Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “She’s the Queen of Bharuch,” Pullus told him, but Pollio was sufficiently distracted to miss the slightly wistful note in Pullus’ voice.

  Spurius, however, gave his friend a curious glance, which Pullus either missed or ignored, while Pollio shot back irritably, “Bharuch? Where is Bharuch? And why does it matter right now?”

  “Ah, yes. I apologize.” Pullus looked a bit embarrassed, but he quickly explained, “That’s what these people call Bargosa, that’s all.”

  “Ah, that’s right. I forgot its proper name.” It was all Pollio could think to say, but he was about to leave when Pullus asked him, “Sir, what about your men? Do they know what’s going on here?”

  Pollio desperately wanted to either vanish or lie to both Centurions, but he couldn’t do that, especially since he understood that, no more than a third of a watch from this moment, what was happening with Pollio’s part of the army would be common knowledge.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “they do. How, I don’t know. But they know, and while they’re not behaving like the men inside the city, they’ve made it clear they’re not going to obey any orders.”

  “Pluto’s thorny cock,” Spurius muttered, and something in the manner in which he said it actually made Pollio laugh, albeit with a bitter edge.

  “Yes, Spurius,” Pollio agreed, “Pluto’s thorny cock indeed. Well,” he unconsciously straightened himself as he turned to the entrance into the praetorium, “I may as well get this over with.”

  “May Fortuna bless you, Legate,” Spurius said, and while he appeared to be sincere, Pollio somehow felt as if the 3rd’s Primus Pilus had some ulterior motive.

  Pollio nodded, but as he walked away he thought, Spurius is probably just happy that he’s not the only one in the cac.

  By the time Caesar and Pollio were finished conferring, it was almost midnight after the fall of the city, and Caesar was in as close to a state of despair as Pollio had ever seen, at least since the days in Gaul. Even at Dyrrhachium or Pharsalus, when they had been so heavily outnumbered, Caesar had always appeared completely unperturbed. This, Pollio realized, was different; Caesar was, he realized, truly frightened, and for the first time since he had known the man.

  It was this recognition that prompted Pollio to suggest something that he knew had the potential to turn Caesar’s anger away from the men and onto himself, but he plunged ahead, asking his general, “Might it be time to consider at least taking the army back to Parthia, Caesar?”

  At first, Pollio was certain that his fears would be confirmed, when Caesar, who had been pacing back and forth behind his desk wheeled to stare at Pollio, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together so tightly his mouth looked like a bloodless slit. He remained like this, his eyes never leaving Pollio’s face for a long span of heartbeats before, without any warning, Caesar let out an explosive breath that seemed to take with it all of his anger, his shoulders slumping as he shook his head.

  “I…I can’t do that, Asinius.” His voice suddenly had gone hoarse, but there was a pensive, almost sad quality to his tone that Pollio couldn’t ever recall hearing. “Not yet, at least.”

  “But…why?” Pollio was more bewildered than angry, and he beseeched Caesar, “Please, explain it to me, Caesar.”

  Rather than replying immediately, Caesar dropped down onto his desk, folding his arms as he faced Pollio, who was still seated in his customary spot in front of the general’s desk, the Dictator’s brow furrowed as he tried to summon an explanation that would make sense.

  Finally, he answered, “I wish I could, Asinius, I truly do. Oh,” he waved a hand in the air, “I know most of you think that it’s because of Alexander,” he admitted, “and there’s some truth in that. But,” he gave a deep sigh that, to Pollio, was almost as expressive as his words, “it’s more than that.” Suddenly, he looked at Pollio with an intensity that made the Legate slightly uncomfortable. “Asinius, don’t you want to see what’s out…there?” Once more, he gave a wave in a generally easterly direction. “Don’t you want to know if what all the books say about India, about the ten feet tall men, and the animals none of us have ever seen actually exist? And,” Caesar continued, growing more animated, and despite trying to guard against it, Pollio felt himself swept up in his enthusiasm, “what about what’s beyond India? What do we really know about all of those people? We know about the Han, but that’s all. Think of the possibilities for Rome, Asinius! If we can lay claim to all of this, we will be the most powerful nation in the world!”

