Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  Meanwhile, the pair switched, and when Abhiraka slid down onto his animal’s neck, in response, Darpashata made a squealing sound that was unusual, but they all knew was the sign of the elephant’s delight that his master had returned. Turning obediently, Darpashata went lumbering back into the forest, with Bolon and Nahapana temporarily forgotten, the pair following behind as their king and their direct commander began discussing what came next.

  Surprisingly to every Roman under his command, Caesar hadn’t commandeered the palace for his own use, leaving the queen Hyppolita alone, although he used his personal bodyguard to stand watch around it. Whether that was to keep the men from attempting to sneak in or to keep the queen from escaping was a matter of much speculation. Instead, Caesar was in the large praetorium tent, but despite both Gundomir and Teispes trying to prevail on him to change his mind, the one thing Caesar refused to do was order a guard for himself that was any different than usual.

  “If my men want to murder me, then I’ll make it easy for them,” he had told the pair, but when they sought out the Primi Pili, particularly Pullus, they had been shocked when they unanimously dismissed their concerns.

  “The men are angry at Caesar,” Pullus had agreed, “but not to the point he has to worry about his safety. They still love him; they’re just angry at him right now.”

  Within the confines of the enclosure, all was calm and ordered, and if one was unaware of the larger situation, it would have seemed to be normal, although it was somewhat unusual that only the officers were camped within the enclosure. Not that there would have been room for an entire Legion, let alone the army, but the bucina sounded the watches just as always, the cornu sounded the commands summoning Centurions to the praetorium, and within the walls of the palace, men could be seen moving about with the same studied haste as always, the standard pace for men in Caesar’s army. Outside the enclosure, however, was another story, although after the first three days, a period during which no more than a handful of rankers spent barely a full watch sober, things began to settle down. What the terrified residents learned, at least those who didn’t take advantage of their conquerors’ collective drunken stupor to escape during the night after the city fell, was that as long as they didn’t put up a struggle when Romans burst into their homes to search it and strip them of anything valuable, aside from a few cuffs about the head and kicks in their rears, they would at least survive. Their women were another matter, but after more than a hundred men of Bharuch were killed—usually by being run through, but there were a fair number of men beaten to death—the resistance to having their women defiled was confined to sullen looks and muttered promises to avenge this dishonor. It wasn’t until the fourth day when, between the ferocious hangovers and the appalling stench, some of the mutinying Romans took it upon themselves to organize their comrades, and working parties were formed to begin disposing of the Bargosan corpses. Their own dead were another matter; on the second full day after the fall of the city, Pullus, Spurius, Mus, and Carfulenus, using borrowed mounts, made a circuit around the city to the areas the men of each Legion had claimed as their own, announcing that they would be honoring their fallen that night, using the area that had once been the Bargosan camp outside the walls as the site for the mass cremation. Nothing else, just that; none of the Primi Pili made any pleas, or even mentioned the insurrection, only that the men were being given the opportunity to bid their fallen comrades farewell. None of them were surprised when, in small groups, men began drifting to the northern side of the city, finding their slain comrades, just as Pullus’ 10th had done the night of the battle, arranged by Century and Cohort, their bodies already having been cleaned by their section slaves, a clean tunic retrieved from their ships, and a coin placed in their mouth. And, as the Centurions, and Caesar, had hoped, it was obvious that the mutineers were ashamed that they had failed to perform what was considered not only an essential but sacred duty by not being the men who had performed the ritual washing of the bodies of their slain comrades. The only exceptions were those Legionaries who had been burned beyond recognition; their identities had been determined only because of the Romans’ obsession with proper record keeping and the relative spot where they had fallen in the battle, but their comrades took some comfort in the fact that all but a handful of these men were already dead before they were burned. Since there wasn’t as much manpower available, and there were some space limitations, more than one man was placed on each of the pyres constructed by the slaves and freedmen, their ashes mingling together as their souls were released by the purifying flames. It was the quietest such ritual Pullus had ever witnessed, seeming to him as if their comrades were too ashamed to even offer their prayers, at least aloud. He, and the other Centurions, all of whom were present, both those who remained loyal to Caesar and those who had sided with their men, did take some comfort in how, without a Centurion or Optio to lead them, once the ashes cooled, the remains were placed in urns, and the ritual concluded, the men marched back inside the city, in their Century formations, while their officers stood watching in silence, and a bit of amazement.

