by R. W. Peake
For his part, Darius was almost dizzy with relief; it was almost as if Ahura-Mazda was guiding the Romans into doing exactly what Darius needed them to do. One didn’t need to be experienced in leading men to see the dismay, and despair, of the men downslope from where he and his officers were sitting on their mounts, evidenced by their leaving the protection of the trench to stand in front of it and gape at the very thing that Darius had hoped for, the sight of Rome and its Legions that he had seen from the ramparts of Susa. Still, never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that Caesar, who he was certain was the Roman wearing a long, flowing cloak that was the color of blood and sitting his horse in the open space in the middle between the Legions, would have gone to the lengths he was going in order to offer this example of Roman might. Darius instantly understood Caesar’s intent wasn’t to fight; not even a novice would position what he understood to be two Legions, facing each other across the open expanse that roughly coincided with the width of the hill he was standing on, with their flanks exposed to their foe, especially when that foe was composed of such a large number of archers. What this was meant to be was a demonstration that brought home the futility of further resistance to Rome…and Darius couldn’t have been happier about it, although his expression betrayed none of this. Instead, he let his men absorb the sight while he remained impassive, staring down to the floor of the valley as the Romans moved into their positions. There was one moment where, for reasons he could only guess at, there appeared to be some confusion with the Legion that was placing itself closest to the hill to his left, the western side, when for a span of several heartbeats, one group of Romans apparently turned in the wrong direction. They almost collided with another group marching directly in their path, which caused the neatly arranged rows of men to suddenly disintegrate, but they reacted quickly, turning and moving at a trot several dozen paces before settling back into their normal rhythm and with their previous alignment, as if nothing had happened. The one thing that concerned Darius was the thousand men who were under the command of one of his comrades from Susa, positioned about two furlongs from the end of the western ridge, tucked out of sight from the Romans. The man, his name Sherh, Darius trusted completely, but when Dotarzes had insisted on going with Sherh, Darius had decided against making an issue of it, and instead decided to turn it to his advantage. Now he was concerned that, when Darius made what would be the first move to execute his plan, Dotarzes might do something rash, or more accurately would not. The fact that all hundred of their cataphractoi were with this force only deepened Darius’ misgivings, but he also understood that there was nothing to be done about it now. Besides, Sherh was supposed to wait for the signal from Darius, the waving of the lone banner his force carried, the bearer of which was sitting on his horse next to him. Despite being higher up the hill than the men, Darius could hear them talking about what they were watching, and he didn’t have to hear the words to detect the fear of what they were seeing. Once the Romans finished moving, and Caesar, along with what Darius counted as another thirty riders, was positioned in the middle of the three lines, there was a span of time when there was no movement, nor any sound that drifted across the distance.
“What are they waiting for?”
This came from Cyrus, and Darius didn’t answer, because he didn’t really know; at least, not at first. Then, as the moment stretched out, and along with it a steady increase in the tension of the men, suddenly, he understood exactly what Caesar intended. And, despite it suiting his purpose, he still experienced an intense flash of hostility and anger towards these Romans that was so potent it almost overwhelmed him to the point he forgot that, in fact, this was what he wanted. Regardless of this knowledge, no man likes to have matters dictated to him, even when it suits his purpose, but Darius swallowed the bile that threatened to choke him, and he finally answered Cyrus.
“He’s waiting for us to come to him.” Darius did take some pride in how cool he sounded.
Cyrus nodded his concurrence, having drawn this conclusion as well, but he still asked Darius, “And? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to listen to what he has to say,” Darius replied calmly, but as he did so, he was unwrapping the headband that was part of the unofficial uniform of the mounted archer, and one that he wore even now, as a point of pride and as a message to the men who followed him.
The fact that it was white was no accident, and he called to the nearest spearman, who came at a trot. Relieving the man of his spear, he shook out his headband, then thrust one end down onto the point, which he handed to his standard bearer.
“You and I will go down there,” he told the man who, while he didn’t look happy about it, still nodded his understanding.
When Cyrus protested that he should be the man to go, Darius shook his head, saying firmly, “No. I need someone I can trust here in command. In case.” He didn’t finish, but there was no need, and while obviously as reluctant as the standard bearer, Cyrus agreed to remain behind. Just before he nudged his horse into motion, Darius said to Cyrus, in a lower voice, “Keep an eye on Sherh and his men. You know what to do if they move without orders.”
Although they had discussed it, Cyrus still refused to believe that their friend would be so foolhardy, and he repeated his objection, but Darius insisted, although he did add, “It’s not Sherh I’m worried about. Dotarzes refused to stay here, and he’s the one I don’t trust.”
Cyrus instantly understood Darius’ cause for concern, and, he admitted to himself, the same thought had crossed his mind, so he promised Darius he would do what was necessary, if the need arose.
Then, Darius began descending the hill, saying over his shoulder in a voice everyone could hear, “Let me go give these dogs the terms for their surrender.”
