Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  “Nice of you and your boys to show up,” Clustuminus smirked, knowing how much this would irritate Aquilinus, for there was no love lost between this pair, even over and above the normal rivalry between Primi Pili.

  “Glad we could help,” Aquilinus, aware that men of both Legions, supposedly busy looting the dead, were instead avidly listening to this exchange so they would have something to brag about around the fire that night, “but we’re not done yet, neh?”

  “No,” Clustuminus agreed readily enough, but he looked slightly disappointed that his counterpart hadn’t risen to the bait, “we’re not.”

  Turning to face south, their view of the fight for the circumvallation was now completely obscured by the dust churned up by thousands of hooves, although the sound carried faintly across the slightly less than eight furlongs distance between the two entrenchments. The pair watched for a moment, each of them relishing the sight of a fleeing enemy, particularly when there were no more than three hundred of them left from well more than a thousand that had been left behind to guard the ramp.

  “Were there any of those Crassoi bastards here?” Aquilinus hated to ask this, but Clustuminus chose not to rub his victory in any further, and replied, “No.” Then, he amended, “At least, they didn’t stay here to fight. When we got up on the ramp, we saw them marching away.” Glancing over at Aquilinus, he finished with a grin, “Right through the camp.”

  For a moment, Aquilinus forgot how much he disliked Clustuminus, laughing at the thought of the men of the Legions who were in this camp worrying about their possessions.

  “Well,” he said genially enough, “maybe if we go and hit those bastards hard enough, all the loot will fall out of their purses. And,” he nudged Clustuminus, grinning, “let’s be honest. It would be nice having Pullus, Spurius, and Balbinus in our debt, wouldn’t it?”

  Clustuminus clearly liked this thought, nodding as he agreed, “That it would.” The smile vanished, and the moment was over. “Now, my boys are ready to go after them. Or,” he asked pointedly, “do you want us to wait for the rest of the 7th to get up out of that ditch?”

  All of the reasons Aquilinus had for despising Clustuminus came flooding back now, and he shot back tightly, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll not only catch up, we’ll be there before you make it halfway.”

  “Care to wager on that?” Clustuminus replied coolly, which was exactly the response for which Aquilinus was hoping.

  “Absolutely,” Aquilinus pounced, then paused as he pretended to think about it. “How about the next two guard shifts? Loser has to stand the other’s guard?”

  Clustuminus hesitated, wondering how Caesar would react; it was one thing to do so within a Legion, where Cohorts and Centuries were switched out all the time, but Legions themselves?

  “Fine,” he agreed after a breath, and the two clasped arms.

  Without another word, the pair spun about and returned to their Legions, shouting orders to their respective commands, both of them intent on winning not only the rest of this battle, but this new bet.

  Chapter Eight

  It was one of the outriders who spotted the dust cloud first, and he came galloping back to where Hirtius was riding at the head of the column.

  “Something’s happening at Susa.” The trooper pointed, but Hirtius had to squint to see what was, at this moment, a tiny, barely visible smudge on the horizon, just above an equally obscure black line.

  “Are you sure?” Hirtius asked, openly skeptical. “Couldn’t that be one of those little dust storms that happen all the time in this gods-cursed land?”

  Although the rider was German, one reason he was always part of the screen that served as scouts was that he spoke Latin fluently, and he shook his head, assuring Hirtius, “No, sir. It’s not a dust storm.” Twisting in the saddle, he pointed as he explained, “See how that cloud is spread out? The wind here makes the dust rise in a spiral so that it looks like a “V.” That,” he finished flatly, “is manmade.”

