by R. W. Peake
“Balbus,” one of the two men sitting directly across from him said chidingly, “you didn’t have to yank out his hair.”
“He deserves a lot fucking worse.” The voice was disembodied for only an instant before, stepping from behind him and into his range of view, Asina looked up to see a thickly built man, who even before the horrific scar that marred the side of his face, leaving a knotted, twisted stump where one of his ears had once been, wouldn’t have been called handsome. “He’s a fucking traitor to Rome!”
This man was staring coldly down at him, although it would take Asina some time to recognize that the sneer he was giving Asina was permanent, part of the damage to his face, and despite his fear, Asina returned the gaze levelly.
“And he may get it,” a third voice sounded, but this was one that even in the short period of time, Asina recognized, and he turned to see the huge Roman standing there, just a matter of three paces away, “but that’s for Caesar to decide, not us.”
Over the course of the next two or three breaths, Gaius Asina experienced a whole range of emotions; the first was shame that he should find himself here, as a captive, and the man who had vanquished him so easily was standing there before him, but it was quickly followed by anger, as the words the scarred man had uttered sank in, and while he was tightly bound hand and foot, his head was free, so he returned his attention to the scarred man, who, in an odd instant, Asina noticed was still clutching the sack.
“Traitor?” His voice didn’t sound exactly like his, although the anger he felt was not only unfeigned, it was familiar. “You dare call me a traitor?” Involuntarily wincing from the stab of pain in his head that raising his voice caused, it wasn’t enough to stop him from leaning over and at least attempting to spit at the scarred man’s feet. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, boy! We were abandoned by Rome! We were left to fucking rot by Rome! And you dare call me a traitor?”
Perhaps it was the strength of his rage that prompted the other three men to exchange troubled glances, or perhaps it was the words themselves; Asina would never know.
However, it prompted the huge Roman to speak, and if his tone wasn’t exactly conciliatory, it was certainly softer than that of the scarred man. “You weren’t abandoned. Why do you think we’re here in the first place?”
This was so unexpected that Asina was at a loss for words; it didn’t help that his head hurt, and there was a dampness there that told him he was, or had been bleeding, and he shook his head, repeating stubbornly, “We were abandoned by Rome.”
“Gaius Asina,” the largest man’s use of his name probably did more to soften him than the words, “I swear to you, on Jupiter’s black stone, that Rome never forgot you. There were just…” Suddenly, the man seemed at a loss for words, and Asina caught him glancing at the man who, while he was seated, Asina could tell was of a similar height to the giant, although with a much slenderer build, and this Roman clearly took the glance as a signal, because he took up by saying, “There’s a lot that happened in Rome that you may not know about.”
“Like what?” Asina asked, wincing at the tone of his voice even as he realized how starved for news of his home he was. Home; was that what Rome was? Still, after all that had happened?
For the next sixth part of a watch, the tall, lean Roman, with occasional interjections by the other two, told Asina about the tumultuous period that was called the civil war, about the struggle between Pompeius Magnus and his allies. Once the Roman, who Asina had instantly identified as a fellow Centurion, despite the fact that he was wearing just his tunic and baltea, had finished, there was a silence as the three men allowed their captive to absorb what he had been told.
“Would you like something to drink?” the largest Roman asked, prompting even more of a scowl from his scarred companion, which was ignored.
Again, Asina felt the competing tug of what he should say and what he wanted, because he was desperately thirsty, and, as Pullus had suspected, thirst won out, giving only a nod. Only then did he become aware that there was a fourth man, who had been somewhere behind him, because suddenly, this man appeared, holding a cup that he placed against Asina’s lips. Opening his mouth, it took an effort of will not to groan with relief as not only did the cool liquid quench his thirst, but the taste of unwatered wine, something that was in scarce supply in the Parthian army, summon a number of distant but powerful memories of times spent with comrades, back before Carrhae.
“That…that was good,” he finally muttered, then admitted, “It’s been a while since I’ve tasted a Falernian grape.”
