Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Kambyses had been quite surprised that, after enduring almost a year in captivity, the Roman general Caesar had deemed that the Parthian, who was the former commander of the defending forces of Ctesiphon and Seleucia, was valuable enough to whatever the Roman had planned to be taken along with the army when it resumed the campaign. Despite himself, when Kambyses had been informed, through one of Caesar’s Legates, his heart began beating more rapidly, and he actually became dizzy; not from fear, but joy. As jailers went, even if he was the type to complain, Kambyses had to admit there was little he lacked when it came to creature comforts. Except, of course, the freedom to come and go as he pleased. More than anything, though, as he sat in a daze after Legate Pollio left his small but comfortable room, was his realization that of all the things he missed, the simple joy of riding a horse was at the top of his list, and he had been assured by Pollio that, while his hands would be bound and he would be under escort at all times, Kambyses would not be forced to endure the humiliation of riding in one of the wagons.

  “Until,” Pollio had warned him, his tone nonetheless cordial, “you prove that you can’t be trusted. But hopefully you know Caesar well enough by now to know not to test him.”

  That, Kambyses thought grimly, was nothing less than the truth. During his captivity, Kambyses had twice been escorted from his room in the palace out to the large square, namely to witness punishments that had been deemed necessary by Caesar. In both cases, the sentence had been death, but it was the method by which one of them was carried out, and more importantly, the identity of the condemned that made a lasting impression on the Parthian, and it served as a reminder that, no matter how courteously he was treated by his captors, there was a line that shouldn’t be crossed if he had any hope of living to see more sunrises. The first had been an internal matter, and Caesar’s ostensible reason for Kambyses’ presence was because the Roman general wanted his Parthian captive to witness the iron discipline of the Legions. Of course, Kambyses was no stranger to scenes of violent death, and he was quite proud of the number of men he had personally slain in combat, but even he was, if not shaken, given pause at the sight of Roman Legionaries beating one of their own comrades to death. Although nothing had been said to him, Kambyses was certain that there had been a message in his attendance as Legionaries, armed with nothing but cudgels, surrounded a man who Kambyses was informed slept in the same tent with the men who were now brutally ending his life.

  “What did he do?” Kambyses addressed this to Pollio, and even his own ear could discern how much better his Latin had become during his captivity.

  “He was caught raping a girl,” Pollio replied grimly.

  Frankly, this astonished Kambyses, even though he had actually quarreled with Pacorus, the eldest son and crown prince of Orodes, when the prince had done the same thing just a couple days before the fight for the ridge that had been the first defeat of the Parthian army that resulted in Pacorus’ death. At the time, Kambyses thought it was a perfectly good waste of fighting men for something as trivial as taking some peasant woman against her will, and he wouldn’t have imagined that these Romans would seem to share Pacorus’ view of the matter. It was somewhere in this train of thought that the Parthian realized that something Pollio had said might hold a clue to this puzzle.

  Turning to Pollio, he spoke tentatively, “You said he was raping a woman?”

  Pollio, whose eyes were fastened on the sight of the scene being played out in the middle of the square, as the Legionaries slowly tightened the circle around the condemned man, seemed reluctant to face Kambyses, but he did so as he replied quietly, “No. I said he was raping a girl.”

  That, even Kambyses was forced to acknowledge, was a different matter, but it was more out of morbid curiosity that he inquired, “How old was she?”

  Pollio didn’t reply immediately, shrugging first before answering, “I don’t know with any certainty, but she couldn’t have been older than six or seven.”

  Kambyses was a hard man, a warrior who had long since learned of the true nature of most men, and understood how most, if not every human, carried a darkness within them, but he was still forced to suppress a shudder, though he didn’t speak. Instead, he turned back to watch as the first blow was struck, no longer as disinterested as he had been just moments before. It wasn’t over quickly, because it wasn’t supposed to be a quick death, and it was only Caesar who could decide the wretch had suffered enough.

