Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Someone had found a stool, and although it was something Caesar normally wouldn't do—taking a seat while his men worked—this time he was too tired to worry about appearances. However, his men didn't begrudge their commander on this day, nor did they try to shirk the tasks he had set out for them, knowing that what they were doing was in their interests. Once the camp was secure, Caesar had sent couriers to the three camps to the south, and it was word of their status that he was awaiting now, as he gazed out at the destruction, pain, and death around him. Caesar never liked these scenes, but today it distressed him even more, because he knew that all of what he was seeing was due to his own ambitions and dreams. Granted, his men followed willingly and had been rewarded handsomely, but he wasn't blind to the fact that as wealthy as his men all were by this point, there wasn't anywhere to spend their wealth, nor was there anything to buy. They were strangers in a strange, very strange land, and it was in this moment that Caesar's doubts and fears were their strongest. What had he done, he wondered? Bringing these men so far away, only to die on this strange, mysterious island? And for what, after all? To fulfill an ambition that he knew, and had known for some time would never be fully satisfied? That no new lands traveled through and new peoples conquered would ever be enough, because he would always hunger for more? For this was Caesar's darkest secret, one that he would admit only to himself. How could he make these men, who had given so much, give even more than they had this day?

  These were the dark thoughts passing through his mind, when one of the surviving Centurions—the Primus Princeps Posterior, the Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century of the First Cohort and the only Centurion surviving from the First Cohort of the 15th Legion, the first five Cohorts of which had been one of the Legions in Caesar's camp—approached him carrying a tablet. Seeing his general deep in thought, the man, Gnaeus Carbo, stood waiting for Caesar to notice him, but he showed no sign that he was even aware there was anyone nearby. Finally, Carbo cleared his throat, and only then did Caesar look up, causing Carbo's heart to lurch at the sight of his general looking older and more tired than he had ever seen him. It was as if he had suddenly aged ten years and, for the first time, looking every one of his 65 years. Still, Caesar managed a smile, grim though it may have been.

  "Quite a day, eh, Carbo?"

  "Quite a day," Carbo agreed, opening his mouth to say something more, then thinking better of it.

  Instead, he simply offered Caesar the tablet, which his general took with a hand that Carbo pretended wasn't slightly shaking. Opening it, Caesar scanned the contents incised in the wax, the lines around his mouth deepening as he read the grim figures.

  "Are these accurate?" Caesar finally asked, hoarse from the titanic effort it was taking to control his voice.

  "They're...accurate, but incomplete, Caesar," Carbo finally answered, prompting a harsh laugh from Caesar that held no humor, whatsoever.

  "You mean it could be worse?"

  "I'm afraid so," Carbo said softly.

  Without answering, Caesar suddenly bowed his head, while Carbo stood, growing more uncomfortable. Seeing his general's lips move, he realized that Caesar was saying a prayer for all of his dead men, still filling his role as Pontifex Maximus, a post he had held in absentia for almost four decades. Finally finished, Caesar looked back up at Carbo, heaving a sigh that said more to Carbo than any words.

  "Thank you Carbo. That will be all for now. Go and see to your men. As of this moment, you're the Primus Pilus of the 15th Legion, so that includes taking care of the other Cohorts, as well."

  Carbo wasn't sure whether it was appropriate to thank Caesar at a time like this, and even if it was, he didn't much feel like celebrating. Like any Centurion worth his salt, Carbo wanted promotion, and he knew that promotion occurred almost always because a man higher up the ladder had fallen, but as ambitious as he was, he had no desire to vault up so many rungs in this manner. Nevertheless, he had a duty to perform, so he went off to see to it, leaving Caesar behind. Not much longer after Carbo had departed, there was a shout at the eastern gate, and one of the surviving bucinatores—in charge of the horn that sounded signals inside the camp, such as the changing of the watch—blew the notes that signaled an approaching rider. Knowing that this was the courier returning, Caesar roused himself from his spot and began hobbling toward the gate, careful to avoid stepping on the wounded as he passed across the forum. Normally, he would have stopped to offer some words of comfort to the men lying there, but he needed to know, now, the status of the other camps.

