Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony, page 20
This is not to say that the men did not indulge themselves; it would have made matters far worse if we had tried to keep them in camp the whole winter without any outlet. However, we only allowed small groups out on the town on any given night, while the Centurions were always present, along with provosts to ensure that if there was any trouble, it was quickly snuffed out. Still, there will always be incidents and as the men learned the hard way, while the whores of Damascus were as pliable and licentious as advertised, the men of Damascus were much more protective over their daughters, sisters, and wives than other places we had been. It was not uncommon to see a man running for his life, carrying his clothes, and shouting the daily watchword at the top of his lungs as he sped barefoot for the main gate, with at least one, but usually more men waving the curved daggers that are the favored weapon in these parts hot on his heels, clearly intent on parting our man from his most prized possession. If it was a man from my Legion, I would be forced to face the angry father, brother, or in some cases, husband, who would be waving his arms about, yelling and carrying on, making it clear how much he had been damaged by the horrible deed one of my men had done to their innocent woman. I could not help noticing that the level of outrage and indignation would dramatically drop whenever I produced my purse, and in this, the men of Damascus were little different from the men of Gaul, Greece, or Egypt. Fortunately, none of my men got caught before they made it to the safety of the camp, but there were a couple of unfortunates from other Legions who were gelded and had to be discharged from the army. I heard that in every case, the men chose to fall on their sword rather than live with the shame of what had happened to them, though I do not know if that is true.
In some ways, it was fortunate that Pacorus chose to invade again because it was getting expensive for me to stay in Damascus. We learned of his plans from a greasy little toad named Herod, who at the time was just one of several contenders for the throne of Judaea, though of course now he is king of that country and has been for some time. He will probably live forever, given the amount of luck he has. His information was accurate, for all that, as he informed us that Pacorus was crossing the Euphrates at the ford at Samosata before heading in the direction of Antioch.
Not wanting to face Pacorus with a divided army, Ventidius sent immediate orders to Silo to march from Damascus with all haste, giving us no time to get the men prepared for hard marching. We set out from Damascus just two days after receiving the order, the first day putting in almost 30 miles, and it was one of the hardest marches I, or anyone for that matter, had ever done. Fortunately, it was still early in the year, just past the new year of the Consulship of Appius Claudius Pulcher and Gaius Norbanus Flaccus, so that it was not especially hot during the day, though it did get cool at night. However, Silo ordered us to dig ditches and ramparts only, while not pitching tents so that we could get back on the march more quickly. We rolled up in our sagum instead, the nights punctuated by the groans and moans of suffering men who had been living the high life back in Damascus but were paying for it now. Truthfully, I was exhausted and hurt just as much as the men were, despite my daily exercises. As much as I hated to admit it, my age was beginning to catch up with me more every day. However, I had to set an example, meaning that as always I was first up, Diocles waking me a third of a watch before the bucina sounded, meaning I would be in roaring form, walking about kicking men who were a little slow getting to their feet to begin the march. We did not even tear down the rampart and fill in the ditch; we just pulled up our stakes then got back on the march, the men stumbling and cursing at their sore legs and back. Despite this, we covered more than 30 miles the second day, though we had more stragglers than the previous day, some of the men not arriving in camp until after dark. Normally men who fell out were put on some sort of punishment detail, but under the circumstances, I did not see much point in working men harder who were unable to keep up, at least until some point in the future when we were more settled. About the fourth day of the march, a dispatch rider came thundering down the road towards us. Just a few moments after reporting to Silo, he called the Primi Pili to inform them that we would not be heading directly to Antioch. Pacorus was apparently in no hurry, moving no more than ten to twelve miles a day as he let his horses fatten up on the new grass. As a result, it gave us the opportunity to pick the ground, which Ventidius had already done, choosing the slopes of a small mountain called Gindarus.
