Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Ironically, he was actually helped when one of the men he could see standing on the rampart, the same who had stopped him, called out, “What do you want, Tribune?”

  “I am sent by Gaius Julius Caesar,” he surprised himself by how strong his voice sounded, thinking that Aristosthanes, his rhetorician, was responsible for his ability to project, and to speak with a confidence he didn’t feel, “to offer a truce so that you may confer with someone who you know and trust!”

  He saw this caused a stir, heads turning as the men consulted with each other, but now that he had identified the speaker, he kept his eyes on the man, noticing for the first time that he was wearing a Roman helmet, with a crest that ran transverse, telling him this man was one of the Crassoi.

  Finally, after a brief conference, the Crassoi challenged Pedius, “And who might that be?”

  “Before I answer,” Pedius responded instantly, repeating what Caesar had drilled into him, “I need the personal assurance of whoever commands your garrison that he will not violate this truce once he sees who it is that we are bringing to talk to you about a peaceful settlement.”

  This clearly caused some consternation between the Crassoi and the men around him; Pedius thought he saw at least one man with the high, conical helmet used by the Parthians, but that was the only one he saw.

  Once more, there was a delay, except this time, Pedius could tell by the gestures being made that there was a spirited debate going on.

  Then, the Crassoi called out, “Wait there! You’ll be safe as long as you don’t make any sudden moves.”

  And with that, he disappeared. Following this was an agonizingly long period of time, and Pedius spent a significant amount of it wondering what “sudden” meant, and if, for example, he had an itch, whether that would constitute enough of a breach for the Parthians to riddle him with scorpion bolts. Or, even worse, douse him with flaming naphtha. Yet, somehow, he managed to resist the sudden urge to scratch, or move, for that matter. As the sun rose behind him, he began sweating, which naturally made his woolen tunic itch his skin, yet he still refused to move, other than to brace the iron tip of the standard against his foot, allowing his arm to rest. Finally, after what he was sure was a full watch, he saw the men who were still present on the rampart turning away from him to look inward, telling him that someone was approaching from Susa, followed by a brief commotion, then the Crassoi reappeared, except this time, he was accompanied by a man who was obviously a Parthian and clearly of the nobility. However, once more, it was the Crassoi who spoke.

  “This is Lord Gobryas,” he called out. “He will decide whether or not to accept your request.”

  It wasn’t a request, Pedius thought, but aloud, he answered, “I will be back.”

  Turning his mount, in some ways, he felt more nervous with his back turned to the enemy, but his horse was more than happy to briskly trot back to where, waiting for him, was the group of horsemen.

  Caesar, wearing his helmet, greeted Pedius. “Well done, nephew! Now,” he turned to Phraates, whose hands were bound, while the reins of his mount were in the hands of Gundomir, “if you please, Your Highness,” then without waiting, he kicked Toes into a trot, relying on his German to bring the Parthian king.

  They didn’t have to get as close as Pedius had before Phraates was recognized, and there was a noise that came from the hundreds of throats present, shouting in despair and consternation when they realized that it was indeed their king who was now a captive of the Romans. One member of the party, other than Caesar, Phraates, Gundomir, and Pedius, was one of the Greeks from Seleucia, who had volunteered for service as a translator. There had been some discussion about the hiring of this man, since the experience with Anaxagoras had taught the Romans that there were at least some Greeks who were more sympathetic to the Parthian cause than that of the Roman invaders. However, after some investigation, it was determined that the man’s claim that his two brothers had been executed by the Parthians some years before, and he had always been treated with suspicion and hostility, was true. Therefore, he was now riding with the small party, charged with telling Caesar whether or not Phraates was repeating the words Caesar had instructed he must utter, if he wanted to live. Most importantly, Phraates had been made aware of the presence of this Greek, just to ensure there was no doubt that Caesar would be listening carefully to every word. Additionally, Phraates had been instructed to pause long enough to allow the Greek to translate for Caesar before moving on, but what both Caesar, and clearly, the Parthian defenders, had not planned for was the idea that neither Phraates nor Gobryas seemed inclined to speak first.

