Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  "Unless," he finished grimly, "any of you are eager to keep fighting these bastards. I, for one, am certainly not."

  Even though they would undoubtedly obey, as always Caesar had understood that by providing an explanation he offered his men some ownership in the idea, and he was pleased to see that none of the Centurions seemed troubled with the idea that their general was now a god, for all intents and purposes. Of course, he thought, as he continued talking on another matter, they haven't had time to think about it yet. That next topic concerned his plans for the emperor, about whom the Centurions looked grimly amused when they learned of his fate.

  "That should do it," was Pullus' comment, summing up the sentiments of the other Centurions.

  And it had done the trick, just as Pullus and the others had assumed. It was late in the day when the emperor was brought back, also draped across a German's saddle in the same manner as the deputy had been transported. Unlike the deputy, the emperor had been secured by binding his hands and feet, making him look like a trussed pig being brought back from a foraging expedition. When he was half-dragged, half-carried into the center of the courtyard, Pullus hadn't been sure what to expect, but it certainly hadn't been the sight in front of him. Even for a Wa this man was small in stature, but the reason why became apparent once he was brought close enough, so that from his litter Pullus could see that he was little better than a boy. Perhaps he was a teenager, but no more than thirteen. It was hard to tell with these people; Pullus had been very close to a number of Wa and he couldn't remember seeing any heavy beards on any of them. The most he had seen were some wispy mustaches and perhaps one or two straggly beards. This boy wasn't even close to that, and what was equally clear was that he was terrified. Although his robes were of a quality Pullus had rarely seen, and only then once they had reached the lands of the Han, they were now stained as the boy lost all control of his bladder, a dark stain spreading down the front of his gown.

  In stark contrast to Caesar's red mask, which his general had actually surreptitiously reapplied after his initial exchange with the barbarian in charge, this boy's face bore only the remnants of what looked like white paint. Had his face been painted in the same fashion as Caesar's, Pullus wondered? Pullus had no way of knowing that what was standing, shaking in front of his litter barely resembled the emperor, as his palace staff and his subjects saw him. Only a very small handful of the most trusted officials were allowed access to the emperor in his natural state, whereas everyone else saw the emperor only in his ceremonial attire, complete with a heavily made-up face, with the eyebrows painted on and wearing a headdress that exaggerated the boy-emperor's height. His robes were floor-length, and, in fact, trailed behind him as he walked, which was an artifice designed to hide the fact that he wore specially built shoes with soles several inches thick. In this way, every emperor, who wasn't allowed to be seen in public at all until he could reasonably approximate the height and size of a full-grown Wa, appeared before his people as a fully-grown man, even when he wasn't. Now what Pullus was seeing was the reality: a scared boy who, by accident of birth and time had been placed as the final obstacle to Caesar’s achieving godhead. Despite the fact that this boy represented an enemy Pullus had come to loathe, he actually felt a twinge of regret, knowing the boy's fate. Standing off to the side, surrounded by watchful Germans, was what Pullus was told was the commander of the royal guard. It wouldn't be until the next day that Pullus would hear that the commander hadn't come easily. In fact, as the drama in the courtyard was being played out, three of Caesar's Legions had moved into position in the outskirts of the capital, positioned as a blocking force to stop the Wa that had been in the pass, led by the commander. He had refused to order them to lay down their arms, but had reluctantly agreed to be conducted into the capital under guard to witness that, in fact, a new god had arrived and was about to prove the Wa had been following a false deity, in the form of their emperor. Even from where Pullus lay in his litter, he could see the mixture of anger and confusion on the Wa's face, but unlike his feelings for the boy emperor, Pullus had no sympathy for whatever turmoil the commander might be feeling. All he cared about was that the commander saw what was about to happen and understand the meaning, and give the order to his troops, waiting a short distance from here.

  Caesar had dismounted, but was standing on a rostra built from some of his men's shields, so that he still towered above the kneeling barbarians. Despite his overall hostility towards the Wa, Pullus had to acknowledge that their discipline was impressive; he couldn't imagine a Legion staying in such a position as these barbarians were still in, kneeling with bowed heads, for nearly as long as they had been doing. But these men were clearly accustomed to obeying, something that Caesar must have seen and understood how to exploit, yet another reason why Pullus considered his general to be the greatest man who ever lived, or ever would, for that matter. Caesar began speaking, but Pullus didn't even try to listen, knowing that his general was addressing the Wa. Instead, he watched the guard commander closely, trying to interpret through his facial expressions and body language the general thrust of what Caesar was saying. When the Wa's head suddenly turned from Caesar to regard the boy emperor, who was no longer bound or even restrained by the two Germans on either side, Pullus assumed that the reason for this demonstration was close to being realized. Without the Germans to hold him up, the emperor had slumped to the ground, and while he was on his knees like the others, he sat upright, his face turned up toward Caesar. Suddenly, he let out a loud wail, tearing Pullus' gaze away from the commander, and he turned to see that now tears were streaming down the boy's face. Clearly he had just learned what Caesar had planned for him, and again Pullus felt a stab of pity. It was really just his bad luck, the Primus Pilus reflected, nothing more than that.

