by R. W. Peake
“Ladders up!” Gellius bellowed, interrupting Pullus’ thoughts, and this was repeated all down the line from one Century to the next, but Pullus was already moving.
He had grabbed a discarded shield, which he held above him as he ascended the ladder, waiting for the impact of some form of missile on his shield. By the time he was halfway up, he had begun to suspect that perhaps he was mistaken, but it wasn’t until he reached a point where it would have been impossible for a defender to hide from view that he accepted what his eyes were telling him.
“There’s nobody here!” he called down, but then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gellius on the ladder next to him, and he correctly interpreted the grin his Pilus Prior wore as he thought that Pullus’ hesitation had given him the opportunity to do something that none of Pullus’ Centurions had ever managed.
“Not today,” Pullus growled, but even as he said this, he was moving, scrambling up the last two rungs, then swinging his leg over to put it on the stone parapet, just a heartbeat before Gellius.
Who, Pullus was happy to hear, cursed bitterly, although the moment of levity didn’t last long, as the Primus Pilus turned to stare down the rampart, first in the direction of the northern gate, then the opposite direction, but all he saw were abandoned artillery pieces and men who looked like him clambering over the parapet.
“What,” he shook his head, still trying to comprehend the disappearance of the defenders, “the fuck is going on?”
Once Abhiraka made his decision, he hadn’t hesitated, making his way to the palace, trying to grapple with what he knew was his certain defeat. Certainly, he had tried to sound convincing when he told his subordinates that they need only hold out long enough for the appearance of Ranjeet, but he heard the hollow ring to the words, even if the others didn’t. Despite the recognition that his time as king could probably be measured in his version of watches, Abhiraka still held out hope that he could negotiate some sort of settlement with these Romans. And, he thought bitterly, if they hadn’t had that demon’s potion that destroyed most of my beautiful Harem, they would be the ones begging for terms outside my walls. As pleasing a thought as it was, Abhiraka also didn’t spend more than a heartbeat considering this since it hadn’t happened. Also, he saw the large shapes of some of his elephants moving at a run from the direction of the western wall, clearly headed for their enclosure, and Abhiraka slowed his horse, both to avoid being in the path of his elephants, who were clearly intent on reaching what they thought of as safety, and to give himself time to think. Just before he left the northern wall, he had sent the messengers from Nahapana and Pranav back to their respective commanders with the order to retreat to the palace and enclosure, but to leave enough men behind to delay the Romans, while by this time Bolon should have reached Eshan with the same order. As dire as the situation was, Abhiraka wasn’t in total despair, and he had cause for some hope, albeit faint, that his claim about Ranjeet wasn’t completely in vain. The walls of the enclosure were twelve feet high, and shortly after he took the throne, he had ordered them rebuilt and strengthened; they had been wooden before, which had proven not to be sufficiently strong when one of his elephants decided to leave the enclosure, which happened frequently when animals were in musth. Now the wall was made of large mud brick, with a double thickness, but what was even more important now was the wooden scaffolding he had commanded be built in the days before the Romans arrived that served as a makeshift rampart. That he had only done so after Ranjeet had harried him about it was just one more reason that the king wanted his only true friend back at his side, and in order for that to happen, he had to marshal what forces he had left and hold the enclosure until Ranjeet arrived. His palace, which was located directly in the center of the enclosure, wasn’t particularly well fortified, although he had made a few improvements since his reign began, not because he ever thought this moment would come, but because it was a way to provide some of his subjects with work, and besides, it was expected of newly crowned kings to make some sort of changes. Now, as he sat watching the stream of both men and animals passing, he found it difficult to think clearly about what came next. Despite sending Bolon to the southern wall to give Eshan the same orders and bring however many men and elephants he had left, he didn’t hold out much hope that they would arrive before the Romans on the northern side of the city did. It wasn’t a bad assumption on Abhiraka’s part, but it was still erroneous, which he learned by the sudden trumpeting sound of elephants from the south.
“Hurry! Move!” Abhiraka began shouting, then despite the danger in behaving in a precipitous manner with his horse when the surviving animals from the eastern and western walls were so agitated, he guided it through the fleeing men and animals to move to a spot next to the southern gate of the enclosure.
His relief when he saw that the half-dozen elephants from the south weren’t being pursued by the demon Romans only lasted long enough for Bolon to come galloping up, behaving in much the same way Abhiraka had, maneuvering his horse in a weaving path around the lumbering elephants.
“Highness!” Bolon was gasping for breath, his tone urgent. “Eshan is dead, the Romans have already advanced into the city!”
“Where are the rest of Eshan’s men?” Abhiraka forced himself to sound calm, but when Bolon only gave a shake of his head, he couldn’t restrain himself from unleashing a string of oaths that were quite unlike a king. Taking a breath, he finally regained enough control to say tightly, “Very well. This appears to be all the defenders we have left.” Turning his horse, he said over his shoulder, “Come with me. There’s much to do and not much time to do it.”
