Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  “Kambyses! Brother!” Even as he said this, Intaphernes was sliding off the animal, but doing it on Kambyses’ side so that he could thrust the reins of the horse into his brother’s hands. “Get on! Get out of here!”

  Only then did Kambyses notice why his brother had been able to perform an astonishing feat of horsemanship; he had switched his own heavily armored mount for one belonging to an archer.

  “I…” Kambyses gasped, but between them, it was his younger brother who retained his awareness, cutting him off with a snarled, “Get on this fucking horse and get out of here. Now!”

  And, to his own shock, Kambyses did, leaping aboard the animal, while even as he did, Intaphernes was rushing at the nearest Legionary, who was still on his hands and knees, shaking his head to try and clear it. Before he could react to his comrade’s warning shout, Intaphernes’ blade slashed down, severing the man’s head in a single blow. Kambyses, now in the lighter saddle used by the archers, began to wheel the horse about, pulling on its reins and leaning back, while pressing hard on the animal’s flank with his left leg, the command for it to pivot on its hind legs to turn around in the opposite direction. As the horse revolved, Kambyses saw Caesar still lying flat on his back, obviously having been knocked there by Intaphernes’ impetuous rescue, and he experienced a moment of indecision, thinking that he should risk all while Caesar was still in a vulnerable position. The moment passed, if only because he saw his brother now under a furious assault by the remaining Romans who stood between Kambyses and freedom from this killing ground. Gouging his spurs into the sides of the horse, implements which archers didn’t wear, as he hoped it would, Kambyses’ mount responded instantly, screeching in pain but more importantly leaping forward, just narrowly avoiding Intaphernes, whose back was turned as he parried a thrust from his foe. Even without the added weight of armor, the bulk of the horse sent the one Roman foolhardy enough to attempt to stand his ground flying backward, and Kambyses slashed down at Intaphernes’ foe as he swept past.

  “Avenge me, brother!”

  Intaphernes’ voice rang out, sounding as a command that his elder sibling swore he would obey, then, after one final slashing, downward blow, Kambyses escaped into the open ground between the Roman lines, leaving behind a brother who had sacrificed himself to make it so. As he quickly discovered, the safety of the open ground was illusory, as Caesar’s trap closed its jaws.

  Separated by the bodies of his men of the First of the First of the Equestrians, and furiously engaged with the Crassoi who were also of the First Cohort, Pullus was growing increasingly frustrated at the success the enemy Primus Pilus was experiencing in exhorting his rankers to push more deeply into the center of his own Century. The only small blessing was that he had aligned these men with the right hand edge of the dirt bridge, which over the course of the previous four watches had seen more use than he was certain the Crassoi had intended, meaning that at least their footing was secure because the dirt had been firmly packed down. Elsewhere along the rampart, in both directions, Pullus could see that, while his men were standing firm, they were too heavily engaged themselves for him to risk shifting some of them to help bolster his own Cohort. While he understood why, ever since learning from the captive Centurion Asina about the threat the Parthians in command had posed to their families, it still left a bitter taste in his mouth to see his boys, the most veteran Legion in Caesar’s army, so hard-pressed and evenly matched, no matter how desperate, or who, their foes may have been. Returning his attention to his most immediate concern, Pullus put the bone whistle to his lips, watching his front line with a practiced and critical eye, judging the men in the first line and waiting for the proper moment to sound the relief. His answer came with the blast of an identical bone whistle, except it was across from him, when the Crassoi Primus Pilus sounded his own call for relief, so that Pullus decided that timing his for the same stint would at least delay the progress the enemy was making in pushing his men back. This, he was aware, was a stopgap measure, and he was rapidly approaching the moment where he would be forced to make a decision, because the rearmost ranks of his men were already standing on the stone portion of the parapet that had been toppled over. Despite the fact that the stone portion of the wall had been pushed over yet remained intact, the footing on the dressed stones was too slick to provide proper traction for men who were bracing their comrades. As long as it was just the men of the last three or four ranks, their hold on the leather harness of the man in front of them was more a matter of form, and rarely did they have to exert themselves much, but the last rank was already standing on the fallen wall; their next backward step would be down onto the dirt bridge, which, for all but those nearly as tall as him, would mean that the men of the rearmost ranks wouldn’t be able to reach up and continue bracing their comrades. At any other time, the detached part of his mind recognized how his boys would recognize the humor of the moment, since any man dropping onto the dirt bridge would essentially be staring directly at the ass of their comrade in front, something that he was sure would be exploited to the fullest potential and give men something to talk about around the fires. Despite this, Pullus was experiencing a rare event for him, a moment of indecision, as he was completely torn on the best course of action. Then, even as he was watching, one of the Crassoi in the front rank struck one of his men a blow that sent the Roman reeling backward with a tremendous amount of force that, in turn, made his comrade behind him stumble as well, perhaps with not as much violence, but enough to cause a ripple effect back down the file. This in itself wasn’t unusual, except this time, the ranker who was the first one standing on the dressed stones of the wall lost his footing when the force of the impact was relayed back through the file. Even then, this would have been a localized problem, except that Pullus could only watch in alarm as the jerking movement caused yet another man, the second ranker standing on the wall, problems when one of his feet slipped out from under him, although he didn’t fall all the way down. Just by the nature in which the Legions worked, one man slipping and losing his feet could conceivably bring down not just himself, but others around him, thereby giving the enemy precisely the advantage they needed to win the day.

