by R. W. Peake
Before Pullus could continue, Porcinus interjected, “And didn’t some Indian king defeat Alexander with his elephants? That’s why he turned around?”
Instead of answering this, Pullus turned not to Scribonius, but to Diocles, whose knowledge of Alexander’s campaigns had proven to be extremely valuable over the course of the previous two years.
Seeing and interpreting the glance correctly, Diocles spoke up from behind his small desk where he was consuming his own meal, “Yes, and no, Gaius. There were several factors, but Porus and his elephants weren’t the only challenge Alexander faced, and the truth is that he defeated Porus at the Hydaspes, despite the elephants. But, he had a very angry army at his back for one thing,” at this, Pullus and Scribonius exchanged a surreptitious glance, their thoughts running along the same lines, “and the Hydaspes was at its highest levels in many years. Porus thought that Alexander would wait for the river to subside, which was still several months away, and just stay camped across from his own army. But,” Diocles smiled, “Alexander didn’t do that. Instead, he split his forces, and took his part upriver and found another spot to ford.” Porcinus was listening intently, and Diocles sensed that, while interesting, hearing about Alexander’s tactical brilliance wasn’t what he was listening for, so he skipped ahead, saying, “Porus had eighty-five war elephants, but while they inflicted heavy casualties, they proved to be as dangerous to the Indians as they were to the Macedonians.”
Seeing this as his opportunity, mainly to move his nephew away from what followed Alexander’s defeat of Porus, Pullus interjected, “You know that we faced elephants at Thapsus. Actually,” he corrected himself, “we didn’t in the 10th. The 5th asked specifically to face Scipio’s elephants, and Caesar gave them special training on how to deal with them.” The memory of the line of Legionaries of the 5th, whose first day of training consisted of being forced to walk up to one of the three tame beasts that Caesar had somehow found, just to touch them and get used to being next to these massive animals, made him chuckle as he continued, “But what I can tell you is that, just like Alexander did, we learned those things are about as dangerous to their friends as they are to their enemies.”
“Why?” Porcinus asked, and Pullus explained, “Because they’re like us in a lot of ways. They have bad tempers, and when they’re pushed, they tend to stomp anyone around them into jellied meat or run them through with those huge fucking tusks of theirs.”
This didn’t help soothe Porcinus’ fears, so it was left to Scribonius to point out a major difference, telling the young Gregarius, “The African variety is a lot bigger, and a lot more aggressive than the ones we’re likely to face, Gaius.”
“Besides,” Pullus adopted a tone that his nephew knew meant the subject was now closed, “if we do run into elephants, Caesar will have the 5th to deal with them.”
This made perfect sense, not only to Porcinus, but to the others; it turned out not to be true, and Caesar’s army was about to suffer terribly for it.
By the time that Caesar sent orders for every Primus Pilus to attend to him in his flagship, the passing landscape had become an ever more verdant shade of green. The fleet had hove to at the mouth of what appeared to be a fairly large bay, although unlike at Harmozeia, there were no islands visible. According to one of the lookouts who would scramble up the mast of the quinquereme, something that made Pullus dizzy just thinking about it, at the deepest recess of the bay, he could see a river that emptied into it. He had also called down that he saw what appeared to be a settlement of some sort, pointing to a spot off the left quarter, nearer to the entrance of the bay than where the river was located. Now, as the sun was setting, Pullus grit his teeth as he bobbed about in the small craft manned by four men, pulling on their oar as Caesar’s ship grew larger with agonizing slowness. For the last hundred paces’ distance, Pullus was certain that his stomach would finally rebel, but he managed to avoid this embarrassment, scrambling up the rope ladder to the relatively stable deck of Caesar’s ship. Over the previous weeks, he had been aboard Caesar’s ship a handful of times, and every time he had been certain that he would unman himself by vomiting during the process of transferring from his ship to Caesar’s. While nothing had been said, by Caesar or any of his Legates the last time they had been together, Pullus relied on his instincts, and they told him that the general had more in mind than just finding a spot to camp. His reasoning, such as it was, was that they had to reach India at some point, and what little he knew about the country, one thing about it was that it was supposed to be lush and green. When he arrived in the main cabin that served as Caesar’s office, Balbinus, Spurius, Batius, and Atartinus were already there, and Caesar was clearly growing impatient. Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long enough for his temper to flare, and while it was cramped, the rest of the Primi Pili arrived and quickly settled down on the small stools that were arranged in front of the desk, which had been secured to the deck.
