by Peake, R. W.
Nevertheless, his gaze never wavered as he spoke, "By my calculations, Caesar, there are only two anchorages on the island I found. It's clearly uninhabited, save for one lone shack. But the island itself is very small; I would estimate it being no more than a mile across and 2 miles long. There is one anchorage on the southern end and one slightly larger one on the eastern side."
"How many ships could fit in each?" Caesar asked, arms crossed.
Volusenus sucked through his teeth as he thought about it before answering, "Perhaps 50 in the smallest anchorage and more than 100 in the other. But," he admonished, "they would be very cramped. Meaning that......."
"....If a storm came, they would damage each other, just like in Britannia," Caesar finished for him, his tone peevish, although he knew that it wasn't Volusenus' fault.
Clearly frustrated, Caesar began pacing, head down as he stared at the deck, pondering what to do. If he went south to the larger island, there would be more room, perhaps, but Zhang had been frustratingly vague about the conditions needed for a safe harbor for his ships. And, more than anything, Caesar knew from long and bitter experience that the men viewed the fleet as their lifeline back to any semblance of security. He was disturbed from his thinking by the sound of a clearing throat, and he looked up irritably to see that, judging from the reactions of the men around him, it had been Zhang who had made the noise.
"Yes?" Caesar asked, masking his annoyance, both at the situation and at Zhang, whom he was beginning to consider as an agent for the Han court and who had no intention of aiding Caesar and his men. When Zhang spoke, Caesar almost gasped in shock, while the men around him were not so circumspect, making the rest of what Zhang said very hard to understand. The reason for the surprise was that Zhang was speaking in Latin! Slow, halting, but clearly understandable Latin!
"Caesar," he had begun, and despite the surprise, Caesar was forced to stifle a smile at the awkward pronunciation of his name. "Forgive my poor Latin, but I know that this …" for perhaps the first time Zhang showed emotion, screwing up his face as he searched for the right word, "...process of translation has been..." For a moment he couldn't continue, causing Caesar to prompt gently with the word, "frustrating, I believe is the word you are looking for."
Zhang's face cleared, as he inclined his head in what could have been gratitude for the help.
"Yes, that is the word. However, I have not wanted to speak in your tongue, until I had a better hold of it."
You mean "grasp," Caesar thought, but said nothing. No, you didn't let us know because you wanted to gather as much information as possible, before you let us know that you held a throw of Venus in your hand. Regardless, Caesar was at least thankful that there would be a bit less time wasted, and listened intently as Zhang continued.
"Since we are, how do you say, searching? Yes, searching for a spot where your army can rest, I know of perhaps a place."
The attention of every man in the room was riveted on him, but the eyes staring at Zhang were anything but friendly. If he were aware or shaken by the scrutiny he didn't show it as he described what he knew, and undoubtedly had known all along.
"There is a passage that will lead you to what the Wa call their Inland Sea," he explained. "Once there, you will find not only many spots to anchor, but there is also a region that is almost completely empty of people."
Caesar's jaw tightened, while the others' shoulders slumped as the tension released from them, disappointed at the Han's words.
"Yes, I know that there are better anchorages, but we would have to reverse our course and go around the southern end of the island," Caesar said patiently. "Or, we can continue north, but you have said yourself, you're not sure how far the northern end is. We don't have that long, Zhang."
Zhang immediately shook his head, in the style that Latins were accustomed to, and not in the circular motion used by the Han.
"No, this is not one large island," he told Caesar. Then, for the first time, his face showed a bit of alarm at the sight of Caesar's face darkening, as blood rushed to it, which he had learned didn't bode well. "It appears to be, but I know there is a very, very narrow strait that is very hard to find. In fact, judging from the landmarks, we are not that far from it. We could be in those straits by the end of the day."
"And why didn't you see fit to tell us of this strait before?" Caesar asked in a deceptively mild voice his officers knowing this was even more dangerous than his rage.
