Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  For the Parthians who had been added to the ranks of Caesar’s Legions, the previous year had been a mixed bag in terms of good and bad. Undeniably, as harsh as life could be under the standards of Roman Legions, it was still a marked improvement over the lot of one consigned to carrying a spear and wicker shield as a man of the Parthian infantry. Perhaps the biggest surprise, and one that, in the early days of this radical move by Caesar to fill the depleted ranks of his army, was one of the most common reasons for a Parthian to ostensibly turn his back on his own people, was how much better fed they were wearing the scarlet tunic of the Roman Gregarius than they had been fighting for their own blood. In one way, the Centurions of Caesar’s army recognized that there was a distinct similarity between Roman and Parthian men of military age; some exhibited more of an aptitude for the existence of a soldier than others. Such was the case with the Parthian Mardonius, who had been the first Parthian to take the bounty that Pullus had offered, and was now in the First Century of the Eighth Cohort. Like all the other Parthians, in every Legion, the new enlistees had been put exclusively in the three Cohorts that made up the rearmost rank of Caesar’s favored triplex acies. Mardonius and five other Parthians had been placed in this Century, under the command of Quintus Ausonius, although he was known to all men in the Legion as Cyclops, and their placement had been no accident on the part of Titus Pullus. An instinct in the Primus Pilus had marked Mardonius and the other five men, although mainly Mardonius, as a man who exhibited…something that warned Pullus he was a man to watch. And in the year he had been under the standard, Mardonius had done nothing to disappoint either his immediate superiors or Pullus, but they had yet to face battle, and while the Parthian had been accepted, grudgingly, by the men of his tent section, he was always aware that there were others in the ranks of his Century who viewed him with suspicion. Mardonius and a handful of others, however, were the exception; for the most part, while the Romans surrounding them had learned to hide their true feelings, it had taken more than a dozen floggings, the last few with the scourge, culminating with an execution of a Roman Legionary by Caesar’s order, before the rankers had restricted their activities to muttered comments and an occasional “accident” during training where a Parthian tiro was hit harder with the rudis than was warranted.

  Yet, for all that, Mardonius woke up one morning a few weeks into the siege, after a particularly trying day hacking out their section of entrenchments, and realized he was happy. It had taken a long time, but he was beginning to feel at home in this army of strangers, although he was acutely aware that his lot had been vastly improved because of the actions of one man, a comrade who, even then, was still lying on the cot next to him, mouth open as he snored, enjoying the last few heartbeats of slumbering. On the day he had enlisted, Mardonius had arrived straight from the quaestorium, staggering under the pile of gear that was new only to him; as soon as he learned enough Latin, his new comrades took every opportunity to remind him that all but the tunic he was wearing had once belonged to a real Roman Legionary, not some fucking dark-skinned savage. And, at first, Pacuvius had treated him with the same coldness and hostility as the rest of the men with whom he shared quarters. But, unlike the others, Pacuvius had also watched Mardonius, surreptitiously but closely, and over the course of the first few weeks, he had seen that not only was this Parthian’s heart in the training, he was a quick study. Subsequently, it had been a night that started like any other, with Mardonius sitting in the far corner of what served as their winter quarters, a room of a house in a section of the city of Seleucia, when Pacuvius had casually risen from the dice game that was a nightly feature, and wandered over to the bunk nearest where Mardonius was sitting on a stool, back to the wall. Suddenly, Pacuvius reached down and withdrew the gladius from the scabbard hanging on the special rack at the head of the cot and, in one motion, turned and faced Mardonius, blade in hand. The Parthian’s eyes widened in surprise, but he leapt to his feet, and while he didn’t know it, Pacuvius approvingly watched as he shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to duck or avoid the lunge he thought Pacuvius would launch.

  Instead, with his free hand, Pacuvius tapped the iron blade and asked harshly, “What do you call this in our tongue?”

  Despite being under the standard for a few weeks, Mardonius had only picked up a smattering of words that weren’t commands, but he instantly understood what Pacuvius was asking, which was another mark in his favor to the Roman, answering instantly, “Gladius.”

  Pacuvius nodded, though his face remained neutral, but then he took a step so he could reach another comrade’s gladius, drawing it as well, but then shifted it to the hand holding the first one.

  Holding both, he again pointed and repeated his question, but this time, Mardonius wasn’t sure, and his dark features clouded as he studied the twin blades before he finally ventured, “Gladi…oi?”

  “Ha!” Pacuvius gave a barking laugh, which confused Mardonius, and he didn’t understand when Pacuvius explained, “I thought you’d go Greek! Your mentulae officers speak that, don’t they?” Mardonius still didn’t comprehend the words but sensed the change in the demeanor and attitude of this Roman, so he smiled and nodded, having grasped just enough. Pacuvius shook his head and said, “No. These are gladii…”

  Thus began what started as a tutor/student relationship, but quickly turned into a real, true friendship, and now, in their tent, Mardonius grinned over at his friend as he reached over and gave Pacuvius a not-so-gentle punch to his shoulder.

