by R. W. Peake
With a growing sense of desperation, Kambyses turned to Intaphernes, snapping, “We need to send a rider to tell Fariel…”
He got no further, cut off in midsentence, first by a shrill, piercing scream that, while it almost sounded human, experienced horsemen like Kambyses knew was from an animal throat, although it was instantly drowned out by what were decidedly human voices, in a cacophony of shouts that, while the words were inaudible, clearly conveyed an alarm that was close to panic. Suddenly, from the dust, the figure of a galloping horse came bursting into view, riderless and out of its mind with panic. Drawn by the scent of its own kind, the animal suddenly veered, heading straight for where Kambyses and Intaphernes were sitting on their own mounts. Fortunately for both of them, their animals were bred for this kind of chaos, but this only meant that Kambyses didn't have to split his attention between controlling his animal and what was happening with his attack. Quickly realizing that he could get at least some idea of the situation by watching the Centuries aligned behind Gemellus and the three leading the attack, he was dismayed to see them come to a ragged halt an instant before the sound of a horn drifted across to him, which Kambyses realized was the cause for their stopping. The next several heartbeats of time passed agonizingly slowly before, more from sound than by sight, Kambyses sensed that matters were becoming more organized. This only became evident when, again before the notes of the horn reached him, the Crassoi resumed their advance, then ever so slowly, the dust began to dissipate immediately around where the collision of the two forces had occurred. Kambyses slumped in relief when he finally could spot individual figures again and saw the line of horsemen nearest him make their looping turn towards the wall now more than a hundred paces farther right of the ramp than previously. Only then did he tear his attention away from this small but important drama, glancing to the left of the ramp, and he saw that Imanish had already followed his orders. Taking a deep breath, Kambyses began to relax.
Then, Intaphernes spoke, pointing back to the spot where disaster had narrowly been averted. “It looks like we lost some men.”
Kambyses returned his gaze back in that direction and saw his brother was speaking truly; there were what he quickly counted as a dozen men down, and while most of them were at least moving, it seemed that many of them were too seriously injured to rejoin their comrades.
“We can live with that,” Kambyses decided.
If Intaphernes was going to reply, Kambyses never knew, because their attention was again diverted by a new sound. At first, they both thought this was the sound of their own men, beginning their assault in earnest, but when a horn sounded once again, it was a series of deeper bass notes that both of them knew came from what the Romans called their cornu.
“Well, brother,” Kambyses made his voice sound conversational, but his heart was hammering in his ribs, “it looks like the Romans aren’t just going to run off.”
“That,” Intaphernes gave Kambyses a savage grin, “will be a mistake.”
“May Ahura-Mazda make it so,” Kambyses said, then returned his attention back to where the success or failure of his entire plan would be decided.
I wonder, the thought came to him, if Caesar’s standing over there somewhere. Somehow, he was certain that he would be.
