Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  Perhaps as an apology for breaking into the conversation, Artaxerxes looked to the two Decurions, and it was Cornuficius who, after a moment of whispered conversation with his counterpart, answered, “At least three men, although four is ideal, working as a team.”

  “Just like wolves,” Arctosages interjected. “One man must draw enemy’s attention by placing himself in a spot where cataphractoi thinks he can either run our man down or defeat him in single combat. Once cataphractoi engages in pursuit, then another of our men attack from the flank, then another from the other flank. And then,” he shrugged, “we wear them down.”

  “Doesn’t that also depend on a numerical advantage?”

  Frankly, the others in the room had forgotten Maecenas, if only because he was seated at his desk in the corner, seemingly completely absorbed in scribbling something on a scroll, but despite their feelings about the effeminacy of the man, Cornuficius and Arctosages both gave him a respectful nod as the Roman answered, “That’s exactly right. And,” he pointed out, “that’s exactly the problem.”

  “Since we do not know how many enemy left are cataphractoi, it is impossible to know whether or not we will outnumber them. But,” Arctosages finished grimly, “I am certain that with only a thousand men, we will not outnumber them three or four to one.”

  “So,” Octavian spoke slowly, trying to come to grips with this problem, “what’s the best way to defeat cataphractoi when we don’t have a numerical advantage?”

  While the two Decurions knew the answer, they both looked over at Artaxerxes, wanting a Parthian to utter the truth.

  He didn’t hesitate, saying quietly, “Only another cataphractoi has a chance to defeat one of its own kind.”

  A gloomy silence descended on the room, and very quickly, it was determined by the others that it had to be Octavian who spoke next.

  To his credit, he didn’t wait long, turning to Artaxerxes, asking, “Of those men you selected for us, how many of them were cataphractoi?”

  “All of them,” Artaxerxes replied quietly, but while this was what Octavian expected, hearing it said aloud was still disconcerting.

  “So,” Octavian muttered, “if we’re going to have any chance, my plan of separating them isn’t going to work, is it?” None of the others thought this was a question that Octavian expected an answer to, which he acknowledged with a listless wave of the hand, then he asked, “Of the others, how many do you think could be trained to fight as a cataphractoi?”

  Both Cornuficius and Arctosages looked to Artaxerxes, and the Parthian shifted uncomfortably, realizing he was in a sensitive position. While it was true that he had been watching the Decurions conduct the training, he hadn’t been given explicit permission to do so, and he realized that Octavian might take that fact amiss, but finally, he spoke up. “From what I have seen, perhaps two hundred more men, although more would be better. Certainly no more than four hundred.”

  To his credit, Octavian didn’t hesitate, ordering, “Very well. Select those men who you think will be able to become cataphractoi and put them in the same turmae with those Parthians.”

  “Perhaps,” Maecenas interjected again, and this time, none of the other men were inclined to dismiss what he was about to say, “there’s another possibility.”

  “Oh?” Octavian raised an eyebrow, asking doubtfully, “One that we haven’t already considered?”

  Rather than give a direct answer, Maecenas instead said, in a musing tone, as if he was simply wondering, “What did we ever do to those prisoners that were taken at Sostrate?”

  “Pluto’s cock,” Agrippa gasped. “I’d completely forgotten about them.”

  “Clearly you did,” Octavian snapped, “given you’re talking like a ranker.”

  Octavian’s distaste for vulgarity was by this point well known and was accepted by his two friends, but Agrippa was completely unrepentant, grinning at the other man as he replied cheerfully, “It seemed to be appropriate, given that we’ve completely forgotten about them.”

  That, Octavian admitted ruefully to himself, was true. When Caesar had led the 10th, 12th, and 28th on their surprise march to the summer palace of the Parthian kings in the small city of Sostrate and captured Phraates, the surviving men of the garrison, save for the highest-ranking officers of the royal bodyguard who had been summarily executed, were put into chains, waiting for Caesar to decide what to do about them. Not surprisingly, after the fall of Susa, the necessary ordering of affairs to turn Parthia into a Roman province had taken precedence, and while he didn’t know with any certainty, Octavian couldn’t recall hearing that any decision had been made concerning their fate. The 28th had been recalled, and a force of three Cohorts of auxiliaries now garrisoned the city, it not being considered strategically important, but as far as Octavian knew, nothing had been done about the prisoners.

