by R. W. Peake
It was Scribonius who pointed at one of the barrels, his own arm dripping a steady stream of vinegar, “No. You need to wear them too.”
Pullus looked over at Balbus, but he was wearing them as well, and his second in command shook his head, saying flatly, “If we have to wear them, so do you.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it, realizing the futility of arguing, not least because he understood they were right, although he felt compelled to grumble about it as he stood there, allowing a slave to slide on the sleeves. For a moment, Pullus thought that he might have escaped wearing them, because both slaves had trouble pulling the leather sleeves, which had been sewn together from a pattern by the leatherworking immunes, up over his huge biceps.
Scribonius, however, had anticipated that this would happen, and he told his friend, “Bend your arms.”
Pullus thought about refusing, then with a muttered curse, bent both arms, causing the wet leather to stretch, though he still complained, “They’re too tight! They’ll cut off my circulation!”
“No they won’t,” Balbus beat Scribonius to it, “and it’s better than the alternative.” In demonstration, the Centurion held his arms out, which were similarly clad, flexing his arms which, while not as big in circumference as Pullus’ were still larger than average. “See? You’ll be fine.” What Balbus offered Pullus then was his version of a smile as he finished, “Now, let’s go gut these Crassoi bastards!”
Pullus didn’t reply, verbally, just giving his second a curt nod, then strode over to where the team of Legionaries were waiting to lower the ramp that would enable his Legion to cross over into the open ground between their own lines and those of the enemy.
“We wait for Caesar,” he told the men, ignoring the rustle of talk between the men of his Century who were standing within earshot. Fortunately, even as he finished this sentence, he saw a mounted figure, followed as always by a number of other horsemen, coming at a quick trot from the Porta Praetoria. Crossing the two hundred paces distance between the camp’s southern gate and the beginning of the turf rampart, Caesar was recognizable, even in the darkness, if only by the way he sat his horse.
Reaching Pullus, Caesar somewhat unusually dispensed with his normal exhortation to the men, and kept his voice low as he told Pullus, “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but you must get your men across the ramp and in formation as quickly as you can.” It was when Pullus saluted that Caesar seemed to notice the tight leather, still dripping wet, and he examined his Primus Pilus, then said, “I’ve already made a sacrifice that those things help. Although,” he grinned down at Pullus, “just the stench alone should be more than enough to send them running.”
“Caesar,” Pullus thought to say, “if we don’t get hit with any naphtha, with your permission, I’m going to have my boys take these things off.”
Caesar hesitated, then nodded, saying only, “But only if you’re sure it’s safe to do so.”
“Of course, sir,” Pullus responded, a bit nettled that Caesar found it necessary to state the obvious. Now who’s wasting time, he thought to himself, though even as he did so, he had already turned and signaled to the men standing next to the two large wooden drums, one on either side of the ramp. Without hesitation, the men began pushing against the staves protruding from the drum, unwinding the thick ropes that had been coiled around each one, allowing the ramp to begin lowering. Despite taking every precaution to muffle the sound, Pullus winced at the sudden rumbling sound as the ramp began to lower.
“There’s no fucking way they didn’t hear that,” he muttered to Balbus, who was standing at Pullus’ side, while Scribonius had returned to his own Cohort, aligned immediately behind the First.
“So much for a surprise,” Balbus said by way of agreement. “But,” he offered, “at least this time, we know what to expect, neh?”
“That we do, Quintus,” Pullus replied calmly, “and we’re going to make them pay for Seleucia.” Only his head turned, but his gaze was one that oddly enough was comforting to Balbus as Pullus said, “Tonight, we have our revenge. It’s just too bad,” he turned away just in time to see the ramp reach close to horizontal, “they know we’re coming now.”
Without waiting for a reply, the Primus Pilus of the 10th Equestrians strode to the front of his Legion and began leading them across the ramp, the first step in what was to come.