We arrived at Mount Gindarus two days later, where Ventidius’ portion of the army was already in place, making camp at the top of the mountain, really little more than a hill with a gentle slope facing the road that led to Antioch. It would be up this road that Pacorus’ army would be traveling; at least that was the belief. I just hoped that he would not be arriving immediately, as the men desperately needed rest before facing the Parthians. However, we were in camp little more than a third of a watch when scouts came to report that Pacorus had made camp just about seven miles away, and would be marching by the next day. I immediately called a meeting of the Centurions, telling them the news. I could see the concern written on every face as they shot sidelong glances at each other, waiting for someone to speak up.
Deciding not to wait for one of them to find the courage, I said, “While it would be better if we had at least a day to recuperate, Mars has decided otherwise. Each of you needs to spend time with your men and make sure they know what’s expected of them. I know they’re tired; Pluto’s cock, I know YOU’RE all tired because I surely am.”
They gave a polite laugh.
“But we have to stop the Parthians when they come, and we’ve done it twice before, so I know we'll do it again. If we end this here and now, it will make our invasion of Parthia easier by killing more of them tomorrow. Make sure that the men understand that.”
The Centurions saluted, then left to their respective Centuries, while I went to my own to try to prepare the men for the coming trial.
As the scouts had predicted, the Parthians appeared on the horizon a little before mid-morning the next day. Clearly not expecting any trouble, they rode in a long column, with no outriders on the flanks and only a small advance guard. They moved much more slowly than would have been expected for a mounted column; when they finally got close enough to make out individuals, we could see that the reason the horsemen were moving so leisurely was in order to give their horses time to graze. Because it was early in the year, it was clear that they felt that their horses still needed to be fattened up. Only when they were no more than a mile away did their advance guard pull up short, peering in our direction. It took them a long time before they finally seemed to understand what they were seeing, before two of them finally yanked their horses about to gallop back to the main column, which was about a mile farther back. I was standing on the rampart along with the other officers, with the men formed up, ready to march out of the camp then move into formation, and Ventidius wasted no time in giving the order. We moved quickly and smoothly, using the front along with both side gates in a maneuver that is rehearsed over and over during our winter training. The 10th took up its position on the right, except that I made a slight change in our normal array by moving the higher Cohorts to the front, while putting the Second, Third, and Fourth in the rear line, which did not sit well with any of the men. Nevertheless, my mind was made up that I needed to give the more junior Cohorts some seasoning against the Parthian cataphracts, knowing that we would be facing them again when Antonius finally decided to invade. As the enemy moved into their own position, we saw that unlike the last two times, Pacorus’ force was not entirely composed of cataphracts; out of the 8,000 men, it looked as if about 3,000 of them were horse archers. The moment Ventidius saw this, he ordered the slingers, stationed behind the center wing, out in front of us. Spreading out in open order, Ventidius sent a detail of some of the auxiliaries with us to drag bags of the lead missiles made for just such an occasion to place at the foot of each slinger. Normally, the range of the Parthian bow is superior to a sling, but because we were uphill, that advantage was negated almost to the point where the respective ranges were equal.
The Parthians only discovered this the hard way, when they began galloping up to loose hails of arrows. In order for their own missiles to reach their real targets of the Legionaries, they had to draw within range of the slingers, whereupon the whizzing sound of the lead missiles flying downhill was quickly drowned out by the screams of men and horses as the lead shot hit muscle and bone, flattening out and turning jagged from the force of the impact. The first volley of the horse archers was their last real one, and although some of the arrows struck their targets, most of them landed harmlessly in the ground, none hitting a Legionary. The horse archers wheeled about, galloping out of range of the slings, not bothering with their own famed Parthian shot, knowing that it would be useless.