When he entered the enclosure, the scene was understandably chaotic, but he was relieved to see that both Pranav and Nahapana were present and attempting to get things organized. Now that they were within the safety of the enclosure, the uninjured elephants began to calm down, their handlers using every bit of their skill and bond with their animals to regain control and guide them to their smaller enclosure at the western end. Those elephants who were injured, however, were another story. Some of them had only suffered puncture and slashing wounds, the type of thing that the staff of trained men who were the equivalent of medici but for the prized elephants, could treat. Many of these animals had endured wounds before, and they stood patiently while their handler and the healer ministered to their hurts, but there were a substantial number of elephants who had managed, somehow, to make it back to the enclosure after suffering horrific burns, and it took a huge effort for Abhiraka to pretend that he was unaffected by the sight of these tortured beasts. The sobs of their handlers and the survivors among the men who had ridden on the back of each animal made it difficult, because he understood them and why they shed tears over their huge comrades, because that was what they were to the men of Bharuch. These animals, with only a couple of exceptions, were put down by their handler, but only after being led to a spot where they would be out of the way of the men who would be manning the wall. While it wasn’t with the same level of efficiency as their foe, Abhiraka’s men still managed to organize themselves quickly, with working parties sent to the royal armory for the remaining stocks of javelins, replacement armor and weapons, which was quickly distributed.
Thanks to the fabulous wealth of Bharuch, nothing was in short supply, although when it came to the allocation of funds, Abhiraka had spent most lavishly on his Harem, but he hadn’t stinted on the armament of his two-legged soldiers either. His one regret was in not investing in iron, both in the form of chainmail and cuirasses for more of his men, but it was too late to do anything about it, so it was a passing thought and nothing more. There was a brief crisis when a few hundred citizens had shown up at the northern entrance hoping to be allowed in, some of them thrusting their small children and infants out in front of them, begging the soldiers to at least take them. After Abhiraka ordered that any citizen who got within spear’s reach be cut down and his soldiers obeyed by dispatching two of the bolder men, they disapp
eared, presumably going back to their homes with the hope that, somehow, the demons outside the walls would pass them by and leave them unmolested. It wasn’t that Abhiraka had no compassion, although he did find it difficult to love his subjects in the manner in which a king was expected to, but he knew that offering these people sanctuary would pose an undue strain on the resources and only get in the way. Again, thanks to Ranjeet, there was a significant stockpile of food, and being so close to the river meant that there were several wells within the enclosure, along with a sewage canal, but his commander had calculated the amounts based on supporting half of the garrison and, of course, Abhiraka’s family and those belonging to men of Ranjeet’s rank, and almost without exception, whose wives served as attendants to his queen. Abhiraka divided his time between watching the activity around him and looking north, because that was still where he expected the first sign of the enemy to appear. As the time passed, while he was thankful that it gave his men the time to organize, find a spot on the wood scaffold, and make their own preparations for what was coming, it also increased the tension, not just with Abhiraka, but with the waiting men. Nevertheless, as the moments dragged by and nothing happened, the mystery of why this was so deepened.
Finally, Bolon, who had returned to his king’s side, asked hesitantly, “Highness? What do you think they’re doing?”
Abhiraka could only shake his head, replying grimly, “I have no idea, Bolon. I have no idea.”
Chapter Nine
It began with the 7th. When Mus, thrilled that he and his men had managed to avoid being accosted by rampaging elephants, gave the command to press deeper into the city, instead of obeying, his men began kicking in the doors of the buildings nearest to the wall. Almost immediately, the screams of terrified women, the shouts of their husbands, fathers, and brothers, and the shriller screams of infants and children filled the air, while the rankers steadfastly ignored the bellowed commands of their Centurions and Optios to return to their formation as they ransacked the homes, raped the women, and in some cases, the older children as they indulged themselves in an orgy of rapine, plunder, and destruction. It just happened that the Primus Princeps Posterior was the first to follow men of his Century as they entered one of the buildings, intending to roust them out and get them formed up as Mus was ordering.
“You cunni get your fucking asses out of here and back outside!” He roared this as he laid into the nearest ranker with his vitus.
It was something that had happened innumerable times, not just with the Fourth Century of the First Cohort of the 7th, but with every single Legion in Caesar’s army. This time was different, however, something that Lucius Considius, the Centurion, learned when a member of his Fifth Section, a previously reliable veteran named Servius Terentius turned and ran his sword into Considius’ gut. That had started it, but very quickly, Mus realized that his Legion was out of control, and under the circumstances, he did not just the wise thing, but the only thing that would leave him and the other Centurions and Optios in a condition where they were in a position to reassert control later, after passions had cooled, by seemingly ignoring the murder of Considius. Faster than he or any other Centurion would have believed possible, the rankers were running rampant in the streets, moving from one building to another without any sense of order or restraint, killing anyone who stood in their way, and as the murder of Considius proved, whether they were friend or foe didn’t matter. Very quickly, the civilians in the area recognized what was taking place and broke from their hiding places, intent on saving themselves and their families, although most of them were cut down before they had gone more than a handful of steps. Most commonly, the Legionaries worked by sections, with each taking a particular house, and on this night, it was the same, with the exception that there was no sense of order, and no attempt at organizing matters in the normal manner of the Legions. More quickly than Mus would have believed possible, he lost control of his Legion; the only thing that saved him from an ignominious fate at Caesar’s command was that, on the opposite side of the city, at roughly the same time, the men of the 28th were behaving in a similar fashion. Even the 3rd went on a similar rampage, as Spurius and his Centurions attempted, in vain, to rein the men in, and like Mus, he was forced to make a hard choice.