For the rest of their respective time under the standard, the men of the 3rd would always think back to this moment, in the first third of a watch after dawn, two days after the Ides in the month of Sextilis, as one of the most important in their Legion’s history, even more than the horrific ordeal they had endured in the taking of Seleucia, when the Parthians had unleashed their secret weapon of naphtha. Certainly, part of the reason stemmed from the relentless rain of arrows that fell in a seemingly never-ending storm that, in the moment, each man was sure lasted an entire watch, although it was a bit more than a sixth part. And, once everything was over, there would be a spirited and slightly macabre contest with men competing to see whose shield had been pierced the most by Parthian arrows. Naturally, very quickly, this would devolve into a rancorous collective argument when some rankers had been caught punching more holes in their shields, until the Centurions were forced to step in and call off the entire affair, ordering all wagers to be rescinded, and the money refunded. None of this, however, was in any man’s mind as they all knelt under their shields, flinching when another unseen missile slammed into their only means of protection, each of them coping with it in their own way. Relying almost completely on their ears, though only after several men along the stretch of wall under assault risked peeking around their shields and paid the price for it, with a couple of them being fatally wounded, Spurius’ men gauged the progress of the attack, waiting for the moment when the archers would be forced to slacken the fury of their onslaught. Even without their Centurions’ reminder, they all understood this would only be the moment after the enemy infantry reached the edge of the ditch, and either dropped into it or at least partially filled it with something, usually bundles of sticks or bags of forage, to cross over to place ladders against the dirt wall, and every man, from Caesar down to the lowliest Gregarius, understood how crucial timing would be. That it was Caesar who first noticed that the sound of striking missiles had slackened was more a matter of his proximity to the ramp than his acumen, but he was encouraged by the sudden unexpected commotion and sounds of the Parthian horn and alarmed shouts, informing Caesar that something had gone awry with the Parthians. However, it was because it was Caesar that the reaction of the 3rd was as rapid as it was, beginning when, taking a risk that he could have passed down to his subordinate Pollio, or one of the half-dozen rankers who were between him and the edge of the wall nearest the ditch, Caesar himself stood erect and studied the situation. Taking it in, however, was difficult, because like his counterpart Kambyses, the dust churned up by the hooves of the attacking archers obscured much of what was taking place. His eyes were drawn more to the left of the ramp, because through the brownish-gray curtain, there was a darker mass that was too regular in its shape for Caesar to think it was mounted Parthians, and after watching for just a few heartbeats, he could see by the speed of their movement that these were men on foot. Shifting his examination, he looked essentially in the opposite direction, his instinct confirmed when, off to his right on the side of the wooden ramp where Spurius was waiting, he saw essentially an identically sized mass, moving at the same speed as the other infantry force he had just spotted, although they were quite a bit farther away.
“The Crassoi are about two hundred paces away,” Caesar turned and told Pollio. Thinking quickly, he actually shifted his attention to Apollodorus, about to order him to scramble down the dirt ramp and run to where Spurius was standing, on the opposite side of the raised wooden one, but one of the rankers saw and correctly interpreted his general’s glance.
“Sir, if you have a message, I’ll go,” he offered. Since he was still holding his shield off to Caesar’s left side, he used his free hand to indicate the secretary. “He doesn’t have any protection, and,” he added, “it looks like those bastards are leaving us be, so you don’t need all of us right now.”
Caesar quickly agreed, noting but not commenting on the obvious relief shown by his most faithful scribe, telling the ranker, “Tell Spurius that judging from the angle, the Crassoi are going to try this side first, but he needs to be ready to expect company.” Pointing back in the direction of the second force, he finished, “Tell him I don’t think these men are Crassoi, but I can’t be sure, so be prepared for anything.”
As Caesar demanded, the ranker repeated the order before saluting, then dropping his shield while turning and running down the ramp in one motion, he left the general to return his attention to the approaching Crassoi, who were now the nearest threat. Sensing another opportunity, this time, he did use Apollodorus, but it was because where he was sending his secretary was actually away from the upcoming fight.
“Go tell Pacuvius,” Caesar named the immunes who was in command of the thr
ee ballistae that were positioned less than fifty paces behind the rampart, “that he has a target,” he turned back towards the approaching enemy, then continued talking as he performed the necessary calculations, “two hundred paces from his piece, at an angle of half of perpendicular to the wall, measured from the left edge of the ramp. And,” he added with a grim smile, “tell him that if he thinks it’s possible, using the naphtha would be the most effective.”
