Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Caesar's eyes narrowed; he hadn't been expecting this. He had prepared himself for an outburst, knowing that Pullus had a temper that was almost as legendary within the army as his own, or more questions, as Pullus tried to stall for time. But this?

  Suspicious that he was entering into a trap of some sort, despite being unable to determine what it might be, Caesar answered, "Yes, Pullus. That is correct. While I have no overall objection to the idea, I simply cannot allow the men to go home right now."

  "Then, when?" Pullus pounced immediately, for this was his goal, to force Caesar to name a date that would be acceptable to those men who wanted to return to Rome.

  Caesar inwardly cursed, thankful that the red paint on his face masked his expression, because Pullus would easily have seen that he had caught Caesar out.

  "That," Caesar replied stiffly, "is impossible to say. You know better than most men in the army all that needs to be done, Pullus."

  "I know the military aspects of your plans, but that's all," Pullus pointed out, which was the absolute truth, because Caesar hadn't uttered a word of his overall plan to anyone. "And the training of the Wa to our ways and standards of fighting has gone better than even you expected, as you said yourself."

  Now Caesar was caught in a web of his own making. By keeping his ambitions to himself, he had unwittingly put Pullus in a position that gave his Primus Pilus more power, at least in this meeting, than Caesar would have liked. Pullus was well within his rights now to ask for more information, but Caesar wasn't yet willing to divulge any of that, particularly to Pullus.

  "I don't believe that I could do without my Romans for at least two more years," Caesar finally answered.

  Pullus gasped in shock, his face registering the disbelief that his general could have lost touch with his men to such an extent that it led him to believe they would accept another two years of marching, especially on this universally loathed island.

  "Two years?" Pullus just barely stopped himself from asking Caesar, if he had lost his senses. "That's impossible! How many more of us will be dead in two years?"

  "Nothing is impossible," Caesar retorted. "If anything has been proven during this campaign, it's that nothing is impossible."

  "Then it's time you recognize that mortal men have their limits, and we've reached ours. You may be a god, Caesar, but the men aren't. And neither am I."

  It would have been impossible to tell which of the two was the more shocked at Pullus' words: the man who uttered them or the man who felt them like a physical blow so much that he let out a gasp. Pullus heard the sound, but thrust down the sudden feeling of regret at his words, reminding himself why he was there. This wasn't just for him, this was for all of those men who took ship from Brundisium almost eleven years before and who, as hard-bitten as they were, now longed for home with all the fervor of a new tirone in the first month of training. Sitting on his throne, Caesar was at a loss for words, unable to summon any kind of argument that would blunt the sharp pang brought on by Pullus' statement that forced him to confront a truth he couldn't deny. These men, not even Pullus, Caesar recognized, burned with the same ambition and desire he himself carried with him everywhere as a blazing torch that lit his way and kept him warm. How could he expect them to? In that moment, Caesar realized that Pullus was right, and he knew what he must do.

  Scribonius, Diocles and Porcinus were sitting at the table in Pullus' quarters, where the conversation could only be described as desultory, each man more occupied with his own thoughts. Understandably, these were the only three men who knew Pullus' purpose in meeting with Caesar, and the pressure of keeping this secret had worn each of them down. Picking at the few remaining grains of rice in his bowl, Scribonius tried to force his mind away from the recurring dream, or nightmare more accurately, of a warm, steaming loaf of golden brown bread, fresh from the oven, with a stoppered jug of olive oil with which to drench it. This vision had become increasingly insistent in his mind as, despite his best attempts to keep his hopes from rising, he began to dream of what it might be like to walk the streets of his city at last. Unlike Pullus, Sextus Scribonius had been born in Rome itself, and was, in fact, the son of a wealthy equestrian, but when Scribonius followed his older brother to the camp of Catiline—in an episode that would become known as the Catiline Conspiracy—he had been forced to flee for his life, when Catiline's revolt collapsed. Scribonius now understood that the collapse had been inevitable, but that didn't soften the bitter blow of the loss of his brother, who had been killed in what he also knew now had been a farce of a battle. That is what had taken Scribonius to Hispania and seen him enlist in the dilectus that created the 10th Legion, Caesar's 10th, and it was Caesar who was responsible for Scribonius and all of his friends and comrades being on the far side of the world. Now, a hope that had grown so faint that he had thought it was dead was flickering back to life, filling his mind with visions he had always managed to keep at bay before now.

