Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Pullus glanced down at the leather sleeves and shook his head with a bemused relief.

  “So they worked after all,” he admitted.

  “Better than I would have thought,” Scribonius agreed.

  Returning his attention to the more pressing issue, Pullus thought for a moment, then said, “All right. We’re not going to try and press on to the city. I know that Caesar said we should if we got the chance, but until I know more about what’s going on, we’re going to consolidate our position here.” Holding up a hand for silence, the Primus Pilus lifted an ear flap with his free hand, turning it east, in the direction of where the 12th was located, trying to determine not only what was happening with the other Legion, but whether his other Cohorts had begun scaling their ladders up out of the ditch. He could see movement, and it sounded like, beyond that, there was some sort of fight going on. As he stared in that direction, he saw a sullen glow that was too far to make out in any detail, but gave him the impression that the source was actually up on the rampart and not coming from down in the ditch. This could mean that the 12th had gained the earthen wall, but the only way to know for sure was to either send a runner in that direction, trying to gather more information, which he wasn’t willing to do because of the darkness, or move in force, meeting up the even numbered Cohorts, which had been deployed to the east of the First Cohort. If the 12th was still struggling to get a toehold, falling on the defenders’ left flank would be exactly the thing to break the deadlock. Deciding this would be the best course of action, he was about to issue his orders when, from behind him, came the blaring sound of a horn. For a moment, he thought it was from one of his odd-numbered Cohorts, but it was Scribonius who noticed two things.

  “It’s coming from over there.” He pointed to a spot where, although they couldn’t see in the darkness, Pullus knew was the point where the fortifications curved from their east/west axis to a north/south, putting it farther away than even his Ninth Cohort, which was the farthest to the west.

  “I wonder if those are Crassoi reinforcements,” Pullus mused, stuffing down the sudden rush of worry that there was a fresh enemy force coming for them.

  Then, the horn sounded again, a bit closer but more importantly, clearly enough that they could recognize that it was, in fact, a Roman, not a Parthian horn.

  “That must be either the 6th or the 7th,” Scribonius commented, then hesitated before adding something he knew would irritate his friend, which was mainly why he did it. “If they’re this close already, they must have gotten up and over the wall pretty quickly.”

  Although he kept his gaze in that direction, Scribonius could almost feel Pullus’ glare as his friend shot back, “Well, if they did, it’s because they didn’t have anybody waiting for them like we did!”

  Scribonius and Metellus exchanged an amused glance, albeit only after making sure Pullus was still staring off into the distance.

  After a moment’s thought, Pullus said, “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Over the course of a dozen heartbeats, Pullus gave his orders, essentially splitting his Legion into two columns, one to link up with the 12th, and the other to meet whichever Legion was coming from the western camp. Even as he did so, he realized that he ran the risk of being censured by Caesar for not pressing the advantage, but there were two factors at play that convinced Pullus this wasn’t only the prudent move, it was the only one that made sense under the circumstances. The first was due to his noticing that, while they still stank to the heavens, the leather sleeves he was wearing were barely damp, the dry air that was a feature of these lands sucking most of the moisture out of them already. Without explaining why, even as he was speaking, he had reached out to touch both Scribonius and Metellus’ own sleeves, and they were the same as his. By itself, this might have not been enough to convince Pullus to consolidate rather than pursue, but more than anything else, the idea that he and his men would have been able to run down the retreating Crassoi was only possible at the expense of any caution. Although it was true that Caesar’s army had used this tactic before with some success, chasing Gauls who had sortied out of Cenabum back into the city so closely they had been unable to shut the gates behind them before Pullus and his comrades came pouring into the city, on this night, after Pullus watched the orderly, two-count fighting withdrawal the Crassoi had performed, he thought the same thing happening here at Susa highly unlikely. With these instructions given, the 10th finished securing the northern expanse of the outer Crassoi fortifications, thereby making the job of Kambyses and the reinforcements not only more difficult, but close to impossible. Now, the Parthian general had to penetrate not just the outer Caesarian fortifications, but then cross the inner Caesarian lines to attack what had been the Crassoi defenses before the sun set on this day. It wasn’t over, Pullus knew, not by a long stretch, but this was a good beginning. Of course, he still had to face Caesar to find out if his general agreed.

