by R. W. Peake
Pollio had done his best to look these men in the eye, but now he looked down at the tablet in front of him as he answered, “Caesar swears on the black stone that he will be back in time to begin a new campaign, sometime around Januarius.” There was no overt reaction to this, and when Pollio risked a glance up at the others, he could see that their lack of response was due to the collective shock, which he was about to deepen when he continued, “Until then, the men will remain here in Bar…Bharuch, and you will conduct your normal winter routine. At least,” he finished miserably, “as much as possible.”
“So Caesar just dropped us in the cac and left us to sort his fucking mess out?”
Spurius sounded as angry as Pollio had ever heard, but even before the last word was out of his mouth, his fellow Primi Pili were roaring their agreement with his assessment, and for a moment, Pollio thought they might be angry enough to physically attack him, all of them crowding around his desk, some of them shaking a fist at him.
“Tacete!...Tacete, by the Furies!”
Not only was Titus Pullus the only man in the room with the lungs to drown out eleven other Centurions, all of whom were able to produce a prodigious volume on their own, he was also the only man who could cow his counterparts, although Clustuminus wheeled to face Pullus, his fists clenched. Ironically, this helped quiet things down as the attention switched to the two men, Pullus standing, completely calm and clearly unconcerned as Clustuminus, almost a foot shorter and of a medium build, stood a pace away from him, his fists partially raised.
The silence lasted for a few heartbeats, but it was Balbinus who broke it and the mood by snorting and saying dismissively, “Clustuminus, don’t be a fucking idiot. Pullus would tear your head off and not even break a sweat, and you know it.”
The words were lacerating enough for the 8th’s Primus Pilus; the snickers it engendered were even worse, but they also served to make him realize that, as harsh as it was, Balbinus was speaking the truth. He was certain that he was more intelligent than Titus Pullus, and that he was a better Centurion, but he held no illusions that he lacked either the skill or the ferocity that would be required to defeat Pullus in a physical confrontation.
Turning away from Clustuminus, Pullus said, “As you can see, Legate, we’re all of the same mind as Spurius. It seems like Caesar has decided to run off and leave us to deal with the situation that he’s created.” He hesitated for a moment, and there was no missing the pleading note in the large Primus Pilus’ voice as he added, “Surely that’s not the case, is it? He’s got something in mind, doesn’t he?”
It would have been easy, and probably the wise thing to do for Pollio to agree with Pullus, and assure these men that, in fact, Caesar did have such a plan, and that all would become clear in due course, but he couldn’t do it.
“I hope so, Pullus. By the gods, I hope so.”
Caesar hadn’t made the decision lightly, understanding full well how his departure would be received, but it had been the demands that had been presented that had given him the opportunity he needed, and he had never hesitated to act whenever such moments arrived. Standing in the prow of his quinquereme as the ship exited the mouth of the Narmada and swept into the large bay, he didn’t look back in the direction of the city, simply because it wouldn’t have done any good. No, the key to success lay in the direction they were now heading, back to Parthia, and he would only look ahead, not behind him. Behind him was a rebellious army; ahead of him lay the key to solving this problem, or so he believed. Before he had embarked on this campaign, when Caesar made a decision, it was made with an absolute expectation that that decision would lead to success. Now, however, he forced himself to face the fact that this decision was based as much in a hope that it would prove to be the solution and not expectation. And, he understood all too well, if this didn’t work, his chances of even surpassing Alexander’s achievements would be ended, in India, just as had happened with the Macedonian king. This, more than anything else, preyed on Caesar’s mind as he stood there.
Standing several paces behind Caesar, Gundomir and Teispes watched their general, staring ahead despite the spray that had to be drenching him as the prow of the ship plowed through the light chop.
Gundomir didn’t take his eyes off Caesar as he asked the Parthian, “Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”
Teispes made no real indication that he heard, his attention on Caesar as well, but just as Gundomir was about to repeat the question, thinking Teispes hadn’t heard, the Parthian answered with a sigh, unknowingly echoing Pollio, “I hope so.”