  “Wha-? Wha-?” Pacuvius sat bolt upright, blinking in that kind of confusion that comes from a rude awakening from deep sleep. Turning, he looked blearily over at Mardonius, whose shockingly white teeth almost glowed in the pre-dawn darkness. “What did you do that for?” Pacuvius demanded, rubbing his shoulder.

  “You snore too much.” Mardonius laughed. “And time to…” His face went still as he tried to think of the right words, then the smile returned. “…get up!”

  “I should never have taught you a fucking word,” Pacuvius grumbled, but he swung his feet off his cot onto the hard-packed ground, yawning and stretching as he did so.

  “All right, girls!” The voice belonged to the Sergeant of the tent section. “It’s time to start the day!”

  “Why?” another voice grumbled, but then a series of sparks illuminated the face of the man assigned to light the lamp and quickly caught the wick, which meant now that he could be identified by Valerius, the Sergeant, meaning the rest of his complaint was muttered under his breath.

  In short, it was the start of what was a normal day during this phase of the siege, as men pulled on their caligae while resuming the conversation that had stopped the night before, while outside their tent, the sounds of a whole Legion rising began filling the air.

  Kambyses’ orders from Phraates had been explicit.

  “You will relieve the garrison at Susa.” Phraates had pronounced this as if, just by saying it, the matter was resolved.

  Then the Parthian King of Kings announced that he had chosen to remain behind in Sostrate, which actually suited Kambyses perfectly. Nothing pleased him more than being away from Phraates, and more importantly, the many prying eyes and ears that every Parthian noble had learned to worry about. Still, Phraates’ orders had been vague, another thing that Kambyses was certain was no accident, yet he had performed the obeisance and assured his king that he wouldn’t disappoint him. However, when Kambyses had strenuously argued with his king about the necessity of having infantry, even if they were of indifferent quality, Phraates had initially refused to release the fifteen thousand men who were left of the Parthian military resources, including the two Cohorts of Crassoi. Only after a bitter argument where Kambyses assailed Phraates with the harsh reality that being expected to reach Susa, repel the Romans, and save the city, but without the troops that would give him the only troops even remotely capable of combating the Romans on anything approaching equal terms would be a guarantee of failur
e. That he had said this in a public setting, in front of Phraates’ noble councilors, and did so as forcefully as he felt he could get away with and still keep his head, only then did Phraates grudgingly agree to release the Crassoi, but only five thousand of the spearmen. Kambyses was also leaving with the enmity of his king, who was clearly enraged but forced to accede to what was ultimately not only a reasonable request, but the only way to have any hope of success. This was just one of the myriad things bothering Kambyses as he rode at the head of the Parthian column, although there was also the matter that, once more, Phraates had chosen to stay behind the walls of Sostrate, refusing to place himself in danger.

  With every passing mile, Kambyses grew angrier, thinking of his king and the vast difference between his father, and, in some ways more strikingly, his dead brother Pacorus. Not lost on him was the recognition that it could very well be the case that Phraates was sending him as the commander because the Parthian king was certain that this attempt was destined to fail. That, Kambyses thought grimly, was something he was determined not to allow to happen, not twice, not to Caesar, and it was this idea that occupied his thoughts as he led his command back towards Susa. Not until it was late in the day did the idea come to him, and while he was not normally one to betray his emotions, he found it impossible to keep a small, grim smile from his face. Only when it was the proper interval did he call a halt, but rather than allow the commanders of the smaller units to rest with their men, he had the signal sounded to assemble them at his banner. Once they had trotted up from their respective places in the column, he wasted no time.

  “We’re not going to Susa,” he announced, which understandably prompted a strong reaction from the others.

  Only after he explained what he had in mind did the other Parthians, all nobles in their own right, seem somewhat more at ease, although Kambyses took note of the relatively few faces who showed any sign of eagerness at what he had commanded, and the Roman Centurion Gemellus was one of them. Those men, he thought, are the ones I’m going to have to rely on for what’s coming. After answering a few questions, he ordered the commanders to return to their men, but this time when the march resumed, he led the way, and his course was no longer directly for Susa. It was a hugely desperate gamble he was taking, he understood, and while there was a tightness in the pit of his stomach at the audacity of this new course of action, at the same time, he relished the imaginary look of surprise this would engender, although while Phraates and his reaction were certainly a consideration, what Kambyses longed for most of all was to see the look on Caesar’s face when he realized he had been duped. That, he thought, is more than worth the risk.

  Aulus Hirtius was dozing; that he was in the saddle, as his cavalry force continued their parallel tracking of the Parthians who were heading back to Susa, was not unusual for either the commander or his men. His troopers had learned to do this long before, but for Hirtius, it was a newly acquired skill, something that he was secretly quite proud about, if only because it earned him a bit more respect from most of the men under his command.

  This was why he wasn’t happy when Decimus Silva, who had returned to the bulk of the cavalry arm on Caesar’s orders, reached out and shook him gently, but he came awake instantly, in time to hear the Decurion say, “Sir! You need to see this!”

