Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  "Gaius," he said, finally, the words coming slowly as he tried to form his thoughts. "I can't tell you how proud I am that you've taken all that I've tried to teach you to heart. It does my heart good to see how much you care about your men. But," he paused, letting the word hang in the air, "the Legions have been around a long time. Long before either you or I showed up, men have come and gone from the Centurionate, and I'm sure that Caesar wouldn't appoint anyone to fill your spot who he didn't feel was qualified to meet the standard you set for leading your Century."

  Porcinus was unmoved; in fact, he felt the first flaring of his own anger. It sounded as though his uncle was saying that someone could do as good a job with his Century as he did, so his tone was stiff, as he responded, "That may be true Uncle. But nobody coming in will know the men like I do, and nobody coming in will have shared with them the same things that I have."

  Pullus realized then that his chances of convincing his nephew to change his decision were very, very slim. However, Pullus hadn't gotten to his current position by accepting defeat at the first sign of adversity, and he prepared himself for the coming struggle to convince his nephew to change his mind. Then, a hand reached out to grab his forearm, and he looked in surprise to see that it was Scribonius, with a look on his face that he knew all too well. It was the nonverbal warning his best friend used when he was sure Pullus was about to make a mistake, and over the years, Pullus had learned that not heeding his friend was almost always to his own detriment. Looking Pullus in the eye, in the space of perhaps two or three heartbeats, Scribonius managed to communicate to Pullus that this was one battle that, even if he managed to sway his nephew, he would regret winning for the rest of his days.

  It would have been impossible to say who was more surprised, then, when Pullus turned to his nephew and said, as simply as Porcinus had moments before, "I understand. And I...respect your decision." But even as the relief flooded the younger man's face, Pullus held up a cautionary hand, "I'm not saying I agree with it, but I do understand. And I suppose that you're a grown man, and you can make your own decisions. It's just..." now Pullus' voice trailed off, as a hard lump formed in his throat and the figure of his nephew began swimming in his vision.

  Now Porcinus reached out, as well, but he placed his hand on top of Scribonius', still on Pullus' forearm.

  "I know," he said quietly, no less affected.

  The three sat in silence for some time, dinner forgotten, as Diocles came to join them.

  Reflecting later, Pullus understood that the flurry of activity that filled his days from that point forward was a blessing, keeping him from dwelling on the fact that, in all likelihood, the day he and the rest of the men leaving for Rome departed, it would be the last time he would set eyes on his nephew. Consequently, he lost himself in the myriad issues that arose once the men made their decisions, and their trip home began to get organized, now that firm numbers were known. Altogether, a force of almost 2,500 men, a little less than half of a Caesarian Legion, would be leaving in the spring, and it wouldn't have been a Roman force if Pullus—who was the highest ranking Centurion in terms of seniority—hadn't immediately organized the men into Centuries and Cohorts. This wasn't done just for organizational purposes; the truth was that none of these men would have known how they were to behave if they hadn't known exactly where they were to be in the column marching home. In theory, this was a formidable force, large enough that it was unlikely any of the nations through which the Romans passed would want to expend the amount of resources, particularly in blood, it would take to subdue them. However, as Pullus and the rest of those senior Centurions who were returning knew, this was deceiving. A fair number of these men, more than a third of the total, were Legionaries who had suffered wounds grievous enough that they had been cashiered from their spot under the standard. Publius Vellusius was an example, but there were more than a hundred men who had lost a leg, and two men who had lost both. Although they had remained with the army, they had become part of the labor force that provided support for the army on campaign, the two legless men becoming wagon drivers. In fact, it was the collective problem posed by the one-legged men that vexed Pullus the most, because their mobility was so severely hampered that unless they could find seats on a wagon, they couldn't be allowed to go. This was especially true since the wagons themselves would be fully loaded with all the booty, goods, and keepsakes each man was bringing home, for, after all, what had been the point of this entire campaign if the men didn't have something tangible to show for it? But there were more crippled men than wagons, and it forced Pullus to call a meeting, where a gut-wrenching decision had to be made. Fortunately, enough men who, faced with the choice of trying to fight their similarly afflicted comrades for a spot on a wagon or staying behind, opted to remain there on the islands, saving Pullus from a potentially painful decision.

