by R. W. Peake
“Caesar,” Pullus said with a confidence that sounded hollow to his ears, “can’t see that they just brought fresh men to relieve the fuckers who have been fighting with us for the last two watches.” Saying it aloud did manage to bolster his belief that this was the right thing to do, and he pressed, “My boys are done in, and so are yours. I didn’t get a good look at those reinforcements, but what I could see is that they’re not their spearmen..” Pullus’ voice lowered, but not the intensity, as he finished, “Spurius, with those fresh men, they’re going to be able to cut through my Cohort, and then they’ll be on your ass quicker than Pan. And all we’ll have to show for it is more dead men to haunt our dreams.”
Spurius’ gaze had turned to these unfortunates, and in what Pullus took as a tacit acceptance, mused, “We’re going to have to drag those poor bastards out of the way. And,” he emphasized, “we’re going to have to protect them when those fucking Crassoi come charging through here.”
While Pullus understood and shared his friend’s concern, he said, “I don’t think they’re going to waste time trying to put some men who are already out of action to the sword if it means they’re risking making it to those bastards my boys are fighting. Do you?”
“No,” Spurius admitted, “not likely. But,” he persisted, “if this goes to cac and it looks like Caesar wants to flay us, I’m going to say you forced me to do it!”
Pullus laughed at this, pointing out, “And how would I force you, Spurius? You may be short, but you’re tougher than salted beef.”
“I don’t know,” the Primus Pilus grumbled, but his lips were curved upward in a sign that, despite all that was happening around them, Spurius was enjoying this all too brief respite from the strain of command, “but I’ll think of something.”
Clasping arms quickly, nothing more was said as each man went trotting back to their respective commands, yet while both were preoccupied with the details of what they were about to do, Pullus carried the extra burden of knowing that, despite his conviction this was the right thing to do, Caesar might not see it that way. And, he admitted to himself, he would have liked nothing better than to be in communication with their general to get some sort of guidance on what he was about to do, but this wasn’t possible within an acceptable amount of time. Consequently, Pullus was once more relying on the belief that, in his own way, he was loved by Fortuna as much as Caesar was; whether this was so would be decided within the next third of a watch.
It had not taken Kambyses long to learn that the idea of escaping from another point in the ring of Roman fortifications wasn’t a possibility, albeit at the expense of close to a hundred of his men, when they came within range of the artillery and slings of the Legion waiting for them outside the eastern camp. Once again, there was massive confusion, as the faster mounts of the archers meant that they were the first to encounter the trap laid by Caesar. If there was anything positive about this development, it was in the fact that none of his remaining cataphractoi were casualties; that they were further protected by the dust churned up by those surviving archers frantically stopping their momentum to turn and flee was a welcomed, if ironic benefit. There was a space in between the right flank of the Legion that had just raked the remains of his spad and where the two Legions were waiting, just in front of the lowered ramp that led to the open country beyond. Of his subordinate commanders, only Roshan, Gaumata, and Imanish were left, and when Kambyses summoned them for an impromptu council in this spot safe from missiles, the absence of his brother, to whom he had never been close before, caused a stab of pain that was sharpened because it was unexpected, prompting Kambyses to turn his face away as he pretended to examine the ground between themselves and the two Legions, blinking away the tears.
Finally, he was sufficiently composed to begin, “It’s clear there’s no way out in that direction.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And we can’t afford to tire our horses out any more than they already are going to the other side, especially since I am certain that the same thing is waiting for us. So,” his mouth turned down at the corners, while his stomach tightened at what he was certain was the correct and only recourse left to them, “we’re going to have to punch through those dogs standing in front of the ramp.” He turned his head to regard the two noblemen who commanded the cataphractoi, and he had to fight the urge to use his whip to slash both men across the face, having noticed that neither man’s horse was showing signs of fatigue, and their swords, while drawn, were clean of blood. This was what prompted him to say coldly, “We are going to form up in The Fist formation, and you two are going to lead the way.”
Their reactions were markedly different in terms of expression and hue, though both men were clearly affected by Kambyses’ words, but it was Gaumata, whose face had darkened in suppressed rage, who spoke, “I can assure you, Lord Kambyses, that…”
“Save it,” Kambyses cut him off, then pointed his gloved finger directly in the man’s face, “for those Romans, Gaumata. I have eyes, and I know neither of you have wet your sword, so this is your opportunity to do so. Or,” his voice actually dropped in volume, but his gaze was fixed on the younger man’s face with an implacable coldness, “are you the coward I think you are?”
“We,” it was Roshan who spoke up, while reaching over to place a cautioning hand on his counterpart, “are honored, Lord. And we will not disappoint you.”
“Good,” Kambyses said peremptorily, returning his gaze to where the two Legions were standing, close enough that he could see the entire attention of both Legions was fixed on where he and his men had stopped.