  “That’s it,” Pullus muttered, to himself, having seen enough. His gut twisted as he turned to his Cornicen, but he forced himself to sound matter-of-fact as he ordered, “Sound the signal for withdrawal, First Century. We,” he finished grimly, “are falling back onto the dirt bridge.”

  Once Kambyses made it to the relative safety of where his archers were standing stationary, unable to launch their missiles because the cataphractoi who were now battling on the Romans defending their inner entrenchment had just been joined by the Crassoi, still led by Gemellus, the Parthian commander paused for a moment to catch his breath, take stock of the situation, and to mourn the death of his younger brother. By the time Kambyses reached a spot where he felt safe enough to turn about, Intaphernes had already disappeared from sight, undoubtedly already struck down and lying under the feet of the Romans who were now engaged with more cataphractoi. Gemellus was in his spot at the head of the Crassoi, and they had already swept by at the trot before Kambyses could exchange a word with the Centurion, yet despite that, Kambyses understood there was no need. From the moment he had led his spad across the seized outer ramp, every man knew what had to be done, and he had to admit that, even from those he hadn’t expected much, specifically his force of spearmen, they had acquitted themselves well. So well, in fact, that it didn’t occur to Kambyses to check behind him, where he had left more than a thousand of them behind to secure the outer Roman fortification. This proved to be a costly mistake, in a day filled with them for both combatants, of which he only became aware by a sudden shout from his rear, sufficient in the volume and sense of alarm that he spun his mount about on its hind legs. Ironically, he forgot that he was now longer on his heavily armored horse and was almost thrown when the lighter, nimbler horse pivoted about. Then, his reaction was further delaye
d by the sudden shock of seeing a new force of Romans, arrayed in the formation he had first seen the year before, just starting their advance in his direction. There was a further delay of perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats as Kambyses determined that there were at least two Legions of the enemy, although the second and third lines had yet to form up, the composition of this new attack obvious by the presence of two eagle standards. Just the sight of them elicited a sharp stab of bitter, helpless rage in Kambyses as, for an instant, he was transported back to the moment he had first seen those accursed gilt eagles on their poles, during the battle on the ridge when Pacorus had been slain, and his spad had been soundly defeated. An outcome that Kambyses now understood could be shared by him and his command, especially if he didn’t act quickly now to try and escape with as many men as possible. Swallowing the sudden rush of bile, he looked back over his shoulder, searching desperately for a horn player, finally spotting one who was part of the mounted archers. Kicking his horse, he spun the animal about once more and went immediately to the gallop, sliding to a stop in front of the Parthian cornicen, whose own eyes went wide at the sight of the commander of this entire force.

  Despite knowing time was a crucial commodity, it took Kambyses twice before the words came out. “Sound the recall, all forces.”

  There was another delay of a few heartbeats because the Parthian ranker wasn’t sure he had heard correctly, stammering, “E-Excellency? I…”

  “I said, sound the recall, immediately!” Kambyses snarled, understandably but irrationally angry at the man for forcing him to repeat the order.

  Only nodding his acknowledgment, the man lifted the horn, licked his lips, then began to blow the notes that signaled the nominal command to withdraw, and the practical end to the Parthians’ conventional resistance to Roman rule.

