Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Exchanging a glance with his friend, Pullus saw that Scribonius seemed to be in a daze, so he nudged him in the ribs and said, "Well? We're not getting any younger."

  Jerked from whatever private place he had been in, Scribonius looked over at Pullus, who even then was moving from the prow of the ship and heading amidships, to where the boarding plank was being lowered.

  "Speak for yourself," Scribonius snorted, unconsciously echoing their old, departed friend Balbus. "I'm like a fine wine, I only get better with age."

  "Then that wine better get moving, if he wants to be the toast of Rome," Pullus called over his shoulder.

  Standing on the wharf was an older man, short and squat, who looked as if he would rather have been anywhere else but at that spot. He was one of the harbormaster's men, responsible for determining the identity and intent of every ship that landed here, and while this collection of ships that had rowed into the harbor wasn't—from outward appearances anyway—any different from any other merchant fleet, the sight of the men now gathered on the upper deck gave him a strong sense of disquiet. If pressed, he couldn't have given a tangible, spoken reason for his distress; the men he was eyeing were at least his age, if not older. But there was something about them that spoke of a ferocity and ability to wreak havoc that completely negated any impediments their advanced age might have conferred. Granted, they were all dressed in Roman garb, but it was a mode of dress that hadn't been fashionable for some time, and it was almost as if these men had just appeared out of an earlier age in Rome's history. Of all the men on the ship, the one that stood out the most did so not just for what he wore, but because of his size: he was easily one of the largest men the official had ever seen, and that was counting the Germans whom he had once watched battle to the death during the games. The large man was wearing a helmet that bore a transverse crest, and there was no Roman alive who didn't know what that signified; but the color was wrong, and there was something odd about his armor. Whatever it was, the official didn't have the time to think about it, because the plank was suddenly thrown down onto the wharf, and with only a moment's hesitation, the giant hopped onto it and descended onto the wharf.

  "May I ask who you are, and your business here in Ostia?"

  Despite his best attempts, even the official could hear the tremor in his own voice, but the other man didn't seem to notice. When the larger man spoke, the official was somewhat surprised that it was perfect Latin, even if it did carry an accent that spoke of one of the provinces.

  "My name is Titus Pullus. I am," the man paused for a moment before amending, "I was the Primus Pilus of the 10th Equestris..."

  Before he could get any further, the official let out a gasp.

  "Wait. You mean...Caesar's 10th Equestris?"

  "Is there any other?" the larger man asked dryly.

  "No," the official mumbled, feeling the flush creep up from his neck. "I don't suppose there is."

  "As I was saying," Pullus continued, "I'm the commander of this contingent of Roman citizens who have fulfilled their obligation of enlistment under the standard, and are returning to Rome."

  For a long moment, the official didn't say anything, frozen in his spot, as his mind tried to comprehend what he was hearing. Could this be possible?

  "So, you mean that Caesar is...alive?" he asked cautiously.

  Despite the fact that Pullus could certainly understand why, the hesitant tone of the official's question prompted a strong reaction.

  "Of course he's alive. He's...more than alive," Pullus snapped.

  "More than alive?" Now the official was bewildered. "How could he be more than alive?"

  It was certainly a sensible question, but Pullus wasn't willing to expand on his statement, at least not at this moment and to this man. However, realizing that he needed to provide the official with something, he produced one of the scrolls that Caesar had given to him to deliver. He didn't unroll it; instead, he merely turned it so the official could see the seal, and was rewarded by a gasp, as the other man recognized it. His reaction was immediate and dramatic, as he fell to his knees on the dock, forcing Pullus to suppress a laugh, thinking that it was an appropriate gesture, even if the man had no way of knowing it.

  "That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that you recognize whose seal this is and let us go about our business."

  Even if the official had been disposed to argue before, seeing the seal of a man who had been thought dead for many years removed any such inclination, and he hurriedly jotted down the pass that Pullus would need to show to the Urban Cohort at the gate.