  The silence became total and oppressive until, finally, Caesar lost his patience and snapped, “Say what you’ve come here to say, Phraates. If you value the lives of your people. And,” he added chillingly, “your own.”

  The Parthian reacted as if he had been physically slapped, and Pedius realized that Phraates had obviously never been spoken to in this manner, certainly not since he had become king, so he made no attempt to hide the hatred in his glare at Caesar, who returned it without any seeming emotion, but with an implacability that caused Phraates to turn away first. Then, he began speaking, yet to everyone’s surprise, Phraates spoke in Greek, a language that every Roman of the patrician and wealthy plebeian class spoke, with varying degrees of fluency; naturally, for a man like Caesar, it was done so flawlessly.

  “Greetings, cousin,” Phraates began, with an almost laconic tone, which Gobryas returned, also in Greek, “And to you, Your Highness.” The Parthian on the rampart didn’t kneel, since that was impractical, but he did bow while placing his knuckles against the rim of his helmet.

  “As you can see,” Phraates went on, lifting his hands to show they were bound, though not with chains, “I have run into some…difficulty.”

  This understatement caused even the Parthian on the rampart to smile, a flashing of impossibly white teeth, and he replied, “So I see, Highness.” The smile vanished, then Gobryas asked seriously, “What is your will, lord? Tell us what we must do.”

  “Simply this,” Phraates responded, and when he paused to take a breath, Pedius was, if not sympathetic, at least understood the enormity of this moment, and the lacerating blow it would be to a king to essentially beg his subjects to throw down their arms; then, everything changed as the words came out in a rush. “Do not surrender to these dogs! My life is not worth this humiliation! So…FIGHT! NOW! STRIKE US ALL DOWN!”

  The next few moments would always be a blur to Pedius, and he suspected his uncle had the same experience. To Caesar’s credit, he didn’t hesitate, wheeling his mount and sending Toes to the gallop, while Gundomir, yanking the reins of Phraates’ horse viciously, wasn’t far behind him. Pedius, the Greek, and the two Germans who were part of the small party were slower to react, but the shouting of the Parthians on the wall, as they yelled for the men manning the artillery to loose their scorpion bolts and whatever was loaded in their ballistae, was instantly replaced by a shrieking wind as Pedius’ horse eagerly went to the gallop. Caesar, his paludamentum streaming behind him, was bent low over Toes’ neck, trying to make a smaller target, while not far behind him was Gundomir, who, in a display of superb horsemanship, had dropped alongside Phraates, and was holding the king firmly by the back of his armor at the neck with one hand, with his Roman spatha in his other hand, staying in the saddle while guiding his mount strictly with his legs. Nevertheless, Pedius was sure that his and that of his uncle’s and every other man in the party’s lives could be measured in heartbeats, the safety of the Roman Legion Century, now running towards them with their shields raised, seeming impossibly far away. However, somehow, it was over, and they were safe; not one missile had been launched at them, yet while neither Pedius nor the other men would ever know with any certainty why this had happened, the simple truth was that the Parthians had been as surprised by Phraates’ bold gesture of self-sacrifice as his captors. The only thing that was clear now was that the siege would
go on.

  The gentle treatment of Phraates ended shortly after the group of horsemen came pounding back over the lowered ramp, and to Pedius, it seemed within the realm of possibility that his uncle would order the Parthian king’s immediate execution. However, Caesar restrained himself from that action, only snapping that the Parthian be stripped naked, his ropes exchanged with chains, then summarily dragged off to the small cage behind the praetorium that served as the holding area for Legionaries who were charged with a serious offense who might escape. Once this was done, and without a look back over his shoulder, he went galloping off, presumably heading for the northern camp, leaving a bemused Tribune who, despite being relieved at performing his orders in what he felt certain was a satisfactory manner, still wasn’t sure exactly what had taken place. If he had been given a glimpse into his uncle’s mind, he might have felt better that the general was similarly at a loss, but it was doubtful. And, as Caesar was about to learn upon his return to his own praetorium, his troubles had just begun.

  The reaction in the Parthian camp was similar, in that Phraates’ sudden and unexpected display of selflessness had caught all who witnessed it as a surprise. Caspar heard about it secondhand, from the Centurion of his Sixth Century, Third Cohort, who happened to have the guard that morning, so when he was summoned to the palace by Gobryas, he at least knew what the topic would be.