  Caesar finished speaking, then hopped down from the rostra, demonstrating a spryness that anyone who knew his age would marvel at, and Pullus also knew this was calculated. After all, he thought, gods don't age. Immediately following that was the thought that perhaps Caesar, and by extension the army, wasn't out of danger after all. Unless he planned on wearing that red paint for the rest of his time here on the island, the moment he removed it there would be no mistaking his age. He had been cunning, wearing his oak crown to hide his silver hair and bald pate, something that he usually tried to hide by growing the hair long on one side to comb it over, in a futile attempt to hide his baldness. Before his mind went off in a direction that he could do nothing but worry about, Titus forced himself to turn his attention back to the moment at hand, and was just in time to see Caesar take the hilt of a pugio, the Legionary dagger, offered to him by one of the Germans. Holding it aloft so that all could see it, Caesar's voice rang out, his tone hard and demanding, and while Pullus didn't understand the words, he saw the intent when the rows of kneeling barbarians, who had remained with their foreheads pressed to the hard-packed earth, lifted their heads to look at Caesar. Pullus returned his attention back to the commander, seeing the tension radiating from his body as he seemed about to leap forward. The Germans around him saw this as well, as one of them slowly drew his sword. Hearing the rasping of the blade being drawn from the scabbard, the commander looked over at the German, his face twisting into a mask of bitter but impotent anger. For a moment, Pullus was sure the commander would leap at the German, but making a great show of disdain, he returned his attention back to Caesar and the boy. By this point the boy had begun wailing non-stop, reaching his arms out in supplication in the direction of the nearest kneeling Wa, but to a man they refused to meet his gaze or even show in any way that they heard his pleas. Caesar continued talking, his voice still hard and unyielding as he slowly made one full turn with the sword still above his head. When he returned to a point where he was facing the boy, only then did he lower his voice, but when he spoke again it was in Latin, and Pullus could just catch the words.

  "Hold his right arm."

  Neither German hesitated, grabbing each arm, despit
e the boy's clearly futile attempts to keep them to his sides. Now that the boy emperor was babbling, Pullus was sure that he was incomprehensible to the other barbarians, so out of his mind with fear was he. Then, Caesar bent down, so that his face was just a matter of inches from the boy's ears, and Pullus could see his lips moving, but couldn't hear his general's voice. Whatever it was, it caused a reaction with the boy that seemed to penetrate his fog of terror, and he suddenly looked up at Caesar, an expression on his face that Pullus couldn't easily interpret. Did he look...hopeful? The boy was actually facing away from most of the kneeling Wa, directly across from where Pullus was in his litter, so very few, if any, of the palace staff saw the change in his expression. Caesar straightened up, brandished the dagger once more, and bellowing words in the Wa tongue, made a slashing motion with the blade.

  Now, sitting in the small house, Pullus could only shake his head at the recent memory.

  "I thought for sure he was going to cut that boy's head off."

  "So did I," Scribonius agreed. "But as I thought about it, it makes sense. He was showing the barbarians that the boy was a mortal, and not a god. What better way to do it than make him bleed? It doesn't kill the boy, but it clearly demonstrates that he sheds blood like every mortal."

  "Still, I'm surprised Caesar didn't kill him. It just seems that the boy is one loose end. Caesar doesn't need someone else who holds a grudge and wants to kill him."

  "True," Scribonius conceded, "but you know Caesar isn't a normally vengeful man. Yes, he'll be merciless when he doesn't see any other way to get his point across. But he doesn't kill just for the sake of killing. So," Scribonius turned to another subject, "what have you heard about this 'army of the north'?"

  "Just that a delegation of palace officials is being escorted by the 25th to meet them on the road."

  "Did that haughty bastard go with them?"

  Scribonius had no need to expand on that question; Pullus knew exactly who he was talking about.

  "Yes, the royal guard commander apparently had a change of heart once he saw that boy's blood dripping into the dirt."

  "I don't know," Scribonius said doubtfully, "I don't trust him."

  "Neither does Caesar. That's why he gave Gundarus specific orders that if he so much looked at anyone the wrong way, his head was supposed to part company from the rest of his body. And you know Gundarus: there's nothing he loves better than lopping off someone's head," Pullus was referring to the last of the de facto officers of the German bodyguard, a man of equal height and strength with Titus Pullus himself, something that Pullus privately wasn't very happy about.

  Neither man was friends with the other, but both were friendly, in that wary sort of way in which two bulls can coexist in a herd.

  "And what's Caesar's longer-range plan? Any idea?" Scribonius asked Pullus, but his friend could only shake his head, not without some frustration.