  “The known world,” Pollio pointed out, but more out of habit than anything else.

  “Exactly!” Caesar pounced, pointing once more to the east. “But we know so little of it that. Perhaps there’s another nation, like the Han, who rivals Rome in power!”

  “And?” Pollio countered. “So what if there is?” Suddenly, he experienced a clenching sensation in his stomach, caused by a creeping certainty he knew what Caesar intended, and he forced himself to sound calm as he probed, “Are you suggesting that, if there is a nation out there whose power rivals ours that you intend to fight them for supremacy? To prove that Rome is stronger than any other nation?”

  “No,” Caesar replied and paused just long enough for Pollio to begin to relax before he added, “not necessarily.”

  “‘Not necessarily’ sounds a great deal like there’s a high probability that’s exactly what you intend to do,” Pollio shot back, a feeling of anger mingling with the sense of unease. Deciding on the fly to change tactics, he deliberately softened his tone. “And, what about the men, Caesar?”

  “What about them?”

  “What if they don’t share your dreams and ambitions?” Pollio asked quietly. “What if they just want to go home?”

  “Then,” Caesar replied evenly, “I’m going to have to convince them that following me is better than the idea of going home.”

  “How do you propose to do that, Caesar?” Pollio couldn’t hide his incredulity at what he perceived as Caesar’s groundless optimism. “What could you possibly offer them that will make them forget their homes and their families?”

  “At this moment, I don’t know,” Caesar admitted frankly, then his features transformed, the jawline that still didn’t sag like most men his age setting in a hard line that Pollio knew far too well. “But I will think of something, Asinius.” Suddenly, he gave his subordinate the dazzling smile that was one of his most potent weapons, asking cheerfully, “Don’t I always?”

  Despite himself, Pollio couldn’t keep himself from giving Caesar a smile of his own, but while he had determined that Caesar wouldn’t be swayed, he still felt compelled to point out, “There’s a first time for everything, Caesar. And,” he finished soberly, “this might be that time.”

  Abhiraka certainly didn’t look like a king, and more importantly, he didn’t feel like a king either, but this was more because of the constant reminders from Bolon and Nahapana.

  “You look too arrogant to be a merchant, and you certainly aren’t a farmer,” Bolon had informed him, literally while their clothes were still wet from swimming the canal. “You need to forget everything you learned about being a king. If,” he warned, “you want to reach your son-in-law and daughter’s kingdom with your head still on your shoulders.”

  Abhiraka had known this was sound advice and had accepted it as such. And, he thought ruefully, I am trying. Regardless of his sincerity in adopting the mannerisms of a commoner, what Abhiraka was learning the hard way was that a lifetime of being treated like royalty expected made matters quite difficult. So many things, he now realized, that he had taken for granted, like expecting his two bodyguards to prepare the meals they shared together, or them doing whatever they could to ease his burden during this trying ordeal. Several times a day, he reminded himself that neither Bolon nor Nahapana were his subjects, they were his companions, each of them equal to the other two, and gradually, he managed to shed what he had begun to think of as his royal skin, in much the same manner as a snake
did, so that when they approached a farm to beg for a meal, what the farmer saw were three men who, while none of them said as much, didn’t fight the perception that they had deserted from the ranks of the Bharuch king. It was humiliating for all three of them, although Abhiraka was understandably the most affected, and while the other two men were sympathetic to their king’s feelings, both of them, albeit at different times, were forced to remind Abhiraka of the reality of their situation. The first two days after their escape from the city had been the worst, at least in the tension that came from trying to evade not only capture, but detection of any sort. In the beginning, their need to disguise Abhiraka was more literal, and while their king had endured having mud liberally rubbed over his exposed skin and into the fabric of his clothing, he clearly had borne it with some resentment. Being forced to crawl on their bellies like serpents for a distance of well more than a quarter mile, moving slowly and always with their eyes towards the Romans on the northern side of the canal was another indignity, although Abhiraka understood it was vital. And, he was honest enough with himself to admit, he had learned that there was a whole other set of skills a warrior should possess that he had never even attempted, until this night when he was forced to flee from his capital. Only upon reaching a clump of trees did Bolon hiss a signal to rise to a crouch, but their progress was only minimally increased, so that by the time the sun was peeking above the horizon, they were barely a mile away from the city. For the next two days, they only moved at night, making their way to the east, unknowingly heading for the same dense forest where Ranjeet was still in the process of consolidating that remnant of Abhiraka’s army that was still willing to fight rather than surrender. On two separate occasions, they had come perilously close to, at the very least, being detected by roving Roman cavalry patrols, which Hirtius had begun sending out within the first day after the city fell, the cavalry being the only part of the army not in open rebellion. It had been terrifying both times, especially when, as the three men lay supine in a patch of dense undergrowth, Abhiraka had heard his own name mentioned by one of the men riding past. Although it was the only word he understood; unknown to him the men of this turma were from Gaul, he felt it was safe to assume that they weren’t just having a casual conversation of which he was the subject, and both of his companions agreed.

