Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Without warning, he was shoved hard from behind, not enough to knock him down, but to make him stagger a step forward, accompanied by the shout, “Primus Pilus! Watch…”

  Bovinus’ voice was unmistakable, but so was the sodden, thudding sound, followed by an explosive gasp that Pullus knew all too well, and before he could stop himself, he turned his head, afraid of what he would see. Which was the moment the Parthians just a handful of paces away needed, and they wasted no time, leaping forward to attack this arrogant Roman who obviously thought he was some sort of demigod.

  Phraates was torn by indecision. He had begun heading in the direction of the southern gate, accompanied by Zalmoxis and the half-dozen sentinels who were always stationed outside the king’s bedchamber, but they had been intercepted by a wild-eyed guardsman, sent by the commander of the guard contingent manning the eastern wall. While the man did remember to drop to one knee, then place the back of his knuckles against his forehead in the Parthian version of a salute, he was babbling, making it difficult for Phraates to understand what he was trying to say.

  “Highness, theRomansareontheeastwallandthereisagiantleadingthem…”

  “Stop!” Zalmoxis snapped, beating Phraates to it. “Get hold of yourself, dog!” Pausing for a heartbeat, Zalmoxis once more used the same tone that he had used for his king, asking softly, “Now, what is the report from Abdiesos?”

  This had the desired effect, as the guardsman actually took a deep breath, then said, “My apologies, Highness. Abdiesos,” this was the name of his superior, something Zalmoxis had known and spoken the man’s name, knowing his king normally didn’t bother himself with such trivialities, “sent me to find you and report that there is a Roman force who has managed to reach our eastern wall.”

  He stopped then, but Phraates, although he hadn’t understood much, had picked out one thing from the man’s hysterical outburst, and he demanded, “Wait. That wasn’t all that you said. What was this about some…giant?”

  The guardsman hesitated, but Abdiesos had, in fact, been adamant that he relay this as well, although he now felt a little foolish.

  Nevertheless, he repeated, “There is a Roman leading them that is a…” he swallowed, then finished simply, “…a giant, Highness.”

  “Did you see this man yourself?” Phraates snapped, his interest such that it temporarily made him forget that his sanctuary was under assault.

  “Yes, Highness.” The man nodded. “He is truly one of the largest men I have ever seen. And he’s very strong! I saw him fling three of our men from the rampart, with one hand!”

  This was an exaggeration, but Phraates wasn’t inclined to notice this, as he pressed, “What did he look like?”

  “I…I wasn’t that close to him, Highness,” the guardsman admitted. “I just saw his size.”

  Phraates shook his head impatiently, realizing his error, and amended, “Did he wear the helmet where the crest is transverse?” When he got a blank stare, he used his hand to indicate what the word meant, and he was rewarded by the guardsman’s face clearing, and he nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, Highness!” he answered, hoping this would, if not get him back in his king’s good graces, sufficiently satisfy him so his head remained where it belonged. “Yes,” he repeated, “it was, as you say, a…transverse crest!”

  Phraates had gone still, but his mind was racing as he tried to recall what Kambyses had told him about this Roman. He knew that the Roman had slain his brother, during the battle on the ridge that had been the beginning of the series of events that had brought Phraates the crown of Parthia. What was his name?

  “Pull…something,” he said aloud, then shook his head, “…not that it matters.” He did recall something else. “He’s the Centurion in command of Caesar’s 10th Legion.” Suddenly, his heart seemed to actually stop beating for a span of two or three heartbeats, and Zalmoxis, looking alarmed, stepped closer to grab his king’s arm. That this was strictly forbidden, something Phraates barely noticed, was perhaps the most potent sign of his state of mind. Finally, he did look at his subordinate, his face pale as he muttered, “That must mean Caesar is here as well!” Swallowing the bile that was suddenly in his throat, Phraates shook his head. “He wouldn’t send one of his lackeys to do something this audacious. Caesar is here,” he repeated.

