Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Fortunately, at least as far as uncle and nephew were concerned, Titus Pullus had been made aware of his nephew's impulsive act, and with a fairly healthy bribe, had managed to have his young nephew transferred into the ranks of the 10th Legion. Pullus had placed young Porcinus in the First Century, Second Cohort, under the close supervision of a man whom Pullus trusted with his life, Sextus Scribonius. Gaius Porcinus wasn't blessed with all of Titus Pullus' physical gifts: he was extremely tall, but was more wiry in build than his famous uncle. More importantly, at least as far as Pullus was concerned, was that Porcinus lacked what his uncle came to think of as his gift of fury, an unquenchable rage that simmered just below the surface of his consciousness and that seemed to surface in his times of greatest need. Nevertheless, what Gaius Porcinus lacked in this dark legacy, he more than made up for in determination and the desire to at least partially emulate his legendary uncle. Titus Pullus had visited his sister when Gaius was a young boy, after the conquest of Gaul that made not only Caesar, but also his favorite Legion, the 10th Equestris, famous. From that day forward, a life on the farm, emulating his natural father, also known as Gaius Porcinus, had left the youngster dead inside. He had been captivated by his uncle, transported by the idea of great deeds and the heroism of the Legions that had been responsible for countless young men just like him to answer the siren call of adventure and glory. Unfortunately, like the Roman citizens of the African province, Porcinus hadn't served a full enlistment, but Pullus was determined to call in every debt he believed Caesar owed him, in order to ensure his nephew was allowed to come home with his uncle. The fact that by making an exception for his nephew, Pullus created a number of headaches for Caesar and the other Primi Pili didn't concern him in the slightest. As far as he was concerned, Pullus had earned the right to call on Caesar to make an exception. It never occurred to Pullus to actually ask his nephew what he wanted.

  Caesar had never felt as challenged as he did during the long winter of what would be the first year of his reign over the island of Wa. There were so many matters that required his attention, and so many decisions to make that it was rare that he caught more than a full watch of sleep at night. Yet, at the same time, he hadn't felt this vital and engaged in...ever, he realized. Unlike other men, the sheer scope of the challenges he faced seemed to instill in him an energy and focus that made him feel much younger than his years. For, what Caesar thrived on, and, in fact, what gave him the purpose and desire he needed to rise from his warm bed, shared with Diana, were the myriad problems confronting him on a daily basis. Even with his "god costume", as even his closest advisers had come to call it, there was an aura of purpose and energy that seemed to emanate from within his very soul that was visible to all who knew him. As Diana's stomach swelled, so too did Caesar's efforts increase to put the mechanisms and the framework in place to ensure his presumptive heir's prosperity and future. The most vexing problem facing Caesar was how to integrate the men of the Legions, particularly those who desired to stay, with the population he was coming to think of as his people. Specifically, Caesar's focus was on the Parthians, Pandyans, and Gayans, whose enlistment didn't end for several more years, even if he did add the time it took to return to their homes; which, he had decided, he wasn't going to do, and on this point he refused to bend. Caesar had made up his mind that when he was referring to an individual Legionary's term of enlistment, the time he spent actually under the standard was what counted. He refused to be responsible or accountable for the measure of time it might take these men to return home, if they chose to do so.