“Only the best,” the lean Roman said laughingly, “for our Primus Pilus.”
Naturally, the attention of everyone in the tent went to the largest Roman, and it was only then that Gaius Asina suddenly realized who this was likely to be. No, he had never seen the man before, but even before they had departed with Crassus for the campaign that would upend their lives, he had heard mention of a man in the Legions under Caesar in Gaul who was reputedly a giant with the strength of ten men. As an experienced Legionary, Asina had dismissed these tales, knowing how they grew in the telling from one fire to the next, but now he was confronted with the proof that there had at least been a grain of truth in them.
“You’re…” He searched his memory, trying to summon the name of this giant who had given him this headache, but it was supplied by the latest addition to the party, and when he spoke, Asina heard the Greek accent as the man said, “He’s Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of Caesar’s Equestrians.”
That was it, Asina thought, turning back to examine the now-identified Pullus in a slightly different light. Well, he’s not ten feet tall, Asina thought ruefully, but he knocked me flat without even trying hard, so perhaps the rumors of his strength aren’t as exaggerated as I thought.
Aloud, he said only, “I’d say I was happy to meet you, but that would be a lie.”
As he hoped, this made his audience chuckle, except for the scarred one, but his scowl wasn’t quite as severe and Asina guessed that might be his version of a smile, since it was likely the nerves that controlled one side of his face had been severed. If he had been asked, Asina couldn’t actually articulate why he was trying to lighten the mood; in the moments since he had returned to consciousness, then took preliminary stock of his situation, he was partially resigned to the idea that this wasn’t going to end well for him.
“So,” Pullus spoke, and Asina heard the gravelly sound that, while all Centurions possessed to a degree, was of a quality that only seemed to be the purview of a Primus Pilus, “you saw that my boys had no desire to hurt any of you, since you’re at least part of the reason we’re here.” This, Asina instantly noticed, prompted a reaction from the lean Centurion, his head turning sharply in Pullus’ direction, with an expression that gave Asina insight that there was more to his statement than appeared on the surface. “But none of yours seemed to have any problem trying to kill men who were trying to help them.”
The expression on Pullus’ face changed as he was talking, becoming harder as he spoke about the fact that Asina and his Crassoi had killed and wounded a number of Pullus’ men. Who better than another Centurion to understand how he was feeling? And in this, at least, Gaius Asina and Titus Pullus were in perfect accord, since Asina’s memory was of men under his command who were now lying in the bottom of a ditch.
“How about explaining why things happened the way they did?” Pullus asked, although Asina wasn’t fooled; this wasn’t a request.
“Because,” Asina did attempt to shrug, though it was difficult, and tried to imbue an offhanded tone in his voice as he said, “that’s our job. Just like yours.”
“We don’t kill fellow Romans,” the scarred man burst in angrily, and again, Asina saw an undercurrent at play between the trio of Caesar’s Centurions.
But, as addled as Asina’s brains may have been, he had learned much in a short time, and he was sufficiently composed to shoot back, “That’s not wha
t your friend,” since he couldn’t use his hands, he indicated the lean Centurion with his head, “just told me. It sounds like you’ve killed a lot of fellow Romans!”
The scarred Centurion, who had been sitting on the edge of the table that was part of the furniture of what Asina assumed was Pullus’ quarters, leapt to his feet, snarling unintelligibly, but despite not understanding the words, Asina had no illusions about his intent.
“Balbus!” Pullus, remarkably enough, didn’t raise his voice that much, but even Asina heard the clear warning note in the tone, and so did this Balbus, who still stood yet didn’t advance, standing there glaring at Asina with balled fists.
“He does have a point.” This came from the lean Centurion, who seemed both unalarmed, and Asina deduced, unsurprised at Balbus’ outburst. Turning his attention back to Asina, the lean man appraised him coolly, giving Asina the impression that he wasn’t fooled, confirmed when the man said, “But that doesn’t change the fact that you and your men didn’t seem to have any hesitation in trying to kill us.”