  Now in the last watch before dawn and about ten miles from Susa, Kambyses felt every one of his years, and it was only because his brother was there to stop him from toppling from the saddle that he didn’t shame himself by falling deeply asleep and tumbling to the ground. And, he knew, if he felt this way, the rest of his spad certainly did. Despite himself, he felt a stab of pity, and perhaps even some remorse, at the plight of the men on foot, particularly the thousand Crassoi who had to be near the end of their collective tethers. Nevertheless, when he suggested to Gemellus that he and the rest of the infantry take a bit longer to rest at their last stop, the Roman politely but firmly assured Kambyses this wasn’t necessary. Despite his appreciation of this sentiment, neither was Kambyses fooled that the Centurion was driving his men so as not to disappoint Kambyses; no, he understood that even if the Centurion himself hadn’t been married, with a family—many of the men marching in his ranks were and did—so it was just as much for them that they would push themselves to the brink of exhaustion. What worried Kambyses was, even if the Crassoi kept up, whether or not they would be fit to fight when they got there was an open question. That, he realized, was the type of problem it was fruitless to worry about in this moment, although it did serve to help him stay awake, so he allowed part of his mind to gnaw at the edge of this worry, while the rest roamed over the other challenges that he and his men would be facing very shortly. He had pushed his men hard, but it was to allow them to reach within striking distance of the outer Roman defenses with enough time before sunrise to allow them to at least partially recover. However, while this was a sound enough idea when he had conceived it a few watches earlier, approaching the actual moment was another matter altogether. Compounding the difficulty, his fatigued brain was having trouble recognizing the landmarks he had memorized that would tell him the spad had reached the correct spot. Thankfully, he was saved from embarrassment when one of the outriders came trotting back to the main column.

  “Excellency,” he pointed to a solitary bump that was barely visible, rising up from the otherwise flat plain as a slightly darker feature than the night sky, “there’s the hill that you marked as our stopping point. From there, we’ll be…”

  “I know where we are,” Kambyses snapped, though he did feel a flicker of regret that he had lashed out at the man, who was actually barely more than a boy from the look of him. This prompted him to grudgingly mutter, “But thank you, boy.” Turning to Intaphernes, still acting as his second in command, Kambyses said, “Pass the word back that we’re arriving at our resting point. And,” his voice hardened, “from this moment onward, we speak only in whispers, and there will be no fires of any kind.”

  “Yes, Excellency.” Intaphernes knuckled his forehead as he addressed his older brother in the proper manner and not using the familial connection, while at the same time keeping his voice from betraying his own feelings at hearing the same thing Kambyses had repeated what he was certain was a dozen times.

  Wheeling about, Intaphernes disappeared and was temporarily forgotten, Ka
mbyses forcing his tired mind to turn to the next task that needed to be done. Only once every job on his mental list was finished would Kambyses allow himself to rest, so it was with a grim determination that, once he reached the top of the low hill, he began issuing other orders, to other couriers and to the men commanding the sub-units under his overall command. Mounted archers were sent to one area, the cataphractoi another, while the men who would bear the responsibility for storming the Romans’ outer trenchworks and seizing control of the crucial large ramp that would allow the Parthian horsemen to go sweeping into the space between the inner and outer fortifications were sent to a third spot. Although neither Kambyses nor Caesar had any way of knowing it, their conception of this attack consisted of two distinct and separate phases, the difference being that the Parthian general was depending on the actions of the men defending Susa. In Caesar’s case, despite his encouragement to Pullus to seize the opportunity to harry and pursue the enemy right through the gates of the city, in all honesty, he didn’t actually believe this was a likely outcome. Consequently, his initial goal was to seize the outer Crassoi fortifications, consolidate that gain, then at his leisure, he could decide on the best way to attack the city walls. Only then would the second phase of the assault begin, which could be a matter of watches or days in between. Kambyses, on the other hand, needed to first seize the outer fortifications, then had to rely on the hope that Gobryas had not only received the message he had sent Ophis to deliver, but was acting according to the instructions Kambyses had given to launch his own sortie from the outer Parthian entrenchments, although it was only in one spot, directly across from the northern Roman camp. If all went as Kambyses planned, his spad would be poised to attack the northernmost Roman camp located in between the circum- and contravallations from the north, while the Crassoi and whatever other troops Gobryas would commit were to attack and seize the inner Roman entrenchment. Then, while he wouldn’t have the same luxury of time that Caesar would, Kambyses would still have some ability to choose the time and place for his second assault. What Kambyses hadn’t confided to anyone, including his brother, was that his true goal resided in the northern camp. If he could manage to capture Caesar, in a single stroke, the prospects for Parthia repelling this invasion were significantly brightened, because it gave Kambyses the ability to trade Caesar for Phraates. The only problem with this was, while Kambyses had kept his plan to capture Caesar from his officers, the fact that he had no intention of doing anything that would restore Phraates to power was something that he could barely admit to himself. First, however, was getting some rest.