  Caesar was indeed outside the walls of Sostrate, sitting on Toes and watching his 12th Legion performing the identical action as the 10th, except they were crossing the southern bridge and Balbinus had put his Century into testudo. I probably wouldn’t have done that, Caesar thought to himself; speed is more important at a moment like this, and he made a mental note to speak to Balbinus about his excessive caution. Although he had chosen to stay with the 12th, he had sent all but fifty of his own bodyguard, along with Carfulenus and the 28th marching to the western gate, thereby cutting off all the possible avenues of escape. His cavalry would move more quickly than the 28th, and he felt certain that Phraates would waste valuable time trying to determine exactly what was taking place; by the time he did so, all the gates would be covered. And, he thought with satisfaction, if the Parthians have some sort of secret exit anywhere on the northern wall, they would be unhappily surprised to see the presence of the Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Cohorts of the Equestrians waiting for them, which had been the content of the verbal orders he had given Pullus a short time earlier. Now, he sat bareheaded, feeling the heat of the sun that was at last completely above the eastern horizon, watching with satisfaction as the 12th spread along the base of the wall, the even Cohorts moving to the west of the southern gate, and the odd Cohorts to the east. Now that it was light enough, Caesar split his time between watching the 12th work and glancing to the west, tracking the progress of the 28th by the cloud of dust created by their shuffling run. Gundomir, sitting next to him, grunted at a moment when Caesar’s attention was on the 28th, and he turned to see what had caught the German’s attention, a ranker of Balbinus’ First Century staggering out of the formation, apparently trying to return back in Caesar’s direction. Before he had taken another two steps, Caesar winced as two Parthian arrows plunged into the ranker’s back, whereupon he collapsed to his knees, gave a shudder, then pitched forward on his face. Caesar said nothing, but Gundomir saw his general’s lips moving in a silent prayer for the fallen man, although they were too far away to recognize him, and the German was reminded how, even if Caesar didn’t know the man’s name, he would remember some odd detail about him, perhaps some action in which he took part, that he would remind the dead man’s comrades about. The German had been in Caesar’s employ for more than a decade now, yet he still found himself surprised whenever he witnessed such moments, despite there being so many of them. Returning their attention to the wall, the pair watched as first one, then another ladder went up, followed a moment later by a figure, wearing the white transverse crest, as he began ascending one, with a second man mounting the other just a matter of heartbeats later.

  Caesar pointed to where the Second Century of the First Cohort was already at the base of the wall, next to the First, commenting, “It looks like Figulus’ decision not to go into testudo might pay off with him winning whatever he and Balbinus bet as to who would be the first up the ladder.”

  Gundomir, who had been paying attention to Balbinus, turned his attention to the Second, and saw that Caesar was right; indeed, it appeared to the German as if Pilus Posterior Figulus was at most one rung lower than his Primus Pilus. Although they were too far away to make out anything distinctive through the noise of men shouting and the racket created by arrows striking shields, Gundomir saw Figulus turn his head in Balbinus’ direction. Judging from the manner in which Balbinus reacted, the cavalryman assumed it was some sort of taunt, the kind of good-natured rivalry between warriors.

  “It’s not wise to take your eyes…” Caesar began, but then, so quickly that at first Gundomir wasn’t sure what happened, Figulus just…vanished, prompting Caesar to let out what sounded to Gundomir like
a moan of anguish.

  It took the span of a heartbeat for Gundomir’s mind to make sense of what his eyes had seen, and he was aided by the manner in which the men at the base of the ladder either scrambled aside or were knocked down by either the body of their Centurion, or the large rock that a Parthian had dropped from the rampart. There was a flurry of activity, with two men dragging Figulus’ limp body back away from the base of the ladder, while four of their comrades held their shields above their heads, providing protection. Once they were a few paces behind the last rank of the Century, one of the rankers knelt down beside Figulus, but only for a brief instant, before standing and saying something to his comrades. Judging by their reaction, Gundomir was certain that the Pilus Posterior was dead, and he glanced over to see Caesar, his lips moving in another silent prayer, and Gundomir wondered how many of these Caesar would be uttering before this day was through.

