Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  The reaction this time was decidedly different, but while the Centurions celebrated this, Pullus instantly detected there was an undercurrent that meant that, while the men lustily cheered, it quickly died down, so rapidly that Caesar had a moment of warning.

  Suddenly, Balbus jabbed Pullus in the ribs with his elbow, and while he didn’t whisper, he said quietly, “You’re the one who needs to ask.”

  Pullus groaned, not needing any further elucidation on his friend’s part to know what Balbus meant, but when he shook his head, Scribonius, standing on the opposite side from Balbus, insisted, “He’s right, Titus.”

  Biting back a curse, Pullus raised his hand, not missing Caesar’s sudden frown, although he didn’t noticeably hesitate to nod at the large Primus Pilus.

  “Will the men get to keep whatever we take from Bargosa?” Pullus asked, and his stomach sank when he saw the sudden narrowing of Caesar’s eyes and the thinning down of the lips.

  Regardless of this sign that Caesar was piqued by Pullus’ question, he didn’t hesitate in answering, with a surprise that was theatrical, “Why, of course, Pullus! In fact,” he locked eyes with the Primus Pilus in a clear signal, “I’m surprised that you would think otherwise!”

  And, just as Pullus was certain Caesar intended, his fellow Centurions glared at him for daring to question their general’s intentions.

  “He fucked me good,” Pullus commented that evening with a combination of resignation and perhaps a bit of anger, which he expressed by glaring over at Balbus as he added, “and you’re to blame!”

  “Me?” Balbus protested by holding up both hands, palms towards his friend. “Why are you blaming me?”

  Pullus stared at him, asking incredulously, “Are you seriously asking why I’m blaming you?” Jabbing a finger at Balbus, he said hotly, “Because you fucking told me to, that’s why!”

  “Told you?” Balbus shook his head. “Since when have I ever told you anything? Now,” he allowed, “I might have suggested…”

  “Oh, go piss on your boots,” Pullus growled, inadvertently borrowing one of his oldest friends Vibius Domitius’ favorite phrases.

  Rather than participate in the bickering, Scribonius turned his attention to what, in his opinion, was the more salient point.

  “What we don’t know,” he observed, “is what he intends for us after we take Bargosa.”

  “That’s what you should have asked him,” Balbus interjected, but it was more because he knew how Pullus would react, so he was prepared for the swipe of Pullus’ hand as the Primus Pilus leaned over to smack Balbus in the head, dodging out of the way with the leer that his friends knew was his version of a smile.

  “Why?” Pullus said sourly. “So you could become Primus Pilus while I’m busted down to Miles Gregarius and spend the rest of my career cleaning the latrines?”

  “If you were lucky,” Scribonius said under his breath, but his timing could have been better, because his comment happened to coincide with a brief cessation of the banter between the other two men.

  Pullus glared at his friend, but Scribonius returned his gaze levelly as Pullus warned him, “You of all people should know better than to say something like that.”

  Scribonius knew Pullus was right, but neither was he worried, pointing out, “I think I can trust everyone sitting here, Titus. Besides, you know I’m right.”

  “I’m not saying you’re not right, and I’m not saying that you can’t say things like that inside this tent,” Pullus snapped. “But I hope you don’t forget one day and say something when someone we can’t trust can hear you.”

  Scribonius was about to retort, nettled that Pullus would think him so careless, but he also realized why his friend was reacting that way, so instead he said, “You’re right, Titus. I’ll be careful.”

  Satisfied, Pullus turned his mind back to the original question; although he would have never done as Balbus suggested and bring up Caesar’s plans for what came after this season in front of the other Centurions, it was still something that needed to be addressed.

  Sighing, he said, “I suppose I’m going to have to talk to him in private when I get the chance.”

  Scribonius wasn’t content with this; he knew Pullus too well, and there were some areas where he was a horrible procrastinator, so, while he understood his friend’s reluctance, Scribonius also realized this was too important, which was why he said bluntly, “That’s not good enough, Titus.” Pointing a finger at him, which Scribonius knew his friend hated, he spoke emphatically, “You need to talk to Caesar about this today, not when you ‘have a chance.’”

  As usual, Pullus’ first reaction to someone dictating to him was to push back, harder, but of all the people who Pullus could intimidate, Sextus Scribonius was one of two men of the ranks who he couldn’t cow just by the sheer power of his presence. And, he thought dismally, it was especially so when he knew Scribonius was right, as he was then.

