Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  During the short halt, Caesar returned his attention to Kambyses. “If you don’t want to give me the lay of the land, what can you tell me about them?” He lifted a hand and gestured in the direction of the rearguard, though it was unnecessary, and at first, Kambyses didn’t seem disposed to answer.

  Then, he shrugged as if it didn’t really matter and replied offhandedly, “While I cannot say with any certainty, I am fairly sure I caught a glimpse of a banner that belongs to one of the houses of the east. If I’m right, then this is likely the eastern spad that came from the satrapies of Merv, Margiana, and Areia. And,” he added after another cursory glance, “I see at least two banners from the satraps of Mithradatkirt.” When Kambyses saw that Caesar was unfamiliar with the name that had been given to the city by the Parthian King Mithridates I, he said, “I believe it is more commonly known to you as Nisa, but,” he grinned, “King Mithridates fancied himself to be of the same caliber as the Greek Alexander, so he renamed it after himself.” Shrugging, Kambyses finished, “It was the first capital of what you call the Parthian Empire before we conquered Susa, and many of our kings are buried there.”

  Aside from his unfamiliarity with the renaming of Nisa, this wasn’t exactly new information to Caesar, although it did confirm his guess, but since his Parthian prisoner had been willing to say this much, Caesar decided to press his luck, asking, “Who would be the commander of this…spad? Do you know?”

  As he had hoped, this nettled Kambyses, and, not liking the insinuation that there might have been something concerning his people he didn’t know, he shot back, “Of course I know. His name is Gobryas.” Then, just when he was about to add more, he caught himself and inwardly chided, You old fool, that’s exactly what he wanted you to do.

  Caesar caught and correctly interpreted the change in the Parthian’s expression, so he wasn’t inclined to press, and the return of Gundomir provided a good pretext for dropping the line of questioning. With the German’s return, Caesar gave the command, the pursuit of the Parthian column resumed, and Caesar occupied himself with how to get as much information from Kambyses about this Gobryas that he could, because only one of them knew that Kambyses wasn’t going to be in Caesar’s company much longer.

  Back at Susa, the sight of more than fifty thousand men hard at work meant that Caspar, along with every other officer of the Crassoi, stood along their own long dirt rampart to watch their former countrymen. As they did, Caspar watched with a certain amount of wry amusement, thinking about how he had to battle so hard with Teispes, and frankly, every other Parthian noble about the value of fixed fortifications. And, being honest, he also knew that it wasn’t won yet; it had taken three precious months after their arrival to convince his overlords, all the way up to Phraates, that creating these encircling entrenchments was a vital part of the strategy to protect Susa. Not that this was surprising to Caspar, or any of the Crassoi, for that matter, but the more than a decade he and his comrades had spent in the service of the Parthians had taught Caspar and the others that Parthians simply didn’t view things the same way. Back in his old home of Latium and all through the peninsula, along with Gaul, Greece, and Hispania, towns and cities were the most valued prize of war for enemy armies, both because of the intrinsic value contained within the walls, but also for what they represented to the citizens who lived there. Taking one was always a tremendous blow to both the material capability of an enemy, and to the morale, but that didn’t hold true for the East. At first, Caspar didn’t understand this mindset, nor did any of his comrades, although over time, all the Romans came to realize that, as vast as the Republic was, it didn’t compare to the far-flung nature of the Parthian empire. Even if it had been a matter of the great distances alone, that would be a challenge to govern, but when coupled with the vast stretches of land so desolate that only a few paltry shrubs, tough grass and even tougher animals survived, it began to make sense that Parthians weren’t as attached to fixed sites, because they carried most of what they needed with them. Granted, the majority of the arable land was actually in the westernmost corner of the Parthian domains, and Caspar was aware that there was concern on the part of his overlords that a large swathe of that country was now under Caesar’s control, but they just didn’t view places like Susa with the same level of dedication and pride as he had felt about the city of Rome, back when he had been Numerius Pompilius. Susa was certainly more valued by Phraates than Ctesiphon had been; that had been the old King Orodes’ pride and joy, not the duplicitous son’s, and in fact, it was an article of faith among certain members of the Parthian nobility that Ctesiphon had been allowed to fall for the very reason it had been treasured by Orodes. Now, Caspar and his officers could do little but stand and idly watch as Caesar’s army began the process of hemming the Susa defenders in, and while he didn’t say it aloud, there was a nagging worry in the back of Caspar’s mind that Phraates’ withdrawal hadn’t been exactly for the purpose he stated. Indeed, Caspar realized, he would be more surprised if he ever saw Phraates again here at Susa than if he didn’t. But there was nothing to do now but wait and see, so he returned his attention to the Roman army, hard at work.

