Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  The 10th had been fortunate in their light losses; most of the casualties occurred early in the action, before Scribonius and the other Centurions devised a method to negate the power and effectiveness of the phalanx. The 7th, on the other hand, had been badly hurt, and it was this fact that convinced Pullus that the goddess had actually been looking out for him, and his men, by Caesar’s intervention. Once the city was secured, Caesar ordered that the camps be consolidated, with the southern camp being enlarged to reunite the army, which meant that Pullus and his men were confronted with the evidence of the bitter fighting for the citadel. This certainly was a factor in muting the discontent, but only to a degree; ultimately, Caesar’s order was extremely unpopular, and it didn’t take long to determine why this was the case.

  “We understood about Ctesiphon and Susa,” Porcinus explained on the first night after the army was reunited and he was invited to the evening meal. “It was always known that Caesar intended to make Parthia a Roman province. But India?” He shrugged, and while he kept his eyes on his bowl, he didn’t shrink from delivering the message his comrades had instructed him to give to the Primus Pilus when they learned he would be dining with his uncle. “That was never part of the agreement, Uncle Titus. Anything we take here should be ours.”

  Pullus’ first reaction was, not surprisingly, of anger, but when he opened his mouth to snarl at his nephew, Scribonius made a subtle gesture that nevertheless caught his eye, and in their brief exchange of glances, Pullus understood his friend perfectly, so he took a breath before he said, “Gaius, I know that you’re just relaying what the others told you.” Porcinus looked up then, giving his uncle a grateful nod, which did more to quell Pullus’ ire than anything his nephew might have said. It gave him a moment to think, and he realized that, his initial reaction aside, he was sympathetic to the men’s viewpoint, so he continued carefully, “And I won’t lie to you. I understand how they feel, and why they would feel that way. Because,” he paused, taking another breath before he added, “they’re right. Caesar never mentioned India before we left Brundisium, and once we were here on this side of Our Sea, when he did, it was never suggested that there was any intention of pacifying India and making it one of our possessions. But,” he warned, gently but firmly, “this is the Legions, Gaius. He is our lawfully appointed general. And,” he reminded Porcinus, “we’ve been victorious under his leadership. So I think that means we can trust him and his judgment about what we’re doing here, and why we’re doing it.”

  Even if he had been disposed to argue, Porcinus wouldn’t have dreamed of it, but the truth was that he agreed with his uncle; at least, at this moment.

  However, he also felt compelled to point out, “I understand, Uncle. And I agree with everything you said. But,” he warned, “not everyone feels the same way.”

  “And who are these men?” Pullus’ voice had gone cold, and he stared at his nephew, but this time, the young Gregarius met his gaze unflinchingly, and while there was a quaver in his voice, he didn’t hesitate in answering, “I’m not going to tell you that…sir.”

  Pullus glared at Porcinus for so long that Scribonius was about to intervene; while it wasn’t normally with Porcinus, the Pilus Prior spent a great deal of his time acting as peacemaker between Pullus and someone else.

  Fortunately, Pullus’ demeanor changed, and he gave his nephew a small smile, grunting, “Good. You need to be loyal to your comrades.”

  With this matter resolved, the subject quickly turned to the other subject that had been the topic of much conversation; what, exactly, were these Pattalans?

  Scribonius remarked, “I’ve been looking through some of my books, trying to find out more about this part of the world.”

  “And?” Pullus asked. “What have you learned?”

  “Not much,” Scribonius admitted. “Clearly these people were heavily influenced by Alexander and his Macedonians, but that obviously didn’t extend to their language.” Pausing to chew a piece of bread, he continued, “I was talking to that man Dioscores who came out to surrender the palace, and he told me that only a handful of people still speak Greek. What they talk seems to be a combination of some sort of Scythian tongue, Greek, and something I’ve never heard before.”

  “Scythian?” Balbus said skeptically. “They were nowhere near here!” Then, remembering who he was talking to, he added tentatively, “Were they?”

  Scribonius normally never lost an opportunity to needle Balbus, but for whatever reason, this time he chose not to do so, replying, “I didn’t think they were either, but apparently, they were this far south at some point.”

  “Remember that abandoned city Caesar showed us year before last?” Pullus commented, then thought for a moment. Shaking his head in frustration, he grumbled, “I can’t remember the name of the place, but it had fallen to the Scythians.” Snapping his fingers, he said triumphantly, “Nineveh! That was the name. That was a lot farther west of here, so I suppose it makes sense that they could move south too.”

  “They don’t just call themselves Pattalans,” Scribonius went on. “They are also Sakai, which from what I can gather, is the name of the tribe when it was in Scythia before they came south.”

  “So,” Porcinus asked, puzzled, “if they’re not Greek, and they’re not Scythian, then what are they?”

  “They’re their own people,” Scribonius replied. “It’s obvious that they’ve adapted different aspects of each of these societies.”

  “Like those fucking phalanxes,” Balbus observed sourly.

