Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “They are burning the elephants!” He said it softly at first, then repeated it more loudly, the horror of what it meant for his elephants and the chances for success making his voice crack. “They are burning my elephants!”

  When the first of the men entrusted with hurling their pot of naphtha did so and his aim was true, the vessel shattering against the side of the wooden box, igniting the viscous fluid contained within and splattering so quickly that it was impossible to track with the naked eye, Batius held out some hope that the damage could be controlled somehow to just the animals and their passengers. Within a fraction of an eyeblink, the box was blazing furiously, while the remaining archer and spearman still riding in the box were faced with the choice of catching on fire themselves or leaping to the ground, where the Romans were waiting to cut them down without mercy. They chose the latter, while the handler was the recipient of several large globules of flaming naphtha that splattered onto his back, igniting his tunic and the turban he wore, but before he could react with anything other than a scream, the elephant panicked. None of the substance had touched its skin, but the heat created by the sudden ignition of the wooden box and the high temperature transferred from blazing beads of naphtha that struck and clung to the bronze blanket was clearly extraordinarily painful. As the elephant reared on its hind legs, its trunk raised straight in the air as it trumpeted what was clearly a shriek of pain, the handler was finally dislodged, but he fell backward onto the fully involved box, which set the rest of him afire. The Legionaries around the animal had scattered out of the way, so that when its front legs slammed back down to the ground, then wheeled with a speed that was truly impressive to go at a full run, heading back in the direction from which it came, Batius and his men raised a rousing cheer. The hope that they would somehow be able to repel the elephants with this volatile substance, without inflicting massive damage on themselves, their comrades in the 6th, and the baggage train, lasted perhaps another twenty heartbeats. And, by the time it was over, the surviving elephants had fled, although they were pursued by Hirtius’ cavalry at a safe distance, and almost half of the attacking animals slain outright, it appeared to Batius that fully half of the baggage train was either a smoking ruin or was still fully ablaze. All around him was a scene of such destruction that, for the first time in his career, Batius was at a loss what to do next, so he stood and watched as the Sixth through Tenth of his Legion, still in the process of incinerating as many of the elephants who had attacked the opposite side of the formation, faced the same challenges his men had, with the same results.

  While it certainly hadn’t been done intentionally, most of the slaves trying to control their section mules had been unsuccessful, but in their blind panic to get away, first from the massive gray beasts, then the exploding fire, a substantial portion of the baggage belonging to the Legions of Pollio’s army was saved from utter destruction, as the animals went stampeding away, most back to the north from where they had come, although a substantial number fled to the south, in the direction where Balbinus’ 12th had just managed to fight off the ambushing forces of the Bargosans. Dozens of men, most of them slaves, but a fair number of freedmen who were the wagon drivers, were trampled to death by hundreds of mules who went stampeding through the middle of the formation, on their way north to safety. More than two dozen wagons were burned, while twice as many were lying on their side, all of them damaged, some irreparably. Batius stood, taking this all in, dully watching as one of the remaining elephants who hadn’t managed to escape had dropped to its knees, the remnants of its wooden box still burning fiercely, but it was the flames engulfing the animal’s body, up to the bony knob of its head that was clearly the cause for its collapse. With one last squeal of agony, its trunk up in the air, it toppled over onto its side, the impact sending sparks roiling up into the air, but it was the roar of triumph from the Legionaries who had surrounded the animal and mercilessly bombarded it with a combination of naphtha and the heavy siege spears that had been retrieved from one of the 5th’s wagons that rang loudest. Then, it was over; at least, this part of it was, but Batius had no idea what came next, although he began to look around, trying to spot Pollio among the horsemen who were within what remained of the quadratum.

