Caesar Ascending-Conquest of Parthia

by R. W. Peake

  “That’s not true,” Scribonius countered, but it was more for the sake of irritating his large friend, “and you should know that better than anyone since you’re the man who killed Pacorus and took his gladius. That thing probably cost five years of your pay.”

  “That was the crown prince of Parthia,” Pullus retorted, “and it was just one man.” Shaking his head in disgust, he said sourly, “I’m just tired of listening to all this foolishness.”

  Scribonius eyed Pullus for a moment, then asked curiously, “What’s got a rock in your caliga? Why are you so touchy about what the men are talking about?”

  Pullus glared at his friend, who didn’t flinch or look away, forcing the Primus Pilus to sigh, then admit, “I just normally know what Caesar has planned, that’s all. But this time, he’s keeping something from me.”

  “‘Keeping something’ from you?” Scribonius replied, with just a touch of mockery at this display of self-pity. “As far as I know, he’s keeping it from everyone, even the Legates. So, if he’s not telling anyone else, why are you whining?”

  “I’m not whining!” Pullus protested, then despite himself, he grinned as he added, “Not exactly anyway.” Turning serious, he persisted, “Still, I just don’t like not knowing what to expect, and it’s even worse when you know that someone does know, but they’re just not telling us.”

  “You mean,” Scribonius laughed, “like every fucking ranker in every Legion in the army?”

  When put that way, Pullus joined Scribonius in laughing, at himself and at the realization that, no matter how high up a man from the ranks may rise, at heart, he will always be a ranker, suspicious that the man above one in the chain of command is deliberately tormenting his subordinates by keeping them in the dark about what lay ahead.

  Sighing, Pullus said, “All right, enough of this. I’m going to check the other Cohorts. We still have,” he glanced up at the sun, “about two parts of a watch left before those bastards come back with an answer.”

  Before he could leave, Scribonius asked Pullus, “What do you think their answer will be?”

  “I think,” Pullus answered, grinning at Scribonius in a manner that informed the Pilus Prior that his friend was taking his own form of revenge, “it all depends on what it is that Caesar didn’t tell us, doesn’t it?” Laughing, he called over his shoulder, “Now who wants to know?”

  Gobryas listened to Bodroges as the courtier relayed Caesar’s ultimatum, short and to the point as it was, the nobleman’s face twisting in anger as he heard the terms.

  “That…that…dog, that…minion.” Gobryas spat the words. “He dares to give us an ultimatum like this? That we’re just supposed to open our gates and let these filthy animals into our city, our capital?”

  Bodroges was standing a few paces in front of where Gobryas was sitting, in the chair normally reserved for the King of Kings himself and no other, and Caspar suddenly guessed that where the young nobleman was standing, specifically the distance between him and Gobryas was no accident. He’s afraid that Gobryas is going to take it out on him, he thought to himself, and in fact, it seemed as if Gobryas was considering that very thing, judging from the manner in which he sprang to his feet, his posture radiating the anger and frustration he was clearly feeling. For a moment, the only sound was the harsh breathing of Gobryas as he struggled to get himself under control, then turning away from Bodroges, he addressed Caspar, who was standing off to the side, with Asina next to him.

  “Primus Pilus,” Gobryas asked, “how many of those Roman dogs could you kill before they take the city?” Before Caspar could answer, he added with a note of almost plaintive hope, “It’s possible that, with the help of every able-bodied man, we could turn them away, is it not?”

  “No,” Caspar answered immediately, his tone flat and leaving no room for doubt. “No, Excellency,” he repeated, “we’ve taken too many losses already, and even if we could somehow miraculously bring the wounded back to fighting strength, we do not have enough men to cover the entire city wall with more than a depth of two, maybe three men.” Feeling that he should offer something that wasn’t quite so defeatist, Caspar did add, “There’s no doubt that we’d inflict heavy casualties, Excellency, but it would cost the lives of every single man we have left.”

  “What about using the artillery you Crassoi are so proud of?” Gobryas pressed. “And we use our stores of naphtha?”