Despite Pullus’ dour prediction, the truth was that neither Caspar nor any of the Crassoi heard what would indeed have alerted them that their former countrymen were coming. That they didn’t was due to being so busy with their own preparations, although in the Parthians’ case, they didn’t have a huge wooden ramp to use to cross their own ditch. Instead, they were busy dropping tightly tied bundles of sticks, rocks, bags of forage; frankly, whatever they thought would work to provide them a foundation for the piles of dirt that they would drop on top of it then hurriedly packed down to provide a secure footing to cross the ditch. As far as Caspar himself, he was conducting a hasty inspection of each of his Centuries, checking to see that the men who were responsible for carrying the all-important ladders were spaced properly apart, these being replacements made to account for the extra depth of a Caesarian ditch, so in the event of a ballista rock tearing a huge hole in their ranks, it wouldn’t be at the expense of more than one ladder. He also wanted to have a word with both Artaxerxes and Darius, because although Gobryas had grudgingly agreed to release them for use in this desperate attack, there simply hadn’t been time for the formulation of any kind of plan about how they would be used. This, and the myriad other reasons that are part of a sudden, unexpected change of plans, meant that the Crassoi completely missed the signs that the Romans were not simply passively waiting for whatever was coming. Now, Caspar spotted Artaxerxes, standing amidst a small group of Parthians, all of them wearing the distinctively different armor and helmets than the Crassoi that was the distinguishing sign these were men of The Thousand. Seeing Caspar approach, the Centurion was quite surprised when, rather than seek to impose his status on the Primus Pilus of the Crassoi, instead, Artaxerxes was clearly deferential.
“What are your orders, Centurion?” the young nobleman asked. “We are here to serve wherever you see fit.” Despite the circumstances, Caspar felt compelled to offer his gratitude for the younger but higher-ranking Parthian’s words, except Artaxerxes waved them away, saying only, “We all want the same thing, Centurion. And your men have seen more fighting than any of us. So,” he returned to the subject, “what are your orders?”
The truth was that Caspar hadn’t had time to think about it, so he spent a moment mulling over what was the best course of action for these men, every one of them nobles, but who were at least now trained in the Roman style of battle.
“We pulled three Centuries from every Cohort,” Caspar mused aloud, “but if they figure out what we’re doing, I have to believe that Caesar will attack from one of the other camps.” Thinking for a moment, he finally was forced to acknowledge something that, as a fighting man, was hard. “But I don’t know if my boys are going to be enough to crack that northern camp and get to the outer fortifications. So,” he sighed, “I’d ask your men to form up behind to our rear, then cross over and wait for word from me about where I need you.”
Artaxerxes saluted in the Parthian manner, so Caspar responded in kind, then went trotting back down the road leading to Susa, finding Darius standing alone, while the mixed force of spearmen and dismounted archers milled about aimlessly, waiting to be told what to do next. Forcing himself to remain calm, Caspar found that, as cooperative as Artaxerxes had been, Darius was the exact opposite, barely deigning to acknowledge his existence, let alone the idea that he should take orders from a Roman. This reception made Caspar realize that the previously cooperative demeanor he had displayed in the meeting with Gobryas had been for the Parthian commander, and had nothing to do with any sincerity. Recognizing this, Caspar felt justified in tersely ordering Darius to keep his men there, the spear
men little better than rabble as far as Caspar and the professionals under his command were concerned, although he felt a twinge of regret that he was going to lose the dismounted archers that he could place in position outside the walls of the city.
“If Caesar decides to counterattack, either from the eastern, western, or even southern side, you and your men will be needed to stop them,” Caspar did try to sound, if not deferential, then respectful. “Staying here would probably be the best spot.”
Suddenly, the Parthian didn’t seem so haughty, and his tone was cautious as he said tentatively, “But if we stay here, on the northern side, and the Romans attack from their southern camp, it will take too long for us to respond.” Darius paused, then asked, “Wouldn’t it?”
Maybe, Caspar thought, he’s not hopeless; aloud, he answered honestly, “Yes, it would.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Would you like to know what I would suggest?”
“Yes,” Darius answered immediately, nodding his head, and actually adding, “please, Centurion.”
“Split your men into two groups,” Caspar didn’t hesitate, since he had already thought it through, “equally divided between spearmen and archers. Send one to our camp that’s directly across from the Romans’ eastern camp, and the other to the western.” Pointing to the dun stallion, Caspar added, “You’ll need to stay mounted, and be able to move quickly. If the Romans attack the eastern or western camps, you’ll be able to get there faster and determine if the three Centuries we’re leaving behind and half your men will be enough to repel the attack.” Privately, Caspar thought this unlikely in the extreme, but he didn’t voice his doubts, saying instead, “And if they attack from the camp to the south. Which,” he felt compelled to add, “I don’t think is likely, because we’ve seen they only have two Legions there, and it’s actually the farthest camp from the direction Kambyses is coming from, but if they do, you can send a man to summon the other half of your force.” If anything, Darius looked a bit overwhelmed to Caspar, prompting the Crassoi to offer some practical advice. “The faster you respond, the better chances you have of using your archers. And if you do that, you can slaughter those bastards before they even get close.”
