Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Once Caesar was finished with Lepidus, he made a show of turning to address the man to whom he had really issued orders to, but when he began, “Primus Pilus Caspar…” the Crassoi held up a hand in a manner that, while subtle, was unmistakable, but it was his words that carried the most meaning.

  “Sir,” he interjected quietly, “if you don’t mind, you can call me Primus Pilus Pompilius. Numerius Pompilius, actually. Also,” he lowered his voice so that only Caesar could hear, “I want to thank you for your decision about Teispes. He’s a good man, and I know he won’t let you down.”

  The smile he offered then, both as an apology for the interruption, and as a signal that, at last, the men of Crassus’ doomed campaign had finally been reunited with Rome, was a memory that Caesar, Pullus, and those who were present would long remember. Then, the Crassoi Legion began the almost thousand-mile journey back to Merv, while Lepidus went into what he rightly viewed as an exile from the army; what he didn’t know was how long it might last.

  Caesar hadn’t granted the former Caspar’s request easily, choosing to think about it for several days before finally acquiescing, and only after conducting a thorough and somewhat harsh interview with the one-eyed Parthian. Ultimately, it was a combination of factors that led to Caesar’s decision, not only to spare Teispes, but to allow what amounted to two alae of Parthian cavalry composed of cataphractoi, and two of mounted archers, bolstering the cavalry arm by replacing the losses Hirtius and his command had suffered trying to stop Kambyses. Of the two formations, Caesar was less worried about the archers, since they were almost exclusively recruited from the lower classes, although from a segment of Parthian society better off than the men who filled the Parthian infantry. The cataphractoi were another matter altogether, but in the end, Caesar realized that, given how Artavasdes, the Armenian king, had proven so reluctant to part with any of his own forces that were composed in the Parthian style, he couldn’t resist the temptation to add these heavily armored horsemen to his array of forces. As a precaution, however, Caesar decreed that the only men who would escape execution would be those retainers who could prove that they weren’t aligned by blood to one of the noble houses of Parthia; Teispes was one of the few exceptions, although it wasn’t without reservations that Caesar deemed that the one-eyed Parthian would be more of an asset than a liability. Not that Caesar didn’t take precautions; he spoke privately with the German Gundomir, who was given very explicit instructions and orders to watch Teispes carefully, and Caesar made it clear to the German that if Gundomir harbored any suspicions about Teispes’ loyalties, Caesar expected the problem to be solved quickly and permanently. Naturally, there were other, more practical problems with the addition of more Parthians to Caesar’s army, but the previous year had proved valuable in teaching Caesar’s officers what worked well and what didn’t when it came to integrating these men into the ranks. Naturally, none of the men involved, both Roman and Parthian, had any idea that, while Parthians would be the first to be absorbed by Rome and Caesar, they would be far from the last, and while he knew in a general sense that this would be the method whereby he would replenish and reinforce his Legions and auxiliaries, not even Caesar could have predicted the scope and scale of what lay ahead.

  Although the end of the campaign season was welcomed by the men of all ranks of Caesar’s army, it quickly became apparent that it would be a winter season short on leisure, which Caesar made clear just a few days after the departure of the Crassoi.

  “After talking to Bodroges, Artaxerxes, and the other members of the Parthian nobility who have now joined us,” Caesar began, the men to whom he had just referred now taking up an entire row of chairs, “while it’s true that we’ve effectively ended the rule of the House of Arsacids, there are some satraps in the farthest east of Parthia who either didn’t answer the call put out first by Orodes, then Phraates, or they held back a significant portion of their strength. But,” Caesar pointed to the large map, which Pullus had noticed had gone back to the one that only showed the territory of Parthia, “as you can see just by looking to the east, and by this map, we will have to cross extremely mountainous terrain to get to this area, specifically the town the Parthians call Istakhr.” He waited for the men to absorb this news, which Caesar had been aware was expected; that he deliberately allowed this piece of information to be spread through his clerks was done with the next and larger step in mind. Caesar began to introduce this new goal by pointing southward from the black dot that represented the town that was about three miles away from the ruins of Persepolis. “From there, we won’t be continuing east, but south.”

  As he expected, this caused a stir, not just with the Centurions, but the men of Legate rank, all of whom he had managed to keep ignorant of his larger ambition, and it was Hirtius who beat the others to it by asking, both partially confused but also suspicious of his general, “South? Why would we head south? According to that,” he pointed to the map, “there’s nothing there but desert and mountains.”

  “Because,” Caesar replied calmly, “we are going to be meeting a fleet there, where we are going to take ship for the next part of the campaign.”

  “Fleet?” Pollio was no less mystified than Hirtius or any other man present. “What fleet?”

  “The one that I gave orders to build at the beginning of this campaign season,” Caesar’s tone was matter-of-fact, “at Clysma.”