  "What's the first thing you'd do?" Porcinus broke the silence. "I mean, if..." he didn't need to finish the thought; both men knew what he was asking.

  "Go to see if my father's still alive," Scribonius replied. Then, "Or go to a bakery for a fresh loaf. I haven't decided."

  This prompted a laugh from the other two men, and the next interval of time was spent with the trio alternating with their own fantasies, which helped pass the time. In fact, they were so engrossed in trying to top each other, their claims for the things they would do when back home growing wilder with each of them, that when the door opened, they were unaware that Pullus had returned. For his part, he stood there, more bemused than anything else, as he listened to his three closest friends engaging in their flights of fancy.

  "I'm glad you three are spending your time so wisely," the sound of his voice made them jump, and their looks of guilt—like schoolboys caught by their tutor playing dice instead of reciting their Greek—made Pullus laugh.

  "Well?" Scribonius demanded, "What do you have to tell us? Or are you just going to stand there, gawking at us?"

  Pullus said nothing for another moment, as much to frame his thoughts as it was to torment his friends.

  Finally ready, he said, "We're going home," prompting the three other men to let out spontaneous shouts, drowning out the rest of what Pullus was saying.

  All three came to their feet, Diocles and Gaius embracing first, followed by Scribonius and Gaius, each of them slapping the object of his affection on the back, as they laughed and shouted their joy. It was the youngest of them who came to his senses first, mainly because he caught a glimpse of his uncle's face, noticing that he didn't seem to be nearly as thrilled as one would expect.

  "Uncle Titus? What is it?" Gaius asked, causing the other two to break their embrace to glance over at Pullus, who had yet to move farther into his quarters.

  "Yes, Titus? What are we missing?" Scribonius asked, his joy evaporating as quickly as it had come.

  Pullus hesitated, again at a loss for the correct way to frame what he was about to tell his friends.

  "I said," he repeated, "we're going home...eventually."

  Part of the bargain struck between Pullus and Caesar had been based on a simple practicality, and that was the time of year. It was already autumn, early still, but already the days started with a snap to them; moreover, according to Kiyama and Diana, snow was a common feature of winter in these lands. As Caesar pointed out, it would have been unwise for those men wishing to do so to begin their long journey back to Rome at a time when they would in all likelihood have perhaps six weeks of traveling time, before having to find a place to winter. Better to winter here, Caesar argued, with the protection of that part of the army that was staying behind, than to be stranded on the Gayan Peninsula or in the middle of Han country. That fact alone was enough to clinch the argument, but then Caesar revealed something else that, even now, facing his friends, Pullus was struggling to come to terms with and with what it meant.

  "Diana is pregnant," Caesar
had told Pullus, "and my physician Chung assures me that it is a male child. He will be my heir, and he will rule as a god."

  Despite the paint, Pullus could see the intensity in Caesar's face, his posture radiating the tension he was feeling, as he leaned forward to gaze into Pullus' eyes.

  "I need you to be here, at least for the birth," Caesar continued, and there was no mistaking the pleading tone in his voice. "I intend on conducting a ceremony at his birth that will establish him as a god and as my heir. I plan on combining some of the rituals that I have learned the Wa use on the ascension of a new emperor, along with those we use for a birth in Rome. I want the Romans in my army to be there to see it and to carry the word back to Rome of all that's happened."

  "To what end?" Pullus blurted out the question, bewildered by what seemed to him to be a simple matter of a man having a son.