  Perhaps a third of a watch before, Pullus had been carried back to what he supposed would be his quarters for the time being, fresh from the latest meeting with Caesar and some of the generals who were finished with their tasks of the day. The entire army, save for the 10th and 12th, which was serving as a de facto palace guard, was spread throughout the capital. But contrary to what Pullus and the rest of the army expected, there wasn't the normal sounds of an enemy city falling to the sword. Caesar had been very specific and very demanding in his orders: if one of his men broke the peace, he would be in the unenviable position of hoping for a flogging with the scourge, because that was the lightest punishment Caesar promised to transgressors. As long as the barbarians weren’t clearly members of the warrior caste, they were to be allowed an extraordinary degree of freedom. Except for one restriction: nobody was allowed to leave the capital. To that end, the entire city was ringed by Legionaries on watch, each post no more than 50 paces away from the next, making escape next to impossible, even for a skilled warrior. There was one task that Pullus knew was being performed in the night, and while it didn't trouble him unduly, it did serve to remind him of other times, when similar things had happened in Caesar's army. Small groups of men, even as Scribonius and Pullus were eating their meal, were going from house to house, searching for any member of either the group of disgraced nobles or the remnants of the royal guard that might have escaped the fighting in order to hide. These men were to be executed, on the spot, as quickly and quietly as possible. The members of the royal guard that had been waiting at the pass for a Roman army that never showed up had been disarmed, the order given by the royal guard commander, who, when faced with both the seemingly incontrovertible proof of his emperor's mortality and the complete submission of the entire royal government had bowed to the seemingly inevitable. These men, while unarmed now, were still under heavy guard, and Pullus knew that their fate had yet to be decided.

  "We have another meeting in the morning, where he says he'll explain more of what's going to happen."

  "Maybe he'll tell us that we can finally go home," Scribonius sighed, thinking wistfully about the idea of seeing Rome, the city of his birth, one more time.

  This sentiment surprised Pullus a great deal, because normally Scribonius was the pragmatic one of the two, and for months he had opined how unlikely he thought it was that either one of them, or any member of the army, would ever see Rome again.

  "Sextus, I hope you're right," Pullus replied cautiously. "But I have a feeling in my bones that Caesar isn't going anywhere."

  Morning dawned quietly and the air was still—nothing like the day before when the Legions had been preparing to assault the capital. Pullus was extremely surprised that he had gotten any sleep at all, but he attributed it to the spoonful of poppy syrup that Diocles had forced down his throat. His chest throbbed with an intensity that was only slightly less than what he experienced in the days immediately after he suffered his wound, but he wasn't about to miss the briefing that Caesar had called for a third of a watch after sunrise, even if he did have to be carried there. Thinking for just a moment of eschewing the litter and walking, he immediately banished the thought, telling himself that it was only because he didn't want to draw Caesar's wrath. The total truth was that he knew he was too weak to have any confidence that he wouldn't fall flat on his face. Another concession he made to his condition, he decided, would be to wear only his tunic, a fresh one of course. It wouldn't do to show up in one either stained with blood, like the one he had on the day before, or one with bloodstains and a huge hole in the chest, like the one he had worn a little more than a week before. In fact, Pullus wasn't sure if he had more than one clean, unstained tunic, which was the one he was wearing right then. Calling Diocles, who had taken a corner of the only room of this small house for himself, using a wood and leather screen that had traveled as much of the world as its owner, Pullus began the laborious process of making himself ready for the day. Elsewhere, the Primi Pili of the Legions, the Tribunes and Legates, those who were still in the capital at any rate, were doing the same. Every man knew that today was going to be a day that was almost as momentous as the day before, and none of them wanted to miss anything. Diocles didn't answer, annoying Pullus and sending him to walk unsteadily to the corner his diminutive servant had claimed as his own. While still technically a slave, at least as far as Rome was concerned, the relationship between the Roman and the Greek had surpassed that of master and slave so far that if the truth were known, neither of them thought of the other in such terms. The only reason Diocles wasn't in possession of a manumission document announcing that he was now a freedman was the fact that this document was essentially meaningless, here on the far side of the world. It had been years since they had been anywhere where even one person spoke or read Latin—or Greek, for that matter. The Han used a system that to Pullus looked like chicken scratch, and he hadn't seen even that here in the land of the Wa, or with the Gayans on the mainland either. Muttering a curse, Pullus turned away from Diocles' empty bed, grumbling under his breath about servants out doing only the
gods knew what at the crack of dawn. He had just managed to fasten his soldier's belt, essentially with one hand because his left wasn't strong enough to help. The irony wasn't lost on him that just the day before he had somehow found the strength to heft a shield, but now he couldn't hold a belt buckle in place to pull the belt through. Fortunately Diocles entered the house, announcing himself with a quick rap on the door, carrying a wooden bowl filled with still-steaming rice.

  "Where have you been?" Pullus asked sourly, but Diocles was completely unfazed.

  "Getting your breakfast, and you're welcome! I managed to find a piece of pork to go with it!" His tone was so cheerful that Pullus couldn't stay upset, and he was truly grateful that he had such a servant, whose first thought was for Pullus and not himself.

  The fact that Pullus cultivated this type of loyalty in others, not just slaves, was something the Roman was only vaguely aware of, but put down to the idea that he always tried to be fair in his dealings and never take advantage of his position.