  “The regulations state that every bone in his body has to be broken before he can be finished off,” Pollio explained, correctly interpreting the expression of puzzlement as the condemned man’s screams became ever shriller.

  What Kambyses had no way of knowing was that the orders given to this section of men, from the Fifth Cohort of the 3rd Legion, had been very specific, and in giving them, Caesar displayed to his Legions that he knew all of the many tricks that rankers used to circumvent or modify punishments such as this. This was why Kambyses watched as the men rained blows down on the condemned man, but only in the area of his torso. Deciding that he was done asking questions, the Parthian simply observed and fairly quickly realized that the Legionaries wanted their victim to remain standing as long as possible. If they had immediately aimed for the legs, he understood now, and broken even one of them, the man would have collapsed to the stones of the square. Avoiding the head was self-explanatory once Kambyses learned the particulars of the punishment, which he saw as the infliction of the maximum amount of agony a man could endure yet stay alive. Still, the screaming of the man was growing tiresome, and Kambyses began wishing, silently of course, that one of the Romans inflicting the punishment would either make a mistake or feel some stab of mercy that would cause him to bash the man in the head to shut him up. Not surprisingly, nothing of the sort happened, so Kambyses turned his attention to the other spectators who were there to witness this punishment.

  Arranged on one side of the large square was what Kambyses assumed was the Fifth of the 15th, arranged by Century and their faces uniformly looking as if they had been chiseled from stone, and nowhere in those expressions did the Parthian see a flicker of pity. However, it was the rest of the assemblage whose presence Kambyses thought was probably the most meaningful, and indeed, it appeared as if most of the inhabitants of Ctesiphon were present. There was a man and woman who were standing, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, closer to the scene than the rest, and Kambyses only needed one glance to read the expression of the man’s face to understand his role. That, he thought, is a father who wants to do more than watch, and for a short period of time, it appeared as if the man would be unable to restrain himself, making Kambyses idly wonder if he would try to lunge at the condemned man to strike his own blow. Before he could do so, there was a noise that was recognizable to everyone in the crowd, sounding something akin to a thick branch of a tree being snapped over one’s knee, but with a deeper, meatier sound to it, causing Kambyses to return his attention just in time to see the condemned man finally fall. After that, it was really impossible to see, as the man writhed on the stones while being surrounded by his tent mates, who were now no longer discriminating where their blows landed. The affair didn’t last much longer after that, and when the panting, trembling Legionaries were finally ordered to stop by a single word from Caesar, what lay at their feet wasn’t even recognizable as a human being. No, Kambyses decided, that is no longer a “he” but an “it,” and it looks like nothing more than bloody lump of meat, with splintered ends of bones protruding from it. Only then did Caesar rise from the chair that had been set at the top of the stairs leading into the palace, then slowly descended the steps. But, rather than go to address the Legionaries, now trying to stand to a position that Kambyses knew the Romans called intente, in an attempt to look like soldiers and not butchers, an impression that would have been understandable given how their tunics were soaked with the spattered blood from their victim, Caesar instead went to the couple. Beckoning to a man Kambyses knew had
been a palace clerk and now served as an interpreter, through him the Roman spoke softly to the couple, and while the man was visibly afraid, Caesar’s tone was gentle and seemed to put them both at ease. Then, once the interpreter stopped, the aggrieved citizen didn’t speak but gave a grave nod that seemed to satisfy the Roman general, whereupon the couple was then led away from the square, but not before Kambyses saw the man give one last malevolent and triumphant glance at the bloody mess that had just moments before been a man.