  Hirtius pondered for a moment, his eyes never leaving the horizon, then nodded his acceptance. Now, of course, was what to do about it. Under different circumstances, it would have been straightforward; go to the trot, or even a canter to reach Susa as quickly as possible, but Hirtius, his men, and most importantly, his animals were already at the end of their collective tethers. Although moving only at a brisk walk, they had been doing so since before dawn, and it was now approaching midday. Hirtius had calculated they were within perhaps five miles of the outer ring of fortifications, and pushing the animals now would practically guarantee that they would be useless in the event that cloud was indeed made by the Parthians, which he was certain that it was now that he understood the origins of that rising dust. They had been following the Parthians through the night, following a trail that was impossible to miss, even in the dark, but Hirtius’ command was still recovering from the savage losses they had endured in their first attempt to stop Kambyses, and they had been forced to leave their wounded behind, guarded by a single turma. Regardless of this, he also knew that he would never be able to face Caesar nor his fellow Legates again if he didn’t bring his men into whatever was taking place up ahead.

  Taking a deep breath, he turned and gave the command, “Sound the call to go to the trot.”

  His Cornicen exchanged a glance with the Decurion next to Hirtius, and the officer gave a warning glare that needed no verbal translation, so the hesitation was such that Hirtius didn’t notice. The notes sounded, except from behind the command element, a chorus of muttered curses and complaints was impossible to miss, yet Hirtius chose to ignore them, instead kicking his own mount, though it took two times before the animal responded. Without looking back, Hirtius moved away from the rest of the column, until it appeared as if he would be advancing on his own, before, finally, the troopers who had been directly behind the Legate urged their own tired animals to move to the trot as well. He had been straining his ears, and when he heard the noise that signaled that, however reluctantly, his men were following, Hirtius turned his mind to what he and his command would do when they got to Susa, but even after several moments, nothing came to him. Finally, he resigned himself to waiting to see exactly what was going on.

  Pullus spotted the Crassoi Primus Pilus, and he experienced a somewhat disquieting feeling of, if not shock, then at least surprise that the man was still in action.

  “I must be losing something,” he mused, but while Paterculus heard his Primus Pilus, he also knew better than to comment on it.

  Besides, the approaching Crassoi were drawing within range of the scorpions that had been turned around, and he didn’t want to disturb Pullus’ concentration. Pullus suddenly raised his left hand, holding his vitus aloft, keeping it there for a moment to ensure that the immunes manning the scorpions saw him, then swept it down.

  “Loose!”

  Acting on Pullus’ orders, the immunes had pivoted their respective pieces so that, rather than sending their bolts directly across at whichever enemies were approaching, they were now focusing their bolts on a single Century, what Pullus had determined was the First Century of the Crassoi. It was already severely shrunken in size from their earlier clash, and was the right hand Century of the two advancing across the dirt bridge. Their Primus Pilus had chosen his Century and Cohort to lead the way, and to align themselves so they were in the best position to take back the section of rampart where the dirt bridge they had built the night before was located. It was understandable, and Pullus would have done the same, even with the depleted ranks, although, as he watched them marching at the same measured pace he would have been using, he thought that he might have moved some men up from the Century immediately behind it to fill the holes. As he and his men on the rampart could see, there were files with only four men in them, instead of the normal ten of the narrower formation the Legions used for situations such as this when they wanted to focus their power on a specific point. Pullus also had seen they were moving in a triple line of tw
o Centuries, then just behind the pair heading for where he was standing was another formation, except it was unlike anything Pullus had seen the Parthians use before. As they drew closer, it seemed to him as if this group, while being afoot, were attired in the armor of cataphractoi, but unlike their mounted counterparts, were carrying shields that were identical to those carried by the Crassoi, although this glance was all the time Pullus could afford to give them in the moment.

