by Peake, R. W.
Caesar, Pullus was forced to acknowledge, hadn't lost his touch. Even as Pullus was mulling over this apparent error in the placement of the small structure from which Caesar was going to give his speech, the answer to its placement came, literally in a blinding flash of light. For the rest of his days, Pullus, Scribonius, and, frankly, every man who saw it would wonder if, after all of the contrivances and artifice Caesar had employed to advance the idea of his godhead, this wasn't indeed a true sign of his divinity. Even if it hadn't been for the placement of the rostra, its construction would have occupied Pullus' attention, because it was unlike anything he'd seen Caesar construct. Whereas the general had usually been content with simple platforms of varying sizes for all of his other speeches, with perhaps a backdrop made of whitewashed wooden planks, this was by far the most elaborate creation Pullus had seen, at least for this purpose. It looked almost exactly like one of the temples that graced the Forum in Rome, perhaps the small temple of Castor and Pollux. The only difference was that this rostra wasn't made from stone, but in every other way, it wouldn't have been out of place in any Roman forum. It had been painted a stark, dazzling white to simulate the white marble that came from the mountains of Toscana, near Carrara. The only thing that had been left natural were the wooden doors, currently closed, preventing anyone from seeing inside.
This structure hadn't been there the day before, Pullus was sure, or he would have heard talk about it, but while it was small in size, he found it hard to believe that it could have been erected overnight, even with the nights as long as they were at this time of year. What he didn't know was that this building had already been constructed earlier—or at least the pieces had been fabricated—in the interior courtyard of the palace. The night before the ceremony, those parts had been carted to their spot and erected. It wasn't the most solid building Caesar had ever overseen, but he was sure that it would fulfill its purpose. And that purpose revealed itself in a literally dazzling fashion, when, as close to simultaneously as possible, the top of the sun crested the ridge and the doors to this makeshift temple were thrown open. That's when it was revealed to Pullus, and those others who had been curious, that the position of the temple had been no accident, as a beam of pure light shot through the doors of the temple. A gasp from thousands of throats broke the silence, as every man's eyes were fastened on the doors, waiting for what came next. And what happened was...nothing. At least, not for several more moments, and it was only later that Pullus realized that, like everything else, the pause was deliberate: the full orb of the sun had risen above the ridge, visible to the men through the opened door, the light so blinding that, despite being at intente, men were forced to shield their eyes. Which was precisely what Caesar wanted to happen, so that as the men chattered excitedly in the aftermath, none of them was exactly sure when and how their general appeared. Pullus was aware of a brief flurry in the doorway, as the light suddenly was blocked for a brief instant; and when he squinted, he could just make out the shape of a man silhouetted by the sun, the rays of light appearing as spears from around the head and shoulders of the figure he now recognized as Caesar. Then, the moment was over, as the sun, continuing its rise in the sky reached an angle where the upper half of the temple blocked the light, leaving Caesar simply standing there. That's when something extraordinary happened: men of all ranks, Roman, Parthian, Pandya, Han, Gayan, whatever nationality they were, dropped to their knees, holding out their arms in supplication.
"Caesar is a god!"
Pullus never knew who the first to shout this was, but it didn't really matter, since the cry was immediately taken up by dozens, then hundreds, and finally thousands of voices. The din created was almost overwhelming, making it impossible for Pullus to think, and when he looked over to his left, where the Second Cohort was standing next to his, he saw Scribonius standing there, mouth open, and he knew his friend felt the same way. As far as Caesar was concerned, he seemed content to let the clamor continue for some time, just standing there, and it gave time for Pullus to examine his general more closely. This day he wasn't wearing his god costume; in fact, he was dressed only as a Roman general, albeit one celebrating a triumph, since his face was again painted red. He's getting a little too fond of that paint, Pullus grumbled to himself, although he understood its usefulness in hiding Caesar's emotions. Finally, Caesar held up his arms, and Pullus was sure that he had never heard the men fall so silent so quickly; the sudden contrast to what had been a tumult just an instant before was disconcerting, to put it mildly. It was only because of the silence that Pullus realized his ears were ringing from what had gone on a moment before, so he wasn't sure if he would hear Caesar's first words. Fortunately, this wasn't a problem, because his general's words rang out, their tone pitched higher than his normal conversational voice, clearly and easily understood.
"Comrades," he began, and Pullus was a bit surprised and felt himself relax with this first word, realizing only then he had been bracing himself to be addressed as "subjects", or "worshippers", or "my people." Caesar, oblivious to Pullus' realization, continued, "today is indeed a momentous day, for a number of reasons. Not only do we consecrate the standards of our Legions and renew the vows to the gods that all men under the standard must make, in order to procure the gods' favor, I have an announcement to make."
It was almost as though time stopped, Pullus thought, as every man in the army leaned forward slightly, waiting to hear what Caesar would say next.