Then, there was really nothing more to be said; they would follow and protect Caesar no matter where he went, and no matter what he did. The rest was up to the gods, and to Caesar.
Bonus Chapter
Octavian had wasted no time; the day after Caesar’s departure from Susa, he put out a call for volunteers from the 22nd and the auxiliaries for men who were willing to make what he promised would be a temporary transfer to the cavalry. While he somewhat expected it, when at the end of the first day there was a total of two dozen men who had put their names forward, he was nonetheless unhappy about it.
Agrippa was anything but sympathetic, pointing out, “You’re asking men who have been walking their entire lives to suddenly risk their necks riding a horse, and not just for leisure or to get somewhere, but to fight from horseback.” Shaking his head, he told his friend flatly, “You’re going to have to use both silver and the vitus to get the thousand men you want. And,” he added, “you’re being completely unrealistic thinking that you’re going to get a thousand men.”
As Agrippa knew it would, this irritated Octavian immensely, but Marcus Agrippa, and to a lesser degree, Gaius Maecenas, who served as Octavian’s Quaestor, were two men who weren’t intimidated by their counterpart.
That Octavian knew this, and in fact appreciated it, meant that the glare didn’t last long, as Caesar’s nephew admitted ruefully, “I know. I suppose I had just held some hope that they would understand that this is their duty to Rome.”
At this, Agrippa didn’t say anything, but he exchanged a surreptitious glance with Maecenas, who was seated behind his desk that was off to the side of the one occupied by Octavian, and he could see that their thoughts were running along the same lines. In appearance and demeanor, Agrippa and Maecenas couldn’t have been more different; the former looked the part of the young Roman warrior, with a well-defined, muscular physique and a square jaw that served as a symbol of his resolute character, and while he hadn’t seen much combat to this point, he had already distinguished himself in what little he had. Maecenas was shorter, with a flabby physique that, in its own way, was every bit as indicative as that of Agrippa. And, whereas Agrippa was already known for his amorous conquests, Maecenas had an air of effeminacy that, to some Romans, particularly older ones, was quite off-putting. That he loved poetry, preferred to read Greek authors, and was already becoming known as a patron of the arts, meant that it seemed impossible that he and Agrippa could possibly be friends, let alone close to each other. They had one thing in common, however; they were both devoted and fanatically loyal to Octavian, who it must be said, leaned more to the example set by Maecenas, at least when it came to martial matters, than Agrippa. But, in exchange for this undying and steadfast loyalty, they both had what was, at least to them, something worth more than all the gold in the treasury of Egypt: the total trust of Octavian. Now, as they sat in the throne room of Susa, which Octavian had rearranged so that, instead of the desks of his scribes occupying the raised dais, his desk was the only one placed on it, they discussed how to go about filling the complement of cavalry.
“So, Agrippa,” Octavian asked, “how much silver do you think it would take?”
“At least five hundred sesterces more than their current pay,” Agrippa answered immediately.
“Five hundred?” Octavian gasped, then shook his head emphatically. “There’s no way that Caesar would approve of that amount!”<
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“If that’s what it takes to keep the army supplied because you’ve scoured the countryside of marauding bandits,” Maecenas spoke up, “I think he’ll have no problem with it whatsoever.”
“That,” Octavian argued, “is only if those Parthians up at Ecbatana go back on their word now that Valash took Caesar’s silver. For all we know, they may be perfectly content, and he’s the only Parthian noble able to summon enough of a force to do more than just cause some mischief.” Once again, the other two exchanged a look, this one of exasperation, because they both knew this was due to Octavian’s parsimony, not his uncle’s. Octavian shook his head, saying stubbornly, “I think it’s a waste of money, and I won’t do it.”
“Do you really think he’s the only Parthian out there, Gaius?” Agrippa asked quietly. “We have no way of knowing that there aren’t more satraps besides Valash, and if there are, they undoubtedly know that aside from whoever’s there at Istakhr, they’re the last hope for the entire Parthian nation.”
Octavian didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to stare down at an unopened scroll that was sitting on his desk.
