by R. W. Peake
“Tell your master that I’ve alerted my men,” he told the slave, “and he can find me on the northern rampart since that’s where we saw them moving about.”
Not until the mounted couriers returned would he have an idea whether or not this disturbance was isolated to the northern Roman camp, or if it was happening at one or more of the others; while he waited, he occupied himself with the business of rousing the men of his own Century. Caspar honestly didn’t think the Romans would be attacking; like many experienced fighting men, he had learned to trust his instincts, and they weren’t indicating that anything important was happening, at least as far as an attack on the Parthian fortifications were concerned. If those instincts were correct, and the enemy wasn’t preparing for an assault, then what, Caspar wondered, were they up to? Deciding that it wasn’t his problem and that he could only worry about the things he could control, he resumed his inspection of his Cohort. As he expected, these veterans were already forming up in their street, the Optios and Centurions lashing out with the Parthian version of the viti, which was not the twisted grapevine since that was nonexistent in the Parthian empire. Watching as his Princeps Posterior lashed out at a man who had forgotten a piece of equipment and was late in joining his Century, Caspar recalled with some amusement the long process of trial and error he and the other Centurions went through, trying to find a suitable substitute for what was not only a symbol of the Centurionate, but one of the most important tools for enforcing discipline. A lot of men suffered injuries that were more severe than intended, but finally, they settled on a material that, although it had to be imported from even farther east than Merv, had proven to be acceptable. It was supple, yet deceptively strong, although rather than the twisting that was a characteristic of the grapevine it had segments, but the most important thing was that it left a nice welt on the ranker being struck, as the Princeps Posterior was doing now, whipping the yelping man into his spot, aiming for the upper part of his legs the way a good Centurion should. Seeing that his Cohort was ready, Caspar gave the command to march to their assigned section of the fortifications, relieving the First of the Third Cohort, who moved eastward, behind the rampart, to take up their normal spot. By the time this was accomplished, the mounted messengers had returned, and Caspar wasn’t surprised when he was told that there didn’t seem to be any activity in two of the other Roman camps. The Centurion of the Sixth Century of the Third Cohort whose men were arrayed along the fortifications facing the eastern Roman camp had written a hasty message, on a scrap of pot shard, that informed Caspar that, while some sort of activity seemed to be happening there, it was essentially the same story as it was with Glabrio; something was going on, but it was impossible to tell with any certainty what it was. Despite himself, Caspar felt a stab of disappointment, thinking that a part of him just wanted to get this over with, a feeling he knew was shared by most of the other Crassoi, if only because during his visits to the other Cohorts, he had heard them say as much.
“Let’s just be done with it,” was how an old veteran put it to him. “That way, we can get back home and bring our families with us.”
It was during this exchange that Caspar realized something, that he, like this veteran, no longer thought of where he had been born and raised, in Latium, as home. Now, it was Merv that he thought of as his home, and in the moment, he tried to recall exactly when that change had taken place. No matter how or when it happened, Caspar agreed with his ranker comrade, that he had had enough waiting. Nevertheless, it was becoming apparent that tonight wouldn’t be the night, although he decided to play it safe nonetheless and keep the Crassoi on alert for at least another full watch. Besides, he thought ruefully, if I woke them up, then just turned them around and sent them back to their tents, I’d never hear the end of it, and not from the men but from the Centurions. So, he stood in the tower, listening to the night as two of Caesar’s Legions slipped out of the northern camp, on their way to end Parthian resistance in one stroke.
Chapter Four
The 10th, 12th, and 28th were marching in light order, and that, Pullus thought, was putting it mildly. Although the men carried their furcae, their packs only carried two days’ rations, although it was really only the equivalent of one day of full rations, and incidental items like tinderboxes, along with a pared down set of entrenchment tools. Rather than each ranker carrying his full complement, some men in a section carried their spades, while other men carried their turf-cutters, and others the short axes. Rather than each section bringing their mule, the complement of animals had been cut in half, but instead of the tents and rations that were their normal burden, they were carrying assault ladders. It was a two-day march to Sostrate, but Caesar had ordered that they would only march at night, and that they would try and find a spot to rest during the day where they would be hard to detect by any scouts that might be ranging out from Sostrate. For this, Caesar was relying on men like the Parthian Axertes, who, despite his wound, had insisted that he was fit to ride. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only Parthian in the complement of cavalry, and there were men who were more familiar with this region than he was, which meant that, shortly before dawn, the three Legions were led down into a surprisingly large depression that, their scouts told them, was a source of water during the winter months, when the brief period of rainy weather filled it and it actually became a small lake. Now, however, it served as a surprisingly effective hiding spot, something Pullus didn’t quite believe until he walked out with Scribonius and Balbus, then turned about, facing the depression.
“That’s unexpected,” was how Scribonius put it.
“It’s definitely deeper than I would have thought,” Pullus agreed. “Now we just need to make sure none of the men get the idea of wandering out here.”