For a brief moment, Kambyses was tempted to turn his examination to his left, back where Gemellus and his remaining Crassoi were still fighting, the sounds drifting across the distance between them. That he didn’t was based in his certainty that the situation had become untenable, and the chances of achieving a breakthrough to the city’s defenders had passed; now it was about the preservation of what remained of his spad.
After a moment’s scrutiny, Kambyses lifted his arm to point, then thought better of it, telling the pair, “Do you see that slight gap? In between where their eagle standard is and the next group of men to their right?”
Both men examined the spot, but again, it was Roshan who answered doubtfully, “I see it, Lord. But that’s barely more than one or two paces wider than their normal spacing.”
Once more, Kambyses stifled his impatience, if only because he needed these men to fully commit to what they all knew was a desperate ploy.
“It is,” he agreed, “and it won’t be easy. But it’s our only way out.”
He said nothing more, just watched the pair, until Roshan swallowed hard, then turned to Kambyses and said simply, “I understand, Lord. We will not disappoint you.”
The next few dozen heartbeats were spent in hastily arranging the force that had become hopelessly muddled, as the cataphractoi maneuvered their more heavily armored mounts into position.
One of them, however, stopped in front of Kambyses, knuckling his forehead before he pointed to Kambyses’ horse, saying, “Lord, your horse is already blown.” Without waiting for a reply, the man slipped off his own mount, a large dun stallion, and knelt in front of Kambyses while offering up the reins. “Take my horse, please, Lord.”
Kambyses, realizing the import of what this man was offering, felt his throat close up, but he did slide off his own mount, a white mare whose head was hanging, a thick coating of white rime around her mouth, her nostrils flared as the animal’s lungs worked like bellows, and this was after they had been stopped for a short period.
Taking the reins from the man, he managed, “He is a magnificent animal…” His voice trailed off, prompting the young Parthian to offer his name.
“Nabonidus, Lord, of the house of Khortdad.”
“I thank you, Nabonidus.” Kambyses’ voice had turned husky, so before he lost his composure, he asked, “What is his name?”
“His name is Tir, and he wil
l not fail you, I swear it!” Nabonidus answered, his voice containing an equal mixture of pride and an understandable apprehension about what was coming.
“Well, Nabonidus,” Kambyses said as he vaulted into the saddle, and in yet another uncharacteristic act, he gave the young noble a grin. “Once we’re out of here, I will bring you Tir back, unharmed.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Nabonidus replied and returned Kambyses’ grin with one of his own that clearly communicated his understanding that no such thing would be happening.
Then, Gaumata called to him, informing him that The Fist was now formed up, whereupon Kambyses moved to a spot immediately behind the tightly packed leading edge of the formation, while other cataphractoi moved to either side of him, completely encasing him in a cocoon of armored flesh, both human and animal. As this was happening, the lone surviving leader of the archers, Imanish, led the remnant of his command around on either side to envelop the cataphractoi, preparing to launch the last of their arrows at the waiting Legions.
“Remember, Imanish,” Kambyses called, “you’ll only have one pass, then you and your men must be right on our tails!”
Knuckling that he understood, the young commander took a deep breath, then moved to the trot, heading directly for the waiting Legions, who clearly not only saw them coming, but given how they raised their shields, understood what was about to happen.
“If we’re lucky,” Kambyses remarked aloud, “they will move into their tortoise formation.”
“If they do,” the man to his right laughed, “they will be meat for the vultures.”
“May Ahura-Mazda and Mithras make it so!”
This came from behind Kambyses, and while he didn’t turn to acknowledge this unseen man’s supplication to their gods, he raised his fist in a signal that he had heard it. Gaumata was the one who called out the command to move from the rapid walk to the trot, leading the entire force in a parallel direction first, essentially aligning their position so that when they turned, they would be directly aimed at the perceived weak spot, a bit less than two hundred paces away. What Kambyses and every other man had no way of knowing was that, even as they were pivoting to make this last desperate attempt to break out, two Roman Centurions were conferring, deciding that it was in the best interests of their men to move them aside and allow the two Crassoi forces to join. Perhaps if one of the men at the rear of the compact formation had cast a glance over his shoulder and seen how the Legion Gemellus and his Crassoi were battling suddenly began to move backward and to the side, the ordered ranks swinging like two doors out of the path of Gemellus’ men, Kambyses would have been able to at least lead his mounted troops back into the city to bolster the defenders, although his initial goal of breaking Caesar’s siege was no longer within the realm of possibility. But, as often happens in battle, none of Kambyses’ cataphractoi or archers deigned to look back, intent as they were on this last attempt to break free and gain a reprieve and chance to regroup. They were leaving behind an expanse of open ground that was that in name only, so thickly laid were the corpses of horses and men, although many of the fallen, both beast and human, still lived, consigned to lying there, waiting for death to claim them, either because their strength failed or when, in the aftermath, men would come and end their misery. If any of Kambyses’ survivors had been asked, this more than anything else was why their attention was straight ahead; none wanted what might be the last image in their minds of a shattering defeat.
