by R. W. Peake
“I need someone I can trust in Merv,” he had explained to Pedius. “Someone who I can use as my eyes and ears, and to alert me if there’s trouble brewing.”
“Trouble?” Pedius asked pensively. “What kind of trouble?”
“Primarily, signs that there is some sort of attempt on the part of the local Parthian nobility to try and usurp our hold over the province,” Caesar answered immediately, then after a slight pause, added, “or the Praetor makes what you consider to be…errors in his handling of the local populace.”
Despite Pedius’ suspicions that this was at least part of the reason, he still squirmed in his chair, but he felt compelled to offer some form of protest, however mild, “Uncle Gaius, I don’t know that I’m the right man for this job…”
“If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have chosen you,” Caesar cut him off, but while he was pressed for time, as always, he decided that it would be wise to invest some of that time with his nephew, and he told Pedius, “But of the two concerns I have, the one about Lepidus is the least of it. And,” he assured him, “I’ve already given instructions to Primus Pilus Caspar that he’s to come to you if Lepidus issues orders that are…problematic.” Standing suddenly, Caesar used a tactic that had worked well for him in the past, coming from around his desk to where Pedius, who had scrambled to his feet, stood uncertainly, and placing a hand on the young man’s shoulders, said quietly, “I could have chosen any of the Tribunes, Quintus. I could have even summoned Octavian to leave Ctesiphon and go to Merv, but I didn’t because I know that you’re the right man for this job, and I know you won’t let me down.”
And, as always, Pedius swallowed the lump in his throat, and swore to Caesar that he indeed wouldn’t let his uncle down. With that, Pedius was dismissed, leaving Caesar to return his attention to the large map on the wall behind his desk, which contained new information, brought back from the cavalry forays he had entrusted to Hirtius, who Caesar had decided was going to remain the commander of the cavalry for the foreseeable future. These reports, brought back from the farthest east any Roman had yet to penetrate, were both enlightening, and troubling in equal measure; at least, to any other man. To Caesar, however, it was simply another problem to overcome, and was just the next step in what was ahead, something that he had only hinted at, and then only to a very, very small handful of men under his command. Staring at the map, Caesar’s eyes kept moving even farther east than the newly filled in sections, his imagination taking him into lands never seen by any Roman, and only glimpsed by a Macedonian king and his army. Burned into his memory was the moment when he had been staring up at the statue of Alexander, and was filled with such an intense sense of despair at being the same age as the legendary conqueror, yet all he had to show for it at that point was a paltry Praetorship of a Roman province. He had never divulged to anyone, not to his closest friends like Crassus, nor even to Calpurnia, his wife, the seed that had been planted that day, partially because in that moment, he was only dimly aware of it himself. Now, however, that seed had grown into a tangible, almost sentient form, one that drove his every waking hour, where everything he did, whether it be planning the campaign against the Parthians or involving himself in the mundane but important details of daily management of the largest army in Roman history, was all a step towards his final goal, to outstrip the great Alexander in deeds of glory, and more importantly, conquest. Now, Caesar mused as he returned his attention to the more immediate problems that stood in the way of his ultimate ambition, the real work begins.
