by R. W. Peake
The Legionary walked directly into Toes then, with a squawk of surprise and dropping the bag, the man staggered back even more than was normally warranted as he snarled, “Watch where the fuck you’re going, you cunnus, or…”
“Or what?” Caesar’s tone was icy, but at this point, he was inclined to amusement, assuming that this would end humorously.
However, while the Gregarius clearly recognized his general, he made no move to come to intente, let alone attempt an apology. Instead, he stared up sullenly at Caesar, the hostility so obvious that, without thinking, Caesar’s hand dropped to his sword.
Despite feeling a stab of unease, he was also angry, so he repeated, “Or what, Gregarius? What is it that you’d think you’d do?” The Gregarius did break his stare at Caesar but refused to say anything, and now, Caesar was truly enraged. “Stand to intente when your general addresses you, Gregarius!”
Unsurprisingly, this arrested the attention of everyone within earshot, but Caesar was so angry that he was barely aware that men were walking slowly towards the pair, his attention riveted to the Gregarius, who at least looked not quite so certain his actions were the right course to take.
With a slowness that was unmistakable, the Legionary drew himself up to the kind of intente that tiros performed their first day of training, but instead of answering Caesar directly, he said sullenly, “We’re tired of this and we want to go home like you promised.”
“I promised?” Caesar’s tone was one of puzzlement, albeit contrived, and he shook his head as he asked, “When did I promise that, Gregarius?”
“We were supposed to punish the fucking Parthians, get our standards back, and go home!”
This was the moment Caesar realized that he might be in actual danger, because this new voice came from his opposite side, and when he turned to address the man, he saw that, whether by design or accident, he was almost completely surrounded now by his men, although what he was seeing in their faces was something he had last seen at Pharsalus, men whose anger overrode their sense of loyalty, not just to Rome, but more importantly, to him.
Caesar wasn’t the only one who spotted this, because the sound of hooves moving at a rapid trot temporarily arrested the attention of everyone, including Caesar, who twisted in his saddle just in time to see both Gundomir and Teispes sliding off their mounts with the kind of ease that only came from a lifetime on horseback. By the time their feet hit the paving stones, both men had their swords in their hands, and while nothing was said between them, Teispes stepped around Toes to place himself on Caesar’s left, while Gundomir headed directly for the now-terrified Gregarius, the German making a guttural growl as he did so.
“Give me the order, please, Caesar,” Gundomir’s anger might have been feigned, but Caesar didn’t think so, “and I will leave this traitorous dog’s guts in a pile in front of him!”
“Don’t you fucking touch him, you stinking German!”
This came from one of the men standing directly in front of Caesar, who was drawing his own blade as he spoke; suddenly, the situation became incredibly dangerous, and Caesar knew it.
Nevertheless, he refused to show any sign of fear, or even concern, no matter how angry these men were, and his tone reflected that as he said quietly, “That will be quite all right, Gundomir. I appreciate your concern about this sign of disobedience….and disrespect to me,” as he hoped, it was the second word that had the most impact, the men suddenly shifting and looking uneasily at each other, “but I have nothing to fear from these men. My men.” At this, he turned to look directly at not the offending Gregarius, but his comrade who, while his sword was still unsheathed, was dangling by his side, and he asked him quietly, “Do I?”
The Gregarius, who had been obviously inebriated, suddenly appeared to be sober.
Taking a deep breath, he raised his sword with an exaggeratedly careful air, sliding it back into his sheath, shaking his head as he answered, “No, Caesar. You have nothing to fear from us.”
Gundomir was clearly unconvinced; more than that, Caesar sensed that the German was truly angry. This caused him to glance at Teispes, but the Parthian’s face was impassive, his massive bulk that was almost a match to Pullus seemingly relaxed but ready for whatever came.
Returning his attention back to the man who started it all, Caesar regarded him for a moment, then said, “I offer my apologies to you, Gregarius. I should have watched where I was going.” He paused, then asked, in a tone that those who knew him well, like Pullus, would have recognized as Caesar at his most dangerous, “Do you accept my apology?”
At first, the Gregarius seemed as if he was about to refuse, his expression still sullen, and he opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the Gregarius who had sheathed his sword spoke up, “He does, Caesar.” Then, he looked at the first man, and asked meaningfully, “Don’t you, Trigeminus? You accept our general’s apology.”
