by R. W. Peake
Sensing Darius looking at him, Gobryas looked up and said with a broad smile, “Now is when you will make those dogs pay, isn’t it, Darius? Now they’ll learn their lesson!”
It was almost as if he had been stabbed in the heart, or at least it was what he imagined it must feel like. How could he explain to this boy the realities of their world, at this moment in time? How could he make him understand that, for the foreseeable future, the days of an independent Parthia were over?
Somehow, though, he managed to return the boy’s grin with one of his own, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hollow to Gobryas as it did to himself as he lied, “That they will, little brother. That they will.”
“It’s not a bad position,” Pullus mused as he stared south in the quickly fading light. Too far away to see anything in real detail, just the presence of the hill and the dark line of the entrenchment, and the sight of the glinting ribbon of water on the eastern side of it that was the first of the surprises confronting the Roman army, told Pullus enough. Turning to Scribonius, he asked, “Do you think that bastard Bodroges really forgot that there was a river blocking one side of that fucking hill?”
Scribonius considered for a moment, then answered with a shrug, “I have no idea. And, does it really matter?”
“It does if it turns out he was lying to us,” Balbus growled, reminding the other two that he was always the quickest to suspect other men of duplicity, especially when they weren’t Roman. “Because if Caesar doesn’t cut his balls off for this, what happens next time when he leads us right into a fucking trap?”
Although Pullus agreed with Balbus in sentiment, he didn’t seriously think that Bodroges had lied, if only because there was nothing to be gained. Pullus also knew that he had nothing to gain by arguing this point with his second in command, so he returned his attention to where his men were busily hacking at the tough, almost rock-hard soil. It was the day for the 10th to dig the ditch, and very quickly, he spotted a knot of Gregarii who were doing more leaning than working.
“Oy! Vespillo! Yes, you! Don’t fucking pretend you don’t hear me!” he roared, using the power of lungs conditioned to bellowing. “If I see you and Tubero talking one more fucking time, I’m going to stripe you into bloody bits!”
This prompted a sigh from Scribonius, and as he turned, he said, “If your boys are fucking off, no doubt mine are too. I better get back.”
Balbus didn’t need to walk far, and indeed, when he spun about to view his Second Century, every man was working industriously away, the sure sign that an instant before they had been slacking off. In contrast to Pullus, this made the scarred Centurion grin; he honestly enjoyed the myriad games rankers played with the Centurions and Optios, thinking how fucking boring it would be if the men didn’t try and fool their officers. Besides, he wouldn’t give an amphora of piss for men without the spirit or determination to fuck off as much as humanly possible. Pullus, satisfied that he had made his point, had turned back, but the light had faded too much for him to do much more examination.
“We’ll find out in the morning whether they plan on fighting in those entrenchments,” he commented to Balbus, who only nodded in agreement because, despite turning away, he was surreptitiously watching his men, waiting for one of them to fuck up.
In this respect, it was a normal day on the march.
The meeting held in the praetorium that night was short and to the point.
“Our scouts estimate that there are no more than five thousand men in this group, probably less,” Caesar began immediately, foregoing the normal pleasantries about the performance of the army on the day’s march, showing an impatience that was the only sign to his subordinates that he was worried about delays. “However,” he continued, and for this, he was forced to glance down at the tablet in his hand, prompting Pullus and Spurius to glance at each other, giving each other a smile, knowing that Caesar hated having to rely on anything other than his memory, “the composition of this force is the best indication that we shouldn’t be delayed by them for more than a day.” Running a finger down to the appropriate line, he read, “They have perhaps a thousand spearmen, and none of them appear to be converted cataphractoi like we faced with The Thousand at Susa, and the rest is almost exclusively mounted archers, and they have perhaps a hundred heavy cavalry.” He looked up then, adding, “However, it’s possible that there’s another part of their force, hidden from our view. Hirtius reports that two of his scouting parties that we sent around the enemy we can see didn’t return, and we can only assume they were lost. That’s why we’re going to begin our day with a parley. If Fortuna smiles on us, these Parthians will see us arrayed and realize how futile it will be for them to try to stand and fight.” Snapping the tablet shut, he finished by saying, “You can return to your quarters. Runners will be there shortly with your specific orders.”