Two nights before the Crassoi departed, Caesar held a huge banquet, one for the entire army, which he had been secretly planning almost since the day Susa fell. He had done such a magnificent job of maintaining the secrecy that even Diocles, who had never failed to warn Pullus of developments emanating from the praetorium, was caught by surprise, something that Pullus wasn’t going to let him forget for the foreseeable future. The first indication was when, shortly after dawn the day before the banquet, a small army of paid laborers came hustling out of the city to join with the slaves attached to the army then heading to the site of where the western Crassoi camp had been located, first performing the final labors of tearing down the stone towers, filling in the ditches and leveling the ground to the point where, while still noticeable, the traces that there had been a military camp were hard to spot. Over the course of the intervening weeks, Caesar had consolidated his army somewhat, leaving two large camps, the one to the north, and the one to the south, both for practical purposes, but also to assure the understandably nervous inhabitants of the city that, while Rome had come, and conquered, they had no more designs to inflict punishment on them; unless, of course, it was warranted. However, the example that had been set with the final group of Parthian prisoners was still fresh enough in the minds of any Parthian who dreamt of insurrection that Caesar felt fairly confident that it would be some time before they would have to face an attempt to rebel. And, if his plans for not just Susa but the entire swathe of Parthia now under Roman control came to fruition as he expected, he was privately certain that there wouldn’t be trouble. His execution of more than two thousand Parthians, all of whom were either nobility or were their most senior, and loyal, retainers, and had either been the core of the group Caesar had learned was called The Thousand, those cataphractoi who had been trained to fight in the Roman manner to defend Susa, or were those men who had been captured as part of Kambyses’ spad, had been one step in his larger plan. This decision hadn’t been made capriciously or out of any vindictiveness; learning his lesson from the Gallic campaign, Caesar had determined that the source of all of his troubles that came in the final two years of his time in Gaul stemmed from his policy of clemency towards the nobility. Compounding this was the manner in which his fellow patricians had behaved during the course of the civil war, most notably the men Afranius and Petreius, whose shameful behavior in Hispania was still a sore subject among his men, particularly those belonging to what were called the Spanish Legions. At the time, he believed his logic, at least where it concerned the Gauls was sound; the people needed their leaders, to provide stability and direction. But, as he learned, when those leaders were determined to fight what Caesar, and Rome, viewed as the inevitable, that Gaul was now and forever part of Rome’s dominion, it didn’t make sense to allow them to live, and he privately regretted for allowing matters to reach the point they had. It was the second aspect, however, that allowed the possibility of the first, and that was, when the lot of the average citizen was relatively bleak and without much hope for any opportunity to better their fortunes, they welcomed any master who improved their lives, no matter what those of their upper classes chose to believe. Consequently, Caesar waited for more than three weeks before he ordered the execution of this final group of Parthian prisoners, mainly to allow the people to get a taste of life under Roman rule which, when compared to how the Parthian royalty and nobility treated them, was a massive improvement. What it meant in practical terms was that, on the day he decided would be the last for these men, there was very little protest made, or even demonstrations of disagreement as the citizens of the city lined the walls to watch the systematic beheading of those men who had been their social superiors, and as Caesar had observed, never let those witnesses forget it. Not, he had to acknowledge, that it was all that much different with Roman patricians when they dealt with members of the Head Count, but there was a distinct and hugely important difference; even the poorest Roman citizen was a citizen, meaning they were guaranteed certain rights and privileges. The fact that, speaking in practical terms, those rights and privileges were strictly controlled by the men who guarded their own status and the power that came with it every bit as jealously as any of the Parthians who had literally lost their head, was, to Caesar, beside the point, because as paltry as those protections may have been, they were still more than those given to their Parthian counterparts. From a lifetime of keen observation, Caesar had determined that when people were fed, had acc
ess to clean and plentiful water, and didn’t live in constant fear that what little they did have would be taken away from them, whether it be on the whim of someone above them on their social ladder, or at the hands of a foreign invader, whether or not it was a Roman, a Gaul, or a Parthian, the question of who ruled over them mattered very little. The enforcement of his policy that there be no molestation of the inhabitants of Susa hadn’t been popular, and he had been forced to publicly flog a half-dozen men and execute one ranker who had been caught in the act of raping a married woman, but Caesar had remained firm, refusing to reduce the severity of the punishment, despite the fact that a request for leniency came from the man who was commonly acknowledged as his favorite Primus Pilus.
“I won’t do it, Pullus,” Caesar had informed the Primus Pilus, but whereas with the other Primi Pili he wouldn’t have been disposed to do so, with Pullus he chose to explain, “because the people of Susa need to see that they’re protected from us, that just because we conquered their army, we don’t hold any ill will towards the populace.”
