by R. W. Peake
Barely three days after their departure, Pollio and Hirtius held a meeting unlike anything they had ever been a part of; they were deciding whether or not they would turn back and return to Barbaricum. The rain was one thing, and by itself, it would have been bad enough, but either Caesar had been unaware or had underestimated the difficulty of the terrain through which they had to pass in order to reach Bargosa. It wasn’t because it was hilly; in fact, the land was flat as a table, if it could be called land. Oh, to the eye, it looked just like any other ground they had crossed over, in Gaul, in Parthia, in Italia, although it was certainly greener than Parthia, and almost as green as northwest Gaul. Where it differed from Gaul was in the lack of trees, and most importantly, that it wouldn’t support the weight of marching men, let alone heavily laden wagons. Another difference was that, whereas boggy ground such as this came in swathes, and were surrounded by solid ground, here in India, so far at least, the opposite was true. The daily rains exacerbated the issue, but after the first day when they covered barely ten miles, both Legates were certain that this would pass; by the third day, when they had only covered what Caesar considered a good single day’s march, they were faced with a decision. It didn’t last long; very quickly, both men learned that the Primi Pili were more afraid of Caesar’s wrath if they gave up than if they arrived at Bargosa later than expected. And, not without reason, they all believed that even if the rains didn’t let up, they would reach firmer ground, although they were also convinced that it couldn’t possibly rain every day the entire time they were on the march.
After a full week, where they had covered less than a hundred miles, the Legates, Centurions and the men of the Legions had learned how wrong they had been in their assumptions. By itself, the rain would have been a bad but bearable condition. The problem was that, even when it wasn’t raining, the air was so full of unseen but felt moisture, nothing ever dried out. The leather covers of their shields remained saturated, and fairly quickly, the wooden shields they were designed to protect became sodden and warped. Shoes began wearing out, the wet leather stretching out with the constant motion of men on the march, and very quickly, rust began appearing on the chain mail armor. If it had been a handful of men, this would have been neither unusual nor something the Centurions couldn’t handle with a few floggings, but it was plaguing every man in the army, officers included. As bad as all this was, it was even harder on the livestock, as animals came up lame from pulling muscles when they got bogged down in the mud and had to struggle free, but it was the condition of the cavalry that was of the greatest concern to both Pollio, in overall command, and Hirtius who had become the semi-permanent commander of this crucially important arm of Caesar’s army.
“Their hooves can’t dry out, and they’re starting to split,” Hirtius informed Pollio during their nightly meeting. “I lost twenty mounts today.”
“When you say ‘lost’,” Pollio asked anxiously, “do you mean temporarily?”
Hirtius shook his head, his mouth set in a manner that communicated the grim situation as he answered, “No, I mean permanently. Once their hooves split, the only cure is to let them dry out and rest. My Immunes tells me that if we were in winter quarters, or even stationary for at least two weeks, most of them would heal.”
He didn’t finish, because there was no need; staying put was impossible, especially at a time when the two Legates were so desperate to cover more miles in a day than they currently were doing.
“How many spares do you have?” Pollio braced himself for the answer to his question.
“If we don’t lose more than twenty a day,” Hirtius answered flatly, “we have another ten days before we’re down to just what we’re riding. But,” he warned Pollio, “if we don’t reach drier ground, we’re going to wish we were losing twenty a day.”
With this dismal news, Pollio turned his attention to his Primi Pili, and the news wasn’t much better. Like the animals, men were pulling muscles as, loaded down with their packs, they struggled to pick their feet up out of the muck, and naturally, it was worse for the men farther back in the column. To counter this, very quickly, the Primi Pili had agreed to rotate their positions in the column more than the customary once a day; by the fifth day on the march, they were doing this after every rest period, an extra of which they had prevailed on Pollio to agree to, despite his reservations. Not even this helped all that much, but it was all they could think to do. At the end of every day, the men retired to tents caked with mud and filth, although they used the rain to clean themselves by standing outside naked. The leather tents, never drying out, were even heavier than normal, which in turn meant the load each mule carried had to be redistributed among the men. As Pollio sat listening to what had become a litany of misery, recited by each Primus Pilus, he imagined that, for the first time, he truly understood why Alexander had turned back. And, he thought grimly, why the men had mutinied. Unlike Caesar, Pollio had been acutely aware of the mood of the army, but the one time he had broached the subject with his general, he had been rebuffed.
