Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “Primus Pilus Batius,” the scribe whispered, “the Legate requires your presence in the praetorium immediately.” When Batius didn’t respond, or even seem to notice, he added, “It’s just that he wants to make plans about tomorrow.”

  Again, Batius didn’t reply, but it did elicit a sigh; more importantly, he put his hands on his knees to push himself up to his feet.

  Finally, he said wearily, “Tell the Legate I’m on my way.”

  The scribe was only too happy to leave this grim place, with its smells, and the low, continuous moans of men who, despite copious amounts of poppy syrup, were suffering an agony that made him shudder to imagine.

  When Batius arrived at the praetorium, his counterparts were all there, along with Hirtius and his Decurions, seated at the long table that served as the officers’ mess. Nothing was said, at least that Batius could hear, but the moment he entered, every man came to his feet and faced the older Primus Pilus. It was Felix who broke the silence, stepping in front of Batius to offer his arm.

  “Salve, Aulus Batius.” His voice, already normally raspy, was barely audible. “On behalf of my men of the 6th, I want to thank you for saving my Legion and this army.”

  Felix was the first, but one by one, each Primus Pilus, normally fierce rivals who were always loath to offer anything resembling praise to their fellow Primi Pili, offered their own thanks, and by the time Batius had reached the empty chair, placed to Pollio’s right in a signal of honor, the crusty Centurion’s face was wet with tears, which he tried to wipe away before the others saw them.

  Pollio, as befitting his status as Legate, was the last to offer his tribute, which was no less effusive, and adding, “As soon as we rejoin the army, I am recommending to Caesar you be awarded a Grass Crown for saving the lives of your fellow citizens of Rome, Primus Pilus Batius.”

  Until the day he died, Aulus Batius would think of this as his proudest moment, and whenever he felt the crushing responsibility, the almost overwhelming fatigue that came from a combination of the post and his age, he would recall that night in the praetorium, somewhere in this cachole called India.

  “Well,” he managed, trying to at least imbue his tone with its normal gruff quality, “I wasn’t expecting this. But…” he had to swallow the lump, before he could only manage, “…thank you, sir. And,” he turned to indicate the others, “thank all of you, my comrades.” Then, he abruptly sat down and asked, “So, what now?”

  Pollio suppressed a smile, understanding why Batius had behaved thusly, and he resumed his seat, the signal to the others to do the same.

  “Now,” Pollio’s face turned grim, “we need to decide how long we can afford to stay here to recover, or if I should split the army even more to send the 15nd and 11th along with the cavalry to try and keep up the pressure on the Bargosans.”

  As Pollio expected, there were strongly held opinions and differing sentiments, which meant the next third of a watch was spent in a free-ranging discussion, something that Pollio normally didn’t allow, but under the current circumstances, thought it was the best approach. Somewhat surprisingly, Pollio’s guess that it would be the Legions who had been the hardest hit, especially the two who had been subjected to the thunderous, smashing attack of armored elephants, who would counsel caution, turned out to be inaccurate. Instead, it was Aquilinus and Atartinus who seemed to be of the mind that the best course was to regroup, then continue south only when the entire army could move. For the most part, Pollio chose to listen, and he saw that Hirtius was no less bemused by this surprising turn, but then, very slowly, he began to get a glimmering of an idea of why this was the case. The Primi Pili who were the most adamant about pursuing the remnants of the Bargosan force, Clustuminus and Felix, had also suffered the most at the hands of the force of armored elephants, but somewhat oddly, it was that very fact that Pollio began to believe was the impetus behind their argument. While he didn’t want to believe that it was based in a desire to see other Legions besides their own forced to confront however many animals were left in some sort of strange sense of justice, the more the two men argued, the stronger Pollio’s sense was that this was the case. And, when he thought about it that way, it made more sense that Aquilinus and Atartinus were equally resistant; it was about this moment he also realized that Batius had been almost completely silent, which was singularly unusual in itself, with Balbinus only slightly less so, but Pollio assumed that it was because the 12th’s Primus Pilus knew his Legion wasn’t part of the discussion. It was because of this that, finally, Pollio raised a hand for silence; when this didn’t work, he slapped the table with a sharp crack, startling the men who were more absorbed in making their point.

