Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  Normally, Salvidienus, as he was called, would have been expected to either try to stop Cleopatra, or more realistically, immediately send a dispatch rider on the road to Susa, where, by using the relay stations that Octavian had set up during the previous year, a rider could reach Susa in just a bit more than two days. That he didn’t do either of these things was because, somewhat to Cleopatra’s surprise, it hadn’t been all that difficult to bribe Salvidienus, although he hadn’t come cheaply. How he would explain himself, to both Caesar and Octavian, who outranked him, wasn’t a concern for Cleopatra, but the servant she had sent on the task of subverting Salvidienus had given her the sense that there was quite a bit of resentment on his part, and who was at least three years older than Octavian. None of which mattered to her; what did was that she and Caesarion, who was currently playing with a nurse as the litter swayed gently back and forth, were on their way to Susa.

  Because of the litter, their pace was extremely slow, and if it had just been herself, she would have eschewedit for a wagon, but that would have meant more of a cramped environment for her son, so for his comfort, she had accepted that it would take almost two weeks to reach Susa. That her decision meant incredible hardship for the slaves who were specially trained as litter bearers, twelve of them carrying the litter, while the fifty replacement slaves plodded behind, waiting for the moment a man dropped or pulled a muscle, mattered not at all to her, nor did the discomfort of her royal bodyguards who were consigned to this tedious pace. It wasn’t that Cleopatra was inordinately cruel; it was simply that nobody in her position ever thought of such things, simply accepting this as the way their particular gods had ordained things to be. The men bearing the litter saw things quite differently, but they were never asked. Step by carefully coordinated step so as to reduce the rocking of the litter, an offense that would instantly incur a whipping, and could result in death, Cleopatra was borne towards Susa, bringing Caesar’s son.

  By this time, whenever Gaius Tullius Cicero received a summons from Marcus Antonius, Caesar’s Master of the Horse, he knew at least two things before he ever set foot in what he still thought of as Pompeius’ villa. The first was that Antonius had received a communication from Caesar; the second was what he found when he arrived and was immediately ushered in, with Antonius pacing back and forth, clearly disturbed. Without a word, Antonius suddenly thrust out his hand containing the scroll, which Cicero walked across the expansive office to take, thinking that this news must be bad if Antonius skipped the formalities that were practically a requirement for members of Rome’s upper classes. Unrolling the scroll, ignoring Antonius as he continued to pace, hands behind his back and concentrating on the floor, Cicero immediately recognized that this was written in Caesar’s hand. Within a span of perhaps twenty heartbeats, while he did not do so, Cicero desperately felt like pacing the floor himself.

  It took some effort, but Cicero managed to control his voice from any inflection that might betray his feelings, asking carefully, “He’s asking for two more Legions, over and above the 25th and the 30th?”

  “He’s not asking for anything,” Antonius snapped, speaking for the first time. “He’s telling me to send him two more Legions! Two!”

  Suddenly and without any warning, Antonius crossed the two steps that separated him from his desk, and with a bellow of rage, swept one muscular arm across the surface, sending almost everything that had been on it flying. Tablets, scrolls, scraps of parchment, the supply of pens, and the inkpot for it; all of them hit the mosaic floor, creating a clattering sound as the wooden tablets and spools landed, while the inkpot shattered, an explosion of black ink obscuring the entire face of one of the figures. Antonius stood there, looking dumbly at the results of his rage, and Cicero had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from pointing out that the mercurial Master of the Horse should have been accustomed to the results of one of his outbursts, but he quickly realized that it was a probability that Antonius would lash out at him, and it was likely it would be physically.

  Still, he could not resist poking some fun, and he pointed down the now-obscured face and asked, “Wasn’t that Fortuna?”

  “What?” Antonius asked, startled from his own thoughts. Following Cicero’s finger, he looked down at it, then nodded, saying absently, “I think so.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t piss on her,” Cicero said lightly, “but I can’t imagine she’s happy that it’s just ink.”