“I know these men better than you do, Gaius Asinius.” Caesar had used his praenomen, the sign that he was attempting to be kind, but he was also adamant in that belief. “They will perform as nobly and as successfully as they always do. And,” he had grinned at Pollio, “they will be complaining every step of the way.”
Now, sitting in his praetorium, trying to ignore the stench created by the mold that had begun to appear in the crevices of the tent, he wished that, somehow, Caesar could transport himself here to see for himself.
Once each of the Primi Pili was finished, Pollio sighed as he stood from his stool, the signal that the meeting was over, saying wearily as he did so, “And tomorrow is more of the same, I suppose.”
“These rains,” Clustuminus spoke up, “what if they don’t stop?”
Pollio gave the man a thin smile and said simply, “Then we stay wet.” He paused, then added in a stern voice, “And we keep marching to Bargosa.”
Caesar was in a sour mood, and that was putting it mildly, Apollodorus thought as he handed his master another scroll that required his signature, part of the batch of orders and dispatches that would be sailing back to Parthia now that the fleet carrying the 25th and 30th had arrived. That the cause for the general’s irritation was due to his being informed by Torquatus and Flaminius that their newly arrived Legions were at three-quarters strength was no secret; what Apollodorus knew was that Caesar’s ire was aimed mostly at himself.
“Of course,” he had heard his master muttering to himself as he approached Caesar’s desk, “I should have known putting Caesarea there would cause problems.”
Apollodorus had met the two Primi Pili as he was entering, and they were leaving, and while he didn’t know either man very well, he didn’t need to in order to see how shaken they were. Now, standing next to Caesar’s desk as he scanned the scroll, looking for errors as he always did, and which, much to Apollodorus’ chagrin, he occasionally caught, the secretary tried to think of something to say that would assuage his master’s anger at himself. Apollodorus had never encountered anyone who could compete with Caesar’s mind, although if he was being honest, Pullus’ friend and Secundus Pilus Prior Scribonius came very close, something that he would have never uttered aloud under any circumstances. But, he thought dismally, not even Caesar can think of everything, and many times what suddenly seemed obvious was only made so because of hindsight. Whatever the cause, however, Caesar’s mood wasn’t going to be made any better by what he was signing now, an order to have yet another Legion sent to Parthia by the beginning of the next campaign season. As it had been with the two newly arrived Legions, this was a closely guarded secret; uneducated the men of his Legions may be, Apollodorus thought as Caesar signed the document, but they’re no fools. There is only one reason why Caesar would be sending for what would be the fourth new Legion to join this army; he needed more men because he intended to keep fighting. As Caesar’s senior secretary, Apollodor
us knew that his master was aiming on reaching the Ganges, but in his bones, Apollodorus didn’t think Caesar would stop there. He had been in the man’s service now for twenty years, steadily rising through the hierarchy of the small army of scribes, clerks, and other skilled slaves by being completely loyal. More importantly, he was also discreet, and Caesar trusted him implicitly. The relatively few times the secretary divulged things to his best friend Diocles, for example, with only a couple of exceptions, he had been acting on Caesar’s express instructions to do that very thing. In some ways, Apollodorus knew Caesar better than any other person alive; certainly, better than Cleopatra and Calpurnia. After all, he thought with some amusement, I’ve spent more nights with Caesar than either of them combined. Watching as Caesar rolled the scroll then held the stick of red wax above the lamp, waiting long enough for it to liquify so that he could drop a blob on the scroll, finishing by pressing his signet ring into the wax, Apollodorus took it wordlessly when Caesar held it out, even as his master was reading the next one with his other hand. This process lasted for a few moments more, until the secretary was holding more than a half-dozen scrolls, each of which would be sent to their intended recipient, and in turn then send that recipient into a frenzy of some activity or action. It was both impressive, and to Apollodorus, a little terrifying watching Caesar exercise such complete and utter control over what was now the most powerful nation in the known world. Nevertheless, as hard as it might have been to imagine, always lurking in the back of Apollodorus’ mind was the recognition of the possibility that, out there somewhere, there was a nation whose power not only rivaled, but outmatched Rome, and he wondered what would happen should they collide.
