by R. W. Peake
Now, as he stared thoughtfully across the flat ground to where the regular line of the horizon was broken by the small tents and shelters used by the Roman cavalry, he wondered who it was in command of those men. His guess was that, given the importance of the duty, it would be the one named Pollio, although he thought Hirtius could be a possibility; since he had been released before Caesar had made his final decision, he had no idea that it was his second surmise that was the correct one. Finally, he gave a brief shake of his head, understanding that the only way to find out was to begin the march. Kambyses assumed that whoever it was, their scouts had gotten close enough to see that almost a thousand of his small force of infantry were Crassoi, and despite the fact that having any men on foot slowed him down, he was happy to have these Romans, although he couldn’t deny that he still held reservations. They had proven their loyalty, and he had to acknowledge that Phraates’ decision to pay for the expense of transporting their families to Susa had been a move of cunning that, to a Parthian, was praiseworthy. Regardless, until they actually faced their former countrymen, and Kambyses was witnessing them in action, he still harbored a tiny sliver of doubt about their behavior. Fortunately, he also knew that while there were Romans in the cavalry, they were almost exclusively officers, while the rest were Germans, Galatians, and some Pontics. Those Armenians promised to Caesar by their King Artavasdes II that had never arrived was a fact that Kambyses had gathered, albeit through the drunken chatter of some of the young Romans who were called Tribunes, was something that vexed Caesar and was on his list of matters to deal with, although he had decided that moving on Susa was more pressing. Realizing that there was no more point in delaying, Kambyses sent for Intaphernes, still acting as his second in command, along with the dozen other Parthian nobles who served as the equivalent of officers, including the Crassoi commanding the two Cohorts that had been with Phraates. Unlike Caspar, Marcus Gemellus hadn’t adopted a Parthian name, although he had taken a Parthian woman as his wife; that some Crassoi did so while others didn’t was still a matter of curiosity to Kambyses. Frankly, it puzzled every other Parthian of his rank, how a man who could afford to support more than one was only content with a single woman, but he had learned long before when the Crassoi first integrated into their society, this was one custom to which most, not all but most, Romans adhered. Although he hadn’t changed his name, the Centurion who appeared before Phraates had adopted another custom, growing his beard out and oiling it in the manner of the East, which Kambyses assumed was because his hair was as black as most Parthians.
“Lord, you have orders for us?”
The man performed the obeisance that was expected when addressing a Parthian superior; only among the Crassoi themselves did they use the Roman style of saluting. Despite the situation, Kambyses felt a glimmer of amusement, as he almost always did when Gemellus presented himself, and he wondered what Caesar would make of this Roman as he was currently attired. He had switched from the normal chain mail the Romans called the hamata, and was wearing a leather jerkin with small overlapping metal plates, but his helmet was still the same Roman style, with the same transverse crest atop it. Additionally, he also wore the trousers favored by the Parthians, although not for the purpose of riding, since he was still a Centurion of infantry. Finally, while he had the short, stabbing sword on his left hip, on the right was a longer sword that a cataphractoi would recognize. Kambyses shoved the thought of the man’s appearance aside.
“We are about to march, Gemellus. We are going to Susa.”
This clearly surprised Gemellus, but he didn’t hesitate in knuckling his forehead, nor in answering, “Yes, lord. I will alert the men. There’s not much to pack up, and we’ll be ready.” When Kambyses favored him with a nod, the former Roman hesitated, then asked, “May I ask why, lord?”
If this had been a bit more than a year before, Kambyses would have snapped at him that it wasn’t his job to question orders but to obey them, yet while he felt the same stab of irritation, he reminded himself of what he had learned by observing Caesar.
“While I do not know with any certainty,” Kambyses spoke slowly, trying to form his thoughts, “I believe very strongly that our King has been captured by Caesar.” Gemellus gasped, his jaw dropping, but Kambyses ignored this, going on, “And if that is true, there is no doubt that Caesar will bring the King to Susa, to parade him in front of the walls and force them to surrender.” He felt the twitch in the muscle of his jaw that let others know he was struggling to retain his composure, shaking his head as he continued, “The humiliation of such a thing cannot be allowed, if only for what it would do to morale.”
Gemellus opened his mouth with the intention of asking a question, but then Intaphernes and the other nobles strode into the tent; therefore, before he could utter it, he was dismissed with a wave by Kambyses. As he walked out, heading towards the part of the camp where the Crassoi presented a striking contrast to the haphazard nature of the rest of the Parthian camp, Gemellus was troubled by the unasked and unanswered question; what if the King of Kings ordered Susa to surrender? What would happen then? Despite trying to block it out, the image of his family, particularly his oldest son, now a sturdy seven-year-old, came to his mind, and he felt a lump forming in his stomach. If Susa surrendered, he felt fairly certain that the inhabitants would be spared; it was well known that this was what happened with the people of both Ctesiphon and Seleucia, and there had been no whisper that their lot had changed over the past year. It wasn’t the Romans Gemellus worried about; following on the heels of the image of his family came another one, a grim, one-eyed Parthian without a shred of pity, who wouldn’t hesitate to carry out the orders to put the families of the Crassoi to the sword if Gobryas gave the command. Indeed, as far as Gemellus was concerned, Teispes might even act on his own. Spurred by this worrying thought, he broke into a quick trot.