  Turning to Batius, Pollio asked, “Batius, you’ve been quiet, and that’s not like you. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  The Primus Pilus made no reply for a long enough time that Pollio was about to repeat the question, but he finally said, “I don’t blame either of you,” he nodded his head at Aquilinus and Atartinus, who, Pollio suddenly noticed, were seated side by side, “for not wanting to tackle that bunch as long as they still have some of those beasts.” Turning to Felix and Clustuminus, “And I hope you agree that I know how you two feel as well. We,” Batius gestured to these two and himself, “had to see some of our boys stomped into nothing but a greasy pile of meat, or get one of those fucking tusks in the guts…or worse.” The thought seemed to make Batius shudder, but his face was grim, and his jaw set in a manner that those who knew him understood was meaningful, as he continued, “But Caesar is relying on us; the rest of the army is relying on us so that they won’t have to tackle that city by themselves. A city,” his voice suddenly took on an intensity that lent itself to the importance of what he was saying, “that is probably packed full of those fucking beasts. Surely you don’t think that their king, or whatever they call him, sent all of the animals he has out to face us, do you? Without leaving any behind in case what we did to them happened?” He paused, taking the time to look at each man, before he said more softly, “You may believe that, but I don’t. And, if we don’t finish them off now, how much harder do you think it will be to face them again when they have reinforcements?”

  He stopped then, and a long, heavy silence passed for several heartbeats, but Pollio judged that Batius’ words had made an impact on all of them; he certainly knew they had with himself, and he also realized that nothing he said to convince the two Primi Pili would be more powerful than what Batius had just said.

  He did break the silence, but it was to turn to Hirtius, asking, “Did you ever get a count of how many elephants they might have left?”

  His fellow Legate glanced down at the tablet in front of him and read from it, “We counted a total of sixty-two animals dead, including a half-dozen who made it back into that forest but then died of wounds.”

  “And we counted at least forty-five to each side,” Pollio mused. Grimacing, he shook his head, “That still leaves around thirty or even more of those beasts, and it’s almost a certainty that they’ve regrouped. If we could catch them before that happens, fifteen are a lot easier to deal with than double that number.”

  Heaving a sigh, Atartinus said, “We’ll set out in a third of a watch.”

  Aquilinus, looking slightly embarrassed, said, “If you can make it two-thirds, we’ll march out together.”

  In another sign that this wasn’t a normal situation, Clustuminus actually offered a muttered thanks to his two counterparts; of all the Primi Pili, he was usually the most likely to make a barbed comment whenever he saw an opportunity to reinforce his belief in the superiority of his Legion over the others. Except, Pollio thought with some amusement, for one Primus Pilus, although Pullus wasn’t here.

  “I’ll give you four alae of my cavalry,” Hirtius offered, but then acknowledged, “although they’re not going to do much good against elephants. But we can find them and scout ahead. Maybe we’ll find a spot that we can turn to our advantage. And I’ll send Decu
rion Silva in command; he’s one of my best.”

  Balbinus had been sitting silently, only partially paying attention, but he spoke up now, “How much of that stuff do we have left?”

  There was no need for Balbinus to explain what he was talking about, and all heads turned towards the third Legate in the room, who was usually overlooked, something that Tiberius Claudius Nero despised almost as much as those he viewed as inferiors, which was essentially all but a very select group of the highest-ranking patricians. He was more competent overall than Lepidus, the man who unsurprisingly Nero had considered his closest friend and ally in the rarified world revolving around Caesar, but like Lepidus, he was only trusted to serve as quartermaster under Pollio.