  It was a mark of the amount of confidence Caesar had that, once the 10th and 12th began their assault in earnest, he returned first to the northern camp, pausing only long enough to ensure that couriers had already departed for the other camps. This wouldn’t be an attack with the normal coordination that Caesar preferred, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed this too might work to his advantage, to the point that he actually considered altering his orders to stagger the attacks from each camp even more. He decided against it, not wanting to add to what would already be confusing and chaotic, a night attack against a fortified position, although he did so with a twinge of regret. Once he was informed that all messages had been sent, Caesar headed out the northern gate of the camp, in the direction of the contravallation, where Spurius and the 3rd were waiting for the expected attack from the Parthian spad. Along with Spurius, Caesar had sent ahead one of his Legates, and he found Pollio standing on the rampart, staring into the darkness, despite both men knowing that they would more likely hear the approaching enemy before they saw them.

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss something with Pullus and Balbinus?” Pollio asked curiously, since this was unlike Caesar to be away from the action.

  “They’re going to relay word by cornu,” Caesar answered. “Once they take the Crassoi entrenchments, they’ll signal it. There’s a Cornicen waiting on our rampart, and I have Fronto standing ready in the camp to relay the message.”

  While this answered Pollio’s question, it still seemed odd to him that Caesar would choose to be here, and the thought crossed his mind that it might be because of the identity of the Parthian who was presumably just a few miles away. He had no intention of broaching this with Caesar, choosing instead to return his attention north, which was how Spurius found them, rendering Caesar a salute.

  “We’re on full alert, Caesar,” the Primus Pilus informed his general, finishing with a quiet confidence, “My boys are ready for whatever comes.”

  “Just be prepared for them to use their archers,” Caesar warned him, and Pollio wondered if the commander missed the flash of irritation on Spurius’ face at this obvious advice, or if he had chosen to ignore it, because he continued, “and I think they’re more likely to try and keep you with your shields up to allow their infantry to get close. Because,” he finished grimly, “the only chance they have is to capture the ramp so that their cataphractoi and archers come through at the gallop.”

  Spurius considered for a moment, then decided to ask, “In that case, sir, the men have a request.”

  “Oh?” Caesar regarded the Primus Pilus with a raised eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  “Can we get rid of these things?” As Spurius asked, he raised both arms, which were clad in the leather sleeves, stinking of vinegar. “I had the boys put them on early so we’d be ready for assaulting the city, but I don’t think whoever’s coming is going to be bringing artillery with them.”

