by Peake, R. W.
Once the way was cleared, Caesar resumed walking, but as much as he had on his mind, when he spotted a lone figure, squatting in his accustomed spot—where there was a small street off the Vicus Iugarius that led to the Velabrum—he couldn't resist the urge to have a little fun. Somewhat unusually, Caesar didn't know the man's name, but that was because, as far as he knew, nobody knew it. He was just referred to as The Seer, because of the way he made his living, soliciting passersby with offers to tell their future. For some time now, The Seer had called out to Caesar, every single time he saw him, the same prediction he had first made several months earlier. And since today was the day about which Caesar had been warned by The Seer, and since the day had dawned bright and clear, Caesar decided it was time to take The Seer down a notch.
"Good morning, Seer," Caesar called out genially, raising his voice, so that not just his entourage, but also anyone within earshot could hear, knowing that what he was about to say would be known through every precinct of Rome by sunset. "You said that the Ides of March would see my doom, but here I am! The Ides have come, and," he made a point to peer down at himself, affecting surprise before he returned his gaze back to the squatting man, giving him a grin, "I'm all in one piece!"
As he expected, this brought a hearty round of laughter, not just from his lictors and scribes, but from the dozens of men nearby. For his part, The Seer didn't seem to be in the least bit embarrassed, and, in fact, smiled back at Caesar, although he said nothing, at least at first. Caesar had already turned away and was resuming his walk, when The Seer called out, "Yes, Caesar. You're right, the Ides have come. But they're not finished yet."
Although he heard The Seer’s response, Caesar didn't turn back around, not wanting to prolong the exchange. And yet, despite continuing on his way, something was...wrong. Shaking his head, Caesar chided himself for allowing the superstition of a beggar in the Forum to burrow its way into his own brain, so to show that he had dismissed the thought, he lengthened his stride.
Then, without knowing how, Caesar found himself coming to a stop. Turning around, he could still view The Seer watching him calmly, his face expressionless. And Caesar would wonder for the rest of his days how it happened, but he began walking again. This time, however, it was back towards the Forum, away from Pompey's Theater, and away from his death.
Chapter 1
Gaius Julius Caesar sat astride his horse, staring across the expanse of water at the dark line of land on the horizon, feeling every one of his 65 years. He supposed it was natural that he would be reflective at this moment, staring at what he was told was the end of the world. The people in this part of the world called what he was staring at the Land of Wa, supposedly populated with a race even more fierce and martial than the armies Caesar and his men had faced to this point. Of course, he thought wryly, he had heard that refrain more than once in his career: it always seemed that the next land over the horizon contained the fiercest and most bloodthirsty warriors. Sometimes, he admitted to himself, it was even true. But now, there was just this last obstacle, this last land to see and to give the people in it a taste of what Rome was about.
Rome. Just the name gave him a harsh stab of longing in his heart, the homeland he hadn't seen and in whose name he had endured and done so much. No, be honest with yourself, Gaius—if not with anyone else, at least with yourself. All that you've done has been to glorify YOUR name, not that of Rome's. But if he hadn't been born a Roman, he mused, would he even be here at this point in time, in this place, making history? So, Rome would share in the glory just as much as he and those who shared his name. That thought brought another twinge, albeit of a different type and for different reasons. Despite trying to keep his mind focused on the moment, the thought forced its way into his consciousness, a glimmer of a face, a name—but that was all, before he ruthlessly pushed it back into the recesses of his mind. Caesarion, his son by Cleopatra, now almost 14 years old and, as far as he knew back in Alexandria with his mother, after accompanying Caesar and his army for a few months, before events became too dangerous for Caesar to be comfortable with allowing him to stay. Oh, how he missed that boy! But he had done the right thing; he knew it in his bones, and it did free him of one worry.
Then there were his other sons, or those that remained, for that is how he thought of the men of his army. Even if some of them are almost as old as I, he laughed to himself. Because, no matter what their age in years, in so many ways the men of the Legions were like children, needing the firm hand of a loving, but harsh, father to make sure they behaved themselves. Not that there were many men left of those who started with him so many years before! He turned in his saddle to look back at the mass of men behind him, most of them stretched out in the spot, where they had halted. All of them were brown as nuts, although by this point a good number of them came by that color naturally and did not need the sun to do the work for them. In fact, a substantial number of these had the yellowish cast and almond eyes of the people of Han. Supposedly the people across the water looked similar to the Han , but only time would tell, if that was the truth. Yes, he acknowledged sadly, there were precious few proud Roman noses in that mass of flesh behind him, but those that were there belonged to the fighting core of his army, and he wouldn't have given up one of these men for 100 of the fiercest fighters he had come across on this campaign. Even so, he was thankful that the Roman contingent seemed to have settled down and accepted their lot; it had been almost a year since the last attempted mutiny, and that had been quelled only when Caesar had pointed out to them that their chances of making it back to their homes without the protection of the larger army was nonexistent. No, they were all in this together, and whether they were grasping each other's hands in a bond of friendship and sense of duty, or because they were chained together like galley slaves really did not matter at this point. They would either succeed together, or perish together.