  That certainly wasn't the only issue facing Pullus, but those challenges did a perfect job of preventing him from dwelling on his nephew's decision to stay behind. Supplies had to be gathered, and not just foodstuffs; although this wasn't a military expedition, the men would be carrying their arms and armor and would be making a Roman camp, on a smaller scale, every night. This meant that materials to replace turfcutting blades, axe handles, and javelin shafts had to be fashioned and loaded onto the wagons designated for that purpose. Spare shields were loaded, although not in as great a number as would be carried normally, and sheets of leather were packed for the leatherworking immunes to fashion spare caligae, when the originals inevitably wore out. In every respect, save that of scale, what Pullus and the other returning Centurions had to supervise was identical to the conditions with which Caesar had to contend, when he was starting out. But even with all these details, the problem that occupied the largest part of their time centered on the route they would take back to Rome. The Centurions were roughly divided into two camps: those that argued for essentially a reversal of the original route that was predominately overland, across the Gayan Peninsula and through the lands of the Han, then taking ship only at a spot just east of the huge peninsula of India, after braving the thick jungles and savage tribesmen of the lands to the south of the Han. It was this last terrain that the other group of Centurions wanted to avoid at all costs, the horrors of what had been the hardest year of the campaign fresh enough in their collective minds that they were willing to confront their huge fear of the water by advocating a route that was almost entirely by sea. They wouldn't have been Roman if they hadn't insisted that the fleet follow the coastline of the vast land mass between them and home, but since this had never been done before, none of the navarchae attached to Caesar's fleet could provide anything more than a guess about the amount of time this would take. Not surprisingly, the Centurions supporting the first plan pounced on this, and wasted no time in doing what they could to whisper in the ears of those returnees that they would find themselves adrift at sea for who knew how long; months, certainly. But could it be years? And if it was the latter, what chance did they have then of seeing Rome?

  This was the atmosphere in the camps that housed the men of Caesar's army in the opening months of the year, even as winter maintained its icy grip on the islands of Wa.

  During this time, Pullus caught only occasional glimpses of Diana, but he could see how her belly grew, and, despite himself, he began counting the days. The midwives—whose knowledge and experience with these matters seemed to be universal, no matter what side of the world one was on—had pronounced the likely time of birth to be the first or second week of the month named for Mars. Meanwhile, as everyone waited for the birth, Pullus, Scribonius, and a number of the other Centurions who favored the second alternative route, even with their misgivings about a lengthy sea voyage, worked diligently behind the scenes to try to counterbalance the whispering campaign of those men who wanted to march overland; but even up until a month before their predicted departure, no resolution had been met. But then Caesar intervened, adding his weight to Pullus' sid
e, and the matter was resolved. What none of the men was told, and only a few figured out on their own, was that this had as much to do with Caesar's desire to have a portion of his fleet in a position to transport the anticipated fresh Legions back to the islands than it did with taking sides. Scribonius was one of the men who deduced Caesar's reasoning, but while he told Pullus, since it aligned with their interests, neither man felt it necessary to make this known, letting men work it out themselves, if they were so disposed. It was also no surprise that, as the day drew nearer, tempers that were already sorely tested by the inevitable monotony of life in a winter camp were stretched even tauter. However, unlike in previous winters, the punishment square didn't see nearly as much activity as the misconduct of the men warranted. Caesar and his officers, were acutely cognizant of the special circumstances that surrounded this eleventh winter of all the winters the army had spent together. In what can only be described as tragedy, men who had survived the longest and most brutal campaign of any army in Rome's history were struck down, not by an enemy, but in almost every case by a close friend, when passions and grudges over past hurts flared anew, followed by a flashing blade and an agonized shout. Despite events like this being few in number and happening every winter, when compared to all the times before, these were even more tragic, because it wasn't uncommon for a man who had struck down a comrade regaining his senses and, filled with remorse, taking his own life. Yet, the days moved as slowly as they always seemed to, no matter how much the men wished it otherwise. Not helping matters was that this was an unusual winter that lingered, much like a bad cold, and, in fact, the first sign of spring didn't come from any change in the weather. Instead, it was hailed by the tiny wail of an infant being born on, of all days, the Ides of March.

