Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  Finally, Caesar broke the silence, saying conversationally, “You look tired.”

  Despite himself, Kambyses let out a snort of what might have been laughter.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed, giving Caesar a smile that was more grimace, “just a bit.”

  Caesar stood then, indicating the chair in front of his desk as he asked, “Have you been cared for? Were you fed? Is there anything you need?”

  Again, before he could stop himself, Kambyses replied, “A quick death, Caesar. That’s all I need from you.”

  If Caesar was surprised, he hid it well, but he remained standing, studying Kambyses for a long moment before he replied flatly, “I’m afraid that’s not something I can oblige you with, Kambyses. I still have need of your…service.”

  “My ‘service’?” Kambyses shot back, the bitterness, anger, and humiliation bursting through his resolve that he wouldn’t lose his composure. “Haven’t I served you enough? Haven’t I served my purpose?” By the time this was out, Kambyses was physically trembling, and it took quite an effort of will for him to regain enough of his dignity and composure, yet somehow, he was back under control enough to say, “Caesar, if you have any regard for me at all, I am asking...” Swallowing, he amended, “No, I am begging you to kill me now. Do not make me undergo any more humiliation.”

  Caesar had retaken his seat, and he looked up at Kambyses, regarding him with a sympathy that was both genuine, and to Kambyses, lacerating to the Parthian’s last shred of pride because it was unfeigned.

  Finally, Caesar answered regretfully, “Kambyses, I am sorry, I truly am. But, while I would like to grant your request, you’re still useful to me.”

  “How?” Kambyses cried in frustration. “What good can I possibly do to you, Roman?”

  “You know we have Phraates,” Caesar answered. “And now that we have you, I intend to let whoever is in command inside Susa know that there’s no point in resisting further. All it will do is result in more slaughter.”

  “Of Romans,” Kambyses shot back. “You’ll lose many men trying to take the city!”

  “We will,” Caesar agreed, then his voice hardened, “but you’ll lose more. And,” he continued, “you know what happens to a city that falls to the sword. After a hard siege,” Caesar’s tone turned implacable, “you know that there will be no fighting man left alive. No woman will go undefiled, and that’s if she’s lucky. The children will be sold into slavery, except for the babes in arms, who will be put to the sword.”

  What made this so chilling and effective was that, despite the words, Caesar spoke dispassionately, reciting the atrocities that would be committed as if he was simply outlining the facts of one of the legal cases Romans loved so much. That, more than the words themselves, had the most impact on Kambyses, because he knew Caesar was merely speaking the truth. After all, as Kambyses well knew, if the situation was reversed, and he was the general in command, this was exactly what he would have decreed happen.

  Caesar finished, his eyes never leaving Kambyses’ face, and the silence grew more oppressive with every heartbeat, until, finally, Kambyses asked dully, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing,” Caesar answered, then amended, “other than be by my side tomorrow at dawn when we ride to the northern gate of the city and I offer them terms.”

  Kambyses considered this before, in answer, he gave a minute shrug that was as much of an agreement as he could muster, and Caesar didn’t quibble about the quality of his acquiescence.

  “Then,” Kambyses asked Caesar, “will you grant me my wish? Will you kill me?”

  Caesar sat back in his chair, regarding Kambyses coolly, yet when he spoke, he surprised Kambyses by saying only, “Why don’t you wait and see what I have planned? Then, once you’ve heard everything, if you still feel that way, we’ll discuss it.”

  Sensing this was the best he could expect from Caesar, Kambyses gave another shrug. The interview over, Caesar stood, opening his mouth to call for the guards that Kambyses had been certain were standing just on the other side of the leather flap, when Kambyses decided there was nothing left to lose.

  “Why did you let me go in the first place?” He blurted this out, then silently damned Caesar when the Roman didn’t appear surprised in the slightest by the question.

  “Because,” Caesar answered readily, “I knew I could count on you to do exactly what you did.”

  Kambyses felt as if he had been punched in the stomach to the point that, when the guards came to escort him away and back to his cage, he barely noticed.