  This, Caesar recognized, was true, yet he still hesitated for a moment, thinking back to the horrors of the assault on Ctesiphon, but finally gave his assent, if a bit grudgingly. Spurius wasn’t willing to test this acquiescence, quickly disappearing before the general could change his mind. It was within a handful of heartbeats after that when, on a stray breeze, both Caesar and Pollio heard a sound that wasn’t part of the night, recognizing the whinnying of a horse. Over the course of the next few moments, that lone noise slowly grew, both in volume and the variety of noises, although Caesar did take notice that he couldn’t hear any shouted commands of any sort. However, while it was possible, hard but possible, to move a large body of men on foot stealthily, provided enough precautions were taken and there was strict discipline, when animals were involved, it simply wasn’t. Even muffling hooves and tying bits of cloth over all metal bits where they came into contact with each other couldn’t mask the movement of animals weighing anywhere from a thousand pounds, for the lighter mounts belonging to the archers, to the one-ton beasts belonging to the cataphractoi. What could be done, however, was what plagued Caesar; they could hear something out there, but it was proving extremely difficult to determine exactly where the enemy was. If it had been him, Caesar would have taken steps to make sure that his men were aligned directly across from their objective to ensure they had the shortest distance possible to cover, especially when it was a fortified position. Yet, whether it was because of some subterfuge, or it was simply a trick of the night air, Caesar’s sense was that what he was certain of was that Kambyses and his spad were off to his left, at perhaps an angle of three-quarters from straight ahead. Given that he was standing next to the ramp, on the left side of it, this could be significant. Suddenly, he was struck by a pang of doubt; he had been certain that Kambyses would choose the most direct route to achieve a linkage with his countrymen defending Susa. What if, he thought with some dismay, I’m wrong? What if he is circling around, avoiding us here, to find a better, weaker spot to attack? He had been so sure that the Parthian wouldn’t be willing to risk the amount of time it would take to ride all the way around the outer defenses encircling Susa, but in the darkness, as he strained his eyes, trying to pick up some sign of movement, nothing seemed certain. And, he thought with growing concern, if they get all the way around and attack the southern camp, where there is now only one Legion, and half were standing watch on the inner entrenchment while the other half was on the contravall
ation as the other Legion took the Crassoi position, how long could five Cohorts hold out?

  The sudden, deep-pitched notes of the Roman cornu wrenched his thoughts back to the moment, but while he had been in such deep thought that he hadn’t caught the first two notes, Pollio’s reaction was all he needed.

  “They’ve taken the Crassoi entrenchments by the northern camp!”

  “So I hear,” Caesar replied, but he gave his ablest Legate a smile to let him know there was no censure there. “That is good news.” And, he thought, it changes things dramatically. Aloud, he added, “Now we need to find out what’s happening with the other three camps.”

  Caesar beckoned one of the half-dozen men standing down at the base of the earthen wall who were there waiting to fulfill his orders as couriers. As the man trotted up the ramp, the general took a wax tablet from the pouch hanging around Apollodorus’ shoulder, the ever-present secretary doing such a good job of being unobtrusive that it always surprised Pollio when he noticed him standing there. With a few, brisk strokes, Caesar incised a message in the tablet, snapped it shut, and handed it to the courier.

  “This goes to Primus Pilus Pullus,” he instructed the man, then in yet another of the subtle but important ways that Caesar garnered the devotion of his men, he added, “and Munacius, keep your head down, neh? Good men like you are hard to find.”

  The now-named Munacius beamed with pleasure at this sign of favor from Caesar, and he rendered a clearly heart-felt salute before turning and practically sprinting down the dirt ramp to his waiting horse, while Pollio and his general exchanged an amused glance. Caesar repeated this process, this time sending a dispatch to Balbinus, with essentially the same instructions. Before he could return his attention north, however, there was a disturbance back in the direction of the camp, but the cause was quickly cleared up by the appearance out of the gloom of another rider, this one approaching them at the gallop. Shortly afterward, another courier was standing in front of Caesar, this time reporting that he had delivered the message to the Primi Pili of the 7th and 6th, then, as he had been instructed, waited long enough to see that Caesar’s orders would be carried out, leaving at the same time as Felix lowered the inner ramp to begin the assault, while Aquilinus’ Legion stayed in place on the outer fortifications. Roughly a sixth part of a watch later, Caesar had received the equivalent message from the eastern camp, that the 15th had also begun their own attempt to breach the Crassoi entrenchments, with the 8th performing the same duty as the 7th on the opposite side. By this point in time, Caesar felt cautiously confident that Pullus and Balbinus had received their messages, and had begun the process of following the Crassoi entrenchments, Pullus to the west and Balbinus to the east. Even if Kambyses is going all the way around, Caesar thought, by the time he does, it will be too late. Despite this upsetting possibility, Caesar felt in his bones that Kambyses would do no such thing, and he was seldom wrong about such things. And, he wasn’t wrong this time either; his only error was calculating the determination and valor of his Parthian foes.