Men disappeared from around their fires whenever Caesar spoke in this manner, but nobody looked at Zhang with any sympathy. In fact, if it had been up to almost all of them, particularly the Primi Pili, like Pullus, Torquatus and Balbinus, Zhang would have been pitched overboard long before. For the first time, Zhang seemed to become aware that there was a danger present, and Caesar was gratified to see tiny beads of sweat appear on the Han's brow.
"I did not speak of it before because I have only heard of it. I have not been through the strait myself. And it is supposed to be very dangerous to navigate. There are many rocks and the water is, how do you call it," at this Zhang for the first time turned to Achaemenes for help with the word, uttering what he was looking for in Han.
Achaemenes thought for a moment and said, "Shallow."
"Yes," Zhang nodded. "The water is very shallow, and I do not know whether all of your ships can pass through. I have been told that this strait fills up with dirt washed from the rains and this makes it very likely that some of your ships will become stranded. Also, I do not know about the," again he turned to Achaemenes, who supplied the word, "tides in this strait."
All of what Zhang said made sense, and Caesar relaxed just a little bit. He still didn't trust Zhang, but he supposed that it would be understandable that Zhang wouldn't be forthcoming with this information, if it meant there was a chance the ship he was on was the most likely to be stranded, or worse.
Whatever the case, Caesar immediately recognized that this was his only real choice, to trust Zhang to provide the information needed to guide them through these straits. Turning to Volusenus, he gave him his orders.
"Take Zhang onto your Liburnian," referring to the lone remaining scout ship, still the fastest of any that Caesar had encountered, "and follow his directions looking for this strait. We'll follow on your heading. When you find it, come back and guide us."
Volusenus saluted and turned immediately to go, but before he did, Caesar grabbed his elbow and whispered a few words to his exploring officer. Volusenus listened, then gave a grim nod, before leading Zhang out of the stateroom.
Once they had left and Caesar was sure they were no longer within earshot, he told the rest of the officers calmly, "I told Volusenus that if Zhang lied, he's to tie him to the prow of the ship, cut his hamstrings, and let the sharks eat him."
With grim smiles, the officers of Caesar's army left the flagship to return to their men and inform them of what was coming.
Whether or not Zhang was planning any treachery, Caesar didn't know, but he was thankful that he apparently didn't have anything malevolent in store for the passage through the straits. As Zhang had predicted, traversing the strait was a nightmare, made all the more urgent and vivid by the knowledge that every watch spent at sea meant more of his wounded were likely to die. Nevertheless, they made it, although as they rowed their way through the strait, they were forced to hug one shore, because of the narrowness of the passageway, and because the opposite shore was lined with Wa archers who were waiting for any ship to come within range. Thank the gods these Wa didn't have any artillery, or Greek fire, for that matter, Caesar mused. If they had, it was highly likely that most of his fleet would have been damaged or destroyed. As it was, his own flagship had suffered damage when it had come close to foundering on the built-up silt and had to be hauled into deeper water. There hadn't been just mud in that strait, as the buckled timbers of the quinquereme attested, but fortunately they were now safely ashore, a camp was built, and repairs could be made. Once through the strait, Volusenus, with
Zhang's help, had guided them due north to where a river flowed into the Inland Sea, with a smaller stream entering the inlet from the western side. The ground wasn't perfect; there were some heights to the west less than a mile from the edge of the camp, but judging from what Caesar had seen of this island so far, he suspected that level ground was going to be hard to come by. Regardless, the men had worked hard and well, erecting a strongly fortified camp with their usual speed and efficiency, and if they ended up staying longer than a week, Caesar would have them improve the defenses even more. Nothing gave men better sleep than knowing they were safe, and Caesar was no different in that regard. Sighing, he rose from behind his desk in the praetorium, straightening his tunic before he had his slave lower his cuirass over his head, then hand him the eagle-headed handle of his sheathed sword. He was about to go to the hospital tent to make one of his twice daily visits to the wounded, knowing that the sight of their general seemed to help them heal more quickly than any potion.
