by Peake, R. W.
Now there was no mistaking Caesar's discomfort.
"We don't know exactly. In fact, that's what Volusenus is off doing right now. He and the two thirty's," Caesar was referring to the two triremes, galleys with three banks of oars, and the only two vessels of that type to have survived this long into the campaign, "and they're scouting the island and a good landing site."
"I hope it's better than this one," Pullus muttered under his breath to Torquatus, standing next to him, who grunted in agreement.
Despite Caesar's matter-of-fact tone, he was as discomfited as the men around him, if for slightly different reasons, and he hoped that none of the men would raise the obvious question. Which, of course, they did.
"Why didn't you tell us this before, Caesar?"
The only surprise Caesar felt was not at the question, but who had asked it. Titus Pullus was usually the last man to question him on any of his decisions or orders, and the fact that it was he who uttered the question told Caesar how deeply he had misjudged the men's acquiescence. With any other of his Centurions, or Tribunes, and Legates, for that matter, Caesar would have tried to finesse the answer, dissembling, if need be, but not with Pullus. Of all his Centurions, Pullus occupied a soft spot in Caesar's heart for the man, remembering the large, powerfully bumptious boy in a man's body, who covered up his insecurity with boasting and with a desire for greatness second only to Caesar's. No, he would tell Titus Pullus the truth. He owed the man that much.
"Because if I had told you, and by extension the men that there were actually several islands that compose the Land of Wa, how many of you would have gotten aboard the ships?"
Pullus wasn't surprised by the answer, but he was disappointed, and he returned his general's candor with his own, saying, "Probably not all of us would have. But this is not going to make the men any happier to know they still have to get back on board a boat and risk drowning."
"I know that," Caesar admitted, "but I'll deal with that, when it comes. Right now, we have preparations to make to get us in a position to take the next voyage. And that starts with getting the baggage and artillery back on the ships and sending the already landed Legions up and over that ridge. Then we'll have a better idea of what's facing us."
Looking around, Caesar finished by asking, "Are there any more questions?"
There weren't, and so the men turned back to their respective Legions and tasks, lost in their own thoughts. Like the other Primi Pili, Titus Pullus hoped that Caesar hadn't reached into his bag of tricks one too many times and come up empty, or he would have his hands full with a very angry Legion. Somehow, he thought, we have to find a way to convince them to keep going, that there are still more lands to conquer. He had been in this Land of Wa only a short amount of time, but he already didn't like it much.
Just as Pullus had feared, the climb up the ridge had been brutal. Despite the fact that he was fit, he was also in his 40's, and he felt every foot of the climb up the ridge. The only reward was a spectacular view, but it was a disheartening one, because lying before him was an apparently unending series of ridges of a similar height and steepness, with just a glimpse of the ocean beyond. The scouts had ridden ahead, looking for more signs of habitation, and, most importantly, resistance. With the 10th leading the way, the army was ascending the ridge, the men grunting and panting from the effort, the sounds plainly heard at the top, as Titus Pullus caught his breath. Standing next to him was Quintus Balbus, the Pilus Posterior of Titus' Second Century, First Cohort, and next to Scribonius, Titus' closest friend in the army. Where Scribonius was cerebral, with a diffident nature, Balbus was a brawler, with a horribly scarred visage, the right side of his face disfigured from a slicing Gallic sword during that earlier campaign, along with a missing right ear. But as different as Balbus and Scribonius were, they were almost as close friends to each other as they were to Titus. Now, standing on the top of the ridge, the two Centurions talked about what they were both looking at.
"Does anyone know if the big island has as many fucking hills as this one?" Balbus asked Pullus. "Because if it does, we're going to be old men before we conquer it."
"We're already old," Pullus reminded him, bringing on a snort Pullus knew passed for Balbus' laugh.
"Speak for yourself," Balbus retorted. "I can still fuck today like I did when I was twenty."
"Which means you haven't improved as a lover. At least, that's what I heard."
Both men turned to see that Scribonius, along with his Cohort, had made the top, and that he was the one who made the barbed jest. As close as they were, both Balbus and Scribonius covered their affection for each other with the rough-edged, cruelty-tinged humor that is so abundant in the ranks of fighting men of every age.