  It took the better part of the morning for the rest of Pullus' fleet to find a mooring spot. As large a port as Ostia was, it took quite a bit of maneuvering to make room for the ships carrying the returning Romans. Before the unloading process was completed, Pullus, Scribonius, and the men on the first boat had procured the necessary cartage and horses to transport the contents of the ships, that were accompanied by Pullus, Scribonius, and the other returning Primi Pili, who had rented horses to go to Rome ahead of the men. Weaving their way through the heavy traffic of the Via Ostia, none of them was in much of a mood to talk, all of them absorbed in their own thoughts to the point where any kind of conversation would have been unwelcome. Pullus was no different, his mind still trying to reconcile the fact that he and the others had, for all intents and purposes, actually achieved their goal. It had taken three years; but more than the time, it was the cost in lives that tempered any joy or pride Pullus might have felt about actually reaching Rome. Of the slightly more than 2,500 men that had left the islands of Wa just two weeks after Caesar's child, a son, was born, there were just a few more than a thousand left. However, the dire consequences predicted by those men who wanted to take the overland route, instead of the seaborne one, hadn't materialized: only three ships had been lost due to storms. Instead, it had been just the hardship of the march itself that had struck down most men: it had become commonplace for a cry to go up in the mornings, when men discovered that a tentmate had simply...given up. The toll taken by almost an entire lifetime spent out in the elements, under the harshest conditions imaginable, just proved to be too much for so many men. In fact, it had been this development that had added an extra six months to the journey, when Pullus had made the decision to stop at the island of Taprobane and recuperate at the colony there. While there, Pullus had sent a ship ahead to let the world know that Caesar lived, but as he had learned after he and the men had made the overland trek from the Red Sea to Alexandria, the ship had never arrived. That meant that the returning veterans were the first notification that Caesar lived, but it was in Alexandria where Pullus learned of the turmoil that had descended on the Roman world, and that it wasn't confined to the Italian side of Our Sea. From a still-grieving Cleopatra, Pullus was informed of the assassination of Caesarion, who had been ruling in Caesar's stead in Ecbatana. However, according to Cleopatra, the deed hadn't been committed by the most obvious suspects, the Parthians. No, she was adamant that it had been none other than the young pretender to Caesar's name, Octavian, for whom she reserved the most vicious invective that Pullus had ever heard, no matter what the source.

  "He thinks because Caesar's will named him as heir, he is Caesar, but he could never be Caesar," she spat. "Marcus Antonius is twice the man of Octavian, but even he's not Caesar!"

  Even if he had been inclined to argue, Pullus could clearly see the raging sorrow that still wracked the queen, despite its being four years since her son's death. It was from Cleopatra that he had gotten the most complete picture of the state of affairs in Rome, and it not surprisingly had increased his own tension with every league he and his men drew nearer to the city. Watch after watch he spent closeted in the captain's cabin with Scribonius and the other Primi Pili, discussing and arguing what would happen when they showed up. For a short time, they actually discussed the idea of not going any further and, in fact, turning to go back to at least Taprobane, none of them wanting to feel as
though they were contributing to more strife. As quickly dismissed as this thought was, it didn't make Pullus feel any better, and now, as he rode his rented horse close enough that the walls of the city were visible, he began having second thoughts. With an effort, he shook them away, knowing that at the very least, he owed it to the men who had survived so much to let them achieve their dream of returning home. Scribonius was acutely aware of his friend's inner turmoil, but he truly didn't know the answer to the dilemma that was posed by the fact that Caesar still lived, so he held his tongue, content to provide support to his friend by his presence. Furthermore, he had his own worries; Scribonius was not only a native of the city, he had actually been born into a wealthy equestrian family, and he had no idea what kind of reception he would receive at his father's home. That is, if his father was still alive. As the party drew closer, Pullus and the others could just make out the line of carts, horseback riders and pedestrians waiting to enter the massive gate.

  "That's new," Scribonius commented, but Pullus only answered with a grunt, intent on trying to determine what the new structure meant.

  Finally, he asked, "You don't suppose that's just for us, do you?"

  Scribonius looked over at him in surprise.

  "Why would you think that?" he asked with a laugh.

