by R. W. Peake
“There’s a door there,” he told Phraates proudly, reveling in his role of the older brother who knew things his sibling didn’t, “and it’s just big enough for a horse, but only if you walk it out.”
“What’s it for?” Phraates had asked then.
Now, he guided his mount around to the back of the palace, trying to recall if his memory of the tunnel, which at the time seemed huge, was only because he had been so young and everything was bigger than he was, or if it would indeed accommodate him and his horse. Slowing from a canter to a trot, Phraates drew in the reins even more as he began thinking of who he should bring with him as a bodyguard, and more importantly, where he would go. Suddenly, he realized that what he had been so blithely considering was fraught with enormous danger, and this realization forced him to rethink what he was about to do. He had been so fixated on escape that he hadn’t thought about what came next, when he emerged from the tunnel, led his mount to the wooden door in the northern wall, and opened it. He knew his horse would swim the channel with little difficulty, but he also understood that taking a large group of men would run a serious risk of being discovered. Regardless of this reality, Phraates physically shuddered at the very idea of being exposed in such a manner; as he thought about it, he realized that he had never, ever truly been alone and unaccompanied, even going back to his childhood. And now he was contemplating doing something so incredibly foolhardy? Sliding off the back of his horse, Phraates stood there, feeling the beginning of a shaking fear that started in his legs but quickly worked its way up his body. Glancing around, he saw that, at just that moment, Zalmoxis had located him and was coming at the trot, and it was with an enormous effort that Phraates attempted to convey what he believed a king should at such a moment. Opening his mouth, he was about to order Zalmoxis to recall every man still fighting to fall back to the palace, and he was certain that he was sincere in his resolve that, rather than flee like a coward, he would show his people he was indeed a worthy king, no matter what might come. Then, the low, bass note that Phraates remembered from the moment he had been forced to flee from Caesar the first time, when he had been caught by surprise, sounded. And, despite it being muffled, it was obviously inside the city, somewhere near the eastern wall. As quickly as it had come, the resolve to stand and fight deserted Phraates, and he was barely able to contain his panic as he turned to Zalmoxis.
“Pick the best five men who are left that you can find, bring them to the stable behind the palace, as quickly as you can!”
Zalmoxis placed his knuckles against his forehead, but while his face was expressionless, Phraates was certain that he saw a flicker of disdain cross the man’s features, though he wasn’t dissuaded from the idea of flight, especially when the horn sounded again.
“Hurry!” he snapped, then leaping back onto his own horse, without another look back, he made his way to the secret entrance of the tunnel, which was in the royal stables.
“Bah,” Pacuvius muttered, “this is a waste of time.”
“Yes,” Mardonius sighed, “you’ve mentioned that already.” Glancing over at his comrade, he grinned and added, “About five times.”
“Well?” Pacuvius countered, then nodded in the direction of the northern wall. “Look at that! It’s a wall!”
“Yes, I know it’s a wall,” Mardonius answered seriously, but he turned to the man on the side opposite Pacuvius, Gaius Poplicola, and threw him a wink, which Poplicola returned, smiling broadly. Turning back to his older comrade, he said, “And you’ve mentioned that at least as many times.”
“Then tell me who’s going to show up?” Pacuvius demanded. “There’s not a gate! And anyone with eyes can see that they’ve let this place go to cac!”
This time, he actually pointed at the large clump of trees that would never have been allowed to grow so close to the wall of a Roman town.
Despite himself, Mardonius felt compelled to offer a defense of those he thought of as his former people. “That’s because this place has never been threatened before. It’s the…”
“I know,” Pacuvius countered irritably, “it’s their summer palace. You,” he jabbed a dirty, stubby finger at Mardonius, “have said that at least as many times as I’ve said anything about that fucking wall.”
Before Mardonius could reply, a new voice sounded.
“If you two don’t shut your fucking mouths, you’re going to be cleaning every latrine inside those walls. With your tongues. They should be put to some good use instead of wagging like a couple of women on market day.”