  He turned his attention to Artaxerxes, asking the Parthian, “Do you know what happened to those countrymen of yours we took prisoner in Sostrate? Were they marched here?”

  Artaxerxes shook his head, answering honestly, “Not that I know of, Praetor. Although,” he gave a glimmer of a smile, but whether it was feigned or not was impossible to say, “I had…other concerns at the time.”

  That, Octavian knew, was certainly true; the fate of not just Artaxerxes but a handful of other Parthians who, thanks to the intercession of the Crassoi Primus Pilus Numerius Pompilius, had been recommended to Caesar as being trustworthy enough to serve Rome in some capacity, had taken several weeks before Caesar made his decision.

  Considering for a moment, Octavian turned to Agrippa and said, “I want you to ride to Sostrate. Find out if those men are still prisoner, and if they are, then you and,” at this, he turned to the Parthian, “Artaxerxes can talk to some of those men who you think will serve our purpose, and who can be trusted to fight their own.”

  At this, Cornuficius cleared his throat, and when Octavian turned to him, he suggested, “Maybe one of us should go as well to get an idea of how they sit a horse.”

  Understanding this was sensible, Octavian only said, “I’ll leave it to the two of you to decide who goes. Now,” he stood up, signaling the end of the meeting, “I know I don’t have to tell you that time is of the essence. The quicker you get there and get back, hopefully with some more men, the better our chances of dealing with whatever is coming our way.”

  “She’s here.”

  When Maecenas made this announcement, Octavian had no need to ask who “she” was, and he dropped his stylus in disgust, asking only, “Where, exactly? Is she standing outside?”

  “No,” Maecenas answered, “at least, she wasn’t when I came in. And we’d hear her arrival in plenty of time for you to make your escape.” He motioned to the small door on the opposite side of the throne room from the main entrance that had been screened from view by a carefully placed, ornately carved partition. “Do you want me to go wait for her and stall?”

  “No.” Octavian sighed, grimacing as he said, “I might as well get this over with.” Suddenly, a look that, if one did not know better could be described as fearful flashed across his coldly handsome features as he asked, “Do you think she’ll bring her brat here with her?”

  Maecenas’ features betrayed nothing of his thoughts, but neither did he dissemble, answering honestly, “Yes, I am certain she will.”

  “And I’ll have to pretend that I care about the creature,” Octavian muttered with a petulance that underscored what Maecenas knew was Octavian’s real concern.

  “Maybe he’s changed,” Maecenas suggested to Octavian, though not with much enthusiasm, and Octavian shot him a look composed of equal parts amusement and irritation.

  “Really, Maecenas,” he said crossly, though there was a smile beginning to form, “I keep you around to tell me the truth, not to lie to me. If I wanted that, any of these,” he waved at the clerks in a gesture that was both dismissive, and frankly, scornful, “could fill that role quite nicely.”

  Naturall
y, if any of the clerks took offense, they didn’t show it, but then, from outside the room, the sounds of a commotion came through the walls.

  “Well,” Octavian repeated sourly, “let’s get this over with.”

  With that, he nodded to Maecenas, who walked to the door, but just before he reached for the knob, it burst open, and he was confronted by the sight of a man, a huge man the size of Titus Pullus, but with skin so black that it gave off a purplish hue, one of Cleopatra’s Nubian bodyguards. The man said nothing, his eyes barely flickering over Maecenas before sweeping the room in a swift glance, then quickly stepping aside, whereupon a person of indeterminate age and gender, wearing a pleated linen gown with a semicircular neckpiece made of what had to be pure gold, carrying a staff of what Maecenas was certain was carved ebony and wearing a wig made of black curls, stepped into the room.

  Stomping the end of the staff on the floor three times, then in a male, and surprisingly deep voice, the figure intoned, “All hail Cleopatra Philopator, seventh of her name, of the House of Ptolemy, Queen and Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt, Mistress of Sedge and Bee, living embodiment of Ptah, Isis, and Rah!”

  Thinking the man was through, Octavian, who had decided that, while he would stay behind his desk, remaining seated would be too much of an insult, had stood and was opening his mouth to respond when the man continued, “All hail Caesarion Julius Caesar, first of his name…” If the courtier had stopped there, it would have been hard enough for Octavian to tolerate, but then he continued, “…King and Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt, Master of Sedge and Bee, living embodiment of Amun and Osiris!”

