Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “No.” Mardonius laughed, but as a precaution, he alerted the other men of the section who had continued moving down the street.

  “Salve, brothers!” Pacuvius called out, causing the other Romans to stop suddenly, but in doing so, one of the men trailing behind the leaders ran into the back of a comrade ahead of him, then went reeling backward and making the exaggerated motions of a drunken man trying to maintain their balance.

  Not surprisingly given his condition, he landed on his ass, hard, which caused his comrades to roar with laughter, which Mardonius thought was a somewhat unusual sound, given what was taking place.

  As one of his comrades helped him up, another man came staggering up to Mardonius and Pacuvius, getting close enough for the Parthian to smell his breath as he replied, “And salve to you, brother!” He suddenly stopped, his eyes narrowing as he turned his attention to Mardonius, and he braced himself, suspecting what was coming as the ranker demanded, “Who are you boys with? And,” he indicated Mardonius with the hand holding what looked like a jug made of some sort of gourd, “who is this dark-skinned goat fucker?”

  “We’re Equestrians, and this is my fucking mate, so you need to mind your manners.” Pacuvius’ tone immediately turned angry, and Mardonius braced himself for a confrontation, but the man from the 28th held up his other hand, making a placating gesture that made the liquid in the jug slosh.

  “No offense, brother! No offense!” He turned back to Mardonius and thrust out the jug, saying, “Here, never let it be said that Aulus Vitellius doesn’t share with comrades! Have a swig of that…?”

  “Mardonius,” the Parthian answered, recognizing by the tone that Vitellius was asking for his name, but while he didn’t particularly care for wine, he also understood that it would be politic for him to accept, so he reached out and took a swig without sniffing it first, not wanting to give any further offense by seeming to be picky about the gift.

  His immediate thought was that he should have done so, as for an instant, he felt certain that whatever this Vitellius had offered him somehow ignited a fire in his mouth and throat, and he thrust the jug back at the other man, coughing violently.

  Rather than be offended, Vitellius laughed with delight, exclaiming, “It does have a kick, doesn’t it?”

  Mardonius could only nod, still coughing, but now Pacuvius, whose appetite for strong drink was inversely proportional to his Parthian comrade’s, eagerly extended a hand, and Vitellius frowned as he stared down at it for a moment, then with a shrug, shoved it into Pacuvius’ hand. While his reaction was similar to Mardonius’, it was only for the first swallow; by the time he had taken three, he had clearly become accustomed to the strong quality, and exhausted Vitellius’ hospitality, who snatched the jug back.

  “Where did you get that?” Pacuvius asked, and Vitellius gave a vague wave down the street behind him, not saying anything because he was busy draining the jug.

  Mardonius was more interested in something else, glancing over his shoulder to see that the rest of his section was just reaching them, then turned back and asked, “What are you supposed to be doing right now?”

  Vitellius belched before he answered, “Fucked if I know.” He laughed then turned to his comrades, who Mardonius had noticed each had a jug of their own. “Lads, any of you know what the fuck we’re supposed to be doing?”

  “Whatever the fuck we want, that’s what!”

  This came from the man Mardonius had seen fall, and he was clearly more inebriated than his comrades, but his tone was one of a sullen belligerence that made the Parthian slightly nervous, although he discerned it wasn’t aimed at them.

  Fortunately, it was one of the new arrivals, named Gnaeus Fibulanus, who also happened to be the Sergeant of the First Section, who demanded, “What does that mean?”

  There was a hesitation, as the men of the 28th seemed unwilling to answer, looking to each other before the man who uttered the defiant words muttered, “It means that we’re done taking orders, that’s what!”

  Not surprisingly, this caused quite a stir, but before anything more could be said, a new voice sounded, shouting, “Oy! What are you all doing standing around?”

  While the men of the section all turned to see a figure approaching wearing a transverse crest, the men from the 28th immediately spun about and moved at a staggering run, back in the direction from which they had come, leaving Mardonius and his section to stand guiltily, waiting for Cyclops to arrive.