  The area of the eastern rampart south of the palace wasn’t properly secured until Balbus and Metellus’ Centuries scaled their own ladders. Perhaps a hundred of a mixed lot of royal bodyguards and archers were caught between Pullus and Balbus’ men, but many of them, taking advantage of the lower wall, jumped from the rampart to escape, and Pullus was certain, either to regroup, or more likely, join with the bulk of the garrison who had been sleeping a third of a watch earlier. Those men who chose to stay and fight, or were forced to do so, did put up a stiff resistance, but the end was inevitable, and sufficient Roman blood was shed that, when the last half-dozen Parthians threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees in surrender, they were instantly cut down. Pullus barely noticed this; his attention was already turned to finding the fastest approach to the palace, and he used the height of the rampart to look over the lower rooftops of the baked brick buildings, trying to find one or ideally more streets that might lead directly to the open square that fronted the royal palace. The palace itself wasn’t the size of that in Ctesiphon, but it was still a sizable structure, with a large central hall and two wings jutting out, and from his vantage point, Pullus could see that there was a low parapet lining the roof of the wing nearest him. More importantly, there were already men beginning to line it, and he could make out they all carried the composite bow that was such a deadly weapon for the Parthians. Cursing to himself, Pullus gave up trying to map a course; since this wasn’t like Seleucia, which had begun as a Greek city, Pullus resigned himself to the inevitability of winding streets that either dead-ended, or changed direction so radically that one could find themselves marching in the opposite direction of their original heading without deviating from the original street. And, as the Primus Pilus also knew, these winding, narrow lanes were perfect for ambushes by an enemy who would be intimately familiar with the layout of every street and intersection. Regardless of this difficulty, Pullus didn’t hesitate in leading his Century down the nearest stone stairs, then used the street that paralleled the eastern wall to reassemble his Century, having Lutatius perform a quick assessment of casualties.

  “We’re down eight men so far, Primus Pilus,” he reported, then hesitated, dreading what he had to say, something Pullus saw and understood.

  “Bovinus?” he asked softly, “Is he…?”

  Lutatius’ mouth twisted into a grimace, and he replied in the same tone, “I’m afraid so, Primus Pilus.”

  “Stupid! Just…stupid!” Pullus’ own face contorted in what Lutatius knew was an anguished rage. “What was he thinking?”

  “That our Legion needs their Primus Pilus more than it needed him,” Lutatius answered, quietly but firmly, although he braced himself for Pullus to lash out, hoping that it would only be verbal.

  However, this had the desired effect, the anger instantly draining from Pullus’ face, and while he didn’t say anything about this, he nodded. Lying at his feet was a small pile of bodies, all but one of the Parthians who had thought to take advantage of the distraction of Bovinus’ sacrifice that they were certain would draw Pullus’ attention away from them. That four of the five men were now dead at his feet, while the other man had chosen to risk leaping from the parapet to escape being slaughtered like his comrades, bore mute testimony to their mistaken belief.

  “All right,” he finally said briskly, “let’s make sure he didn’t die for nothing.” Taking a step to get a better view, Pullus gazed north along the wall and saw that the Second Cohort was still engaged on the rampart, but after watching for a moment, he decided that they had matters in hand. The Fourth Cohort wasn’t visible yet, but that made sense since they had farther to go to scale their wall. Sostrate was small, but it was still almost two miles running north to south, and only a bit less than that east to west, but while this seemed to be a large area for even three Legions to cover, what Caesar and his Primi Pili knew was that every defender available would be expected to surround and protect the palace, and Phraates. The thought of the Parthian king also prompted Pullus to wonder where the man was at this very moment; hopefully, he was cowering in his palace, and the 10th had a head start that he had no intention of relinquishing. It would be an enormous boost to the prestige of the 10th, and of course to himself, to be the Legion who captured the Parthian king.