As they filed out, the conversations were short, none of the Centurions surprised that Caesar chose to talk first, although some of them, including Pullus, were slightly worried about what the Romans didn’t know.
He expressed his misgivings to Scribonius and Balbus that night over the evening meal. “One thing that’s never been really cleared up is how many of the cataphractoi we actually captured, and how many got away after we beat Kambyses.”
This had certainly been a topic of much speculation in the aftermath of the fighting, the massive confusion that was always inherent immediately after the last man fell further exacerbated by what, to the Roman mind, was an almost criminal disregard for proper recordkeeping on the part of the Parthian military. Nowhere to be found, even after an extensive search, was anything more than a cursory list of forces, but what compounded the difficulty was that there wasn’t one central record of all of the Parthian forces under the command of the King of Kings. Instead, the best that could be hoped for was that the spad commanders, like Kambyses and Gobryas, possessed what was in essence a collection of records, given to them by the commanders of the smaller subunits, and the detail in those lists varied widely. Only one actually listed more than the names of the subunit commanders and actually broke down the composition of the man’s force into elements more specific than the Parthian equivalent of “infantry” and “cavalry.” Otherwise, the best that could be hoped for was the number of mounted troops, and the number of troops on foot, and that was all. The result was that, while the Romans did the best they could under the circumstances, there was no real understanding of the composition of the escapees, aside from the overall number. This, at least, they remained fairly confident about, given what they did know of the entire numbers that had been arrayed against them. The assumption had been that, because of their speed and mobility, most of the men who successfully fled were mounted archers, but as Pullus was discussing on this night, this was just a guess.
Scribonius considered for a moment, then remarked, “Does it really matter, Titus? However many there are,” he pointed out, “they can’t number more than a few thousand, if that. And keep in mind that many, if not most of them, headed directly north in the direction of Ecbatana.”
“That’s true,” Pullus acknowledged, then was silent for a moment as he chewed a mouthful of pork. Swallowing, he acknowledged, “And you’re right, it doesn’t really matter. I’d just like to know, that’s all.”
“You and Caesar,” Scribonius agreed, then gave his friend a grin. “I suppose all great men must think alike.”
He laughed as he evaded the clumsy, half-hearted swipe Pullus made with the piece of bread in his hand, and quickly enough, the topic changed to more mundane matters. None of them were particularly worried about the next day, albeit for different reasons. Scribonius felt certain that the sight of Rome’s Legions, each of which significantly outnumbered the Parthians waiting for them, would be enough for whoever commanded those men to see the futility of further resistance. Balbus’ certainty rested in the belief that the only men fighting for the Parthian cause who could pose a challenge had been the Crassoi, and th
ey had reconciled with their countrymen; a bunch of peasants, even on horseback, didn’t concern him in the slightest. And for Pullus, his confidence rested in himself, and the men he led. His job, as he saw it in moments like this, was to let the 10th do what they did best, and that was kill the enemies of Rome. Doing this with minimal losses is what drove him personally, and why he drove his Legions so hard, something that his men had long before recognized for what it was, a sign of love for his comrades that they returned in full measure. Oh, they cursed him, under their breath of course; they even hated him at certain moments, but the Equestrians would march through the gates of Hades and face Cerberus and all the other minions of the underworld, as long as their giant Primus Pilus was leading the way. Whatever came tomorrow, they would face, together.
Chapter Two
When the Legions marched from their camp, located more than two miles from where Darius and his men were waiting, the orders for their disposition were unusual, and in fact, were probably impractical if there was a battle. The moment Pullus and the other Primi Pili had been handed their orders the night before in their respective quarters, they all understood that Caesar wasn’t expecting a fight, that he was practically certain that the Parthians would either surrender or flee. That was why the Roman cavalry, still under the command of Hirtius, hadn’t been given a spot on either wing. Instead, they were going to be held in reserve, waiting for Caesar’s command to go to the pursuit. The disposition of his Legions was closer to what one would expect during a formation where the Legate in command was holding an inspection, but the moment Pullus read the orders, then thought for a moment about the orientation of the Parthian defenses, and the ground to the north, he realized that, in essence, this was what Caesar was doing. He was arraying his Legions in such a way that, from the vantage point of whoever was commanding the Parthians, which would undoubtedly be from the top of the lone hill, he, and more importantly, all of his men on that hill, would be able to see each and every Legion.
