by R. W. Peake
Caesar sat across the table from him, but in yet another nod to his vanquished foe’s culture, they weren’t sitting on chairs or reclining on couches in the Roman manner.
Instead, they sat, cross-legged, at a table that had clearly been made for the Parthian style of dining, and it was enough of a curiosity to prompt Kambyses to ask, “Did you have this table made? Just for this dinner?”
Caesar laughed but admitted, “No. Actually,” he pointed down to the surface, although most of it was covered with a variety of dishes, “I thought you’d recognize it. It’s quite exquisite, don’t you think?”
Somewhat puzzled, Kambyses looked down at the table, recognizing for the first time the intricate, inlaid pattern that was created by a variety of wood of different types, but while it seemed familiar, he couldn’t identify it, and he looked up at Caesar with a frown, saying, “I agree that it’s quite beautiful, but I do not recognize it. Why? Should I?”
“It came from the palace in Susa,” Caesar answered cheerfully. “I had some of my men move it from the royal dining room.”
This didn’t have much effect on Kambyses, if only because he rarely noticed such things as workmanship, yet for some reason, he felt strangely moved by what he viewed as Caesar’s gesture to make him comfortable.
“It is…beautiful,” Kambyses said, finally, then confessed, “I am sad to say I do not recall noticing it before on those occasions when I was invited to a royal banquet.” Then, using this indirect mention of the house of Arsacid, Kambyses asked Caesar bluntly, “What is going to happen to Phraates?”
Although Kambyses had harbored a hope that he might catch Caesar off balance, he wasn’t surprised when the Roman responded, immediately and without any visible discomfort, “He has already been executed. It happened shortly before we sat down to eat.”
Similarly to Caesar’s response to the question, Kambyses wasn’t surprised by the answer, yet for reasons he couldn’t have articulated, he did ask, “Did he die well?”
“No,” Caesar answered shortly, shaking his head, “he didn’t.”
Kambyses grunted, muttering, “That is not much of a surprise.” There was a silence as he chewed his mouthful of food, then he reflected, “I should have tried to rescue Phraates, not break the siege.”
“Yes,” Caesar answered instantly, “you should have.”
Both men had spoken, seemingly without thinking, and in such a way that, for a moment, they stared at each other, shocked at the shared moment of candor. Then, Kambyses began laughing, and he was instantly joined by Caesar, the two men soon roaring with mirth until they were both in tears. It was a combination of release, camaraderie, and on the part of both men, albeit for different reasons, regret at all that had transpired. Finally, they reached a point where they had to catch their breath, bringing on a period of silence, and Kambyses resumed eating his food, while Caesar sat, silently regarding the Parthian.
It was Caesar who broke the quiet, asking Kambyses, “If I asked you to give your solemn oath that you would not attempt to usurp my authority over Parthia as a conquered province in exchange for your life, would you do it?”
Kambyses didn’t hesitate, nor was Caesar particularly surprised when he responded with a quiet vehemence, “No. Never.”
The Roman nodded, and there was an expression on his face that, despite his relatively frequent contact with his captor, Kambyses didn’t remember seeing before; he would never learn that it was a look of genuine, heartfelt sadness.
Nevertheless, Caesar’s tone was even as he said, “I didn’t think you would.” Caesar stared down at his own plate for a moment, then looked Kambyses directly in the eye as he asked, “How would you prefer to die?”
Again, without any thought, Kambyses replied, “In bed with my favorite concubine when I am ninety years old.”
Once more, Caesar erupted in laughter, and Kambyses quickly joined him, the two men sharing this second moment of levity in what, although he didn’t comprehend on a conscious level but knew instinctively, Kambyses sensed was the most profound sign of respect that Caesar could offer another man.
All signs of humor vanished from Caesar, and he said soberly, “I wish that I could grant your request, Kambyses, I truly do. But, given your answer to my first question…”
“I know,” Kambyses cut him off, deciding that there was no point in prolonging this conversation. “And if I were in your position, I would not only do the same thing,” he paused, then added softly, “I would ask the same question.”