  Caesar knew that he would be unable to continue speaking after this pronouncement, and he allowed the men, all of whom without exception leapt to their feet to talk excitedly either to each other or aimed at Caesar, who stood, impassively, absorbing the furor that he had known was inevitable.

  Finally, over the voices competing for his attention, it was Pollio who asked the first question that Caesar was willing to answer. “Where did the money for something like that come from?”

  “From Egypt’s treasury,” he answered, then with a thin smile, he added, “Queen Cleopatra has graciously agreed to lend us the money that such an endeavor requires.”

  While this answered the pecuniary question, the moment was far from over since this led to the next logical one, and although most of the men were asking roughly the same thing, it was to Ventidius that Caesar addressed his answer, simply because he was the closest.

  “You’re asking why we’re going to need a fleet?” Caesar asked, in the same manner as the famous rhetoricians of the Socratic school favored. “Because we’re going to be invading India.”

  Epilogue

  The news of Caesar and his army’s final conquest of Parthia, the execution of Phraates, and the end of the Arsacid line reached Rome at about the same time as the Crassoi and their families began the long journey back to Merv. Not surprisingly, within a watch of the arrival of the courier, the last man in a long line of them that stretched across the Roman Sea and deep into the heart of Parthia, Gaius Tullius Cicero found himself summoned, once more, to the house of the Master of the Horse, Marcus Antonius. Over the course of the previous year, while Caesar and his army were fulfilling the promise that included the recovery of Crassus’ seven eagle standards, Cicero had met with Antonius only a handful of times. This was by design, and was a perfectly acceptable situation as far as both men were concerned; even so, Cicero sensed that Antonius was growing as uneasy as he had been for years about Caesar’s ever-expanding power and authority. Reaching the villa that he still thought of as Pompey’s, Cicero was ushered in immediately, and in even more of a surprise, wasn’t made to take a seat in the entry vestibule while Caesar’s nominal second in command kept him waiting for some imaginary piece of pressing non-existent business. Therefore, he was completely unprepared for being greeted by Antonius without the normal barbed comment or something that, for Antonius, passed as a moment of wit.

  Instead, Antonius simply thrust out what Cicero could tell was a sheet of papyrus that had retained its shape from being carried in the leather tube that had brought it to Rome, saying flatly, “Read this.”

/>   Carefully unrolling the papyrus, Cicero immediately recognized that this message had been written in Caesar’s own hand, and not by one of his seemingly endless supply of scribes, not even the one that, from what Cicero had surmised, served the same role for Caesar as Tiro did for Cicero. This fact alone was enough to put him on his guard, but he read carefully, determined to not be surprised by anything contained within, or at the very least, avoid giving Antonius the slightest hint of his thoughts about what he read. As he quickly realized, this would be harder to do than he had thought, despite giving himself this warning.

  “He’s not returning to Rome?” Cicero asked, more to stall for time than any other reason, to which Antonius snapped irritably, “That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” Cicero agreed, “but is that really such a surprise? Especially,” he pointed to the bottom of the papyrus, “given this last part about building a fleet at…” Cicero was irritated with himself for not instantly recalling the name, glancing down and finding it. “…Clysma. Forgive me, Master of the Horse, if my geography isn’t what it should be, but as I recall, this Clysma is located on the coast of the narrow gulf that the Greeks named Heroopoliticus. And that, sadly, is the extent of my knowledge, although I do seem to remember that it got its name from the Ptolemies. But, what is more important is that it…”

  “Doesn’t make any sense?” Antonius cut him off, still in an ill humor, causing him to let out a bitter laugh. “Yes, I know that, thank you. There’s no reason for him to build a fleet. One,” he reminded Cicero, “that he says will carry his entire army. But,” at this, Antonius, always one for dramatic gestures, threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration as he asked, “where? Where could he possibly take an army? Arabia?”

  Cicero considered this for a moment, and his first inclination was to pounce on this as the most likely explanation; but, since he still held the papyrus, he read Caesar’s words one more time, and that feeling of certainty evaporated.

  “No,” the Senator replied quietly, “he’s not thinking of conquering Arabia.”

  Suddenly inspired, Cicero turned to regard the wall that featured one of the few things that Antonius hadn’t changed when he took over the other dead member of the thing Romans called, secretly, the Three Headed Beast, and of which only Caesar now survived. Cicero had always thought the mural of the known world, with the areas that Pompeius Magnus had conquered in the name of Rome painted in a vivid red, was an exercise in the kind of poor taste and excess for which Pompeius was known almost as much as the lands he had claimed. At this moment, however, it proved its value, because almost as soon as Cicero turned to examine it, he was certain he knew the answer.

  Rather than simply apprising Antonius of his surmise, Cicero couldn’t resist his own version of the game that Antonius liked to play with him, asking suddenly, “Who does Caesar admire more than any other man?”