It was Roshan, next to Gaumata at the very tip of The Fist, who shouted the order to move from the trot to the canter, but while Kambyses’ vision was obscured, word was shouted back to him and those around him. “They’re staying in open formation! And it looks like their front two ranks have spears!”
“They’re not spears!” Kambyses shouted. “They’re their throwing javelins, the ones with the soft metal shaft that will bend! Hit them hard and they’ll be useless!”
There was no answer from either Gaumata or Roshan, but that was because they had gone to the gallop, and what had already been noisy now became such a thunderous racket of pounding hooves, punctuated by the clashing sound as the tightly packed mass of armored horsemen inevitably bounced into and off of the horse and rider next to them. Kambyses was unaccustomed to this spot, four ranks back and essentially blind, but he could see ahead just enough that, in the two or three heartbeats before the two Parthian noblemen slammed into the waiting Roman lines at full speed, he understood he had made a terrible error. It was a logical assumption on his part, though that would bring him no comfort for the rest of the time remaining to him, that the Romans would be presenting their specially designed javelins, but it had been wrong. Just a glimpse was enough to tell Kambyses that these Romans had managed to scrounge up the longer, sturdier spears used by the Parthian infantry, but even if he could have been heard, there simply wasn’t enough time to do so, as both Roshan and Gaumata lived up to their promise, driving their horses into the front rank at full speed. The next several heartbeats were a swirling mess of sights and sounds as the tremendous momentum generated by the two Parthians leading the charge came to a sudden and abrupt halt, and even from his vantage point, Kambyses saw that one of the pair—he couldn’t tell who it was—went somersaulting high in the air, flung from his horse who, judging from the shrill, piercing scream, had been impaled by one of the heavier spears and come to a sudden stop as a result. Not, however, before sending the Roman in the front rank hurtling backwards, his feet leaving the ground and slamming into the shield of the man of the second rank, who in turn staggered backward heavily enough to knock the third man aside as well. Just as before, the Parthian charge managed to force its way into the Roman formation, but this time, their foes on foot were standing on level ground, so the momentum of the Parthian horses wasn’t absorbed as effectively as before. Only when the men immediately in front of Kambyses, using their lances not only as stabbing weapons but as a means of shoving their foes out of their path, managed to force their way deeper into the Roman ranks did Kambyses recognize the body of the horse that had been Gaumata’s mount, down on its knees with blood gushing from its mouth, and the splintered remnant of a spear protruding from its chest. There was no time for more than a passing glance, then Kambyses’ new and fresher mount somehow managed to leap over the dying animal, and Kambyses saw an upturned face, a Roman helmet framing it, just as the hardened hoof of his mount plunged down to crush in the nose and cheeks of the Legionary, who couldn’t even manage a scream as he dropped out of sight. One of the cataphractoi to Kambyses’ right, the man on the outside of the formation, suddenly let out a sharp cry of alarm, prompting Kambyses to turn his head just in time to see at least three sets of hands reaching up, grabbing at the Parthian and yanking him from his saddle. Suddenly relieved of its rider, the man’s horse responded in the manner in which it had been trained and reared, violently lashing out with its front hooves in what was both an attempt to inflict more damage on an enemy, and to keep anyone from mounting it, in the event that its rider was able to regain his feet and get back in the saddle. Judging from the shrill scream and the brief glimpse of a short, stabbing sword raised above a helmeted head before plunging down, Kambyses knew this horse would never be ridden by its master again, but the Parthian was heartened that, while slowed, his cataphractoi were still moving. His view was still obscured, but already at least two more saddles had been emptied from the men ahead of him, and he could see just far enough ahead to see that, if Roshan was still in the saddle, he was punching through the last rank of the first Roman line.
That still left a second line, but then Kambyses recognized Roshan’s voice as he shouted, “They don’t have any spears!”
The cataphract to Kambyses’ left relayed the message back, then added in an almost conversational tone that was out of place, both because of the situation and to whom it was addressed, “We’ll be able to cut through those dogs easily!” Only then did he realize that he had spoken so casually to the commander of the
spad, but Kambyses was feeling the first bloom of what could be described as hope, and he grinned at the man instead of rebuking him, replying, “I expect to see your sword wet, then!”