Both men stiffened to intente, though neither spoke, while their comrades stifled their own snickers as Cyclops walked past, his one good eye never leaving the opposite bank. He had been performing another walking inspection of the single line of Centuries of the Eighth Cohort, and had overheard the exchange between the Parthian and his Roman comrade. Secretly, he was amused, and he agreed with Pacuvius’ assessment about the low likelihood of any Parthians trying to escape, if only because they would have to drop more than fifteen feet to the ground from the parapet, and that was if they lowered themselves down first. Although, he thought idly, he supposed if a man was desperate enough, he could leap into the branches of that clump of trees, despite appearing to be about a dozen feet away from the wall. And, even if they did, they would be trapped, since there was no way they could swim across the channel and escape the long line of armed Legionaries standing, with their shields grounded, leaning against their javelins as they tried to follow the course of the fight by the sounds and what they could see of the assaulting Cohorts, the last of which were still ascending the ladders. Before long, Cyclops knew, the screaming would start, first by the men being cut down, then by their women and children. Then, he thought sourly, these bastards will be really unhappy because they’re missing out on the fun. Quintus Ausonius wasn’t an introspective man, but it had crossed his mind about what it meant that, to a Legionary, one of the moments for which they lived was sacking a town, especially one like this, home to the Parthian king, even if it was only during part of the year. Like every Roman, Ausonius had been raised on stories of the fabulous wealth of the East, and how their warriors wore armor chased with gold and wielded swords with gem-encrusted hilts. The reality, he had learned after the first battle on the ridge against Pacorus, had been far different, and he had been as disappointed as his rankers that only a very small proportion had gold-trimmed armor, and only one, the crown prince, carried such a sword. But, unlike the majority of his men, that had been enough to convince Cyclops that no such wealth existed, at least on the scale that was once an article of faith. Regardless of this evidence, Cyclops also knew that the Gregarii stubbornly clung to this idea that, in one stroke, by looting one house, or stripping one Parthian nobleman’s body, they could become rich. Now, he had to listen to their grumbling as their comrades got the first choice of all the best bits of plunder, but as he well knew, one reason the Legions worked as well as they did was because everyone got to grip the dirty end of the sponge from time to time. Also, Caesar was always scrupulously fair about ensuring that the riches taken from a captured city were distributed equally, a fact that Cyclops thought about reminding his men of in the moment, then dismissed it, for one simple reason. While Caesar may have been just in his allocation of spoils, as Cyclops knew far too well, men of the ranks were larcenous at heart, meaning that of all the coins, gems, precious metals, and the like that were handed over to their Centurion, the most valuable bits ended up secreted away by the rankers who found it. That this was widely known, but ignored except for the most egregious cases; Cyclops recalled with some amusement the time one of his men had tried to hide a small, golden statue of some barbarian god up his ass, but had given himself away because of the painful waddle he had been reduced to, was one of the open secrets in the army that the wise officer chose to ignore. Except, he sighed, when that officer was him, and he had to endure the moaning and complaining. So absorbed in this line of thought was he that, when there seemed to be some s
ort of movement, not on the rampart but down at the base of the wall, his mind didn’t register it as unusual.
“Pilus Prior!”
Since the voice came from behind him, he turned, knowing already by the strange accent that it was the tiro Mardonius, who was pointing back in the other direction.
“There’s something moving over there! At the bottom of the wall!”
“Bah!” Pacuvius, using what Cyclops was certain was the man’s favorite word. “It’s just some animal…”
He got no farther, because suddenly a figure appeared from behind the trees; more accurately, two figures, a man leading a horse, except that before the Romans could do more than stand there, gaping, the first man was joined by another, also leading a horse, then followed by others until there were seven men, leading seven horses. It was a moment Cyclops, and every man of the First of the Eighth would remember since the gods had decreed they would be the Romans directly across from the clump of trees, as the party of Parthians stood, staring in shock at the Legionaries separated only by two narrow strips of land and the channel, who were staring back at them.
“Pluto’s cock! There must be some sort of gate or door behind those trees!”
Cyclops didn’t react, his one good eye never leaving the Parthians who, recovering from their dismayed surprise, were now huddled together, obviously discussing what to do now that this attempt to escape unseen had failed. It was impossible to tell with any certainty, because the men all seemed to be clad in identical armor, and when one of them turned slightly, the sun caught the faintest glint of gold.
