by R. W. Peake
As he was walking away, Scribonius called out, “Maybe he changed his mind.”
Pullus laughed, replying, “If he did, I’ll give you an amphora of my Falernian.”
However, as it turned out, this was what was taking place, although for far different reasons than Pullus or any other Primi Pili could imagine.
Decimus Silva was as surprised as anyone that he had managed to not only survive but evade capture, despite three separate close calls, to make it to Susa. One of those escapes involved a running skirmish where two of the men with him were felled by horse archers, and for the span of a watch, he was certain that he would be killed, or worse, captured. Somehow, though, he and the rest of his party had managed to escape, thanks in no small part to the Parthian among them, Axertes, despite the man being wounded. Once the rest of the army learned the circumstances, the more religious men ascribed it as nothing less than an act of the gods, where they showed their favor for Caesar, and by extension, his men. Whatever the cause, he led his small force through the gates of the northern camp, allowed in despite not knowing the watchword because the Centurion in charge of the guard recognized him, whereupon they rode straight to the praetorium. No more than two hundred heartbeats after entering the camp, he and Axertes, who he had to help because of the arrow wound to his thigh, were standing in front of Caesar. The report Silva gave was so profoundly disturbing that it caused Caesar to drop back into his chair behind his desk, and sit, open-mouthed for the span of several heartbeats.
Finally, he spoke, his voice carefully modulated as Caesar tried to keep his surging emotions under control, aiming his question at Axertes and speaking slowly so the Parthian would understand. “And you are sure about this as well?”
Axertes, frankly, had understood only part of what Silva had said, since the Decurion had spoken as he did with all men who spoke Latin fluently, but he had known beforehand what Silva would say.
So, while it was possible that the Decurion had said something different, Axertes didn’t think so, and so he bowed his head and said only, “Yes, lord.” There was a silence that prompted him to raise his head to peek at Caesar, who was regarding him steadily, and with a suddenly thudding heart, the Parthian realized the general was expecting more than a mere affirmation. Haltingly, he added, “It is as the Decurion says. There is a spad to the north, and the spadpat is not Phraates.” He stopped, then, slightly emboldened, he added what was ultimately a guess, but a shrewd one. “It is…possible that Phraates is trying to fool you by not bringing his banner and using that of the house of Kambyses, but,” he shook his head firmly, “I do not believe that Phraates would do something like that.”
Caesar sat silently then, absorbing this, and despite recovering his composure, his mind was racing as he thought through the implications of what it meant. So absorbed was he that he momentarily forgot the two dirty, tired troopers standing there, until Axertes inadvertently shifted his weight onto his wounded leg, prompting him to stagger slightly, a groan escaping his lips. Silva reached out and grabbed the Parthian by the arm to steady him, breaking his position of intente as he did, which in turn jerked Caesar from his thoughts.
“Ah,” he said, slightly embarrassed, “I apologize to both of you.” Standing, he moved from around his desk and clasped Silva by the shoulder, squeezing it as he spoke. “Not only do I owe you a debt, but the entire army does as well, and once this is over, I swear to both of you that you’ll be amply rewarded.” He had moved to Axertes then, looking down at the bloody bandage, and showing a concern that the Parthian would have never experienced with a Parthian commander, said, “Report to the hospital tent immediately. I will send one of my personal physicians to attend to that wound.”
Unsure what to do, or say, all Axertes could manage was a mumbled, “Thank you, lord.”
It was Silva who interjected, albeit somewhat awkwardly, clearing his throat in a signal to Caesar, and offered, “Actually, sir, the only reason we made it at all was because of Axertes here. He knew where those bastards would be waiting, and he got us past three different patrols.”
Caesar nodded; he had surmised that it was likely the Parthian standing there had had something to do with the success of this party, but it was good to have it confirmed.
“I’ll be sure to reward you, Axertes,” he assured the Parthian, then favored the Parthian with a grin as he joked, “You’ll have more than enough money to sample every one of the camp whores and stay drunk for a month!”