  “We don’t have enough pieces that are designed to handle the naphtha,” Caspar answered, again without hesitation. “I’m afraid that all we’d do is…inflame Caesar,” despite the gravity, he saw Asina’s appreciative grin at the play on words, something every Roman loved, “and his men, and they would take it out on the people of the city. Besides,” he added, “they’ve come up with some sort of…defense for the naphtha, which we learned about last night.”

  He went on to explain, as best he could since he didn’t understand it himself, how the previously pernicious and unquenchable flames of the naphtha had simply seemed to fizzle out before they did any damage, the news of which Gobryas was clearly disbelieving, although in this case, Caspar understood completely. When he was finished, Gobryas didn’t respond directly to Caspar, turning instead to where Teispes was standing, and Caspar noticed that the Parthian had managed to somehow separate himself from himself and Asina, providing what Caspar thought might be a visual clue of a coming division.

  “And you, Teispes?” Gobryas demanded; Caspar noticed that Gobryas had dropped the pretense of civility by not addressing a fellow noble in the proper manner, something that the Crassoi could tell was not lost on the one-eyed Parthian. “Do you concur with this…opinion?”

  Teispes’ answer shocked Caspar, because he was replied as quickly and as firmly as Caspar himself, answering, “Yes, Excellency, I do.” He paused then, and the man’s normally impassive features reflected an emotion that Caspar had never seen from Teispes before, and it took him an instant to realize that it was with a profound sense of sadness and shame as Teispes added, “I am sorry, Excellency, but the city is lost. All that stands to be gained now is more bloodshed.”

  “Roman blood,” Gobryas retorted. “Do you at least agree with the Primus Pilus that we could exact a high price on these dogs before they managed to overcome us?”

  “Yes,” Teispes answered cautiously, “but the cost to our people would be higher. And,” he pointed out, “I know there is no need to tell you what happens to the occupants of a city that resists. The slaughter would not be confined to just us,” Teispes indicated the men representing the military defenders, “but to the citizens of the city, the wives and children of these men among them, along with every other civilian. Excellency,” Teispes finished softly, “remember what the Romans did to Carthage. They no longer exist as a people, and they were once one of the mightiest nations on Earth. Until Rome came.”

  Gobryas practically flung himself back down onto the throne so violently that Caspar thought he heard a cracking sound from the wood. Visibly fuming, the Parthian stared down at the floor, the time stretching out in a silence that grew more strained with every heartbeat. Finally, he looked up, his face cold and, Caspar thought with some alarm, unyielding.

  “If Ahura-Mazda has willed that Susa is to be razed and its inhabitants slaughtered, then that is what will happen, no matter what we mortals do,” he began, and Caspar’s stomach clenched, certain he knew what was coming. “And it is the duty of every Parthian to defend our land, to our last breath. If that means every man, woman, and child must perish, then that is the price they must pay!” Pointing a shaking finger at Caspar, Gobryas commanded, “Now, go prepare your men, Primus Pilus! Tell them that our King of Kings will not forget their sacrifice, and there will be songs written about what they do here today!”

  “It seems that you’ve forgotten,” Caspar shot back, “that our King of Kings is a fucking captive of Caesar. The only other man who might have a claim to the throne is Kambyses, and he is a prisoner as well! So,” Caspar
was actually surprised at how calm he felt, despite what he was doing, “no, Excellency, I will not prepare my men for anything but surrender.”

  Then, he thought but didn’t say aloud, maybe we can all go home and live in peace for the rest of our days, something that a watch before he would have never thought possible. The color that had darkened Gobryas’ features vanished, draining his face as he stared in astonishment at the display of open defiance on the part of a man who, despite all he had done for the Parthian cause, Gobryas privately viewed as little better than a slave. And slaves, Gobryas believed, were to obey their masters, no matter what the order, so if this man had been ordered to sacrifice himself and those under him, the Parthian was determined that he would do so. This was what prompted him to turn away from Caspar and look to Teispes.

  This time, Gobryas at least displayed the proper courtesy as he said, “Lord Teispes, I am commanding you to go to the quarter of the city where the families of these…traitors live. And,” now he looked back at Caspar, his eyes glittering with malice, “put them all to the sword. Except for the Primus Pilus’ family. I want you to save them until last. Oh,” he added, “and make them watch their friends suffer the penalty for this man’s refusal to obey.”

