by R. W. Peake
Only when they drew another fifty paces closer to each other did Caspar recognize the man to a degree it was impossible to ignore, but it was actually Teispes who beat him to it, gasping, “Isn’t that your friend Asina?”
Bodroges, who had no reason to know the Crassoi Centurion who had commanded the Second Century of the First Cohort, nonetheless understood this was significant, and he glanced sharply over at Caspar, speaking urgently but in a low tone, “What is this man’s story? Was he captured yesterday?”
In the remaining time left to them, Caspar tried to explain to the courtier how Asina had been captured during the raid on the Roman lines, and his role as the second in command of the entire force known as the Crassoi. What Caspar didn’t say, nor would he have even if he had the time, was that Gaius Asina was his closest friend, a man he had trusted with his life on numerous occasions, but the two parties were now within hailing distance, and without either leader saying so, they stopped simultaneously.
“Salve,” Caesar began speaking in Latin. “I am Gaius…”
“I know who you are,” Bodroges cut him off, also in Latin, but while he had done so in a calculated attempt to throw Caesar off balance in some way, it seemed to amuse the Roman general more than irritate him.
“Good,” he replied genially. “I’m glad my reputation precedes me!”
This hadn’t been Bodroges’ intention, and Caspar regarded the courtier out of the corner of his eye with silent amusement as the young Parthian flushed in an attempt to regain control of the exchange, which Caspar had understood from the outset he never had in the first place. When viewed in this light, Caspar had to acknowledge, somewhat reluctantly, that perhaps Gobryas wasn’t merely trying to avoid possible capture by sending the young nobleman.
“Your reputation,” Bodroges answered stiffly, “isn’t relevant to this meeting…”
This time, it was Caesar who repaid the Parthian in kind by interrupting, “Then why did you bring it up?”
Now, despite the solemnity of the occasion, and all that was at stake, Caspar had to duck his head to hide his grin, only stifling his chuckle with some effort. When he looked up, his eyes met those of Asina’s who, not surprisingly given how the two men’s tastes were so similar, was similarly trying to appear unamused.
“I didn’t!” Bodroges snapped indignantly. He took a deep breath, then said formally, “You were the man who requested this truce, Caesar. So,” he tried to sound as if he was accustomed to such meetings, “what is it that you have asked to discuss with us?”
Caesar affected surprise, replying, “Why, your surrender, of course.”
“Surrender?” Bodroges shook his head, retorting, “Why would we do that?”
“Because,” Caesar countered calmly, “your last chance for rescue ended with Kambyses.” Turning in his saddle, Caesar pointed to where the Parthian was miserably sitting on a horse, asking, “You do see him there, do you not? And,” with this, he turned back around, and this time, all signs of levity or that he was enjoying this exchange had vanished, “we captured your king before Kambyses. You,” Caesar finished coldly, “are out of leaders.”
Caspar felt an unbidden stab of sympathy for the young Parthian, who, to his eyes, looked every bit as young as he was, and even worse, completely out of his depth. With a tone that sounded to Caspar’s ears like desperation, Bodroges said, “Be that as it may, Caesar, we still have these walls. And,” his own words seemed to bolster him, “we still have these men.” Bodroges lifted an arm, indicating Caspar, who tried to look unsurprised. “So, perhaps you will take the city, perhaps not.” He paused then, and it stretched out for what seemed like an interminable amount of time before he said, “But, just in the interest of our people, I do not think it will hurt to hear your terms.”
“My terms,” Caesar answered immediately, “are simple. You will surrender, unconditionally. When you do, I will be the sole arbiter of what happens to you, your troops, and your people.”