  Despite his anger, a chuckle escaped from Antonius’ lips, and for the first time, he glanced up to look Cicero in the eye.

  “So what do you think it means?” he asked Cicero, then added, “Why would he need fourteen Legions now that Parthia is conquered?”

  Cicero considered this, acknowledging that it was a very good question indeed, and one that deserved to be taken seriously. Despite this, however, Cicero never forgot that Antonius was sworn to Caesar, although over the previous two years, the unofficial leader of the Senate had discerned a growing disenchantment on the part of Caesar’s Master of the Horse, so he answered carefully, “It might mean one of two things.” When Antonius did not respond but continued staring at him intently, he had to fight down the irritation, continuing, “Either matters in Parthia aren’t as settled as he says…” He paused, then said, “Or…”

  “Or he plans on doing more in India than just a season’s worth of campaigning,” Antonius interjected rudely, and now Cicero could not restrain himself from snapping, “If you know the answer, then why are you asking me, Antonius?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Cicero braced himself for some sort of explosion from the famous Antonius temper, so when it did not come, Cicero almost staggered from the shock as, instead, Antonius held up a hand placatingly. “Pax, Cicero. I apologize for interrupting you. I’m just…disturbed that now Caesar is ordering two more Legions to march across half of fucking Parthia right after he either just received or is about to receive the first two.”

  We truly live in an age of wonders, Cicero mused, but outwardly, he dropped his gaze back to the scroll, realizing that he had not read it all the way through.

  “It says here,” he spoke slowly, mainly because he was trying to think, “that he wants the 21st, which is on this side of Our Sea, and the 14th, which at least is in Africa…” His voice trailed off, and Antonius correctly interpreted it as a question, confirming, “They’re actually even closer, in Syria.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t summon the 14th in the first place.”

  Antonius shrugged, answering Cicero honestly, “I have no idea.”

  Cicero closed his eyes, which he often did when thinking; aloud, he asked Antonius, “What do we know about the Primi Pili of those two Legions? Anything?”

  Antonius shrugged again, then answered, “Nothing comes to mind.” Suddenly, he straightened up from where he had dropped onto the edge of the desk with folded arms, his expression changing. “Although, now that you ask, I do recall now that Aulus Papernus, the Primus Pilus of the 21st, was actually on the Pompeian side at the beginning of the civil war.”

  This arrested Cicero’s attention, but while he had originally aligned himself with Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus, his knowledge of the men who did the actual fighting for the side that proclaimed themselves as The Boni was scant, and this particular name did not mean anything to him.

  Discarding this as something that could be pursued later, Cicero cut to the heart of the matter, asking Antonius bluntly, “What are you going to do?”

  Once more, Antonius surprised Cicero, by answering honestly, “I don’t know.” Heaving a sigh, he looked at Cicero, asking with an almost pleading tone, “What do you think?”

  It was only later that Cicero realized that he had been duped by Antonius; by acting truly baffled, he managed to force Cicero to utter his thoughts first, something that he did not realize until the words were already out of his mouth and it was too late.

  “I think that at this moment you need to do what Caesar orders…but v
ery slowly,” he said thoughtfully. “Meanwhile, we need to try and find out more about what’s going on in Parthia right now.” Despite his natural nervousness around Antonius, he asked frankly, “Would I be correct in assuming that you have someone you…trust in a high position in Caesar’s command?”

  “Yes,” Antonius answered quickly, but then hesitated and added glumly, “and no.” Seeing Cicero’s mouth open, he explained, “Salvidienus Rufus is my man, bought and paid for, but the last time he wrote me, he said that it sounded very much like he was going to be left behind to serve with the boy.”

  Cicero did not need to ask who “the boy” was, and while he understood Antonius’ dismissal of Octavian as a callow youth, he suspected that there was more to him than met the eye. Neither could he deny that the lad had an almost effeminate quality, a delicate air about him that he was certain had more to do with Antonius’ scorn than anything else.