  Fortunately, for once he had been paying attention, and like the others, didn’t need to be told the topic, actually having anticipated the question, so he answered immediately, “There are two more wagons with fifty jars apiece, and the wagons that Batius and his men used each have about ten jars left.”

  “One wagon should work for both Legions,” Aquilinus commented; Batius cleared his throat, then asked quietly, “How many men do you think we lost because that stuff was in the wagon?”

  Both Aquilinus and Atartinus looked startled, but they were far from alone, and it was Pollio who, staring at Batius, said, “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? That the men carry the jars with them?”

  “Unless you have a better idea, that’s the only way I think it will work,” Batius replied evenly.

  Usually when he was challenged, he blustered with everyone but Caesar; that he was speaking in almost a monotone, and without his usual fire, ironically had more of an impact because of it.

  Pollio didn’t respond, nor did the others, and it became clear that the two men who mattered, Aquilinus and Atartinus, both accepted the premise, but Aquilinus asked, “All right, but how? How should they carry them?”

  “Forage bags,” Balbinus interjected, having thought it through even before Batius had brought the topic up, understanding as the Alaudae’s Primus Pilus had that this was the only way to have a chance to face armored elephants. “Hang them from their furcae. And,” he finished with grim humor, “make sure they march in the rear.”

  In an unusual twist, Pullus and the men of his First and Second Cohort actually benefitted from the presence of the thickly clustered tents where the force defending the canal had been living for the previous week. The hurdles had burned out for the most part, while the few that had landed close enough to one of the tents had burned them to cinders, and Pullus quickly determined that the Bargosans manning the catapults on the rampart were loosing blindly, although it took him a bit longer to recognize that with his men moving among the tents, it further obscured their aim. Once he established this, he sent runners to the rest of the Cohorts who had been first up the dirt wall, ordering them to forego their normal formation and allow the men to use the tents for cover, and while there was the occasional cry from a man who happened to be unfortunate enough to be struck by one of the rocks plummeting down from the rampart, Pullus’ ears told him that this was likely to be the only respite he and his men would be facing. Taking advantage of this, he had his Cornicen sound the call for the Pili Priores, gathering them just behind the largest tent, which wasn’t anywhere near the size of a Roman praetorium, but was large enough to shield them from the missiles coming from the northern wall. The dirt wall was now in Roman possession, but it was quickly determined that the second line Cohorts were tempting targets because they had initially formed on the open ground between the rampart and the Bargosan camp, which was just at the outer range of the Bargosan artillery. Consequently, they had moved up as well, and for the moment, the entire Legion was crowded among the tents, all of which were being thoroughly looted despite Pullus’ orders to the contrary, although that was the least of his concerns at the moment. The Bargosans who had been driven from the dirt rampart hadn’t, as Pullus believed they would, fled into the city, which Pullus had hoped would happen and thereby enable his men to do as they had done once before in Gaul, moving too quickly for the gates to be shut behind the fleeing enemy soldiers and flooding into the city. Instead, they seemed content to form up in a rough semicircle, the apex of which was on the firmly packed, wide dirt road that led through the high, arched northern gateway, while the ends bent back so their flanks were protected by the wall. Now it seemed as if they were content to wait, and Pullus had taken Balbus with him through the camp to the northern edge of it to do a quick examination of what their enemy was doing. The presence of the camp had meant that, unlike around the other walls, there were no flammable debris piles, and now that the hurdles for the most part had burned out, there wasn’t much light, although there was enough to see that the Bargosans were standing ready.

  “It’s almost like they’re expecting something,” Pullus commented once he and Balbus returned and were joined by other Centurions.

  “They are.” Balbus gave his barking laugh. “Us.”

  Pullus shook his head, irritated. “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s as if they’re daring us to come for them.”

  “We will be exposed to their artillery once we clear their camp,” Metellus pointed out, but while this was certainly true, Pullus still didn’t think this was it, which he expressed.