Bodroges was unable to stifle a gasp, while Teispes, whose grasp of Latin was enough to comprehend the essence of Caesar’s words, stiffened, and, presumably without thinking, dropped his hand to his sword. The move prompted an instant reaction from the German bodyguard nearest to the Parthian, the man kicking his horse to make a hopping step forward, interposing himself between Caesar and Teispes, drawing his own blade in one smooth motion. Not surprisingly, this elicited a similar reaction from the cataphract on the opposite side of Teispes from Caspar, which in turn created a ripple of movement so that, within a heartbeat of Teispes beginning this incident, every bodyguard had their weapons drawn. For his part, Bodroges let out a small yelp of surprised fear and began urging his mount backward, but Caspar reached out and, somewhat awkwardly, managed to grab the bridle of Bodroges’ horse.
“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Everything will be fine.”
As proof, Caspar used his head to indicate where Caesar sat, completely still and seemingly unworried about this sudden escalation, and Bodroges correctly interpreted Caesar’s actions.
“Sheathe your swords,” Bodroges ordered, and he managed to imbue his tone with what Caspar and most of the nobleman’s social inferiors recognized as the normal arrogance that seemed to be absorbed with their mother’s milk. “There will be no trouble. We are under a flag of truce, and there will be no bloodshed!” Turning his attention back to Caesar, Bodroges couldn’t restrain himself from saying pointedly, “At least, there will be no treachery on our part. Can you promise the same, Caesar?”
Caesar had been silently watching this small drama, a half-smile on his lips, but at Bodroges’ jibe, while the smile stayed, Caspar saw a subtle, yet unmistakable change in Caesar’s eyes, a sudden glitter appearing that was almost as if water had somehow frozen in the span of an eyeblink. Suddenly, Caspar wasn’t quite as certain that there would be no trouble, but he managed to keep his sword hand resting on his thigh, waiting and watching for what came next.
“Yes,” Caesar answered, his tone flat. “I can assure you that there will be no violence.” Then, as quickly as it had come, the frigidness left the Roman, and he returned to the matter at hand, asking lightly, “Now, do I need to repeat my terms?” This time, the smile was broad and unmistakable, while the cheerful, bantering tone returned as he added, “Given all the excitement that just happened, I almost forgot what they were myself!”
“No.” Bodroges shook his head. “I remember them perfectly well, Caesar. However,” he turned somewhat hesitant, and Caspar assumed it was because Bodroges was loath to admit what the Crassoi Centurion was certain Caesar had known from the moment he laid eyes on the young courtier, “I must consult with my…with other men of high rank inside the city before I can give you the answer.”
“Of course,” Caesar answered gravely. “This is a momentous decision, and an important one for all of us.” He paused as he considered, or pretended to, Caspar was certain, then offered, “I will give you until noon to decide. We will meet back here, and you can give me your answer then. Is that acceptable?”
Bodroges nodded, responding to the Roman with the same tone Caesar had used, “Yes, Caesar, it is.”
Bodroges didn’t hesitate then, and had begun to turn his horse about, relying on the bodyguards to watch their backs, when Caesar called out, “There is one other thing.”
Bodroges muttered a curse; fortunately, only Caspar heard it, and in the time it took the Parthian to turn his horse back around to face Caesar, the courtier’s mask was back in place as Bodroges asked blandly, “Oh? What might that be?”
In answer, Caesar actually turned to indicate Asina, saying, “In a show of my good faith, I am returning this man, who we captured several weeks ago.” Caesar turned to address Caspar. “I am sure you’re anxious to get one of your best Centurions back.”
Caspar could only manage to dumbly nod, trying to maintain an expression that gave nothing away, while struggling to look past his obvious relief that Asina was being released and det
ermine what Caesar’s motives could be. For his part, Asina seemed no less confused, although he didn’t hesitate when, with a gesture, Caesar indicated he was free to cross the open ground to rejoin his Primus Pilus, and perhaps Caspar could be forgiven for being too flustered to notice that his friend’s air of surprise struck a false note. Neither man spoke, only nodding a greeting to the other, yet Caspar felt a smile tugging at his mouth, which was matched by Asina’s expression. Turning about, Bodroges began moving at the trot, with Teispes close behind, and it was natural that Caspar and Asina, the two least experienced horsemen of the group were slow to follow, as Asina in particular fumbled with the reins of his horse.