  Consequently, instead of blustering, Pullus merely grumbled, “Fine. But,” he asked sarcastically, “may I finish my meal first? Is that all right with you?”

  “Only if you don’t take until the call to retire,” Scribonius replied, completely unruffled.

  None of them were surprised that Pullus lapsed into a sullen silence, focusing on finishing the bowl of lentils and chickpeas; like anyone accustomed to winning at almost everything they did, the few times he didn’t, Pullus was apt to sulk.

  Once he was finished Pullus was done brooding; he stood up, picked up his vitus, and said simply, “I’ll be back.”

  Caesar sat, silently regarding Pullus as the Primus Pilus stood in front of his desk at a rigid intente and with his eyes locked on a spot behind and above Caesar in a posture that Caesar knew was one of the small ways men of the ranks had to even the odds between themselves and their superior. The Dictator’s face was impassive, but out of the bottom of his vision, Pullus saw how tightly Caesar was gripping the stylus he had been using when he had allowed Pullus entry to his office. Behind the pair, Apollodorus and the other scribes present were intent on their own work, each of them wishing they were anywhere else but there at this moment.

  As he tended to do, immediately after rendering his salute, Pullus had asked bluntly, “Do you have any intention of returning to Parthia, sir?”

  It was the way Caesar answered immediately that made Pullus realize he had erred, as Caesar replied, “Actually, I do intend to return to Parthia once this season is over.”

  “When you say that, are you referring to all of us?” Pullus asked quietly. “Or just you? Sir.”

  This was what precipitated the silence, which now stretched out for a span of long, slow heartbeats before, finally, Caesar heaved a sigh, dropped the stylus as he leaned back in his chair, and replied evenly, “As it happens, Pullus, I was referring to myself, not the army.”

  Despite the fact that he had expected it, hearing it confirmed rocked Pullus, and he broke from his position of intente and dropped his gaze to look Caesar in the eye as he gasped aloud.

  “Surely you’re not surprised, Pullus.” Caesar seemed amused at the other man’s reaction. “After all, I’ve been hinting at this for some time.”

  “Yes, sir, you have,” Pullus acknowledged, “but I had hoped that you would change your mind.”

  “And,” Caesar asked, raising an eyebrow, “why would I do that?”

  For a moment, Pullus wasn’t certain he had heard correctly; his next thought was that either Caesar was toying with him, which was infuriating, or even worse, he was oblivious to the mood of his men. Nevertheless, Pullus was also acutely aware that, despite having happened several years earlier, Caesar had never fully forgiven the men of the 10th for their mutiny at Pharsalus and for the subsequent mutinies by several of the Legions under his command. And, while Pullus had remained loyal to his general, demonstrating his fidelity in the most dramatic fashion by almost striking down his childhood friend and Optio, it wasn’t because Pullus had disagreed with his comrades. Cae
sar had asked too much of them that day at Pharsalus, and as he learned the hard way, all men not named Caesar, or Titus Pullus, had their physical limits, and Pullus’ comrades had reached that point. Now, standing there in the praetorium in the camp outside Pattala, Pullus had to fight down the urge to shout at his general, even reach down and shake him in an attempt to communicate what was obvious to every one of his officers, that the men weren’t willing to spend a winter here in India, in a place that was even more foreign to them than Parthia had been.

  Instead, however, he simply said, “Because if you don’t change your mind, I can’t guarantee how the men will take it.”

  Now that it was put that baldly, it was Caesar’s turn to show some emotion, his lips narrowing down again in the surest sign that he was angered, although his voice was carefully controlled as he responded tightly, “What, exactly, are you suggesting, Pullus?”

  Understanding that Caesar was trying to maneuver him into uttering the words, Pullus refused to take the bait; instead, he shot back hotly, “You mean you don’t know, Caesar? You always seem to know how the men are feeling, so surely you know exactly what I’m saying. Or,” the words came out before he could stop them, “are your spies in the ranks not doing their jobs?”

  “Careful, Pullus.” Caesar’s voice went soft, which under normal circumstances meant that he was at his most dangerous, but Pullus’ ire had been roused, and he ignored the warning signs, snapping, “I’m not the one who might have a whole army revolting because he hasn’t been honest with these men!”

