by R. W. Peake
The situation moved Pullus to remark, “This is the first time the boys don’t want to go to town for the wine and whores but just to get away from these fucking bugs.”
Fortunately, for everyone, Caesar quickly made it known that their stay would be brief, only long enough to establish a base, which like Harmozeia, would be guarded by two Cohorts of auxiliaries. Pullus had sent Diocles to use his friendship with Apollodorus to allow him to copy the various maps that Caesar was using, since Diocles was a fair hand at drawing such things, and Pullus had his Pili Priores in his tent the night before their departure upriver, ostensibly to discuss the coming movement when he broached the subject that Scribonius had introduced a few days earlier. It had been preying on Pullus’ mind ever since, and he felt it his duty to at least let his Pili Priores know what he at least was now certain was Caesar’s larger goal.
Much as Caesar did, Pullus hung the maps on the back wall of his tent, piecing them together so that they presented a more or less contiguous view as he pointed out the things he thought were important, as he explained, “As you can see, we now have established permanent camps here,” he pointed to the spot near the mouth of the Euphrates River but upriver, where the port called Caesarea was presumably being finished by now, then moved to Harmozeia, “and here. Now,” he finished by pointing at their own location, “we’re going to have another one here.” Turning around, he asked them bluntly, “What does that mean to all of you?”
Since he had already warned Scribonius, the Secundus Pilus Prior remained silent, waiting for his comrades, who glanced at each other before, finally, Vibius Nigidius of the Fourth Cohort started, and he spoke hesitantly, “Isn’t that a bit…unusual, Primus Pilus? I mean,” he seemed to gain confidence as he talked, aided in part by seeing his fellow Centurions nodding their heads, “if we’re going to be here for just a season doing…” he paused, then settled on, “…whatever it is Caesar wants us to do here in India.”
Pullus decided not to answer directly, instead choosing to return the collective gaze of his Centurions as he waited for them to work through the problem themselves, mainly because he believed they would reach the same conclusion, but also because he wanted to hear those who disagreed, and why.
“Because,” this came from Gellius, the Sextus Pilus Prior, “we’re not going to be here for just one campaign season.”
Within a few heartbeats of it being uttered, Pullus saw that every man present recognized, and more importantly, accepted this as being the most likely explanation, although it prompted Metellus to ask Pullus, “Has Caesar actually said this, Primus Pilus?”
“No,” Pullus answered, shaking his head, “he hasn’t. But,” he held up a hand, cutting off whatever Metellus was going to say, “I haven’t asked him. Nor do I intend to.”
As he suspected, this was exactly what not just Metellus, but the other Centurions were expecting, and there was a dull uproar as they all talked at once, each of them giving their reasons why they believed Pullus should seek an audience with Caesar and demand to know his plans.
Pullus listened for a brief span but finally lost his patience, snapping, “Enough!” While he didn’t raise his voice, at least that much, it was with a tone that every man in his Legion knew meant he was serious, and more importantly, on the verge of losing his famous temper. When it became quiet, he explained, “I have no intention of pressing Caesar on this, mainly because it’s not going to do any good. We just need to prepare the men for idea that we’re not returning to Susa at the end of the season.”
While Pullus was accurate in the sense of the army spending more than one season in India, never in his wildest imaginings did he contemplate that neither he, nor any of these men would ever be setting foot in Parthia again. On this night, his concerns were more immediate, and the meeting broke up shortly after that, the Centurions sent back to their Cohorts with the admonition that breaking the news to the men should be done gradually. It wasn’t a perfect solution from Pullus’ perspective by any means, but it was the best idea he could come up with in the moment. Nevertheless, he was preparing himself for some sort of outburst as early as the next morning, when the men were loading back onto the ships tied at the docks.
Aulus Flaminius sat staring at Octavian, eyes wide with astonishment; his companion sitting next to him was no less discomposed, and it was Marcus Torquatus who protested, “March? But we just arrived here!”