That, however, was in the future, which Caesar reminded Apollodorus about, telling him simply, “Issue the order.”
There was no need to articulate which order it was, and with a bow, Apollodorus hurried out, first to place the scrolls in the dispatch bag that was entrusted to a man of Tribune rank, who would be escorted by twenty of Caesar’s personal bodyguards, all the way back to Susa, where the process of relaying these orders would really begin. This trip, it would be Piso who would be carrying the dispatches back to Susa, which the youngster, correctly, took as a form of punishment for his failure to act during the battle for Pattala. Facing him was a journey of at least six weeks before he reached Susa, and it was at moments such as this that the staggering scale of what Caesar was doing hit the young Roman. Like the rest of the Tribunes, Piso viewed his brother-in-law with a combination of awe and fear, but as he quickly learned, his connection to Caesar through his half-sister Calpurnia didn’t shield him from being judged by the Dictator with the same level of detachment and to the same standard as his peers. Nevertheless, once he took possession of the leather bag, he didn’t hesitate, turning and leaving the praetorium at not quite a trot. Meanwhile, Apollodorus turned his attention to the next task, summoning the half-dozen runners he would be using.
“You know which Legion is yours,” he told them. “Go and tell them that Caesar has ordered to begin the process of boarding the ships. He expects them to be packed by tomorrow morning, and the loading process will begin by the beginning of the second watch.”
Like Piso, none of the runners hesitated, turning and filing out through the opening before heading in different directions. Once again, the camp would burst into activity, looking like a beehive that had been kicked over as men ran around in a seemingly random, nonsensical fashion that, somehow, at the appointed time, would see men in neat lines, carrying their packs and filing aboard their assigned ship. Caesar and his part of the army was on the move.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Balbus had found Pullus leaning on the railing at the rear of the ship, watching the harbor slipping away, with the long line of ships following behind him.
Pullus didn’t say anything for a moment, waiting for his friend to mimic his posture next to him before he looked over and grinned. “What? And ruin the surprise?”
Balbus shook his head, saying, “Only you would think that was funny.”
“Oh, I’m not the only one,” Pullus replied cheerfully. “Sextus thought it was funny too.”
“I don’t know why he won’t get over it,” Balbus said, and there was a note in his voice that caused Pullus’ smile to fade as he glanced at his friend sympathetically.
“Some men just don’t forgive so easily,” Pullus offered, but even as he said it, he knew what was coming.
Balbus snorted and agreed, “You should know.”
This, Pullus knew, was the truth, but he didn’t care to delve into that territory, so as a distraction, he told Balbus, “At least we know how far Bargosa is now.”
Balbus looked over at him with a raised eyebrow, but when he saw Pullus’ expression, he sighed and asked, “Do I want to know?”
“It’s a long way,” Pullus admitted, but then thinking to look at the bright side, said, “but it’s not as far as when we first got on these fucking things.” He paused, then informed Balbus, “The best estimate is that it’s about four hundred miles.”
Despite having prepared himself, Balbus let out what was a combination of a whistle and a groan, then said, “Pluto’s cock.” He cocked his head, trying to do the calculations in his head, but quickly gave up, asking, “So how long are we going to be on this fucking thing?”
The truth was that Pullus had been forced to ask Diocles to make the calculations, but he didn’t think it was necessary to impart that to Balbus, relaying only, “If we don’t stop to make camp, we should be there in less than a week. But,” he added, “a lot depends on how fast Pollio is moving.”
“What was the latest word?” Balbus asked, but Pullus shook his head, clearly frustrated.
“I have no idea, and I’m almost certain Caesar doesn’t either. They just…” he made a gesture with his hands, “…vanished. And, Caesar wasn’t willing to wait to hear. He’s been champing at the bit to get us aboard these ships and on the way to Bargosa.”
“Any more idea of what that place is like?” Balbus asked, but again, Pullus could only shake his head.
“Quintus,” Pullus told his friend honestly, “I don’t think we’re going to know a fucking thing about that place we can trust until we see it with our own eyes, and I’m not believing anything we’re told until then.”