  Pullus shrugged, but his tone was thoughtful, as he replied, "No reason, I suppose. But," he turned to look at his friend with an intense stare, "have you ever thought that we might not be welcome?"

  In fact, Scribonius hadn't, at least until his friend mentioned it. But then his formidable intellect examined the situation, and in the time it took him to form the words, he instantly understood the source of Pullus' question, and his fear.

  "That," he said slowly, pitching his voice so that only Pullus could hear, "is something I haven't thought about. But I should have." His tone turned grim and he finished, "I think we need to be prepared for anything."

  Pullus was torn; a part of him was proud he had actually had a thought that hadn't occurred to his friend, but he also felt a chill of dread at the idea that he might be right. Without thinking, he reached down to touch his left hip, where his Gallic sword normally hung, then remembered that for as long as anyone could remember, men weren't allowed inside Rome's walls while bearing arms. Unless, Pullus suddenly thought, they were under orders by a Consul. Or a Dictator. Without warning, he pulled the reins on his rented horse, then guided it quickly off the road, giving a quick command to the others to follow. They were clearly puzzled, but they had long since accepted Pullus' authority over this command, so they instantly obeyed him, gathering their own horses around him. As the advance party, they had loaded only one cart with their personal belongings, but for what Pullus had in mind, they were the most important pieces of gear they owned. Only Pullus had been in full uniform, but he quickly explained what he had in mind and what he wanted of them. Again, although they were startled, and more than one looked doubtful after Pullus briefly gave his reasons, none of them hesitated and quickly began to get to work.

  Tiberius Proculus, the Centurion in charge of the Third Century, First Cohort of the Urban Cohorts, was beginning to think that his Optio had lost his mind. True, Ovidius had shown him the tablet containing the news that a small army was approaching, but more than enough time had passed that they should have seen some sign of these supposed invaders. Immediately after arriving, Proculus had made the decision to close the gates, which was a feat in and of itself, requiring almost every man of his Century. But now the traffic outside was piling up, and making matters worse, the people waiting to get in were becoming increasingly restive.

  Looking up to the battlements for perhaps the tenth time, Proculus called up to the man standing there, watching down the road, "Well? Anything?"

  And for the tenth time, the sentry could only answer with a shake of his head. As the moments passed, Centurion Proculus could almost see his career withering in front of his eyes. He had taken the precaution of sending a man, bearing the tablet from the official on the docks, to the Curia, where the small office of the commander of the Urban Cohort on guard was located, but he was beginning to understand that he had made a very big mistake. Except that it hadn't been his mistake. He gave a furious sidelong glance at Ovidius, who was clearly as nervous now as his Centurion, a line of sweat trickling down the side of his face despite the cold. Proculus was just about to open his mouth and begin a verbal blast at his forlorn Optio, when the silence was broken.

  "Centurion! I see a group of men approaching!"

  Proculus craned his neck to stare up at the sentry, but when nothing else was forthcoming, he snapped, "And? Is that all you see, you idiot? It could be some merchants from Sicilia for all you know!"

  "Oh, I doubt that sir," the sentry replied, and if Proculus hadn't been so distracted, he would have probably climbed the steps to the battlement to stripe the insolent bastard just for the tone of his voice. "Because these men are all wearing armor."

  Proculus and Ovidius exchanged a glance, as the Optio let out a long, slow breath, clearly relieved that he had been vindicated. While Proculus wasn't willing to go that far, he did admit, grudgingly, that his Optio had done the right thing to alert him.

  "Send three sections out behind me. I'm going to see what this is all about," Proculus commanded his Optio, then, without waiting for a reply, he stepped through the smaller postern gate cut into the larger one.

  Immediately, Proculus was verbally assailed by the shouts and curses of those who had been waiting to get in and hadn't thought to leave to seek entrance through another gate.

  "What's taking so long? Why aren't you letting us through?"

  "What, did you lose the key?"