  “Himself.” Antonius said this so quickly, before he had had time to think of an answer, that he appeared every bit as shocked as Cicero for saying it as the Senator was for hearing it, but despite himself, Cicero found himself roaring with laughter, which Antonius joined in so that, for a few moments, the two men forgot their antipathy for the other.

  Finally, wiping away the tears from his eyes, Cicero acknowledged, “Well said, Antonius. But, besides himself,” he forced himself to stifle the snicker and amended slightly, “who is it that Caesar has modeled himself after?”

  “Alexander,” Antonius answered, but still puzzled, he said dismissively, “but what does that have to do with it?”

  In answer, Cicero pointed to the mural, but even then he could see Antonius wasn’t grasping it, and in some frustration, he walked closer to the wall so he could then point up to a thin blue line, beyond which the unknown artist had painted a drab brown that stood in stark contrast to the otherwise colorful mural.

  Antonius had risen from his chair to come stand by Cicero’s side, and he read the tiny word underneath the line. “The Indus?” For a breath, there was silence, then Antonius gasped, “Pluto’s thorny cock! Is he really going to…”

  “Invade India?” Cicero answered, then shrugged. “It’s impossible to tell from his dispatch, but given what he has said, and making an educated guess, I would say that it’s entirely possible.”

  As Antonius studied the mural, his brow furrowed in thought, his examination going from the squiggly line marking the Indus, Alexander’s farthest incursion in his famous campaign of conquest, and to the spot where Caesar had informed them a massive fleet capable of carrying his entire army was being constructed.

  It came to him with the suddenness of a bolt of lightning, and the effect was similar as the muscular Roman stiffened and gasped, “I think I know how he’s going to do it.” Stabbing a finger at this originating spot, he traced a route. “This new fleet is going to sail south down the Red Sea, around Arabia, and then,” his finger stopped, “I think he’s just going to march his army south to where the Tigris and Euphrates empty into the Erythraean Sea. Then,” he resumed his movement, “he’s going to sail past Gedrosia, and land,” the finger came to rest on the large peninsula that marked the mysterious land known only as India, about which relatively little was known and much was rumored, “somewhere along the western coast of India.”

  Cicero considered for a moment, but he was skeptical, saying, “And he’s going to bypass the entire eastern part of the Parthian empire? That would seem…imprudent.”

  “I think,” Antonius tried to curb his natural impatience and his tendency to dismiss anything said by a man like Cicero on military matters, if only because he, privately, conceded it was a fair point, “that he’s going to try and outdo Alexander, and he’s going to do it by avoiding that part of the world that gave Alexander so much trouble.” Shrugging, he inadvertently correctly guessed the Dictator’s strategy when he finished, “Or, maybe he’s going to march farther east, then turn south to meet this fleet. But I think he intends to bypass Bactria entirely because of how badly Alexander got bogged down there.”

  The pair of men stood there then, in a silence that stretched out for a seeming eternity, both of them occupied with their own thoughts about the staggering, far-reaching implications of what they were both now certain was Caesar’s goal, realizing that the method by which he would be fulfilling his ambition wasn’t nearly as important as the ambition itself.

  Finally, it was actually Antonius who broke the silence, as he seemed to muse aloud, “If Caesar does this, and actually does outdo Alexander…who could stop him from doing anything he wants?”

  “That,” Cicero agreed quietly, “is a good question.”

  Then, Antonius brought up a seemingly unrelated matter, saying suddenly, “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve received word from…sources I have in Hispania.” He paused for a beat, then informed Cicero, “Gaius Cassius has shown up there. Apparently,” Antonius’ tone gave no hint of his feelings, “he’s trying to raise troops from the men who marched for the Pompeian faction, either with the father or the son.”

  “Really?” Cicero affected surprise, although he didn’t think Antonius was fooled into thinking that he hadn’t already known this. “That’s…interesting. And,” he added in the same tone as Antonius, “I’m sure Caesar would find that troubling.”

  “Yes, I daresay he would,” Antonius agreed dryly, then frowned as he said, “but Hispania is a long way from Parthia. And I’m sure that even a man of Caesar’s talents has his hands full with what he has planned.”

  “No doubt you’re right.” Cicero nodded, still unsure where Antonius was heading. “Although,” he spoke carefully, “I can’t imagine that Caesar would look favorably on anyone he thought was withholding information like that from him.”

  “No doubt,” Antonius echoed, which Cicero took as a tacit acknowledgment of this warning. “But, who’s to say that he would ever find out? After all,” Antonius pointed out, “he did leave me here to keep order on this side of Our Sea, s
o I’m sure he’ll expect me to sort Cassius out myself.” Only then did he turn to look at Cicero. “Without bothering him with the details. And,” while he smiled, Cicero wasn’t fooled, seeing the warning glint in the other man’s eyes, “I would be…displeased if he were to find out from someone other than me about this business.”

  “He won’t hear about it from me,” Cicero assured Antonius. “As you say, he relies on you to handle these…problems.”