Behind Caesar on the wall was a piece of vellum, and Pullus could see that it was more of an outline of the coastline than a real map, which Caesar addressed immediately, pointing to it as he said, “As you can see for yourselves, there is more we don’t know about India than we do. But, as I’m guessing you have determined, we are right here.” He pointed to a spot that was in the open sea area roughly equidistant from the point of land that jutted down from the north as it was to the land that formed the southern side of the bay entrance. His finger then moved to the narrow, winding line at the top of the map that terminated in the bay. “This is the Indus. It’s one of the rivers that Alexander used to transport his army.” This was when he turned back and said simply, “So, for those of you who are still wondering, we have reached India.”
Pullus’ sense was that most of the assembled men had deduced this, and this was partially confirmed when Spurius leaned over and whispered, “We know that, but what are we supposed to do now that we’re here?”
If Caesar heard, he gave no sign, turning back to the map, except this time, he used his stylus to be more precise in where he was pointing, although Pullus still had to squint to see the small series of rectangular shapes, which Caesar explained. “There is a small settlement here, and it’s been here for almost three hundred years. It was set up as a supply base by Alexander, but it’s actually located near the mouth of the bay.” Once more he moved his finger, this time to another series of shapes, to which he provided the name. “This is Barbaricum, or as the Greeks call it, Barbarikon. It’s our actual objective, but Volusenus is still out scouting, so I can’t provide you any specifics about how we’re going to accomplish this. What I can tell you,” when he faced the Centurions, Pullus saw the turned down mouth, which never boded well, “is that even without seeing it up close, our options are severely limited. The problem is that the Indus actually has seven mouths that reach the sea, but only one of them is navigable upriver, which means that Barbarikon is located on that one. Depending on what Volusenus reports, we may be faced with the prospect of being forced to land directly next to the town.”
Felix raised his hand to ask, “Can’t we land somewhere on either side, then surround the town?”
“Volusenus is looking into that possibility,” Caesar acknowledged, although his expression showed he didn’t hold much hope, “but just from what little we know, the area between the various mouths is marshland, and is probably subject to the tides.”
There weren’t many more details after that, other than Caesar saying that he would summon them again once Volusenus returned, and he tasked them with alerting their Legions that there would be something happening soon. Pullus filed out with the others, and he was at least pleased to see that none of his fellow Centurions looked happy at the prospect of getting back into those small boats. When they emerged on deck, the wind had picked up, creating a froth on the waves that made his stomach churn just looking at it, but he glumly dropped down the rope ladder into the boat. Unfortunately, this time, he didn’t make it all the way bac
k to his own ship before his stomach signaled that it had suffered enough abuse.
Caesar’s pessimism proved to be warranted, as Volusenus returned with grim news, which Caesar relayed early the next morning when he reassembled his officers.
“As we feared, there is really only one way we can approach Barbaricum,” he began immediately, “and that’s from straight ahead. And,” for this, he turned back to the map, which for the first time since he arrived, Pullus saw had been filled in with more detail, Caesar pointing to a newly added line directly next to the rectangles marking the town, “there is one of those unnavigable mouths of the Indus barely four hundred paces from the western wall of the town. Volusenus estimates that at least a hundred paces on either side of the mouth will be boggy and will drag anyone down who ventures too far.” Without pausing, he moved the stylus to the opposite side of the town. “Unfortunately, the news isn’t that much better on the other side. As you can see, in between the navigable channel and the eastern wall is another mouth, and the ground is similarly impassible.”
Balbinus beat Pullus to asking, “Then where do the ships that supply the town and carry the cargo dock?”