  “At least we didn’t have to deal with those royal guards,” Porcinus put in, then immediately regretted it, thinking that his uncle would doubt his martial ardor, but Pullus looked ruefully at his cup, mainly to avoid Scribonius regarding him with a raised eyebrow as he agreed ironically, “Yes, Gaius, it was a good thing we don’t have a Primus Pilus who wants to be first at everything.”

  “All right, all right,” Pullus grumbled, but he felt compelled to offer a protest. “How was I supposed to know that they wouldn’t be just like those other bastards?”

  “Besides the fact that they were protecting their king?” Scribonius laughed. “I have no idea.”

  “What do they call those swords again?” Porcinus inquired, as much to draw the mockery, however gentle it may have been, feeling obligated since he had inadvertently begun it, and it was Pullus who answered, “Falcatae. Although,” he added, “Gabinius told me that they weren’t identical to the Macedonian version. He said these were even shorter than theirs.”

  Marcus Gabinius was the chief of the armorer Immunes of the Equestrians, and like many of the men in similar positions, he was something of a historian and collector of the various kinds of weapons used by Rome’s enemies against them, but not even he could imagine just how huge his collection would become, and he would prove to be a valuable source of knowledge.

  “However long they were, they did the job,” Balbus grimaced, and he dropped his spoon of lentils at the thought of the gruesome wounds he had seen when the 7th’s dead and wounded were carried down from the citadel during the fight.

  “I suppose that means we’ll be facing the same kind of thing when we move south.” Pullus tried his best to sound offhand, but if he had hoped to slip this past his companions, it was in vain.

  “Move south?” Scribonius’ tone was sharp, as was the look he gave Pullus.

  “You mean back down the Indus to Barbaricum, don’t you?” Porcinus asked hopefully. “And then back to Parthia?”

  Rather than answer directly, Pullus glanced over at Diocles, who was doing his best to look inconspicuous now that the subject he had been dreading had come up, and the Greek returned his master’s look with a glare of his own, knowing exactly what Pullus was doing.

  Realizing that Pullus wouldn’t be put off, Diocles heaved a sigh that was loud enough to be heard across the tent, but he got up and, dragging his stool, came and set it down next to the table.

  “First,” he began, “I
need each of you to swear that you’ll keep this to yourselves, because Apollodorus took a real chance by confiding in me.”

  Immediately, three heads swiveled to look over at the youngest and most junior member of the group.

  Porcinus felt his cheeks grow hot, and he protested, “That only happened once! And it wasn’t anything important! At least,” he knew how weak it sounded as he said it, “not as important as this.” None of them said a word, choosing to just keep looking at him, and finally, he cried, “All right! I swear on the black stone! I won’t say a word to anyone!”

  Satisfied, Diocles began, “While we were going upriver, Caesar sent the cavalry out, to the east, and to the south. The men he sent east were specifically looking for any information about a route to the east that leads to the Ganges, while the ones he sent to the south were looking for a specific place.”

  He stopped then, and it was obvious that he didn’t want to offer anything more than that; as usual, Scribonius felt certain he knew the answer but wanted Diocles to confirm it, and he pressed the Greek, “And what place is that, Diocles?”

  The Greek shot him an annoyed look, if only because he was certain that Scribonius already knew the answer but was doing this for the benefit of the others, although he answered, reluctantly, “The Greeks called it Bargosa.”

  Flaminius and Torquatus, and by extension their Legions, quickly discovered that Octavian’s description of Caesarea was, if anything, far too kind. Because of its location ten miles upriver from where it emptied into the Persicus Sinus, the port was essentially in the middle of a marsh. The final three miles of the road that had been constructed under the supervision of Marcus Agrippa, with most of the labor supplied by Parthian prisoners, was elevated above the boggy ground with stone pilings and a wooden roadbed. While neither Primus Pilus had any reason to know where it came from, the wood that was used was from the date palms that had been cut down by the 11th Legion almost a year earlier. An area of almost a square mile had been drained to serve as the location for the warehouses and buildings necessary to support the men who manned the various facilities of what was one more link in the increasingly long, and crucial supply line supporting Caesar’s army in the field. What the men of the 30th and 25th quickly learned was that, while the ground within the walls of the port had dried out, they were still surrounded by miles of marshy ground, and the infinite number of bugs and other vermin who made this vile terrain their homes were attracted by the prospect on feasting on thousands of men who were essentially captives. What it meant in a practical sense was that, two weeks after their arrival, when the newly constructed fleet of transport ships sailed up the river from Clysma, both Primi Pili were faced with the prospect of sailing to join with Caesar without a full quarter of their Legions. Both men had known that the longer they waited, particularly in an environment such as this, the greater the risk of sickness sweeping through the ranks, but neither of them had ever seen it occur so quickly. Now, they had to make a decision, and the fact that they made it without bothering to send a courier to Octavian back in Susa to ask for orders was something that Octavian would never forget or forgive. That it wasn’t based as much in disregard as it was their recognition of the fact that the longer they stayed in Caesarea, the more men would be stricken by the fever and ague that was more virulent than normal was something that the young Praetor never considered. It didn’t take long for Flaminius and Torquatus to make their decision; better, they agreed, to leave with three-quarters of a Legion apiece than hope that the men who were currently stricken would recover without the men who were healthy at the moment replacing them. Both of them could easily imagine facing Caesar to explain why they had arrived with Legions at half strength, so two days after the arrival of the fleet, the two Legions departed downriver, the first leg of a journey that would last for three weeks. What worried the two Centurions more than their smaller numbers was the fact that they would arrive too late to participate in this campaign to India, since like Octavian, both of them assumed that once Caesar was finished with proving whatever point he was trying to make with this foray, he would return to Parthia. It was an understandable error, and they were far from alone in making that assumption, but it was an error nonetheless. In the ensuing years, at different times, both of them would reflect on the moment they watched Caesarea growing smaller as they drifted downriver, and wonder if they had known this would be the last time they saw it, or Parthia, or their homes, what they would have done.