  Caesar’s ploy worked, as the sight of movement across their front caused the leading elements of the Parthian column to stop as they sent a rider galloping back for orders. Perhaps if it had been Gobryas in command, matters would have turned out differently, because the Spadpat was experienced enough to recognize that the amount of dust raised by the blocking force wasn’t a threat. But it was Phraates who was giving the orders, and between the current King of Kings and his late brother Pacorus, the dead crown prince had possessed most of the martial ardor Orodes had passed to his sons. Phraates far preferred a different kind of conflict, one composed of elegant lies and whispers, where subtlety was used for its own sake. Now, out in the vast spaces where there were no protective walls or hidden escapes, the king was rattled, which was the reason for his ordering the entire column to a halt. The problem wasn’t the stopping, it was both the length of time and the fact that he didn’t think to summon the Crassoi, who had been consigned to a spot well down the column, and as the moments stretched by, it allowed Caesar, with only a turma of cavalry ahead of him, to lead his troopers at the trot on a path that would enable them to interpose themselves between the Parthians and their line of march. He had no intention of actually engaging in a battle; while his force wasn’t small, ultimately, it was dwarfed by an army three times the size of his just judging from the length of the column, and he had quickly spotted the presence of what he was sure were two Cohorts of Crassoi. Certainly, his veterans would give this Parthian spad a bloody nose, but it would be at a cost Caesar wasn’t willing to pay. When all was said and done, his goal was to confirm one suspicion, and to give him some idea of what to expect when this departing spad would be forced to return to rescue Phraates from his entrapment in Susa. At least, this was Caesar’s initial goal, and what was about to transpire was rooted in two causes, once he learned that one of his assumptions was erroneous, which he determined, ironically enough, from his prisoner. It began when, once the Parthians had halted, they did so for a sufficient amount of time to allow the dust to partially settle, enough that, once they were within a distance of four hundred paces from the Parthians, Kambyses let out an explosive gasp.

  Before he could stop himself, the Parthian muttered, “That dog! Of course he’d run!”

  The instant it was out, Kambyses understood he had blundered, and for the span of a heartbeat, he hoped he had spoken too quietly to be overheard, but Caesar’s head swiveled to fix on the Parthian, his eyes narrowed.

  For the span of a half-dozen heartbeats, nothing was said between them, and Kambyses realized he was holding his breath when Caesar broke the silence. “I would ask who you meant, but I think I can guess.”

  Turning back to examine the Parthian column, from which a triple line of archers had detached itself to come trotting in their direction, Caesar’s eyes scanned the are
a of the column where the most banners were concentrated. However, it wasn’t the insignia of the King of Kings, but the man himself Caesar spied, dressed in ceremonial armor that was so covered with gilt gold that when the sun caught Phraates, he seemed to be afire; ironically enough, this was precisely the effect for which the vain king hoped, just under other circumstances. This time would not be one of those, because in the length of time it took for Caesar to spot a man who could only be Phraates, his mind to process the meaning, then make his decision, Phraates was still trying to decide whether to press forward, or to turn and face the cavalry force that he had allowed to align itself on his left flank. Then, as often happens to the indecisive commander, the matter was taken out of Phraates’ hands, signaled by the blaring of a horn, coming from the Roman lines. Within the span of two or three heartbeats, the entire Parthian column was in an uproar.

  “The Romans are going to attack!”

  It was not often that Caesar acted on an impulse, but when he looked back over the events of his unparalleled career, every time he had, it had spelled the difference between victory and defeat. The day when, during the Gallic campaign, he had decided at the last moment to rearrange the marching order of his army, when the Nervii had ambushed them on the Sabis River; then, at Pharsalus, his last-moment decision to create a fourth line of defense that turned the tide of the battle when they shattered Labienus’ attack, and of course, at Munda, when his veterans had faltered. On this last occasion, he had been forced to snatch up a shield, and shaming his veterans, stride towards the waiting Pompeians alone, enduring a missile barrage where his shield was struck no less than seventeen times. His act had so shamed his men that, despite their exhaustion, they had summoned the energy for one last assault and thereby finally ended the bloody civil war. These were the things that flashed through Caesar’s mind, during that brief time when he had eyes on Phraates, informing his decision that, in one bold stroke, he could achieve more to finish this conquest of Parthia than winning a dozen battles. Within a matter of heartbeats, he had snapped a series of orders, beginning with one to the trooper who carried the cavalry version of the cornu, who immediately sounded the notes for the column to pivot to the right, instantly becoming a four-deep line. Under other circumstances, Caesar would have preferred a deeper and narrower formation, but it would take too long to arrange.

  His next command was to Gundomir, sending him to the opposite end of the formation; finally, he turned to two burly Germans who had been riding behind Kambyses, instructing them, “Keep on either side of him, and wait until I send someone for him.”

  Then, he was gone at the trot, drawing his sword as he caught up with the front rank. Caesar was a superb horseman, but in the entirety of his career, he could count on one hand the times he had led a cavalry charge, and it had never been as potentially important as this one.