  Now, as he rode along in what had become his accustomed spot in the column, surrounded by a dozen of Caesar’s Germans, Kambyses reflected that, as striking and impactful as that first execution had been, it was nothing compared to the second, and the Parthian was honest with himself and acknowledged he was still shaken. And, he thought grimly, that’s exactly why Caesar did it, and why he chose the day before we left to do it. Once more, it was Pollio who appeared to tell him his presence was “requested” by Caesar, a nicety that, even as transparent as it was, Kambyses appreciated from his captor, the order disguised as something other than what it was. No matter how politely it was put, Kambyses wasn’t foolish enough not to comply, but this time, as he and Pollio walked from the wing of the palace where Kambyses was confined, the Roman refused to divulge anything that might have given the Parthian a hint of warning. Only in hindsight did Kambyses understand this had been intentional, and he was temporarily distracted by the movement out into the dazzling light that he now only received in small doses. Shading his eyes, it still took several heartbeats for Kambyses to take in the scene, which in some ways was not unlike the execution of the Legionary. There was a crowd, but it was the composition of it that was different, and it was this that gave Kambyses his first hint that something not only unusual but probably something he would personally find unpleasant was taking place. They were civilians, certainly, once more arrayed, except along three sides of the square instead of two, but Kambyses understood that they weren’t the inhabitants of Ctesiphon. Instead, these were the people who lived in Seleucia, across the river, made apparent to Kambyses by another distinction with this crowd, their native mode of dress, which they had preserved, despite their people now having spent more than two centuries here in what was now Parthian territory, and under direct Parthian rule for longer than any of these citizens had been alive. It looks like every Greek is here; this was the thought that flashed through Kambyses’ mind, but when his attention was drawn to a small commotion near where he was standing on the portico of the palace, only then did he understand the meaning. The answer came to him in the form of a man, held up on either side by two Legionaries, and this time there was no mistaking the expressions on the Romans’ faces; this was something they were looking forward to with great relish. Kambyses took no notice of the pair; his eyes were drawn to the slumped head of the man who appeared to be only semi-conscious, and before he could stop himself, the Parthian gasped in shock.

  “Anaxagoras?”

  At the sound of his name, the Greek dully lifted his head, but while he turned his face in Kambyses’ direction, the Parthian saw it was an automatic reaction because the man’s eyes were swollen shut and crusted with blood, which was a match to the rest of his face. Whoever did that, Kambyses thought, knew what they were doing, and he experienced a stab of unease as, unbidden, the idea that he might actually be next occurred to him. That this was due to more than just the normal sense of anxiety with which he had been living for the previous year had everything to do with the identity of the man who was being dragged out into the middle of the square. Exerting every bit of self-control he could muster, Kambyses tried to appear as impassive and disinterested as he had been for the execution of the Legionary, but his mind was racing as he tried desperately to recall any scrap of information regarding the meetings between this Greek and himself that could be used as a pretext for Kambyses joining this man for whatever was about to happen. Even as he was thinking, his body tensed in preparation for the moment when he was seized by one or more of the guards who were always present, standing behind the party, while his eyes were fixed on Anaxagoras, who had just been roughly dumped onto the stones of the square. Certain that he could feel more than one set of eyes on him, Kambyses struggled to maintain his composure, but as the moments dragged by, nobody around him moved in a manner that indicated he would be seized. That, Kambyses understood, didn’t mean he was out of danger, because once the Greek was shoved down onto his knees, facing in the direction of the palace, he slowly lifted his head and, to the Parthian, seemed to look directly at him. The wild hope that the beating the Greek had taken had rendered him effectively blind leapt up in Kambyses’ mind, but it wasn’t until Anaxagoras turned his face directly towards where Caesar was standing, without a flicker of recognition, that the Parthian realized he had been holding his breath.

  “This man,” Caesar’s voice, pitched higher than it was in normal conversation so it would carry farther, rang out across the square, “was caught in possession of a coded message from our enemy, the Parthian king Phraates. And,” Caesar paused, causing Kambyses to brace himself for the Roman to suddenly wheel about and point to him, but instead, he continued, “he has confessed his role and given the names of his co-conspirators.”