  Despite knowing that this would be an extremely unpopular position, he was no less adamant about it, and was prepared for the coming storm, sure to be one of the first big challenges of his reign. His secret hope was that the idea of the trek back across the vast expanse of Asia would prove so daunting that most, if not all, of the non-Romans would elect to end their days here on these islands. Every day that passed, his facility in the tongue the Wa spoke increased, while Diana, Kiyama, and a select few others became more conversant in Latin. On the heels of these developments was a deeper understanding of Wa society and the true powers on the islands. Working in Caesar's favor was that the two most powerful lords had perished in the Wa assault, leaving underage heirs in their places, both of them having been summoned to the capital, as soon as their identities were known. On their arrival, they were subjected to Caesar, in all his majesty, in the guise of the new god that had come to this island, and the two youngsters had been suitably cowed. However, when they had attempted to leave the capital, they had been barred from doing so; Caesar may have been confident that his impression was suitably powerful, but he wasn't leaving anything to chance. Caesar's assessment of the royal guard commander was that—while he might have been suitable for service in what was in effect a largely ceremonial post, at least before Caesar and his army arrived—he wasn't sufficiently qualified for Caesar to consider him seriously for any command in his army. This posed something of a dilemma; Caesar recognized that the more quickly he integrated his army, from top to bottom, the better his chances were of handing over a stable and peaceful kingdom to his heir. Never far from his thoughts, however, was Zhang, and by extension, the Han. The courtier had seemingly adjusted to this new reality, as created by Caesar, but the general held no illusions that Zhang wasn't working furiously behind the scenes to advance his own emperor's interests. For a period of weeks, Caesar seriously weighed the viability of simply executing Zhang, but something stayed his hand, although he couldn't have said what it was. Caesar’s instinct told him that Zhang still had some usefulness, and this was what kept the Han emissary alive. Finally, along with the steps Caesar was taking to solidify his grasp of the island and its people, he was wrestling with the message and the requests that he sent back to Rome. Ultimately, in his bones he worried that they would have the greatest impact on whether or not Caesar's plan would be fulfilled.

  "He's got his hands full, I will say that," Scribonius mumbled through a mouthful of rice, thankful that this meal also featured a substantial helping of pork. "When spring comes, he's going to have to send Legions to the other islands, and he's going to have to spread out the ones he's keeping here on the big island more. From everything I've heard it sounds like the Wa are easing into this whole idea of Caesar being a god. At least," he amended, "that's what Caesar is putting out there."

  "But what about the Han?" Porcinus asked, his mouth similarly occupied with consuming the evening meal. "What do you think is going to happen with them?"

  Scribonius shook his head, saying only, "I don't know, but it's a good question."

  "And it's not our problem anymore."

  The words themselves would have been considered something of a surprise, but the fact that it was Pullus who uttered them made them even more so. However, his tone told his companions that, in this at least, he would brook no discussion. Which was one reason Porcinus said nothing, although it wasn't the only one. The three Legionaries, plus Diocles, were gathered for what had become a tradition: the evening meal in the quarters of the Primus Pilus. Not surprisingly, there was much to discuss, especially since it seemed that every day a new piece of information came to light about Caesar's ambitions, and while these were interesting, what did trouble Pullus and his friends was the growing list of tasks their general was assigning those Romans who were returning home. Messages, which grew in number by the day, were one thing; the latest piece of information was something else entirely. Using his title as Dictator for life, Caesar was calling for a new dilectus, consisting of a total of three entire Legions' worth of men, one of them from Italy itself. These men were to be transported by ship to the Asian side of Our Sea, albeit by the more traditional route that didn't risk a direct crossing. They would meet with the other two Legions, drafted from the Roman provinces, and would march, this time taking the direct route across the desert, to the Red Sea. There they would be met by a fleet, some of the ships that were part of the fleet that
had ferried the Legions from the first island that had served as the supply base for this campaign. Rather than crossing through the vast wastes of Parthia, as Caesar had done, they would instead hug the coast and travel by sea. By Caesar's estimate, this trip would take at least a year to complete, probably closer to two, depending on the weather. Privately, Pullus thought that this was another sign that Caesar had lost his mind, finding it hard to believe that men who had never experienced anything comparable would be willing to sign up for a sea voyage that lasted that long. Romans by and large hated the sea and anything to do with it, and while Pullus understood that by hugging the coastline, Caesar would be doing what he could to mitigate this issue, the Primus Pilus still felt Caesar was overly optimistic. However, Pullus also recognized that it wasn't his problem to solve, and it was perhaps this moment that told him he had achieved the point of separation from his general that he needed. What surprised him was that this recognition plunged Pullus into a mild depression, as he realized that when the day did come for him and the rest of the Romans who opted to return to Rome to leave, that would be the last day he would lay eyes on the man whom he had followed his entire adult life.