“Those are royal bodyguards,” Cyclops called over his shoulder, igniting a sudden buzz of excited chatter, prompting him to snarl at his men to shut their mouths, then add, “I doubt that that cunnus Phraates is with them, but stand ready!”
After what was probably fifteen or twenty heartbeats, the Parthians seemed to come to some decision, as they all vaulted onto the backs of their horses and then maneuvered into a miniature version of the famed wedge formation that had shattered the ranks of their enemies so many times before. But, Cyclops thought with grim humor, we’re not a bunch of barbarian farmers who just happen to be carrying a spear and shield, and they have to cross a river before they even get to us. It was this last fact that convinced Cyclops that these Parthians had no serious intentions of what could only be described as a suicidal move. When he thought about it immediately afterward, the only plausible explanation Cyclops could come up with for what took place was that it was precisely because it was such a foolhardy thing to do. And, as much as he hated to admit it, it came closer to working than he would have thought. If it hadn’t been for the Parthian tiro, it might have.
There had been a moment, just one, short moment, when Phraates thought he had fooled the Romans and was even gloating to himself about it. Then, he had stepped around the trees that had screened his view of what was waiting across the river, and for a horrifying moment, he was certain he would faint from the shock. Thankfully, he managed to remain standing, but then Zalmoxis was beside him, and he heard him gasp.
“Your Highness,” the bodyguard’s voice was choked, “we have to go back! There is no way just the six of us can cut our way through those Romans!”
“No,” Phraates agreed, and to his ears, he sounded eerily calm. “Which is why we’re going to have to do the other thing.”
Zalmoxis swallowed, hard, but gave a curt nod, thankful that he didn’t fall back on habit and knuckle his forehead. By this time, the other bodyguards he had selected had emerged from the tunnel, leading their own mounts, including the last man, Arshak. In terms of rank or experience, Arshak wasn’t anyone special; as Phraates recalled, he was the third son of a minor branch of the house of Karen, which ironically had saved Arshak’s life. If Arshak had been of the main branch of the greatest rival to Phraates’ own house, he would have been executed out of hand as being too dangerous a rival to be in such proximity to the king. However, it wasn’t Arshak’s lineage or his prowess that had prompted his inclusion in this party, and Zalmoxis honestly couldn’t say that he had given any thought to use Arshak’s uncanny resemblance to Phraates. No, that had been the king’s idea, within a matter of heartbeats after Zalmoxis had brought him and the other men to the royal stables. Now, Arshak was wearing the armor that Phraates had donned a third of a watch earlier and was even leading Phraates’ horse, although it had to be blindfolded for its journey through the tunnel since it was being led by a stranger. And, even Phraates had acknowledged, there was a worry that his mount wouldn’t cooperate with a strange rider on his back, but Arshak had assured him that he was an expert horseman. Indeed, Phraates’ main worry had been that Arshak would balk at the ruse, but it had only taken a few words of royal flattery, plus the promise of a reward for his bravery and loyalty to his king.
“And,” Phraates had joked, “you’ll be treated like a king by Caesar.”
In this, at least, Phraates was being sincere, because Kambyses had assured him that he had been treated more like an honored guest than a prisoner. Surely that meant a personage as exalted as the King of Kings could expect to be treated in a manner commensurate with his rank.
Still, Phraates had been intensely relieved when, with no discernible hesitation, Arshak had agreed to strip out of his own armor and exchange it with that of his king. Now, standing in a huddle, Phraates issued his last instructions.
“Remember, Arshak is me, and I am Arshak,” he reminded the others. “You will treat him as you would me at all times, starting from this moment. Is that understood?”