  “That was…unexpected,” was how Gobryas began, and while Caspar thought of him as normally haughty, for the first time, the Parthian seemed unsettled, and frankly, at a loss. “But now we must decide how we are going to go about effecting our king’s release.” When he turned to look directly at Caspar, there was a plaintive note in his superior’s voice that was as unusual as his hesitance, as he asked, “Do you have any ideas, Centurion?”

  Although Caspar had known what the subject would be, he was nonetheless surprised that Gobryas had asked for Caspar’s advice so quickly.

  Considering for a moment, he was forced to shake his head and reply, “Honestly, lord, I don’t know what we can do.” When Gobryas said nothing in reply, Caspar sensed that he needed to offer at least a partial explanation of his thoughts, so he continued, “We could try a rescue, I suppose, but there are four camps. And, while it’s likely that His Highness would be kept in the northern camp, where Caesar is located, it wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t there. In fact,” he thought to add, “if I were Caesar, I would be moving him every day, just to keep us from doing that very thing.”

  Gobryas, who had become accustomed to using the throne in this room, leaned forward a bit, glaring at Caspar, as if the Crassoi’s answer had displeased him, although to Caspar, there was a false note struck when the Parthian said, “That is…regrettable. We cannot rest until we have gained our king’s freedom, but tragically, I agree with your assessment.” Then, he turned to Teispes, who, as was his habit, had been listening silently, and asked him, “What are your thoughts, Teispes?”

  The one-eyed Parthian looked distinctly uncomfortable, and the thought that flashed through Caspar’s mind was that between the two Parthians, Teispes seemed to be the one genuinely distressed at Phraates’ dilemma.

  “I am afraid,” Teispes finally answered, “that I must agree with Caspar. Given our current situation, we simply cannot spare the men it would take to make a sortie to find His Highness. Perhaps,” he shrugged, “if we had our cataphractoi, and enough of them, we could cut through those dogs and free him, but we don’t.”

  This mention of the mounted arm of the Parthian army prompted Caspar to ask the question that had been troubling him for a few days, and had now blossomed into a serious concern with this latest development.

  “Has there been any word about a relief force?” When Gobryas shook his head, Caspar took a breath, then posed what was ostensibly a question, but was also a possible explanation, saying, “Don’t you think it’s likely that Phraates was captured because, somehow, Caesar’s army was able to defeat the spad from Sostrate?” Even as he was saying it, there was much that troubled Caspar about this situation, and he felt compelled to point out, “Remember it was less than three days ago when there was some sort of movement in the Roman camp to the north, as well as the one to the east.”

  Gobryas listened, but didn’t seem inclined to accept what Caspar was saying, replying skeptically, “Yes, but it wasn’t their entire army, just a small portion of it. Surely you’re not suggesting that two or three of their Legions were able to attack and overwhelm fifteen thousand men!”

  When it was put it that way, Caspar had to admit that it didn’t sound plausible; still, he countered, “I agree that it doesn’t sound likely. But how do we explain how His Highness was captured? Surely,” he insisted, “he wasn’t just traveling with his bodyguard.”

  Suddenly, Gobryas didn’t seem as sure as he had been a moment before, but like Caesar, albeit in a different way, they would be learning in a short period of time exactly what had occurred. And, more importantly, for the first time since Caesar’s army had appeared, they would have cause for optimism that there was the possibility of, if not outright victory, then a lifting of the siege at the very least.

  Hirtius couldn’t wait any longer, and he knew it; more importantly, his officers, and the men, knew it as well. They would have to at least make an attempt to stop this Parthian army from reaching Susa, where they could combine with the defenders of the city to attempt to break the siege. Knowing it, and believing that they had any real hope of either stopping the Parthians, or bloodying them badly enough, without incurring huge losses of their own, was another matter entirely. Consequently, the mood up and down the entire column had been somber as they moved on a parallel track with the advancing Parthians, far enough away that neither side could achieve any kind of surprise by a sudden attack, yet close enough that they could see each other. Under difference circumstances, Hirtius might have found some amusement in the sight of twin lines of horsemen, arrayed in ranks of varying width, essentially doing nothing more than stare at each other as mile after mile passed, agonizingly slowly. However, now that he had accepted the inevitability of attacking, the very thing that kept him and his men safe, the distance between the columns, rendered the inevitable a practical impossibility. This was what he occupied himself with, conferring with Decurion Silva and the others, yet even after a third of a watch of suggestions, there was no progress.