  Fortunately, he was more concerned with the sight of the other men fleeing, and he asked Fibulanus, “Who the fuck was that?”

  “Men from the 28th, Pilus Prior,” Fibulanus answered, but then he turned and pointed to Mardonius, saying, “He and Pacuvius ran into them first.”

  Cyclops turned his good eye to Mardonius, regarding him narrowly as he demanded, “What were they doing, Mardonius? Why are they all the way over here?”

  “I…I’m not sure, Pilus Prior,” Mardonius answered honestly, then decided to rely on the ranker’s best weapon for awkward moments, falling silent.

  Cyclops, being the oldest Centurion in the Equestrians and one of the oldest in Caesar’s army, was familiar with every trick in the rankers’ book; he also knew when it was fruitless to try and pursue a matter, so he merely sighed and said, “Follow me.”

  Naturally, his men obeyed as Cyclops began walking down the street behind the fleeing men of the 28th, following behind them for two blocks before they suddenly darted down an intersecting street. Fortunately, for Cyclops, his men, and the army in general, the Centurion stopped suddenly before turning the corner, alerted by the sounds of some sort of disturbance. As experienced as he was, he knew that, while certainly loud, it didn’t have the angry, desperate quality that indicated a battle, being more raucous in nature.

  “Wait here,” he ordered as he walked up to the edge of the building at the corner, slowly leaned out so he could see around the corner…then froze in place.

  From where he was standing, Mardonius could see the dancing light of flames reflected on the side of the building on the opposite side of the street, but it took Fibulanus to get them moving, slowly, to a spot just behind Cyclops.

  When the Centurion had seen enough and straightened up, he started at the sound of his men approaching, growling, “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  “What’s happening, Pilus Prior?” Fibulanus asked, but the look on Cyclops’ weathered features weren’t very helpful; to Mardonius, he looked baffled, an expression he certainly had never seen from his Centurion before.

  “See for yourself,” Cyclops answered with a shrug, stepping aside, yet another sign of his distraction.

  One by one, the men peered around the corner, and when it was Mardonius’ turn, he mimicked his comrades, approaching the corner and slowly leaning out until he could see fully. Down the street, someone had dragged what Mardonius assumed was furniture from the buildings on either side of the street, making a makeshift pyre similar to the ones that were only beginning to die down outside the walls. Actually, this wasn’t all that unusual, especially during an operation at night, but what was highly unusual was the sight of at least fifty Legionaries, some of them naked and others only in their tunics, their armor and weapons piled atop their shields, which Mardonius saw scattered around, capering about the fire, while on the street around the fire and scattered near the piles of Roman equipment were supine bodies. Most of them, Mardonius could see, were dead or dying, the blood around their bodies pooling and catching the reflection of the flames. Not all of them were in this state, however; in fact, there were several pairs of bodies, one atop the other, but it was the motion of whoever was on top that told Mardonius what was happening, even more than the cries and shouts of the reveling Legionaries.

  When he pulled back, he walked to where the others were standing in a circle around Cyclops, and before he had any conscious thought to do so, Mardonius blurted, “Why are they doing this? Did the city fall?”

  Cyclops rubb
ed his face, trying to think, because it was a valid question and one that he was asking himself, which was why he answered honestly, “The gods only know, Mardonius. I know I haven’t heard the cornu call.” He looked at each of them as he asked, “Have any of you?” When they all shook their heads, Cyclops mouthed a curse, then pointed at Mardonius, ordering, “Go find the Primus Pilus. He’s over with the Sixth somewhere. Tell him that I need him to come here because I have no fucking idea what’s going on, but what I do know is that I don’t like it.” Mardonius, cursing himself for opening his mouth, nonetheless saluted and turned to go before Cyclops stopped him. Pointing to Pacuvius, he said, “Go with him, Pacuvius. This dark bastard is liable to be mistaken for one of these Bargosans and get himself stuck.”

  While that had only been a partial concern for Mardonius, it was a worry, so he was happy to have company. Until, at least, Pacuvius took a couple of steps then collapsed in a heap. Initially, Mardonius was alarmed, worried that Pacuvius had been stricken by some mysterious ailment, but then when he bent down, he heard his comrade snoring softly.