  Pullus wasn't the only one affected in this way; in fact, a blanket of what could only be described as melancholy settled on the shoulders of the Romans in Caesar's army, matching the mantle of snow that encased the capital and the surrounding hills. While the cold wasn't as bitter as what the men experienced in Parthia, it had a bite to it that reminded men of their wounds and injuries, when they roused themselves from their cots in the morning, and a joint ached or a back was stiff. Pullus, in particular, had cause to dislike the cold, since his latest injury was still relatively new, and this only added to his misery as he hobbled about in the mornings. Diocles, after learning the hard way that making light of this wasn't the way to take his master's mind off his problems, was always ready with hot stones wrapped in cloth that he then tied around Pullus' chest, while the Primus Pilus performed a series of exercises the Han physician had prescribed. When the physician had first demonstrated them, Pullus had refused on the grounds that they looked ridiculous, but once he broke down and incorporated them as part of his morning routine, he was forced to admit, grudgingly, that they helped his flexibility, and, most importantly, eased the pain a great deal. But first he had to get to the point where he could move freely enough to perform the exercises, and the hot stones quickly became part of the ritual that was required for him to at least play the role of the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion. The cold weather hadn't stopped the training of the Wa, although the regimen was modified out of necessity, so that the conditioning marches and instructions on how to build a marching camp were put on hold until the weather improved. This actually played into the hands of the Centurions, who were finding that as willing as the Wa were to learn more martial skills, the lesson that seemed to be the hardest for them to grasp was the idea of working as a team. Most of the Wa still thought of themselves as individual warriors, proud of their own skills, so it was only after a series of extremely bloody mock battles between the men of the Legions—albeit the cream of their Cohorts—and the trainees that the lesson of teamwork actually took hold. For his part, Pullus was thankful that it finally seemed to have sunk in; the camps' hospitals were already almost full to overflowing with the broken bones and cracked skulls that were a feature of a Roman battle drill. Despite his overwhelming desire to do so, he had managed to keep from participating in these drills himself, but not without a stern admonishment from Scribonius, who reminded him that the march back to Rome wasn't likely to be without challenges itself. While the men were occupied with training and integration, Pullus, Scribonius, and, to a lesser extent, Porcinus were burdened with planning for the return journey, which kept them up through the watches of the night as the time drew nearer.

  It was on the occasion of the advent of the new year, as reckoned by Caesar's calendar, that the general and god deemed it time to inform the men of the ranks of the opportunity to return to Rome. Originally, Caesar planned on holding the lustration ceremony, the annual ritual that re-consecrated the standards of the Legions, while asking the blessing of the gods for the upcoming campaign season. However, his Legates and Primi Pili, even those who had elected to stay, combined forces to convince Caesar that doing so would create a conflict in a number of the men who might feel that they had been tricked into swearing their sacred oath to their Legion eagle to fight another year, then be told they could go home, if they chose. Pullus wanted to believe that this was just an oversight on Caesar's part, but deep down, he felt that it was a last-ditch attempt by his general to forestall men leaving the standard. Therefore, it was announced that there would be a meeting, held in the park of the royal palace—the only place large enough to hold all of the men—and the lustration ceremony would follow immediately thereafter. Caesar had also agreed to allow those men who had chosen to leave but still wanted to participate in the ceremony to do so, although for what reason neither Pullus nor Scribonius could determine. A possible answer came from what seemed to be an unlikely source.

  "I think he's hoping that some men will take the oath and then change their minds," Diocles said. "That they won't like the idea of leaving their comrades behind."

  Both Pullus and Scribonius, once they heard the Greek's explanation, believed that this was the most likely answer, and it gave them a feeling of unease. One thing both men were counting on was that the returning Romans would be composed of large enough numbers to dissuade any of the petty kings and lords, whose lands the departing men would cross through, from making mischief by trying either to wipe the Romans out, or somehow to press them into serving under their standard, instead of Caesar's. Perhaps an even more important reason was the treasure the Romans would be taking back with them, in the form of the riches of the Orient. Each Centurion would have a wagonload of treasures and wealth: gems, gold, and, perhaps most surprising, the rolls of the shiny, soft, but strong material known as silk, dyed in every color the eye could comprehend, or embroidered in a variety of patterns. Though neither Pullus nor the other Centurions had gone to the lengths of the Pandyan Tribune in bedecking himself in togas made of this material, every one of them had at least one tunic made of the material that he wore on special occasions. It was light, comfortable, and—best of all—it didn't scratch the skin the way wool did. Pullus couldn't remember who had first mentioned the idea of bringing back quantities of silk, but it was one that had immediately caught hold among men of all ranks. Because of this, there had been a steady stream of ships moving back and forth between the mainland and the islands, due to the fact that the Han were the creators of silk and that every man had more than enough gold and jewels to pay for what was delivered. At this point, Pullus had no way of knowing how big this baggage train was likely to be, so he was happy that at least he wouldn't have to carry the burden of this great secret much longer and that he would also get an idea of the logistical issues that they would be facing.

