Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  Inevitably, the long night ended, the sun rising on a scene of carnage that, while similar in some ways to that of the twin cities of Ctesiphon and Seleucia when the Romans had first been introduced to the horrible, and effective, weapon of naphtha, in the form of charred corpses strewn about, was also vastly different. Steam was rising from the moisture accrued during the humid night, although this was something to which the Romans had become, if not accustomed, at least accepted as normal, but it was the mounds of what, from a distance, could have passed for large piles of dirt, but were actually charred flesh and bone of the pride of the Bargosan king, and his people, that was strikingly different. Standing together, Torquatus and Flaminius were supervising the last tasks that were an inevitable part of the aftermath of battle when one marched for Caesar, watching as men dragged enemy corpses into a pile, while the medici and stretcher bearers hurried about their work, the Roman dead and wounded already divided into two groups.

  “Do you think Caesar is going to be angry that we didn’t pursue them?” Flaminius asked, which forced Torquatus to bite the inside of his lip to avoid making a sharp retort because this was at least the third time Flaminius had posed this question, but he understood it was due more to fatigue than anything, so he answered patiently, as he had before, “He ordered us to block any of those Bargosan bastards from making mischief with Pullus and the 10th or trying to reinforce the garrison, and that’s what we did. As far as going after them,” he finished with a shrug that was more fatalistic than hopeful, “as long as we both stick to the fact that he wasn’t clear on what we were supposed to do, we’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” Flaminius sighed. Then, more as a distraction than for any other reason, he commented, “I wonder what’s happening back there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the city.

  Torquatus turned and watched the streams of smoke rising into the air, prompting him to answer, “It doesn’t look like they had to torch the entire city to take it.” He shrugged dismissively, “It looks like the boys in the Legions who took the place are enjoying themselves.”

  “We should get something for this,” Flaminius said bitterly, prompting another sigh by Torquatus, understanding that, ultimately, this was what bothered Flaminius.

  “You knew going into this that wasn’t going to happen,” Torquatus answered, perhaps a trifle more sharply than he intended, but he was tired of this complaint. “We’re too new here, and this is our first battle in a campaign that’s lasted three years now.”

  “I know.” Flaminius’ tone was defensive. “But that was before we had to face those elephants! He never told us that they’d be fucking armored like that!”

  This was certainly true, but Torquatus had been marching for Caesar for longer than Flaminius, so he understood that any chance of his and Flaminius’ Legion being cut in on the proceeds of this city that, according to the gossip, was the richest they had ever taken to this point would be ruined if the subject was broached.

  It was with this in mind that Torquatus said, “We just need to trust Caesar to take care of us and the boys. Even,” he finished pointedly, “if it’s not this time, he’ll make it up to us.”

  Flaminius didn’t reply, instead returning his attention to his men, watching morosely as a section cursed their way through separating the charred corpses of one of the slain elephant’s crew, which was universally considered to be the worst part of a grisly task in cleaning up a battlefield. Then, the sound of a cornu split the air, but not from the direction of the city, and both men spun about to stare to the north, where they each had positioned half a Cohort on the northern side to stand guard, with the other half standing next to the canal, but facing the city. The signal by the Cornicen had sounded the notes that indicated a large group of men had been spotted, not the series that it was the enemy, but at this moment, their identity was unknown. Because of the flat ground, it was impossible to see past the six Centuries spread out in a line, and as they had learned early on during their time in India, in the early mornings, it was too damp for any dust to rise.

  Sighing, Flaminius cursed, then said, “I suppose we better go over there and see.”

  Torquatus wasn’t any happier about the prospect of covering the quarter-mile distance, but he didn’t say as much, just began trotting, Flaminius by his side, heading for their men. By the time they reached the front of the formation, where they joined two Centurions standing side by side, their attention was so fixed on the approaching party that neither of them even acknowledged their Primi Pili. Torquatus was inclined to make an issue of it, then stopped short, immediately forgetting any idea about proper protocol, because the oncoming men had gotten close enough to identify, at least as to whether they were friend or foe.

  Even though he was panting from the exertion, it didn’t stop Flaminius from gasping in shock when one of the Centurions already present informed the two Primi Pili, “They’re Romans!”

  “Could that be Pollio?” Flaminius asked Torquatus, but his counterpart didn’t appear either pleased or relieved at the sight of this half of Caesar’s army that had seemingly vanished.

  He betrayed his concern when he answered flatly, “It could be…or it could be more of these Bargosan bastards wearing our kit and carrying our standards.”

  Not surprisingly, this sent a ripple of comment from the men behind them, telling Torquatus that he had spoken more loudly than intended, while Flaminius and the pair of Centurions looked at him in undisguised surprise and alarm.