We stood watching as the leader, obviously Pacorus, received the report of the commander of the archers, then we saw him point up the hill at us, clearly commanding the man to try again. It was a credit either to his bravery or stupidity, or perhaps his fear of Pacorus, but he obeyed. Despite the fact that his men followed him readily enough, even from where we stood it was plain to see that their hearts were not in it. This time, they tried to present a more difficult target by weaving their horses back and forth in short spurts, never heading in one direction for the same length of time as the last. At first, it worked, so they were able to draw closer without being savaged, at least as quickly as in their first attack, but our slingers had an almost endless supply of ammunition. I considered that this was another example of the justice of the gods, since it was well known by then that at Carrhae, the Parthian general who led the forces that attacked Crassus used trains of camels carrying wicker baskets full of arrows to follow the archers as they harassed Crassus and his men for days, whittling them down one by one until there was no army left; just individuals or small groups of men who managed to slip through the Parthian net. Of course, the reward for this general’s ingenuity was to be killed by Pacorus’ father, who reportedly was jealous of the man’s success. Apparently, this lesson was lost on Pacorus, because this force of archers had no camels following them. Even if they had been present, it would not have mattered; our slingers would have slaughtered the camels along with the archers.
A few arrows managed to land in the ranks of the Legions, but they did not come in a shower that blackened the sky, so it was relatively easy for men to pick the missiles off with their shields before they did any real damage. The second attack ended as the first. When the Parthians finally turned to flee back down the hill, we knew there would not be a third attack from the archers, there being perhaps only 500 men still left mounted and able to fight. Pacorus did not even try to order them back, turning instead to a man who raised a purple flag with an embroidered symbol on it. Although it was impossible to make out what the symbol was, it was obvious that it was meant for the cataphracts, because the instant the banner was raised, they began to move. They aligned themselves roughly in the same three wings as we did; they nevertheless did not have the depth of reserve that we did, and Pacorus ordered them into a single massed line only four ranks deep. He was clearly planning on using the mass of horseflesh and armor to punch through our line, counting on the shock of the impact to break us, sending us streaming back into our second, then third line. If it worked, we would be slaughtered because our cohesion would be shattered, and then it would be a cavalrymen’s dream, running down and skewering fleeing men with their long lances. Our Galatians were on each wing, yet given our success against the cataphracts with the Legions alone, Ventidius had given strict orders that they were there as a reserve, only to pursue once the cataphracts were routed. We watched as the cataphracts jammed themselves closer and closer together, so that their legs were touching each other.
I heard someone behind me say with affected boredom, “Won’t these bastards ever learn?”
Some men chuckled, as another man called out, “You better hope they don’t, Gallus. I’ve seen you run, and you’ll be the first with a Parthian lance up your ass.”
This provoked a roar of laughter, but as much as I wanted to join in, I could not.
“That’s enough,” I snapped over my shoulder. “And, Gallus, you’re on report. You can thank your big-mouthed friend for using your name.”
I heard a muffled curse, while I was glad that my back was turned so the men could not see me smile.
As at the Syrian Gates, the Parthians seemed to have no respect or regard for Roman infantry, once again pounding up the slope, lathering and tiring out their heavily laden horses. The one difference this time was that instead of immediately ordering the slingers out of harm’s way, Ventidius ordered one more volley fired before they turned to scamper through the ranks in enough time for us to re-form after they passed through. I will say that I was shocked to see how devastating those lead missiles were, even against men and horses so heavily armored. The damage of the volley was magnified by how closely packed the Parthians were, so that when one horse went down, at the very least the beast behind it went tumbling as well. Even when it was just the rider who fell, his body was enough of an obstacle for a horse to stumble, so before they were halfway up the hill, there were gaping holes in their ranks. Their charge was so headlong that they did not take the time to close up, giving us gaps to shoot into and use the exact same tactic as at the Syrian Gates. When they were no more than 50 paces away, the front ranks of our army leapt forward with a roar; the smaller men darted into the spaces, quickly thrusting up with their swords, while men close to my size reached out to drag men off their gutted mounts, ending them with a