  As Scribonius put it, “At least they’re still Legionaries.”

  Caesar wasn’t present, at least down among the men, but he witnessed the entire ceremony, wearing the robes of Pontifex Maximus, standing in essentially the same spot Abhiraka had on the northern rampart, looking down on his mutinying men. He had been accompanied by Gundomir, Teispes, his Legates, and those bodyguards who weren’t guarding the palace, but they were standing in small groups several paces away, leaving their general to stand alone as he pulled the robe over his head and offered the ritual prayers for the dead. As he did so, Pollio and Hirtius, having come from the camp on the other side of the canal, stood together watching their general, and while Pollio believed the tears streaming down Caesar’s face were genuine, he also suspected that they were as much for his own plight as they were for the lives of the men who were lost as a result of his ambition. While only Caesar stood at the parapet, making him visible to the men below, Pollio was standing in a spot that allowed him a partial view of the ground below, so he saw the upturned faces as men looked up at their general, although it was impossible to see more than that, and he wondered what they were thinking as they gazed at Caesar. It was when, shortly before dark and the men were marching back inside the city, they had to march directly underneath their general as they passed through the gateway that Pollio saw that, without exception, every man at least glanced upward at Caesar, who had removed the robe from his head and was now standing, immobile as a statue, seemingly staring off into the distance. The fact that none of the mutineers shouted up at Caesar the demand that he lead them back home was something that Pollio could see in two ways. If, he reasoned to himself as he waited for Caesar to indicate he was ready to return to the enclosure, they’re not shouting at him the demand they’ve been making, it might mean that their tempers are cooling, and they’re adjusting to the idea that they’re going to be staying in India for the foreseeable future. It was the other option that Pollio thought more likely, and potentially more dangerous, that the bond of affection, and more importantly, loyalty, that had been so strong between Caesar and his army had been damaged, perhaps fatally. If that was the case, the worst was yet to come, a thought that made Pollio visibly shudder, which caused Hirtius to turn and look at him inquiringly.

  “Are you all right, Asinius?” Hirtius asked, then laughingly added, “Don’t tell me you’ve caught a chill! Not in this place!”

  “No, it’s not that,” Pollio answered, his tone so somber that the smile vanished from Hirtius’ face. “I was just thinking what would happen if Caesar can’t convince the men to stay and continue marching.”

  Hirtius didn’t reply; there was no need, because it was the thought that occupied his own mind every single moment of his waking hours, and he knew that he was far from alone. Finally, Caesar turned, and again without a word, strode over to the stairs, doing so quickly enough that G
undomir had to scramble to get ahead of their general to descend ahead of him. Pollio had been somewhat curious why Caesar had chosen to remain on the rampart for so long; it was extremely unusual for him to linger, but it was as he was walking to the stairs to follow the general, and he was able to look down to the street that was the part of the northern road and terminated at the northern gate of the enclosure that he understood. Caesar had been waiting for the mutinying men to return to their respective areas of the city, not wanting a possible confrontation. To Pollio, this was the most potent sign of the severity of the situation, and probably most importantly, how shaken Caesar still was about it. Hirtius caught his eye, and the two men exchanged a look that communicated that Pollio’s fellow Legate and friend had seen and interpreted it the same way.

  “Well,” Pollio’s voice was pitched so that only Hirtius could hear him, “I thought it was a possibility that I’d die in India. I just didn’t think it would be at the hands of another Roman.”

  “What are we going to do, Titus?”