  "How are you still alive?" Scribonius blurted this out without thinking, so amazed was he at the sight of his friend, still breathing. Pullus, back on the ground and lying in his original position, managed a wan smile.

  "I've been wondering the same thing," he muttered, sure that he had broken at least one of his teeth from clenching them so tightly.

  The sword was still embedded in his body, the giant Roman refusing to allow the medici to remove it, sure that as soon as they did, he would perish. And he had matters to attend to before that happened, which was why he had called for Scribonius. His friend knelt beside him, his eyes filled with unshed tears as he looked down at Pullus; but Pullus refused to meet them, not wanting to destroy his own composure. Even now, in what he was sure were the last moments of his life, Titus Pullus was conscious of his reputation, and he was determined that he would die in a manner that he deemed befitted a Primus Pilus of Caesar's Legions. No sniveling, no complaining about the unjustness of what had happened. Titus Pullus would leave something for men to talk about around the fire for the rest of time.

  "I sent for Gaius, as well," Titus said to Scribonius, and this simple statement was too much for the Pilus Prior to bear, and now he began sobbing. Pullus frowned at his friend, saying only half-jestingly, "You're making a spectacle of yourself, Sextus."

  "I don't care," Scribonius shot back. "I've lost too much today. Balbus..."

  His voice trailed off, but Pullus didn't need him to finish; he knew that Scribonius was going to say, "Now you." But Pullus wasn't willing to let his friend be distracted by self-pity at this moment, because Pullus was still the Primus Pilus.

  "Mourn later," he said, mustering as much as was possible the hard edge he used to let his friend know that it was the Primus Pilus speaking and not Titus. "There are things I need to tell you to do. How many Centurions from the First are left?"

  Scribonius' only response was a mute shake of his head.

  "That's what I thought. That means you're the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion now, so I need you to....."

  Before he got any further, Scribonius cut him off.

  "What 10th Legion?" he burst out, the bitterness of a loss so huge it couldn't be put into words almost threatening to choke him. "There is no 10th Legion anymore, Titus. It was destroyed today."

  "No, it wasn't," Pullus snapped, and now Scribonius could see real anger in his friend's eyes, even if his voice wasn't able to convey it. "As long as there's still one man alive and under the standard, there's a 10th Legion. The Legion will never die. You understand me, Pilus Prior?"

  The use of his rank informed Scribonius that, even here at the end, Titus Pullus was a Centurion of Rome. And so was he, Scribonius admitted, as bitter and galling as it was right now, for he wanted nothing more than to find some hole to crawl into and not think or feel, anything.

  "Yes, Primus Pilus. I understand. And I will obey," Scribonius spoke the words he had so often uttered by rote, without thought, but understanding the import of all that they meant, most especially to his friend.

  So, if he could send his best friend, his longest companion, on his way to Elysium by assuring him that the 10th Legion would carry on without him—even if Scribonius had no idea how that was possible—it was the least he could do.

  "Good," Pullus muttered. "Now, you need to get the butcher's bill as soon as possible. Delegate one of the other Centurions to do it, while you take care of getting the men organized. And y
ou need to set a watch, immediately. I doubt these bastards are going to come back, but if they do, we need to be ready."

  Scribonius, now that his mind was absorbed with practical matters, had calmed down, the tears drying from his cheeks, as he thought about what needed to be done.

  "I don't know if we have enough men left to cover the western wall, let alone the whole camp," Scribonius mused.

  He was surprised when his friend gave a slight shake of his head.

  "The relief Cohorts are still here, aren't they?" When Scribonius assured him that they were Pullus continued, "Then use them."

  "But they're not from the 10th. In all honesty, I'm not sure where they're from. I think the 14th and the 30th, but I haven't paid that close attention."

  "Well it's about time the 14th did something worthwhile," Pullus grunted, eliciting a chuckle from his friend, who momentarily forgot the circumstances of their talk. "But you're about to be the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, so you outrank any of those bastards. Pull rank if you have to. Don't worry about what Caesar thinks. For all we know, he's dead, and even if he's not, he's not going to fault you for protecting the camp!”