"Well, you heard wrong," Balbus retorted. "I'm the best lover in the Legion. Just ask any of the whores."
"You also pay them better than the other men," Titus observed wryly. "That might have something to do with it."
"Gerrae!" Balbus scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Turning his attention back to the serried landscape in front of them, he asked his Primus Pilus what their orders were. Pullus shrugged in response.
"As far as I know, we keep going. And we're not getting any younger standing here."
Without waiting for an answer, the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion began following the men of his Century who, now that they had recovered, were making their way tentatively down the slope. The men were following what appeared to be a game trail, but it was so narrow, it made them walk in single file. At this rate, we're going to have to stop at the base of this ridge to make camp, Titus thought dismally. By the time the rest of the army that had landed made their way to the other side, it would be so close to dark that trying to ascend the next ridge would be downright dangerous, not to mention difficult. Pullus estimated that the ocean he could see was perhaps five miles away, but it would take them not only this day, but also most of the rest of the next day to reach it. And as dismissive as he was of Balbus' question, he had his own reservations about the terrain they would be facing, so ultimately he agreed with Balbus that the conquest of an island that according to Caesar was much, much larger than this one could very well take years. It all depended on how much of a fight the people of Wa put up.
By the time the 10th was together at the base of the ridge and ready to ascend the next one, Pullus had not only received orders to make camp, but the scouts had also returned with news that there was what appeared to be a fishing village, composed of about 100 buildings, made of thatch and little else. Also, the only defense of any note, according to the scouts, was a ditch surrounding the village, but they insisted there was no wall. If they were right, and there was no reason to think otherwise, Pullus estimated it wouldn't take much time at all to take the village; in fact, he doubted they would even need any artillery, which was a good thing, since it was loaded aboard the ships of the fleet that even now were making their way around to the eastern side of the island. Making matters even more miserable was the fact that there was barely space to make a proper camp at the foot of the first ridge, and only then, if it was configured in more of a rectangle than the perfect square layout of most Roman camps. Otherwise, a good portion of the army would be pitching tents on the side of the slope they had to ascend the next day. More important than the men's comfort was the problem that trying to defend a camp, where there was a height immediately overlooking it was a practical impossibility. Despite the scouts' assurance that there was no sight of a force large or organized enough in that fishing village to do anything more than cause some nervous sentries a scare, they had no idea if there was a larger town or even a city further north on the island. While the Romans had seen no signs of such habitations, as they approached from the west, Caesar couldn't discount the possibility that, tucked away out of sight of the fleet, was a force large enough to cause this operation to be put in difficulty, before it ever got started.
Speaking of Caesar, the overall co
mmander of the army was peeved, to put it mildly. Sitting astride his horse—not the mount that had become as famous as his owner by the point Caesar left for Parthia, but one of his offspring—the general looked down icily at the Han interpreter that had just given him even more bad news.
"Three days? It will take three days to sail to the large island? Did I hear that correctly?"
Even as Caesar asked this, he knew he was wasting his time. One of the biggest problems in this campaign, as unsurprising in hindsight as it was impossible to plan for, was the language barrier. By the time Caesar and the army had reached the Pandya kingdom, Caesar was acutely aware of the problem, and, true to his prodigious nature, had devoted a substantial portion of his time and attention to the matter. Despite his best efforts, the best he could come up with was a complex, three-way system, whereby he ordered a Parthian who spoke the tongue of the Pandya to relay his general’s statements or questions to a Pandyan interpreter, who spoke the tongue of the Han, and who, finally, told the Han representative provided by the Chinese emperor Yuan. The fact that this man was here at all was a testament to how widely Caesar's fame had spread and how it had preceded him into a kingdom that would, under other circumstances, have arrayed an army to meet him with the intent to do what so many other armies had failed to do: destroy Caesar and his men. Caesar's cause was helped by the fact that Yuan had his hands full with infighting between his possible successors, factionalism in the imperial government, and military action against Zhizhi Chanyu, of whom Caesar knew very little, but knew that he wanted to take at least part of Yuan's empire. Or Yuan wanted to take it from Zhizhi, Caesar hadn't been able to tell. All that mattered, as far as he was concerned, was that Yuan had been more than welcoming, even offering to feed Caesar’s men, although it was with that abominable food they called “rice”. Like his fellow Romans, Caesar missed bread and olive oil terribly, and would find himself thinking wistfully of a warm loaf, straight from the panera, still steaming and drenched in olive oil—always at odd moments. Like this one, he thought, as he shook himself back to the present, just in time to hear the answer so laboriously translated and given to him by the Parthian, a man named Achaemenes.