  Caspar had stopped paying attention to Gobryas, turning to face Teispes, who stood mutely, staring with his one good eye at the man who had just given him the command. Once more, silence seemed to fill the room, almost as if it was water, inexorably intensifying and threatening to suffocate everyone inside.

  Finally, Teispes shook his head and answered simply, “No. This I will not do.”

  Gobryas, thwarted, leapt to his feet, his mouth opening, Caspar was certain, to summon the guards, and the Crassoi also had no doubt that the Parthian noble would order the immediate execution of him, Teispes, and probably Asina as well. But then, before he got out a word, the forgotten man stepped forward, in both a literal and figurative sense.

  “Lord Gobryas, Excellency,” Bodroges spoke, with a tone that was firm, yet also soothing, “please, I beg of you to indulge me. I have an idea that I believe will solve this problem.”

  Gobryas, now standing, looked down at Bodroges from the raised perch on which the throne was set, his expression openly suspicious, but he did respond, “You? You have an idea?” Cocking his head, he glared at the young Parthian for a moment, then made an impatient gesture, saying, “Very well. What is it?”

  Suddenly, Bodroges seemed to hesitate, and he stood in place, shifting his weight as he answered awkwardly, “Yes, well, it’s just that…” He glanced over at Caspar first, and the Primus Pilus was unable to interpret the look Bodroges was giving him, then the Parthian turned to look next to Teispes. Turning back, he said, “It’s rather delicate, Excellency. I’m afraid that if I say it aloud, one or both of these men may…interfere.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Asina whispered. “You might want to stop him from whatever it is he’s got in mind.”

  It wasn’t that Caspar disagreed with his friend; indeed, he was of the same opinion, realizing that if Bodroges was so reluctant to share whatever he had in mind aloud, it didn’t bode well for Caspar, and by extension, the Crassoi and their families. Yet, for a reason he couldn’t have articulated, he shook his head and remained standing in place, holding up his hand to Asina in a placating gesture as he continued to stare at the pair of Parthians.

  “Well, then come tell it to me,” Gobryas commanded, then as Bodroges approached, he stared over the younger Parthian’s head, pointing first to Caspar, then Teispes, and said, “Neither of you move, or…”

  He never finished his words, a severed windpipe precluding anything else he might have said. For his part, Caspar didn’t even see where the knife came from, but even if he had been disposed to intervene, which he wasn’t, it would have been too late to do anything about it. Gobryas’ blood sprayed from the severed vessels in his neck, and Caspar noticed how neatly Bodroges had leapt back to avoid being spattered, although he was only partially successful at this. Just as Caspar had witnessed in so many men before, the Parthian noble’s eyes had gone wide with a shock that is both profound and is the final emotion a dying man experiences, his hands starting to rise in a vain attempt to stem the flow of ichor pulsing in jets from the final beats of his heart. Before they reached his throat, however, his legs gave way from under him, and Gobryas collapsed, dead, onto the steps of the dais. Only then did Caspar look over at Teispes, belatedly realizing that, between those present, he would be the most likely to respond, yet he instantly saw that Teispes was no less shocked, nor did he seem disposed to do anything but gape at the freshly made corpse.

  “Now,” the silence was broken by Bodroges, whose voice was astonishingly calm, and Caspar turned from Teispes in time to see the young courtier finishing wiping the blood from his dagger on the hem of Gobryas’ gown, then in one motion, slid the blade into the sleeve of his gown as he said, “we have some things to talk about.”

  It was actually about a third of a watch before the deadline when, without any warning, the gates of the city opened to reveal, standing in formation, the remaining garrison of Susa, led by a mounted party, one of whom carried a large, white banner. At first, Pullus assumed that it was just the men returning with the answer to Caesar’s demand, but then he saw behind them, arranged in their Centuries as if they were parading in the forum, the Crassoi. Emerging from the gateway, the party of a dozen horsemen, every man among them with their empty hands held out in clear view, the man carrying the white banner aloft the only exception came out at a sedate walk. Pullus stood, with Balbus, slightly to the side of where Caesar and his Legates were gathered, watching the ordered ranks of the Crassoi, led by the Centurion wearing the white crest, emerge into the open behind the horsemen. Not surprisingly, the low buzzing of conversation that had filled the air as the men of the ranks continued their idle chatter had stopped as suddenly as if Pullus had bellowed the order to do so, yet he was as surprised as any of them at this development.