“That,” Caesar answered frankly, “is a good question. As you might imagine, Volusenus did try to bluff his way past the walls to get upriver, but they obviously knew he was part of our fleet.”
“Did they try and hail him?” Pollio asked, to which Caesar shook his head, answering, “No, they immediately began loosing their artillery on his ship.”
“Why?” Atartinus of the 11th wanted to know. “We haven’t done anything other than show up. Why would they think that we intend to attack them?”
While it was a sensible question on its face, this was the first time Pullus heard any of his fellow Centurions express that any of them held expectations that there might be a way to avoid hostility.
“Perhaps,” Caesar replied wryly, “it’s the sight of so many ships, and how many of them are triremes or bigger.” But, Pullus noticed, Caesar seemed to consider this for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was in a musing tone. “I suppose that it wouldn’t hurt to try to convince them that we don’t have any hostile intentions for them.”
“Caesar,” Spurius spoke up, “what are our intentions? For India, I mean?”
The level of chagrin that not just Pullus, but the others assembled in this stateroom felt at their instantaneous recognition that none of them had ever pressed Caesar for details of his plans was the only consolation any of them took at their oversight. Caesar had ordered it, they recognized in their own minds, and none of them had said anything other than, “We understand and will obey.”
For his part, Caesar didn’t seem altogether pleased at the 3rd’s Primus Pilus, but he didn’t noticeably hesitate in his reply. “We’re going to establish a base of operations here, bigger than the one we built in Harmozeia. Naturally, Barbaricum has everything we need, although I would prefer that we take it without bloodshed. From there,” he turned and pointed to a spot on the map that was several inches above where Barbaricum was located, “we will advance on Pattala. It’s the largest city in the region and is where Alexander had Hephaestion build a citadel and fortify the city.”
“How far is it from here?” Pullus asked.
“Approximately forty miles from here,” Caesar answered.
“So that is a two-day march,” Spurius observed, then added, “if we’re unopposed.”
“Who said anything about marching?” Caesar asked with a smile. “We’re going to do what Alexander did. Although,” he amended, “we’ll be going upstream instead of downstream as Alexander did.”
“How much of what we’re doing do you suppose has to do with Alexander?” Pullus asked Scribonius that night, after the Secundus Pilus Prior was rowed from his transport, a quadrireme, to eat the evening meal.
Without hesitation, Scribonius said, “Everything.” The manner in which he said it gave Pullus and Balbus forewarning this was something he had been thinking about, and he set the bread back on his plate, frowning at it in a manner that both men were very familiar with before he continued, “I know you’ve heard the story of when he was in Gades, where they have that statue of Alexander, and he supposedly burst into tears.” Both men nodded, as Scribonius went on, “I think that he was planning on this before we even set foot aboard ship in Brundisium, but he couldn’t say anything about it because…”
“…Because none of us would have climbed aboard these fucking things,” Balbus interjected flatly, but while Scribonius looked annoyed, he did nod and acknowledge, “but Sextus is right. So, he had to wait until we were on this side of Our Sea. And then,” he said, “he needed to make sure that matters in Parthia were settled enough for him to leave. With Darius’ surrender, that removed the threat around Istakhr. So,” Balbus rubbed his chin, and the fact that he wasn’t arguing was the most potent sign that he accepted Scribonius’ theory, “he’s going to do what, exactly? Do what Alexander did? Or,” his battered features suddenly turned grim, “he’s going to send us up north into those fucking mountains so we can beat all those barbarians he had so much trouble with? I thought the whole point of getting on this fucking ship was to avoid those mountains.”
“No,” Scribonius replied. “I don’t think that he’s going to try and do the things Alexander tried to do but couldn’t. At least not like that.” He turned to Pullus, and while his demeanor was bland, his friend saw the mischievous glint in his eye as Scribonius asked him, “So what have you learned from all those books Caesar lent you?”
Pullus whirled about in his chair to glare at Diocles, certain that the Greek had divulged this, but Scribonius laughed as he said, “Don’t look at Diocles. He didn’t tell me.”
“Then how did you know?” Pullus snapped.