Caspar’s first hint that the situation for him and his comrades was about to radically change came in the form of the sound of cheering, drifting across the still night air, as reported by a sentry. At first, he was more puzzled than worried as he stood on the rampart, one ear turned in the direction of the Roman camp, and he tried to think of what the Roman date would be, and if it was a festival day of some sort. No, he thought, that’s not it. Nevertheless, he remained standing there, straining to pick up anything that would give him a hint, and he was still standing on the rampart when he became aware of another noise, the pounding of hooves, but from behind him, back in the direction of the city. Except, as he quickly learned, it wasn’t a courier from Susa; it was a message from the Cohort camp that had been built directly across from the Romans’ eastern camp. He had to walk to one of the few torches that were burning down on the ground level, frowning in concentration as he made out the hastily incised words in the wax tablet, and even then, he had to read it twice, because it was a written confirmation of what his ears were hearing; there was jubilation in at least two of the camps. Before a third of a watch had passed, he learned that the celebrations were occurring in all four camps, a development worrying enough that he took one of the horses from the pool and went to the gallop, traveling the short distance into the city. Because of the Crassoi encirclement, the gates were kept open, and he thundered through them, clattering up the street that led directly to the square, which was located on the low hill that had recommended Susa as a good spot for a settlement in the first place. Immediately to his left, running the length of the square and dominating the crest of the hill, was a large building, which was once the palace and capital of the Parthians, before Orodes relocated it to Ctesiphon. It was almost as large, but the style was much older, and not much resources or effort had been put into its upkeep, the result being loose bricks in the steps leading up onto the portico and a general shabbiness that bespoke of Susa’s loss of status.
Striding past the two Parthian, not Crassoi, guards standing at the entrance, he barely gave them a glance as he entered the main reception area. Although i
t was dark, it hadn’t been so for long, and he was certain that Gobryas would still be up, but while he was, one of the palace slaves still made him wait in a small interior room while he went to summon the Parthian. Fortunately, the man returned quickly, and he was immediately ushered in to what served as Gobryas’ main office, which had formerly been the throne room, something that Caspar didn’t think was an accident. Neither was he surprised that Teispes was present, as was Artaxerxes, a noble who had been named the commander of the Parthians that Caspar’s Centurions and Optios had spent training in the Roman method of fighting. By his command, they were reserved for Gobryas’ use exclusively, inside the walls of the city, and weren’t to be used in defending the outer entrenchments, and while they had seemed willing enough and taken to the training, Caspar harbored serious doubts about how they would perform in battle. His experience told him that it was likely that, when the moment arrived, they would resort to what they had spent years training to do, not a few weeks, but frankly, that wasn’t his problem; if they had to fight, it meant that the Crassoi had failed to repel Caesar’s Legions. Gobryas waved him to come forward, though he didn’t rise from the couch he had been reclining on, and Caspar noted with silent and invisible disapproval that he was already in the silk gown men of Gobryas’ status used to sleep in, already prepared to retire for the night.
“What is it, Caspar?” he asked, unconcerned.
Caspar explained and experienced a twinge of satisfaction at how quickly Gobryas sat up, no longer appearing in the slightest bit in a relaxed frame of mind.
Glancing over at Teispes, Gobryas asked him first, “What do you think it is?”
The one-eyed Parthian considered for a moment, and Caspar saw that he was troubled, another sign that Caspar was right to take this seriously.
“I do not know, lord,” he finally said, then addressing Caspar, he asked, “Do you think we could see from the city walls down into one of their camps? Or, perhaps from the roof of the palace here on the hill?”
“At night?” Caspar answered doubtfully, then shook his head. “Perhaps during the day, but they keep a minimum of torches lit, just like we do.”
It was Artaxerxes who spoke up; of the group, he seemed the least concerned, and he said dismissively, “If it is impossible to tell in the dark, I do not see what use it is worrying about it tonight.”
“Because they might be attacking tonight,” Gobryas snapped, but at this, Caspar again shook his head.
“I don’t believe so, lord,” he said. “Even in the dark, we would have seen some sort of movement, and this didn’t sound like men preparing for battle. It sounded like men…” he searched for the right word, then finally offered, “…celebrating something. Something,” he added ominously, “important.”
Gobryas considered for a long span of time, and Caspar noticed he was surreptitiously glancing at Teispes, who gave an equally minute shrug, something the commander clearly didn’t like.