  By this point, none of the scribes could pretend any longer that their work held more interest than this, and Apollodorus in particular was now openly staring at the two men. He had risen from his small desk, trying to decide what to do; he had seen Pullus and Caesar disagree before, but never before had there been this level of tension, and he wondered whether or not he should dash from the room to run get the provosts or, in the event Pullus tried to strike Caesar, if he had the courage to at least try to intervene. Apollodorus was larger than Diocles, but he was under no illusions that, if he tried to interpose himself between the huge Primus Pilus and his master, Pullus would break him in half without any effort. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to truly believe that Titus Pullus would behave in a physical manner with Caesar, but it certainly wasn’t as much of a foregone conclusion at this moment than it had seemed when Pullus entered Caesar’s office.

  Oblivious to the presence of anyone else in the room, the two men stared at each other, neither yielding.

  Then, unexpectedly, Caesar suddenly let out a long breath, sagging back in his chair, sending a clear signal that he wanted to talk, and he turned to Apollodorus. “Would you bring the Primus Pilus and me some wine, Apollodorus? I believe that we have some things to discuss.”

  By the time Pullus returned to his quarters, the call to retire had sounded a third of a watch before, but both Scribonius and Balbus were still waiting; Porcinus had vanished, and Diocles was lying on his pallet, trying to get some sleep in the outer partition of the tent that served as the Legion office. Naturally, when Pullus entered, he leapt to his feet, but his master and friend gave him a weary wave, indicating he lie back down, although he wasn’t surprised when Diocles followed him through the hanging flap into his private quarters.

  Scribonius had been dozing on his stool, but the sound of Pullus entering had roused him, and when his friend appeared, he only said, “Well?”

  Before Pullus responded, he dropped heavily onto his own stool, grabbing the amphora sitting on the table, but when he did, he instantly frowned, then he rotated it so that the lack of wine in it was obvious, glaring at Scribonius, who immediately pointed at Balbus. The fact that the Pilus Posterior was resting his head on his crossed arms, which were on the table, and snoring softly made words unnecessary, and mouthing a curse, Pullus slammed the amphora down on the table, right next to Balbus’ ear.

  Just as Pullus intended, Balbus shot upright, one hand reaching down for a sword that wasn’t there, his eyes wild as he whirled about, trying to get his bearings and stammering, “Wha…what? Where…?” Suddenly remembering where he was, his eye caught the movement of Pullus’ hand, once more holding the empty amphora, and his face colored as he dropped back onto his stool, protesting, “I was thirsty! And,” he grumbled, “I was bored waiting for you.”

  “So?” Scribonius asked Pullus, but he got the bare answer in Pullus’ grim expression.

  “He won’t budge,” Pullus said morosely, then he caught Diocles’ eye and held up the amphora in a silent command, prompting the Greek to disappear through the flap. Turning back to his comrades, Pullus continued, “He’s certain that the men will be so happy with all the loot from Bargosa that when he tells them about how much wealth there is in the rest of India, they won’t raise Hades when they find out they’re going to be stuck here for…”

  Pullus actually didn’t finish, mainly because he didn’t know himself just how long it would take before Caesar was satisfied that they had plundered India, or in their view, worse, turned it into another Roman province.

  “Do you think he’s right?” Balbus asked Pullus. “Do you think they’re going to be bought off and these greedy bastards will want to stay?”

  Pullus shrugged and answered honestly, “I don’t know. But,” he paused, waiting as Diocles, who had returned with another amphora, filled his cup, “I think a lot of it depends on not only whether Caesar is right about how rich Bargosa is, but if they’ll have anything to spend it on.”

  It was Scribonius who mentioned something that, in the coming months, would come back to haunt them.

  “I wonder what the winters are like here.”