Now he would be calling on these sons for one last effort, although he knew better than to describe it as such, since he had used that reason too many times. But it seemed that there was always one last river to cross, or gulf, or inland sea. Caesar had learned more about what it took to transport an army by water than he ever thought possible; and secretly, he was as sick of ocean voyages as the men, even when they were better than the alternatives. For perhaps the thousandth time, he thanked the gods for the contents of Ptolemy's library in Alexandria and those diaries, charts, and maps he had managed to locate and take out of the great library, before that regrettable incident, when he had been under siege and the fire had gotten out of hand, consuming a treasure trove of knowledge. It was only with the vital pieces of information found in the rescued library that he had been able to avoid the mistakes of Alexander, bypassing the harsh mountains of the Hindu Kush for the more southerly, albeit longer route to this shore. Yes, the men had endured great hardships crossing the vast deserts, the privation almost overwhelming even Caesar's prodigious capacity for planning. He had to bring hundreds, no, thousands of camels, their only cargo nothing but precious skins of water. Still, it had been a close-run thing, and was the first major crisis of Caesar's grand campaign. To this day, deep down in his bones, he believed that he, and by extension the army, had survived only because his famous luck had held. That luck, Caesar's luck, had become as much of a talisman against misfortune to the men as any of the gods they prayed to, even those they had adopted, worshiped by the inhabitants encountered during their passage across the vast lands lying to the west behind them.
Even now, he had to laugh at his own hubris, to decide on an act so audacious that tongues were wagging about it years later. Instead of moving his massive army, ensconced aboard the largest fleet ever assembled, by hugging the coast all the way around to Alexandria, he had gambled it all by ordering the fleet to take the most direct route, straight across Our Sea. Individual ships and small fleets had braved the open sea before, but never before had a flotilla of more than a thousand ships done so, and done it with a loss o
f only ten ships. Ten! That passage had planted the seed, a seed that had been nurtured by Caesar and watered by more examples of the gods' favor for him and his cause, until it was now blossomed into a full-blown faith. In fact, Caesar was aware that some of the men had surreptitiously set up shrines with clay figurines made in his likeness, worshiping him as a god. But he had learned from Alexander's mistakes, and not only discouraged such practice, but actually executed a half-dozen men caught worshiping him, as an example that he was sincere in his statement that he was not a god, but a man. However, that was a couple years before, and he had been walking on an ever-narrowing razor's edge between mortality and divinity, knowing that the men obeyed so readily, because in their heart they believed him a god. He would need that faith in him now more than ever, if he were to be successful, because Caesar was going to sail across this narrow passage, and he was going to see this Land of Wa for himself. And more importantly, they were going to see him. And his army.
Titus Pullus and Sextus Scribonius, Centurions of Caesar's 10th Legion, sat in Pullus' tent, discussing the orders they had just received from Caesar.
"The men aren't going to like it much," Sextus commented, as he sipped at the cup of beverage Titus had provided. He knew that it wasn't the fault of his Primus Pilus that it was this disgustingly tepid and weak drink the Han called "chai", but, oh, how he longed for some Falernian. Even some of that abominable rice wine the Han drank would be better than this, he reflected, almost missing Pullus' reply.
"They don't have to like it, they just have to do it," his Primus Pilus said, staring moodily into his own cup, his thoughts of both the larger question Scribonius raised and the smaller issue of beverage choice running along almost identical lines as those of his Secundus Pilus Prior and best friend.
"And I haven't heard them doing much more than complaining so far, have you?"
Scribonius shook his head. "So far all they've been doing is moaning. I haven't heard a whisper of anything more serious." He looked up and gave his commander a pointed stare, making sure he looked Pullus in the eyes, as he finished, "But that doesn't mean it won't happen. Especially, the longer we wait here in this place."
That was the nub of the problem, really, mused Titus. The men had become so accustomed to Caesar's decisions always working out, as long as they weren't given a lot of time to think. As he thought about it, he realized that almost every attempted mutiny or uprising had come about, after the army had stayed in place for more than a couple of weeks, at least if it was not winter camp. Now they were stuck here waiting for the fleet that had transported them to the western side of this large peninsula, while they marched across it, as the fleet made its way down the coast and back up to the eastern side to meet the army. This fleet, now a mishmash of vessels, much like the composition of the Legions, was the only way to get to the island nation the Han called the Land of Wa. As far as Titus was concerned, he didn't care, why it was so important to Caesar to make this passage and possibly to face another fight against people defending their land. Because Caesar wished it—that was enough for him, and was a prime reason Titus Pullus had risen through the ranks and been named Primus Pilus at a relatively young age. That, and the fact that by an accident of birth, he was born larger and stronger than almost any man, not just in the armies of Rome, but in all the nations they had met. He couldn't help being born that way and, in fact, it had caused quite a bit of anguish in his life, since his large size had essentially killed his mother when she bore him, an event his father never let him forget about. Their hatred for each other had led to Titus' enlistment in the army a year earlier than at the minimum age of 17, aided by his large size and his father's eagerness to be rid of his only son. Titus had found a home in the army, and had been recognized by Caesar very early on, in the first campaign the then-Praetor had conducted in Lusitania some 27 years before. The reality was that Titus Pullus was one of Caesar's men through and through, and he made no apologies for it. This didn't mean there weren't times that being Caesar's man wasn’t a trial, and this was one of them.