"For those men who were part of the first or second dilectus of those Legions that I enlisted for our campaign in Gaul, or for those Legions on their first enlistment that I enrolled for our struggle with the forces of Pompey Magnus, and who are Roman citizens," Caesar's voice rose even higher, "you have served me faithfully and well. No men of Rome, or of any other nation, have accomplished as much in feats of arms as you have, and there is no real way I can thank you enough, or repay you in a manner that you deserve...except for this."
Here it comes, Pullus thought, glancing over at Scribonius, who answered with a raised eyebrow, before returning his attention to Caesar.
"For any man desiring to do so, I hereby release you from service, and give you my permission; no, I give you my blessing, to return to Rome, to be covered in the honor and glory that you so richly deserve."
There it was, out in the open, the great secret finally out. But as Pullus waited for what he had been sure would be the inevitable explosion, the silence continued for what had to be more than a dozen heartbeats.
Finally, a quiet voice, heard only because of the great silence, asked, "You mean, we can go...home?"
"Yes," Caesar answered simply.
If he added to that response, Pullus didn't know, because an absolute avalanche of sound erupted, as men—both Roman and non-Roman—shouted their joy and relief.
Naturally, the details of Caesar's announcement had to be communicated, and it was in the chaos that ensued that Pullus and the other Primi Pili realized that Caesar's desire to make the announcement after the lustration ceremony was based on more practical reasons than anything else. Even those men who weren't eligible to go home were too excited by the news to be counted on to fulfill their duties properly, and it was only after the Centurions waded in with their viti, striping legs and backs, that they were finally gotten in hand. At last, some semblance of order was restored, then Caesar continued speaking.
"It gladdens my heart to see how overjoyed so many of you are at this news, and I also promise that you will not return empty-handed! For men of the most senior Legions, and who were in the first dilectus, I bequeath to each Gregarius the sum of 15,000 sesterces..." There was another gasp of pleased surprise, not just from the men who qualified for this bonus, but for those around them, and Caesar allowed muttering for a moment, before he raised his hand again, "For those of the second dilectus, the sum will be 12,000, but most importantly, I am giving men the option of whether or not to take their payment in the form of gold and silver, or in the form of g
oods that are produced here and in the lands of the Han that you can take back with you for trade."
This, Pullus recognized, was a shrewd move on the part of Caesar, because even with the shrunken numbers, and discounting those who would opt to stay, the outlay of hard currency Caesar was talking about had to be staggering. It was true that he and his army had stripped bare the treasuries of Parthia and the Pandyan kingdom, but Pullus knew that much of that had gone to the Han for the food and necessary supplies to keep this giant beast of an army moving. This didn't take into consideration the personal wealth, in the form of booty, each man under the standard already possessed. In point of fact, Titus Pullus was a very wealthy man, and he was idly curious just how much Caesar would be paying the Centurions, particularly those of his grade. Caesar, having announced the bonuses, moved onto the next part of his speech, and this was what Pullus had been waiting for, if only to see how the men would react.
"But while I give you my leave to depart for Rome, I cannot say that it does not sadden me. All of you are as sons to me, but you Romans in our ranks, you and I have shared so very much, seen so very much, and suffered so very much."
Caesar paused for a moment, and Pullus, feeling the hard lump forming in his throat, knew that the other men were experiencing the same emotions.
"That is why I would be remiss in my duty if I did not at least make an attempt to persuade some of you to stay here, with me and the rest of your brothers. For, although they might not have been born Roman, I challenge any man under the standard to claim that the sacrifice of the men from the other nations that now fill our ranks is any less than that which we native-born Romans have suffered!"
Caesar, his red face glistening now, moved his head slowly, from left to right, as if daring a man to speak up, but, as he knew, there were no such men in the ranks of his army. As different from one another as these men may have been, by virtue of their birth, customs, and traditions, their values were identical. Strength, bravery, fortitude, and the willingness to die, if need be, to save a comrade—these were the ties that bound the men of Caesar's army together, more tightly than anything else could have.
"I see that you feel as I do. That is good," Caesar's voice was still pitched high, but it took on a quality that made it seem as though he were now just conversing with each man, and while Pullus had seen his general do this countless times, it was still a mystery to him how he managed to do so. "And it is for those brothers, whose time is not yet up, that I ask for men to stay behind. For those that do, I offer each of them not only a bonus of 5,000 sesterces, but also 20 iugera of prime land of their choosing and the pick of the eligible maidens of this island to take as wives."