As he hoped, this seemed to help the Parthian’s spirits, and he responded by giving Caspar a nod of understanding, though he didn’t salute. Then, Caspar had to return back to his own men, who he hoped would be finished filling in the ditch. Although it wasn’t absolutely essential for him and his men to have reached the outer Roman fortifications by the time the sun rose, Caspar knew that, with just a thousand Crassoi available to Kambyses, even with the help of the other infantry serving as fodder for the Roman artillery, time was limited for the spad outside. As he trotted back to the spot they had chosen to cross, Caspar responded to the calls of his men, alternately shouting encouragement or an obscene reply to something one of his Centurions said, and he was heartened to see that, all things considered, his men were in the kind of mood that had always boded well. Not lost on any of them, they knew, was that the fate of their families rested on their shoulders, not just from their Parthian overlords, but in the event the Romans gained the walls of Susa and took it. Reaching the rampart, he climbed it and looked down to see that, while it wasn’t exactly the height he would have liked—the men would have to hop down to the turf that had been taken from the earthen wall to provide a somewhat solid surface to cross—it wasn’t more than knee high, which he judged would do. The most crucial aspect was that it was wide enough for him to send more than a single Century across at a time, which was at least partially responsible for the height being lower than he would have liked. Turning to his Optio, he ordered his subordinate to lead the front ranks of the Crassoi down into the ditch.
“You know how I want them shaken out,” Caspar told Pacula, who saluted in response, whereupon the Primus Pilus turned and began walking once more, back along the ranks of his Centuries. Stopping at the Second, he felt a sudden pang of, if not anxiety, then a worry that, for the first time since they had been tiros marching, beginning under Pompey, then Crassus, Gaius Asina wouldn’t be with him in battle. His semi-permanent replacement, the former Optio, hadn’t been Caspar’s first choice, but the circumstances were such that he decided that this wasn’t the time for the inevitable disruption that occurred in multiple Centuries when Centurions were simply shifted up one slot. Besides, Caspar held out the hope that, once this was over, and the Romans were repelled, they would have enough prisoners of suitable rank that a swap could be made for his friend.
Standing with the Optio now acting as Primus Pilus Posterior, Tiberius Priscus, who looked understandably nervous, Caspar tried to keep his tone light. “Just remember, keep moving, no matter what. We have to get across that ditch as quickly as we can.”
Priscus nodded, and although his face was hidden in shadow under his helmet, Caspar decided this was enough acknowledgement. One after the other, the Primus Pilus spoke to the Centurions of his Cohort as they began moving with their men, the sign to Caspar that, at last, the attack was beginning. He thought of staying there to talk to the Centurions of the other Cohorts, then decided against it; they were good men, they knew what they needed to do, and he was too old to be running all over the place before it was absolutely necessary. Turning, he moved at the trot, reaching the rampart where the Gregarius who acted as his runner was waiting, with an extra shield.
“All right, Publius,” Caspar spoke cheerfully, realizing with surprise that he was actually not having to force a hearty tone, “let’s go kick these bastards out of here, shall we?”
Hopping down, he pushed his way past the men, these of the Third Century, who were filing across, happy that, whether by design or accident, the men who had filled in the ditch had piled the debris and dirt at a slight upward angle so it was little more than a step up out of the ditch compared to the hop down into it. Seeing his men already moving into place, with the moonlight glinting on the helmets of his men, he experienced a pang, thinking, I should have had them wear sacks over their helmets. But, as always happened at moments like this, not only could a man not think of absolutely everything, it did no good to worry about it now. Moving to where he saw the standard adopted by the Crassoi, not an eagle but the head of a desert lion, the sign of the house of the Arsacids from which Orodes, now Phraates, came, Caspar positioned himself in his spot. It was barely visible in the moonlight, but the sight of it stirred a number of emotions in Caspar’s breast. What surprised him, however, was the sudden thought; what would the new symbol be, if Phraates wasn’t rescued? And, despite the moment, he couldn’t stop his mind from lingering on what had been lurking there in the recesses of his consciousness, the idea that perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst fate in the world if Phraates never returned to the Parthian throne. Forcing this from his mind, he joined his Aquilifer, and he watched as, one by one, the Centuries of the First Cohort arrayed themselves in a single long line, while the Centuries of the Second and Third Cohorts, the only others who were bringing all six Centuries out of the fourteen total that composed the Crassoi, arrayed themselves immediately behind the First, with each Century aligned with the preceding Century ahead of them.