  Pullus had been moodily poking at the contents of his bowl, and now he looked up at Scribonius and answered honestly, “I have no idea, Sextus.”

  “At least things have calmed down,” Balbus commented, even as he was reaching over to scoop up a spoonful of Pullus’ meal, which earned him a rap on the knuckles, causing him to yelp in a manner completely unbecoming to a Centurion, and he glared at Pullus as he protested, “You weren’t eating that! I’m just making sure it won’t go to waste!”

  “Just because I’m not eating it right now doesn’t mean I’m not going to eat it,” Pullus shot back, but the moment of levity passed as quickly as it had come as he turned his attention back to Scribonius’ question. “Quintus is right, though,” he admitted. “Things have calmed down, but that’s because they…” he used his spoon to indicate the others at the small table, “…we are all waiting for Caesar. And,” he finished soberly, “I don’t know how long they’re going to be willing to wait.”

  “I talked to Apollodorus a short while ago,” Diocles spoke up, and they all twisted in their seats to pay attention. “Apparently, the mutiny is getting organized, because a delegation of men showed up at the northern gate to give Caesar something.”

  “Something?” Pullus echoed. “What kind of ‘something’?”

  “A tablet,” Diocles replied, suddenly interested in his own meal, not wanting to make eye contact as he finished, “with a list of demands.”

  “Pluto’s cock,” Pullus groaned. “That’s about the worst thing they can do!” Shaking his head, he muttered, “Caesar doesn’t respond to threats, no matter who’s making them.”

  Balbus nodded in agreement, but when Pullus noticed that Scribonius was silent, he glanced over at his friend, who was frowning.

  “Maybe not,” Scribonius said, speaking slowly as he thought things through. Looking at Diocles, he asked, without much hope, “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell us what’s on that list.”

  Diocles shook his head, but not because he was refusing, telling the others, “I would if I could, but I don’t know. And,” he added, “I don’t think Apollodorus knows. Gundomir was the one they gave it to, and he can’t read, so when he came back to the praetorium to deliver it to Caesar, Apollodorus didn’t bother asking him. And Gundomir handed it directly to Caesar.” He thought for a moment, then added cautiously, “Although, Apollodorus did see what was written on the tablet. Not close enough to read it, but that both sides were full of writing.”

  “That,” Scribonius said, “might be important.”

  “How so?”

  “Because they’re negotiating,” Scribonius answered Pullus’ question. Seeing the doubtful expression on his friend’s face, he explained, “What’s the one, and up to now, the only thing the men have been demanding from Caesar?”

  “To go home,” Pullus said slowly, beginning to see where Scribonius was heading, but said nothing more, wanting to be sure.

  “Exactly.” Scribonius nodded. “But now, there’s a tablet full of demands?” He gave his friend a grin as he added, “How many words would it take to say, ‘We want to go home’?” As he hoped, this prompted a chuckle from Pullus and a snort from Balbus that was essentially his version of one, and Scribonius continued, “So they’re negotiating for concessions of some sort.”

  Now that Pullus accepted his friend’s argument, he mused, “I wonder what they are. And what are they going to be willing to give up? Going home?”

  “Titus,” Scribonius asked quietly, “what else do they have to offer Caesar that he wants? That’s the only demand Caesar’s making, that the army continue to follow him.”

  “Well,” Pullus concluded, fully accepting Scribonius’ explanation, “at least now we might find out what the fuck we’re going to be doing in the next few days.”

  It was a completely reasonable assumption to make on Pullus’ part, and certainly, Scribonius, Balbus, and Diocles all saw matters the same way. That it was erroneous was something they would be learning the next day.

  “He’s what?”

  “Where did he go?”

  “When is he going to be back?”

  “What the fuck are we supposed to do now?”

  These, Pollio thought miserably, are all very good questions. The unfortunate fact was that, while he could answer some of them, he was in the dark as much as the Primi Pili, all of whom were gathered in what was still technically Caesar’s office in the praetorium. That Pollio was seated behind the desk was the first indication to the Centurions that something was amiss, but none of them had been prepared for what Pollio had just told them, that Caesar was gone.