  “How many Numidians do we have with us?” he had asked Silva, although he was sure he knew the answer.

  Nevertheless, when the Decurion replied with, “A bit less than seven hundred, sir,” Hirtius cursed bitterly.

  “That’s what I thought,” he muttered.

  He was silent for the next several furlongs, trying to determine if there was a possible course of action that he was somehow overlooking. The question about the Numidians was based in the fact that, of the polyglot cavalry force under his command, they were the ones who came the closest to the type of mounted troops he needed to have any hope of inflicting damage on the Parthians. However, the word “close” was the operative word; while the Numidians were missile cavalry, they hurled light, short javelins, carrying sheaves of them in quivers, mounted on either side of their saddle. Unfortunately, the simple fact was that arrows had a greater range than javelins, and considering that the best estimate of the number of horse archers in the Parthian force numbered at least five thousand, even taking into account that more than half of them had been left behind in the Parthian camp, those seven hundred men would be riddled with arrow shafts before they could get anywhere near the Parthian column to strike their heavy cavalry, and the approximately six thousand men on foot. For some length, he considered the other alternative, but after consideration, he discarded the idea that the lead shot, hurled by slings, that had proven so effective in the battle against Pacorus when the crown prince had been slain, would have the same impact in this situation. Although it was true that the innovation by Ventidius had proven devastatingly effective, the circumstances
were decidedly different. On the ridge, it had been the men of the Legions, standing in their ranks at the top of the slope up which the cataphractoi came thundering, the Parthians intent on dislodging and running down their foes, who had loosed jagged pieces of lead as fast as their arms could move, that had punctured the armored blankets of the cataphractoi horses and the armor of their riders with equal efficiency. The steepness of the slope had certainly been a factor, but no man who had once doubted that a piece of lead about the size of a man’s thumb could even puncture the overlapping iron plates, let alone wreak the kind of damage they witnessed that day still held to that belief. This day, however, was decidedly different in one important respect. While the targets would be essentially of the same type that the Legions had successfully stopped, this time, it would also be men on horseback, the thousand cavalrymen who had been trained in the use of the sling, most of them from Galatia, who would conceivably have the task of riding close enough to the Parthians, whirling their sling with one hand above their heads, then loosing. However, it would essentially be men on galloping horses trying to hit men who were also on galloping horses, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the screen of mounted archers who would be swarming around the Parthian heavy cavalry. The truth was that if it had just been cataphractoi facing his mounted slingers, and even the Numidian javelineers, Hirtius would have given the order to attack, but protected by archers as they were, Hirtius knew he would be needlessly throwing the lives of those men away. Finally, Hirtius realized that he had no choice; if he simply followed this Parthian force back to Susa, without at least attempting to inflict some damage, he would never be able to look Caesar in the eye.

  Turning to Silva and the other Decurions, he struggled to keep his voice devoid of emotion, saying, “Go to your alae and get them ready. When the horn sounds, we wheel left.” Pointing to a spot where there was a slight bump on the horizon, the only irregularity in the flat terrain in the direction in which they were headed, Hirtius continued, “I’m going to lead three,” he considered, then changed his mind, “no, four alae at an angle, making it look like I’m trying to get ahead of them so we can block their progress.” Without doing so obviously, he indicated a spot roughly a third down the length of the Parthian column, where there seemed to be a separation between the otherwise regular spacing of the Parthian ranks. “Silva, I want you in a wedge,” he told the Decurion, “then, see how there’s a gap there between the last group of cataphractoi at the front and the infantry?” When Silva nodded, he went on, “I want you to drive your men into that space. But,” he grabbed Silva’s arm to emphasize his point, “I want you to turn to the left, not the right. Do you understand?”