Caesar suddenly raised his cup, offering it in a toast.
“To the gods, who see fit to put two men who might have been great friends on opposite sides.”
“To the gods,” Kambyses repeated, lifting his own cup, then the pair drained the wine. Sighing, Kambyses said, “When all things are considered, I have lived a good life.”
“And I will always think of you in the highest regard,” Caesar replied gravely and without hesitation.
The pair finished their meal in a leisurely manner, but once they were done and Kambyses knew he could delay no longer, he thought for only a moment, then informed Caesar, “I have lived my life by the sword, so I think that is the best way to go.”
Caesar nodded, completely unsurprised, and he escorted Kambyses out of the officers’ mess and into his private quarters, where the huge Roman Centurion was standing, waiting.
“You are Titus Pullus, yes?” Kambyses asked, although he knew the answer. “I remember you…”
“…From the battle on the ridge,” the large Roman answered, nodding, then offered, “You fought bravely, as I recall.”
“We still lost.” Kambyses couldn’t stop himself, the bitterness of that day coming back in a rush, remembering his lone ride up the ridge to retrieve the body of the man who, Kambyses now understood, was the best chance Parthia had for repelling the Roman invasion.
“Yes,” Pullus agreed, “but Caesar was right when he told me that you were the Parthian he worried about most once Pacorus died.”
Part of Kambyses was suspicious, but mostly, he was thankful for this praise from an enemy. There were so many decisions that he had cause to regret, yet somehow, he understood that, as long as this Roman Caesar lived, there was no tribe, no nation that could withstand his will. He knelt then, bowed his head, and in a manner that would have made Romans proud, accepted his fate at the hands of a giant Roman wielding a sword forged in Gaul.
It was the next morning when the Crassoi were marched into the forum of the northern camp, where Caspar was waiting, along with Asina and Gemellus, who Caspar had decided was essential to the offer he was about to propose. His men were unarmed, but they all noticed that there were no armed guards surrounding the forum of the northern camp, which had been created with three Legions in mind, meaning that their shrunken numbers were impossible to ignore, although they had yet to be consolidated down from their sixteen total Cohorts, counting the remnants of Gemellus’ two. The Centurions marched their Centuries into their accustomed spots in the formation they had held almost every day since they became known as the Crassoi, but unlike the other times, there were no whispered conversations, nor was there any of the normal fidgeting as the Centuries in position waited for the rest of their comrades. Caspar stood, alone, the one concession he had asked from Caesar, that no representative of the victorious Romans be present, his mouth as dry as if he was about to go into battle, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head that reminded him of the worst hangover he had ever experienced, while Asina and Gemellus stood a couple paces behind him. Despite not only being allowed a night for his men to recover, but given leave by Caesar to go into Susa and visit his family, under escort, of course, Caspar was still exhausted. The evening before, as he walked down the streets of the city, he had been forced to acknowledge that Caesar had been true to his word; there was no disorder in the streets, none of the chaos that would be expected after a city was taken. Indeed, there were citizens out in the streets, although Caspar took
note that they were exclusively male, which he thought was a sensible precaution. As disciplined as Caesar’s men obviously were, the sight of a woman, particularly after any kind of battle, would be a huge temptation to violate their general’s orders, no matter what the possible consequences might be. When he took the time to reflect on it later, Caspar realized that the composition of the Legions, the only ones allowed into the city, was no accident; all of them were those that had seen little or no fighting over the previous two days, so their passions wouldn’t have been as inflamed as men who had shed blood and seen friends die taking it. Not surprisingly, his wife Kira was beside herself with joy at the sight of her man walking through the door, but for Caspar, it was the reaction of his children, the feeling of their arms around his neck as they seemed to alternate between crying and shrieking with delight that provided the strength he needed to be standing there in the forum, determined to convince his men to change their allegiance one more, and hopefully final, time. Watching his battered men, all of whom showed the same signs of exhaustion and the toll of the hardest fight any of them had ever been involved in, Caspar ruefully recognized that, once again, Caesar had known what he was about in allowing Caspar to see his family. In its simplest terms, it gave him even more incentive to convince his men to take the offer being made by Caesar, but he still harbored doubts about doing so, not because of his ability to persuade them, or because it was in his honest opinion the best alternative. These men had been harboring a sense of betrayal by Rome for more than a decade, and now, here was the most powerful man in Rome, the Dictator for Life, as Caspar had recently learned, offering them a deal. Would they trust Caesar? he wondered. Would they trust him? He was so absorbed in these thoughts that, it wasn’t until Asina loudly cleared his throat that Caspar was jolted from this contemplation.