  Despite Phraates’ lack of martial ardor, his education in military arts had been as thorough as that of Pacorus, back before Orodes had begun seeing in Phraates traits that spelled the seeming end of his youngest son’s hopes of a throne for himself, and Orodes had lavished his time and attention on Pacorus. Consequently, it had been drilled into Phraates from an almost innumerable number of tutors, including Kambyses, that hesitation and indecision on the battlefield was the worst thing next to outright cowardice a commander could demonstrate to his men. He knew he should be issuing orders; he was aware of the eyes on him, waiting for the command, even a single word, that would launch his sub-commanders into preparing to meet this unexpected attack, and yet like other leaders who had been caught in the same situation when facing Caesar, the rapidity of the change in circumstances was so disorienting that even an experienced man would have been under serious duress. The fact that the Parthian king was far from alone, that men far abler than he was in military matters—men like Pompeius Magnus, or the great Arverni chieftain Vercingetorix—had been caught flatfooted by Caesar was something that wouldn’t have made him feel a bit better. Neither did being in good company help him in the moment, and it wasn’t until the commander of his personal bodyguard took it upon himself to reach out and grab the bridle of Phraates’ mount that the spell was broken.

  “Your Highness!” This at least served to jerk Phraates’ stare away from the advancing enemy, and he turned to his subordinate with widened eyes that rattled the bodyguard, but nonetheless, he shouted, “You need to remove yourself and move to the other side of our men! We’ll keep you safe!”

  Whether it was the words themselves or the tone, it did serve to shake Phraates back to a sense of awareness, but while he gave a curt nod, he didn’t say anything, which was yet another mistake.

  “What are your orders, Highness?” The commander was hard-pressed to keep at least a modicum of deference in his tone; if Phraates knew the thoughts running through his head at this moment, that head would be leaving his shoulders, regardless of what was going on around them. “Should we engage them with our entire force? Or do we withdraw and leave a rearguard?”

  Before Phraates could summon an answer, the choice was taken from him, as the enemy cavalry, led by the supreme commander of the Roman forces, went to the gallop, in the process unleashing their bellowing war cries, which only added to the significant amount of noise created by their confused and anxious enemy. The Parthian king could feel the vibrations caused by some forty thousand hooves move all the way up through the limbs of his own horse, who responded by beginning to hop and toss his head, but of the various shortcomings Phraates possessed, horsemanship wasn’t one of them. He barely noticed, unconsciously controlling his mount as he watched, looking past his bodyguard commander to where one of his other subordinates took the initiative, signaled by the wailing sound of a Parthian horn that issued the command for his men to begin their own movement. Because of the confusion and his own indecision, Phraates instantly saw that, although this was the right thing to do, the command had come too late, so the heavily laden horses of the cataphracts didn’t have a chance to get to a speed greater than a trot when, Caesar’s cavalry, with their general in the lead, sword held aloft and black feathered crest streaming back so it was almost flat against his helmet, after sweeping the screen of archers aside with negligible loss, slammed into the leading edge of the Parthian lines.

  Kambyses sat, awash in a number of emotions, many of them conflicting, watching helplessly as the men who were his enemies galloped towards the men who were his comrades, trying to ignore the tiny voice that hoped that Phraates would at least be captured, if not killed outright. As treasonous as the sentiment was, nobody would have been more surprised than Kambyses was at this moment; it was a moment of realization, that he held the young Parthian king responsible for the current situation that found him spending a year in bondage and was now sitting here with a stinking German holding the reins of his horse, consigned to watching. That was a relative term, of course, since the amount of dust churned up by the galloping hooves of the horses that were now up to full speed obscured all but the briefest glimpse of the hindquarters of the rearmost ranks, although he did catch a glimpse of arcing arrows that struck the attacking Romans an instant before the rushing tide of horse and men swept through the line of archers. The only way to follow the progress now was by the sound, and over the deep, rumbling noise came the higher-pitched but still meaty sound as the lighter bodies of Roman horses smashed into the armored blankets protecting the Parthian mounts. Following this so quickly as to make it impossible to distinguish the difference in time came the clanging sounds of metal on metal, or metal on wood, which in turn preceded the shrill screams of men who had been an eyeblink too slow in their defense. As Kambyses watched through the obscuring dust cloud, he caught a glimpse of what he suspected was a helmet that tumbled up into the air above the heads of the combatants, and despite knowing what it felt like to actually be enclosed within this choking dust, where it was more a matter of feeling what your opponent was doing than seeing it, where the scene was a uniform grayish-brown tha
t oddly made the sight of the gushing blood of a comrade or foe stand out, Kambyses wanted nothing more in this world than to be in the middle of it. This, after all, was what he had been born and bred to do, trained by his father, now long-dead, imbued with one, and only one purpose, one that was being played out right in front of him, where he was only a spectator. In one of those odd moments, when the Parthian glanced over at the German holding the reins of his mount, he saw what he knew was an identical look on the barbarian’s face, an expression of avid longing as he peered through the dust, trying to make sense of what was happening. Obviously feeling eyes on him, the German turned and his eyes met those of Kambyses, whereupon they experienced an instant of complete solidarity, that of two fighting men aching to be in the midst of the action, prompting them to exchange a grin.

  “I don’t suppose,” Kambyses spoke in Latin; he hadn’t picked up much of the Germans’ tongue, other than to comment on their parentage or the occupation of their mothers, “you’d be willing to take me up there.”

  Immediately after the words left his mouth, Kambyses realized how unlikely it was that the barbarian understood him, which only deepened his surprise when the German cheerfully answered in a Latin that, while accented, was clearly understandable, “I wish that I could.”