"That's because of the winds at this time of year. If they are favorable, then it will only be two days. But he says that often there are things called tai-funs this time of year that make it hard to cross," Achaemenes' Latin was almost flawless by this time; thank the gods, thought Caesar. Of course, he had had almost 8 years to practice it, so perhaps there was hope yet. As far as the problem at hand was concerned, Caesar nodded his understanding to the Han who had given the information, as he wondered for perhaps the thousandth time, if the emperor Yuan had planted an agent with orders to give information that would ultimately lead to the destruction of his Roman army. So far, all of Caesar's knowledge of the Land of Wa was given to him by the Han, and wouldn't it make sense for Yuan, as stretched and depleted as his resources were, to send Caesar and his army to their doom at the hands of the people whose lands they were about to invade?
These and a thousand other thoughts were crowding in Caesar's brain, just another detail that had to be attended to, another problem solved, another challenge overcome, if he were to succeed in his ambition. Even the knowledge that he had far surpassed Alexander didn't seem to be enough to quell his restless spirit, the hunger for....whatever it was that drove him, and by extension the army, to see worlds never even imagined by Rome. Rome knew of the Han, although most of what was known was shrouded in mystery, half-fact, and outright nonsense, as Caesar had learned. But never before had there been a whisper in the Forum about the Land of Wa, and it was this fact that he knew, deep down in his bones, drove him to push the men of his army. Now he, and the army, were poised on the brink of discovering just what the Land of Wa was all about and what their men were made of. But first, he had to convince the men to make this next voyage. After they had taken this miserably small and obviously poor village, of course, and as he looked down on it from the height of the ridge, he could only hope that the rest of the Land of Wa wasn't this impoverished; because if it was, even Caesar would have his hands full.
Chapter 3
Julius Caesar stood in the prow of the one and only remaining quinquereme, the largest, most powerful ship remaining of the original fleet of Roman ships that departed for the expedition against the Parthians, making it the obvious and only choice for flagship. Straining his eyes and ignoring the spray lashing his face, he peered ahead for the first sighting of the large island that marked the Island of Wa. Arrayed behind his craft were more than 300 other vessels, and to a casual observer, in fact to any observer, they would appear to be the most ramshackle, motley collection of craft that ever graced the waters of any sea, anywhere. Sailing side by side were the remaining transports, of the design originated by Caesar for his second invasion of Britannia, and powered by both sail and oar. These ships carried the bulk of the Legions, although they had been so reduced in numbers that a substantial number of men were spread among the other types of craft; dhows from the Arabian peninsula with their triangular sails, and a smattering of ships taken from the waters of the Pandya. But the predominant transport ship in use was what the Han called a "chuan", with high prow and stern, powered by sail and steered by means of a long oar. Leading all of these were the warships, though Zhang, the Han interpreter, had assured Caesar that they would meet no resistance on the water. However, as much as Caesar relied on his luck, he also believed in taking proper precautions—hence the vanguard of warships.
Caesar's mood wasn't helped when a lookout excitedly shouted that land was finally sighted, and even after several moments he still couldn't see it. He had long been accustomed to having perhaps the keenest vision of anyone he knew, but over the last few years he had noticed that it was failing him. Despite being in excellent health overall, it seemed that even Caesar was not immune to the ravages of time, a fact that privately peeved him to no end. It wasn't until almost a full watch later that he finally got his first glimpse of Wa. Despite seeing so many such sights before, he still felt a quickening of his heart at this last obstacle, still nothing more than a dark, greenish line on the horizon. Turning to Achaemenes, Caesar began the laborious process of extracting information from Zhang, his suspicion for the Han envoy growing deeper by the day.
"It appears that Zhang was correct about resistance from the Wa on the water, but he still hasn't satisfied me about what we can expect, when we land."