Titus Pullus and Sextus Scribonius sat in Titus' tent, the remains of their evening meal still sitting in front of them before it would be cleared away by one of the slaves. It had been almost a week since the aborted landing, but Pullus was still sore, just another sign to him that he was getting too old for this kind of nonsense. This didn't help his mood any; like the rest of the army, there had been a pall hanging over his head resulting from the recent defeat. For a couple of days, the Primus Pilus of the 10th had been more in a state of shock than anything else, not quite believing what he knew to be true: that for the first time in this campaign, now 10 years old, Caesar's army had been beaten. Once that new reality sank in, it had plunged him into a depression, the likes of which he had never experienced before. It hadn't been as acute as his grief over the loss of some of his comrades who were close friends, but, while not quite as painful as those personal losses, this one was more profound in ways he couldn't describe, even if he were so inclined. Which he wasn't, thanking the gods for how well his friend Scribonius knew him and recognized that trying to cheer him up wouldn't help. Besides, Scribonius had his own grief to deal with; after all, he had been on the beach as well, and while not as overt about it, he was just as proud as Titus. Still, there were matters to discuss that couldn't be avoided forever.
Finally breaking the silence, Scribonius asked, "Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?"
A flash of irritation showed on Titus' face, but it disappeared as he heaved a weary sigh, knowing that Scribonius was right to bring it up and that it couldn't be avoided any longer.
"Yes," he finally answered, if a bit grudgingly. "But I still haven't made up my mind."
Now it was Scribonius' turn to be irritated, but they had been friends much too long for him to be cowed by either Pullus' rank or reputation. "Pluto's thorny cock, Titus," he snapped. "You can't put this off forever. I don't remember ever going this long without an Optio, and I didn't argue with you when you took mine to put in your Cohort. And Mardonius is the logical choice to be my Optio."
Instead of getting angry, Pullus rubbed his face, a habit of his whenever he was thinking or distracted.
"I know that," he finally replied, his tone as tired as his face looked. "But we both know that this isn't as straightforward as it looks. We are talking about the Second Cohort."
Now it was Scribonius' turn to sigh, because he knew Pullus was just as right as Scribonius himself was, and that this was the reason no decision had been made. The nub of the problem was that Mardonius was a Parthian, and while he was Tesseraurius in one of Scribonius' upper Centuries, there had been a string of Parthians promoted in the last few months, and some of the men—and not just Romans—were muttering about it. Compounding matters was that Mardonius would be the Optio of the First Century of the Second Cohort, leapfrogging other men who were at the least more senior, if not more qualified. Normally, this was little more than a headache, but the situation was made more difficult because of the overall mood of the army. Too many men rescued from the beach had gone on to die of their wounds from being laid out on the pitching deck or crammed into the holds of ships, because there had been no place to land. Suffering the defeat was bad enough, but the combination of all these things meant that Pullus' hold on the 10th was more tenuous than it had been since the dark days immediately after Pharsalus, when he had stood with Caesar against not just his comrades, but also his longest and dearest friend, Vibius Domitius. In fact, Titus had come dangerously close to striking Vibius down, a memory that had stayed with the giant Primus Pilus to this day. However, he wasn't alone; aside from the promotion issue, the other Primi Pili were in similar straits, none of them sleeping well at night, even with the security of the camp walls around them. The threat was from within, and for any leader, this is the most difficult challenge he will face, no matter what his circumstances.
"Well, as bad as it may be," Scribonius broke the silence between them, "at least we're not the 28th."
"Who are you telling?" Pullus asked, with grim humor. "If we were, I wouldn't be sitting here right now."
And with that thought, they toasted each other with the rancid rice wine Diocles had managed to scrounge up.