  Before Caesar and his army departed Pattala, an arrangement had been made with the Pattalan king. His name was Peithon and he claimed that he was in fact descended from one of the Persian satraps of the same name who had sworn fealty to Alexander and had been appointed as governor of Pattala almost three centuries earlier. With the collapse of Alexander’s empire, over first decades, then centuries, matters had evolved in Pattala to the point where it was now a hereditary kingship, and, as Caesar well knew from his time in Alexandria, both royalty and nobility in this small kingdom was based in Macedonian heritage. This explained why the city was laid out in a manner that the invading Roman Legionaries immediately recognized and understood, as well as the organization and tactics of the Pattalan troops. Despite these similarities, what Caesar learned was there were as many, if not more, differences between the current Pattalans and their Macedonian ancestors, and this served as a bit of an obstacle at first. In his own mind, Peithon spoke fluent Greek; the reality was that even Caesar, with his talent for languages, found it almost impossible to understand the man. The king had been wounded in the leg and shoulder, and while they were serious, they weren’t life threatening, but as a gesture, Caesar offered the services of his own physicians, which Peithon disdained. Not, as Caesar would learn, because of a fear that the Roman conqueror would order him harmed, but because Peithon’s healers were superior in their skills to even the most experienced physician serving Caesar. So impressed was the Roman that, when they departed Pattala, two of Peithon’s healers had been persuaded to join his medical staff, something that the Pattalan king didn’t appreciate but was wise enough to understand he had no choice in the matter. Besides, he was trying to cope with the relatively lenient terms that Caesar had offered him, particularly given he was lying supine in a bed, his city now occupied by invaders. The fact that the terms were completely different from those demanded by Caesar before his Legions assaulted the city was a matter that Peithon puzzled over, essentially for the rest of his life. In exchange for an annual tribute that, while heavy, wouldn’t bankrupt his kingdom, Peithon was promised that he would essentially be left alone, to rule as he saw fit…to a point. Naturally, Caesar had explained, once he was able to grasp the differences between his version of Greek and that of the Pattalans, as surety for this agreement
, the Romans would take hostages, which was a practice that was fairly standard throughout the known world. And, in a demonstration of how rapidly Caesar was able to gather crucial information about his adversaries and foes, not only would Peithon’s oldest son be leaving with the Romans, the second son, the one who Peithon had secretly decided should succeed him, would be going as well. How Caesar learned this, Peithon would never know, but the one thing he was certain of was that it was no accident, the knowing look Caesar gave him after he read the boy’s name from the tablet the Roman carried convincing the king, not to mention that Peithon had three other sons, all of whom would be allowed to remain in Pattala. Finally, the survivors of his military force would be taken along with the Romans as well, but while he insisted that they weren’t prisoners, neither did Caesar divulge what his plans were for them. If Peithon had known that these men would be trained as crews for the Roman fleet, he might have put up more of a fight, although it wouldn’t have altered the outcome. While these Pattalans would be closely guarded at first, Caesar’s ultimate goal was to integrate them into the ranks, most likely as auxiliaries, although this was something that he didn’t divulge to anyone, not even Apollodorus. However, when Peithon did point out that leaving Pattala defenseless would prove to be a temptation to surrounding states, particularly for the kingdom of Bharuch to the south and their snake of a king, Caesar had actually smiled, patted his shoulder as he rose to leave, and assured him that Bharuch wouldn’t trouble Pattala ever again. Even with this assurance, when the Romans departed, they left behind five Cohorts of auxiliaries, the last five who originally marched with Caesar from the beginning of his invasion of Parthia, these men coming from Judaea, part of the complement that Herod had offered in exchange for being allowed by Caesar to return to his own kingdom from what the portly monarch had considered his exile in Parthia. In addition, the Parthians commanded by Darius were left behind, and in a move that surprised his Legates, and the Primi Pili, Caesar left Ventidius behind to serve as Praetor, although he was careful not to use that term, either to Peithon or to his officers. The fact that Ventidius didn’t object Pullus ascribed to the reality that, after all, he was an old man, older than Caesar, and this had already been a trying campaign; that there was a private agreement between Caesar and his old Muleteer would never become common knowledge, and within a matter of months, Ventidius would be back with the army after having fulfilled Caesar’s orders. It certainly wasn’t part of Caesar’s long-range plans to do so, but despite not having any intention of essentially forgetting about these men of his army, ultimately, that was what happened, as subsequent events dominated his thoughts to the point that the fact there were almost three thousand Judaeans and half as many Parthians stuck in India slipped his mind. And, just as had happened with the Crassoi, once these men got over the sense of betrayal by their king, and their anger with their Roman general, they accepted their fate and, over time, integrated themselves into Pattalan society. None of them ever gave much thought to the idea that, essentially, this is what had happened to the Macedonians who Alexander left behind as well.