“Now,” Pullus interjected, crossing his arms in a way that Asina sensed was meant to convey a message itself, because it made his already impressive arms bulge even more noticeability, something that Asina internally acknowledged did a good job of it, “how about you tell us about that?”
“And if I don’t?” Asina asked, though he was sure he knew the answer, which Pullus confirmed in his next breath.
“Asina,” he sighed, and the Crassoi noticed that he actually appeared sincere, sounding reluctant as he explained, “you know how this will work. If we turn you over to Caesar and tell him you’ve refused to cooperate, he’s going to be forced to take…steps,” Pullus’ tone stayed neutral, but Asina saw what he thought was a flicker of distaste, “to make sure you tell us what we want to know. And none of us here,” he made a gesture to encompass the other men, but then stopped when he got to Balbus and amended with a wry smile, “well, most of us have no desire to see you being skinned, one strip at a time.”
Asina’s first instinct was to brazen it out by assuring his fellow Romans that, as imaginative as they might have thought they were when it came to matters of torture, his decade with the Parthians had introduced him and every Crassoi with methods that made a man shudder just to describe them. But, he quickly realized, this would neither shake nor deter Pullus from trying to extract information from him.
The silence drew out, although there was one moment when, out of the corner of his eye, Asina saw Balbus open his mouth, but he was still watching Pullus and saw the Primus Pilus give a sharp shake of his head, a clear warning to remain silent. Finally, Asina drew a breath, but instead of answering, posed a question of his own.
“Do any of you have family? As in,” he added, realizing this was too broad, “wives and children?”
Although the three men shook their heads, Asina didn’t miss the look the short Greek gave Pullus, and while the Primus Pilus’ expression remained immobile, he felt certain there was a flicker there of…something, which led Asina to deduce, correctly as he would learn later, that if Pullus did have a family, it was in the past tense.
“Well,” Asina went on once the three shook their heads, “most of us do. And,” he was surprised at the sudden lump as he thought of Caspar’s children, who thought of him and called him uncle, “they’re here, with us.”
This understandably caused a sharp reaction, all four men clearly not expecting this, and Pullus in particular seemed the most disturbed, and he demanded, “What do you mean?”
Then it was Asina’s turn to inform his captors of the realities of the situation they were facing, and the more he talked, the angrier Asina grew, though not at these men, but at the Parthians. It hadn’t been a secret, exactly, about why Phraates had insisted on transporting the families of the Crassoi to Susa, but he realized that he had managed to put the implicit threat out of his mind. Explaining matters now brought this out from whatever dark cupboard of his memory he had shoved it into, prompting him to recount past events where the transgressions of a Crassoi had seen punishment exacted not on the man, but his family, in the most gruesome way imaginable.
By the time he was finished, more because the throbbing in his head had reasserted its control over him, Pullus and the other men were convinced that any chance of a peaceful surrender, or of the Crassoi returning their allegiance to Rome, at least without the removal of the threat to their families in some way, was out of the question. But for Pullus, the most troubling question was based more on an instinct than any actual moment that he could recall; somehow, he felt certain that this was something Caesar had already known…but chosen not to share.
“Did you know that their families were here?”
As Pullus had hoped, his sudden question, without any preamble that might give Caesar a hint, something Pullus had learned was all his general needed to anticipate what was coming, managed this time to catch Caesar off guard. He had been looking at the map when Pullus was ushered in, ostensibly to give his report about the attack that had occurred just a watch before. It was before dawn, but it wasn’t unusual to find that Caesar had been up for some time, and this was one of those occasions. Pullus had noticed as he approached the table upon which the map lay that Caesar was studying the area of the assault by the Crassoi, and Pullus had caught him out neatly.
Nevertheless, Caesar did try to dissemble, asking, “Whose families?”
Pullus didn’t reply, choosing instead to regard his general steadily, although he was careful to stand at intente as he did so, and this had the desired effect.