  As he held up a hand, it took several heartbeats for the assembled Centurions, all twelve of them now that the army was reunited, to quiet down enough for him to say, “Centurions, I understand your reaction, but all I can ask is this.” He paused, but although he smiled, it was a wan one as he continued, “Please don’t execute the messenger.”

  It was a weak and somewhat grim jest, but he saw that it did help settle the Centurions down to the point where he could impart what he knew, as little as it was.

  “Caesar left before dawn, taking his flagship and a substantial part of the fleet to sail back to Parthia, to attend to matters there.” Taking a breath, Pollio went on, “He did this in recognition that, despite it only being Sextilis, given the mood of the army, this campaign season is over, and there are pressing issues that he has deemed require his presence.”

  “Who went with him?” Spurius asked, beating Clustuminus to it, earning him a foul look from the 8th’s Primus Pilus.

  “His bodyguards, of course,” Pollio replied, “some of the Parthians. And,” he hesitated, wondering how this would be received, “all of the hostages from Pattala.”

  He was relieved that this didn’t seem to bother the Centurions, and it served as a reminder to Pollio that, as astute as these men were in many ways, when it came to matters of grand political strategy, they weren’t very sophisticated. At least, that was his sense, although he noticed that only Pullus was frowning in a manner that seemed to indicate he might have an idea of the deeper meaning.

  “Which Parthians?” Atartinus asked, more because he wanted to participate than any real desire to know.

  “Kamnaskires, the Elymais prince,” Pollio answered. “And,” he went on, “Bodroges and Artaxerxes. He did mention that he was thinking of stopping at Barbaricum and summoning the…” he stopped himself from saying the word “bastard”, “…commander of the spad from Istakhr.” Pollio frowned as he tried to recall, “What was his name?”

  “Darius,” Atartinus provided, and Pollio nodded, “Yes, him.”

  Then, just when he thought that one crucial fact had escaped their collective attention, naturally, it was Pullus who asked suddenly, “Legate, you said that he took a ‘substantial’ part of the fleet with him. How,” his tone altered slightly but noticeably, and Pollio was certain that he heard the dangerous edge to it, �
�substantial?”

  Realizing that he was trapped, Pollio answered, “Most of it. All but one quinquereme, a handful of quadriremes, and all of the biremes except for a half-dozen Liburnians.”

  When none of the other Primi Pili visibly reacted to this, Pollio experienced an instant of hope that lasted only long enough for Spurius to turn to search Pullus’ face as he asked quietly, “That clearly means something to you, Titus. What is it?”

  Instead of looking at his counterpart, Pullus turned to look Pollio in the eye, and there was no mistaking the bitterness as he informed Spurius and the others, “We’re fucking stranded here, that’s what it means. He took most of the fleet so that the men couldn’t organize, load up on the ships, and go back to Parthia.”

  The silence that followed was total, although it didn’t last long, as each of the Centurions absorbed this and realized its true meaning in their own unique way. That quiet was broken as each of them began shouting, and while they were ostensibly aiming their invective at Pollio, he understood that he wasn’t the real recipient, so he decided to remain silent, waiting for this storm of anger to pass.

  Finally, they spent their anger, lapsing into a sullen silence that lasted for some moments before Balbinus spoke next, noticing that there were other missing faces, asking Pollio, “Where are the other Legates? Did they go with him?”

  “No,” Pollio replied, but while he didn’t want to reveal the truth, he also understood he had to offer something. “They had other duties to attend to this morning.”

  “You mean they didn’t want to be here when you told us,” Balbinus countered, giving a laugh that really didn’t hold much humor.

  Pollio didn’t refute this, thereby confirming Balbinus’ guess. Ultimately, it was Pullus who was the man who asked not only the most crucial question, but the one Pollio was dreading.

  “When will he be back, and what are we supposed to do in the meantime?”