  Even if Scribonius was disposed to argue, he saw the sense in what Pullus was saying. Before he could say anything more, however, the sound of someone approaching at a run drew both their attention away, but because of the angle, Pullus couldn't turn his head to see who it was. So, only Scribonius saw that it was Pullus' nephew, and even as the younger Centurion approached, their eyes met and Scribonius could only give a grim shake of his head. That slowed Porcinus to a sudden walk, as if he didn't want to come near enough to learn the truth firsthand. But he made his way carefully around the other wounded in a circle to approach his uncle from an angle where Pullus could see him.

  "Get over here, boy," Titus called weakly, lifting his arm in a beckoning gesture for just an instant before it fell limply back onto his body.

  Now it was Gaius' turn to begin crying, seeing for the first time the sword that bore mute testimony to what was happening to his uncle. Falling to his knees at his uncle's side, Porcinus dropped his head, sobbing, as Pullus did his own examination of his nephew. Seeing the caked blood around Porcinus' right ear and down the entire side of his face, Scribonius heard his friend give a sharp hiss as he caught his breath at the sight.

  "What happened to you? Are you all right?" Pullus asked, and the absurdity of the question, and the fact that his uncle was asking him caused Porcinus to burst out in a laugh tinged with hysteria.

  "You're lying there with a sword sticking out of you, and you're asking me, if I'm all right?" Porcinus asked, and when put that way, even Pullus had to smile, albeit faintly.

  But he was not so easily thrown off the topic, and he asked Porcinus again.

  "Yes, I'm fine. I got lucky," his nephew said, causing Pullus to snort in disbelief.

  "It doesn't look like you're lucky."

  "Well, I am. I just have a headache."

  "Did you at least kill the cunnus who did that to you?"

  Although it would have been easier just to lie and say that he had, Porcinus had never lied to his uncle, and he didn't plan on starting now.

  "If I did, it was later on. I got knocked cold for a bit. But I'm fine now," he insisted.

  "Well, you let the medici decide that. At the very least it looks like you need stitches. Now, there's something I need to tell you," Pullus turned back to business.

  Unlike Scribonius, Porcinus wasn't willing to cooperate with his uncle, not if it meant acknowledging what his eyes told him to be the truth.

  "There's nothing I need to know right now that can't wait until you're better."

  Again, Pullus gave a snort, but he reached out with his free hand and grasped his nephew's arm. Even near death, Porcinus thought, he has a grip that feels like it will turn the bones of my arm into powder.

  "Enough," Pullus said gently, more gentle than he had been with Scribonius, because, unlike with Sextus, what Pullus had to tell his nephew didn't involve official business. "You need to listen to me. In my pack, you'll find a scroll that's sealed with my ring."

  Pullus was referring to the signet ring that Caesar had given his giant Primus Pilus as a gift, after Pullus had once again saved his Legion from disaster on the beaches of Pandya. The symbol on the solid gold ring was that of a dragon, which Caesar and his men had first seen depictions of in the lands of the Han.

  Continuing, Pullus said, "You need to make sure that you don't open that by yourself. It needs to be witnessed by others, because it's my will."

  This caused Porcinus even more grief, and he realized that he was as disturbed by his uncle's matter-of-fact tone as he was by the words themselves. Every man in the Legion had a will, and death was a constant companion to them all, but Gaius Porcinus—and, if the truth were known, Sextus Scribonius, too—never thought that Titus Pullus would ever be in a position to talk about his will. His death was simply inconceivable to both of them, and, in fact, to every man of the 10th Legion. He was indestructible, and while his body bore so many scars that they almost connected together to form a jagged, winding line like a river, none of them thought that the man had been born or the weapon forged that could defeat him.

  Ignoring the effect his words were having, Pullus bore onward, telling his nephew, "In my will, not only do I leave you everything, but I adopt you as my son and heir. That means that when you return to Rome, you'll not only be eligible for equestrian status, but Caesar has also promised that he'll endorse your elevation to the Senate."

  "Back to Rome?" Porcinus repeated dully, shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from a bad dream. "Back to Rome?" he repeated again. "I'm not going to see Rome again. None of us are. We're never leaving this island!"