Nodding, the Gregarius couldn’t bring himself to look at Caesar, choosing to stare down in the vicinity of Toes’ front hooves as he said tonelessly, “Yes, Corbulo. I do accept Caesar’s apology.”
Gundomir turned to stare angrily up at Caesar, asking disbelievingly, “Surely you’re not going to let this…”
“Enough, Gundomir,” Caesar didn’t yell; in fact, he was using the same tone he had used with the first Gregarius.
The German not only understood what this meant—he had been responsible for the things that had happened when Caesar spoke of a man in this manner—so it was understandable that he blanched a little as he gave Caesar a nod, then abruptly turned and returned to his horse. When Teispes looked up inquiringly at Caesar, he gave the Parthian a nod, whereupon he turned and followed his German counterpart.
With the tension reduced, Caesar turned to Corbulo to ask, “Corbulo, do you know where Primus Pilus Spurius is located?”
Corbulo answered readily enough, and his demeanor was honest when he said, “Truly, Caesar, I’m not sure. We,” he indicated the men around him, “are from the Fifth Cohort. The last I saw the Primus Pilus, he was taking his Cohort over in that direction,” Corbulo pointed northeast, then finished with a shrug, “but that was a while ago.”
It took some effort on Caesar’s part not to snap at the man, hating imprecision of the type Corbulo was demonstrating, but despite knowing this was calculated insolence, he understood this was neither time nor place. But, he thought grimly, don’t think I’m going to forget you, Corbulo, and you, Trigeminus.
Outwardly, he nodded his head in thanks, but if he thought the moment was over, he learned differently when one of the other men standing on Caesar’s left reached out and grabbed Toes’ bridle as he demanded, “Wait! You haven’t told us when we’re going home yet!”
What happened next occurred so quickly that, even if Caesar had been forewarned, it was unlikely that he could have stopped it, as from his left rear quarter, he sensed movement, then felt Toes shoved aside by another horse. Teispes’ sword was swinging downward before Caesar could even open his mouth, but while he was shielded from clearly seeing what happened, what he could see was the result, in the form of an arm, severed at mid-forearm landing on the paving stones of the streets, almost directly underneath his horse.
There was a sudden silence, save for the continued moaning of women who had either been raped or were in the process of it when Caesar had appeared, but it didn’t last long, and Caesar had to bellow, “Teispes! Lead us out of here!”
The Parthian didn’t hesitate, spurring his horse into a motion that knocked the stricken ranker aside, still holding the spurting stump of his arm and staring at it dumbly, while scattering the men who were blocking the path to safety. This action more than anything roused the men, who began shouting angrily, Corbulo drawing his sword again and bellowing with rage, yet despite his anger, he could have easily struck a blow at Caesar, who had kicked Toes into a leaping bound to follow Teispes, going past him well within reach of his sword, but he didn’t. Gundomir was right behind Cae
sar, his sword back out as well, but it was the rest of the men with Caesar who faced the greatest danger as the enraged rankers shouted imprecations at their general, bodyguards, and anyone associated with him. Fortunately, like with Caesar, none of the rankers used their weapons, which would have been easy for them to do, and perhaps would have made matters irreparable moving forward. That didn’t mean the rest of Caesar’s party escaped unscathed; it was Rufus’ misfortune to be struck by what was later assumed to be at least a piece of a paving stone, and while his helmet protected his head from real damage, it left a sizeable dent in his helmet, and him with a substantial headache.
Reaching the corner, Caesar followed Teispes around it, but they immediately encountered a scene almost identical to the one they had just left, which forced the Parthian to draw up, enabling Caesar to draw alongside him to demand angrily, “What did you do that for, Teispes?”
The Parthian looked mildly startled, and his puzzlement seemed genuine when he answered, “I was protecting you, Caesar.”
“From my own men?” Caesar’s words bounced off the walls of the buildings lining the street, which in turn drew the attention of the Romans around them who had been indulging in the same sort of thing as the first party, and he lowered his voice accordingly, “They wouldn’t have hurt me, Teispes!”
Teispes regarded Caesar steadily, but it was Gundomir, drawing up on Caesar’s right side and had heard everything who said quietly, “They aren’t your men, Caesar. Not right now.” When Caesar turned to stare at the German, Gundomir insisted, “Teispes did the right thing, Caesar. Right now,” he lowered his voice even more, almost to a whisper, “they’re as dangerous to you as they are to these Bargosans or these Bargosan bastards are to you.”