Despite outward appearances, Octavian had been nervous about this meeting, because he understood why the two Primi Pili would find Caesar’s orders objectionable, but he was determined that Caesar would have no cause for complaint, so his tone was cool as he replied, “While I understand your reaction, Primus Pilus Torquatus, the fact remains that once you’re resupplied and any livestock that has gone lame has been replaced, you and Primus Pilus Flaminius will march your Legions to the port of Caesarea …”
“Caesarea?” Flaminius interrupted, and in such an abrupt manner that Octavian was certain there was intentional disrespect. “Where the fuck is Caesarea? What is Caesarea?”
“It’s the newly established upriver port,” Octavian replied coolly. “It’s on the Euphrates, and it’s twenty-five miles from the coast. Caesar ordered it constructed over the winter, and while it’s not completed, it will be able to accommodate you and your Legions. Not,” he added with a thin smile, “particularly comfortably, but it will have to suffice.”
“And what are we supposed to do there?” Torquatus demanded.
“You’ll wait for the transports that are sailing from Clysma. When they arrive, you’ll board them, and they’ll take you to join with the army.” For the first time, Octavian’s own frustration with Caesar slipped out, causing him to add with a bitter note, “Wherever he might be when you do catch up with him.”
The two Primi Pili exchanged alarmed glances, but it was Flaminius who gasped, “You mean you don’t know where he is?”
“I didn’t say that,” Octavian snapped, nettled that he had let his emotions get the better of him. Taking a more moderate tone, he said reasonably, “But as I’m sure you know, Caesar moves…quickly. So, depending on how long it takes for the transports to arrive, he’s just as likely to be somewhere other than your first destination.”
“Which is?” Torquatus asked.
“A place called,” Octavian glanced down at the scroll, “Harmozeia.” Looking back up, he continued, “Once you arrive there, you’ll be given instructions about where Caesar is and how to join him.”
“Harmozeia?” Torquatus’ brow furrowed. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Because it was settled by Alexander, and remained in Greek hands for some time,” Octavian replied, mainly because he wanted to show off his knowledge a bit. “It was used by Alexander as a transshipment point, and Caesar has simply returned it to its original purpose.”
Flaminius asked the obvious question, “Why is Caesar and the army there? Is this Harmozeia place part of Parthia now?”
Octavian shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable, and he admitted, “No, it’s not.”
“Then who does it belong to?” Torquatus’ expression warned Octavian that the Primus Pilus was beginning to get an idea, a reminder to Octavian that men who achieved the leadership of a Legion weren’t men one underestimated as far as their intelligence. “And, as Flaminius asked, why is Caesar and the army there?”
Realizing there was no point in dissembling, Octavian nevertheless answered carefully, “Technically, it’s part of India…”
“India!” Both men managed to get this out in unison, but it was Flaminius who spoke first, “What by Pluto’s cock is Caesar doing in India?”
Octavian held both hands up in a gesture that expressed his lack of knowledge eloquently enough in itself, but he confessed, “I have no idea. But,” now he held up the two scrolls in one hand, extending them to the two men, “these are Caesar’s orders.”
For a long, agonizing moment, Octavian was certain that neither of t
he Primi Pili intended to accept them, but it was Torquatus who moved first, leaning forward, clearly reluctant, and took one of the scrolls. This practically forced Flaminius to do the same, although neither of them broke the seal to read the orders in front of Octavian, neither did they have any reason to doubt that Caesar’s nephew was simply passing along the orders from his uncle. Both men stood, then saluted Octavian, who had the sense that the two men were just as eager to be out of his presence as he was to be rid of them, and he watched them walk to the door, which was opened by the provost, one of two who always stood on either side. Once the door closed, he sat down and resumed his work. Neither man said a word until they were outside what was officially called the Praetorium but was still referred to by both the Parthian citizens and the Roman occupiers as the palace.
Finally, Flaminius asked Torquatus, “What do you know about India?”