There was no time for the cataphract to think of a rejoinder because they were now through and out into the narrow strip of open ground between the first and second Roman lines, then in a move that was carried out with a smoothness that spoke of almost as much practice as the Romans were famed for, he moved up into one of the vacated spots ahead of Kambyses. But when Kambyses made to do the same thing, he felt a gentle but firm hand on his right arm.
“No, Excellency,” the speaker, a man near Kambyses’ own age with a diagonal scar that ran across his nose, shook his head and said, “we need our leader more than we need your sword. Please stay here in the fourth rank.”
While he said nothing, Kambyses did give a curt nod, but the other Parthian would have been surprised to know that while his commander was angry, it was at himself, mixed with embarrassment, because he understood that the man was correct. At this moment, Kambyses’ only value to his spad was as their leader, not as a warrior, so he remained where he was as the shuffling and reforming was accomplished within the space of heartbeats. Because of their collision with the wall of flesh and wood, they had naturally been forced to slow from the gallop, and herein lay what he understood was the most dangerous part of this attempt to break out and gain the freedom of the open country that now lay tantalizingly close, just on the other side of the lowered wooden ramp. While he did not turn about, Kambyses could hear that the rest of the cataphractoi were still slashing, hacking, and pushing their way through the first Roman line, and he wondered how much of his command would be lost. Then, just as Roshan and the man who had taken Gaumata’s spot spurred their mounts to gather as much speed as possible in the shortened space, from behind and above, a shower of arrows came arcing over, plunging down into the waiting Romans, and of every volley launched by the force of archers, this was the most devastatingly effective of the day, aided by the fact that there was no way for the Romans in the second line to see through the mass of human and horse flesh, where the archers were even then attaching themselves to the rear of the escaping cataphractoi. Coinciding with the bawled commands of the Centurions for the men to raise their shields and brace them to prepare for the coming impact, to Kambyses, indeed to every cataphract leading the way, the arrows launched at Imanish’s command landed in a narrow swathe with almost uncanny accuracy, landing before the Romans managed to obey their Centurion’s command. Slashing down into the waiting Romans without any warning, the rain of missiles roughly aligned with the width of the Parthian formation, but even more crucially, they reached the entire ten ranks deep, felling men as if some god had swept his hand in a careless gesture that just happened to be the exact dimensions that would enable the remnant of the Parthian host to make its escape. It wasn’t without loss; Kambyses suffered a scare when the horse of the man immediately in front of him, suddenly confronted with writhing, screaming men directly underneath its hooves, either made a misstep or, more likely, stumbled as one of the men rolled into its front legs. In a manner similar to how Gaumata had perished, the rider went vaulting over the saddle as the horse slammed headfirst into the ground, then flipped completely over to land heavily on its back and landed directly on its rider, its four legs flailing wildly in the air and presenting as much of a threat as the bulk of its body. Kambyses didn’t even have time to react, but in another moment that, coupled with the propitious manner in which Imanish’s men had launched their missiles, made Kambyses begin to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, his gods hadn’t deserted him and his men, his borrowed horse leapt over the carnage, landing nimbly on the other side of the obstacle. Even as he was landing, Kambyses heard a shout behind him that he was certain meant that the man behind him hadn’t been as fortunate, but he didn’t dare risk looking back, not with the wooden ramp just a few paces away. The cataphract who had moved next to Roshan was knocked from the saddle, though it happened so quickly that Kambyses never learned how, but without a rider, the man’s horse immediately pulled ahead and went clattering across the lowered ramp, followed closely by Roshan, his lance either broken or discarded, leaving him to slash down at the pair of hands that made one last desperate attempt to grab him and pull him down. Then, the noise level actually increased, caused by the hollow echoing of hooves striking the wooden ramp; ironically, as surefooted as this horse had proven to be, Kambyses felt him stumble slightly when reaching the ramp. It was so unexpected that it caught Kambyses by surprise; before he could react, he felt himself pitching forward, and for a sickening span of heartbeats, he was certain that this escape attempt would end in the most ignominious fashion, in much the same way he had been captured when Ctesiphon fell when he was unhorsed. Somehow, this didn’t happen, and he was vaguely aware that it was because he had managed to grab a handful of the horse’s mane, then he was back in the saddle and the sensation changed as the horse, he remembered his name was Tir, reached solid ground…on the other side of the outermost Roman entrenchment. They had done it! He exulted in this feeling of freedom, realizing in the moment how the fear of a fate worse than death, recapture, had been lurking somewhere within him ever since this attempt began. That it had failed was certainly a bitter blow, but Kambyses was already thinking ahead, planning what would come next, which was why he was completely unprepared for the sudden shout of alarm from what sounded like Roshan. What followed happened even more quickly than Tir’s stumble, but the end result was essentially the same; Kambyses was knocked from the saddle, whereupon he re-experienced that queer sensation of weightlessness as he flew sideways, then a tremendous impact that made everything go black.