  “You really think so?” Flaminius sounded doubtful, and he pointed at the evenly spaced ranks that were now discernible from where they were standing. “Look! They’re marching like Romans! We didn’t see any of those Bargosans acting like that!” He paused for an instant, then allowed, in a lower tone, “Except for those phalanx troops. They could march like that, I suppose. Still,” he insisted, “they can’t have that many men.”

  “Can’t they?” Torquatus countered, his eyes never leaving the approaching men, whoever they were. “We marched into this blind, Aulus. How much did we know about these Bargosans before Caesar sent us after them?”

  This, predictably, was met with a somber silence, but Torquatus wasn’t willing to take chances, and he turned to the nearest Cornicen, recognizing him as belonging to the First of his Tenth. He at least wanted his Legion to assemble quickly; Flaminius was his own man and could decide what was best for his own Legion.

  Before he could say anything, a cornu call sounded, except it was from the direction of the oncoming force, and now Flaminius couldn’t resist from gently ribbing his friend, “They might be able to wear our uniforms, but I don’t think they had the time to learn our calls, do you, Marcus?”

  Torquatus scowled at Flaminius, but there was a lifting of one corner of his mouth that Flaminius had learned meant that Torquatus was as amused as he was irritated, although all he said was, “Well, let’s see who it is, then.”

  It took a few moments longer before the leading ranks were close enough, except it wasn’t the standard but the pattern on the shields that enabled both Primi Pili to recognize the identity of the Legion marching in their direction.

  “The 15th.” Flaminius said it first, just beating out Torquatus, then grinned at his counterpart’s expression at this example of how competitive Primi Pili were with each other.

  “I can see just as well as you can,” Torquatus grumbled, then quickly moved on to more practical matters. “We need to let Caesar know immediately.”

  This was the moment that both men realized the same thing, and while it was understandable, it was still an oversight nonetheless.

  “Did your runner come back?” Torquatus asked Flaminius.

  He got the answer in Flaminius’ expression; one of embarrassment at forgetting that, just before dawn, when it was clear that the Bargosans were actually retreating from the battlefield and not just regrouping for another attack, he and Torquatus had agreed to send one of his men to the canal, with orders to figure
out a way across it to link up with their fellow Romans, presumably the 10th. From there, the runner, the Tesseraurius of Flaminius’ own Century, was supposed to find Caesar, if it was possible, to inform him of the attack on the 25th and 30th. They both had understood that this wasn’t a simple task, given the obstacles and the conditions; they also recognized that the man should have been back by then, and they had totally forgotten about him.

  “Should we send another man?” Torquatus asked, more out of courtesy than anything else; he had already made his decision.

  Besides, he was curious to know Flaminius’ mind, and he got his answer when Flaminius replied, “If we do, it needs to be more than one man, and at least an Optio should go this time.”

  This was exactly what Torquatus had in mind, and he was relieved to hear that Flaminius was thinking along the same lines, but he also was careful not to embarrass his counterpart and friend, his tone making it sound as if he was offering a suggestion. “Since your man went, maybe this time, they should be from my boys. But,” he added, “if you want to write your own dispatch, I’ll have them carry it to Caesar.”

  Whether Flaminius saw through this Torquatus never knew, but he seemed to accept it readily enough, although he said, “That won’t be necessary. We’re both in the same spot; we didn’t do anything any differently than your boys did. We just need to find out what’s going on, and what Caesar wants us to do.”

  Torquatus turned to the Centurion that belonged to him, speaking softly as he issued his orders. He wasn’t sending an Optio, he was sending a Centurion, but he didn’t necessarily want Flaminius to know, so he mentioned the man’s name, knowing his Centurion would recognize about whom he was speaking. Offering a salute, the Centurion turned and went trotting back to where the bulk of the Legion was in the last stages of their tasks. Torquatus returned his attention just in time to watch the 15th come to a halt, about fifty paces away, whereupon Primus Pilus Aquilinus detached himself and came at a walk to his counterparts.

  “Salve, ladies!” Aquilinus called out in what had become a standard joking manner in which Primi Pili greeted each other, but both of his counterparts saw the fatigue, and that there was no real jocularity behind it. “What did we miss?” Before either could answer, he was standing in front of them and asking, “And where can we find Caesar? There’s a lot to tell him.”