  Chapter 12

  Numerius Ovidius stomped his feet for what he was sure was the hundredth time, yet even as he did so, he knew it didn't really help in fighting the bitter cold. It was a habit, he supposed; where he picked it up from he had no idea. What made matters worse was that he was barely a third of a watch into his shift, standing guard at the Porta Romana, or as it was more commonly called, the Ostian Gate, since it led down the road the short distance to the port of the most powerful city in the world. Ovidius hadn't held his post very long, but he had already developed a loathing for the cold. Otherwise, this new job was turning out to be interesting, at least, since it gave Ovidius the chance to see an almost endless stream of humanity in every variety imaginable, coming from and going into Rome. And, he reflected, every once in a while, something happened that could almost be described as dangerous, adding a little spice to his day. He had finally become accustomed to the uniform, which he had thought excessive, at least until the first riot in the Forum that he and the others in his Century had been called to quell. Then he had been thankful for the helmet in particular, after receiving a solid blow from a stave waved by a wide-eyed man who had been part of the mob protesting...what was it? Ovidius couldn't even remember; there had been several such demonstrations in the slightly less than a year he had been a member of the Urban Cohorts, a quasi-military organization formed by the youngster, Gaius Octavius. Almost as soon as the name came into his head, he corrected himself, even if it was in his head; he had heard stories of what happened to men who refused to call the boy by his correct title. He was Caesar now, and had been for almost six years.

  That had been—what was it?—Ovidius calculated, seven years after the man he would privately always think of as the real Caesar left on his Parthian campaign. Ovidius shuddered at the memory of that time, because the turmoil of the last few months was nothing compared to the uproar that had erupted when Marcus Antonius, defying the Senate, had marched into the Temple of Vesta and demanded to be given possession of Caesar's will. His argument was understandable, even if it had no real precedent under the law Romans supposedly revered; although Ovidius, like most of the members of his class, viewed the law as something that his social betters liked to pay lip service to, when it suited their purpose. Whatever his motives, from Ovidius' viewpoint, there was an almost equal division, across all the tribes and class lines, as to whether or not Antonius was justified in his actions. The last time Caesar had been heard from in person, at least in the form of a dispatch, was after the Pandyan kingdom had been subdued, and he had set up a Roman outpost on the huge island to the east of the southern tip of India, Julia Taprobane, as it was known. After that, there were only snatches of information, a rumor brought back by one of the few Roman traders who ventured that far across the world, or a claim by some foreigner from those parts, who had it on good authority that, while titillating, couldn't be confirmed. Neither could it be disproved, but Antonius, whose patience was never in strong supply, had loudly proclaimed that sufficient time had passed to come to the reasonable conclusion that the great Caesar, Dictator for Life, was dead, and that as his Master of the Horse and second in command, Antonius himself should be elevated into that position. His decision to violate the Temple of Vesta and invite the anger of the goddess of the hearth, not to mention Jupiter Optimus Maximus, was based in a simple assumption, and one that even those who disagreed with his actions couldn't dispute, and that was that Marcus Antonius was Caesar's heir.