As he hoped, there was some laughter at this; not much, but it was better than nothing. Followed by the standard bearer, who had left behind the banner and was now holding the spear aloft, shaking the shaft so that the white cloth would catch more of the breeze in order to make it more visible, Darius descended the hill, forced to disappear briefly around the shoulder of it to get around the end of the line of entrenchments, reaching the valley floor in a matter of moments. The distance to cover wasn’t all that far, but it seemed to take forever; when Darius and the bearer reached the spot where they pulled even with the ends of the two Legions, facing them, time seemed to slow down even more. While he tried to keep his face turned straight ahead, Darius’ eyes kept darting back and forth between the Legion to his left, then to the one on his right, but then his gaze lit on the Roman Centurion who was standing next to the man holding the stout ash pole with a gilt silver eagle perched on top, and before he could stop himself, he felt his head turn.
Thankfully, he was certain he was too far away for the Romans to hear him gasp, but the standard bearer did, although he managed to remember Darius’ admonition not to do what Darius had just done, so without turning his head, he muttered, “What is it, lord?”
This served to jerk Darius’ attention away from the Centurion, and while his size was certainly a good reason for drawing attention, it wasn’t the reason that Darius had forgotten himself.
“Nothing,” he answered the man, keeping his voice low as well. “It’s just that I’ve seen that Roman before.” Instantly realizing his mistake, he hissed, “No! Don’t look! Besides, it doesn’t matter. I was just…surprised to see him, that’s all. Now,” he finished, “let’s get this over with.”
Darius was stating the truth; he had seen Titus Pullus, although it had been from a distance, but he had first glimpsed the man from the walls of Susa. Between the white crest he wore, which Darius had learned denoted the Roman who was the highest ranking man in command of each Legion and he knew were called Centurions, and the way he towered over his fellow Romans, he had been hard to miss, but it had been hard to judge from that distance, and from that angle, if the man was truly as large as he seemed. During his period of captivity, Darius had g
otten the chance to see the man up close, and if anything, Darius was sure, he was even bigger than he had appeared from far away. Now he felt the man’s eyes on him as he rode past, and it was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, even more than the fact that there were thousands of hostile eyes on him, though he had no idea why. Fortunately, they were closing on Caesar, who had separated himself slightly from the others, and Darius was close enough to see the expressions of unhappiness on the men, most of them bearded, with long hair that was either pulled back, or with at least two men, tied in a knot on the side of their heads, who Darius was certain were Caesar’s bodyguards. Suddenly the thought flashed through his mind, maybe I should have brought my own, although it wasn’t because of the safety they would provide, which would be next to nonexistent, but that it would have sent a signal to Caesar that he was dealing with a man of some importance himself. It was too late to do anything about that, so he put the thought from his mind, but then another man in Caesar’s party separated from the main bunch, and it almost caused Darius to jerk his mount to a stop, recognizing that it was Bodroges, the very man he was planning to kill. Only Darius knew what a supreme effort of will it took for him not to kick his horse into a gallop and launch himself at this dog of a nobleman, the man who, if the rumors were true, sneaked up behind Darius’ father and slit his throat like a bandit, not a Parthian nobleman. But Darius did no such thing, and his face was impassive as he realized, with a bit of chagrin that the reason Bodroges was there was because, despite his cleverness and wit, Darius was unlettered and had never learned more than a smattering of Greek, and only the most vulgar Latin terms that he had picked up from the Romans guarding him and his comrades. Then he was in front of Caesar, about fifteen paces away, and he drew up, ignoring the cold stares of the men across from him, focusing only on Caesar. Who, he was surprised to see, wasn’t examining him with any kind of hostility; while he had never met the man before, to Darius, Caesar’s expression was one of acute curiosity. The silence drew out for several heartbeats before Darius realized that it was on his shoulders to begin what would be the most important conversation, not just of his life, but for those men who followed him.
Naturally, he spoke in Parthian, but as he did, his eyes never left Caesar’s, mainly because he didn’t trust himself to look at Bodroges, who was now positioned just behind and to Caesar’s left, but he was pleased at how strong his voice sounded as he began, “Greetings, Caesar. My name is Darius, and I am the commander of the Spad of Istakhr.” Only then did he make a move, and he didn’t miss the hands moving to the hilts of swords as he lifted his own, but it was to indicate the Legions arrayed around them as he said, with an understatement that brought a faint smile to Caesar’s lips, once Bodroges translated the words, “Your Legions are very impressive, but I think I can be of service as well.”
As Caesar was sitting Toes, watching the pair of Parthians slowly approach, he took the time to study the man not bearing the flag of truce, but it was a sudden exclamation from Bodroges that was most instructive. The Parthian moved his horse closer to Caesar so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, ignoring Gundomir’s sudden reaction as he turned his own mount slightly to put him in a position to interpose himself between Bodroges and his general.