  “Pluto’s cock!” Cyclops exclaimed, too astonished to be angry. “Is he drunk?”

  “I…I think he may be, Pilus Prior,” Mardonius answered, torn between being honest to his Centurion and lying to protect the first Roman who ever treated him as something more than just a dirty barbarian who might slit Roman throats as they slept.

  Mardonius was partially relieved when Cyclops seemed more bemused than angry, but he shook his head, then pointed to Fibulanus, saying, “You go with Mardonius instead of this idiot.”

  Mardonius was only too happy to leave Pacuvius to the ministration of their Centurion, and Fibulanus seemed of a like mind. Moving at a trot, they went to find Pullus, both of them wondering what was happening.

  Caesar had been expecting the signal from Spurius on the southern wall for more than a third of a watch, so when it didn’t come, he turned to Asprenas, who had returned to the quinquereme, and sent him to order the navarch to row to the wharf. The flickering glow created by the pyres had been replaced by the slightly less brilliant light provided by the elephants who had been doused with naphtha and set alight. Even when they were still two furlongs away, Caesar smelled the odor of cooking meat, and like his men, he was both repelled by it and found himself thinking of a nice haunch of roasted pork.

  In fact, it prompted him to say to Apollodorus, “I wonder what elephant tastes like.”

  This made his secretary shudder, Caesar laughing at the reaction, but his humor quickly vanished as the ship drew close enough to the wharf for him to survey some of the damage to the ships that had carried the 3rd ashore. Spread out along the stone wharf were the Roman dead and wounded, the latter made evident by the presence of medici, and Caesar could see them working by torchlight on his men with their usual brisk efficiency. It took longer than Caesar would have liked to find a spot close enough to allow him, and the members of his staff, to leap down onto one of the docks that jutted out into the river from the wharf, but at last his navarch managed to maneuver the ship into position. Caesar wasted no time, as usual, but as he waited for Toes to be unloaded, along with the mounts for Gundorix, Teispes, and the other men who would be accompanying him, he took a moment to walk among the wounded. It was as he was doing this that Caesar got his first hint that this battle wasn’t like any of his previous ones, because none of the men seemed cheered by his presence. Usually, even wounded rankers made it a point to at least try to sit up, while many of them at least attempted to salute and always exchanged cheerful greetings with their general. None of this was evident as Caesar walked down the wharf, and it quickly became painfully awkward because, while these men didn’t want to insult their general, neither were they eager to behave in their normal fashion. Some of them, in fact, actually turned away from Caesar as he attempted to speak to them, rolling over away from him in a silent but unmistakable rebuke. Which, it must be said, was acutely embarrassing for this general who had always prided himself on his bond with the men who marched for him, and he correctly interpreted it as a potent sign of their discontent. Consequently, he made no issue of their treatment of him, although he beat a hasty retreat, relieved beyond measure to see Toes being led down the gangplank, saddled and ready. Naturally, the general’s horse was the first unloaded, so Caesar was forced to wait for the others, visibly chafing at the delay although he didn’t voice his normal impatience, another sign of his recognition that things weren’t normal. The southern gates were open, but there weren’t any men visible standing in the gateway, something that Caesar usually expected. Leading their horses past the wounded, Caesar mounted Toes and went immediately to the trot, forging a weaving path around the debris of battle, which now that his own dead and wounded had been removed, consisted almost exclusively of smoking corpses of dead elephants, their crew and handlers, and the other detritus that was a sign of a hard fight.

  “Caesar, when are we going home?”

  Caesar heard this, this call unleashing a torrent of similar shouted queries and demands, but made no sign that he had, his back straight and head erect, looking directly ahead as he ignored what he knew was the crux of the issue between himself and his army, one that he wasn’t ready to confront. Only Gundomir and Teispes rode in front of Caesar, while the rest of his staff and bodyguards rode behind him, their horses made nervous by the strange smells, a feeling their riders shared. Entering the city, Caesar paused, drawing up after he moved along the wall to the first street leading south into the city. There were bodies, certainly, but not nearly as many as Caesar expected, so he called to Gundomir.