  It was Balbus who recovered his wits first, turning about to shout the order to the men to fall back into their formation, which was obeyed with an alacrity that, with a satisfied grunt at the sight of men scrambling to their feet, brought his version of a smile to the Primus Pilus Posterior’s face, as Pullus commented wryly, “I’m glad one of us knows what he’s doing.”

  “So,” Balbus tried to keep his tone conversational, but Pullus knew him too well, recognizing the tension, “could this really be it? They’re surrendering?”

  Pullus didn’t answer immediately, choosing to continue observing as, one Cohort after another, the Crassoi aligned themselves in neat rows of Centuries, arranged by Cohort, just as if they were still in a Roman camp, preparing for inspection by their Legate. There was one moment of, if not confusion, exactly, then a bit of disorganization, once the last Crassoi Century positioned themselves in their spot, when a group of men that, to Pullus and every Roman observer looked like a curious amalgam of dismounted cataphractoi, their heavy lamellar armor and closed-faced helmets identifying them as such, except that they were carrying shields, and spears of some sort that, from Pullus’ vantage point appeared to be the same type that the Romans of the Crassoi had adopted, emerged from the city. They marched well enough, Pullus thought, but it was clear they were unaccustomed to being organized into smaller groups, so that, after a bit of argument back and forth between the cataphractoi who were wearing red horsetail plumes instead of black that must have been their officers, they finally settled into one larger formation, immediately behind the last row of Crassoi Centuries. The contingent of dismounted archers was next, numbering perhaps a thousand, before, finally, what Pullus estimated to be perhaps four thousand men, dressed in the loose robes and carrying the wicker shields and spears that marked them as the Parthian infantry brought up the rear of the procession. Overnight, when Caesar had conducted a meeting of the Primi Pili, Pullus had heard that, much to his and his counterparts’ surprise, the infa
ntry of this type who had accompanied Kambyses had acquitted themselves in a manner that, frankly, the Romans hadn’t encountered before in their previous clashes. Pullus listened to both Atartinus and Clustuminus grudgingly acknowledge that these Parthians, of whom Pullus shared the same low opinion as his counterparts, had put up a ferocious fight as part of the attempt by Kambyses to relieve the garrison. From Pullus’ perspective, it was less likely that, by virtue of the gods’ favor, these men drawn from the lowest class of Parthian society who were with Kambyses were just made of better stuff than all of the others, they were simply better led. It had been a truism since long before Titus Pullus ever took the oath of Tirone during the year of the Consulships of Marcus Piso Frugi and Marcus Mesalla Niger, as part of the dilectus performed by then-Praetor Gaius Julius Caesar, that there were no bad Centuries, just bad Centurions. The contingent now pouring through the northern gate of Susa seemed to reinforce this belief, since there was no way to ascribe their shambling, meandering movement to anything close to marching, telling Pullus that whoever was leading them wasn’t of the same quality as Kambyses, although they moved quickly enough into position, flanking the armored cataphractoi on the side opposite from the archers. At last, perhaps a sixth part of a watch after the gates opening, the shuffling and movement slowly died down; only then did the mounted party resume their progress, moving slowly towards where Caesar and his own party, all of them also mounted, waited.

  Given the moment, Caesar chose to speak more loudly than the distance between the two parties required, saying, “It seems that you have reached a decision.”

  “We have, Caesar.” While the Latin was heavily accented, it was understandable, but what surprised Pullus was that it was the same young Parthian noblemen from the initial parley who was clearly speaking for the defenders and not the previously absent senior nobleman that Pullus, and every other man, assumed was in real command, Turning in his saddle, he made a sweeping gesture, and although he didn’t hesitate, Pullus heard what he was certain was bitterness in the man’s voice. “This is all that remains of the defenders of our capital Susa. We…” Suddenly, he hesitated, and Pullus wondered if the young Parthian was having second thoughts, but after a pause, he finished. “…surrender to your mercy.”