This was not about subterfuge, nor was it about maneuver; in fact, if the Parthians chose to stand and fight, there would be a delay as the Legions rearranged themselves into a formation that was more conducive to that. What this was about was forcing the Parthians to see the raw, naked power of Rome that, without any doubt, would crush them, without remorse or hesitation. The flower of Parthian nobility had already been wiped out; this much the Parthian commander would know with certainty, because if there had been any survivors, they would have returned to their lands by this point or would have joined this force. And, as they had learned in Istakhr, whoever this Darius was, he was so obscure in their social order that nobody had heard of him. The only familiar part of what was taking place, at least for Pullus and the 10th, was that they would be placed in the most prominent spot, but for the first time, this didn’t particularly please Pullus, and it had everything to do with this deployment that Caesar had ordered. In its simplest terms, Caesar was arraying his Legions in a square, but with the bottom of the square being the Parthian position. The 10th would be occupying the part of the eastern side of the square, so that their left flank would be perpendicular to the hill and the Parthian entrenchments. It was true that their backs would be protected by the river, but the idea of exposing his Fourth, Seventh, and Tenth Cohorts, which would be closest to the hill, to troops armed with the Parthian composite bow made him somewhat nervous. His one consolation was that his friend Spurius and the 3rd would be in the same position, but on the western side, and while they would be farther away from the hill, they were closer to where the long ridge resumed to the west, the southern slope of which was completely hidden from view.
Like every other man in Caesar’s army, the one thing that Pullus never forgot was how rapidly the Parthian mounted archers could move, and if this Darius was an even somewhat competent commander, the chances were very good that he had a force of those troops tucked away, just around the shoulder of the slope and out of view of the Romans. The one consolation was that, when the 10th marched into their position, this would enable them to gain a vantage point, since they would be facing west and at the right angle to see farther along the southern slope of the ridge than Spurius would be able to, making it more difficult for the Parthians to completely surprise the Romans. Placed in the spot Caesar had ordered, if Spurius aligned his Legion in the normal manner, his Eighth Cohort would be closest to the ridge, which would be to their right rear quarter; not directly behind them, but uncomfortably close. Of course, Spurius would move cautiously, so there was little chance of a complete surprise, but much also depended on how the Parthian commander responded. This was something they would learn shortly, and Pullus led his 10th, marching in their three-line formation directly towards the hill for the first mile, before he began angling them towards the river.
At the spot where they would pivot, Caesar was waiting, with his bodyguards and staff, mounted as he always was on such days on Toes, wearing his paludamentum, but still not wearing his helmet, which Pullus had observed his general loathed putting on.
As Pullus approached, Caesar returned his salute, then said in a conversational tone, “Pullus, I want you to perform a wheel maneuver to get into position.”
This startled Pullus to the point he was unsure he had heard correctly. “A wheel, sir? Really? Why?” Before Caesar could respond, he added what was his major concern. “That’s something to do in the forum, sir, not out here. It takes a lot of space, and…”
“I know what a wheel maneuver requires, Pullus.” Caesar said this in a deceptively light tone, but Pullus heard the ice in his general’s voice. However, as was his habit, Caesar chose to explain, “I want these Parthians to see how a real army performs, Pullus. I want them to watch the Roman war machine at work. That,” he made a sweeping gesture at the massive movement that was now in full swing, “is why I’m doing all this. They need to see what we’re capable of.”