  Scribonius, as usual, hadn’t talked much yet; he never participated in the excited chatter during such moments, when the blood was up but there was a pause in the screaming madness of battle, with each Centurion trying to outdo the other with the exploits of their Centuries. Now, as he stood there listening to the debate, he wore a frown that, if Pullus had noticed, he would have recognized that his friend was about to contribute something valuable.

  Finally, he spoke up, saying slowly, “I think I know what they’re waiting for.” Naturally, the rest of the Pili Priori stopped talking, and Pullus saw Scribonius’ expression, but they were close enough friends that, even with the darkness, he could discern that he probably wouldn’t be comforted by what his Secundus Pilus Prior was about to say, which was confirmed when Scribonius said, “Elephants. I think they’re waiting for their elephants.”

  It had certainly been a topic of discussion, ever since Caesar and his army had set foot on what they were told was the soil of India, the conversation with Porcinus being typical of the speculation. Only a handful of men in the entire army, including those of Legate and Tribune rank, had read extensively about the Macedonian king Alexander’s experience with elephants, but every man, of every rank, was at least aware that these were the most potent weapon the barbarians of India possessed. Pullus and Scribonius, however, were one of those handful, Pullus most recently reading the scrolls Caesar had sent through Apollodorus, who possessed more than a general knowledge, although at this moment, it was all strictly theoretical.

  Scribonius stopped talking, but Pullus could also see that his friend had something in mind, and he asked him as much, to which Scribonius replied, “We brought the siege spears with us, so I think we’ll need to have some men get those from the ships. But I don’t think that’s going to be enough.”

  “You don’t mean that naphtha, do you?” Titus Marcius, the Septimus Pilus Prior asked, but to Pullus’ surprise, who had assumed the same thing, Scribonius shook his head.

  “No,” he replied, then corrected, “I mean, I’m not saying we shouldn’t unload it, but it should only be a last resort.” Turning to Pullus, he asked, “How long do you think it would take to pry those scorpions loose?”

  “By the gods, Sextus,” Pullus groaned. “Do you have any idea how long that will take? It might be dawn before we throw the ladders up.”

  “Yes, and you’d lose your bet with Spurius and the others.” Scribonius’ tone was dry, but he wasn’t intimidated by Pullus’ glare, knowing that he was right, and he gave his friend an impudent grin. Then, the smile faded, and he asked soberly, “What do you think will happen if we’re on the ladders, and a herd of elephants come po
uring out of that gate? What kind of havoc do you think that would wreak?”

  While it didn’t entirely smother Pullus’ ire, what was left was redirected back on himself, knowing immediately that what Scribonius had said was not only true, it was precisely the kind of thing that could turn a victory into disaster.

  Even so, he still hesitated before he asked, “What are you thinking?”

  Pullus and the others listened as Scribonius described his plan, and by the time he was finished, Pullus knew this was the best option available to them.

  Still, he looked at the others, asking hopefully, “Does someone else have a better idea?”

  The shaking of heads was enough, but it was Cyclops who spoke up, “You’re already rich anyway. You can afford to lose a bet.”

  “Says you,” Pullus grumbled, but it was in a lighthearted manner. Then, he simply said, “All right, let’s get to work.” Addressing the Pili Priores of the second line, he ordered, “Since you’re closest to the wall, your boys will go get the siege spears, scorpions, and naphtha, but when you do, don’t break them down. I know they’re more difficult to transport, but there’s only so much time I’m willing to lose. Oh,” he thought to add, “and don’t bring all of the naphtha. That’s all we have for the entire campaign and I don’t want to hear it from Caesar if we use it all when we don’t absolutely have to.”

  The meeting broke up, the Centurions of the second group of Cohorts all moving at a run, bawling their orders as they did, and Pullus watched them going for a moment, making sure that their rankers obeyed with the kind of alacrity the Primus Pilus expected of his Legion.

  Turning back to Scribonius and Balbus, the concern was clear in his face as he said, “I hope we have time to pull this off, Sextus. What if they show up before we’re ready?”