Waiting only long enough for each man to nod his assent, he took a deep breath, offered up a prayer to Ahura-Mazda, Mithra, and Shamash, then swung aboard Arshak’s horse, whereupon he was certain that their ruse would be exposed when it turned out that it was the bodyguard’s horse that balked at a strange rider, not that belonging to Phraates. However, while Phraates had many faults as a ruler, he was a skilled rider, and quickly got the animal under control, then began moving at a walk towards the water. His hands were held out while he guided his mount with his knees, and without hesitation, divulged yet another secret that had been unknown to the Romans. Along with the tunnel and door, the silty water hid the presence of a section of the riverbed that had been paved with stones in a width sufficient for a horse to cross with little difficulty and with the water level only up to its chest. It was aligned directly with the trees and could have easily been used by the Romans, if the murky water hadn’t hidden it from view. Behind Phraates, he heard more splashing, telling him that he was being followed, presumably by Zalmoxis, with Arshak positioned in the middle of the column, not only wearing Phraates’ armor, but the helmet with the golden circlet attached to it that had once adorned the head of Phraates’ father, and grandfather. It would have been a lie to say that there wasn’t a part of Phraates that burned with the indignation and shame of an imposter wearing what was by rights his and his alone, but he had convinced himself that it was not only the best course available to him, it was the only one if he wanted to avoid an even greater humiliation. What came next, after they surrendered themselves, he hadn’t given much thought to; in his mind, there was a half-formed plan that, once he was safely penned up with the other captives of noble rank, he could plot how to escape. Barring that, he was certain that once Kambyses heard of his king’s capture, he would come to Phraates’ rescue; he was completely unaware of the dramatic change in the political situation regarding the Parthian general. Moving slowly, he came to a halt in the channel, just out of range of the javelins that the leading rank of Romans had lifted and rested on their shoulders, presumably at the command of the one-eyed Roman Centurion who stood there, regarding this party.
“Romans!” Phraates had decided that it would be Zalmoxis who spoke, since he was one of the three men of the party that knew Latin. “We surrender to you!”
For an agonizing moment, the Centurion didn’t seem disposed to answer, and Phraates saw him take a s
mall step to one side, looking down the single line, but while he was careful to maintain the same expression, the king’s heart leapt in his breast when he saw the Centurion stop to examine Arshak.
“Who is that?” His tone was harsh, the voice sounding gravelly, a sign that this man spent a fair amount of time bellowing at the top of his lungs. “That one, next to last?”
“It is,” Zalmoxis lied smoothly, “who you think it is, Roman. It is Phraates, of the house of the Arsacids, son of Orodes, and King of Kings, of what you call Parthia.”
As might be expected, this created a minor uproar, and although he was extremely afraid, Phraates did notice how, as vaunted the Legions of Rome were reputed to be when it came to discipline, there was a discernible noise, accompanied by a flurry of movement in the ranks of the Romans directly across from him and within earshot. Even the Centurion seemed nonplussed at this seeming confirmation, and Phraates saw him turn to look at the Roman soldiers in the front rank, as if looking for some sort of confirmation that they were hearing the same thing he was.
Turning back to face the Parthians, the Centurion asked suspiciously, “And you say he wants to surrender?”
“Yes, Roman.” Phraates thought that the impatient note in Zalmoxis’ voice was a nice touch. “He gives himself up to the mercy of Caesar!”
The mention of his general’s name seemed to have an effect on the Centurion, because for the first time, he looked, if not confused, then at least uncertain.
After a moment, he raised one hand and made a beckoning gesture as he said, “Very well! Come ahead slowly. And keep your hands where we can see them! Or,” he twisted slightly to indicate the other Romans who were still standing there, javelins at the ready, “these men will make you look like a porcupine!”
Although neither Zalmoxis nor Phraates had any idea what a “porcupine” was, since that animal was unknown to the Parthians, Phraates understood well enough what the Centurion meant. He kicked Arshak’s horse with one heel, correctly guessing that his master had taught him that one heel meant to walk forward, while two meant to go to the gallop. Churning through the water, Phraates made sure to keep his hands visible, carefully watching the Romans holding their javelins, and initially, he was happy to see that they barely paid him any attention, their eyes on the Parthian who they believed was Phraates. When he thought about it afterward, he experienced an extremely strong stab of bitterness, thinking that he had gotten past the hardest part. Since he was fluent in Latin, there was no chance of him mistaking the sudden cry from somewhere in the first row of Romans.
