in front of Caesar’s desk, and he waved to them, while at the same time, snapped an order to a slave who Caspar hadn’t noticed, until the man leapt from the corner to fill three cups from an amphora. After he handed one to Caesar, the general waited until Caspar and Bodroges had their own.
Suddenly, Caesar seemed, if not uncertain, then a little embarrassed, which he explained by saying, “I was going to offer a toast, but I realized that neither of you would think this is a cause for celebration. So,” he smiled, “please accept this as a way to quench your thirst after what I know was a trying day.”
Part of Caspar wanted to hurl the cup at Caesar; fortunately, it was a small part, and he was too thirsty in the bargain to let his pride win. Bodroges, more practiced in moments such as this, simply bowed his head gravely in a silent acceptance of Caesar’s words, then took a sip. There was a silence for a moment, mainly because, unlike Caesar and Bodroges, Caspar tipped the cup and drained it in three long swallows, yet even as he did, he was pleasantly surprised at not only how cool the liquid was, but how smoothly it went down and its pleasant taste, one that triggered a memory in Caspar’s mind, from a time long before.
Before he could stop himself, Caspar asked tentatively, “Is this…Falernian wine?”
“It is,” Caesar answered with a pleased nod. “I’m afraid that I’m down to my last amphora, but this is a special moment, and I thought you might enjoy this taste of home.”
This was when Caspar, whose contact with Caesar had been only a matter of a couple watches, recognized that there was much more to the general’s choice of beverage than simple hospitality, but what disturbed him more was that he could tell Bodroges had understood this immediately, feeling the young Parthian’s gaze on him.
“Yes,” Caspar said, fumbling for words, “yes, well, it’s been a long time since I tasted Falernian, but we had some at a banquet that the Legate threw for all the Centurions the night before we began the campaign.”
Caesar nodded, but there was an expression of sadness on his handsome features that, if it was feigned, Caspar judged, then this man had missed his calling.
“You know,” Caesar’s voice had taken on a huskiness that added to Caspar’s conviction that Caesar was being genuine in his emotions, “I considered Marcus Crassus a true friend. And,” he added, “his son served with great distinction during my Gallic campaign.” Suddenly, his face hardened, but it was to Bodroges he addressed his question. “In fact, I want to know where the seven standards are located, immediately. I’m going to have them recovered and placed here in the forum of my camp so that my men will know that what we set out to do has been accomplished.”
Bodroges seemed completely unsurprised, answering immediately, “They are in the vault in the palace, where the treasury is kept when the king is in residence.”
Caesar turned to yet another man that Caspar hadn’t noticed, this one Greek by appearance, communicating with a terse nod, prompting the Greek to get up from the tiny desk tucked into yet another corner of the room, then wordlessly slip through the hanging leather partition that served as a door.
When Caesar returned his gaze to Bodroges, it was with an expression that ignited a sense of disquiet in Caspar, all warmth and the casual geniality gone from the general’s expression, but Caspar immediately understood when Caesar asked, quietly, “And his head?”
Bodroges clearly understood the reference, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as Caspar felt some sympathy for the young nobleman, knowing that Bodroges had only been a boy when the incident with Crassus occurred.
“It…honestly, Caesar,” Bodroges fumbled, “I don’t know with any certainty.”
“We had heard that it was placed on the walls of Ctesiphon,” Caesar said coldly, “but when we took the city, we were told that it had been moved to Susa.”
“It had been,” Bodroges answered, “but please understand that when Marcus Crassus was…defeated, I was very young. I have only been part of the Parthian court for three years, and your friend’s head was not present, either at Ctesiphon or here, since I have been serving.” Caesar’s expression remained coldly angry, which prompted Bodroges to cry, “I swear this is the truth, on our god Ahura-Mazda!”
Caesar didn’t reply, at least immediately; instead, he turned to look at Caspar, but the Crassoi could at least say with complete sincerity, “We never saw the Legate after he died. Once the surrender happened, we were immediately marched off to Merv.”
At first, Caspar was confused by Caesar’s reaction, because the general stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Caspar, but when Caesar spoke, he suddenly understood.
“Wait. What do you mean ‘after he died’?” Caesar demanded. “We were told he had been captured alive.”
Caspar glanced over at Bodroges, but while nothing was said between them, he could read in the young Parthian’s expression that the nobleman was aware that another story had been allowed to be told about Crassus’ fate.
“No, sir,” Caspar turned to look Caesar in the eye, “that’s not what happened at all. After Publius was killed, the Legate seemed to lose…something, and he realized that we were beaten. So,” even now, the memory of that moment caused a lump to come to Caspar’s throat, “he took the Roman way and died by his own hand.”
Caesar looked to Bodroges, who nodded vigorously, telling Caesar, “That much is true, Caesar. We heard that he was dead before the surrender took place. But, King Orodes,” Bodroges shrugged helplessly, “he made sure that there was another story told.”
Caesar considered this for a moment, then he said, “Well, we did learn that the story about the molten gold being poured down his throat didn’t happen to him.” He fell silent then, his gaze shifting from Bodroges to Caspar, then back again, before he finally sighed and decided, “Very well. I believe that his head is…lost.” There was a silence then, as the three men sipped from their cups, Caspar’s having been refilled by the slave. Then, Caesar asked him, “When do you want to talk to your me
n about my offer?”
Caspar considered for a moment, then answered, “If it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to wait until the morning. My boys are tired, and a lot has happened over the last day. I think if they get a good night’s sleep, they’ll be in a better frame of mind to listen to what I have to say.”
This clearly pleased Caesar, who nodded approvingly before he turned to Bodroges, “And? What is your decision, Bodroges?”
“I accept your offer, Caesar,” Bodroges replied instantly, and although Caspar couldn’t really blame the young nobleman, neither could he ignore the distaste he felt at the lack of hesitation on the Parthian’s part.
This clearly didn’t surprise Caesar, but then he stood, saying, “My apologies, but there are many other things I need to attend to, so as soon as you are finished with your refreshments, you are free to go.”
With that, Caesar rose and strode out of his office, but it wasn’t lost on Caspar that the four Germans who had been standing silently the whole time stayed behind.
“Would you care for more of the lamb? Did we prepare it in the manner that you’re used to?”
Kambyses assured Caesar that, indeed, the dish had been prepared in precisely the manner that would have done a Parthian cook no injustice. Despite the fact that he was still somewhat disoriented, and extremely disappointed, the Parthian found, to his surprise, that he actually had quite an appetite, something that he attributed to his knowledge this was in all likelihood his final meal.