  For the Centurions and Optios of the Legions who had been involved in the fighting, particularly the 3rd and 10th, it was a busy night, both because of the normal business of accounting for the casualties and the inevitable shuffling of men into slots now vacated, some of them permanently, but also because they had been tasked with helping to consolidate the gains made over the previous day. Balbinus and his 12th were now manning the Crassoi fortifications along the northern side, counting on the cover of night to move into position while the artillery with the needed range arrayed on the walls of the city were essentially blind. The same was being done by the Legions in the eastern, western and southern camps, with the bulk of the work being the rapid filling of every spare large wicker basket of dirt to construct makeshift breastworks that would provide protection from the ballistae that the Romans had learned were mounted on the walls, which were the only artillery pieces that could conceivably reach the former Crassoi fortifications. Meanwhile, Caesar sent a party of his own bodyguards to the southern camp, where Phraates had been held captive, retrieving the Parthian king for what Caesar had planned the next morning. Finally, there were the Parthians who had been captured that had to be attended to, but in this, there were two distinct and separate categories: the native Parthians, infantry, archers and cataphractoi, who were marched to the eastern camp, guarded by the 8th Legion returning to their own camp, and the Crassoi, who were not only kept at the northern camp, but whose wounded were taken to the hospital tent and tended to in the identical manner as their former Roman counterparts, and were in fact laid side by side with men they had been trying to kill a matter of watches earlier. This had been done at the express order of Caesar, and like all his decisions, was made with more than one goal in mind, although at first, there was tension when the less seriously wounded men became aware that an enemy combatant was lying next to them. But, just as Caesar expected, the toll of their wounds and exertions kept their conflict to the verbal variety, until, once their respective stores of invective and threats were exhausted, these men began talking to each other as fellow Romans. The unwounded Crassoi, although they were kept segregated, were also fed with the same fare as their captors, while skins of unwatered wine were distributed among them.

  Despite their misgivings, the Centurions in command of the Cohort that Caesar had charged with supervising these prisoners obeyed his orders by foregoing the use of normal weapons, arming the men standing guard from the store of spare ax handles, staves, and other implements that could be used as cudgels if such a need arose. And, just as Caesar had expected, before long, guards and prisoners were conversing in the same way as their wounded comrades, the ties of a common heritage and the camaraderie of fighting men proving too strong to overcome the antipathy that stemmed from being fated to be on opposing sides. In this, Caesar’s Legionaries had the advantage; the men of Crassus’ campaign hadn’t been forced to face their comrades in battle like Caesar’s had in the civil war, so for the Caesarians, the ability to engage in lighthearted banter with men who had been trying to kill them, just as they had been trying to do the same to the Crassoi, came more easily. After a period of sullen silence and surly exchanges, finally one Crassoi responded to a Gregarius’ query about where they had been born, and more quickly than one would have thought possible, there was a dull roar of conversation as men connected with each other, recalled moments of local history, and in some cases, discovered ties of kinship. This
didn’t mark a turning point in the loyalties of the Crassoi, but as Caesar had hoped, it was a beginning. It was well after midnight before Titus Pullus was sitting at the table in his private quarters, sharing a meal with Scribonius, Balbus, and in what had become a tradition of sorts after a battle, his nephew Porcinus. And, as he hoped, his story about Kambyses’ misfortune in being recaptured created the stir that he had hoped, but fairly quickly, they turned to the immediate future.

  “What does Caesar have planned tomorrow?” Scribonius asked as he tore a hunk of bread from the loaf that Diocles had set on the table.

  “Do you mean today?” Pullus retorted sourly. “It’s, what, two watches until dawn? If that?”

  Scribonius was completely unruffled by his friend’s mood, retorting, “You know what I mean. So?” he pressed. “What are we doing?”

  Sighing, Pullus dropped the piece of cheese, his appetite suddenly gone.

  “We’re going to be in the forum a third of a watch before dawn,” he answered, “then we’re marching to the Crassoi lines where the 12th is going to be waiting for us.”