“You know what that means, right?” Balbus countered. “They’re going to have to piss and cac down there. It’s going to stink so much the Parthians could smell us a mile away!”
Although Pullus knew Balbus was exaggerating, he did realize that this was actually a valid concern. The output of urine and feces of three Legions, five hundred cavalry, and all the animals would definitely create quite a stench.
“Let’s go talk to Caesar about it,” he said finally, “although I don’t know what we can do to avoid it.”
Caesar’s reaction was one of a certain level of embarrassment that told Pullus his general hadn’t actually thought about it either, but it didn’t take him long to come up with a solution.
“It’s just now dawn,” he glanced over where the sun was now just about halfway visible, “so I think the chances are low that Parthian scouts are out already. So,” he instructed Pullus, “go find the other Primi Pili and have him tell their men that they need to leave the depression and relieve themselves now.” Returning Pullus’ salute, the Primus Pilus had gone just a couple of steps when he thought to add, “And tell them they need to bury their cac. That might not completely solve the problem, but if they do that, it might help.”
It was a moment of perverse humor for not just Pullus, but many of the men, who joked, somewhat nervously, that this would be the best time for a Parthian to attack, when half the force was actually in a rough circle, at least a hundred paces away from their refuge, squatting on their haunches. While it was said partially in jest, after a quick discussion among the Primi Pili, it was decided to perform this mass act of relief in shifts, so that half the men were standing ready, while the other half attended to their business. In his entire time under the standard, this was one of the strangest moments Pullus had ever experienced, and one he would have cause to remember, if only because, despite the threat of discovery, somehow the entire process ended uneventfully, and within a third of a watch, the men were settled down. Not happily, as Pullus and the other Centurions had been certain would happen, since conversation above a whisper was strictly forbidden. This also meant that the Centurions, who were prowling their respective Centuries, had to refrain from lashing out at a man who allowed his vo
ice to raise to an unacceptable level, since the chances were good the offending party would utter a yelp of pain. Using their sagum as a ground cloth, men soon enough began to try settling down to get some sleep, although it was difficult, both because of the sun rising and crossing the sky, but from the heat, which quickly became uncomfortable. Before long, men had stripped down to just their tunics, something that was only allowed after a whispered discussion with Caesar who, alone, seemed unaffected by the heat. That the pair of slaves who were accompanying him had taken his paludamentum and rigged a shade for him certainly helped, but he was seated on a makeshift chair, dictating something to Apollodorus.
“He just has to show everyone he’s not like us,” Balbus muttered sourly, as he, Pullus and Scribonius lounged on Pullus’ own sagum.
“He isn’t like us,” reminded Scribonius. “He’s Caesar.”
Pullus glanced over at his friend curiously, trying to discern the hidden barb in Scribonius’ comment; he had never seemed to take Caesar as seriously as Pullus did, although he was also circumspect about it. Not for the first time, Pullus wondered if Scribonius’ attitude and his lack of awe whenever in Caesar’s presence stemmed from the fact that his own intellectual powers actually approached their general’s, and perhaps surpassed them in some ways. While Pullus admired and respected their general tremendously, as he rose through the ranks, and especially once he served as the de facto Primus Pilus of the two Cohorts of the 6th Legion that accompanied Caesar to Alexandria and ended up under siege for seven months, his feelings had been tempered. He had witnessed firsthand that Caesar was, in fact, capable of making mistakes, and in some ways was all too human, having blind spots and what Pullus judged to be petty grievances against other men of his class. His friend and Secundus Pilus Prior, on the other hand, had a humility that simply was missing from Caesar, and ironically, to Pullus at least, it made Scribonius an effective leader in his own right. Now, he regarded his friend from the corner of his eye, as Scribonius, leaning on one elbow, watched Caesar doing what Caesar did, appear to make everything look easy. After some more desultory conversation, the two Centurions rose and departed to their own Centuries, making one last round before lying down themselves to try and get some rest, while Pullus softly cursed his decision to make Diocles stay behind. He was certain, like most of the men, that he wouldn’t be able to get any sleep; that was his last memory until just before sundown, when someone kicked his foot.
Sitting up, he squinted and saw that it was Caesar himself, which caused him to scramble to his feet, and his heart start pounding, the automatic reaction of the ranker who is awakened by his general.
“Sorry to give you a start, Pullus,” Caesar laughed, then said simply, “but it’s time to get the men up.”
Pullus saluted, but Caesar was already moving away, heading to where Balbinus and the 12th were sprawled out, leaving the Primus Pilus of the 10th to begin the process of getting his men up and ready.
“All right, boys,” Pullus had to make an effort to keep his voice down, “time to get up.” As the men began to stir, he conferred with Lutatius, telling his Optio, “Finish getting them ready. I need to go check on the other Cohorts.”
Moving along, he walked to the Second Cohort, but took an extra moment with one Gregarius in Scribonius’ Century.