Pullus hadn’t liked hearing it, but he also was forced to acknowledge that it was impossible to argue the logic behind Caesar’s decision. It didn’t make his life any easier, yet Pullus was acutely aware that, while his general generally tried to lighten the burden for the men under his command whenever possible, Caesar never allowed the fate of any single man to jeopardize the larger goals he had set for his army, and as Pullus knew, Caesar himself. In fact, Caesar had made the man, a member of the Third of the Tenth of the Equestrians, even more of an example because, rather than conduct the execution in camp, he had it performed in the square in front of the building that was now the Praetorium of Caesar’s army and the seat of civil administration for this newly conquered region. As all such events do, it attracted a huge crowd of people, most of them simply curious, but a fair number who were there to watch did so because they were certain that there would be a reprieve of this Roman at the last instant. The sodden, wet thud of the Legionary’s head striking the paving stones gave them their answer, albeit one that was unexpected, and as Caesar was certain it would, this marked the turning point in the relationship between the vanquished and their conquerors. And, inevitably, it wasn’t long before the men of the Legions and the women of Susa began interacting in a manner that was unique to every city or town where there was a Roman Legion presence. Equally inevitable was the fact that demand for unattached or rentable feminine company far outstripped the supply, prompting Caesar to send a message to Octavian to dispatch one of the more peculiar, yet necessary, “supply” convoys from Ctesiphon, which helped alleviate the issue without solving it entirely. To men like Caspar and his Crassoi comrades, observing all that was taking place was a source of great amusement and not a small amount of reminiscing, since this was essentially what had happened to them and what had seen them go from reluctant captives to men willing to fight for a former enemy who had been responsible for a crushing defeat. Because of the massive size and number of men involved— women had been expressly forbidden from attending as guests of a ranker, even those attached to one of the Crassoi—the area in which the banquet was held could be measured in furlongs, and required the temporary appropriation of every table and bench from the city. Even then, the woodworking immunes were required to use the wood that had started out as pieces of wagons, then been used to build towers and ramps to make more tables and benches to accommodate the men. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread, wafting not only from the northern camp, but from the city proper, tormented the men for the entire day of the feast, although it was the prospect of being given tacit permission to drink as much wine, also brought from Ctesiphon, which still served as the main supply depot, that the majority of men were the most excited about. At least, the rankers were of that mind; the Centurions and Optios had a much different view of the matter, yet they also knew that drunken brawls were considered as much of a tradition at events like this as the actual banquet itself. And, since they had all once been Gregarii, more than one of them secretly looked forward to the prospect of drinking themselves insensible as the rankers, perhaps none of them more than Balbus.
“I’d tell you to set the proper example,” Pullus said as the three men strode towards the banquet area, “but your idea of what that is and mine are two different things. So,” he turned to his friend, regarding him with an expression of mock resignation, “just don’t do anything that will get you flogged.”
“Who, me?” Balbus returned Pullus’ admonition with what could only be described as a leer. “I’m a…a,” he turned to Scribonius, who was walking on his opposite side, “…what’s that term you educated types like to use?”
Sighing, Scribonius supplied, “Model of virtu?”
“Yes!” Balbus agreed by shoving Scribonius, sending him stumbling sideways, prompting a muttered curse from his victim, while Pullus merely shook his head, thinking that if Balbus was completely sober and acting in this manner, it didn’t bode well for the evening.
“Remember,” Pullus gave a final warning, “don’t do anything stupid. I’m going to be sitting on the dais, but I’ll be able to see you!”
Diocles, walking behind the trio, exchanged a grin with Porcinus, who was walking by his side, whispering, “This should be a night to remember.”