  The Cohorts from Felix’s 6th that hadn’t been the target of the surprise attack had detached from the formation and were being led westward, where the half of Hirtius’ cavalry on that side had surrounded what Batius counted were six elephants that had managed to avoid being immolated. Scattered over the ground between the quadratum and where the survivors were now hemmed in were what was nothing more than huge lumps of scorched meat, each one still ablaze to one degree or another as the naphtha burned itself out, creating thick, greasy black smoke that rose in the air above each corpse. Turning his attention away from the surviving animals, Batius finally spotted Pollio in a knot of horsemen, most of the animals still exhibiting the tension and nerves of the ordeal, and the reason he saw the Legate in the first place was that one of the horses tossed its rider, a Tribune, although Batius couldn’t see who it was, then went galloping off in the same general direction of the Legion mules.

  Turning to his Optio, Batius said wearily, “I’m going to go see what the Legate wants us to do next. Have the call for assembly sounded.” Glancing around, he tried to find a patch of ground that wasn’t already occupied, either by survivors or victims of what had just taken place, and he pointed to a spot, “Have our Century form there. Everyone else will work off that.”

  It was a sign of the fatigue and mild shock he was experiencing that Batius only acknowledged his Optio’s salute with a nod of his head; the Primus Pilus was renowned throughout the 5th for being an absolute stickler for the various courtesies rendered to officers, and his Optio was left in the awkward position of holding a salute to Batius’ turned back as he was walking away. For his part, Batius didn’t even glance back over his shoulder, partially because he had to negotiate what was still a scene of relative chaos between the members of the baggage train trying to regain control of the animals under their charge, and the debris and detritus of wrecked wagons, some of them on fire, the result of an errant throw by one of his men, or more likely, a pain-crazed elephant slamming into it as it tried to escape the flames engulfing its body.

  When he got within earshot, he was in time to hear Pollio order the Primus Pilus of the 15th Lucius Aquilinus, one of the Legions who was fortunate enough to escape relatively unscathed, “Take your men and go to Balbinus. A runner came…” Pollio’s voice trailed off as he tried to calculate how much time had elapsed, but he ended up shrugging, “…actually, I have no idea how long ago it was. But the 12th needed help.” He did take the time to turn back north, shading his eyes as he tried to see the state of the 12th now that it was well more than a mile deep into the cleared area. After a moment, he said, “It’s hard to tell, but it looks like they’re still intact, and they’ve advanced since the last time I checked.” Turning back to look down at Aquilinus, he finished, “I still want you moving at the double quick.”

  Aquilinus saluted, then turned and moved to where his men, who had been on the western side of the quadratum were waiting, and Batius covered the last of the space between himself and Pollio, who had immediately turned his attention to one of the Tribunes, ordering him to find Hirtius. Then, Batius was standing in front of the Legate, the Primus Pilus offering a salute, which Pollio returned, the pair looking at each other, neither of them seeming to know what to say.

  Finally, Pollio broke the silence, saying simply, “You and your boys in the Alaudae saved this army from total destruction today, Primus Pilus Batius. Rest assured that Caesar will know about it.”

  Under any other circumstances Batius, just like every other Primus Pilus, would have been pleased at this kind of praise, but instead of acknowledging the Legate, Batius was actually staring off in the distance.

  “I wonder,” he finally said, his voice barely audible from all the bellowing he had j
ust been doing, “how many more elephants these bastards have.”

  Abhiraka was in an agony wrought by a combination of indecision and a lack of information. It had all been going so well, he thought miserably, but then something happened, and I don’t know what. This was the most acute cause for the quandary he was feeling, because to the eye, not much had changed, and certainly no word had come from either Sophanes or Gajadhar that would either confirm or deny this terrible feeling of dread he was experiencing. While he was certain that he was right about those spots of light being his elephants somehow set afire, he wasn’t willing to abandon all hope; there were one hundred elephants combined together, and Abhiraka was certain that it was impossible to destroy that many animals by throwing whatever flammable ammunition these Romans used. Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake this feeling that something had gone horribly wrong. As he sat contemplating what to do next, his decision was made for him. It began with movement, back where the main body of the Romans were located, although it took several heartbeats of watching for Abhiraka to get an idea of what was happening. Then, when he saw a series of black lines detach themselves from the mass of the main body, the king saw that, in appearance, it was identical to what the first Roman force that had fallen for the bait of his phalanx troops had looked like as they advanced. While he had no understanding of the organization of a Roman Legion, he didn’t need it to recognize the situation that was now facing him.