  “They’re searching for you,” Bolon commented, once they determined the immediate danger had passed, “but remember, they’re looking for a king, not three beggars who are probably deserters.”

  Abhiraka knew Bolon was speaking truly, but this was one of the moments when he instinctively rebelled at the very idea of being called a beggar, no matter what the purpose, and he had said as much. This had resulted in another tongue-lashing from both bodyguards, but he recognized that he deserved their admonition, and that it was based in their concern for his own well-being. Most importantly, they were almost as invested in helping him escape and reach Nedunj as he was, neither of them wanting to fail the king they had sworn to protect at all costs. The second brush with the cavalry occurred later that same day, engendering another span of time spent hiding, although this time, it was in the opposite direction from the ground, all three men using one of the banyan trees as a refuge, climbing as high as they dared. This time, the party of riders, who Abhiraka could see were dressed in a slightly different manner, and more tellingly spoke in a different, more guttural tongue than the first party, rode directly underneath the canopy of the tree, following a footpath that led to the nearby village, less than a mile distant. He didn’t hear his name this time, but he still gleaned what he considered important information, which he shared once it was safe to clamber down and resume their own movement.

  “Their hearts aren’t in it,” he had told Bolon and Nahapana. “You could see it in the way they rode their horses, and they sounded bored.”

  This aligned with what Bolon had observed, and he said as much, although he also felt it necessary to warn, “Just because they’re bored, it doesn’t mean that if they spot us, they won’t ride us down…Adheesh.”

  Despite the gravity of the moment, this did elicit a grin from Abhiraka. It had been Bolon who insisted that neither he nor Nahapana ever use their king’s name, and he had come up with this name Adheesh…which in their culture meant “king.” It was a common enough name that it wouldn’t draw attention, provided, of course, that the bearer of his new name didn’t behave like a king. Once it was safe to do so, they resumed their movement, altering the direction slightly north, which was the opposite direction from the Narmada, which would have to be crossed at some point in order to reach the Pandya kingdom. None of them were particularly happy about it, but the presence of the patrol had dictated this change as a necessity, and it was almost time for them to find a spot to rest.

  Nahapana pointed to a spot directly ahead of them where the ground under the trees was extremely thick with undergrowth, and he asked Abhiraka, “Isn’t that the forest where you liked to hunt?”

  It took a moment for Abhiraka to orient himself, realizing that, while he had certainly traveled through this part of his kingdom, it had always been either on horseback or seated atop an elephant.

  Nevertheless, he recognized a pair of landmarks, and he answered, “Yes, Nahapana, it is. In fact,” he added grimly, “this is where I killed that tiger who had been killing all the livestock in this area.”