“Sir,” he called out, and he saw the black feathered crest shift slightly, although Caesar didn’t turn his head, “while I do not know with any certainty, this man who is approaching looks very much like Lord Gobryas, the man who was the commander of the Eastern spad.”
Before Caesar could say anything, it was Pollio who interjected with a tone that left no doubt about his feelings on the matter, “You mean, that’s the man whose throat you slit, isn’t it?”
While this wasn’t anything new to Bodroges, it still caused a flare of anger, but his skills as a courtier were put to good use, as he replied coolly, “And in doing so, saved hundreds, maybe thousands of Roman lives, and the lives of innocent Parthians.”
Before Pollio could retort, Caesar, his head still not moving, spoke up, “I thought Gobryas’ son was only nine or ten years old.”
“He is,” Bodroges assured him, “but perhaps this man is a…” he had to search for the correct word, but couldn’t think of it, and settled on, “…one who is born out of wedlock.”
“A bastard.” This came from Gundomir, who was more than happy to supply the word.
“Yes, that,” Bodroges agreed, embarrassed.
“Could it be that this Darius we’ve heard about is this man, and that he’s a bastard son?” Pollio mused, but then Caesar raised a hand, seeing that the two Parthians were approaching a point where they might hear what was being said.
“We will find out soon enough,” Caesar said, then called to Bodroges, “Come a bit closer, Bodroges. If this is Darius, and he is who you think he is, it’s unlikely he speaks Greek, and he almost certainly won’t speak Latin.”
Bodroges did as he was bid, then the two men reached a spot that, without being told, they seemed to understand was close enough to talk, and not too close to be considered a threat. There was a span where neither party spoke, and Caesar took the time to examine the young Parthian. He was, Caesar thought, a remarkably handsome young man, very well built, and he sat his horse with the ease that Caesar, who was a great horseman in his own right, appreciated, and frankly, envied. Whatever else could be said about Parthians, they were born to ride, and this man was clearly no exception. Caesar also noticed that the Parthian, who was bareheaded, had a strip starting in the middle of his forehead between hairline and eyebrows, where the flesh was a lighter shade than the rest of his swarthy face, only part of which was obscured by a beard that, while groomed, wasn’t oiled. This told Caesar that this man usually wore the headband, or the turban of the horse archer, and he wondered why he chose not to at this moment.
Then the young Parthian began speaking in his tongue, as Caesar had expected. “Greetings, Caesar. My name is Darius, and I am the commander of the Spad of Istakhr.” Naturally, there was a slight pause as Bodroges listened, then translated, but Caesar had picked up a fair amount of Parthian himself, something that he hadn’t shared with anyone other than his own Legates, so he understood perfectly, and when Darius added, “Your Legions are very impressive, but I think I can be of service as well,” Caesar, while not understanding every word, instantly gleaned the essence.
This gave his mind, which already moved more quickly than almost every other human alive then, the chance to process Darius’ words and form his response before Bodroges was finished.
While this was something for which Caesar had been hoping, both because it would save Roman lives and allow him to fulfill his true ambition for this year’s campaign, he wasn’t about to appear too eager, he made sure that his tone was cool as he replied, “Oh? How could a handful of mounted archers and some spearmen be of use to me?”
He was pleased to see that even before Bodroges relayed his words, Darius clearly interpreted Caesar’s tone, and his body stiffened, but his own voice sounded measured when he replied, “By not disappearing into these lands,” he indicated the barren terrain, “that we know better than you ever will, then snap at your heels like jackals, taking Roman lives as you make your way to…” at this, he shrugged, “…wherever you are going.”
Darius had no way of knowing, but rather than anger Caesar, this impressed him, although he decided to play the game a bit longer, mainly because, while he felt certain that he knew this Parthian wanted to surrender, he also wanted to remind him what awaited him if he betrayed Caesar and his army, so if anything, his voice got colder as he replied, “Where we are going is none of your concern, Darius. But, before we leave, perhaps we will turn around and march back to Istakhr and put everyone we find there to the sword.”
If this rattled or worried Darius, he did a good job of not showing it, and he asked quietly, “To what end, Caesar?” He paused, then seemed to decide something, and he continued, “There is no reason for you to know this, Caesar, but I wa
s part of the garrison at Susa, and I was your prisoner for the time before you decided our fate. And I saw how you treat the people.” Suddenly, he turned his attention to Bodroges, and there was no mistaking the cold anger as he continued, “You, who are supposedly our enemy, treat the people better than our own lords, who treat us like dogs, and as little better than beasts of burden.” He kept his eyes on Bodroges for a moment longer, and there was such hostility in his gaze that it made the Parthian nobleman look away. Only then did Darius turn back to look Caesar in the eye as he finished, “So, while you could go back to Istakhr and slaughter every man, woman, and child there, I do not think you will. Nor would you have any reason to, since I have no intention of giving it to you.”
Caesar considered for a moment, but he felt confident that Darius was speaking the truth. Still, he asked, “And why do you want to join my army?”