  Before he could stop himself, Octavian heard what he knew was his own voice, though he barely recognized it, hissing with fury, “What nonsense is this? That boy is no King! He’s a…”

  “He’s Caesar’s son.” That it was Maecenas who interjected, speaking so loudly that, even if Octavian had continued to utter the word that Maecenas knew his friend must never say aloud, Cleopatra might not have heard it…might not, which meant that he kept his voice raised as he continued smoothly, “And I believe that our Dictator for Life would agree, that is the only title that matters to a Roman.”

  One thing that could never be said about Octavian was that he didn’t think quickly, and he instantly understood that Maecenas had saved him from a grievous error, one that he knew would inevitably have reached Caesar’s ears, probably within days, or perhaps even watches from the instant that word had left his mouth.

  “Of course, Maecenas is correct.” Octavian tried his best to sound gracious, but even to his ears it rang falsely. “Being the son of Caesar is more than enough.”

  For her part, Cleopatra was standing, immobilized by the combination of the enormously large headdress that seemed to be at least half as tall as her own diminutive four feet, ten inches, and the similarly pleated but far more ornate gown. Her features were unrecognizable, thanks to the heavy makeup that made her face appear as if it was carved out of stone, which Octavian was certain was precisely the desired effect, further removing the Pharaohs of Egypt from the realm of mortals. It was her eyes that Octavian noticed, recognizing in them a look of malevolent fury, and he idly wondered if it was because he had almost called her son by Caesar a bastard…or that he hadn’t. Guessing it was the latter, only now did he move from behind his desk, while the courtier remained where he was, juxtaposed between the Egyptian and Roman, but before he removed himself, he glanced over his shoulder at his queen, who made the slightest nod of her head, probably because if she did it any further, she’d tip over, Octavian thought with a waspish amusement. Whatever the reason, it was the only movement she made, while the courtier, with a show of reluctance that was so obvious, Octavian suspected it was meant more for Cleopatra than for any real apprehension on his part, stepped aside, leaving nothing but a space of a few feet between them.

  “Pharaoh,” Octavian refused to kneel, deciding only a bow was sufficient, but in this, he was almost certain Caesar would approve; Romans did not kneel to anyone, “welcome to Susa. I hope your journey wasn’t too tiring.”

  “The journey was fine, thank you, Gaius Octavian.” That Cleopatra answered Octavian’s Greek with Latin was a subtle but powerful message to Octavian, Maecenas thought as he watched with a mixture of equal parts fascination and dread, hoping that his friend maintained his composure. Before Octavian could say anything, with a visible effort because of her regalia, Cleopatra turned to indicate what by all appearances was a miniature copy of herself, down to the heavy makeup, but there was no mistaking the maternal pride as she said, “And I’m sure you remember Caesarion…” Cleopatra paused then, and Maecenas inwardly winced, certain he knew what was coming, “…Caesar’s natural son.” Somehow, she managed to tilt her head, as if she was thinking about it, and said, “Let’s see, that would make you Caesarion’s…cousin, would it not? Removed by one generation from the first degree, of course.”

  Contrary to Maecenas’ fear, Octavian had divined what was coming as well, but it still took quite an effort for him to reply equably, “Yes, I believe that is correct. At least,” he added blandly, “for now. As far as the future?” He gave her an elaborate shrug. “Who can say?”

  “Ah, yes.” Cleopatra’s tone matched Octavian’s, but Maecenas felt certain that only a deaf man could miss the undertone present. “I have heard some of the gossip that Caesar had thoughts of perhaps adopting you at some point in the future. Of course,” once more she turned, but this time, she put a hand on Caesarion’s shoulder, “that was before he had a son of his own.”

  “Of course.” Now Octavian had to grit his teeth, but Cleopatra seemed satisfied with taking the honors in this exchange, because she nudged Caesarion forward with a gentle hand, saying softly, “Caesarion, what do you have to say to Gaius Octavian?”

  Although it was decidedly odd to hear a small boy’s voice coming from this seemingly lifeless face, Maecenas felt his heart soften as Caesarion spoke, like his mother in flawless Latin, “Salve, Cousin Gaius. It is truly wonderful to see you again.”