Scribonius was correct; the men of the 28th were devastated, both at the loss of their Primus Pilus Gnaeus Cartufenus and at the manner of his death. It was a situation of which Caesar was acutely aware, but he had not yet replaced the Primus Pilus, nor had he addressed the men of the 28th or the rest of the army for that matter. This was another thing troubling the men of the ranks, but it troubled the officers even more: to men like Pullus, who had followed Caesar for 27 years, it was very uncharacteristic. Normally, when there had been a setback, Caesar never hesitated to not only face trouble head-on, but in cases where the army appeared in danger or faced a huge threat, he often exaggerated the danger, as he did in the case of Ariovistus, or when the army faced elephants for the first time at Thapsus. Yet for reasons Pullus and the other Centurions could only guess, Caesar had chosen to remain silent to this point. Pullus, who knew Caesar better than almost any other man from the ranks, suspected that his general was in what passed for him as a state of shock. Oh, he had conducted his daily briefings, but they had been extremely short, and before anyone could raise a question, he would end the meeting and stride out of the large partitioned area that served as the Generals’ and staff's mess, when it wasn't used for meetings. Pullus had been tempted to seek an audience with Caesar to speak to him in private, both to try and plumb the depths of Caesar's despair, and also to remind him gently that he needed to be more of his old self and address the army. Yet something held him back; as much as he loved and respected Caesar, there was still a healthy dose of fear there. Over the years he had seen men suddenly disappear, and had even been peripherally involved in an incident, where a Centurion who struck down one of his own men during the time when Caesar was besieged in Alexandria was killed in action under suspicious circumstances. Although Pullus knew that in almost every case, the disappeared men had been troublemakers, it still instilled in him a healthy caution around Caesar. Instead of talking with Caesar, like his general, Pullus made regular visits to the hospital, and he was relieved to see that all but a few men were on the road to recovery; those whom the gods had fated to die for the most part had done so.
Finally on the fifth day after they landed, two things happened. The first was that Charon's Boat, the separate section of the hospital tent , where those destined to die were taken, was finally empty—the first concrete sign that there would be no more deaths. The second came when Diocles burst into Pullus' private quarters, where his master and friend was resting after conducting a morning's worth of weapons training. Titus Pullus' first post in the Legions had been as a weapons instructor, and even now he still prided himself on his prowess with a sword. Sensing Diocles' presence, he looked over from his cot, instantly understanding that something momentous was taking place, so he swung his feet to the ground, then stood as he reached for his vitus, t
he twisted vine cane that was symbol of his rank.
His instinct was correct: Diocles said excitedly, "I just heard from Apollodorus," naming one of Caesar's secretaries. "Caesar is calling an assembly of the army."
"When?" Pullus asked, his mind automatically running through the things that needed to be done, whenever Caesar ordered the parade of the entire army.
"At the beginning of the next watch," Diocles answered, causing Pullus to swear.
"That's less than a third of a watch to go," Pullus protested, but even as he was doing so, he began donning his mail shirt and strapping on his harness. "But maybe we'll find out what his plan is."
Diocles was already on his way out to begin his own set of tasks required to summon the Legion, but he clearly heard Pullus mutter, "Gods help us if he doesn't have one."
"Comrades," Caesar began his speech in his usual manner, accustomed to the longer delay required for the interpreters to translate his words into the almost dozen tongues his soldiers now spoke. "We have suffered a loss," he raised his hands at what he knew would be the inevitable howls of protest, "not a defeat! It would only be a defeat if we were to load up on our ships and return home," even as he uttered the last word, Caesar felt a pang of...what? Regret? Remorse? Could it be homesickness? He knew that as acutely as he felt it, his men would suffer from that longing even more, so he hurried on. "But we are not going to do that!"
Immediately a hush filled the forum of the camp, the men needing no translation of his tone, if not his words, to understand what he was saying. Without realizing it, almost every man was leaning forward from their position of intente, focusing on what Caesar was about to say.
"We will not let this defeat us! No, my comrades, we have come too far, suffered too much, seen too many of our friends die to lose heart now! We must AVENGE those comrades we lost on the beach! And for the men of the 28th Legion," Caesar turned in their direction, his hand upraised, "there is a special debt that must be repaid in blood! You have lost your leader, the great Gnaeus Cartufenus, your Primus Pilus and a man who has served me well, going back to the difficult days when I was in Alexandria, besieged by Ptolemy!"