  Here it comes, Kambyses thought, and without making a conscious decision to do so, his muscles actually tensed in the anticipation of what he was certain was coming, but along with the fear, there was a certain amount of anger. Caesar, he was sure, was toying with him now, yet the Roman still hadn’t even glanced in his direction.

  Instead, Caesar continued, “Those he has named have been arrested, and have either already been executed or are in the process of being interrogated themselves. But this man, Anaxagoras,” he pointed down at the battered Greek, who was at least facing in Caesar’s direction, and Kambyses knew the Greek well enough to recognize the look of defiance, mixed with fear, on his battered features, “is the ringleader of these spies. A Greek,” Caesar’s tone turned scornful, and it apparently unleashed the collective contempt of the assembled Romans, as a chorus of growls, taunts, and curses almost drowned out their general as he finished, “has betrayed us.”

  Once more, he stopped, allowing his men to demonstrate their feelings, and it appeared to Kambyses that this troubled Anaxagoras more than anything that had been said to this point. He thinks that Caesar is going to have him punished the way that Legionary was, Kambyses realized, and he experienced a momentary urge to somehow attract the Greek’s attention and send a surreptitious signal that he was certain Caesar would not order this, although he had no real way of knowing. Fortunately, he instantly dismissed this notion; if he had managed to escape being implicated by Anaxagoras to this point, it would be the height of foolishness for him to essentially betray himself because of a moment of pity. When he thought about it later, Kambyses couldn’t recall that much about all that took place once he realized he wasn’t going to be joining Anaxagoras, other than the fact that, for a man who had never fought as a warrior, and a Greek at that, Anaxagoras had died well, beheaded with a single stroke from one of the men Caesar used for such purposes without ever uttering a cry of fear or begging for his life. Once it was over, Kambyses was escorted back to his quarters, hoping that the shaking of his legs was only something he felt and the pair of guards with him couldn’t see, then once he was alone, he wasted no time. Waiting long enough only to determine that he wasn’t still being observed, made possible by looking for the shadows under the door, he moved to the bed that, at first, had been a source of irritated amusement because of its sumptuous adornment, with pillows covered in silk and an ornate carved headboard. He knew this had once been the quarters for the favorite concubine of the Great King, and when he had first been ensconced in them, he was certain it had been an insult on the part of Caesar. Only with time did he realize that it was due more to the fact that this was one of only a handful of rooms where there was only one way in or out; now, he didn’t mind the comfort as much. Eve
n more, he appreciated the cunningly hidden compartment in the back of the headboard, and it was from this compartment he extracted a small handful of slips of parchment. Using the oil lamp that hung from one wall, he quickly ignited each and every scrap, burning the evidence that, if Anaxagoras had mentioned Kambyses’ name, would have sealed his fate and seen him joining the Greek.

  Titus Pullus had a headache, though not necessarily of the physical kind, but of the sort that plagued every Primus Pilus of Caesar’s army.

  “There was another fight in the Fifth Section of my Century,” Marcus Glaxus, Pullus’ Nones Pilus Prior, reported during the meeting Pullus held on his return from the scouting mission with Caesar.

  “Not again,” Pullus groaned, but before he could say anything else, several of his other Centurions joined the chorus, adding their own tales that, with minor variations, were essentially the same.

  This, Pullus thought miserably, is getting worse, not better, and he caught Scribonius’ eye, silently but clearly imploring his best friend to offer some sort of assistance, but all his Secundus Pilus Prior did was give a slight shrug.

  “You’re no help,” Pullus grumbled, then held a hand up wearily in a signal that his Centurions knew. Speaking to the men assembled in his quarters, he said, “And I assume that it’s for the usual reasons, with the usual men.” Waiting only long enough for the nine other Centurions, the most senior of his Legion, to affirm his conjecture, Pullus sighed and continued, “Well, then you’re going to hear the same thing from me that I’ve been saying for the last year. Stripe the bastards bloody and make offerings to Mars, Bellona, and every other god you can think of that we see some action soon.”