  “All right,” he said loudly, “we’re not getting paid to stand here!” Turning, he indicated the first rank of his Century and commanded, “First Section, you’re leading the way. We’re heading,” he turned and pointed with his gladius, noticing as he did that he had yet to wipe the blade down, “down that street there. Half the section on one side, half on the other. If one of those buildings looks like a likely spot for an ambush, check it to make sure there’s no fucking surprise waiting for us.” His orders to his Century done, Pullus signaled that they begin moving, then walked over to where Balbus and the Second were waiting for their own orders. “You go down that street,” he told Balbus, but his Pilus Posterior was anything but happy about it.

  “That street?” he demanded, then shook his head. “That doesn’t look like it’s heading anywhere near the palace!” Staring at Pullus suspiciously, he muttered, “You’re probably doing that so you can get all the glory by capturing that cunnus yourself!”

  “Of course I am!” Pullus grinned cheerfully. “Rank has its privileges! You should know that by now!”

  “Who knows better than me?” he grumbled, then gave Pullus what his friend knew was his version of a grin. “But I bet my boys still beat your bunch to the palace!”

  “Ha!” Pullus shoved Balbus playfully. “We’ll see!”

  With that, Balbus saluted, then began moving at a trot, calling to his Century to follow him, while Pullus walked over to Metellus. The First Cohort was already on the move, while the Third Cohort had just reached the rampart to the south of their position, while the Second had just dispatched the last Parthian defenders on the rampart, and were being led by Scribonius down to the street level north of the palace. Slowly but methodically, Caesar’s favorite Legion was tightening the noose around Phraates and his defenders.

  Phraates didn’t get very far from the palace, heading in the direction of the western gate now that he knew the southern gate was under assault just like the eastern, intent on using it to escape. Then, just a few blocks from the palace, there came a third, three-note blast, from the direction of he was heading.

  “We’re surrounded!” he gasped, looking over at Zalmoxis with widened eyes, temporarily forgetting that kings weren’t supposed to behave in such a manner.

  Fortunately for Phraates, the other man maintained a cool head, replying calmly, “Not completely, Highness. Remember, there is no northern gate, and no bridge over the river. I have already sent a runner to check, but if you’ll recall, there is a way out in that direction.”

  Indeed, Phraates had forgotten this piece of information, which suddenly became very important, and as quickly as it came, his despair vanished as he clapped his hands and exclaimed with a laugh, “That’s right! The tunnel! I had forgotten all about it!” Just then, a thin cry drifted from t
he direction of the western gate, and while it was impossible to tell with any certainty, Phraates interpreted it as the death cry of someone, which he assumed wasn’t Roman. This served to drive the smile from his face, and he became brusque again, saying, “We need to go back to the palace, immediately!”

  Then, without waiting, he turned his horse and went at the canter, back towards the palace, and the safety of the secret passage that led from it, all the way to the northern wall. As he rode, Phraates tried to recall the tunnel itself; the last time he had used it was when he and Pacorus were boys, and his older brother had dared him to go down into the dank, dark passage. He had been terrified, he recalled with a stab of anger, but only because Pacorus had filled his head with tales of the disembodied spirits of men who had supposedly lost their lives in the construction of the tunnel. Regardless of his fear, he had gone the entire length of the tunnel, climbing a set of stone stairs that led up into an otherwise completely nondescript building that, he also recalled, was supposedly reserved as a royal storehouse. At the time, there actually had been some wooden crates and a couple of musty sacks stored there, but he had no idea if this would still be the case. From there, while he hadn’t actually used it, Pacorus had pointed to a clump of low, bushy trees that were out of place, growing just a couple paces from the northern wall.