Caesar waited for the process to finish by studying Zhang closely, but as usual, he couldn't detect any flicker of emotion. These Han, he thought, almost have faces that are built to guard their emotions, at least for us. It's impossible to tell with any of them what they're thinking. The same for the Gayan, and according to everything I've heard, the Wa will look very similar to the Han, at least to us.
Achaemenes, after a short conversation, turned to Caesar and said, "Zhang assures us that where he's taking us to land is lightly defended, because it's a remote part of the island. However, he insists that there is ample space to build a camp that can be easily defended."
Caesar grunted noncommittally, not willing to trust that assurance, until he saw with his own eyes that it was true. As far as he knew, there could be an army of thousands of Wa waiting for him and his army, but at the moment, there was nothing else to be done, but wait for the land to grow slowly larger.
Shortly before nightfall, the fleet drew near enough to see that while the landing site was large enough and the beach was suitable for landing the entire army, it would not be unopposed. As the sun sank behind them, the light created by thousands of fires dotted the land immediately surrounding the beach. Well, Caesar thought, it was a bit much to expect to keep a fleet of 300 ships secret. Of course, there was no question of landing now, with darkness almost here; in fact, he was faced with a choice he didn't care to make: whether to land in the face of opposition, or sail farther north along the coast and look for a spot, where they cou
ld avoid fighting their way off the beach. Whatever the case, this was a time to confer with the commanders of his army, so Caesar ordered the flags run up the mast to signal for his officers to meet at the flagship. They'd be thankful for the calm seas; he knew that pitching about in one of the small boats was hard on the strongest stomach, and his Romans, in particular, had long since made it clear that they abhorred anything to do with the sea. That will just make them all the more eager to get off these boats and onto land, he thought with grim amusement, even if they have to fight their way off this beach to do it!
While he waited, he scanned the beach, straining his eyes to pick out any possible details of the army they were about to face, but it was simply too far and too dark to make out anything other than a mass of men lining the shore staring out at his fleet. Some of them appeared to wear armor of some sort, but it was impossible to tell, if it was similar in style to that worn by the Han, which Caesar was sure would be as susceptible to the short, stabbing Spanish sword as anything else they had run into.
Titus Pullus fought the urge to vomit, attributing it to the combination of rough surf and what he knew was about to happen. No matter how secure his hold over the 10th, and no matter his reputation in the army, he couldn't allow himself to show such weakness in front of others, so he ruthlessly forced himself to appear as calm and placid as circumstances allowed. If his color was a little green, well, that was something he couldn't help, but he'd be damned if he was going to act as if this was his first time to jump over the side of a ship.
It had been a long and contentious meeting, with men like Pollio and Hirtius shouting themselves hoarse by the time a decision was made. Pullus wondered briefly, if the men on the ships nearest to the flagship might have heard the row that took most of the night, and if they had, what their frame of mind was. Whatever it was, he thought, it doesn't matter. Because Caesar had decided to throw the dice and hoped they came up Venus, just as they had all those years ago, when he crossed that muddy creek, the Rubicon. In fact, he had used the same phrase that he uttered, when marching on Rome, “alea iacta est”—the die is cast! Well, he always did have a flair for the dramatic, Titus mused, his external eyes still riveted to the sight of the approaching shore. He knew from experience that while it would seem they weren't moving at all, suddenly the boat would be ramming itself onto the beach, almost always surprising everyone aboard. Pullus was determined that it wouldn't happen this time. Helping to focus his concentration were the ranks of men waiting for the leading transports to disgorge their load. Titus Pullus couldn't say he was surprised that Caesar had chosen to go ahead with the landing, but for the first time since he could remember, the Primus Pilus of the 10th was forced to recognize that the knot in his stomach threatening to eject all occupants was more than the normal pre-assault jitters. It wasn't just the numbers of men; they had faced a similar host during their first invasion of Britannia and when landing in the territory of the Pandya. But for a reason he could no more define than ignore, there was something different about this time as far as Pullus was concerned. It's probably because it's the last one, he thought: the last beach, the last group of people to face the Legions of Rome and know defeat. But even as he told himself this, he knew there was more to it than that. The instinct honed over hundreds of battles and thousands of skirmishes was screaming at him that this time was different for reasons he couldn't fathom.