Finally, he snapped, “Sound the call to assemble. Your men need to man their positions.” Caspar opened his mouth to protest, but Gobryas gave a chopping motion, cutting him off and saying harshly, “You have your orders! Now carry them out.” Turning to Teispes, he said curtly, “Go with him and make sure that his men do not tarry.”
Caspar stifled his angry reply, except the salute he gave Gobryas wasn’t the Parthian style, but purely Roman, simply because he knew it would infuriate Gobryas. Before the man could make an issue of it, Caspar was already striding out the door, but as he was crossing the entrance hall, Teispes caught up with him in a couple of long strides.
The Parthian didn’t speak immediately, waiting until they had exited the palace, yet when he finally did, his voice was not only quiet, his tone was oddly gentle as he told Caspar, “That was not wise, Caspar.”
That Teispes uttered words that could even remotely be considered as concerned about Caspar, or any of the Crassoi, was so surprising that Caspar broke his stride, slowing as he studied Teispes’ face, asking cautiously, “Why do you say that, lord?”
Teispes didn’t return the gaze, staring straight ahead as he answered, “Gobryas has begun to question about how reliable you and your men will be. He’s been considering a…demonstration that he thinks will show you that it’s in your best interest to prove your loyalty to him. And,” he added this in a way that, to Caspar, sounded suspiciously like an afterthought, “to our king, of course.”
“Of course,” Caspar replied tonelessly, his mind reeling as he tried to divine why Gobryas would suddenly feel this way. Or, he suddenly thought, was it really that sudden? Gobryas had been the most resistant to the idea that Susa should rely on the Crassoi, although he had offered no alternative. Realizing there was nothing to be gained at the moment, Caspar simply said, “We will prove to him that he can rely on us.”
“I hope so,” Teispes replied, yet another surprise on this night full of them.
The cause of the noise the night before became apparent about a third of a Roman watch after dawn, when a group of mounted horsemen exited the eastern camp to ride the short distance out through the gate that faced Susa to the innermost entrenchment, where a slightly different version of the wooden ramp used to exit from the outer entrenchment was being lowered. Once it was, a Century of Legionaries crossed over the ditch, then arrayed itself in such a way that they could provide cover with their shields of the area around the ramp. This was not particularly necessary; Volusenus had been careful to properly survey the distance from the Crassoi entrenchments, placing their own fortifications no more than fifty paces beyond the range of the strongest ballista, not that which the Parthians possessed, but the Romans. They had been surprised once, learning their belief that Parthians didn’t use artillery had been erroneous. That they also learned about the naturally occurring substance of naphtha, a weapon that still caused the men among Caesar’s ranks to shudder when they talked about their unfortunate comrades, was also something for which Caesar’s army had planned to face again, with an invention that, frankly, many men were skeptical would work when the time came. This, however, wasn’t that time, as the contingent of horsemen that came trotting out were led by a very, and understandably, nervous Tribune, his name Quintus Pedius, who had actually volunteered to carry the large square of white linen, affixed to the standard pole carried by Roman cavalry units, which was smaller than the Legion version. Frankly, it was one thing to raise one’s hand in the comfort of the praetorium, and quite another when on the wrong side of the ditch, but he had been desperate to distinguish himself in some way, separating himself from the three dozen junior Tribunes who were scattered about the vast machine that was Caesar’s army. Like Octavian, he was a nephew of Caesar’s, except, unlike his cousin, Quintus Pedius was, in almost every way, an average Roman noble, without any singular characteristic that brought him to the attention of his uncle in more than a passing manner. This was why he was riding slowly towards the Crassoi lines, heart in his throat, bracing himself for a rock first, as he reached the outer range of a ballista. Then, when nothing happened, after a moment’s pause, he nudged his horse onward, who, sensing his rider’s tension, obeyed reluctantly, and Pedius could feel the tremors of his horse through his legs, which did nothing to calm his own nerves. He could see figures had now appeared on the rampart, then he heard the higher-pitched Parthian horn sounding. As he continued moving, a sudden, goldish twinkle out of the corner of his vision caught his attention, and he turned to see a highly polished bronze disk, about as big around as his fist, buried in the ground, but in such a way that it wasn’t obvious to anyone on the Roman side of it. Recognizing it as a range marker, despite himself, he drew on the reins, suddenly almost overwhelmed by the memory of the horribly burned victims of the assault on Ctesiphon, wondering if this was the one that signified he was within range of the tumbling firepots of sticky, fiery death. Swallowing his fears, he urged his horse to move again, but had to kick him in the flanks harder than normal before the animal complied, and he
knew that, even if he wasn’t within range of the naphtha, he was now a perfect target for a scorpion bolt.
“That’s far enough!”
The voice wasn’t familiar, but the accent was—Umbrian, he was sure—but Pedius complied, drawing up.
He opened his mouth, then realized he had forgotten what he was supposed to say, the fear making his mind go blank.