  Gemellus, as was his duty, was leading his Crassoi as they moved to full speed, slamming into the waiting lines of the 3rd Legion, who had just barely weathered the assault of the cataphractoi, and within a matter of moments, his men had managed to drive their fellow Romans from the area of the rampart on either side of the wooden ramp of the circumvallation. Some of Spurius’ men had been forced to leap down into the ditch, and several of them had either fallen directly into one of the disguised traps or after landing, as they scrambled along the bottom of the ditch and out of the range of any enemy missiles, stepped into one. The majority of the Legionaries, including Caesar and his makeshift bodyguard, simply moved along the rampart, away from the wooden ramp on both sides, and were now turned facing it as Gemellus’ men made good on the gains won by the mounted Parthians. Indeed, two sections of Crassoi were now lowering the wooden ramp, the final step in allowing them to cross this last stretch of open ground between what had been the innermost Roman entrenchments and the fortifications created and manned by Caspar’s command. The ramp was almost fully lowered when, from behind them, came the distinctive sound of a Parthian horn, but while the notes were clearly recognizable, similarly to his commander’s reaction when Kambyses saw two Legions advancing, Gemellus stood frozen for a moment, staring back towards the outer entrenchments. Between the bulk of the remnants of the mounted troops and the inevitable dust raised by their hooves, Gemellus couldn’t see any reason for such an order. Then, a stray breeze happened to dispel enough of the dust for the Crassoi Centurion to catch a glimpse of something that elicited the same feeling of dismayed shock Kambyses had experienced, and explain the reason for the horn command. A silvery flash was the first hint, his eyes naturally drawn to it, though it took another heartbeat for him to recognize the shape of the eagle, whose outstretched gilt wings had caught the sunlight, barely recognizable as such between the dust and the distance. This glimpse was enough to force Gemellus to stand, his back turned to where the fighting was still taking place between his men and those belonging to Caesar, scanning the scene before him as he tried to peer through the roiling dust and mass of bodies to determine whether this was an entire Legion, and if so, if it was alone. It was when he caught sight of a second eagle, to his far left, that he understood both the cause for the recall and that it was not just the right decision, but the only one for Kambyses to make. This didn’t make it any less a bitter draught for him to swallow, recognizing that, in doing so, Kambyses was preserving only part of his spad, those men who were mounted and possessed the speed and mobility to escape, while leaving Gemellus and his Crassoi behind to fend for themselves, along with the spearmen. What it did do, however, was simplify his decision about what to do next; it was impossible to extricate his men in order to join the withdrawing Parthians, leaving the only possibility of seeing another sunrise, albeit a slim one, in cutting their way across the ramp and joining with Caspar and the rest of the Crassoi, where he would have to inform his commanding Centurion that Kambyses' gamble had failed.

  This was what he had in mind when he pushed his way forward to bellow, “Boys, we’re almost there! Caspar and your brothers are just ahead of us, and the only thing left between us are these faithless sons of whores who left us here to die a decade ago! Now…kill these bastards!”

  His voice was drowned out by the roaring promise of the Crassoi still in the fight, which Gemellus estimated to be a bit better than half of his original strength, although this thought triggered a sharp stab of a combination of anger and helplessness, understanding that those men of his who had fallen taking the outer entrenchments but still lived would inevitably be left behind by Kambyses. And, he thought, we won’t be able to go back for them either. This realization caused him to offer a prayer to gods with whom he had not communed for almost a decade, when he had sworn a vow to turn his back on the gods of Rome because they had clearly abandoned every man marching for Marcus Crassus. Please, he offered, silently, Mars, Bellona, Fortuna, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus, please watch over my boys left behind back there, and let Caesar’s men remember we were once their countrymen. With this silent offering, there was nothing more he could do for those men, so he returned his attention to his Tesseraurius, standing in the spot normally occupied by his Optio, who was now lying back behind him somewhere.

  Stopping by the man’s side just long enough to offer a reassuring pat, Gemellus shouted, “Form testudo!” Being veterans, there wasn’t a noticeable pause, and as they contracted, he continued moving back to the front of his Century. On both sides of the ramp, Gemellus saw Caesar’s men hopping down into the ditch, scrambling the fifteen feet across, where they frantically worked together to lift themselves up to the opposite side, whereupon they ran to where a handful of Signiferi, Optios and Centurions who had already made it across were trying to rally their men. This development was composed of almost equal parts good and bad; it meant that his other Centuries on either side of the ramp had managed to pressure Caesar’s Legionaries to the point where staying on the rampart was untenable. Unfortunately, it also meant that they would be able to regroup and stiffen their resistance on the opposite side of the ditch. Only if, he thought, we let them.

  Pointing his sword at the Romans who had already retreated across the ditch and were rallied and now waiting for them just a couple of paces from the wooden ramp, Gemellus bellowed, “Century! Forward!”

  When the leading rank stepped onto the wooden portion of the ramp, as Gemellus had anticipated, a Caesarian Centurion, wearing the white crest that marked him as a Primus Pilus, shouted his own order, and roughly half the waiting men’s arms swept backward, which Gemellus guessed, correctly, was because these were all the javelins remaining to the enemy.

  “One volley, boys! That’s all they’ve got! Wait for my command!”