  "So that those men and women in Rome who wish to can come to my new kingdom and start a new life," Caesar replied calmly. "I want you to carry the word back that there is a new adventure and opportunity here in the East, but that it has the elements of government and society familiar to any Roman. I plan on installing a Senate, and, over time, I want the people to be represented in the same manner as they are back home, with ten Tribunes of the Plebs."

  If Pullus’ head hadn't been spinning from standing longer than he had in some time already, hearing for the first time what he knew was just the bare bones of Caesar's ambition would have been more than enough.

  "Who else knows about this?" Pullus asked, his voice almost a whisper.

  Caesar's answer came in the form of a shrug, and for the first time he rued the idea of wearing the red paint, because this was a time he needed his face to be seen, since he knew that the combination of expression and gesture would have given Pullus the answer.

  Instead, he had to answer, "Other than Diana, you're really the first I've told of my larger plan. Some of the smaller parts of it, my generals know."

  When Caesar said no more after that, Pullus felt compelled to prompt his general, "And? What do they say?"

  "All of my generals are of a like mind," Caesar replied, a bit stiffly, perhaps. "They're too old to try to retrace their steps, facing the gods know what, in order to go back to a city that holds nothing for them they can't have here."

  So you promised them untold riches and power, Pullus thought, but kept that to himself.

  "When is the babe due?" Pullus asked.

  "Three months after the beginning of the new year. At least," Caesar allowed, "the new year as reckoned by my calendar. These people are still hopelessly out of step with the seasons, at least as far as I understand it."

  What year was it, Pullus wondered? Not surprisingly, Caesar's mind was running along a similar vein, because he supplied the answer; At least, the old answer: the Roman answer.

  "It's the year 720, as reckoned by the founding of the city, or 478, as reckoned by the founding of the Republic," Caesar said after a brief pause to do the calculations.

  Both men stood for a moment, absorbing this piece of information. Was it really, they both thought at the same time? That many years? The next Ides of March that Caesar saw would mark eleven years, since that fateful day, when he had listened to the warning of the shabbily dressed seer who sat, cross-legged, at the entrance to the Forum. What was his name? Caesar wondered, but he couldn't remember. No matter, really. What did matter was that Caesar had listened, and now, here he was on the cusp of godhead. But only if he could fulfill his plans.

  "Very well," Pullus finally spoke. "We'll wait until after the babe is born and the weather breaks. But," he kept his voice tight and under control, "no longer than that, Caesar. We leave as soon as spring comes."

  Caesar, careful to stifle his normal reaction that came from an underling speaking to him in such a tone, also controlled his tone, as he replied, "Then it's agreed. However, I do have one other...request."

  That word stuck in his throat, but Caesar didn't want to rupture this fragile agreement.

  "Yes?" Pullus asked warily.

  "All I ask is that I be allowed to address the men before they leave for Rome. I'd like to give them the opportunity to make up their own minds about whether they want to return back to Rome, or take what I have to offer them."

  Try as he might, Titus Pullus couldn't find any real reason not to agree to that, so he did.

  In the larger world of the Islands of Wa, the Centurions and Optios trained the men of the royal guard, aided by their own rudimentary understanding of the Wa tongue, but, more importantly, by the martial spirit and willingness of the Wa themselves. There were many conversations—usually with cups of rice wine in the snug little cottages that the men of Caesar's army were just coming to appreciate—the topic being not just the adaptability, but the willingness of these Wa warriors to embrace the way of the Legions. It was almost as if what they cared about was the pursuit of martial skill for its own sake, and that whether it was used against the men of Caesar's army or in aid of themselves didn't seem to matter all that much. Meanwhile, Titus Pullus slowly regained his strength, resuming his daily exercises at the stake that he had set up in the small courtyard of what he now thought of as his quarters. Naturally, in the beginning, he couldn't even approach completing the third of a watch interval he normally devoted to working with the sword. However, it wasn't his sword work that worried him the most; the damage done to his left chest had been massive, and even with the expert ministrations of the Han physician and his assistants, his range of motion was severely restricted. He could punch forward well enough, but his lateral motion was almost non-existent; however, neither Diocles nor Scribonius seemed unduly concerned, which irritated Pullus, at least until Diocles explained.