Caesar heard the commotion behind him, dimly recognizing that it was the rest of his party rounding the corner, but his attention was focused on Gundomir, and as he studied the German’s face, he experienced a clenching sensation in his stomach that told him the German was right.
Taking a breath, Caesar said, “We need to find Spurius first. Then I need to get an idea whether this is just the 3rd, or this is the entire army.” Turning to Teispes, he said softly, “Thank you, Teispes. But,” his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a grin, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t chop any more arms off on my behalf.”
The Parthian, without a flicker of a change in his demeanor, said, “I will try my best, Caesar, but I cannot guarantee anything.”
The party resumed, but this time, none of them made any attempt to intervene or even question the Legionaries surrounding them who, even more strangely, seemed to have reached a common decision to ignore the presence of the commanding general of the army as they flagrantly disobeyed his orders, while Caesar was left trying to determine whether Teispes was joking or not. Meanwhile, the sacking of Bharuch had begun in earnest, and the one thing that Caesar recognized very quickly was that he was powerless to stop it.
Barhinder’s first conscious thought was, after noticing and identifying the foul odor that seemed to envelop him, that he had soiled himself. His head ached abominably, but when, in a reflex action, he tried to reach up with his left hand and touch the spot where it throbbed, he was unable to do so because his body pinned his arm to the ground. More than the smell, this feeling brought him to his senses, at least partially, and he was almost overwhelmed with a sense of panic. Somehow, he never really understood how he managed it, he forced the feeling down so that he could try to recall what had occurred that might have led him to find himself trapped under what he now realized were the bodies of other men. While the smell of feces was the strongest, and in fact threatened to cause him to retch, he became aware of another odor, a coppery smell that, because he had been introduced to it so recently, he knew signaled the presence of blood in large quantities. This led him to use his eyes, or eye, in an attempt to get a better idea of his situation since his left eye seemed to be gummed shut. Naturally, it was dark, even more so because of what he now understood were the bodies of other men, which he seemed to be underneath, since the left side of his face was pressed against the dirt. Nevertheless, he could dimly make out the outline of the appendages and torsos of other men who were responsible for keeping him pinned.
Very slowly, over the span of a couple dozen heartbeats, Barhinder began to remember things; the giant Roman demon who he first glimpsed rushing up to the parapet, killing…who had it been? He couldn’t remember that much, but as the pieces came back to him, he was forced to relive the series of events that he could remember; charging the giant after he had slain and maimed enough of his comrades to step over the wooden parapet as if it were nothing more than a low fence, then being sent sailing backwards after essentially being swatted away by the demon as if he was a fly. Whereupon Agathocles, his best friend, had tried to protect him, and a huge lump of what felt like lead threatened to close Barhinder’s throat as the memory came rushing back, and despite himself, he couldn’t shove the image from his mind of how contemptuously the Roman had dispatched his friend. More than the memory of Agathocles dropping to his knees, and his vain last attempt to staunch the blood pouring from the wound in his throat, it was the expression on the demon’s face that was etched into Barhinder’s memory, the eyes that seemed to burning from the fires of the evil that certainly had to consume this demon’s soul, an expression that didn’t convey a sense of hatred, or even rage as much as something that was completely void of pity, remorse, or any remotely human emotion. It’s as if, the thought suddenly formed in Barhinder’s mind, he was just a butcher, doing his job of slaughtering pigs. Following hard on the heels of this came another one that, quite oddly to the youth, filled him with, if not peace, then at least an acceptance. If these Romans are all like the giant demon, he thought, then I do not want to be part of this world anymore, because the one and only certainty Barhinder Gotra held within himself was this; these Romans couldn’t be defeated.