  This was met by a stunned silence, with Scribonius and Balbus conducting a noiseless argument in the form of angry glares, each of them wordlessly insisting that the other man be the one to object, while Pullus moodily resumed picking at his meal. Porcinus had learned some time before that, in moments like this, it was best for him to pretend he was a piece of furniture, although he was every bit as interested, and upset, about the prospect of going back into battle.

  Finally, it was Balbus who spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Titus, don’t you think Caesar’s asking a lot of us? How many men did we lose today?”

  “A lot,” Pullus answered softly, but it was telling to the others that he refused to look up at them, which told them he shared their concerns. “The First Cohort is just a bit under two thirds strength, but my Century alone is less than half strength right now. Although,” he allowed, “the good news is that it looks like ten of my boys will recover.”

  “We’re not as bad,” Scribonius admitted reluctantly, “but we still took a fair number of losses.” Returning to the original question, he picked up where Balbus had left off. “And now Caesar expects us to do it again? So soon?”

  “Actually,” Pullus shook his head, “I don’t think he’s expecting us to fight at all.” Since his attention was still on his plate, Pullus only became aware that his friends were waiting for more information than this by the silence, confirmed when he lifted his head to see three sets of eyes staring at him intently, prompting him to admit, “He didn’t say as much, but I think he’s got something planned that involves that cunnus Kambyses and their king.”

  “Kambyses?” Scribonius frowned, but when he glanced at Balbus, the other man could only offer a shrug. “I thought Caesar would have executed him by now.”

  “Well,” Pullus answered, “he didn’t. I just saw him at the praetorium. And, while I was there, some of Caesar’s bodyguard came riding up with Phraates.”

  Another silence followed as each of them pondered what their general had planned, and if they had articulated them, they would have found them to be almost astonishingly similar; while there was no question that they would obey, they hoped that Caesar would once again demonstrate his genius in a way that kept more of their blood from being shed.

  Chapter Nine

  As it does after every battle ever fought, the sun rose the next day, illuminating a scene that, while dramatically improved by the industry of Caesar’s army, still reeked of death and was marred by remnants of carnage. The makeshift parapet that provided a modicum of protection for the Romans who now occupied the Crassoi fortifications outside the city walls from whatever Parthian artillery only extended perhaps three hundred paces on either side of the city gates. At midnight, Caesar had ordered a cessation of the work, which was why the protection wasn’t to his standard, nor to any of the men who would have to avail themselves of it in the event the Parthians launched missiles from the handful of ballistae that were arrayed on the northern wall near the gate, but he wanted his men to get some rest before what he had planned. What that was became apparent with the rising of the sun, when the defenders of the city were greeted by the sight of every one of Caesar’s Legions, standing in a formation consisting of a single line of Centuries, lining the Crassoi rampart. Wearing their armor, their shields were grounded in front of them, but this wasn’t a battle formation; at least this wasn’t Caesar’s intent. Each Century had been extended into a line five ranks deep, doubling the normal frontage, which in all but the most desperate circumstances was something that no Roman commander would ever order. Even then, with every Legion providing nine Cohorts, leaving one in reserve in their base camp, Susa wasn’t completely encircled by a ring of Roman iron, but the gaps between Legions were a matter of no more than two hundred paces between each one. As Caesar had hoped, the effect was one of extraordinary impact on the Parthians, resulting in the sounding of the alarm in the city that, as Caesar expected, summoned every single able-bodied defender to the walls. In doing as he did, Caesar ensured there was no way that whoever was in command could deny that the might of Rome, in the form of battle-hardened, tested, veteran Legions, were demonstrating their willingness to finish this siege in an assault. Seated on Toes, Caesar was also attired for battle, just as his men, with his paludamentum draped over his shoulders, the black feathered crest of his helmet adding to his height. No matter how many times Pullus saw his general like this, it never failed to stir in his breast a sense of pride; in his general, his Legion, and in Rome. Despite this, Pullus also hoped that Caesar’s plan to achieve the final conquest of Susa without further bloodshed went as hoped, because he was exhausted, and he knew his men were every bit as tired, although they had gotten more sleep than their officers. Pullus hadn’t been apprised of the details of what Caesar had in mind, but he understood that the two Parthians, also mounted and surrounded by Caesar’s bodyguards, were to play a role. This time, he thought with a weary amusement, I have a feeling Caesar isn’t going to let either one of them say a word, given what happened the last time with Phraates, which he had heard about secondhand once the 10th returned to the siege. Now that it was obvious the defenders were aware of the Roman presence, Caesar sent one of the Tribunes; Pullus thought it was the nephew Pedius again, carrying a flag of truce, down the road leading to the northern gate. This was always the tensest moment, and Pullus felt sympathy for the youngster, who was probably wondering if he was experiencing the last moments of his life as he closed within shouting distance. Fortunately, especially for Pedius, no missiles were hurled down at the Tribune, and they were too far away to hear the exchange, but when the Tribune wheeled his mount, confirming Pullus’ guess about the young man’s identity, Pedius’ countenance expressed that the Parthians must have agreed to a parley. Caesar received the Tribune, then after an exchange, the general nodded in a manner that indicated to the Primus Pilus the general agreed to whatever the terms were, confirmed when Caesar nudged Toes forward, separating himself from Kambyses and Phraates. This wasn’t surprising, but then Caesar gestured to someone on the side opposite from Pullus, while one of his German bodyguards dismounted, then handed the reins to another man. Pullus hadn’t been able to see through the thicket of animal and human bodies, yet even when the man somewhat clumsily mounted the horse, it still took a span of heartbeats for Pullus to recognize one of the men who gave the appearance of preparing to accompany Caesar, and even longer to fathom what it could mean.