  Even now, all these years later, Ovidius experienced the very unusual problem of having to suppress a shudder and a laugh at the same time, as he remembered all that transpired when Antonius discovered the true contents of Caesar's will. The Master of the Horse had originally planned on opening it, with much fanfare and ceremony, on the rostra in the Forum, announcing the date and time at which he would confirm what all the occupants of the city, citizen or otherwise, assumed to be fact. The first hint of trouble occurred when the appointed time arrived, with the Forum packed to the point that those who arrived early to get a spot next to the rostra found themselves crushed up against it, unable to move, but with no sign of Antonius. Time passed; not surprisingly, people became restive, as first a third of a watch, then a full watch passed. There was much clamoring and excitement threatening to burst into full-blown violence when, under escort, not Marcus Antonius, but the young man who was barely known as Gaius Octavius arrived at the Forum. To this point, his only claim to any notoriety was due to his relationship with his great-uncle, G. Julius Caesar, with whom he had served as contubernalis, when the great general had finished suppressing opposition from the sons of Pompey in Hispania. Ovidius hadn't been present at that moment in the Forum, but who in Rome hadn't heard what had transpired on that day? The youngster—he was barely 26 at the time—had supplied an answer, in both the immediate and in the larger sense, with his announcement that Caesar' will, which had been opened in front of a set of witnesses, had, in fact, been quite different than what Antonius, and frankly, the rest of Rome had assumed. With little more than a few strokes of a pen, Caesar had turned Rome upside down by naming Gaius Octavius as not only his primary heir, but also as the inheritor of his name. Surprising nobody, Antonius did not react well to this news, and the immediate aftermath had seen the gutters of the streets surrounding the Forum run red with so much blood, one might have thought the spring floods had arrived.

  It was a time Ovidius remembered well: he had been in his teens, and, like other young men of his class, had been swept up in the swirling maelstrom as the sides supporting each man sought to establish their dominance. It had taken a few years, but there was at least now an uneasy truce; and Ovidius was proud to count himself as one of the young Caesar's men, his willingness to show his loyalty with his fists and a club having been rewarded with this post. Numerius Ovidius was now an Optio in the Urban Cohorts, and while he enjoyed the resulting rise in his status and the money that came with it, days like this made it difficult to appreciate it. Facing him was a seemingly never-ending line of people, most of them either standing next to or sitting on a multitude of carts, wagons, and every other conveyance one could imagine, all of them demanding entrance into the city. It was the job of the men of his Century,
or at least the section assigned to this gate, to ensure that anyone attempting entry was doing so for legitimate purposes. No matter how important the task might be, it was mind-numbing, onerous, and thankless, but it at least afforded a curious man like Ovidius an opportunity to see and experience just how widely varied the people of Rome's vast empire were. This day, despite the cold, was shaping up to be like all of the others. Until, that is, one of his men nudged him.

  "Optio, we've got a rider, coming hard!"

  Torn from his reverie, Ovidius saw that, indeed, a lone rider was bypassing the line of people awaiting entrance, prompting any number of curses and threats that the rider either didn't hear or didn't care about. Pulling up in a spray of dirt, he leaped down to stride over to Ovidius, barely sketching anything that could have been called a salute, while offering the Optio a wax tablet.

  "This is from the harbormaster," the messenger announced, giving Ovidius his first hint that today might not be the same old routine and boring day, after all.

  Squinting, the Optio had to read the message twice, before its import even began to sink in, and he looked up at the messenger, his jaw agape.

  "They're coming here?"

  "It appears that way," the courier confirmed, happy that this wasn't his problem.

  Looking over the messenger's shoulder, Ovidius stared back down the road, straining his eyes again, this time in an attempt to gain sight of what the message warned about.

  "Go get Proculus," he snapped to the man who had alerted him of the rider's approach, naming the Centurion in charge of this Century. "He's going to want to be here for this."

  If he didn't know any better, Titus Pullus would have sworn to any god imaginable that he was dreaming. This feeling had been with him for the last several days, and this sense that he was asleep and in a world where anything was possible hadn't diminished, but instead was strengthened from the moment his ship had eased itself into the wharf at Ostia. It was understandable: this was the end of a three year journey, one that Pullus had believed on more than one occasion would never be completed. Yet, here they were: Scribonius, Diocles, and even old Vellusius beside him, as the prow of his transport nosed its way into a berthing slot, where men waited to tie the ship off.