  The day of the ceremony dawned bright and cold, with the kind of cloudless sky featuring a sun that seemed to have lost its warmth, prompting the men to eschew their silk finery for the heavier and warmer woolen tunics, bracae, and fur-lined socks. They had suffered too much to lose toes to frostbite from standing in formation, so, although it was a technical breach of regulations, the Centurions looked the other way. Pullus stood in his quarters, allowing Diocles to fuss over him, as the Greek servant pulled out an imaginary crease and brushed off a non-existent speck of dirt—this as much a ritual now as the ceremony for which Pullus was dressed in his full uniform with all his decorations. Looking into the polished brass reflecting disc, the Primus Pilus merely gave a grunt, but Diocles knew that this meant he was pleased at the sight he presented. Leaving his quarters, Pullus walked over to Scribonius'; all Centurions of the first grade had their lodgings in what had formerly been the houses of the imperial staff, although there hadn't been quite enough room for all of them. There was
a neighborhood on the northern side of the palace complex that had been deemed suitable for the remainder of Caesar's officers, and now these men were walking in small groups towards the park. Scribonius emerged, and for a moment both men eyed each other critically, a habit formed by almost a full lifetime of inspections and impossible to break even now. Realizing what they were doing to each other, they both burst out laughing.

  "Well? Are you ready to hear what our future holds?" Scribonius asked, with a wink.

  "Of course. I'm always interested in what a god has to say," Pullus replied, without thinking, causing Scribonius to wince, as he cast a nervous glance about for any eavesdroppers.

  "You and your mouth," the Pilus Prior grumbled, but Pullus was unabashed, slapping Scribonius on his shoulder, as they made their way to the park.

  Pullus, and indeed, every man in the ranks of the army, was curious about how Caesar would make his appearance. Specifically, would he show up in his god costume? And Legionaries wouldn't have been worthy of that title if there wasn't spirited wagering on the matter: some men bet on their belief that, since Caesar was appearing before his army, he would do so in the guise of the general; others insisted that now that he had invested himself in his own godhead, he wouldn't dare show his face without the red paint. While they were waiting in formation, this was the overwhelming topic of conversation, becoming so spirited that Pullus finally whirled about from his spot at the head of the First Century, First Cohort of the Legion that always occupied the place of honor on the far right, to snap an order that the next man whom he heard discussing the matter was going to have a striped back. This served to reduce conversations at least to a low mumble, which Pullus was willing to allow, especially as the appointed time for Caesar to appear came and went. Although he hadn't put any thought into it at the time, as Pullus stood there taking in his surroundings, he recognized that the arrangement of the men and the direction in which they were facing was no accident. Arrayed as they were, Pullus and his men, along with the rest of the most senior Legions, were facing east, in the direction of the ridge that lay beyond the capital. Along with the time of year, this meant that the sun didn't hit the capital until relatively late in the morning, and Pullus could see the very beginnings of the corona that announced the sun was approaching the crest of the ridge. One thing marred the ordered spectacle, and it took Pullus a few moments to puzzle out what it was. His Roman mind appreciated order, and part of the physical manifestation of order, to a Roman at least, was symmetry. Specifically, the rostra that had been built for Caesar's speech—built at the far eastern edge of the park so its back was to the ridge—wasn't exactly centered, when viewed as a whole, with the formation, or the park itself. It wasn't off by much: perhaps two dozen paces to Pullus' right from what he judged to be center, but it was enough to jar Pullus' eye, and, more importantly, it made him wonder how such a detail could have slipped past Caesar. Fortunately, he didn't have long to wait to find out that it was no accident at all.