Perhaps more than anyone else present, it was Apollodorus who knew how important this seemingly offhand remark was to his master; Caesar had been searching for a chance to repay the Parthians in kind for what had happened at Seleucia and Ctesiphon, and not just for the sake of his army. After all, he was in Caesar’s presence almost constantly, sleeping on a pallet in the corner of his master’s private quarters. Because of this continuous proximity, Apollodorus was acutely aware that the events that day when he had been caught by surprise, in the most horrible manner imaginable, resulting in the immolation of so many of his Legionaries, still haunted Caesar’s dreams. Under normal circumstances, Apollodorus wouldn’t consider himself the bloodthirsty sort, but after witnessing the awful, charred carnage that the Parthians’ use of this pernicious substance inflicted, he was as eager to see the enemy forced to endure the same kind of punishment that had befallen Caesar’s army as any man who was under the standard. This prompted him to slightly amend his master’s order, finding Pacuvius standing next to one of the pieces.
“Caesar says that the Crassoi are approaching. They’re two hundred paces from here,” he had actually taken the time to move so that his feet were aligned with the edge of the ballista, whereupon he extended his arm in an imitation of Caesar as he continued, “and they’re at an angle half of perpendicular to the wall, measured from the left edge of the ramp.” He waited for Pacuvius to absorb the orders, and when he could see that the immunes had performed the necessary calculations, Apollodorus made his own small contribution to the avenging of those men who had perished in the manner that haunted the dreams of anyone who had seen it happen to others.
“And,” he said this as matter-of-factly as he could manage, “Caesar orders that you use your supply of naphtha.”
Pacuvius was still staring out in the direction he and his crews would be sending their deadly cargoes, but this caused him to look sharply at Caesar’s secretary.
“At that range?” Pacuvius’ tone betrayed his doubt, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, returning his attention forward, then added, “And over our boys?” Finally, he shook his head and said shortly, “Tell Caesar that it’s too risky.”
This was the moment when Apollodorus realized that, perhaps, he hadn’t thought this through, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up, and argued, “But when they did the same to us, we were at least that distance! In fact,” he insisted stubbornly, “I remember that it was even farther away than two hundred paces!”
He was surprised when Pacuvius agreed, “It was farther away. I’d say we were at least three hundred paces away.”
“Well? Apollodorus demanded. “Then why are you saying you can’t do it? And,” he thought to add this, understanding this was the most potent part, “not carrying out Caesar’s orders?”
“I didn’t say it can’t be done,” Pacuvius protested, nettled not only by the words, but perhaps even more so, the person who was pressing him in this manner. A slave! Talking to him like that? But Pacuvius, despite being rattled at this persistent and somewhat aggressive questioning, was acutely aware that this wasn’t just any slave, which was why he took the time to explain, “I said it’s too risky. The reason they were able to hit us farther away is because they were releasing from a higher point. We,” he indicated the spot, “are at ground level, which is a different proposition. For every ten feet higher, you can add up to fifty paces of distance, depending on the weight of the missile. The walls of Ctesiphon were, what, twenty feet?” Pacuvius shrugged. “That’s why they could reach farther. But it’s not just the distance, it’s the angle.” Pointing to the dirt wall, and the men who were even then beginning to make ready for the next phase of the Parthian assault, starting with slicing or knocking the multiple arrow shafts protruding from their shields, while others helped their wounded comrades down off the wall to the rear, Pacuvius used them in his explanation. “The wall is about eleven feet high, but the men add another five feet that have to be cleared. A stone, I can set the arc so that it clears the boys by a good six, seven feet. But one of those?” He indicated the wooden boxes, arranged in a row a few paces behind each ballista, inside which were the pots of naphtha, each separated from the other by straw, another indication of how volatile and sensitive the material was considered by those who still didn’t completely understand its properties. “I’d have to lower the angle and it would be by maybe three feet. And,” he finished with what the immune was certain would clinch the argument, “who do you see standing directly in their path? Now you might be willing to risk your master’s life and bet that every one of those pots is exactly the same weight, and my boys apply exactly the right number of turns to the torsion rope…but I’m not.”