Sighing, Caesar dropped the piece of charcoal he had been using to mark on the map, saying, “Yes. I knew.”
Despite expecting this as the answer, Pullus felt the stab of anger that he had admonished himself he’d keep under control.
“And,” his voice sounded controlled to his ears, but Caesar knew Pullus too well, and the general understood just how much his giant Primus Pilus was struggling, “you didn’t think this was important for us to know? The men who would be doing the fighting against them?”
Caesar didn’t reply immediately, if only because he conceded that this was, indeed, a valid question, and one for which there was no easy answer.
At length, he said carefully, “I understand why you’re angry, Pullus. And I can see that perhaps I should have informed you. But,” he paused, then decided to be as honest as he was willing to be, “I knew it would be hard enough for the men to face fellow Romans, after all they’ve been through with…” he didn’t finish, but there was no need, “…so I made the decision to withhold that information because I didn’t want the men worrying about the idea of not only killing other Romans, but men with families that were at least part Roman.”
Just as Caesar had understood Pullus’ concerns, now the Primus Pilus found himself forced to acknowledge that, while he may not have agreed with the decision, Caesar had a solid reason. Regardless, however, it didn’t change the situation, which Pullus was compelled to point out.
“I understand your reasoning, Caesar, but I lost men tonight because they hesitated when they realized they were facing other Romans, but the Crassoi didn’t, and they didn’t because their families are inside those walls. Men,” Pullus pointed out, knowing as he did that he was treading on delicate ground, “who are at least part of the reason we’re supposed to be here. Or,” even as it came out of his mouth, Pullus inwardly groaned, “that’s what you told us.”
Caesar’s expression hardened, although it was always the eyes that Pullus noticed, as they seemed to grow colder somehow, but he inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, then exhaled before he replied, “Pullus, I know that there are men who think that I’m using the issue of Crassus’ men and the lost standards as a pretext.” He paused, his eyes never leaving Pullus, then asked softly, “So? What if it’s true?” Pullus was certain he had heard incorrectly, but Caesar pressed, “Would it matter, here and now? No matter what the reasons, we are here.
Now,” he had turned slightly so he could sit on the edge of the table, which he did as he crossed his arms in a pose that Pullus had seen far too often, a moment where Caesar saw himself as a tutor with a pupil, “what would you propose we do, here and now?”
It was the repetition of phrases that Pullus found most irritating, but he was also acutely aware that Caesar angry was a man who was not to be trifled with, although more than anything, Pullus was honest with himself to acknowledge that Caesar had a valid point.
Now it was Pullus who took in a breath, then blew it out to admit, “I’m certainly not suggesting that we pack up and go home.” As he hoped, this elicited a slight smile from Caesar. “But,” Pullus insisted, “the men should know what they’re facing. These Crassoi may not want to fight us. In fact,” he amended, “judging from this Gaius Asina, if they actually knew why it took us a decade to come get them, I’m sure they wouldn’t want to. But,” shaking his head grimly, Pullus finished, “if you know your family’s fate rests in your hands and is based on how much of a fight you put up, I think you’d fight, whether you wanted to or not.”
“Yes,” Caesar was forced to agree, “I know I would.” There ensued a silence for several heartbeats, then in a tacit admission that Pullus knew was as far as Caesar would ever bend, the general said, “And I can see that the men should know what we’re up against. But,” he warned Pullus, “it’s going to have to be done…unofficially. I’m not going to summon an assembly to tell them about this. You can tell the other Primi Pili, and then I’ll count on you to know how to put the word out.”
Knowing when to take a victory from his general even if it wasn’t exactly what he had hoped for, Pullus nodded his understanding.
“Now,” Caesar asked, “tell me about what happened tonight.”
Pullus spent the next sixth part of a watch giving Caesar his after-action report, leaving no detail out since he knew there was none too small that Caesar couldn’t make something of it that would help their cause. When the Primus Pilus got to the casualty report, referring to the numbers in the wax tablet he had brought with him, there was a subtle but unmistakable change in the atmosphere.