  “Those are reinforcements,” Abhiraka said, his voice sounding strange in his ears, the tone flat and emotionless. “That means that Sophanes and Gajadhar failed.”

  He paused, but it was to return his attention to the force of Romans that were now less than a mile away, still beset on three sides by his men. Their progress had been considerably slowed, he knew, but even in the time he had been gazing beyond this nearest battle, he saw that, while it was only a matter of paces, the Romans had closed the distance to him and the Bargosan camp. This recognition prompted him to twist around to where, in much the same manner as a Roman marching camp, the tents were neatly arranged in a regular pattern, but marring that regularity was the sight of rows of his men lying in the streets between the tents, and in the large area that served the same function as the Roman forum. Supine before him was a good part of the army he had devoted to this first line of defense, and while those noncombatants who served the same function as the medici were working feverishly to keep up with the steady stream of casualties, Abhiraka knew that, when he issued the order that was coming, only those wounded who would be able to keep up might fight another day.

  “We are withdrawing,” he said calmly but loudly enough that the man who served to relay the orders, not by horn but by a large drum, could hear, although he waited for the actual command from his king. Abhiraka turned to the commander of his bodyguard, a man who had been by his king’s side since they were teenagers, and Abhiraka felt a sharp stab of remorse for what he was about to say, but his voice was controlled as he addressed the man. “Ranjeet, my brother, my faithful vassal. I…I…” Abhiraka’s throat closed up, as if his body was rebelling and refusing to let him say the words.

  Fortunately, Ranjeet, whose full name was Ranjeet Aristandros, a signal of his mixed heritage of native and Macedonian, knew what had to be done, and while he had to stretch across the space created by their two elephants to do so, he clasped Abhiraka’s shoulder, saying gently, “I know what needs to be done, my King. I will remain behind and make sure that we delay these dogs. Go back to Bharuch and prepare our city.” His dark features, which were framed by a carefully trimmed beard, transformed as he offered Abhiraka a cruel smile. “We’ve already made them bleed. Now they will bleed more. By the time they make it to our walls, they will be like ripe fruit, ready to fall from the tree, just waiting to be plucked.”

  Abhiraka understood, both by Ranjeet’s words and the fact that he spoke more loudly than was necessary, that his words were meant for more than just the king, and he answered in the same manner. “And I will place the heads of every one of these invaders on spears, and songs will be written about Ranjeet and the men of Bharuch who were the true saviors of our city!”