“Not much,” Torquatus admitted, “other than it’s fucking big.”
“And we’re just going to march our boys down to this Caesarea place, then sail across the Persicus Sinus, and then hope we find Caesar in a place that’s ‘fucking big’?” Flaminius asked, but if he was looking for someone of a like mind about whether or not to obey the orders, he was to be disappointed.
“All I know,” Torquatus shrugged, “is that if Caesar orders it, we do it. And,” he turned to look over at his companion, his voice dropping because of the presence of other Romans hurrying by, “I don’t know about you, but I plan on keeping my mouth shut about how I feel about it. At least while we’re here in Susa.” He jerked his head back in the direction of the Praetorium, saying, “I don’t trust him at all. And I’d hate that normal soldiers’ grumbling is made out to be something other than what it is.” He paused, then added quietly, “Wouldn’t you?”
Flaminius knew he was being offered sage advice, and he nodded. Then, he thought of something. “He didn’t say how long we were going to be given to refit and get ready to march, did he?”
“Why no, he didn’t,” Torquatus answered, and he grinned over at his counterpart. “Which means that if we tell him a week, he’s not likely to object, is he? Even if we can get everything done in two days?”
“Oh, he’ll object,” Flaminius averred, “but since he didn’t tell us how long we had, there won’t be fuck all he can do about it.”
“I think we owe it to the men,” Torquatus intoned seriously, but Flaminius wasn’t fooled; they had spent the previous three months getting to Susa, and he was well aware of Torquatus’ desires.
“Oh we do,” Flaminius chose to play along, then added, “and to ourselves. You’ve talked so much about how the whores in the east do things no man can imagine, it would almost be a crime to be here and not find out.”
“Exactly my thoughts,” Torquatus agreed, then the two men began laughing, both at the thought of whatever carnal pleasures awaited them, but also from the idea that Octavian would be livid.
Once the army was about ten miles up the Indus, the humidity, and as importantly, the bugs vanished, the land quickly returning back to the sunbaked brownish-gray that had been an almost constant backdrop for the previous two years. It was the Ides of June, and now that they were on the relatively calm waters of the Indus River, very quickly, the men were lining the rails, not to empty their stomachs, but to watch for the crocodiles that some wag had insisted were present. This wasn’t true, and Pullus knew it, but he was loath to let this be known; anything that kept the men from dwelling on whatever it was that lay upriver was worth the diversion. One thing that did surprise Pullus along with the other men was how wide the Indus proved to be, once the seven separate branches returned to the original course of the river. What it meant was that, contrary to what he had witnessed on the Nile, the river didn’t narrow much as they moved upriver. Another difficulty was with the current, which meant that the men’s shift at the oars was reduced, so that by the end of the first day, the novelty of watching for nonexistent crocodiles had faded, and the imperative of resting had taken precedence. Stroke by stroke, the ships, which even with the river being a mile wide were strung out downstream for the distance of a mile, closed on the city of Pattala.
“At this rate, it will be another two days,” Pullus commented to Balbus as the pair leaned on the rail, watching the landscape crawl by, “before we even see that place. Then,” he stood up and yawned, “we’ll wait while Caesar decides the best way to attack it.”
“Maybe they’ll be like those people back there.” Balbus jerked a thumb downstream, but Pullus dismissed this with a shake of his head.
“I doubt it,” he said. “I don’t think they can afford to because it’s basically their version of Rome. It’s the seat of their king, I think.”
“King?” Balbus scoffed. “King of what? There’s nothing but more of the same fucking dirt and rocks out there.”
“The king of Parthia seemed to be worth conquering,” Pullus pointed out mildly, mainly because he was bored and needed some form of entertainment.
As he hoped, Balbus rose to the bait. “You can’t compare Parthia to this…this cachole.” He waved a disgusted hand at the shore. “Parthia was huge! How big is this place?” Suddenly, he turned to Pullus and asked, “What is it even called anyway?”