Caspar learned that this had been intentional when Asina, his eyes on the backs of the Parthians ahead of them, whispered, “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Caesar has a message for you.”
Returning into the city, the men dismounted, handing the reins to the servants waiting to take their horses to the stables, and Bodroges led the way down the street, heading for the palace, while the bodyguards dispersed to wherever they were quartered. Caspar and Asina followed, but at a slower pace, so that Bodroges and Teispes drew away, until the one-eyed Parthian noticed. Saying something to Bodroges, he stopped and turned, seeming to wait for the Crassoi while Bodroges followed suit, and Caspar’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way that he could be alone with Asina to hear Caesar’s message.
Suddenly inspired, he stopped and called out, “Lord Bodroges, I’d like to take Pilus Posterior Asina to the hospital to see some of his boys who were wounded. I think it would cheer them a great deal to see him back with us.”
While Bodroges was the one who would make the decision, Caspar was worried about Teispes, because he was more experienced in the ways soldiers had of fooling their superiors for one reason or another, and for a moment, he was afraid that the Parthian was suspicious enough to stop them. But, when Bodroges looked at Teispes, in an obviously questioning manner, the older man just shrugged.
“Very well,” Bodroges agreed, “but only for a short time! I need you back in the throne room because I’m sure Gobryas will have questions that only you can answer.”
“We won’t be long,” Caspar promised. “Just long enough for the boys to see Asina’s back. It will help get them back on their feet and into the fight.”
Bodroges had already turned and resumed his progress, acknowledging the last bit with a wave, but Teispes lingered, not long, yet stood there regarding the two Romans for a moment before, again with a shrug, he turned to follow Bodroges.
“Now,” Caspar muttered, also resuming his walking, but this time taking a turn that would take them to the building serving as the hospital, “what’s this message about?”
As the pair made their way down the street, Asina talked, speaking quietly and quickly, with Caspar only interrupting to ask a question or press for verification of some point. By the time they reached the building, Asina had delivered Caesar’s offer, and it was so breathtaking, both in its scale and, ironically enough, simplicity, that Caspar had to stop for a moment to absorb it all.
Finally, he asked Asina, “What do you think? And,” he added, “more importantly, do you believe him?”
“Which part?” Asina responded. “About the offer?” Taking a deep breath, he could only shrug as he told Caspar, “I think he can be trusted to keep his word. But, as far as everything that happened after we were captured?” In this, he wasn’t hesitant in the slightest, saying firmly, “Absolutely. I’ve heard the same story, not just from him and men like Pullus, but the rankers who guarded me at first. Now,” he allowed, “I suppose it’s possible that Caesar arranged that every man I had contact with was fed the same story, but I don’t think so.”
Caspar listened, but his mind was caught on something, prompting him to ask, “Pullus? Who’s that?”
“He’s the Primus Pilus of the 10th,” Asina replied, then added with a chuckle, “He’s fucking huge, one of the biggest Romans I’ve ever seen. And strong as a…”
“I know just how strong he is,” Caspar cut him off, his mouth tightening in anger at the memory. “I owe that cunnus. He almost took my head off! See?” For the first time, Caspar took his helmet off, showing Asina the bandage that had replaced the normal felt liner, but he was completely unprepared for Asina’s response, which was to burst out laughing, prompting Caspar to demand, “What’s so fucking funny about that?”
Rather than respond verbally, Asina reached up, untied the leather thongs holding his own helmet in place, which he had been given shortly before leaving the Roman camp, and pulled it off.
Pointing to the edge of his hairline at the pink, newly healed scar, he laughed. “That bastard did the same thing to me when he captured me!”
“Then you owe him a debt too.” Caspar was experiencing an odd mixture of anger and bewilderment, wondering how Asina could seem so lighthearted about being humiliated. “I don’t see why you think it’s funny.”