But while Titus appreciated Sextus' words of caution, he wasn't particularly worried about the possibility of trouble. In his opinion, the men had resigned themselves to their fates, and had more faith in Caesar's luck and—more importantly—they absolutely believed in their general’s divinity in a way the men of Alexander never had. Even so, he admitted, if only to himself, following a god could be exceedingly difficult. So he took his best friend's words of caution with a measure of seriousness and resolved to himself that he would keep his eyes and ears open. However, his biggest concern right now was the more practical problems posed by the composition of his Legion, and it was this subject he wanted to discuss with the commander of his Second Cohort. Setting down his cup, Titus asked Scribonius the real question he was worried about:
"How's the new dilectus coming?"
Scribonius made a face, causing Pullus to laugh.
"About like one would expect, I suppose," Scribonius finally said, the grimace still on his lined face. "As usual, it's the language that's the biggest problem, but I have to admit that these Han bastards that Yuan gave us learn languages faster than anyone I've ever run into. They've been helping with this last bunch. The Gayans are some backwards bastards, but they can fight."
"I'm more worried about how they integrate with the rest of the Legion and how quickly they learn our commands," Pullus replied. "We both know that Caesar isn't going to wait any longer than he absolutely has to. My gut tells me the fleet will be here in less than a week, and I don't see him waiting more than a day, before he loads us up and heads over there to face those Wa barbarians."
And that was the challenge facing Titus Pullus and all the other Centurions of Caesar's armies. Every Legion in Caesar's command was a Roman Legion in name only. In the 10th, for example, less than a quarter of its ranks was filled by Roman citizens, and more than half of that number consisted of men raised in a second dilectus drawn from the African provinces early in this campaign. The men of Titus’ and Sextus' own enlistment, those men who enlisted in Scallabis back when then-Praetor Gaius Caesar had formed the Legion, numbered barely 10 percent of the remaining Legion. But as much as Caesar valued these men, he did not value them nearly as much as Titus and Sextus did, so it was this core they relied on very heavily to accomplish the tasks that had become almost second nature. For despite the Legions being a polyglot mass of nations and races, their identity, and most importantly, their command structure and training, were thoroughly Roman, grounded in the traditions and practices a man like Cincinnatus would recognize even now. The men were still organized in tent sections, and Titus, along with the other Primi Pili, took great pains to ensure that every tent section contained at least one Roman. However, there was another lesson that had been learned, at great cost, barely more than 3 years into this great trek, and this was that restricting the officer ranks to only Romans was a recipe for insurrection. And, as always, Caesar was quick to learn from his mistakes, so that there were now Tribunes, Centurions, Optios and tent section Sergeants who would have caused a respectable Roman matron to run screaming for her life, sure that there was a barbarian horde who had slaughtered a Roman Legion and stolen their uniforms! If, Pullus thought, any of us ever live long enough to see Rome again and march in a triumph. But what a triumph it would be! Titus knew that it was this thought that kept the Roman contingent going, believing that Caesar's godly powers would protect them long enough to survive what would surely go down, not just in Roman history, but in human history, as the greatest exploit of any type ever known. And, he reflected, it had actually been several months since the last Roman had died, but Titus suspected that this had more to do with the Han physicians that Caesar had persuaded to join the army than Caesar's divine protection. Like all Romans, he had been profoundly skeptical about anyone claiming knowledge of the healing arts, but these Han doctors had made not just the Greeks, but also the medicine men from the Indus appear as charlatans and
half-wits. As well-off as they were in that respect, and as skilled as they were, Titus Pullus suspected that their skills would be challenged more than ever with this last expedition.
Pushing that thought out of his mind, Titus returned to the topic he and Sextus were discussing.
"Do you think that Mardonius is ready to be Optio?" Pullus asked, referring to one of the non-Roman additions to the Legion, a Parthian who had joined, albeit reluctantly, but who had proven to be a superb Legionary, picking up the customs and language of his conqueror.
Scribonius considered for a moment, then replied, "I think he is. His Latin has improved, and there's no questioning his courage. He's a solid man, and I think he'll rise to the challenge of leading such a motley group of misfits and craven bastards that's ever marched under the standard."