  If the cheer that was raised by the men around them was a bit sparse, Abhiraka attributed it to their relative paucity and not from a lack of enthusiasm, which was the prerogative of a king. Turning Darpashata so that he could clasp Ranjeet’s hand, Abhiraka nudged the animal, taking care to choose a path that wouldn’t place any of his wounded, or the dead, for that matter, in jeopardy of being crushed by his elephant. He knew that, now that this battle was lost, time was of the essence, yet he refused to move at anything more than a stately walk, his back erect as his body swayed slightly to the movement that was created by the gait of his elephant. While the camp’s layout was markedly similar to that of a Roman marching camp, which was understandable given that they came from the same source, the one thing this camp didn’t have was a ditch and walls, something that Abhiraka now recognized was a mistake. But, such had been his confidence in the plan he and his commanders had devised, these defenses hadn’t seemed necessary. And now, he thought dismally as Darpashata moved down the main north/south street heading south, the men left behind would suffer for that oversight. Nothing he had heard about these Romans gave him any sense that they would show wounded foes any mercy, but he did offer up a prayer to Tara, the goddess of compassion worshipped by those of his people who originally came from the south, that the Romans would spare these men, though he didn’t hold out much hope. He exited the camp boundary to the north, but he fought the urge to stop and give one last look at what, ultimately, was a failure. Despite his conviction that Gajadhar and Sophanes had failed, he refused to accept the idea that every one of their elephants had been destroyed, but he trusted Ranjeet to know what to do with the survivors when they showed back up at the camp since he also rejected the thought that their handlers would flee their comrades and seek safety elsewhere. Part of this conviction was based in idealism, that he had been the kind of ruler who inspired that kind of loyalty, but it was more than that; putting it simply, it would be impossible for the men to ride their elephants through the land that comprised his kingdom unobserved, and a year earlier, he had been forced to make an example of a handler who was sneaking his war elephant out from the city to help on his family’s farm. Abhiraka’s punishment was one that had been used for longer than anyone could remember, placing the handler on the ground, then laying a large plank on top of him and having the man’s own elephant step on the plank. The only mercy the king had shown was in ordering that the execution be carried out quickly; normally, the process could be made to last for most of a day, or even longer. No, he was certain that if there were surviving elephants, they would return to the camp he had just left, whereupon Ranjeet would either use them to delay the Romans further, or send them back to Bharuch if he thought it best.

  Before they had gone a mile, Abhiraka was already grappling with what final preparations remained to be done for the defenses of the city. The canal had just been completed when Abhiraka departed the city to come to this, the first line of defense; now that it had failed to stop the Romans, the canal was the next line, but the one thing that Abhiraka hadn’t been able to decide was how much artillery to shift from the walls of the city to the dirt wall formed from the spoil created by the digging of the canal. His original conception of the canal had been to make it almost as wide as the river, mainly because he foresaw a time when this threat had been vanquished, and in his mind, he envisioned using the canal to create more wharf space for commerce. It had been an ambition of his father to expand Bharuch’s capabilities for handling even more of the extraordinarily lucrative silk trade, along with the commerce created by the spices that were grown in the south. Because of the rapidity of the Romans’ march south from Pattala, it had been impossible, even with every available man, woman, and child working on it, to create the canal as he had envisioned it, but if the gods willed it, once these savages were sent
back to Parthia, there would be time to complete it. Abhiraka found that daydreaming about a future filled with ships lining not one but two wharves made the time pass more pleasantly than dwelling on what he was leaving behind, but he finally forced himself away from this diversion to mentally review what had been left only partially completed or there was still to do when he had left Bharuch.

  The sun was two fingers’ width above the treetops when, from up ahead where a half-dozen of his horse-mounted bodyguards rode in advance, Abhiraka heard one of them shouting something. He had somehow dozed off as Darpashata lumbered along, but he came instantly awake, opening his eyes to see that, perhaps a half-mile ahead, a rider approached on horseback at the gallop. His advance guard instantly spread out, while the men on either end of the line spurred their own horses to rush forward to meet whoever it was coming. The rider wasn’t wearing the colors of Bharuch, and as he drew nearer, Abhiraka could see that what the horse was doing could only be charitably called a gallop; it was clearly exhausted, and even as he recognized this, the animal stumbled, tried to recover, then went headfirst into the dirt, sending its rider flying, arms and legs flailing wildly before, like his mount, he collided with the ground, sending up a spray of dirt. The man tumbled over at least three times before rolling to a stop, face up and limbs splayed out, then the pair of bodyguards came sliding to a stop, one of them vaulting from the saddle to run over to the man. As he kneeled beside him, at first, Abhiraka was certain that the man was either unconscious or dead, but then he saw one arm raise as the man made a feeble gesture. Nudging his elephant, Abhiraka closed the distance to this strange sight, but he was still a hundred paces away when the bodyguard leapt to his feet in a manner as if he had just been stung by a bee, or something had startled him. Then the bodyguard turned and came sprinting towards Abhiraka, and even before he opened his mouth, the king felt a lurching sensation deep in his gut as he saw the expression in the man’s face.