  There was some laughter at this, but Proculus ignored everyone, instead bellowing at them to clear the roadway. It appeared that some of the more stubborn people—including a man sitting on the seat of an ox-drawn cart stacked with stinking hides, who smelled almost as bad as his cargo—would refuse, but the appearance of the sections of armed men convinced them to pull away, but not without some choice invective for the men of the Urban Cohort. However, by this point Proculus was able to see what had alerted the sentry. As the crowd parted, he had a clear view down the road, and he saw a group of perhaps thirty men, all mounted, with what appeared to be one wagon following behind them. What made them noteworthy—besides this being an unusually large escort for a single conveyance—was that, as the sentry had said, these men were clearly armored and wearing helmets. Once they were within two hundred paces, Proculus noticed something else, something that made this little procession even more unusual. Not only were these men all wearing helmets, they were wearing helmets of a style which to Proculus was very familiar; in fact, he was wearing an identical one, or almost identical, on his own head. If his eyes weren't deceiving him, every one of these mounted men was a Centurion of Rome.

  He was still processing this new piece of information when the group of men, now perhaps fifty paces away, drew up at the clear command of one of the leading riders, who continued riding forward. As the lone man drew closer, Proculus could see that he was extremely large, and, in fact, it was the size of the man that gave Proculus the first tickle of recognition, and he felt his heart—which had already been beating at a somewhat elevated but steady pace—begin thumping against his chest so hard that he thought he could see his leather cuirass pulsating. Could it be, he wondered in amazement, thinking back to the one time he had seen a Roman Centurion as large as this one, many, many years before? As the mounted man approached the final few paces, Proculus' mind flew back to the occasion of Caesar's four triumphs, when Proculus had been nothing more than a youngster of perhaps twenty, or so, and was heading down a path that could only lead to disaster. He had been in one of the collegia of the Aventine, the gang of roving toughs who enforced the will of their leader, a man with the lofty name of Gaius Fonteius Vulso, who ran the whores, thieves, and protection rackets in that part of the city. Young hoodlum
he may have been, but Proculus was also a Roman through and through, and he took great vicarious pride in the achievements of Rome's Legions, particularly when it came to Caesar's Legions in Gaul. When, at long last, Caesar had finally celebrated his triumph for the subjugation of what was said to be three million people, Proculus and some of his friends had been sent by Vulso to secure a prime viewing spot in the Circus Maximus. That they had done, taking care not to shove aside any equestrians or, gods forbid, plebeians or patricians, so while they weren't sitting in the first three rows, they nonetheless had a prime viewing spot for the triumph. Naturally, they had been joined by Vulso and a couple of his favorite whores, with Vulso actually wearing a white toga, as if he was just like the men sitting down on the front row. This meant that most of Proculus' friends had been sent to find their own seats, their only thanks a snarled curse from Vulso. Yet, for some reason, Vulso had liked Proculus, and he had been the only one allowed to stay. From this vantage point, he had stood and cheered, like almost all the other citizens of Rome, when first Caesar—his face painted red in a style that, unknown to Proculus, would become part of his god costume—and standing in a quadriga drawn by four white horses, then the rest of the army had come marching into the vast space of the hippodrome.

  Proculus had never heard anything as loud as the people were that day, and his heart had swelled with pride at the might of Rome, here on display for all of her citizens to see. Vulso, on the other hand, had been thoroughly unimpressed; in fact, sneering at the sight of aligned ranks as they trooped past his seat, calling the men of the Legions fools who wouldn't last more than a dozen heartbeats against a real man, like Felix the Thracian, Vulso's favorite gladiator of the moment. Granted, Vulso had said this in a quiet enough voice that he wouldn't be overheard; the man was many things, but he was no fool. Still, whenever Proculus thought back to that moment, he realized that this had marked the beginning of his disenchantment, not just with Vulso, but also his way of life. Not even when it was the turn of the 10th Legion—widely known to be Caesar's favorite that had earned the nickname “the Equestrians”, because of an episode in which some of them had accompanied Caesar on horseback to meet with the German chieftain Ariovistus—was Vulso impressed at the sight of their Primus Pilus. He was the largest Roman Proculus had ever seen, not just in height, but also in his breadth and musculature, and the sight of Pullus had emboldened young Proculus to challenge Vulso.