  It was only partially in jest that Bolon groaned, “And you want us to sleep there, Nahapana? Are you trying to get us eaten?”

  Nahapana laughed, taunting, “When did you become such a woman?”

  “When I left everything but this,” Bolon touched the hilt of his dagger, “behind.”

  Now it was Nahapana’s turn to appear uncomfortable, but Abhiraka shook his head and moved past the pair, reminding them, “I killed that tiger, remember?”

  While both men immediately followed, Bolon muttered, “Yes, that one.”

  Abhiraka ignored his bodyguard’s comment, thankful that his back was to them so they couldn’t see him grinning, and they moved as quickly as was prudent, trying to reach the forest’s edge without hearing a warning shout or cry of alarm. When that cry came, however, it was from the opposite direction that the three men were expecting, not from behind them but from within the confines of the dense forest. Stuck out in the open, they froze; while they knew where the call had come from, it had been too indistinct for any of them to recognize it as belonging to a friend or foe. Then, seemingly making matters worse, the sound of something moving in the forest grew louder and more distinct, a crashing noise that they knew meant something large was moving.

  “What should we do?” Abhiraka asked quietly, turning his head just enough so he could be heard but still keep his eyes on the part of the forest where the sound seemed to originate.

  “I don’t know,” Bolon answered honestly, but while his king was motionless, he had begun moving already, preparing to place himself between whatever this was and Abhiraka.

  Before they could make a decision, a huge shape began to materialize as small trees and other vegetation that was shoulder height suddenly went sweeping downward in their direction.

  The fact that it was an elephant might have posed a problem only slightly less dangerous than a tiger, but Abhiraka suddenly stood up straight, his body relaxing, and there was no mistaking the joy in his voice as he called out, “Darpashata! My champion! It is so good to see you!” Then, he ran for his elephant, whose trunk curled up against his forehead as he made the chuffing sound that signaled he recognized his master.

  Ranjeet, standing in the box with his hands on his hips, did his best to act as if this had all been planned, saying with a forced casualness, “I was wondering when you would show up, my King.”

  Abhiraka had reached Darpashata by this point, the elephant now using his trunk to offer what not only looked like but was a caress to his master, wrapping the trunk around Abhiraka’s head, snuffling as he did so, taking in the king’s scent, and, f
inally, Abhiraka’s composure broke, the tears streaming down, making tracks in the remnants of the mud that he had used to disguise himself.

  Looking up at Ranjeet, he said in a choked voice, “I thank you, Ranjeet, for saving Darpashata.” Suddenly, he gave a half-laugh, half-sob as he admitted, “I didn’t realize how much I care for him until now.”

  Ranjeet was no less affected, as were Bolon and Nahapana, and for a moment, the four men and majestic animal shared a moment of mourning for all that had been lost to them. For the first time since he had ascended to the throne of Bharuch, Abhiraka experienced a real connection to the people who he had always thought of as his subjects, and in a corner of his mind, he realized why he had remained aloof for so long, because this feeling he was experiencing now was so acutely painful that it literally took his breath away. Slowly, the tears subsided, replaced now by a growing anger, not the kind of anger that resulted from the heat of a moment, but a slow, smoldering rage at the pain and loss that had been inflicted, not on himself but on his people, and in that moment, Abhiraka truly became the King of Bharuch in every sense of the word.

  Therefore, when he looked up at Ranjeet, it was as the king and commander of the forces of Bharuch that he asked, “How much of my army is left, Ranjeet?”

  Rather than answer him, Ranjeet leaned down and offered his hand, which Abhiraka accepted, and only after he pulled him up to join him did Ranjeet reply, “Why don’t we go so you can see for yourself?”

  Abhiraka nodded, but when the man who had become Darpashata’s handler started the process of turning the elephant around, Abhiraka stopped him, though it wasn’t unkindly.

  “Switch places with me,” he commanded with a touch of the old imperiousness that caused Bolon and Nahapana to exchange a glance that communicated their thoughts, that it hadn’t taken long for Abhiraka to become a king again.