Startled to the point that he actually physically jerked a bit, his reaction actually elicited a chuckle from the men in the front ranks who had seen it, which Caspar chose to take as a good sign, and it gave him the opportunity to begin, “As you can see, I was doing a bit of daydreaming, neh?” Although there was less laughter, most of the faces still bore smiles, or at least a neutral expression. “Well,” he continued, “when you hear what I have to say, I think you will have a lot on your mind as well.” As he expected, this made the smiles vanish, their attention now completely focused on their Primus Pilus. Taking a deep breath, Caspar began the essence of what he had promised Caesar he would say. “First, some of you may have already heard from the men guarding us after the surrender, but for those of you who haven’t, I want to let you know this:” his pause was deliberate, “Rome did not forget us!”
By the time he was finished, Caspar’s tunic was soaked through with sweat, his throat hurt, and he was certain that his legs would collapse if he was forced to use them immediately after he stopped. As he talked, he made sure to scan the faces of those men he could see, trying to make some form of eye contact with those veterans he knew held sway over their comrades in their Centuries. For the most part, it was impossible to tell how his message was being received just by their collective expressions, but if he had been forced to offer an assessment, he wasn’t optimistic. At the mention of Rome, most of the men’s features hardened, although there were no muttered imprecations or any overt signs that the Crassoi veterans would reject Caspar’s words before he got to the heart of the matter. The silence was what he found most unnerving, and it stretched out for a span that he had never experienced before, which indicated to him that they would reject everything on offer out of hand.
Then, from somewhere deep in the second rank of Centuries, a voice called out, “What if we just want to go home?”
“To Rome?” Caspar asked, somewhat puzzled since he hadn’t made any mention of this.
“Yes!” the unidentified ranker replied, then amended, “Not to Rome, though, but back to Umbria, Cingulum, actually. I haven’t seen my mother in fourteen years! Or my brother and sister!”
Suddenly, Caspar realized that, since he hadn’t given the men leave to break from intente, it was impossible for them to respond freely, so before he responded to the ranker, he called out, “You men stand easy. It sounds like we have some things to talk over.”
The instant the words were out of his mouth, Caspar regretted doing so, because the air filled with voices as men turned to each other or called to close friends in other Centuries, quickly becoming so loud that it would be impossible to be heard.
“All right,” Caspar tried a softer approach first, holding his hands up in a visual signal. “I didn’t mean that you could behave like it’s a festival day!”
He couldn’t say he was all that surprised that he was ignored for the most part, but before he could do or say anything else, Gaius Asina stepped forward from his spot and bellowed, “Tacete, you misbegotten bastards! Your Primus Pilus isn’t through!”
His friend had always had a set of lungs that would do a bellows proud, and his words had the desired effect as the men, some of them sheepish, others looking angry at the rebuke, stopped talking, but what mattered was that it was silent again.
“Now,” Caspar resumed, choosing to say nothing about the misbehavior, “who asked the question?” There was no immediate response, and he chided, “Come on now, you shouted out the question. You’re not going to get striped.”