As he had known it would, this appealed to Axertes immensely, who was encouraged enough to return the Roman’s grin, serving to remind Caesar of how, no matter for whom they marched, or rode, fighting men were the same at heart. When tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, he thought, what man wouldn’t want to spend what might be his last day on this side of the river debauching? Now, he stepped back, the sign to Silva that they were being dismissed, and Caesar returned their salute, then watched as the Decurion helped the Parthian out of his office.
Turning to Apollodorus, the most senior of his secretaries, he said, “Summon the Legates first. Then, once they’re here, have the Bucinator on duty call the Primi Pili.” Apollodorus responded instantly, giving his master a nod, knowing that Caesar didn’t appreciate anyone under his command, in any capacity, wasting time on unnecessary words. As he was hurrying out of the office, he heard Caesar mutter, “I think I might be able to make this work to our advantage.”
“There’s been a change in our plans,” Caesar announced, not even waiting for the Primi Pili to settle down onto the stools in the large room that served as the officers’ mess and for meetings of the senior commanders. “We’ve finally heard from Hirtius, and while the news isn’t good, I also see an opportunity.”
For the next few moments, he repeated, almost verbatim, the report given to him by Silva and Axertes. Although every man present had deduced most of what Caesar told them, having it confirmed still had an impact, igniting a rustling of whispers as each man reacted in his own way. Caesar allowed them this moment, then raised a hand, and the room fell silent immediately, every man’s attention riveted on their general. The smile he gave his Legates and Centurions was only partially contrived, because he understood the audacity of what he was about to propose.
“However,” he began, “I have a plan that will not only solve our supply situation, but,” he paused as he realized that even he had some misgivings about what he was about to propose, “might end this campaign altogether.” Now there was no way that there wouldn’t be a small uproar over this, and while he understood their reaction, as always, Caesar was acutely aware that every moment mattered, so once more he raised his hand, which didn’t work this time, forcing him to raise his voice to say, “If you’d be quiet, you could hear what I have planned.” Thankfully, this quieted the officers down, and he didn’t hesitate, knowing he needed to get it all out or this would last far too long. “We’ve learned that Phraates isn’t with that force who’s cutting off our supply line. His banners aren’t present, and it’s extremely unlikely that the Parthian king would lead an army without his banner, which means he’s still in Sostrate. Now,” for this next part, he beckoned to the men to surround the long table, upon which rested the largest map of the region, and they quickly crowded around it, “according to the reports, the Parthians cutting us off are about sixty miles to the north. And,” he added grimly, “they’ve taken a strong position on a ridge that would require an assault to remove them.” Pointing to the drawings of their current position around Susa, he moved his finger to the south. “But as you can see, Sostrate is about the same distance from here as the Parthian position. Just in the opposite direction.” Glancing up, he did a quick scan of the faces, once more trying to determine which of his officers were catching on more quickly than the others, and he wasn’t surprised to see that of his Legates, Pollio was the only one, and of the Centurions, Pullus, Spurius, and Balbinus, all had an expression of dawning recognition. “Now,” he continued, “we have to do somet
hing to relieve our situation, and originally, we were going to move up the assault on Susa. But I suspect that none of you were looking forward to it.” Pausing for a heartbeat, he admitted, “I know I wasn’t.” Weak jest though it was, it did prompt some smiles and a couple of chuckles. “But with this new information, we actually have another choice. Two more, actually,” he corrected himself. “Now that we know both where the Parthians are located to the north, and the size and composition of their force, the obvious thing to do would be to march with at least three Legions to meet with Hirtius and the cavalry, then attack them.” This time when he paused, Pullus and Spurius exchanged a glance, using their spot to Caesar’s side to share an eye roll and slight shake of the head, knowing their general was now indulging himself. Caesar, however, caught the movement but chose to ignore it, even as he acknowledged ruefully to himself that perhaps he was being a bit too transparent. “Hopefully,” he said aloud, “you see the problem with this.” Exacting a tiny revenge, he turned and asked Pullus directly, “Pullus, what are your thoughts?”
“About what, Caesar?” Pullus replied blandly, answering his general in kind, knowing full well what Caesar was doing.
“About the problem with this,” Caesar snapped, his patience for this little game wearing thin almost immediately. “Do you see what it is?”