“I do owe him a debt,” Asina agreed, but the smile vanished as he continued soberly, “I owe him my life. And,” he pointed at Caspar, “it sounds like you do as well. He could have killed me, Caspar, but he didn’t. When I asked him why, he told me it was because he was tired of killing fellow Romans. Oh,” Asina’s smile came back as he admitted, “I hated him for a while. But it’s hard to hate a man once you get to know him.”
Caspar listened but said nothing, at least not immediately. For the span of a dozen or more heartbeats, there was a silence between them, until the Crassoi Primus Pilus grudgingly allowed, “I suppose you have a point. But,” he grumbled, “I still have a fucking headache!”
Asina laughed. “He does hit like a mule, doesn’t he?”
“If that’s how hard a mule kicks, no wonder I don’t go anywhere near those fucking beasts,” Caspar replied ruefully. Returning to the larger matter, Caspar mused, “So, we need to decide whether or not to do as Caesar asks, between here and the palace.”
“It seems that way,” Asina agreed.
Sighing, Caspar apologized, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to put off going inside to see your boys, Gaius.”
“I figured as much.”
The pair turned and retraced their steps back to the main street that led directly from the northern gate to the central square of the city where the palace was located, neither of them in the mood for talking. Reaching the square, they were ascending the steps when, from behind one of the columns, Bodroges stepped into view.
“Before we go in,” the courtier said, “I need to know what Caesar is offering you.”
Caspar froze, his first instinct to draw his sword and prepare to fight his way out of the captivity that he was sure Bodroges intended, but in the span of a heartbeat, as his hand grasped the hilt, the Crassoi noticed that they were alone, without any other men in view. Surely, he realized, if Bodroges was going to have him seized, he would have men standing ready to do so, and he began to relax.
What came next was even more shocking, because it was Asina who, giving Caspar an apologetic glance, answered, “I have a message for you as well as the one I gave to Primus Pilus Caspar, Lord Bodroges.”
Outside the walls, Caesar had allowed the Legions to break formation, although they were required to remain in the immediate area, prompting the Centurions to order food and water to be brought to where the men were standing. In the First Century, Second Cohort, Porcinus and the other members of his section were sitting on the ground in a circle, gnawing on bread or cheese and passing a water skin around as they talked.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Publius Vulso, Porcinus’ close comrade muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder for what Porcinus was certain was the thousandth time, up at the walls of the city. “We’re sitting out here like a flock of chickens, just waiting for one of those fucking jars of that naptha…”
“It’s naphtha,” Porcinus corrected his older comrade, “and if they were going to, they would have done it al
ready.”
Although, Porcinus thought to himself, if he was being honest, he had been every bit as nervous when the men, yearning for some space, had ventured down the slope of the Crassoi rampart to sit on the ground. That the Centurions and Optios hadn’t stopped them was, at least to Porcinus, a sign that their officers were confident that the Parthians planned no treachery, and the other men were clearly of a like mind.
“Besides,” Quintus Camillus mumbled through the bread stuffed in his mouth, “if they did, they have to know that we’d fucking slaughter every one of them, and whatever families they have inside those walls.”
“I wonder,” Spurius Denter offered, “just how much money and loot is inside that place.”
This, naturally, became the subject that dominated the rest of the time they were waiting, as men alternately argued with or competed against each other, regaling their friends of stories that, even after the fall of both Ctesiphon and Seleucia, persisted about the fabulous wealth of the Parthian Empire. Standing a few paces away, higher up on the slope of the rampart, Scribonius and Pullus stood, listening with amusement as the bickering grew in intensity.
“At least it makes the time pass for them,” Scribonius commented, but Pullus wasn’t in a particularly receptive frame of mind to indulge the men in their fantasies.
“When are they ever going to learn?” he grumbled. “These Parthians aren’t any richer than us. You’d think that they would have figured it out after the fight on the ridge, when they looted all those dead cataphractoi and saw that their armor wasn’t lined with gold and they didn’t have gladii with jewel-encrusted hilts.”