  Hirtius rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, but his initial reaction was to mutter, “See what? It’s darker than Pluto’s bunghole!”

  Silva pointed, and while it was indeed after dark, Hirtius could see in which direction the other man was indicating. Neither he nor Hirtius had been surprised when the Parthians stopped for a third of a watch, then resumed their march shortly after sundown, but now it was fully dark, which meant it took Hirtius a moment for his eyes to pick up the darker mass that was the Parthian column. Finally, he saw a ripple of movement, yet even then, it took a few more heartbeats before he understood both what was happening and why Silva was concerned.

  “Wait,” Hirtius gasped, “why are they changing direction?” For a moment, he tried to think of the mental map he carried, glancing up at the night sky just to make sure he was right. “Susa is more to the west than the direction they’re heading now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Silva agreed worriedly, “which is why I woke you up when I realized they’d changed directions.”

  “So,” Hirtius spoke slowly as he tried to think through the possible reasons, “it seems that they’re going to swing around Susa to the east.” Turning to Silva, he ordered, “Go find Dadarshi; he’s somewhere back with Mesullos’ turma. I need to know what kind of country they’re heading into and what’s out that direction that we need to worry about.”

  Silva complied, turning and trotting back down the column, leaving Hirtius to strain his eyes in the darkness, picking up the occasional glint of a piece of metal in the light from the thin, crescent moon. Because of the difficulty, it took him longer than normal to realize that, with the Parthian change of direction, he was now inadvertently leading his column on a path that would intersect with them. Caesar’s orders had been explicit; they were to observe only, sending couriers north to Susa to keep his general informed about the progress of this relief force. But now, it didn’t seem that Phraates, who Hirtius incorrectly assumed was leading this spad, was heading to Susa. Did that mean his orders changed, he wondered? Would Caesar view this as an opportunity to try and inflict damage on the Parthians, before they had any chance of uniting with their comrades in Susa? Or would he be more interested in finding out what Phraates had planned, if he maintained his course in this new direction? Hirtius couldn’t spend any more time speculating, as the sound of trotting hooves approaching from his rear warned him, then Silva returned with the Parthian Dadarshi, a horse archer who had been wounded in Ctesiphon, then had been one of the volunteers to join his former enemies. Naturally, Caesar and his officers were extremely skeptical about Dadarshi’s true motives in volunteering to scout, but then it was learned, through a variety of sources, including the Greeks of Seleucia, that his family had been executed by Phraates for the simple crime of being from a village that belonged to a satrap whom Phraates suspected of plotting against him. Over the previous year, stories like this had become far more common, but at this moment, Hirtius was more concerned with what Dadarshi could tell him that might give him a possible clue as to why the Parthians had made this change.

  “No, lord,” Dadarshi shook his head, and even in the darkness, Hirtius could see that the Parthian was almost as troubled as he was, “I do not know why they would do this. There is nothing out that direction but very bad land, very…” he struggled for the correct Latin term; he was very proud of his ability to speak their tongue, Hirtius knew, before he finally came up with “…rugged. It goes,” he made a gesture with his hand, down then up before going down again, “and it is very bad on horses.”

  “So,” Hirtius burst out in frustration, “why is he going that direction?”

  Dadarshi considered, then suggested, “It is still several miles before the bad land. If they turn back more northwest, they will be out of sight of Susa and able to go around it. Why?” He shrugged and finished simply, “I do not know, lord.”

  “Maybe,” Silva suggested, “they think that Caesar didn’t think to complete the contravallation in the direction of Ctesiphon since it’s our supply line, and they hope they can attack us from that direction.”

  This, Hirtius thought, was something to consider, but if this was the case, it would actually work in Caesar’s favor, since he knew that his general had completely encircled both Susa and all of his army, protecting every camp and outpost. Then, Dadarshi made an offhand comment that froze Hirtius’ blood and changed everything.

  “Perhaps Kambyses wants to avenge his loss of Ctesiphon.” The Parthian had said this quietly, directed at Silva, who was next to him, but Hirtius turned sharply.

  “Wait! What did you say?” he demanded. “What did you say about Kambyses?”

  Dadarshi shift
ed nervously, glancing over at Silva, but he could see the Decurion wasn’t disposed to come to his aid, so he repeated uncomfortably, “Just that Kambyses was the one who…”

  “I know that,” Hirtius snapped impatiently. “But why did you mention his name in the first place? That,” he pointed at the Parthian column that, since he had called a halt, was now moving slowly across the front of his own troops, “is Phraates.” He paused, then asked doubtfully, “Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, no lord.” Dadarshi shook his head. “Phraates is not leading these men, lord.”

  “How do you know?” Silva asked, beating Hirtius to it.

  Dadarshi looked surprised but answered readily enough. “Because Phraates’ banner isn’t present with these men, Decurion. But earlier today, I saw the banner of Kambyses’ house. Although,” he suddenly looked doubtful, but not for the reason Hirtius assumed, “that might mean that it is Kambyses’ brother Intaphernes who is leading them. He is one of the commanders of Phraates’ personal bodyguard, so it would make sense.”