  “Go up those stairs to the rampart and tell me what you see,” Caesar ordered the German, who swung off his horse and went trotting towards the stone staircase adjacent to the gateway.

  As he waited for Gundomir, Caesar sat and listened, immediately discerning that, while there was a fair amount of noise, not only was it several blocks removed, what he was hearing was definitely not fighting. Shrill feminine shrieks drifted through the night air, and Caesar suddenly realized he smelled smoke, not that of the smoldering animals outside the walls, but that made by wood and other materials. Urging Toes forward, he moved along the northern wall to the next street heading south, and he immediately saw the flames roiling out of the ground floor window of a building about midway down the block. This was bad enough; Caesar abhorred using fire as a weapon when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and while he knew there were rankers who indulged this predilection, he always strived to stop them whenever he had the chance. What was worse, by far, was the sight of men, his men, emerging from the buildings on both sides of the street, just on the other side of the burning house, some of them carrying or dragging women out from their refuge, while others bore sacks that normally held grain over their back, bulging with the contents of each household.

  “They’re not supposed to be doing this now.” Caesar said this to himself, but when he heard a cough behind him, he whirled in the saddle to see Teispes, his one good eye regarding him with what, if Caesar was to judge, was a certain amount of pity, and it prompted him to snap, “What? Why are you looking at me like that, Teispes?”

  The Parthian, who had learned his Latin during his time as the commander of the Crassoi, still felt awkward using it, although this was due more to the fact that he was uncomfortable speaking at all, but he had transferred his allegiance totally to Caesar, so he only hesitated slightly before answering, “Caesar, I think the men may have decided they have done enough fighting and they just want to enjoy themselves now.”

  Despite the words ringing true, Caesar felt compelled to snap, “But I haven’t given any order for them to do so.”

  Rather than respond verbally, the Parthian lifted one shoulder in a shrug, and ironically, this was more eloquent than anything Teispes could have said, prompting Caesar to turn back and gaze at the scene before him. I, he thought with a combination of alarm and sadness, have lost control of this army.

/>   Gundomir returned to Caesar, reporting, “There are bodies on the rampart, Caesar, most of them these Bargosans, but there are a fair number of our men, all dead. And,” he paused, “I am not certain, but it appears that there are no more than three hundred bodies belonging to the enemy.”

  Caesar considered for a moment, taking the time to examine the shapeless lumps of bodies that littered the street, trying to determine whether they were civilians or more of the enemy fighting men. From what he could see, it seemed to be evenly divided, and he was pleased that none of those he could see belonged to the 3rd, although he also recognized they might have already been removed to the wharf, and it was with a certain level of caution that he urged Toes down the street, intent on finding Spurius and learning how dire the situation was with the 3rd. It was a curious and extremely unpleasant sensation that Caesar was experiencing, where he was in two places at once; his physical body and much of his attention was here on this street in Bargosa, but he couldn’t fight the feeling that, somehow, his mind had rent itself into two pieces and one of them was back on the plains of hot, dry, and dusty Pharsalus, a stark contrast to the muggy heat that felt as if he was being wrapped in a uncomfortably warm, wet blanket. Where it was similar, and therefore most disturbing, was a sensation that was almost physical, where he could feel his control over the men of his Legions, who he had always held in his grasp with an ease that made other Romans of his class jealous, was slipping away. He was almost even with the burning house, although it wasn’t fully involved yet, but the heat forced him to lead Toes to the opposite side of the street, which was the cause for what happened next. The Legionary emerging from the building that, while different in design from anything Caesar had seen before, clearly was the private residence of someone of substantial means, was too busy examining the contents of the sack holding what he had just snatched from the place he was coming out of to pay attention to the horse blocking the doorway. Normally, this would have been an event that would make its way around the fires, starting with the 3rd then rapidly spreading to the others, then live on as a way to pass the watches on the march, and it would always incite laughter. Not on this night, however.