This level of frankness and criticism of Caesar caused Balbus to cast a quick glance over his shoulder, shifting nervously, which was a common enough reaction at such moments. Regardless, this bothered Balbus for a different reason than just running afoul of Caesar because one of his spies overheard Pullus; less than what was said, it was who it was coming from that worried Balbus. Of all the Centurions of every grade in the army, Titus Pullus could always be counted on by Caesar to be his staunchest supporter among the men of the ranks, and hearing his friend openly declare his skepticism about the information their general was giving them shook Balbus to his core. For once, he thought, I wish Scribonius was onboard with us; he’d know what to do.
In an attempt to steer the conversation away from such dangerous ground, Balbus commented, “I’m just happy that we’re not with those bastards. It’s bad enough getting rained on three or four times a day, but at least we’re not getting muddy here.”
That, Pullus acknowledged, was certainly the truth, and the thought that someone else was having to contend with the misery of a muddy march cheered him considerably.
His name was Achaemenes, and he had been brought to Caesar’s attention by Bodroges, who Caesar was slowly beginning to trust, appreciating the young man’s insight into matters that, to Caesar’s Roman mind, seemed straightforward yet were anything but to Easterners. Under what Bodroges, and to varying degrees the other Parthians were beginning to think of as the “old ways,” Bodroges would have had little to do with Achaemenes. Although he wasn’t a member of the lowest class of Parthian society, many of whom were now taking Roman silver and had learned to fight as Legionaries, Acha
emenes was the son of a merchant. A very wealthy merchant, certainly, but men of Bodroges’ class viewed them as only marginally better than the scum who filled the ranks of their infantry. But Achaemenes, who was serving in the ranks of the 8th Legion, had a skill, a unique one that, when he overheard the Parthian conversing with some of the people of Pattala, and in their tongue and not Parthian, Bodroges had instantly understood would be of enormous value to Caesar. Befriending the boy, which was how Bodroges thought of him despite being at best four years older, at first Bodroges had viewed as nothing more than a means to an end, but to his surprise, he discovered he actually liked Achaemenes a great deal. He was surprisingly well educated; at least, that was how Bodroges thought of it, but Achaemenes had quietly informed the Parthian nobleman that there were many others like him in the merchant class. As their relationship deepened, Bodroges was forced to confront yet another reality that was just one among many over the previous year, and that was, in their arrogance, the members of the Parthian noble class had horribly misused and mistreated men who could have been a valuable resource. Even within a matter of weeks after he had slain Gobryas and surrendered Susa, Bodroges had begun to recognize why the Romans had prevailed, and at first, his views had been altered by the tangible things that he could see. Obviously, the Romans were better organized; they were more disciplined; they were better engineers, but then, as time passed and Bodroges surrendered himself to the idea that the Parthia that had existed just two years earlier was a thing of the past, he began to understand that it ran even more deeply than that. And, while he never said as much to his newly found friend, Achaemenes had been an important component to this deepening realization. In simple terms, Rome prevailed because more Romans were invested in the success of the state than the vast majority of Parthians, most of whom were viewed by their social superiors as nothing more than forms of labor, and by extension, were there strictly for the profit of a comparative handful of families. Once Bodroges had introduced himself to Achaemenes, he had assiduously groomed the younger man with all the skill of an experienced courtier who had learned his craft in the court of Orodes, while Achaemenes was serving as a common Gregarius in the Third Century of the Ninth Cohort of the 7th Legion, which he had joined during the previous winter, as part of what was essentially a second dilectus from the Parthians. A seemingly casual remark; an apparently offhand compliment, a suggestion that Achaemenes would be advancing his own fortunes, when Bodroges would also benefit. It had taken longer than Bodroges would have liked, but he convinced Achaemenes to allow himself to be introduced to Caesar by Bodroges, and once that had happened, things had moved rapidly. Bodroges’ cause was aided by the fact that Caesar’s own facility with languages made him appreciate those with similar skills, and the fact that, because of his father, Achaemenes could communicate directly with the people of this region, along with his ability to speak Greek all combined to ensure that, within a matter of days, Achaemenes was almost always at Caesar’s side. And, it was because of Achaemenes that, without being alerted by Pollio, Caesar deduced that the land portion of his army was, in all likelihood, in dire trouble.