You crafty old bastard, Pullus thought, and how do you propose to give land away if it's already occupied? Because what Pullus had seen of this island, anything that would qualify as good farm- or grazing land was already occupied, which meant that those men who stayed behind would be faced with a problem very similar in nature to that of Legionaries who had received their own 20 iugera back in Italia, and that was the presence of previous occupants. In Italia, those patches of land had been confiscated from men who found themselves on the wrong side of the civil war, but even before Caesar and the army had left on campaign, Pullus had heard more than one story of vicious, bloody fights that men had been forced to wage in order to claim land that by law was theirs. Moreover, one of the many things that Pullus had learned in the subsequent decade spent traveling across Asia, it was that of all the people a Legionary wanted to fight, these Wa would be last on his list. Still, he reflected, it wasn't his problem, and he turned his attention back to Caesar, who was finishing his speech.
"I know that this is a momentous decision, for each of those affected. And I do not want to rush you into making a hasty choice, so I will give you one full week to decide if you want to return to Rome, to claim the glory that you so richly deserve, or stay here and make a new life, just as glorious, perhaps, but out of sight of Rome."
By the time he was finished, the sun had risen above the top of the temple, completely illuminating the park now. Yet, Pullus could have sworn that there was still what he would have described as a glow emanating from around Caesar, almost like a cocoon, and the giant Roman found himself rooted to his spot, as the formation broke apart and men began talking excitedly, wondering yet again, if Caesar was truly a god.
Although it didn't surprise Pullus or Scribonius that there were men who opted to remain behind, what was a shock were the numbers of men who took up Caesar's offer.
"If I were eligible, I'd stay," was how Publius Vellusius, the only other surviving tentmate of Pullus and Scribonius, put it.
The fact that he wasn't eligible was due to the simple circumstance that he was now missing most of his left arm, amputated a bit above the elbow, precluding him from holding a shield.
"I'm too old to be traipsing back across the wastes of the world, just to get back to a place that I couldn't wait to get away from," he explained the night of the ceremony, invited as a guest to Pullus' quarters for the precise reason he was fulfilling now: explaining the way the rankers thought about this development. Seeing the faces of his two friends, Vellusius allowed, "Oh, don't get me wrong. I do miss Rome. Or, I miss a good, hot loaf of bread, made with wheat."
His smile, like most of his comrades, was notable for the number of teeth that were missing, although he was doing slightly better than most of the men his age. This simple statement of yearning for something so basic prompted a chuckle from his friends, if only because they felt much the same way.
In fact, Scribonius was moved to ask, "So, if you could get bread made with wheat here, would you miss Rome as much?"
Vellusius had clearly not thought of this; deep thinking was never a strength of his, so he leaned back, as the smile was replaced by a thoughtful frown.
"Why, I never thought about that, Scribonius," he rubbed his face, as he struggled with what was for him a deeply philosophical question. "But now that I think about it, no, I don't suppose I would. In fact," his smile returned, "I would have said I missed the whores, but now that I've sampled all that this side of Our Sea has to offer in that area, I can't say that I'd miss that either."
This also evoked a laugh from both of Vellusius' dinner companions, along with Diocles. However, for once, Gaius was conspicuously absent, giving his uncle the excuse that he had pressing business with his Century's paperwork that couldn't wait any longer. While somewhat unusual, it wasn't sufficiently so to give Pullus any hint that his nephew was avoiding him for some reason. The dinner conversation continued apace, as the men discussed what had been an eventful day.
"How many do you think will stay?" Pullus asked Scribonius, who considered the question, as he worked on a piece of pork gristle, silently bemoaning the pain it caused one of his back molars, knowing from experience that this was the precursor to losing it.
Finally, Scribonius swallowed and replied, "I can't think more than a third of the men will stay behind."
This aligned with Pullus' estimate; unfortunately, they were both wrong.
By the end of the week that Caesar had allowed for the men to make up their collective minds, it turned out that fully half of them had taken his offer and were choosing to stay behind. But it wasn't the number alone that rocked Pullus and Scribonius, and Diocles for that matter, it was the identity of some of them. Or, more specifically, one of them in particular, although it explained why Pullus' nephew had made himself scarce the previous few days.
"But...why?" It was the only thing Pullus could think to ask, when Porcinus, recognizing that he could put it off no longer, had finally shown up at his uncle's quarters for dinner the night before the week was up.
They were seated at the table, but the meal hadn't been served yet, as even the man responsible for overseeing the slaves who did the cooking was anxious to hear the answer and stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen area. Diocles had never seen his master and friend like this bef
ore; if forced, he would have said it was a combination of puzzlement, a touch of anger, but more than anything else, Pullus was hurt at the confirmation that Porcinus was staying behind.
"The men," Porcinus said simply. Seeing his uncle's face, he recognized he needed to be more forthcoming, "I thought I could, but I just can't leave them behind, Uncle Titus. Who'd look after them?"
Pullus' reaction was a snort, but inwardly his derision was aimed at one target: himself. You're the one who taught the boy about taking care of his men, he thought, as he tried to come up with words that would actually contradict what he had ingrained in his nephew from the first day it became clear that Porcinus possessed what it took to lead men.