“Did you get any sleep?” Pullus asked his nephew, who shrugged.
“Some,” Porcinus replied, then glancing about, lowered his voice even more, “but it wasn’t the heat. Uncle Titus, I’m fucking starving.”
Pullus sighed, not even bothering to admonish Porcinus for the familial title, knowing that his nephew was far from alone in the feeling. They had been on half-rations for four days, and while there had been discussion of doing so, Caesar had rightly decided that diverting what little food they had left to the three Legions upon whose shoulders fell the responsibility for possibly ending their situation would have caused more strife than it helped give the assaulting Legions strength.
“Well,” he said, again with a cheerful demeanor that he hoped didn’t come off as false as it felt, “by this time tomorrow, we’ll be over the walls and gorging ourselves on all those foods these barbarian kings love to eat.”
Porcinus did laugh, but there was a dutiful quality to it, and Pullus departed, giving his nephew a clap on the shoulder before moving to the Third Cohort. Since there wasn’t much to do in the way of breaking camp, there was still some light left when the Primi Pili reported to Caesar their Legions were ready to climb out of the depression and resume the march.
This was when they learned that, as he was wont to do, Caesar had changed his mind about something, telling them, “We’re going to set a cracking pace, because I want to be at their walls while it’s still dark.”
This, naturally, was met with gasps from his assembled officers, which included the Primi Pili, Gundomir as commander of Caesar’s personal bodyguard of Germans, and the Decurion Decimus Silva, who Caesar had placed in command of the hundred cavalrymen who came with them from Susa.
“If we do that, Caesar,” Carfulenus, the Primus Pilus of the 28th Legion, whose Legion had proven themselves in Alexandria, “we’re going to be too worn down to conduct the assault.”
Caesar favored Carfulenus with his most winning smile, and despite himself, Pullus felt a twinge of pity for his fellow Primus Pilus, knowing that their general was turning on the same charm and charisma that Pullus himself had experienced before.
“Come now, Carfulenus,” Caesar chided, “don’t sell the men of the 28th short. Besides,” he turned serious, “this is our best chance on ending this campaign once and for all. I’m sure I can count on you, and your men, to do what’s necessary. Can’t I?”
When put this way, as Pullus well knew from his own dealings with Caesar, there was only one answer Carfulenus could give, which was what he did, the bony lump in his throat bobbing as he answered, “Yes, sir. Of course you can. My boys will do whatever’s necessary.”
With that settled, each Primus Pilus returned to his Legion, and just as the upper edge of the sun dipped down below the horizon, Caesar led them up and out of the depression.
Phraates was indulging himself, which wasn’t unusual, nor was the manner in which he did so. Lounging on his bed, he watched with a dispassionate interest as the young slaves, a man and woman, engaged in a series of sexual acts, as ordered by the Parthian king. The knowledge that the previous couple had displeased Phraates, and their bodies unceremoniously thrown out of his palace with the other refuse, meant that both young people were doing their utmost to please their king. They weren’t, but Phraates had at least a shred of humanity as he realized that his state of mind had nothing to do with the manner in which the couple were performing for him.
“Get out,” he finally said, abruptly. “And tell Sunen to attend to me.”
Only for the briefest moment did the young male slave, who was close to his climax, consider disobeying, but thankfully for both him and the girl, she had kept a cool head, and she roughly shoved him off of her.
“Yes, your Highness,” she mumbled, then slid off the bed, grabbing her partner by the wrist and dragging him out of the chamber and away from Phraates’ presence.
Within a matter of heartbeats, the courtier Sunen appeared, as obsequiously correct as always, making his obeisance before he approached the bed, where Phraates had at least sat up, leaning against the ornately carved headboard.
“Yes, lord?”
Sunen had been extremely happy when Bodroges, who held the unofficial rank of chief among the courtiers, chose to stay with Gobryas, a decision he now regretted in the extreme. Serving this king was nothing like serving the late Orodes, who might have been harsh, and had his own peculiar tastes, but who was at least consistent. Now Sunen never knew what to expect whenever he was in Phraates’ presence, and this occasion was no exception.
“Has there been any word from Kambyses?” Phraates asked, but while he affected an air of indifference, Sunen cou
ld hear the tension in his king’s voice.
“No, lord,” Sunen replied, thinking that this made at least the fifth time that day Phraates had asked. “There is no word as of yet.”
This clearly irritated Phraates, his tension betrayed by the manner in which his hands twisted the hem of the silk dressing gown that was carelessly draped over his body.
“What about from Susa? Anything?”
This was only the second time the Parthian king had asked about his capital, and it troubled Sunen that, while his indifference towards Ctesiphon and Seleucia had been understandable, Phraates’ attitude towards the besieged city wasn’t sufficiently engaged, given their dire straits.
Nonetheless, his face was a courtier’s mask as he answered regretfully, “Nothing new, your Highness. Our last dispatch from Gobryas came the day before yesterday.”