  The commander of the most powerful veteran army currently operating in the known world was well inside the walls of Bargosa, but it wasn’t as a conqueror, it was as a hostage in all but name. Whereas after every battle since Pharsalus, Caesar’s presence alone had been enough to restore order and bring the men back from their madness, that wasn’t the case in Bargosa, which the general quickly learned. There had been several other incidents similar to the moment when Teispes had severed the ranker’s arm, and it had only been through extraordinary restraint on Caesar’s part that this had been the only bloodshed…so far. At some point in a night that never seemed to end, the men of the 3rd, 7th, and 28th had run into each other; very quickly, and without any interference from, and with the cooperation of, some of the officers, what could now only be called a mutiny took on a more definite shape. Most of those officers who joined this spontaneous revolt were Optios, but not all of them; the highest ranking member of the group of men who took charge in the name of their respective Legions was the Septimus Pilus Prior of the 7th. His participation was based less in agreement with his men than in the fact that, even before the simmering discontent boiled over, his grip over his men had been tenuous at best, and what control he did have was through fear. Now he had been given the unmistakable message by his men that, if he didn’t at least pretend to be of a like mind with his Century, his life could be measured in watches. The real power, at least with the men of the 7th, lay with Vibius Centumalus, a Tesseraurius from the Third of the First who, by virtue of his reputation for courage in battle, and being scrupulously honest and fair, even over and above men of this post, made him a figure of much respect in the entirety of the 7th. Each of the other two Legions had similar men, although with the 3rd, it was a small group of men, similar to Centumalus in influence, while with the 28th, it was another Centurion, one of the five who were participating in the mutiny among the Legions inside Bargosa. It was from this initial meeting that a delegation of men was sent in search of Caesar, who had remained with the 3rd, whereupon he was informed that if he wanted the freedom to move around the city which, for all intents and purposes, had been taken, he would have an “escort” of Legionaries from each of the three Legions currently rebelling, none of them knowing at this point where the 10th stood. It had been one of the most brutal assaults on Caesar’s dignitas; save for the actual assassination attempt by the band of dead patricians who had called themselves The Liberators, he actually felt this as a betrayal even more keenly than Pharsalus. That he had been forced to accept these terms certainly didn’t sit well with any of Caesar’s bodyguards, but when the Septimus Pilus Prior, Lucius Albinus, had attempted to remove Caesar’s protection by insisting that they weren’t included in this agreement, it had come perilously close to bloodshed. And, again, it had been Caesar who managed to avert what would be the first of many such crises that would take place over the next few days.

  Displaying the kind of acumen and ability to read men that had served him so well in the past, Caesar, rather than addressing Albinus, had turned to Centumalus, asking him coolly, “And, what say you, Tesseraurius Centumalus? Do you agree with…” he didn’t even attempt to hide his contempt for the Centurion, deliberately dropping the man’s rank, “…Albinus here that I shouldn’t be accompanied by these men?”

  Centumalus, as Caesar had surmised by his reaction, hadn’t been expecting Albinus’ demand, and was clearly unhappy about it, but neither did he want to give Caesar any sign that they weren’t of a like mind.

  Consequently, he paused to think before he answered, “Yes, Caesar, I agree. But,” Centumalus turned to address Albinus directly, “I think that what Pilus Prior Albinus means is that it shouldn’t be your entire bodyguard who accompanies you and our own men. After all,” he pointed to the cluster of horsemen, some of whom had dismounted to rest their animals, “there are fifty of them, and we’re only sending a section’s worth of men around with you. So,” he finished, returning his attention not to Caesar but Albinus, “I believe what the Pilus Prior meant is that you won’t be allowed to have more men with you than we’re sending with you. Isn’t that correct, Centurion?”

  Albinus was many things, but he wasn’t a fool; he was acutely aware that his reputation as a “striper” had been relayed to the men of the other two Legions, which meant he was regarded with just a shade less hostility than was currently being aimed at Caesar or any of the Centurions who were refusing to take part. He understood what Centumalus was doing, and he also recognized that there was nothing he could do about it.

  Nevertheless, he only offered a curt nod of acceptance, unwilling to do more than that, which prompted Centumalus to decide, “You may have a section’s worth of men, Caesar. And,” he added this with the kind of smile that informed Caesar he understood how Caesar would take it, “of course, we’ll allow you to select which men.”

  Fuming as he was, on the very ragged edge of his own temper erupting, Caesar’s self-control was never needed more than at this moment, so it was through clenched teeth that he called the names of the men who he wanted with him, and naturally, Gundomir and Teispes were two of them, along with Gundorix, who was Gundomir’s younger brother and a man who Caesar thought might be worthy of stepping into Gundomir’s role at some point in the future.

  That had been the first humiliation, but as Caesar feared, it was far from the last, as men, clearly drunk and to a degree that Caesar recognized might pose a problem in the future, openly jeered their general as he passed by. However, even inebriated, the men’s overriding message to Caesar as he passed by, stone-faced and seemingly unhearing, was the same.