“We’re owed this, Primus Pilus,” Gnaeus Palma, a Gregarius Spurius considered one of the steadiest, most reliable man not just in his Century or Cohort but the entire Legion, told him when, more out of desperation than any real hope, Spurius had called him aside, intending to persuade Palma to use his influence with his comrades to return under the standard. “Caesar promised us that this city was ours. And,” he said with a quiet intensity that was more instructive than the words themselves, “we’re taking what we’re owed. That’s all.”
Then, Palma had turned and trotted away from Spurius, something that, under other circumstances the Centurion knew the ranker would never consider, but on this night, it was just one of many signs that told every man wearing a transverse crest that this would be unlike any other. The fires started not much longer after the looting began, when a man from Mus’ Legion, who was known among his comrades for his fondness of seeing things burn, decided the best way to mark a building as being cleared was by setting fire to it. This, strictly speaking, was not that uncommon, but Caesar had taken great pains to try and institute a strict policy against such habits, which was part of the reason the Gregarius acted as he did. All of the resentment, the anger, and the sense that they would never see home again fueled the events following the taking of Bharuch’s walls, as men expressed themselves in a manner that, while difficult to punish, spoke eloquently about their discontent. House by house, block by block, without any real direction or even a sense of purpose other than indulging their darkest whims, the men of Caesar’s army left a path of destruction behind them as they made their way deeper into the city. Bargosa, as they thought of it, was proving to be every bit as wealthy as Caesar and their officers had said, where even modest merchants lived well, and the men of the Legions wasted no time in establishing this as fact by ripping out the walls, prying up floorboards, and searching through every nook, cranny, and possible hiding spot.
“One thing I’ll say,” as one of the men of the 28th put it to his comrades, “these savages don’t know how to hide their valuables any better than the Gauls, or the Parthians, for that matter.”
This immediately engendered an argument with one of his comrades, who was insistent that the Parthians were much more cunning in the hiding of their wealth than any of the Gallic tribes. Normally, this would have resulted in nothing more than a squabble that, at worst, would have caused a fistfight that would be broken up once the other men involved got bored of the spectacle, or more commonly, a Centurion or Optio intervened. However, besides armored elephants, one of the things that Bharuch yielded was a large quantity of a fermented beverage that proved to be far more intoxicating, and quicker acting, than anything the men of Caesar’s army had encountered. More potent than even mead, which the veterans of Gaul had encountered their very first year in what was now a Roman province, this was a contributing factor in what the Gregarius whose opinion was contested did next, drawing his pugio and stabbing his comrade in the thigh. It wasn’t a killing, or even a crippling blow, just a painful one, yet even as the stricken man was falling to the paved street, his close comrade leapt to his defense, upping the ante in a manner of speaking by drawing his sword. The blow he administered to the Gregarius, who was still holding his own pugio, was with the flat of his sword, but flush across the face, breaking the man’s nose and shattering his front teeth. Within a span of a handful of heartbeats, the entire section was brawling out in the street, but while even this wasn’t uncommon, particularly when intoxicants were involved, the fact that not one man wearing a transverse crest or the white stripe of an Optio even attempted to intervene was unheard of, but just as with Mus and his travails with the 7th, these officers were far from alone in their inaction. While Ab
hiraka and the remnants of his force waited in growing bewilderment, the men of Caesar’s army were more interested in venting their rage and frustration, which meant they moved at a leisurely place from one block to the next, grabbing everything of even the slightest value, raping every female they found, regardless of age, slaughtering any of their male relations who attempted to intervene, and savagely beating those who didn’t but were unfortunate enough to be caught. Just like Pullus, albeit for different reasons, the Primi Pili of the three other Legions forgot all about the wager, their concerns more immediate than the possible gain or loss of a thousand sesterces.
Pullus and his Centurions quickly learned that the 10th wasn’t immune to whatever madness was gripping Caesar’s army, but, although it wasn’t much solace, their behavior was affected only after their contact with the men of the other Legions. That it began with Cyclops’ Eighth Cohort was only because they happened to run into some of their comrades in the 28th who were weaving down the street that intersected with the one that Cyclops had sent his First Section to scout.
Mardonius, one of the Parthians who had been part of the very first dilectus conducted of native Parthians the winter after the first year of the campaign, noticed the movement first, nudging his close comrade Pacuvius and whispering, “Do you see that?”
Pacuvius spun about, his shield up, but then one of the approaching men stumbled, muttering an oath in Latin, and the older veteran grinned at Mardonius, “I don’t think any of these fucking savages know the word cunnus, do you?”