  Above the noise, consisting of the shouts of other Centurions and Optios, cursing taunts and the buzzing of men engaging in the inane chatter that none of them would remember afterward, the sharp twanging sound signaled the release of the scorpion bolts. Even if a man tried to do so, the human eye couldn’t track the progress of a bolt, and Pullus didn’t even turn his head, worried more about the impact than the launching. The half-dozen bolts that had been turned onto the leading right-hand Century hit in an almost perfect simultaneity, and as Pullus had hoped, the effect was devastating. Two of the bolts slammed into the shields of men in the front ranks, while the others whizzed through the gaps between men to strike more deeply into the formation, the sharp crack a telltale sound that at least one of them had split a shield. Somehow, while the bolts passed through the two men’s shields as if they were paper, only one of them continued on a straight trajectory to strike the man in the chest, throwing him backward into his comrade in the second rank, but the other was somehow deflected and passed by the second Crassoi’s head. It was so quick that, if the bolt had continued straight, not even Pullus’ friend Domitius, who had the quickest reflexes of any man he’d ever met, would have had time to react, and fortunately for the Crassoi, it continued on its flight just above the heads of the approaching men. The others had struck more deeply in the oncoming formation, which Pullus’ quick count revealed consisted of a bit more than fifty men, many of them sporting bandages, which Pullus correctly deduced meant these men had been wounded during the first clash but wanted to be with their comrades for this moment. Although their following Century was even closer behind them than normal, this was something that Pullus noticed and understood was meaningful, taking it as a sign that they would be used to add to the impact of the coming attack. In the immediate aftermath of the first volley, there was a slight pause in the advance of the right Crassoi Century, as the Optio scrambled around the back of the formation, grabbing a man and shoving him over a file, then bending over and checking on the three fallen men left behind, whereupon the Crassoi Primus Pilus called a quicker cadence to catch up with the left-hand Century, which to this point was advancing unmolested.

  “Loose at will!”

  The subsequent volleys were in name only and now focused on both Centuries, as each crew worked at their own pace, hampered somewhat by the slightly different configuration of these scorpions, all of which had been constructed to a pattern of what the men now called the “old style”, before Caesar had made some improvements to them during their time in Gaul. As each crew quickly discovered, there was an extra step required in the operation of these Parthian scorpions, which resulted in a slightly slower rate at which bolts could be launched. Nevertheless, the men of the Crassoi Centuries on which these scorpions were trained absorbed massive punishment, and despite standing there watching impassively, Pullus was acutely aware of the sidelong glances his men were giving him, certain that they were silently willing him to give the order to cease loosing bolts. The two foes were close enough to each other now that they could hear individual words and cries, and the fact that it was in their common tongue only intensified the sense of discomfort Pullus was feeling, which he knew was shared by his men. This was resurrecting bitter memories of the civil war, when such moments had become commonplace, hearing the calls of distress and pain, supplications to the gods shared by both sides, and perhaps worst of all, the calling of names that were common and could denote that it was a kinsman over there, suffering. Stop coming, Pullus thought grimly, fighting the urge to shout the words. You can’t win. It's over. Just…stop putting your men through this. Of course, no such thing happened, and if Pullus ordered the cessation of the scorpions earlier than he would have under different circumstances, he was never questioned about his decision afterward, by anyone. Finally, the Parthian horn sounded, and the Crassoi line halted, now less than fifty paces away, out of javelin range, but far enough out that it informed Pullus that the enemy Primus Pilus was planning on a running charge, which meant that they would probably be only hurling one javelin instead of two. Which, he acknowledged, was also what he would have done under the circumstances.

  Although there was no need, since his veterans saw the same thing and interpreted it the same way, more out of habit, Pullus bellowed, “Cohort! Shields up!”

  This was instantly echoed on either side of him by the Pili Priores facing the other Crassoi Centuries, then for an instant, no more than the span of two or three heartbeats, there was almost a complete silence, as both combatants stared across the short distance between them.

  “For our families! Porro!”

  Pullus would never learn if this evoking of the reason these former countrymen were still willing to fight was calculated or not, but even in the brief span of time he had before he was occupied with the fight, he could see the glances the men around him exchanged with each other once more, although anything they said was drowned out by the roar of their onrushing countrymen.