  Despite himself, despite knowing he should hate this boy, like Gaius Maecenas, Octavian felt a fluttering of an emotion that, he supposed, was some sort of affection for him, and he surprised himself by dropping to his knees to look Caesarion in the eye as he answered gravely, “Salve, Caesarion. I think you’ve grown an entire foot just in the last few weeks!”

  The boy’s eyes lit up, and there was no mistaking how pleased he was, exclaiming, “I know! Polydorus said he had to let out the hem of this stupid costume, just since the last time I wore it!”

  “Caesarion,” Cleopatra scolded, but while she tried to sound severe, she was clearly a doting mother, “the regalia of Pharaoh is not a costume! It is a sacred vestment, and you should always remember that!”

  “Yes, Mama,” he mumbled, then in an unconscious move, like all small children who are being reprimanded, he found that studying the floor was preferable to the alternative.

  Other small children, however, weren’t wearing a headdress that weighed almost as much as he did, and before he could stop himself, he began to topple forward. Cleopatra, hampered by her own outfit, couldn’t move fast enough, and it was left to Octavian to catch Caesarion before he smashed face first onto the tile floor. That he did so, without thinking, and with a stab of alarm that the boy might hurt himself, caused Octavian almost as much consternation later as it did Cleopatra.

  Caesarion, on the other hand, was anything but scared, although at first his mother thought his sudden shout was of fear until it quickly became obvious that it was one of delight, and the boy shouted, “Did you see that, Mama? Did you see how fast Cousin Gaius caught me?”

  “Yes,” Cleopatra agreed, “I did.” She was looking at Octavian as she spoke, and she wished for a moment that she wasn’t wearing that makeup so that he could see in her expression that she was truly grateful, but she had to be satisfied with telling him. “Thank you, Gaius Octavian. I think,” she added r
uefully, “you have made yourself into a hero in someone’s eyes.”

  “Can I do it again?” Caesarion asked, so eagerly that, despite knowing he shouldn’t, Octavian found himself laughing, although he tried to sound severe as he said, “Absolutely not!” Then, in a whisper that he meant to be loud enough for Cleopatra to hear, he said as he winked at the boy, “Maybe later.”

  With the formalities of welcoming Cleopatra done, Octavian had Maecenas escort the queen and her son to the section of the royal palace that would serve as their official residence, remaining standing until they left the room. Then, dropping into his chair behind his desk, Octavian sat staring down at a scroll without seeing it, wondering if he had the stomach for what he was certain needed to be done. Not now, certainly, he told himself; he still is a boy. And, he was forced to admit, a very, very nice boy. Gaius Octavian could be duplicitous when he needed to be, but he never lied to Caesar, nor did he lie to himself, and he realized that he might not have the stomach to murder Caesarion, even if he was the only thing standing in the way of becoming Caesar’s sole heir. Of course, there was still Marcus Antonius to consider, but to Octavian, Antonius was nothing more than an annoyance; on the other hand, if Caesarion proved to have even half of the intelligence of his father, he might prove to be too formidable an adversary. And, despite the makeup, Octavian felt certain that Maecenas had been wrong; the boy was looking more like his father with each passing day.

  As captivities went, Bagadates mused, being a prisoner of Rome could have been worse; much, much worse. After the initial shock when the giant Roman Centurion, who had come across Bagadates and his remnant of the royal bodyguards surrounded on all sides by Romans who were all too happy to slaughter them to the last man, summoned not just the Roman general Caesar, but his king Phraates as an enticement to surrender, Bagadates had spent the next several days in a daze. He was not the commander of the bodyguard; that was Zalmoxis, who had perished fighting at the entrance to the secret tunnel that led to the northern wall to allow Phraates to escape, but it was quickly determined that he was the highest-ranking survivor. This meant that his subordinates looked to him for guidance on how to behave, but he experienced such a sense of malaise that, frankly, he was completely indifferent as to whether he and those remaining men he supposedly commanded survived. It was none other than Arshak, the young guardsman whose uncanny resemblance to Phraates led the Parthian king to attempt a ruse by switching their armor in a brazen attempt to bluff their way past the Romans who, somehow, had been alerted to the presence of the secret exit on the northern wall, had more to do with snapping Bagadates out of his mood than anyone.