“I didn’t,” Scribonius sounded obscenely cheerful, “until just this moment. I suspected that was the case but wasn’t sure.” He reached out and patted Pullus’ forearm in a way that he knew his friend would loathe, trying to sound serious as he said, “But thank you for telling me.” Now it was the others who laughed as Pullus shook Scribonius’ hand from his forearm and growled imprecations, which Scribonius paid no attention to, asking instead, “So, what have you learned from Nearchos and whoever else’s account you read?”
Pullus thought for a moment, then he admitted, “Actually, that Alexander was desperate to reach the Ganges. That was his real goal for this part of his campaign. But his soldiers revolted, and he had to turn around.”
“If Caesar’s not careful, we’re likely to do the same thing,” Balbus observed, but both Pullus and Scribonius shook their heads dismissively.
“Not very likely,” Pullus countered. “At least, not now. Remember that Alexander’s men had already been on campaign for almost ten years. This is only our third year, so I think Caesar doesn’t have anything to worry about. At least,” he allowed, “not yet.”
Returning to the larger matter, Scribonius continued, “I think that at the very least, Caesar wants to reach the Ganges and take the city there.” Somewhat surprisingly, he turned to Pullus, asking, “Do you remember the name?”
“Palibothra,” Pullus supplied. “It’s called Palibothra.”
“What’s so special about that place?” Balbus asked.
“It is supposedly the richest city, not just in India, but in the entire world,” Pullus told him. “And there are animals that we’ve never seen, fruits we’ve never heard of, and people who are unlike any we’ve ever seen.”
Balbus had effectively stopped listening, his ears attuned to one word, which he repeated eagerly. “Richest? It’s supposed to be the richest?” His lips twisted into his version of a smile, and he smacked his lips as he said, “Then I’m all for Caesar leading us to this Palibothra place.”
“Why?” Scribonius scoffed. “You’ll just waste it all on wine and whores.”
“Better than those ponce books and the like,” Balbus shot back, but then he remembered that Pullus was
almost as voracious a reader and collector as Scribonius, so he tried to say something, but Pullus held up a hand.
“Just stop now, Quintus,” he said with mock weariness. “You’ll just make it worse.”
Much to the relief of every man who had gotten a good look at what awaited them should they try to land in Barbaricum, the inhabitants of the town chose discretion over valor, immediately acceding to Caesar’s envoy, in the person of Aulus Hirtius, opening the gates to the Romans, essentially throwing themselves on Caesar’s mercy. What proved to be more of a challenge was that, putting it simply, the docks, which, as Volusenus suspected, were located upriver, around a bend that made them all but invisible unless one entered the river’s mouth, were simply not large enough to accommodate a fraction of the fleet. To ameliorate this, before the sun set on the first day, Romans were busy adding a number of piers to the existing ones, but it wasn’t until five days had passed before the entire fleet was able to moor and the men go onto dry land. As they quickly learned, “dry” was a relative term; whether it was because of the marshy ground, the fact that the prevailing winds were blocked by the walls of the town, or some other quirks of the gods, while the temperature was no higher than what they had experienced in Parthia, the water they excreted in the form of perspiration didn’t evaporate. Very quickly, the men had to cope with the fact that their tunics never completely dried out, and their skin was always covered with a fine sheen of sweat, even when they weren’t doing anything physical. Almost as quickly, tempers began to flare, so that before a week had passed, Pullus, along with other Primi Pili, were forced to march their Legions out to the punishment square to witness men being flogged, nor did it help that the ground upon which their camp was built never really dried out. The other aspect of their situation was the plague of pests in the form of swarms of tiny gnats and mosquitoes that were literally unleashed whenever a man took a step on the ground. They were everywhere, and the predominant sounds quickly became the coughing, gagging, and cursing as men were forced to spit out the vermin that flew into their mouths, or expel them from their nasal cavities, all of which was accompanied by oaths and imprecations. Inevitably, the fact that the inhabitants of Barbaricum didn’t suffer from this pestilence inside the walls quickly became known, forcing Caesar to put the town off limits, an extremely unpopular move.