“Fine,” he finally muttered then glanced over at Maecenas. “Add that we’re going to pay a bonus of five hundred sesterces to any man who volunteers.”
Agrippa cut in, “I didn’t say a bonus.”
At first, neither Octavian nor Maecenas grasped his meaning, then, slowly, a smile grew on Octavian’s face, and he began nodding.
“I see,” he said. “You’re talking about increasing their pay, which…”
Maecenas had been only an eyeblink slower than Octavian, so he finished, “…means that we don’t have to pay it all at once.”
“And,” Octavian mused, “only the gods know how many men we’ll lose, so we’ll only be paying the survivors the full amount.”
“And it will only be for this year,” Agrippa pointed out, but then something occurred to him. “Although,” the thought made him frown, “that will mean that these men will be paid two hundred sesterces more than our regular cavalry. That’s not going to go well with them.”
While this was true, Octavian didn’t seem overly worried, saying only, “We’ll worry about that if it comes up.”
He turned his attention back to the scroll on his desk, and when he picked it up, he saw the imprint of the seal for the first time, letting out a curse. When Agrippa and Maecenas looked inquiringly at him, he only turned it so that they could see it, and while not as demonstrative, their expressions matched Octavian’s.
“She’s probably just complaining about the accommodations again,” Maecenas suggested, but when Octavian’s eyes traveled down the precisely lettered Greek script that he knew hadn’t been written by a scribe, just the grimace he gave told Maecenas otherwise.
“No,” Octavian finally answered, throwing down the scroll in disgust, “it’s worse. Much worse.” He looked from Agrippa to Maecenas for a moment, then told them, “She’s coming here. And she’s bringing the brat with her.”
There was no need to explain who “she” was, yet despite Caesar being with the army, the pair exchanged another surreptitious glance, first at each other, then Maecenas indicated the half-dozen scribes who, while they gave every appearance of industriously working at their respective tasks, they both knew were all avidly listening to the Roman noblemen talking. And, if the truth were known, neither Agrippa or Maecenas had any intention of commiserating with Octavian to the extent where they could be construed as supporting Octavian’s assessment of Caesar’s son as a “brat.” Wisely, they both chose to comment with noncommittal murmurs that Octavian could interpret as agreement but could never be proven. Nevertheless, they were just as dismayed as Octavian that Cleopatra, Queen and Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt, the living embodiment of the Egyptian gods Rah, Isis, and Ptah, was making the journey to Susa, and bringing Caesarion, also a god as well as Caesar’s son, with her.
It seemed to Cleopatra that she had spent most of the previous three years at least one step behind the man she thought of as her husband in Caesar, and she often wondered if this was intentional on his part. Most of the time, and despite her youth—she was only six years older than Octavian—Cleopatra was extremely pragmatic and clear-eyed in her assessments of situations, and, most importantly, of those with whom she came into contact, particularly Romans, and especially those Romans who held enough power to force Egypt to bend to their will. There had been a time when there was more than one such Roman, but Pompeius Magnus was dead, and Caesar was First Man in Rome for the foreseeable future, over and above carrying the title Dictator For Life. However, when it came to Caesar, she was anything but pragmatic; the simple truth was that she was a woman in love with a man, not a Pharaoh who had achieved a strategic union with the prevailing superpower of their time. Oh, she would have acknowledged if she had been asked, it had started that way. When, during the aftermath of Pompeius’ defeat at Pharsalus, the victor Caesar had pursued him to Egypt, then gotten himself and his handful of Legionaries trapped in Alexandria, when Cleopatra had come to him on the very first night of his arrival, she had coldly assessed that seducing the much older Caesar was in not only her best interests from a personal perspective, but for Egypt as well. So quickly that she was never sure exactly when it happened, however, the roles had been reversed, and she only realized sometime after the fact that she had been the one who was seduced, not the other way around as she intended. Regardless of that reality, Caesar had given her Caesarion, and for the first time in her life, Cleopatra Philopator, seventh of her name, understood and felt unconditional love, a remarkable achievement for anyone carrying the dynastic name of Ptolemy. It was for that alone that, whether Caesar discarded her or not, she would be grateful to him, but nonetheless, she was very happy that he had made no such suggestion to that effect.