  It was actually Balbus, who, standing in front of his Century next to Pullus’ men, voiced the question Pullus was trying to work out for himself when he asked, “Isn’t that the Crassoi Pilus Posterior we captured? What’s his name? Asinius?”

  “Asina,” Pullus corrected his second absently, frowning as they watched Caesar, a half-dozen bodyguards and Asina, leaving the native Parthian king and highest ranking nobleman behind to watch helplessly as Caesar put his plan in mot
ion.

  “I don’t want to ride,” Caspar grumbled for the third time, but Teispes nevertheless handed him the reins to the horse that had been selected for him. “Why can’t I walk out there?”

  “Because,” it was Bodroges who spoke up, “if the Romans have any treachery planned, we need to have a means to escape. And we can’t afford to lose you.”

  Despite knowing the answer beforehand and grudgingly understanding that this was merely a precaution, the Primus Pilus only reluctantly took the reins, although he did manage to mount the animal on his own.

  Turning to Bodroges, he asked the courtier, “And, Lord Bodroges, why is it you instead of Lord Gobryas? He’s the highest-ranking man and he should meet Caesar. Not,” Caspar belatedly realized that there was no way to express his concern without belittling the young Parthian, so he finished lamely, “us.”

  If Bodroges was offended, he gave no sign; despite his youth, he was well versed in the arcane but crucial art of presenting a face to others that might not reflect one’s personal feelings, yet even so, he allowed just the barest hint of the scorn he felt for their supposed leader, replying, “Lord Gobryas felt that it was beneath him to meet this Roman. He feels that this is a task for which I am better suited.”

  Both Caspar and Teispes were regarding Bodroges, who refused to meet either man’s gaze, choosing to stare straight ahead as the large iron-bound wooden doors of the northern gate into Susa were pushed open, the hinges squealing in protest. Seeing that Bodroges had said all he planned to, the two other men exchanged glances, the one-eyed Parthian’s mouth twisting in a manner that Caspar knew meant he was bitterly amused and had understood the import behind the young courtier’s words. Then, the trio, along with the half-dozen bodyguards that had been agreed on, moved through the gateway. Although it hadn’t, to an outside observer, it would have appeared that this meeting had been carefully orchestrated as far as the timing, because the two parties left the relative safety of their own lines at roughly the same time. Caspar immediately picked out Caesar, but it was the rider to the Roman’s left that triggered a queer sensation in his stomach, knowing that there was something familiar about the man.