“The same as the city,” Pullus answered.
“Is it as big as Susa?” Balbus asked, but this Pullus didn’t know, the Primus Pilus saying only, “We’ll find out soon enough.”
As it turned out, before the sun set that day, Pullus was summoned to the flagship, where he and the other officers were informed by Caesar that Volusenus had returned from a scouting trip. Even before he opened his mouth, Pullus could see Caesar was concerned, and he wasted no time in sharing those concerns with his officers.
“Pattala is a small city that’s well-sited.” He cocked his head, a sign that he was trying to remember something, but he finally asked, “How many of you were with us in Gaul when we assaulted Avaricum?” Several hands went up, although not all, but Pullus was one of those who lifted his arm, and Caesar continued, “Do you recall how it was situated in the loop of the river?” Those who had been there all nodded. “This is the same situation we’re facing with Pattala, with one exception.” His face turned grim. “As you know, this was a city that was invested by Alexander, and there was a citadel built by Hephaestion. Well, that citadel is situated in such a way that it overlooks the only approach over land to the city, and Volusenus spotted at least a half-dozen artillery pieces on the rampart of the citadel.” He didn’t need to expand further, and there was a buzz of dismayed whispering as the Centurions opined to each other what that meant, but unfortunately, Caesar wasn’t finished. “As far as the other three walls, two of them are built right up to the river’s edge. There’s a stone wall that keeps the riverbank from crumbling, and it’s safe to assume that there’s more to the stone wall than meets the eye. It undoubtedly serves as a solid foundation for the wall of the city, and the wall curves around so that it encompasses two sides without having a corner. Which leaves the third side, but while there is ground between the wall and the riverbank, it’s no more than twenty paces, which won’t give us enough space to operate by placing ladders. Nor,” he finished with a grimace, “allow us to undermine that side.”
“So, what do we do, Caesar?” Pollio asked, except this time, Pullus was certain that this wasn’t prearranged, which was confirmed by the grimace on Caesar’s face, although he didn’t shrink from admitting, “At this moment, I don’t know, Asinius. But,” he turned to address the Primi Pili, “I’m open for ideas.”
Pullus knew, as did the other Centurions, this wasn’t merely a case of a man of the upper class appeasing men of Pullus’ Head Count; early on, Caesar became known for relying on his officers from the ranks, but despite this, nobody raised a hand, which was something of a first in itself.
Pullus felt badly for Caesar, so when he opened his mouth, it was more to help his general than he felt the idea he was posing was wo
rthy of consideration, asking, “How did Alexander do it, sir?”
Caesar grimaced again, although it wasn’t out of irritation at Pullus but frustration as he explained, “He didn’t have to take it. Just the news that his army was approaching from upriver was enough to send the occupants running. It was deserted when the army got there.”
This was met by silence, and once it became apparent that there were no ideas forthcoming, Caesar dismissed the men, with the exception of Pullus, a not altogether uncommon occurrence. Once they were alone, with only Apollodorus and the other scribes, who were on the opposite side of the large cabin, Caesar wasted no time.
“I appreciate what you tried to do, Pullus,” he said, handing Pullus a cup of wine before sitting on the edge of his desk.
“Thank you, sir,” Pullus replied automatically, unsure why he was sitting there.
Deciding he would let Caesar broach whatever subject was on his mind, he chose to wait, and for a moment, there was silence before Caesar gave him a faint smile. “And now you’re playing Stupid Legionary, neh? You don’t know why you’re sitting there and have decided that it’s best to keep your mouth shut.”
As often as Caesar did this, it never failed to irritate Pullus; it was one thing that he was right, he thought, but does he have to be so smug about it?
Aloud, he simply shrugged and admitted, “Basically yes, Caesar.”
“The reason I had you stay behind is that I actually do have an idea, but I wanted to discuss it with you before I bring it up with the others. Mainly because,” Caesar’s expression turned grim, “your Equestrians are probably the only men I trust with handling our part of it.”