They had spent a tranquil winter together, although as was his habit, Caesar never stayed in Ctesiphon for more than a week at a time, but he was like that everywhere he went, so she didn’t believe it signified anything significant where she was concerned. Granted, he had forbidden her from relocating to Susa, making the argument that the presence of an Egyptian Pharaoh, and a Ptolemy at that, would make the most recently conquered Parthian inhabitants of the city more restive than necessary. And, being honest with herself, he had been correct in that assessment; her time in Ctesiphon had proven to be so much of an issue that, without being ordered to by Caesar, she had transferred her household across the river to Seleucia instead, where the majority Greek population, while not friendly, at least weren’t overtly hostile. Regardless of this experience, the instant that she learned that Caesar would be departing Susa with the army in a matter of weeks, she waited only long enough for Octavian to depart for Susa himself before ordering her retinue to pack up and prepare to make their own move. As Pharaoh, she had her own troops; a contingent of Nubian spearmen, numbering five hundred, and a squadron of royal cavalry, outfitted not in the traditional Egyptian, nor a purely Macedonian style, but in the manner that was the hallmark of the Ptolemies, which in reality was a curious mishmash of two distinctly different cultures. These men never left her presence and were never considered as part of Caesar’s army, which had created quite a bit of friction itself, particularly with Caesar’s Legates, most of whom resented the fact that a woman commanded troops in the first place. As she had learned early on in her more intimate association with Roman men, their views on the role of women were such that it was essentially inconceivable to them that a woman would be in such a position, and the idea that they would take orders from one was downright laughable. It may have been so to them but not to Cleopatra, and from her perspective, the worst Roman by far in this view was the upstart Octavian, who, despite her best attempts, had proven to be completely immune to her charms. Indeed, in her less charitable moments, Cleopatra was convinced that the reason for her failure with Octavian rested not with her or anything she had done, but in the fact that Octavian preferred men, especial
ly that Marcus Agrippa fellow. This was something she had brought up once to Caesar; that it was only one time was because of his reaction to her broaching the subject of his nephew’s proclivities, and, so far at least, it was the only time where Caesar’s anger had been directed solely at her. She had certainly seen him angry, but it wasn’t until she was the focus of that anger that she finally understood why men, grown men, including the giant Titus Pullus, quailed at his wrath.
Cleopatra didn’t think of Pullus that often, but when she did, it was with a level of regard and a certain warmth that would have shocked others, not only Pullus himself but particularly Octavian. The huge Roman had been the de facto Primus Pilus of the two Cohorts of the 6th Legion who had accompanied Caesar to Alexandria; in fact, he had been her escort to her private quarters in the palace that first night, when Caesar came to visit her, and, she was fairly certain, was the night Caesarion had been conceived. It wasn’t just that; a good deal of her attitude towards Pullus came by virtue of Caesar, who had known the Equestrian’s Primus Pilus since he was a sixteen-year-old who had lied about his age to join the 10th Legion. She knew that Caesar thought highly of the huge Roman, and not just for his strength and prowess in battle; Caesar had told her more than once that, despite his lack of education, Pullus possessed a first-rate mind, and she was cognizant that Caesar didn’t say such things lightly. She had been highly skeptical of this claim at first, but she had seen enough in Alexandria to realize that, as he usually was, Caesar had been right in his assessment. What mattered to her most, however, wasn’t Pullus’ abilities, as prodigious as they may have been, but in his utterly devoted loyalty to Caesar, and she always took comfort knowing that Titus Pullus would always be nearby whenever the father of her child was in danger. Nevertheless, as much as she loved Caesar, she was still a queen, which was why she was deliberately disobeying his injunction to stay put, and it was a week after Octavian departed, leaving Ctesiphon under the command of one of Octavian’s contemporaries named Salvidienus Rufus, that Cleopatra, carried on a litter that was almost the size of a Legionary section tent, led her retinue out through the gates of Seleucia.