And, as his senses had extended outward from his malodorous, uncomfortable cocoon, he had subconsciously recognized that the fighting was over, because the only sounds he could hear were the indistinct sounds of men talking in a tongue he couldn’t understand, then punctuated by an occasional laugh, or shout in a tone that was jocular in nature, and not filled with fear and hatred. The consequence of all this was that Barhinder suddenly stopped struggling and straining to work himself free as he decided that it was time to accept his fate. With some difficulty, he took a deep breath, then began intoning what his people called the Mahamrityunjaya mantra, a ritual chant that prepared one’s soul for the death of his fleshly body. He began in a whisper, but as he repeated the words, over and over, Barhinder was dimly aware that, somewhat oddly, he felt the almost overwhelming pressure that had been crushing him begin to ease. Since he had closed his eyes, he was relying only on his other senses, but it was the sound of his own voice in his ears that he heard, and therefore was completely unaware of the shout of alarm that was raised. Over and over, Barhinder repeated the sacred mantra, offering himself up to the oblivion, his mind and inner eye playing the moments of his life, as short as it had been; sitting at the table with his parents, Sagara, and his three sisters, and he wondered how his brother fared, if he was still alive and where he was, having marched with his comrades in the phalanx out to fight the demons who had been marching overland. As he relived these moments of happiness, the sensation of lightness he was feeling increased, becoming so intense that, for the briefest instant, Barhinder was certain that he could feel himself, his true self leaving the fleshly prison of his body, and for the first time in his life, he felt completely at peace. For the rest of his days, Barhinder would remember that moment, ruefully recalling the manner in which he learned that that lightness of his being he was experiencing was purely physical in nature, and how he was brought back to the world in the form of a slap to his face.
Gasping in shock, Barhinder opened his eyes, and the fact that he had been rolled over onto his back, which meant that
the bodies that had been piled on top of him had been removed, barely registered because of the sight of a face of what was certainly a man filled his vision. Blinking rapidly, Barhinder was finally able to reach up and wipe the crust of blood that had gummed his left eye shut, although it still took a moment for his vision to focus. What they focused on was a face and head, which was attached to a neck, attached to a body, of a man with hair as black as Barhinder’s own, but with the shade of skin that was similar to Agathocles and some of the other lighter skinned citizens of Bharuch. More importantly, however, the man, who was older than Barhinder, was looking down at him without the burning flames he had seen in the demon giant; if anything, Barhinder thought numbly, he looks amused. Then, the man spoke, but while Barhinder didn’t understand all of it, he knew just enough Greek to recognize that, not only was that the tongue in which the man was speaking, none of the words that Barhinder did understand indicated that this man intended him harm. This was the moment that Barhinder realized that he wasn’t going to die, at least not at this particular moment, but it was the intense wave of disappointment he felt that would confuse him for some time. I suppose, he thought miserably, this means I’m a prisoner.
With the bulk of the 10th now moving inside the city, the medici and stretcher bearers were essentially the only Roman presence left along the dirt rampart and canal. Now that they had performed their primary and most pressing duty, treating the Roman wounded, they began the next phase of their duties, and that was dragging the enemy dead into one large pile, where the corpses would wait until Caesar, or the Primus Pilus, decided the best manner in which they would be disposed. Not surprisingly, this was the least popular duty these men had, although it was also one of the relatively few times that they had to enrich themselves. Sometimes, the way that a battle unfolded meant that the Legionaries wouldn’t have time to search the bodies of their slain enemies, and while it didn’t happen that often, it did happen. This, more than anything else, helped to instill, if not enthusiasm, at least enough optimistic hope to gird the men against the unpleasantness of moving bodies that had died a violent death from one spot to another. Because of his status as not only the slave of the Primus Pilus of the Legion, but as chief clerk, Diocles could have easily delegated this task to others. That he chose not to do so, nor did he ever take advantage of his position to remind the small army of slaves and freedmen who supported the Legions of Rome who he served, was just one reason Diocles was one of the most popular of his class in the army. His devotion to Pullus, which began more than seven years earlier, when the then-Pilus Prior snatched him from the pens holding the captured slaves of Pompeius’ army after Pharsalus, was well-known by this point; what was less well-known was that the relationship between Pullus and Diocles transcended that of master and slave, but it was one reason why Diocles was now on the dirt rampart, grabbing the legs of dead Bargosan, while one of the section slaves from the First of the First reached under the arms of the body. With a practiced motion, the pair swung the body back and forth, then released it to go sailing in the air off of the rampart, then an instant later, it hit the ground below with a meaty thud that wasn’t unlike the sound made when a butcher dropped a side of beef on his slab. This body was the last of its pile, and now there was just one left, down the rampart where Diocles knew his master and the First had ascended the modified ladders.