While Pullus appreciated the precision that he and his Legion were capable of displaying when moving almost six thousand men from one spot to another, he doubted the fact that they did so in unison was going to impress the Parthians more than the fact that there were almost six thousand men, just one of ten such Legions, but he also knew this wasn’t the time to argue the point. Saluting, he assured Caesar that he would carry out his orders, then went trotting away to catch up with his men, who had continued marching past. Resuming his spot, he had to catch his breath before giving the order to his Cornicen, an order that he had to repeat, which didn’t help his temper, although he didn’t really blame the man. When the notes sounded, there was no missing the ripple of muttered comment, not just from the First Century and Cohort, but the entire Legion, which Pullus worried Caesar would hear, but what mattered was that the men responded instantly, the Centurions bawling out the count as, with the kind of precision that came from long practice, the 10th maneuvered itself into its spot. At moments such as this, Pullus allowed Lutatius to temporarily move from his spot as Optio and give the necessary commands to the First Century, while Pullus assumed command of the entire Legion, although the truth was that there was little for him to do other than supervise. What he did at this moment was watch the Parthians, who were now clearly visible, having climbed up out of the entrenchment to stand on the hillside, no doubt to gawk at what was taking place in front of their very noses, as if they were nothing more than spectators somehow brought to the forum of a Roman camp.
Upslope from the entrenchment was a small group of a half-dozen horsemen, but they were too far away to tell anything more, and Pullus assumed they were the leaders of this force, probably this Darius himself. While his identity, or more accurately, his status was a matter of great interest and concern to Bodroges, and a matter of curiosity to Caesar, the truth was that neither Pullus, nor any of the Centurions really cared all that much whether or not the man was baseborn. That kind of thing was far more important to members of the upper classes, although, secretly at least, most of the Centurions relished the
se moments when a member of their own class rose high enough to become an object of interest to the upper classes. Under the eyes of the Parthian infantry, the 10th reached the point in the maneuver where they performed their countermarch, since in their current configuration, the entire Legion was facing the river. All at once, the three lines of Cohorts, while maintaining their spacing between each line, executed what was the most intricate maneuver in the Roman manual of drill, and its very complexity was why, to Pullus’ knowledge, it had never been performed in the face of a waiting enemy. Which, he thought with equal measure amusement and irritation, was probably why Caesar did it. The one consolation, other than the fact that the Parthians did nothing to disrupt the proceedings, was that the 3rd, which was performing the same maneuver, ran into problems when one Centurion of the Fifth Cohort issued the wrong order because he became confused, sending his Century pivoting the wrong direction. It was something that had happened to every Legion, and when it happened in the presence of their sister Legions, it was guaranteed to become something that was brought up at every opportunity with the bungling Legion by the men and officers of the witnessing Legions. The consequences on this day might have been dire, but nothing came of it other than making Pullus, and he was certain, every other Primi Pili besides the 3rd, grin from ear to ear as he was already thinking of the jokes he’d be making at Spurius’ expense.
Not surprisingly, Caesar was clearly not amused at all, but the error was corrected in a matter of heartbeats, so that, in terms of appearances, it was little more than a ripple of awkward motion when compared to the smooth precision on display, the offending Century reversing direction and trotting to their correct spot. Meanwhile, the other Legions had been streaming out of the camp, marching into their assigned spots so that, a sixth of a watch after Pullus led the 10th out of the camp, all that was left to do for the Legions was to allow the dust to settle as they stood, imposing and motionless, the eagles of every Legion polished to their normal high sheen, the cloth emblems for each Cohort and Century fluttering gently in a breeze that would only strengthen with the sun rising higher in the sky. And, in the center of the square, facing the hill and the waiting Parthians, was Caesar, his bodyguards, Legates, and several Tribunes, the general having donned his helmet by this time. With the Legions in position, very quickly the rustling of muttered conversations in the ranks stopped, without any orders to do so by their officers, and the silence became the dominant feature, to the point that the loudest noise was the sound of the breeze riffling the horsehair crests of the thousands of helmets, punctuated by the sudden snort of one of the horses of Caesar’s party. While Caesar hadn’t said as much, Pullus quickly understood that he had no intention of making the first move; he was going to force the Parthians to declare their intentions by making it themselves. Now, Pullus thought, we see what this Darius is made of.