Only then did Apollodorus admit defeat, only to himself, of course; slave he might have been, but he knew he was far cleverer and better educated than even the Centurions, let alone an immune, and most importantly, he was trusted by Caesar. However, Pacuvius had been shrewd to point out that Caesar was in the direct path below where the artillery of at least one of the three pieces would be arcing their ammunition, because Apollodorus was as devoted in his own way to his master as the men of Caesar’s army were to their general.
“Fine,” he grumbled, “but you need to hurry!”
“We’d be loosing by now if you hadn’t tried to convince us to use that cac,” Pacuvius shot back, yet even as he did, he was moving to his normal spot, where his crew had overheard the entire exchange and had already not only winched the torsion arms of their piece, but relayed the information to the crews of the other two pieces arrayed on either side.
All that was left was the selection of the ammunition, and Pacuvius ordered, “Five pounders! And be quick about it! Those cunni aren’t waiting for us!”
Apollodorus, now forgotten, understood he had performed his task and done what he could to appease the shades of those men fallen by evil flames, although he still offered a silent prayer of apology to them as he trotted back to his master’s side. He was just at the base of the ramp when, from behind him, he heard the crashing sound of the torsion arms of first one, then the second followed by the third ballistae as they slammed forward, but even before he could react, he heard the whishing created by the disturbed air above his head as the polished, rounded stones hurtled towards the oncoming Parthians. He was still at the base of the rampart when a shout issued from the Legionaries on the wall, in a ragged unison and raised in a savage joy as the stone ammunition smashed into the midst of the leading Crassoi Centuries. Apollodorus may have missed seeing the initial impact, but as he reached Caesar’s side, slightly breathless, he saw the damage wrought by this first volley. It was clear that two of the stones had fallen short but had rebounded and struck the front rank of the Crassoi Century to the Romans’ right, but Apollodorus was slightly disappointed to see that at least one man who had been knocked down after blocking one of the bouncing stones was scrambling back to his feet, although his shield was now split into two useless pieces, which the man’s comrades had to step over. The second man who had been struck by the other stone that had fallen short was lying motionless as his comrades stepped over him as well, continuing their advance. But the third stone; Apollodorus had no way of knowing whether it was Pacuvius’ piece or from one of the others, had flown a bit farther to land squarely in the midst of the middle Century. These Crassoi were still trying to reorganize themselves when Apollodorus reached Caesar, and he saw the grim smile on his master’s face at the sight of what the slave believed were at least two mangled bodies left in the wake of the Century, despit
e the fact that they had been forced to pause for only a moment.
“For a first volley,” Caesar commented, “that wasn’t bad.” Only then did he glance over at Apollodorus. “What did he say about using naphtha?”
“That,” Apollodorus admitted, “it was too risky. And,” if Caesar noticed the slight hesitation, he gave no sign, “I have to say that after he explained it, I have to agree, Master.”
“I thought as much,” was all Caesar said before they were warned to return their attention to the front by the crashing sound from the first ballista to have reloaded.
This time, Apollodorus was able to watch and see that this next stone, followed quickly by the other two, was a direct hit, as were the other two, although it was in different Centuries, with the left and middle Crassoi formations taking the most punishment. Because they were now watching, Caesar and his slave were treated to the sight of one of the stones scoring a direct hit on not just the first man carrying it, but the ladder itself, snapping both vertical supports, each of which were as big around as a man’s forearm, as if they were twigs, sending the pieces flying up in the air, accompanied by a spray of blood and viscera from what had been one of the men holding it with one arm through a rung. Unsurprisingly, this caused the Crassoi Century to falter again, as their Centurion gesticulated and, presumably, shouted orders to his men, although it was impossible to hear over the roaring approbation from the First of the Second to their immediate left. The Crassoi Century in the middle fared a bit better, although Apollodorus saw that at least two men were now little more than piles of battered, bloody meat, reminding him how much damage a rock could do when flung from a powerful weapon. But it was the rightmost Century that both the slave and master could see was heading directly for the spot where they were standing that made Apollodorus understandably nervous, as they drew slowly but inexorably closer.