  “Well,” Cicero said blandly, “that’s too bad. But,” he emphasized, “we need to determine exactly what is happening not just in Parthia itself, but with Caesar.”

  “It’s a good thing we don’t face any threats in any of the areas we’re stripping Legions from,” Antonius mused.

  “Yet,” Cicero added grimly. “Not yet we’re not.” They fell silent then, and Cicero decided to do something completely out of character, and that was to, as Caesar said so famously when he turned their world upside down, ‘let the dice fly high,’ which he did by yawning, then saying as if he just remembered, “And, while I’m here, I have some news of my own that might interest you.”

  “Oh?” Antonius regarded Cicero with a raised eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

  “I received a letter from a…mutual acquaintance,” Cicero began diffidently, hoping that Antonius would immediately discern the identity of the person, but, as always, Antonius was immune to subtlety.

  When Cicero said nothing else, Antonius demanded, “Well? Are you going to make me guess? Who is this ‘acquaintance’?”

  “The man who Caesar took with him when he left Rome for Parthia,” Cicero responded.

  His heart sank when he saw by Antonius’ demeanor he still did not know the identity, but then, just as he was about to open his mouth, the other man’s expression changed.

  “Ah,” he said softly. “Him.” When he saw Cicero was not convinced that they were speaking of the same man, Antonius added, “What was it that Caesar called him? ‘Lean and hungry, like a wolf’?”

  The relief that flooded through Cicero made it difficult for him to maintain his composure, but he knew he had to in order to have the nerve to bring up what he had promised Cassius, although he chose his words carefully. “Yes, that’s him. And, as it turns out, he asked me a question of a rather…delicate nature.” Antonius said nothing, and Cicero had to swallow twice before he continued, “He was inquiring about the possibility of returning home. Not,” he held up his hand quickly, seeing Antonius’ face harden, “to Rome itself, certainly. He’s aware that would be too much. But to Italia at least. Of course,” he assured the Dictator, “he will abide by whatever you decide, and if you choose to allow this, he will live wherever you deem suitable.”

  Antonius’ eyes bored into Cicero’s, all emotion gone from his face, and his voice held no hint of his thoughts as he asked, “And why would I do that?”

  Cicero shrugged, saying casually, “I would think it would be better to have him somewhere nearby where it’s easier to keep an eye on him. Do you agree?”

  Antonius stared at him, hard, for several heartbeats, and when he began nodding his head, at first, Cicero could not tell what this meant, then he finally said slowly, “Yes, I do agree.”

  When Cicero left Pompeius’ villa, his mind was racing, but from where he stood, the situation was composed of almost equal parts good and bad.

  Just short of a week after announcing the pay increase for any man volunteering to join Octavian’s scratch cavalry force, the young Roman went from a paucity to an embarrassment of riches, at least in numbers. This turned out to be a good thing, because very quickly, it became clear that a large percentage of the volunteers were hopelessly inept when it came to actually possessing any ability to ride a horse. With help from the two Decurions that remained in Susa to command Octavian’s originally pitifully small cavalry force, a series of trials were devised that gave the officers an idea of a man’s prior experience, or if that was missing, at least his aptitude for fighting from horseback. The results were so bad that, in a desperate move that Octavian worried would result in censure from Caesar, he opened the recruitment to Parthians, but he did so by exploiting a loophole in the directive by Caesar that no former cataphractoi were allowed to join the Roman forces. He did this simply by not asking those Parthians who answered the call for volunteers whether they had ever been one. It was one of the few times when Octavian received resistance from both Agrippa and Maecenas, but when he asked them for another alternative, they realized that it was truly their only option. Octavian did attempt to screen these new additions, through Artaxerxes, who had been asked by Caesar to remain behind in Susa when the army departed. While Octavian wasn’t fully convinced of Artaxerxes’ own loyalty, neither could he argue that, to that point, the former commander of the force that had been called The Thousand, composed of cataphractoi remaining behind in Susa who volunteered to be trained in the Roman fashion to help defend the city, had proven useful. And, as Agrippa pointed out, it was extremely likely that the Parthian noble had remained in some sort of contact with those men who, while deemed unsuitable for service with the Romans, hadn’t been considered enough of a danger to be one of those disposed of in the mass executions that took place in the days immediately after the fall of the city. Regardless, Octavian also made the decision that no more than a tenth of his entire cavalry force, which would essentially number two alae of five hundred men each, would be composed of former cataphractoi, and he took great care to separate those men into different turmae as well. While this helped, it still meant that he was forced to accept almost a hundred Romans who had failed the trials but who had been deemed to be not completely hopeless.