“Other than the fact that there’s no guarantee that the Parthians will stand and fight?” Pullus responded. “Then we’ll be forced to pursue, with our cavalry trying to pin them down long enough for us to catch up? And that it’s likely that whoever is commanding that force, since it’s not Phraates, is going to draw us farther and farther away from Susa, and from the river?” Shaking his head, he finished dryly, “No, I suppose I don’t see anything other than that, Caesar.”
The silence that followed was heavy with tension, as Caesar glared at his favorite Primus Pilus, who returned it with a level gaze that sent its own message, and despite his irritation, Caesar felt a smile tugging at his lips at this reminder that behind the brutish exterior Pullus presented, there was a sharp mind.
However, there was one piece of information Caesar hadn’t supplied, and he used it now, but first acknowledged, “That’s a very accurate assessment, Pullus. And normally, I’d agree with you about the fact that the Parthians would most likely fall back on their old tricks. But,” he added, “there is one thing I didn’t share, and that’s who we’re fairly certain is in command of that Parthian force, since we know it’s not Phraates.” Yet again, he paused, relishing the fact that he had regained control of the moment, then said, “It’s Kambyses who’s in command of this force, and I think you will all agree that he’s much more likely to stand and fight, given that he has…unfinished business with us.”
Once more, the Centurions reacted, and despite himself, Pullus found his head nodding thoughtfully, knowing this was probably an accurate assessment. He hadn’t been around the Parthian that much after his captivity, but he had been present when Kambyses had approached under a flag of truce to recover Pacorus’ body, and the Parthian had been informed that he was, in fact, the Roman who slew the crown prince. There was no mistaking the hatred in the Parthian’s eyes, but what Pullus remembered was that it wasn’t a hot, passionate kind of hostility, but a cool, calculating one, as if Kambyses was considering exactly the method of torture he planned on subjecting Pullus to at some point in the future. Given that, it was understandable why Pullus hadn’t exactly avoided Kambyses during the Parthian’s year as prisoner, although he had limited the times when he and Kambyses would have shared the same room. It wasn’t out of fear, yet despite understanding the cause of the antipathy, it made Pullus uncomfortable to be in the Parthian’s presence and feel his cold, black eyes always on him whenever Pullus wasn’t looking directly at him.
“But,” Caesar’s voice brought him back to the moment, “I don’t think this is the best course of action. And, we’ve already agreed that the assault we had planned tonight will be a bloody affair. So,” he took a breath before he finished, “we are going to march to Sostrate, take the city, and capture Phraates.”
Somewhat to his surprise, there wasn’t an instant uproar at Caesar’s pronouncement, but part of this was because some of his Primi Pili had already divined Caesar’s intentions, while those who were caught by surprise were still in a state of shock.
It was Pullus who broke the silence, mainly to forestall the clamor he knew would be coming, asking Caesar, “When are we marching? And who’s going with you and who’s staying behind?”
“Since we’re already prepared for an assault,” Caesar answered, confirming Pullus’ guess, “we’ll leave tonight, as soon as it’s dark enough to do so without alerting the Parthians in Susa.”
“Who are you taking with you?” Spurius asked, and again, Pullus’ assumption was correct.
“The 10th, the 12th. And,” Caesar hesitated for a moment, then said, “the 28th.”
Spurius stiffened, his expression like a man who had just been slapped, Pullus thought, though he sympathized with his friend. Like Pullus, the Primus Pilus of the 3rd had become accustomed to being usually the second or third Legion who Caesar called on for particularly dangerous and challenging tasks.
“May I ask why, Caesar?” Spurius’ spoke carefully, but Pullus was certain that their general heard the underlying anger there.
Caesar did, and while he didn’t want to waste more time, he did value the feelings of one of his most trusted Primi Pili, which he showed by assuring Spurius, “Because I need one of my best Legions to remain here, Spurius. While I have every intention of leaving without alerting the Parthians, we must keep in mind that there are Romans over there, and they’re much more alert than the Parthians. Besides,” he pointed out, “their positions are closer to us than the walls. While I don’t think it’s likely, we have to be prepared for the possibility that the Crassoi see something that spurs them into making some sort of mischief.”