  As he normally was, especially when his information came from the chief of Caesar’s staff of secretaries, Diocles was correct. A week after the fall of Pattala, Caesar summoned the Centurions to the forum of the camp, and as Pullus stood with Scribonius, Balbus, and the rest of the Centurions of the 10th, he wondered if Caesar was aware that his announcement would come as no surprise, and if he was, whether he was prepared for what he was certain was going to happen. Of the other Primi Pili, Pullus had only confided to Spurius what Diocles had learned; while he was cordial with Balbinus, he didn’t really trust the man with sensitive secrets because of the man’s propensity to blurt it out at inopportune moments. When the flap to the praetorium was thrust aside and Caesar strode out, not lost on any of them was that he was wearing his cuirass, his paludamentum, and the ivy garland he was entitled to wear as Imperator. Not once, Pullus suddenly realized, had he ever seen Caesar use the insignia or symbols of his status as Dictator for Life; in fact, the twenty-four lictors that were assigned to Dictators had been left in Susa, and when Pullus thought about it, he only recalled seeing Caesar use them once since they had been in Parthia. He was appearing on this day as their general, and Pullus knew this was no accident, but if Caesar was aware of the unusual quiet as he strode up and mounted the rostrum, he gave no sign of it.

  “My comrades,” he began without any preamble, another sign to Pullus and the other Centurions that this was unusual, “now that we have taken Pattala, I know that you and your men have questions about what my plans are for this army, now that we are more than halfway through the campaign season.” Caesar paused, which Pullus knew was by design, to increase the drama of the moment, another of the general’s quirks that, frankly, was one of his more tiresome to Pullus, and he was far from alone. Finally continuing, Caesar said, “Since I am certain you all know about the fabulous wealth of the city that is called Bharuch by the people who live there, I will not bore you with describing it. But,” he lifted both arms in a gesture, as if he was bestowing a great munificence on the assembly, “this is where we are marching next!”

  The silence that followed was deafening, as men stood there, stone-faced and silent, and despite his irritation with Caesar, Pullus felt a pang of sympathy for him.

  Then, whether it was meant to be heard by their general or not, nobody ever said, it was quiet enough that someone standing near the rear of the crowd was clearly heard asking, “Where the fuck is Bharuch?”

  It was a rare but telling error on Caesar’s part, yet more than that, it clearly embarrassed him, two spots of color suddenly appearing on his cheeks, and his mortification was so obvious that there was a ripple of muttering by the man. Then, completely unexpectedly, Caesar began to laugh, and it quickly became apparent that this wasn’t contrived laughter on his part, that he was actually laughing.

  “This is what I get for thinking that my Centurions are wasting their time reading a bunch of dead Greeks and not fucking whores and guzzling wine!”

  And, exactly as he expected, the hard-bitten Centurions of his army took the bait, suddenly roaring their agreement, almost every one of them suddenly shouting out their own claim to being the hardest, most devoted debaucher among his counterparts…with a couple of exceptions. Pullus glanced over at Scribonius, who didn’t even try to say anything, but just returned his friend’s look with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head with a wry expression, communicating to Pullus that he was as aware of Caesar’s blatant manipulation as his Primus Pilus. When they spoke about it later, Pullus and
Scribonius discovered that they had both thought the same thing, reminded of another time when Caesar had neatly turned what would have been an embarrassing mistake into another chapter in the lore of their general, when he had stumbled as he debarked from his ship in Africa and fallen flat on his face.

  Instead of acknowledging it as an error, Caesar had grabbed two handfuls of dirt and shouted, “Africa, I have you now! You won’t escape Caesar’s grasp!”

  Now, neither tried to say a word, mainly because Balbus was standing next to them, bellowing at the top of his lungs about how he had fucked every whore in Susa and thereby ruined them for everyone else. At least, that was what Pullus thought he was saying; it was impossible to tell over the din.

  Finally, Caesar held his hands up again, but this time in the gesture that they knew he was asking for their silence, then once it quieted down, he said, “Again, comrades, I apologize. There’s no reason that you should know what the natives call this city, but I suspect that you will know the name that we call it…Bargosa!”