  The span of time it took from the moment he and his men came within range of their own scorpions, now in the hands of their enemies, and began the headlong charge in this last-ditch effort to defeat Rome were some of the most agonizing of Caspar’s life. He had understood that this would be a bloody affair, as did all of his men, across the entirety of the Crassoi, yet understanding it and living through it turned out to be excruciatingly different matters. One by one, men who he had led for more than a decade were struck down, their wounds from the deadly bolts usually fatal and always serious, left behind for the Parthians serving as medici to drag them out of the way and do what they could for them before catching back up to the advance. It only took one volley for Caspar to see that the abandoned scorpions had been repositioned to concentrate on just his Cohort and specifically the First Century, at least for the first volley, and this served to fuel his rage, which he focused on the large Primus Pilus, whom he had spotted almost from the moment the Crassoi had drawn near enough to make out individuals. Caspar had no illusions; he was certain this was his last day in the world of the living, and he swore to himself, not only to his adopted Mithras and the Parthian Ahura-Mazda, but to the gods to which he originally prayed, Mars, Bellona, Fortuna, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus, that he would take that arrogant giant with him when he stepped into Charon’s Boat. He took heart in the fact that, although there had been a couple near misses, the crews manning the scorpions either had chosen on their own to avoid aiming at him, or they had been ordered not to, which he again attributed to the giant Roman. That, he thought grimly, just after another bolt slashed into his Century, will turn out to be a mistake. Then, the needs of the moment took control over his personal desire for vengeance, and seeing that they had reached the imaginary line he had selected on their approach, ordered the halt.

  “All right, boys! We’re only going to give them one volley, at the double quick. Then, we’re going to spill these faithless whore’s spawns’ guts!”

  There was a brief, guttural response from his men, but although it was muted, Caspar’s experience told him this wasn’t because their hearts weren’t in it. Every man there understood what was at stake; even if they didn’t have families themselves, they were standing next to their friends, their brothers-in-arms who did, and not one of them wanted to be the man who let their comrades down.

  “Cohort! Shields up!”

  The distance was now close enough that there was no discernible lag between the shouted command and the response by the Romans, their shields snapping up to present a uniform line of dark red, upon which the bull, the
original symbol of the 10th Legion, now shared space with the figure of a horse, which had been added because of the more famous appellation the Legion was known by, the Equestrians. Caspar’s mouth had suddenly gone dry, which was partially the reason he paused before giving the command that would shatter what was an unusual and nearly complete hush that had suddenly taken hold, to the point where the Crassoi Primus Pilus could hear the harsh panting of his men, along with someone uttering a prayer that he hadn’t heard in many years, though he couldn’t tell who had uttered it: one of his men or one of the enemy.

  “Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this Legion, soldiers all!”

  Then, he found his voice, thrusting his sword into the air in the same manner that the large Primus Pilus had done with his vitus before unleashing the scorpions, his voice strong as he shouted all that needed to be said. “For our families! Porro!”

  It may not have been done with the speed of a scorpion bolt, but the explosion of sound and movement contained an energy that was certainly comparable, and Caspar was as much swept along as he was leading his men as they surged forward, each of them having discarded one of their javelins and holding the other aloft in one hand, while making sure their shields were held out to the side as they dashed forward. This, as both sides knew, was a risky move for an attacker, because it meant their primary means of protection was out of position and made them vulnerable to a volley of missiles, be they javelins, slings, or arrows. However, this was one moment where Caspar had gambled on something, and it was a piece of knowledge that he felt certain their Roman adversaries had yet to learn. While it was true that the javelins carried by the Crassoi were different and didn’t have the soft metal portion of the shaft, there was another advantage over the Roman version, something that had convinced the Centurions of the Crassoi to stop fighting their Parthian overlords when they insisted they be adopted over the Roman model with which they were so familiar. While a stouter style of javelin made sense in battling mounted troops, it was the other advantage that convinced the Crassoi to stop their resistance, and that was when they determined that because of the slightly heavier construction and different balance, the range of the Parthian version was perhaps three to five paces further than the Roman, while the impact was more devastating. And, now as Caspar ran alongside his men, although he wasn’t carrying a javelin himself, he was counting on this advantage for his men. As any experienced Centurion did, Caspar had mentally marked the point at which he would give the order to release, and almost before his mind could keep up, he and his men raced across the ground to that imaginary line. Because of the noise made by the wind and his roaring men, he didn’t hear the command, but saw as the arms of the waiting Romans also swept back, their own, traditional javelins arrayed in a line of triangular heads pointing skyward.