“Will three Legions be enough?” Pollio spoke for the first time. “We have no idea the size of the garrison there at Sostrate.”
“No, we don’t,” Caesar acknowledged, “but it will take us two days to get to Sostrate, even marching as light as we can.” He raised two fingers, then added a third as he continued, “Then it will take us at least part of the day to assault and take the city, then take Phraates.” Another finger was raised. “I will bring Phraates back on horseback, of course, with my bodyguard and the cavalry we’re bringing with us. That’s four days from now before I can return, then we parade Phraates in front of the walls of Susa.” Shaking his head, he reminded his officers, “And we can’t be sure that Kambyses won’t somehow hear what we’re up to and see an opportunity to try and relieve Susa. That’s why we need to keep seven Legions here, two in the north, east, and western camp, and one in the south...” Addressing Pollio, he finished, “And you’ll be in command here.”
Although it was clear that Caesar was essentially finished, Pullus was troubled by what he saw as an omission by his general, sufficiently so that he was willing to speak up.
“Caesar, what if Kambyses does what you say and leaves his position, but it’s because he gets word of us marching to Sostrate, and he heads for us instead of coming here? What then?”
The fact that Caesar didn’t hesitate in answering told Pullus and the others he had already considered this, saying grimly, “Then, we count on Hirtius being able to stop Kambyses, or slow him down enough for us to get back here.”
Treating this as the effective end of the meeting, Caesar brusquely ordered the Centurions to disperse, seven of them to return to their Legions and double the guard for that night, and three of them to inform their men that they would be marching away, and not assaulting Susa.
Caspar was eating a late supper in his quarters when a ranker from the First of the Third arrived, bringing word from the Tertius Pilus Prior, who was the commander of the guard, that there was movement in the northern camp of the Romans. Debating for a momen
t, he decided against donning his armor, thinking that speed was more important at this moment, and he followed the Legionary back to the twin stone towers that were aligned with the northern camp. Climbing up the ladder, he was met by the Tertius Pilus Prior Gnaeus Glabrio, who used his vitus to point out at the Roman position.
“There’s been quite a bit of movement there, Primus Pilus,” Glabrio said, “but it’s too dark to see exactly what’s happening.”
“And of course those cunni aren’t considerate enough to light torches so we can see better,” Caspar replied jokingly, and he saw the flash of white as Glabrio grinned.
“Just one more reason to hate those bastards,” Glabrio replied cheerfully.
That both men were speaking more loudly than necessary was for the benefit of the rankers within earshot.
“How long has it been going on?” Caspar asked.
“Not that long,” Glabrio answered. “I sent for you the moment I saw it.”
You saw it? Caspar thought with sardonic amusement, and judging from the flash of anger of one of the pair of rankers whose post this was, he was certain who it had been who had actually brought it to Glabrio’s attention. Returning his attention back to the Roman camp, he peered into the darkness until he felt his eyes begin to water, but while he could definitely see some form of movement, there was no way to tell exactly what was happening or what it meant.
Despite being unable to determine either the cause or the purpose of what was going on in the Roman camp, Caspar didn’t hesitate, telling Glabrio, “Stand alert. I’m going to go get the rest of the boys up and ready in case they try anything.”
Descending the ladder from the tower onto the rampart, Caspar began moving at a trot, and as he made his way to back to his quarters, decided not to use the horns to sound the call for the Crassoi, most of whom were already asleep, to rise and prepare for a possible attack. Yes, it would take longer to send mounted couriers all the way around the fortification, but the delay was worth it in his estimation, if it meant that the Romans approached, thinking they were surprising the Parthian forces. On the orders of Gobryas, there were always a half-dozen men whose horses were saddled and ready to ride, although at night, the riders were allowed to roll up in their cloaks and try to get some sleep, and this was where Caspar headed first. Within a matter of heartbeats, the men were on their feet, then leaping onto their mounts, moving in both directions along the fortifications, their orders to stop at each small camp where the Crassoi were living during the siege. Once that was done, he stopped at Teispes’ tent, which was in the Parthian style, meaning that it towered over the lower, square tents used by the Crassoi, rousing the eunuch who slept, literally, in the doorway of his master’s tent.