thrust into their face or throats. Before a few moments had passed, I had personally slain a half-dozen men. Out of those, only one bothered to drop his lance to draw his sword, realizing the longer weapon was useless. However, the Parthian’s sword is a typical cavalrymen’s blade, longer than ours, which is fine when you are on horseback stabbing down, but when you are on your feet face to face with a Legionary, it is almost as useless as the lance. The Parthian took a wild swing with his blade, clearly trying to behead me. Knocking it aside with my own, before he could recover, I stepped inside the arc of his sword, bringing mine up under his ribcage, deep into his chest. His jaw dropped in surprise as he looked down at where my Gallic blade had punched through his armor plate, which had been no protection as it went in, except that now I had to wrench it out. Holding him up with one hand, I pulled the blade back and forth trying to extract it. He had made no loud sound to that point, but now he began shrieking in horrible agony, not helping my concentration and I am afraid it prolonged his suffering before the blade finally came free with a wet, sucking sound. Through all of this, he remained alive, his eyes fixed on mine, his body convulsing as his hands clutched at me while he tried to form words. I could not understand what he was saying, but I knew what he wanted. Giving him a grim nod, I drew my blade across his throat, watching as his eyes dimmed, his hands letting go of my belt. All around me were similar scenes of death as both man and beast met their end on the slope of the hill. Our men were roaring with bloodlust, the Parthians shouting or screaming in desperation or agony, while above it all was the sound of the horses as they flailed about, trying to escape from this horrible place. I saw one horse streaking away, trailing both its rider and its own guts behind it, oblivious to anything other than the need to escape to find a quiet place to die. Surveying the scene, I blew the whistle for the next line of men to enter the battle, and they went bounding past the men of the first rank, intent on killing the rear ranks of the Parthians, who were now trying to turn their mounts about to get back down the hill. Some of them managed, while most were caught from behind, our men having the double advantage of running downhill, as well as chasing down mounts already blown from being galloped up the slope. The slaughter continued down the hill, but as I looked in that direction, I saw that a fair number of the enemy had managed to escape. They were forming up around a small knoll, on the top of which sat Pacorus and his bodyguard. The initial fury of the battle had subsided, men now going about their business with efficiency and detachment, grimly working in teams as the last of the Parthians stranded on the slope either tried to escape or decided to go down fighting.
I looked back up to where Ventidius had positioned himself, then saw that he had put the Galatians into motion, both wings swinging wide as they headed down the slope to get behind Pacorus’ position in order to cut him off from any chance of escape. I believe that if the Parthian had moved right then, he might have gotten away, though only if the rest of his men had sacrificed themselves. Even so, it would have been a chancy business, as no cataphract was going to be able to outrun a Galatian for more than a mile at the most before the Parthian horse foundered. Perhaps that is why he chose to stay in place, recognizing it as futile. Whatever his reason, he and the remainder of his men only watched as the Galatians swung around behind him, then once we finished off the last resistance on the hill, the cornu sounded the recall, whereupon we formed back up. I had my own cornicen give the signal for the last rank, where the Second, Third and Fourth was, to move forward to take the first position, the men of those Cohorts grinning from ear to ear, happy not only to be in on the fighting but for the chance to kill a Parthian prince. More importantly, they knew that the men of his bodyguard and most likely the remainder of his forces were the highest-ranking nobility left on the field, making them the wealthiest, and nothing cheers a Legionary more than the idea of killing a rich man. The other Cohorts were naturally a bit put out, but I assured them that they had their pickings of our part of the field on the slope, cheering them a great deal. We waited for the Parthians to charge us, yet they seemed content to wait for us to come to them, thereby sacrificing the only advantage they had to try to inflict as much damage as possible. In the moments while we waited, before Ventidius gave us the order to move forward in preparation for the final charge, someone began banging their sword against the rim of their shield, which was quickly picked up by the rest of the army. No cheering, no yelling insults, just the steady, rhythmic sound of metal on metal, the message to the Parthians that their doom was approaching, and I suddenly remembered a similar moment more than 20 years before against the Helvetii, and I recall wondering if the Parthians knew just how inevitable their defeat was.