  Not even Titus Pullus could have explained where he got the strength, but, without warning, his calloused, battle-hardened hand moved with a speed that reminded both men beside him that, despite his bulk, he moved with the speed of a much, much smaller man. The sound of his open palm slapping his nephew across the face made Scribonius jump, while Porcinus' head rocked back, almost knocking him from his kneeling position onto his backside. His ear began ringing, and the side of his face felt as though it was on fire as he stared down—open-mouthed in astonishment and not a little pain—seeing in his uncle's eyes a cold fury that he had never been the recipient of, but had seen on the battlefield.

  "Don't ever say that aloud again," Pullus told him, his quiet tone in odd contrast to the action he had just taken. "The only thing that keeps these men marching forward is their belief that they'll see home again. And I want you to swear to me, on Jupiter's stone, that you have every intention of trying to return to Rome. And taking back as many of the men as you can."

  Porcinus didn't answer immediately, mainly because he knew that his uncle was deadly serious, and didn't take the swearing of an oath as lightly as a lot of men did. But while the thought passed through Porcinus' mind that he could offer the oath to make his uncle happy—since he wouldn't be around to see it fulfilled, making the giving of it almost academic, he dismissed the thought immediately. If he agreed, it would be because he had every intention of fulfilling his pledge to his uncle.

  That's why he hesitated, before he finally said, "I swear on Jupiter's stone that I'll do everything in my power to get back to Rome."

  "And to get the men back" Pullus insisted.

  Porcinus heaved a sigh, adding, "And to get the men back, as well," although he had no idea how he was going to accomplish this.

  With that matter settled, Pullus seemed satisfied, and the three of them were silent for some time.

  "Well," Pullus finally said, "there's no need putting it off any longer. Go get one of the medici and let's get this over with."

  Both Scribonius and Porcinus' fragile composure, brought on by the brief period of quiet, broke immediately, but this time, Pullus didn't remonstrate with either of them.

  Instead, he just said quietly, "It's g
oing to be all right, boys," over and over.

  The medicus answered Scribonius' call, for he had been nearby, hovering about the wounded and staying within earshot, both because he knew he would be needed, but also to hear what he was sure would be his Primus Pilus' last words, for Titus Pullus was as renowned with the noncombatants of Caesar's army as he was with the men. Besides which, he was good friends with Diocles, Pullus' servant, scribe and—despite their radically different stations in life—good friend. Over his strenuous objections, Diocles and some of the other slaves had been sent down the ridge on the eastern side to wait aboard one of the ships for the outcome of the battle, and this medicus knew that the Greek would want to know every detail of his master's last moments on earth.

  "Yes, sir?" he asked, when he reached the three Centurions.

  "You need to get this thing out of me," Pullus said, without any hesitation.

  Although he knew that this was coming, the medicus still paused for a moment, suddenly aware of the eyes of the other two men on him, eyes that were telling him that if he caused the Primus Pilus any undue suffering, there would be a reckoning with them.

  Understanding this, Pullus assured him, "Don't worry about them. Just do it quickly and it'll be all right. And I'm telling you both now," he moved his head slightly, so that he could look into both men's eyes, "don't take it out on him for doing his job. Just because I might yell like a pig going to slaughter, it's not his fault."

  Scribonius tried smile at his friend's attempt at humor, but he wasn't very successful, and Porcinus could only look away, mumbling his agreement. This didn't serve to soothe the medicus’ nerves any, but he knew that he needed to perform this task. Most of the clean bandages had long since been used up, but he had been saving one, tucked inside his tunic. If the truth were known, he had been saving it for himself, since at one point during the day's battle he was sure that he was going to be struck down, as so many others had been. Now he produced it, tearing it with his teeth into two roughly equal pieces. Looking about, he reached over for a discarded balteus, the Legionary's belt, and, stripping off the decorative strips and the dagger sheath, he examined it for a moment before realizing that he would need something, in addition. This engendered a short walk, where he found yet another balteus, and he repeated the process. Both Centurions watched the man, neither of them speaking, and for the first time Pullus' own composure seemed to be slipping away.