  “If we’re lucky,” Agrippa had tried to put a cheerful face on the situation, “any Parthians who want to make trouble are still too disorganized or too scared to do anything substantial for another couple of months. That should give us time to turn this bunch into a decent cavalry unit.”

  Octavian didn’t share his optimism, but he kept his thoughts to himself, and finally, the two Decurions, one Quintus Cornuficius and a Galatian named Arctosages, informed Octavian that their final selections had been made, and the training could begin in earnest. The one, and perhaps only advantage was in not just the quantity but the quality of the horseflesh available to Octavian and his two closest subordinates, the Decurions. Calling a final meeting, at the last moment, Octavian summoned Artaxerxes to attend as well, who Octavian decided might be able to provide some insight.

  Once the formalities were over, Cornuficius wasted no time, saying bluntly, “We’ve got a decision to make about how we’re going to fight.”

  For a moment, Octavian was more puzzled than anything else, and his tone was bemused as he asked, “What does that even mean?” Glancing over at Agrippa for support, he added jokingly, “I’d hope that you will train them to fight to win, Decurion Cornuficius.”

  Cornuficius was neither amused, nor was he intimidated by the connection Octavian had with Caesar; he had been part of the cavalry force under Ventidius when they participated in the battle on the ridge where Pacorus had been slain, and he hadn’t forgotten how this young pup had suddenly stopped his mount and lurked in the rear as the old Muleteer led the charge.

  Consequently, he snapped, “Of course I will, but that’s not what I’m talking about.” He paused to frame his thoughts for a moment, realizing that, Octavian’s flippancy aside, he should have prepared better, so his tone was somewhat conciliatory as he continued, “What I’m talking about is, are we g
oing to be Roman cavalry? Or cataphractoi? Or,” at this, he glanced over at his Galatian counterpart in a tacit acknowledgement that this was coming as much from Arctosages as from himself, “are we going to be something else?”

  The slight smile that had been on Octavian’s lips vanished, and he sat back in his chair; while he referred to it as his chair, the fact that it was the throne of the King of Kings wasn’t lost on anyone around him, but he barely noticed the ornate carvings of the arms, or the plush cushions, instantly understanding Cornuficius’ meaning.

  Rather than answer, however, he looked over at Agrippa with a raised eyebrow, and it was an example of their unique connection that Agrippa instantly discerned the unspoken question, turning to address the Decurions himself by asking, “What are your thoughts on this, Decurion?”

  Cornuficius exchanged another glance with his Galatian counterpart, and it was actually Arctosages who answered, in heavily accented Latin, “We should consider outfitting and training at least part of our force as cataphractoi.”

  This brought Octavian up straight in his chair, clearly not expecting this, but his tone was calm as he asked, “Why do you say this?”

  “Because while Roman-style or Galatian-style cavalry can defeat the cataphractoi, it’s only when your cavalry works as a team.”

  All eyes turned to Artaxerxes, who had been sitting silently to this point, but while neither Cornuficius nor Arctosages appreciated the Parthian interjecting, they also both grudgingly nodded to Octavian that this was the truth.

  “And,” Agrippa asked, “how many of our cavalrymen does it take to defeat a cataphractoi?”