This prompted a ripple of movement in the second rank, a hand raising, and while Caspar still didn’t have a clear view, the ranker identified himself, and like any good Primus Pilus, Caspar was at least familiar with the name.
Thinking quickly, he decided on taking a different approach, and he called out, “How many of you men are of the same mind as Creticus there?”
To his shock and dismay, dozens of hands shot up, all across the entire formation, so many that Caspar realized that this was going to take much, much longer than he thought.
Sighing, he called to Asina, “Take over for me. I need to go find some wax tablets. We’re going to have to take an accurate count.”
Caesar studied the tablets that Caspar presented, and the Crassoi Primus Pilus was pleased to see that he wasn’t alone in his perplexity at the information represented in them.
“Six hundred twenty-seven men?” Caesar spoke for the first time, his tone bemused. “That’s how many men want to return back to Italia?”
“Yes, Caesar,” Caspar replied uneasily. This hadn’t even been considered as an option; at least, Caesar hadn’t offered it.
Caesar set this tablet aside, picking up another as he said, “I am going to have to think about this a bit before I make a decision.” He opened the tablet, his lips pursed as he took in the figures tabulated therein, and this prompted him to heave a weary sigh. “But in some ways, these men are worse. Almost a thousand want their discharge, but they plan on returning to Merv?”
“Yes, sir,” Caspar nodded, but what he didn’t say was that, included in those numbers was Caspar himself; he wasn’t sure when or how he would bring it up, although he had decided that he would wait until Caesar had made his decision, reasoning that it would give him an idea of how to approach the general. “These are men who now have families and roots in Merv.”
“What’s Merv like?” Caesar asked suddenly, surprising Caspar which, as he was beginning to understand was a favorite tactic of the Dictator’s.
Nevertheless, he considered for a moment, then shrugged. “In some ways, it’s a lot like here, but the winters are much harder. But it’s a large city, and I think one reason the men love it is only because that’s where they met their women and had their children. And,” he added, “since it’s on the Silk Road, there’s a lot of different people, different foods.”
“Different vices?” Caesar asked, amused at Caspar’s face flushing, although the Crassoi laughed and admitted, “I suspect that has something to do with it as well.”
Setting aside this tablet, Caesar picked up the third, and for the first time, he seemed, if not pleased, then at least unsurp
rised. “Three thousand six hundred ninety-two agree to serve as a garrison, either here or in Ctesiphon, but not with my Legions.” Sighing, he admitted, “I suppose it was a bit much to expect they would want to serve with men they’ve just faced in battle.”
“That’s all of us,” Caspar suddenly burst out, unable to contain the anguish and bitterness. “That’s all that’s left of more than twelve thousand men who surrendered.”
Before he could stop himself, a sob escaped from his lips, and he instantly covered his face with his hands, horrified at this shameful show of weakness.
He was barely aware of the sound of a chair moving, but it was followed by a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it, as Caesar’s voice spoke with undisguised sympathy, “Trust me, Primus Pilus, I do know how you feel losing so many of your friends and comrades. But they all behaved honorably, and they will not be forgotten by their comrades, and by those of us who faced them.” Caesar waited while Caspar recovered his composure, then moved to the topic that concerned him the most, asking, “Of the men who want their discharge to return to Merv, how many of them are in the Centurionate and Optionate?”
Caspar had known this was going to be brought up, but he didn’t relish giving Caesar the answer, if only because he was certain that there would be a following question that was even more uncomfortable; nevertheless, he replied, “Forty-eight, Caesar. Thirty Centurions, eighteen Optios.”
Caesar took a step back from Caspar’s chair to fall heavily on his desk, exclaiming, “Gerrae! That’s more than a third of the total officers, and almost half of the Centurions!” He sat there, looking dumbfounded for a moment as he considered the implications. Then, his expression changed, and he turned his gaze on Caspar, who immediately guessed what was coming, when Caesar asked him, quietly, “And you, Caspar? What are your plans?”