  "You're done fighting," the Greek told him. "At least, you're done fighting with the Legions. We're going back to Rome in the spring, and the Wa are giving every appearance of settling down and accepting Caesar...Divus Julius'" Diocles corrected himself, "new status as god of the people."

  "I may be done fighting with the Legions, but I don't think we're going to march back across the known world without someone trying something," Pullus replied, prompting Diocles to roll his eyes at his friend, not for the words, as much as for the tone, which was best described as hopeful.

  "Gods, what would you do if someone didn't want to kill you?" Diocles asked, but although he meant it rhetorically, Pullus had taken it as a serious question, and the look of horror at the thought evoked a fit of laughter from Diocles, who resumed his task of mending a tunic.

  Winter came, and with it Caesar's unveiling of his entire plan, although it was still confined to just his senior officers and Centurions. What shocked Pullus to his core, and Scribonius and Gaius to a lesser degree, was the number of the Primi Pili who made it clear that they had no intention of returning to Rome.

  "I'm tired of marching more than I am of fighting," was what Pullus heard from Flaminius, one of the Primi Pili who made it clear that he was staying put. "Besides," he grinned, "Caesar's promised that I can have my pick of the women, and according to Diana, she's the ugly one on this island."

  Pullus could only laugh, realizing that as high as some men rose, they were still rankers in their hearts, and their tastes and what was required to make them happy were very simple.

  Otherwise, the most difficult part of the winter for the select group of men who had been apprised of Caesar's plans was keeping them secret from the men in the ranks. Not a day passed when some enterprising Legionary was sure he had come up with the most inventive way to ask a question that had been put forth more times than anyone could count, but to no avail. No matter how sly the man was, no matter how subtle, the Primi Pili were as tight-lipped about Caesar's vision as they had been for the most secret war plans. Most of the reason behind this was practical, and was composed of two equally important parts. The first was that the Primi Pili knew, from bitter experience, how full their collective hands would be trying to maintain order among men wh
o, after so many years, were told that they were free to return home. Ironically, most of the trouble wouldn't come from those Romans who were given their release and chose to take it: every Centurion was under no illusion that most of the problems would stem from those Legionaries whose enlistments hadn't run their course. There was, in fact, a fair percentage of the remaining Romans whose citizenship may have derived from the city whose name they bore so proudly, but who had been born in the Roman provinces of Africa. The fact that most, if not all, of these citizens were the sons of former Legionaries themselves who had served Pompey Magnus, made them fully Roman in the eyes of the law.

  But when Caesar's Legions had suffered their first casualties in his campaign against the Parthians, a dilectus had been conducted to fill the empty spots in the Centuries. While this had occurred almost nine years before, after two bloody years of fighting, and since all of Caesar's Legions were enlisted for a term of sixteen years, this group of Romans still had seven years of their enlistments to go. However, the second problem that worried Caesar, and the Primi Pili, was a point of law they were sure one of the brighter men from the ranks would bring up, and that was the amount of time it would take to return back to Roman territory. To the same extent that Romans revered the rule of law, they were also extremely litigious in nature, down to the lowest Gregarius; it was not uncommon for multiple watches around a fire to pass as two members of the Roman contingent argued some point of law concerning a flask of vinegar. Understanding this, the Primi Pili, in particular, wanted to avoid the prospect of a line of outraged Roman Legionaries claiming that their hard-earned rights as citizens were being trampled underfoot. This was a problem each of them was happy to pass up the chain of command, relying on Caesar to come up with a solution to this problem, before it became one that none of them could handle. Although Pullus shared the concern of the Primi Pili, the reality was that his worries were centered on just one man, his nephew. Porcinus was a special case; Pullus had become aware, through his sister, that young Gaius Porcinus had enlisted in the 14th Legion's second dilectus, shortly before Caesar's campaign in Parthia was set to begin.