Reaching the banquet, there was a surprise waiting, both for the men of three Legions, and for three of the Primi Pili. It was a calculated risk, Caesar knew when he made the decision, but he had ordered that the place of honor for the rankers, which was directly in front of the center dais where Caesar and his senior officers were seated, would be occupied by the men of the 10th, 3rd… and the newly minted Crassoi Legion. He was acutely aware that less than two months before, these men had been trying to kill each other, but one difference between the circumstances of the civil war with Pompey and the fight with the Crassoi was these men had been fighting for their families, all of whom, the Romans had learned from Gaius Asina, had been relocated inside the walls of Susa. Also, there wasn’t the rancor that stemmed from heinous acts of butchery like those perpetrated by the slain Pompeian generals Afranius and Petreius; nevertheless, Caesar knew it was a risk. Ultimately, he believed that it was worth it, and in that spirit, he had carefully arranged the seating on the dais, which Pullus, Spurius, and Caspar discovered when the latter found himself in between the pair of Primi Pili. There was a span of heartbeats, as the three men, realizing Caesar’s intentions, stood facing each other, and at first it appeared that Caspar would find this too much of a humiliation to bear, particularly when it came to sitting next to Pullus, the man who had flattened him with such apparent ease that the memory of it still stung Caspar. Nevertheless, along with this humiliating memory, Caspar was also acutely aware that the large Roman had deliberately turned his gladius at the last instant; otherwise, it would be another man sitting there, most likely Asina.
It was Pullus who was responsible for calming the tense situation when he said, “You have the hardest head of anyone I’ve ever hit, Primus Pilus Caspar.” At first, Caspar thought he was being mocked, but then Pullus added, “When I saw you leading your men, what was it, a watch later?” Shaking his head, he continued, “I doubt I could have done that.” Then, with a grin and while thrusting out his arm, he finished, “Because I know how hard I hit, and I gave you a good one.”
Caspar eyed Pullus’ hand, and while he maintained a cool demeanor, he was struggling to contain a smile, despite a part of his mind chiding himself for giving in so easily, but he finally took Pullus’ arm and muttered, “You know, I still have a fucking headache.”
Only then did the pair become aware that they were the object of scrutiny, not just by the other men on the dais, but by those they led, all of whom were standing, watching for their cue on how to behave. Those who heard the exchange laughed, perhaps a bit more loudly and heartily than it merited, yet it sent a signal to the men who had performed the bulk of the fighting against each other, one that
was received, and aside from a few scuffles later in the evening, was obeyed. Once two or three cups of unwatered wine had been consumed between Pullus, Caspar and Spurius, whatever vestiges of resentment and hostility were, if not completely erased, diminished to a point where, to an outside observer, it would have appeared that the three men were long-time comrades, and more importantly, friends. For his part, Pullus appreciated Caspar’s devotion to his men, in the manner only a fellow Primus Pilus and Centurion could, while Caspar, despite not really wanting to, found that he enjoyed Pullus’ acerbic sense of humor. By the time a whole amphora had been consumed, the three men were roaring with laughter, shoving each other in their roughly playful manner, and regaling each other with the kind of stories that, in many ways, were every bit as important to the cohesion of a Legion as the training they underwent. Most importantly, at least as far as Caesar was concerned, as he watched the proceedings with amusement and a deep sense of satisfaction, their men followed the lead of their Primi Pili. Naturally, there were brawls, but what didn’t escape either Caesar’s or the Primi Pili’s notice was that they were almost exclusively between men in the same Legion, usually the same Century, and were the results of long-simmering feuds between men who marched together. The Centurions and Optios, both of Caesar’s army and the newly added Crassoi were largely responsible for this; later, Pullus learned that, despite his boasts, Balbus had actually imbibed very little, choosing instead to move from one table to the next, ostensibly to share a joke or story with the rankers, but sending a silent message that Pullus’ ferocious second in command was watching. All in all, the banquet was a success, both for its obvious goal in rewarding the men for their performance and in getting men accustomed to the idea that there was a new Legion in the army, one that could be trusted to secure the farthest northeastern corner of the new Parthian province. When the Crassoi and the huge baggage train that carried their families, accompanied by an unhappy Praetor, a nervous Tribune and four turmae of cavalry were set to depart, despite the early watch, thousands of men from Caesar’s army turned out to see them off; among them was Pullus, who was standing near Caesar as the general gave his last instructions. Although he was addressing Lepidus, it was obvious to Pullus and everyone else standing within earshot that his words were meant for Caspar. Speaking of the Crassoi Primus Pilus, he had one last surprise for his new general and comrades.